Confidential File

Into Each Life Some Confusion Must Fall

Beverly Hills is widely advertised in all its Chamber of Commerce brochures as one of the best-policed cities in the nation.

As a direct result, I suppose, the town frequently runs into a serious shortage of criminals with which to cope.

On surface examination, this may seem like an ideal situation. But it isn't.

A
lull like this, if it lasts long enough, can become a distinct
embarrassment to the police department. I mean, it just doesn't look
good.

You have a bunch of cops sitting around in prowl cars with
nothing to do but idly file their nails, and first thing you know the
taxpayers start wondering about the annual police budget.

After all, how long can you go around proving that a city is well-policed if there's nothing left to police?

Fortunately,
however, the protectors of law and order in Beverly Hills are not just
hillbilly constables with "Chicken Inspector" badges. They're thinking
men. And when there's no crime, they stir up a little.

They
launch a crackdown on lady shoppers who push market baskets home and
leave them in the streets. Or, they arrest strangers on suspicion of
being strangers. Because, let's just settle down and face it, you don't
get a BennySiegel slaying every day.

Now, I see by the papers
that they are relentlessly after yet another type of criminal — the
sneak who takes his work home from the office.

On June 3, the case of the People vs. Shearer will come to the test before the bar of justice in Beverly Hills.

It
all started when Lloyd Shearer, a prominent free-lance magazine writer,
was caught red-handed typing up an article in his Beverly Hills
apartment.

That's a violation of Section 10- 301, Beverly Hills
Municipal Code, which prohibits anyone from conducting business in a
residential zone. And it won't do Shearer any good to cop out that he
didn't know about it. Ignorance of the Beverly Hills law is no excuse.

 Assume,
for example, that Irving Berlin composed "God Bless America" by picking
it out on the keys of his parlor upright. If he did, that song's
illegal. And how about all of us who cherish cherry pie that is
advertised as "home baked"? We're all accessories after the crime.

I'm
even leery about my telephone. It rang the other night and when I
answered, a not-yet-settled voice told me: "This is Peter, the copy boy
down here at The Mirror-News."

That Old Razzmatazz

"Is this a personal call or a business call?" I asked.

"No," the voice replied. "This here's Peter down at the paper."

"Peter!" I cried. "How're things? How's the wife?"

"Mr.Coates," Peter said reproachfully, "I'm not married, I'm only 18 years old, I haven't even had a date yet."

There was a brief silence, and he went on: "They told me to call you up because they can't find your tomorrow's column. Where'd you leave it?"

"I can't talk now, Peter?" I whispered hoarsely.

"Why?" he whispered back excitedly. "Whattsamatter?"

"I'm speaking from an R4 Zone," I told him.

And, as for the rest of you — until the heat is off — don't call me. I'll call you.