Hard-Boiled- Box Set

by Danny R. Smith

  “Get a ticket and get on that plane with her.”

  “You don’t think we should just grab her?”

  I stood thinking about it for a moment. Dwight waited on the line. The Hawthorne Police watch commander appeared in the hallway, not far from where we stood, and said, “They’re ready for you guys in the interview room.”

  “No problem,” I said, “we’ll be there in a minute.”

  Floyd rolled his eyes. “Jesus, like we need this shit. What do you want to do?”

  “Tell them to wait until she leaves ticketing,” I said. “Badge the agent and find out where she’s going. Then get back to us, and fast. We can interrupt an interview for a murder suspect boarding a flight, I would think. But let’s see what she’s up to before deciding.”

  The lieutenant stood fidgeting in his dark blue, long-sleeved uniform complete with a tie, watching impatiently.

  Floyd spoke into the phone, “D, can you guys—”

  The watch commander glanced at his watch and said, “These guys are all on overtime now.”

  Floyd lowered the mouthpiece, “Are you fucking kidding me, man?”

  The lieutenant, who had just begun to turn away when Floyd let loose, snapped back around, his brows furrowed, and eyes narrowed, his olive complexion having instantly turned red.

  Before he could respond, I said, “We’ve got a lot going on right now, lieutenant. We’ll be right there.”

  The lieutenant turned away slowly, his eyes shooting daggers at my partner.

  Floyd flipped his middle finger at the lieutenant’s back and said to nobody in particular, just his partner standing there with a cup of coffee, winning with the pair of jacks, “Pussy.”

  I could hear Dwight’s voice from the phone, so I nodded my head at it, redirecting Floyd.

  Floyd said into the phone: “Sorry, man, we’ve got this dickhead lieutenant down here who won’t get off our balls. Did you hear what my partner said about checking with the clerk, see where Donna’s heading and then get back to us?”

  Dwight’s voice again, the words right on and brother was all I could make out.

  “Thanks, man,” Floyd said, and then added, “and get back to us soon as you can.”

  When Floyd put the phone away I asked, “They’re at LAX?”

  “Probably headed back to Texas, would be my guess” he said. “Which is where I’m going after I beat someone’s ass, probably that pussy lieutenant if he gets in my face again.”

  “Gentlemen?”

  We looked up to see the same watch commander now standing side by side with a short, chubby-cheeked man in a cheap suit and comb-over. “What?!” Floyd snapped.

  “We’d like to get started,” the man in the suit said.

  The lieutenant just glared.

  I cringed, not sure at this point what to expect of my partner.

  “Well by all means,” Floyd bellowed, “let’s get to it!”

  He sounded like a drunken sailor about to throw the first punch at a soldier who sat next to his gal.

  The lieutenant and the attorney stood silent.

  Floyd continued, “Or maybe you could make sure junior’s found his nuts, then let us know when you’re sure he’s ready to give a statement. Tell him to take his time, think it over, because we sure as hell don’t have anything better to do than sit around this goddamned place drinking shit coffee that costs us a buck a fucking pop.”

  They stood dumbfounded.

  I mumbled, “Fifty cents.”

  Floyd’s phone broke the standoff.

  “What?” he snapped into his cell . . . “Great, hold on.” He moved the phone away from his cheek, glanced at the watch commander and attorney who watched in disbelief, and then back to me. “She just boarded a plane, headed for Cancun.”

  20

  SURVEILLANCE TEAM SERGEANT Dwight Campbell rocked back and forth on a pair of black Reebok tennis shoes, his hands shoved into the front pockets of baggy jeans. His six-point sheriff’s star hung around his neck on a chain outside a black Harley Davidson t-shirt. We stood in the parking lot of the Hawthorne Police Station, the type of place where a black man with a shaved head, a soul patch, two gold earrings, and a Glock 9mm stuffed in the front of his jeans needed to make certain the locals knew who he was.

  “You should’ve seen the flight attendant when we boarded the plane, my whole damn team coming on, looking like a bunch of renegade commandos.”

  “Or a prison break in progress,” Floyd said.

  Dwight rolled his shoulders back, straightening his posture next to Floyd who stood erect, his feet planted shoulder-width apart, a fighter’s stance. Dwight looked him over and said, “Shee-it.”

  “So, no problems?” I asked.

  “Homegirl looked like she was about to shit a brick,” he said. “But no, as far as getting on the plane and taking her off, it went smooth. Buddy of mine who works the LAX dope crew walked us through security.”

  We all paused to watch a young officer in a tailored blue uniform pass by, strutting with that young cop machismo, maybe each of us having seen it somewhere before.

  I looked up as a jet buzzed overhead, inbound LAX, and after it passed, I said, “She know why you snatched her up yet, D?”

  “Nah, man” he said, also glancing up at the plane. “She kept asking, but we just kept our mouths shut. Told her she’d find out what it was all about soon enough. She kept saying, ‘I’ve got a right to know why you’re arresting me!’ I says—check it out—‘Ain’t nobody arrested you yet, baby, but you keep talking smack, and see what happens.’ Then baby comes back with, ‘What do you call this shit, sitting here in handcuffs?’”—Dwight let out a big chuckle—“We were on our way to Lennox, right? Had her in the back of Jake’s ride. I said, ‘Baby, you call it what you want. You can call it arrested, or you can call it kinky, or you can call it a righteous kidnapping, all I care.’”

  I grinned and said, “Yeah, what’d she say to that?”

  “She says, ‘I ain’t yo baby, asshole.’ So I don’t say another thing to her the rest of the way there, if that’s how the bitch is gonna act. But Jake, he tries to be all smooth, the big-assed white boy gonna talk some shit to the little sista, right? He says, ‘Honey,’—some shit, and she gives him the same thing, ‘I ain’t yo honey.’ Bitch has got attitude, I’ll give her that.”

  Dwight grinned, his arms now folded across his chest as he leaned against a black and white. “We get to Lennox and lock her ass up in the holding cell. I tell her, ‘Be cool now, baby.’”—Dwight now laughing—“Bitch about comes unglued. Anyway, we told the watch commander she was there for Homicide, in the event she starts pitching a bitch.”

  “Hope they can hold her for a while,” Floyd said. “We just finished our second interview here, got some two-bit lawyer slowing things up. Two more to go before we can break away, go see our girl.”

  “My baby,” Dwight said, grinning.

  I glanced at my watch and shook my head at the time, now past midnight. “Wonder if I’m still married.”

  “Married?” Dwight said. “Shit, who’s still married? Only cops I know still married are dudes smart enough to take a war bride, maybe one of these little Latinas that don’t speak no English, ain’t got no driver’s license or checkbook. Got them dirt-sweeping mamas, make homemade tamales for their little girl’s man. I done messed up twice, got my pension divided up between two bitches I can’t stand. Never again, man, not this brotha.”

  I said, “You’re right about that, man.”

  “Hey, listen, Bobby Ross is the watch commander over at Lennox tonight. You want,” Dwight said, “I’ll call him up, tell him it’ll be a while ‘fore y’all make it over there, maybe buy you a little time.”

  “You wouldn’t mind?”

  “Hell no, man, I don’t mind. Bobby won’t give me no shit, neither. I still got dirt on his ass from when we worked a radio car in Willowbrook, back in the day. Some shit ain’t got no statute of limitations, if you know what I mean.”<
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  “I’ve heard stories,” I said, “about both of you from back then, back in the brook.”

  “Shit,” Dwight said, “you ain’t heard half of it.”

  He seemed to be enjoying the moment, looking away for a minute with a smile on his face, still leaned back against the car, his arms folded. He glanced over at Floyd then locked his eyes on me again as he continued. “This one time, we were back in the gang office talking to this chump from Watts, this little boy who thought he was the shit, a real tough guy. We’d taken him down for some dope, him and another little nigga trying to make it back into the projects before the po-lice snatched them up. Well his little homie got away, bailed out of the ride and beat feet, so of course we stayed with the driver, let the other run. Brought this little shit into the office and Bobby asks who’s his homeboy, the little nigga got away from the car. He says he can’t remember his name. Bobby asks him a couple times, but the little asshole just kept lying through his lips. Check this out, Bobby picks up a phone book, one of those L.A. books ‘bout four inches thick, says to homeboy, ‘You suppose his name’s in here?’ The little bad-ass sucks his teeth a little, then says, ‘Maybe.’

  “Bobby opens it up, points to a name and reads it. ‘Was it Fernando Diaz jumped outta your ride?’ Kid says, ‘Huh?’ Bobby says it again. ‘Was it Diaz, is that the nigga jumped out of your hoop? The kid says, ‘No.’ Whack! Bobby hits him across the head with the book, knocks him sideways in his chair. The kid now holding his hand up to the side of his head, looking at Bobby like that nigga crazy. Bobby opens the phone book up again, points to another name and calls it out, same thing, some shit like, ‘What about John Smith?’ Kid shakes his head. Same thing, whacks the kid across the head with the phone book. Little bastard about comes out of his chair this time, slumped over now holding his head with both hands. Bobby tells homeboy, ‘We ain’t stopping ‘til I get that nigga’s name.’”

  Dwight stared off, recounting the good ol’ days, his grin starting to fade a bit. “He gave up the name after about four of those smacks across his nappy little head. Can you imagine doing some shit like that today? Shee-it.”

  “They’d have your ass,” I said.

  Floyd nodded toward the back door to the station. “We better get at it, Dickie, two more to go.”

  I said to Dwight, “D, we appreciate all your hard work, man.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ to it, man. You want me to give Bobby a call?”

  “Yeah, might as well. Tell him we’ll owe him one if he can hold onto her a few hours without being booked. I don’t know what the hell we’re going to do with her, but I don’t want her booked for anything yet.”

  “All right then, fellas, we’ll catch up with y’all later.”

  “Thanks, D.”

  “No problem, brother.”

  “Take care, man,” Floyd said.

  Dwight nodded, turned, and disappeared between a row of black and white cars with parking lot lights reflecting off their hoods and windshields.

  It was nearly three a.m. when we finished our final interview of the officers who had been involved in the bank shooting incident. We had unknowingly saved the worst for last: Donald Platt, a rookie officer with six months on the street. His body had trembled when Floyd answered his question, telling him yes, it’s true, the guy you killed was armed with a pellet gun. That spun us into another break and another conversation over fifty-cent vending machine coffee while the Police Protective League’s attorney worked on getting the kid under control.

  Pulling out of the lot, I asked Floyd, “You wanna stop for a cup?”

  “Whatever you think, Dickie. You got a plan for talking to Donna?”

  “No.”

  “Then let’s stop, come up with a plan. Not like we can just walk in and tell her we know she’s a lying bitch.”

  Floyd started off the interview by asking Donna Edwards a few simple questions: where’s she been lately, how was Texas, has she heard from Gilbert since we visited with her at her home the other night . . .

  Donna, sitting in the small, cold room, her arms folded across her chest, said, “I don’t have any idea what you’re even talking about.”

  And that’s when Floyd called her a lying bitch.

  Though briefly stunned by the change of plans, I said, “He gets a bit cranky when we’ve been up for two days straight.”

  I slid a metal chair from the table and sat next to her.

  Her glare did not soften as her eyes shifted to mine. She glanced back at Floyd while drumming the table with red fingernails. “I’m not saying anything else to Joe Cool here. He can kiss my ass.”

  “You know what—” Floyd began.

  “Give us a second, partner,” I said, interrupting him.

  Floyd turned and walked out, slamming the door behind him. Probably just playing the good cop, bad cop routine to its fullest. We never planned it, it just came naturally, the two of us knowing how to play off each other without a script. Usually, I played the bad cop, especially with the women, Floyd figuring he could flirt a confession out of anything with estrogen. Usually telling me after—if we did happen to get a confession—that he had softened her up just right for us, the Floyd charm hard at work.

  But not tonight, for some reason. Maybe my partner had been off his game since the Hawthorne lieutenant had pissed him off. No matter, tonight I’d be the good guy, to the best of my ability. The trick would be not having this turn into bad cop, worse cop.

  “See Donna,” I said, “here’s the thing. We have enough right now to put a twenty-year trafficking case on you, no questions asked.”

  “What?!”

  “Gilbert gave you up, the whole thing with the cocaine deal in Texas, getting ripped off, everything.”

  “Gilbert?” As if she didn’t know him.

  “We just got in from Dallas-Fort Worth, Donna, haven’t even been home to change clothes yet. Visited Gilbert at the hotel the two of you were enjoying on your neighbor’s tab.”

  “I don’t know—”

  “James Scott, the guy across the street. The one you said has been gone for a while? Him and his wife, the nice little woman who always says hello? Yeah, well, we know his credit card’s been paying for you and your Mexican friend to live it up in Texas the last few days, and that’s the least of your worries at this point.”

  Floyd opened the door, poked his head in. “I’m on the phone with DEA. You want them to come down tonight? The guy wants to know.”

  “Not yet.”

  He shot her a look and closed the door. I waited a moment listening to Floyd’s footsteps on the tile floor fading behind him.

  “I don’t know why he’s on your ass like this, what you did to piss him off. I’ll tell you though, he’s hard to please once he gets this way. I can barely live with the guy.”

  “He’s a pompous ass. I thought he was nice, that night at the house, but now I think he’s a dick.”

  “He is a little grumpy tonight,” I conceded, “but I’ve got just as much say in what happens to you as far as the dope business goes. Truth is, we don’t really care about all that shit anyway, Donna. What we want is to get some answers about this other stuff, your friends getting killed, the head-case across the street from you, the business you and the Mexican run. But you need to be truthful and up front about everything, or all bets are off.”

  “One more person tells me they want a lawyer this week, I’m going to rip his eyelids off with pliers and staple them to his forehead—or hers. Swear to God. What the hell are we going to do now?”

  Floyd grinned, the two of us standing in the hallway just outside the interview room. He had that I could have told you so look about him, but he didn’t actually say it. What he actually said was, “I say we book the bitch for trafficking, see if she softens up after a couple days of fighting dykes at the county jail. Unless she actually likes that type of thing, and goes both ways. That actually makes more sense, now that I think about it. The bitch is probably a lesbian.�
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  “You don’t think that case is a little thin? No dope, no money, just the word of Gilbert, the confession you beat out of him?”

  Floyd thought for a moment. I could see the wheels spinning inside his head.

  He said, “That or we put a surveillance team back on her and let her go. Maybe get more on the dope case, or maybe she leads us to more whores and their clientele. Either way, I like having someone on her ass.”

  “Sounds like a better idea, partner. I’ll give Dwight a call, if you want to let the watch commander know the plan.”

  “Deal, Dickie.”

  21

  FLOYD AND I parted ways vowing to get home and get some rest, get showered, and change our clothes before the next disaster found us. I spoke into my cell phone over the cool wind whirling through an open window. “D, I hate to do this to you, but—”

  He laughed, asked what happened, and said he thought we were the experts on getting folks to talk.

  I said, “My partner screwed it up.”

  “Not as cool as ol’ boy thinks he is, huh?”

  Not knowing quite how to take the comment, I let it pass through my earpiece and out the window. I told him his buddy, Bobby Ross, said he’d hold Donna Edwards overnight without her being charged, Floyd had worked it out with him. That would give Dwight and his team a chance to get some rest and be ready to start fresh in the morning.

  Dwight said, “Not a problem, we’ll be on her. You boys just relax, play a little golf, we’ll let ya know if we get something going with your girl.”

  I didn’t bother telling him I’d played exactly four rounds of golf in the last eight years since promoting to Homicide Bureau. I didn’t tell him what I wanted to say, that if I worked surveillance, I’d get in two or three rounds a week, then lie my ass off about being out of hours and needing overtime when Homicide wanted someone tailed. What I said was, “Thanks, D, you’re the man.”