The Secrets of Harry Bright by Joseph Wambaugh

that the crystal chemist had a restored 1965 Ford Mustang he loved more than ether. Thirty minutes later, the scruffiest-looking dope cop from the sheriffs squad was being "arrested" by Officer Zamelli who, in full uniform, was dragging the undercover cop down the street with his hands cuffe d b ehind him, yelling loud enough to wake the neighborhood, most of whom were asleep by ten o'clock.
    Prankster Frank made lots of noise when he stomped up on the porch of the two-story frame house with his "suspect" by the arm. He leaned on the bell until he heard a voice from the upstairs window say, "Yeah, whaddaya want?"
    "It's the police!" Prankster Frank yelled. "Somebody in this house own a Mustang?"
    "What about it?" the man's voice asked with some alarm.
    "I caught this guy lifting the car radio. I think he busted in with a tire iron. The paint's all scratched and the window's busted and . . ."
    The crank dealer slid down the banister. Prankster Frank heard two bumps and in ten seconds the "chemist" in his bare feet and bathrobe threw open the door yelling, My Mustang? This fuckface tore up my vintage Mustang?"
    While the crank dealer was being restrained from attacking the "prisoner," all the deputies swooped in. The chemist found himself changing places with the little fuck-face and soon sat bellowing in the same handcuffs while the dope cops strolled leisurely through the methamphetamine smorgasbord, scooping up drugs in both hands.
    Paco Pedroza admired resourceful cops like Prankster Frank, but then, Frank never played tricks on his chief. Nor on the sergeants. First of all, he liked Sergeant Harry Bright too much, and second, he was scared shitless of Sergeant Coy Brickman who was not really mean but looked mean. Prankster Frank didn't like guys who stared at you like they hadn't blinked since 1969. He only played pranks on the other eight members of the Mineral Springs police force. One of his favorite victims was of course Wingnut Bates.
    Wingnut was a bit heavier now and had matured during the two years he'd been in Mineral Springs. He liked almost everything here better than Orange County. Of course, he didn't like the summers when the temperature shot up past 120 degrees Fahrenheit. And he didn t l ike the animals.
    Prankster Frank caught a raccoon on a prowler call after the little masked burglar had torn a hole in the roof of a house and gotten inside. He surreptitiously dumped the animal in Wingnut's patrol car, which pissed off the raccoon real bad. The raccoon ate Wingnut's uniform jacket. Wingnut endured it.
    But there was an animal he could not endure: a snake. Rattlers, sidewinders, gopher snakes, it didn't matter. He was scared of all snakes. He was even scared of pictures of snakes. When he'd get a snake call, there'd be no air between himself and the citizen, Wingnut being the one behind. Learning that, Prankster Frank went out and bought himself a four-foot rubber snake and rigged an elaborate booby trap in Wingnut's locker. When Wingnut opened the locker after coming in from swing shift one Sunday night, the snake fell on his shoulder, sending poor Wingnut screaming out of the locker room, down the stairs and out the door of the station, scaring the crap out of the graveyard relief who figured Wingnut had found a bomb.
    Wingnut Bates was still trembling when he arrived at the Eleven Ninety-nine Club that night. Though not an aggressive or violent young fellow, Wingnut Bates was looking for Prankster Frank Zamelli who was home in bed dreaming up his next one.
    It had taken about thirty minutes after the Mineral Springs Police Department was formed for an entrepreneur to buy out Cactus Mike's Bar and Grill and have himself a hot little cop saloon. J. Edgar Gomez, a retired highway patrolman, named his bar the Eleven Ninety-nine Club after the radio code used by most California lawmen to announce that a cop needs emergency help. To "decorate" the saloon, the ex-Chippie selected several icons. One, framed in