Finnegan's Week by Joseph Wambaugh

Southern Division, and at the front counter was one of them, a dinosaur who’d worked with Fin twenty-three years earlier when Fin was a rookie. Sam Zahn was fifty years old, on light duty from a heart attack, and biding his time till retirement. He was reading the sports page when Fin passed the counter seeking refuge from Maya’s pelican lament.
    Without lifting his gaze from the page he said, “Why’re you guys working overtime? It’s after six.”
    â€œThey think our esteemed and slightly autistic vice-president might show up for a photo op at the border. We gotta be available for security if he shows.”
    Sam Zahn just grunted, then said, “I see where the Dodgers’re bringing Tommy Lasorda back for another year. They don’t think he’s too old to manage. Whadda you think is too old, Fin?”
    Fin said, “I think it’s when you couldn’t pump up the old noodle with a cylinder of helium. That’s when you’re old.”
    Talking bravely, Sam Zahn said, “No problem here. But if it ever does happen there’s always zinc. They say zinc makes it stiff.”
    â€œOnly if you paint it on,” Fin said sadly. “Mother Nature doesn’t let us off that easy, the rotten bitch.”
    Just then Fin saw two guys come through the door: one a skinny Mexican, one a huge slob in a Mötley Crüe cap.
    Abel Durazo said to the counter cop, “Sir, we got to make report for our truck.”
    â€œOur van got stolen,” Shelby Pate said, “when we was havin a bite up on Palm Avenue. At Angel’s Café? Know where it is?”
    Sam Zahn said to the detective, “Fin, do you work persons or property?”
    â€œProperty,” Fin said, “but as you well know, Sam, truck thefts are handled by the good folks downtown.”
    Since he was in his loafing-intensive mode, Sam Zahn said, “Maybe you’d like to talk to them anyways. They might need a detective.”
    â€œWas it hijacked?” Fin asked, which would make it a crime-against-person, not property, and he could easily kiss it off to anybody else. “Did somebody use a gun or force?”
    â€œNo,” Abel said. “We don’ see thief.”
    â€œIt was gone when we came outta Angel’s,” Shelby said. “Jist wasn’t there on the street no more.”
    â€œI’ll do the fact sheet for you, Fin,” Sam Zahn said magnanimously. “You might wanna finish it?”
    â€œDo the whole report, Sam,” Fin said. “Then send it downtown.”
    The counter cop sighed and fetched a blank report, saying, “What’s the name of the truck’s registered owner?”
    â€œGreen Earth,” Shelby said. “Green Earth Hauling and Disposal.”
    â€œYou drivers’re always leaving your keys in your trucks,” Fin griped. “Somebody’s forever stealing one up there by Angel’s.”
    â€œWe didn’, sir,” Abel said. “The thief they pop out ignition.”
    â€œHow do you know they popped it?” Sam Zahn asked.
    â€œHe means they musta popped it or somethin,” Shelby said quickly, “cause he’s got the keys in his pocket.”
    Of course Fin was pleased that Central would get this one. They had plenty of paper-shuffling detectives up there, and they didn’t have to battle for computer access. Each central investigator had his or her own cubicle instead of being jammed together like the refugees in the Southern Division gulag. Fin didn’t need another piece of paper to file.
    â€œMight end up in Mexico,” Fin said. “They often do when they’re stolen around these parts.”
    â€œYeah?” Shelby said. “When you think the boss’ll get it back?”
    â€œThey ain’t in no hurry down in T.J.,” Sam Zahn said. “Weeks, maybe. Could be a lot sooner if your boss’s insurance company’s on the ball. The Mexican