Joe Friday, Calling Joe Friday

This is the city. Los Angeles. My name is Downey. I carry a press badge.

9:59 a.m.: It was one of those hazy days in California when you could hardly see your hand in front of your face lift. The city of angels was unusually madness-free and the earth hadn’t quaked for minutes. It was quiet. It was too quiet.

I was working the What Next day shift when my boss, Commander Dwyre, walked up to my desk. He looked worried. I thought he might dispatch me to the National Democratic Convention in New York for the controversial national-anthem duet to be sung by Ice-T and Tipper Gore, or to the All-Star baseball game in San Diego for the equally controversial national-anthem duet sung by Roseanne Arnold and anybody.

10 a.m. Instead, my boss told me about a disturbing new book. The title is: “L.A. Secret Police: Inside the LAPD Elite Spy Network.” One of its authors is a former detective, Michael J. Rothmiller, who once worked for the possibly oxymoronic Organized Crime Intelligence Division here in the city.

I nodded.

“What’s this about, Cap’n?”

“The OCID allegedly spied on famous people,” he said. “Barbra Streisand. Robert Redford.”

I nodded. I had seen their movie together where she played a Red and he played a blond.

“Rock Hudson. Marilyn Monroe.”

I nodded. Both had changed their names.

“Jerry Brown. Frank Sinatra.”

I nodded. One was a powerful figure in government circles. The other was Jerry Brown.

“What’s this got to do with me, Cap’n?”

“According to the book,” he said, “the police also spied on Tom Lasorda, Muhammad Ali, Sugar Ray Leonard, Sandy Koufax and Chuck Knox.”

I nodded.

“What time is it?” he asked.

10:10 a.m. The freeway was, as usual, more way than free. I set out to learn why the L.A. police had thought it necessary to spy on a baseball manager, two boxers, a pitcher and a football coach. (They also reportedly spied on one Robert Irsay, but this was understandable, Mr. Irsay being known for smuggling entire football teams out of town when nobody was looking.)

11:47 a.m. After enjoying a typical California breakfast, a taco and coffee, I arrived at Chavez Ravine and went to the office of one Thomas Charles Lasorda, manager of the local baseball club. He was a very suspicious character. He had pictures of Don Rickles on the wall.

I asked what he thought of the police’s performance.

“What did I think of their performance?! What do you think I think of their performance?!” Mr. Lasorda bellowed. “I mean, to come in here and ask me what I think of their performance?!”

I nodded. He seemed pretty worked up.

Leaving his office, I spotted one of my most reliable informants.

“Why would they spy on Lasorda?” I asked.

“In 1985, he pitched to Jack Clark,” the snitch said.

1:33 p.m. I drove to a gymnasium, a popular hangout for boxers. Something smelled funny. I believe it was the price they charged on pay-per-view for the bout between Evander Holyfield and Larry Holmes.

Two distinguished gentlemen in suits identified themselves as a Mr. Ali and a Mr. Leonard, retired prizefighters. Mr. Ali looked familiar to me and perhaps I knew him by another name. Mr. Leonard had a first name for a last name and a condiment for a first name.

“Did either of you ever do anything that might have encouraged the L.A. police to spy on you?” I asked.

Mr. Ali said: “I floated like a butterfly and stung like a bee.”

I nodded. Such behavior might be construed as unusual, but certainly not criminal.

Mr. Leonard said: “I made Roberto Duran say, ‘ No mas .’ ”

I nodded. At first I wondered why Mr. Leonard had prevented this Father Duran from saying Mass. Later he cleared up this misunderstanding.

4:19 p.m. At the hall of records, I looked up this Sanford Koufax fellow. His record was not only clean, it was perfect.

I asked the record-keeper: “Ever know the perpetrator to do anything unusual?”

He said: “The perpetrator perpetrated four no-hitters.”

“Any connection between Mr. Koufax and this football coach, Mr. Knox?”

“Yes. Their names end in ‘x.’ ”

I nodded.

“Must be French,” I said.

Possibly the police were spying on others whose name ended with ‘x.’ I was looking for a pattern. Malcolm X. Archibald Cox. Steve Sax. There had to be some connection. Something I was missing. You wouldn’t spy on somebody for no reason.

Or could it be that L.A. was simply a strange, strange place?

No. Couldn’t be that.