MISGUIDED ANGELS

In The Second Of A Two-Part Series, Undercover Guardian Angel Ben
Kaplan Hits The Streets -- And Feels The Weight Of The Red Beret

The reporters are shoving microphones in my face, blitzing me with questions.

"What do you think of the police not wanting the Guardian Angels on
the street?"

"Why did you decide to join an organization that some have labelled a
vigilante group?"

Over the past two months, we've learned how to drop a guy with a
head-butt to the face and kick-start someone's heart in 30 seconds,
but we aren't prepared for this. Faced with tape recorders and flash
bulbs -- and instructions not to talk to the media -- we're like
naked teenagers called to the front of the class.

It's 15 minutes before we're scheduled to begin the graduation
ceremony that will officially launch this new Toronto chapter of the
Angels, and the recruits have arrived at the William Dennison seniors
residence to find the doors locked and a security guard in a Kevlar
vest watching us from the other side.

Captain Hook and Big Daddy have even brought their families -- a
couple of the kids are wearing I Support the Guardian Angels T-shirts
that hang past their knees. But where the hell are the Angels brass
- -- Lou, Little Bear, Scorpio?

A resident had invited us to hold our ceremony here, but the Toronto
Community Housing Corporation has apparently caught wind of it and
cancelled the event. Word among the recruits is that TCHC officials
informed Lou of this yesterday. But this is the first most of us are
hearing about it. I'm wondering if Lou has left us hanging to play up
the drama for the media.

Finally, the cavalry arrives, in a moment choreographed for TV: the
Guardian Angels' Canadian national director, Lou Hoffer, his two
lieutenants, Little Bear and Scorpio, and founder Curtis Sliwa, who
has flown in from New York, marching up Sherbourne Street, decked out
in full Angels regalia: red caps, red jackets, black pants, black boots.

"We got the Rock," shouts J-Guy, referring to Curtis's code name.
"They're in for it now!"

But in the end, not even the slick-talking Curtis can get us into the
seniors residence. So in a makeshift ceremony at Allan Gardens, Lou
presents our berets to us, one by one.

"Good job, I'm proud of you, buddy," he says, shaking my hand.

Adjusting our caps, we huddle together for a group photo, chiming out
our rallying cry: "Dare to Care!"

After the impromptu walk down George Street that followed our
graduation, Little Bear told us that the prostitutes and open-air
drug deals we had just witnessed were only the tip of the iceberg.
"Where we'll be patrolling," he warned, "will be much worse."

But our first patrol, two days later, takes us back to the same
downtown neighbourhood. For the foreseeable future, this will be our
beat, two times a week, four hours a pop.

It starts on a high note: Pedestrians clap and streetcar drivers honk
in support as we leave Dundas Square and head east.

Three blocks in, we encounter our first cops, a pair of smirking bike officers.

"Ask them why they're really here," one of them says to a journalist.
"Ask them what they're about. You'll see."

Lou and Little Bear tell the officers about their years policing --
Little Bear spent 10 years on the force; I think Lou did five.

"Handing out tickets, eh?" the cop says, dismissively.

"If you get in a jam, don't mention you're a Guardian Angel," Little
Bear later tells us. "Some of these guys have a hate-on for Guardian
Angels. Telling a cop you're one of us may actually make matters worse."

But if we aren't earning their respect tonight, I can't blame them.
We look like a travelling circus: Lou and Scorpio up front, recruits
in formation behind, a media scrum in tow, plus a couple of
hangers-on who have decided to join the spectacle, including a
shoeless man in a wheelchair that we take turns pushing down the street.

When somebody stops, we domino backward down the block.

"Quit bunching up like lemmings!" Scorpio screams.

By the end of our first patrol, we have covered 10 kilometres. We
encounter no real threats, but we dispose of a bit of marijuana we
find sprinkled on the rim of a garbage can on Yonge Street and we
meet a chatty tenants' representative near Moss Park who wants speed
bumps installed on his building's driveway. Lou rubs his temples.

The most action we get is when one of the recruits, Wolfman, dashes
out into the street to rescue a little kid's bouncing red ball.

The next day, it's clear that Scorpio wasn't impressed. He fires off
two disciplinary e-mail messages covering a variety of points. One
asks us to avoid unnecessary bathroom breaks. Another tells us not to
wear sunglasses during interviews -- it looks too confrontational.

One seems directed at Wolfman: "Acting alone will not get you noticed
or make you a hero."

According to a television poll, 1,095 respondents are against us and
3,070 are for us. As we head off on our second patrol on July 18, we
do our best to look professional.

"This is a dangerous neighbourhood," a prostitute taunts as we head
north on Pembroke Street. "I wouldn't be here if I was you."

But for the next half-hour, the most eventful thing that happens is
Big Daddy grumbling about Lou. Big Daddy wants to help out a man who
has passed out in front of a convenience store. Lou wants to keep
moving. Huffing, Big Daddy stops to buy a blue Freezie.

Then, an off-white Chrysler LeBaron puts on its hazard lights and
pulls up next to Scorpio on Sherbourne Street. We wait in formation,
trying to look inside the car.

It's a couple of women. One of them hands Scorpio a piece of paper,
and they drive away.

"A couple of UCs," Scorpio tells us, identifying the women as
undercover cops. He's holding a "wanted" flyer from the Toronto
Police Sex Crimes Unit.

The recruits pass the flyer through the ranks. It's a photograph of a
violent sex offender -- a white guy in a hooded sweatshirt with a shaved head.

"It's the kid from George Street, eh?" Captain Hook says suddenly.

The recruits start buzzing. Is it the kid we saw on our graduation
night -- the one on the silver dirt bike who called us rats? It might
be. A wave of excitement rushes over us: Maybe we'll bump into this
guy again. Maybe we'll get to make a citizens' arrest. It's a eureka
moment, especially after walking around for three hours.

"This is awesome," Captain Hook says.

But Scorpio doesn't say anything else and motions to us to start
walking. We don't see the kid with the shaved head again.

As we head east on Gerrard Street past Parliament, a kid yells at us
from his bike. "Aren't you going through Regent?"

It's the second time someone has screamed that this Saturday night,
the first a black woman from the back of a cab. It's our third
patrol, and we still haven't walked through Regent Park, even though
we've passed it several times. With a nod, Scorpio gives us the
signal to make a right turn.

It's dark in the housing development except for a few streetlights,
and we pass women in hijabs and an old man pushing a shopping cart.
We see smoke rising. People are clustered in a building's backyard.

When we pass a group of black teenagers, I feel like we're an
invading street gang. We're wearing colours, walking through their
turf, staring at them standing in front of their homes.

"You need more manpower," one of them calls out, laughing.

"Why don't you sign up?" asks TNT.

A kid pulls up on a bicycle. "Don't talk to them, man," he tells our heckler.

But Diamond is persistent. "Let me give you a flyer -- you can go to
our website," she says.

"We say, 'Fuck the police' out here," the kid tells her. He turns
back to his friend. "They worse than the police. The police don't
even like them, yo."

With that, Scorpio gets the patrol moving, laughter and insults in
our wake. But crossing the imaginary threshold into Regent Park was a
big deal for most of us, and our adrenaline is pumping as we head west.

A half-hour later, after we cross Bay Street, I almost don't see the
man in front of the bus terminal staggering toward us. He's wearing
greasy pants and his hair is pulled back in a ponytail under a Home
Depot hat. Scabs and tattoos trace his dirty arms.

Rose turns to me and mouths, "That's him. That's the guy."

It's the crack dealer and addict who has been stalking her for
months. At the start of tonight's patrol, she had told me she saw him
on the street last night. He followed her, screaming and cursing.

Rose slides over to Scorpio and talks to him. Scorpio raises a fist
and we arrange ourselves into a line against the bus station wall.

"Are you guys the police or something?" Rose's stalker slurs, with a
thick Quebecois accent.

All our eyes are trained on him. Murmurs that this is the guy she's
talked about quickly travel along the chain.

He asks us for money, then stares at Rose.

Big Daddy steps out of line to give him the death stare. J-Guy tells
him we're not allowed to give out money when wearing our colours.
Scorpio takes his picture on his camera phone to e-mail to the police.

Before Rose's stalker can respond, we turn and walk away, galvanized.

When the shift ends, Big Daddy, Captain Hook, TNT and I head to the
Red Lion on Jarvis Street for beers. We order chicken wings and
Stella Artois and talk about Lou and the $200,000 he's hoping to
raise in sponsorship from D'Angelo Foods, where Captain Hook's cousin works.

Captain Hook and Big Daddy spot a prostitute walking down the road.
The conversation stops as they stand up to get a better look over the fence.

"Once I got this chick to do my buddy and his younger cousin for
$20," TNT says, then tells us how he asked for a refund when the
prostitute couldn't get his friend's cousin to perform.

Big Daddy chortles and makes a crack about TNT's thriftiness that
makes it clear he doesn't know I'm Jewish. Everyone laughs.

Then we move on to talking about the evening's patrol along Church
Street and Big Daddy proves he's an equal opportunist -- he can joke
about gays too.

And when the conversation winds its way to the black teens we met in
Regent Park, Captain Hook rises to the occasion with a choice word of
his own. Big Daddy raises his glass in a toast.

Maybe this is also how guys talk on Bay Street or in precincts,
blowing off steam after work. Having patrolled for two weeks, I know
it's hard walking the streets in a red beret and jacket. We get
thumbs-up and gratitude, but more often than not we endure ridicule,
animosity and abuse. It makes sense that some of us want to fight
back over beers because we can't on patrol.

But Lou would be crushed if he heard this conversation. It's the kind
of stuff Little Bear and Scorpio have been fighting for more than two decades.

When I walk home, a Guardian Angel calls out from his car to the
prostitute on the road.

The road where we started, George Street, seems less dangerous than
when we first walked it two weeks ago. Standing in a parkette off
Yonge Street toward the end of our fourth night out, Little Bear asks
us to go around the circle and tell him what we thought of our patrols.

Diamond complains that we're walking too fast. Rose wants to hand out
flyers to enlist more recruits. Captain Hook wants more T-shirts.

I tell them that tonight is my last patrol. That I don't feel right
walking in our colours through people's neighbourhoods. I know the
Guardian Angels are trying to protect honest residents in difficult
areas. But it felt provocative as we marched through Regent Park. I
don't mention my conversation with the guys three nights ago.

"Regent got to you, eh?" J-Guy says.

Scorpio gets the patrol moving, and Little Bear sends word through
the line that he wants me to walk next to him up front. He tells me
they'll miss me, and that if I hear of anything that might help the
Angels, I can call him any time.

I hand over my beret in the alley behind Ryerson.

"We'll always have a place for you," Little Bear says.