Volume Three - WordPress.com — Get a Free Blog Here

“You’re a…” I arched a brow and spun my hand in another type of twirling motion used the world over to
get people to hurry the fuck up with whatever it is they need to say.
“I’m, uh, with a fraternity?”
“You asking or tellin’, red?”
“Ha,” he gasped. “Takes one to know one.” He pointed to my head.
“Sorry. You lost me, Sparky. You’re with a frat?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And this is some sort of…”
“Initiation. Yes, sir.”
“Well, I’m gonna have Officer Parker here cuff you and take you down to the station. After you’ve cleaned
his shoes, he’s gonna arrest your ass and charge you with something really bad of his choosing. That should go
over big at the frat.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Off you go.” Jesus. I’m a real badass.
My name is John Testarossa. Not like the car. That’s the first question I get: ‘You mean like the car?’ The
second joke isn’t so obvious, unless you’re Italian. Testarossa means redhead. And that’s what I am: An Italian
redhead. Some bored guard over on Ellis Island decided to crack wise when they saw my redheaded grandfather
get off the boat from Naples. He ruffled my grandfather’s head, laughed, and said, “Testarossa. Ha! Ha!
Testarossa” and it stuck. Either you were stuck with the name of the town or village you came from, or you
were stuck with something a wisecracking guard gave you. They didn’t give a shit. They were in a rush to get
you through and settled. My grandfather was fourteen when he got off that boat, alone, in a strange city. A
WOP in a strange land. WOP – WithOut Papers. That’s what it means. The name stuck and I wear it with
pride, but it wasn’t always like that.
I grew up in an Italian neighborhood in Bensonhurst, New York and I was always getting my ass kicked.
“Get yer mick ass outta here,” the Italian kids would yell, kicking me in the ass as I ran home crying. Trying to
convince them I was not Irish went south after my two sisters came out and did a little ass kicking of their own.
Not only did I have to deal with my red hair, but also with the fact that two girls were fighting my battles for me.
It took a while, but when I got older and the kids saw I could fight, they left me alone. I never told anyone this
but it was Barbara and Marie, my sisters, who taught me how to fight. Another thing that helped, at least for a
while, was my dad telling me that Christopher Columbus was also a redhead. We believed he was the greatest
Italian that ever lived. Until it turned out he was a raper and a pillager, in addition to being a discoverer.
I drove back to Pacific station where I work. Pacific covers the area from LAX and Westchester to Playa del
Rey and Venice with Mar Vista and Oakwood thrown in for good measure. A couple of years ago a group of
detectives were reassigned to Pacific to handle the growing gang concern as well as the large tourist area that is
Venice Beach. Response time is just better when you don’t have to fight traffic coming from the Glass House—
Parker Center.
I winked at Ginger our civilian desk clerk and went into the back to check in. My C.O., Captain Dale
Blackburn, stood in the doorway of his office. A huge black man with gentle eyes and a booming voice that
carried traces of his upbringing in New Orleans. I still carried the New York accent quite heavily despite my
many years in L.A. and when the two of us got together, it cracked everyone else up but us. We didn’t see the
humor. With him at six-five and me close to six-three, I guess it can get interesting. Dale B. was a good man to
work for. He trusted his officers and detectives to do their jobs and he only got involved when they didn’t.
“Where you been?”
“Fishing,” I deadpanned.
“Well done.”
“Thanks, boss.” He knew where I’d been. It was all over the station. Homicide detectives were the elite.
Sometimes we got side-tracked. And even though it is never our fault that we occasionally got stuck on
something more worthy of someone else’s time, any excuse to squeeze your balls around here, and someone will
take it.