Hard-Boiled- Box Set

by Danny R. Smith

  “He will if we need him to. He actually said he has nothing to hide. He’s single, openly bisexual, and he said he loved Susie.”

  I didn’t know what to say. It was a lot of solid information, but it was also a big pill for me to swallow.

  Floyd continued: “This also makes sense about them arguing in the front yard. Maybe Susie wasn’t too keen on the extortion, or at least the extortion of Doc Gladstone, since he’s who made her a woman. Whatever Susie said to Donna in that front yard, is what got her killed, Dickie. I’m convinced of it. Maybe she told her they were through, done with working for her, done doing her dirty work, done watching her destroy lives. Doc said he loved Susie, and I would bet Susie knew it.”

  “Okay, okay” I said, somewhat defeated, “you’re probably right. So what’s our next move, Sherlock?”

  “We need to get Donna’s cell records, show that she called him the day after the murder to corroborate the doctor’s story. Then we need to identify the tattooed thug that was with Gilbert, and then find both of their dumb asses, and beat a confession out of them.”

  “Yeah, and then what?”

  Floyd thought about it for a minute, and said, “You can buy the steaks and beer. How’s that sound?”

  35

  I SAT AT my desk biting at the end of a ballpoint pen while staring at the back of Floyd’s head. He sat at a computer beyond a cluster of desks along the squad room wall, computers that provided access to law enforcement applications such as FBI and DOJ criminal histories and personal records. The pimple on his neck annoyed me as I sulked over the death of my theory, the brilliant though perhaps ill-conceived hunch that it was the doctor who killed Susie and her friend. The obnoxious, rich, Englishman with his robe and girly cigarettes.

  Both of them were actually pissing me off, I thought, the doctor with his English accent and Floyd with his fifty-dollar haircut, the two of them teaming up to tear me down today. The whole day gone to shit, the search warrant and all the extra work that went into it having caused the loss of nearly a full day. Or so it seemed. If I had to be fair, I would admit that the doctor’s information was certainly helpful for our case against Donna and the boys . . . if I had to be fair. Ah bloody hell.

  The clock read eight and we had missed dinner again, the second night in a row. After leaving the doctor’s house, we had spent the day driving through the soggy streets of Los Angeles, the traffic barely moving as panic had struck Angelenos. It became the top story of the southland, this dangerous—if not deadly—phenomenon where water came from above and wetness blanketed the streets, the cars, and the few pedestrians who were so foolish as to venture outdoors during such treacherous conditions. People had been forced to close their sunroofs, put their tops up, and close their windows. Weather warnings were announced throughout the day by reporters clad in yellow or blue plastic raincoats, who risked their very lives to report the natural disaster in dramatic fashion.

  The bulk of the day included stops at the crime lab, where we submitted evidence for analysis, the courthouse, where we filed our search warrant, Manny’s in East Los Angeles, where we consumed Hollenbeck burritos, and the hat store at Fifth and Main, where my mood didn’t allow me to enjoy shopping for hats. But it had been a nice try on Floyd’s part to get me out of my slump.

  The office seemed unusually busy for this time of evening. Most of the detectives were likely waiting out traffic, or maybe the weather. Raindrops drummed against the squad room’s windows, and I pictured the streams of water cascading from the roof forming rivers across the sidewalks and turning the parking lot into a pond. It was a perfect evening to catch up on paperwork, if I was stuck here anyway.

  I thought of Val and wished I were home eating popcorn and watching a show, or sitting in the hot tub as rain battered the gazebo, not a thought of the city on my mind. But the reality of it was, I wasn’t home, and I wouldn’t be for a long time, even if I left work at this minute. So, I decided to get my head back into the game, quit sulking and do what I do best.

  With this renewed commitment, I said to Floyd, “You find anything yet, partner?”

  He leaned closer to the radiating screen and mumbled something about East Los Angeles.

  “What? I can’t hear you when you mumble.”

  “It looks like his mom lives in East L.A., I said.” He had turned in his chair to face me as the adjacent printer came to life. He spat tobacco in the trash can next to his chair, and said, “I’m betting that’s where we’ll find little Gilbert, home with his mama. Shit, this might be the same place they picked up the old gangster, the place Fudd described. It’s in the right general area. I think we need to go knock on a door, Dickie.”

  I held on to a look of indifference, not willing to acknowledge that it seemed to be the right path. “You in a hurry, we need to check it tonight?”

  “I think it’s a good idea. Don’t you? He’s the only one we can talk to. Donna, looking at a trafficking beef, sure as hell isn’t going to talk to us. What else do we have? Gilbert and maybe this other asshole, once we figure out who he is. That’s it.”

  I shrugged nonchalantly.

  Floyd grinned—the smart-assed Floyd grin—and said, “You want to go visit with the doctor again?”

  “Look, I get it, Doc didn’t do it, most likely. But if Gilbert and the mustache did it, do you think they’re actually going to talk? We don’t have enough to arrest them yet—in my opinion—so I’m not sure what your strategy is.”

  “My strategy, Dickie, is to take you out in the rain, splash through some puddles and see what happens. Weren’t you ever twelve?”

  “No.”

  “I believe it.”

  “We get Gilbert to talk again, prove to him we’ve got him by the balls, maybe even show him the photos of him and vato at the crime scene with Stephanie, and what’s he going to say? He’ll lie and deny like he did in Texas, or maybe he’ll put it all on Donna—again. He isn’t going to give up a homeboy, especially a hardcore looking asshole like the mustache-wearing vato who just got out of prison. That’s my concern. I’m just not sure we gain anything.”

  “Are you going to sit there and complain all night, or suit up for a famous Floyd Outdoor Adventure? I swear sometimes you drive me crazy with this shit. Come on, dickhead, helmets and shoulder pads, we’ve got police shit to do.”

  I glanced toward the windows. “In the rain?”

  “It ain’t gonna kill us, Dickie, I promise.”

  The Regalado residence was about a fifteen minute drive from the office in the rain. And not far from Third Street and Ford Boulevard where King Taco dispenses carne asada twenty-four hours a day to the citizens—and non-citizens—of East Los Angeles. As we drove through the soggy streets, I used the time to convince Floyd he’d have to feed me before we looked for Gilbert, buy me a plate of tacos and a Coke if he wanted me to cover the back while he knocked on the front and tried his luck with Mrs. Regalado. Otherwise, I told him, I’d keep the window cracked just enough to hear him scream, but not so much that the rain could get into the car as I waited in the comfort of a dry Crown Vic. He called me an asshole and said go ahead, stop at King Taco, he could use a bite himself.

  After dinner, I loosened my belt one notch, putting it back to a well-worn hole. I had dropped a few pounds over the last couple of weeks, which caused my pistol to tug at my belt, so I had cinched it up a bit, and it felt good. The weight loss had probably been the result of working fifteen hour days, substituting food with high-test caffeine and alcohol; it certainly had nothing to do with any form of diet or exercise.

  “The thing is,” Floyd said as I pulled out beneath a glowing neon sign, my belly full and warm, “we find Gilbert, it’s going to be a long night. You know we’ll spend a few hours interviewing him, a couple more booking him and doing the paperwork, and that doesn’t even take into account what happens if the old gangster is there when we knock on the door.”

  “So, you’ve changed your mind? It can wait until tomorrow?” />
  “No, Dickie, I haven’t changed my mind. But what I’m telling you is I think we should pick up some beer, just to be safe, and put it in the trunk for later.”

  There was a moment of silence as I tinkered with the controls, getting the wipers going and the defroster working. “Just to be safe?”

  “Hey, I fed you, didn’t I?”

  “Chances are,” I said, “this little asshole’s not going to be home. I’ll get to take your ass back to the office and then I’m going home to have a beer in my Jacuzzi.”

  “In the rain?”

  “Why not?”

  After stopping for beer, we drove to the address Floyd had found for Gilbert’s mother. I slowed as I turned onto Evergreen, a narrow street with scant lighting, cars parked along both sides of the street and in driveways and on lawns.

  “What’re the numbers again?”

  “Thirteen-twenty,” Floyd said, “should be on the right, just up ahead a little more.”

  We crept along on the quiet street trying to find numbers that seldom existed on these old houses and were difficult to see on the few that had them, especially on a rainy night.

  “Thirteen twelve on the curb right there,” I said.

  “Probably going to be two houses down, Dickie.”

  “There, that one right there, looks like the house in the photo.”

  “Two assholes on the porch. You see ‘em, Dickie?”

  “They’re moving—”

  “That’s Gilbert!” Floyd exclaimed.

  In the same instant, the passenger’s door flew open and Floyd was gone into the darkness, into the rain.

  “Shit!”

  By the time I jerked the car to the curb and slammed it into park, the porch stood empty and Floyd was nowhere in sight.

  Rain pelted my face as I surveyed the neighborhood. This wasn’t the first time he’d done this, and I could hear him already, like all the other times, promising not to do it again. I considered driving around the block, hoping to head them off, one of the more common tactics all ghetto cops used. But something told me not this time . . . I thought to call it in, ask for backup, and tell them my partner was in foot pursuit of a murder suspect, but questioned whether it had even been Gilbert we saw run, or maybe just two random turds who recognized the cops looking their way. Something told me the two from the porch ran into the house, and if I knew my partner, he wouldn’t hesitate to run in right behind them.

  The Crown Vic waited behind me, her motor running and wiper blades swiping at the dancing raindrops as I set out for the front of the house in question. The porch held a floral-patterned couch, dry under the shelter, and showing no sign of its prior occupants. Beer containers were scattered about the wooden railing and concrete steps ascending from the front lawn.

  As I approached at a jog, I heard voices from within, shouting in both English and Spanish, some cursing, and the sounds of doors slamming closed. I hit the middle of the three steps with one foot and landed on wood slats with the other, my H&K 9mm pointed at the closed door. The momentum carried me across the six feet of covered porch with one step and my next step included a foot landing flush against the door, just above the lock. The door shattered, hardware and splinters of wood exploding inward, and I came to a stop just inside the threshold.

  I expected to see my partner on the other side, maybe the two gangsters from the porch on the living room floor spread eagled, but the room sat empty.

  At that exact moment, I realized, standing in the center of this dark and musty room, that if Floyd had come through the front door, it would have already been knocked off its hinges.

  Shit!

  A robust woman appeared out of nowhere, now standing in a doorway to my right. I instinctively spun toward her, the front sight of my pistol homing in on her forehead until I saw the child plastered to her side. I lowered my gun. She snarled and yelled something in Spanish. Before I could speak, she had disappeared into the dark hallway behind her.

  I scanned the remainder of the living room, seeing an empty armchair, a lamp with no shade on the adjacent table, the bulb shining faint light against a dark wall of wood paneling. Cops played on a small television in the corner, the theme song blaring as credits rolled, cop action showing in the background.

  “Floyd?”

  There was no response.

  “Floyd?!”

  Still nothing. No more shouting or screaming, no sounds of movement beyond this room. Nothing but Cops playing on the television, dim blue light flickering from the screen, and a sick feeling in my gut as I stood alone in this strange house, my partner missing in action.

  I moved into the kitchen, my front sight popping up to cover the direction I traveled, while glancing back toward the dark hallway, a black hole where the mystery woman once stood, a potential area of threat now behind me. A pot of beans simmered on the stove and dirty dishes sat piled on the countertops and filled the sink. I continued toward a laundry area beyond the kitchen, becoming aware of an open back door.

  I caught a quick movement out of the corner of my eye, and it startled me. I spun to my right. As I did, a blinding flash lit the room and an explosion rattled the windows. I felt a sudden burning in my shoulder, and another flash followed immediately, and another explosion. A bullet slammed into my stomach, and I felt myself falling. It was like being slugged with a baseball bat, not at all what I thought being shot would feel like. But I knew it had happened, and in that instant, I pictured the bulletproof vest beneath the box of beer in my trunk. I thought of Valerie, but only for an instant, and then I focused on the man who stood before me.

  He screamed at me, spittle flying from the mass of dark hair that covered his mouth. His dark, harsh eyes stared at me with hatred through the smoke that now hung in the room. His voice was muted by the noise of the blast that still reverberated through my head. It all seemed surreal, nightmarish, and as in a nightmare my body was slow to react although my brain demanded that I shoot this bastard with his hateful eyes.

  Flames erupted from my pistol as I squeezed the trigger with all my might again and again. I collapsed against a table and slid to the floor, my stomach and chest on fire. A fan twirled above my head, slowly stirring the hanging smoke, and my ears rang in the suddenly silent room.

  Then I could hear voices, mostly speaking Spanish, and another speaking loudly and angrily. At first the words were indecipherable, but then I heard my partner, and knew I wouldn’t be left to die here alone in this old and musty room on a dark and rainy night in East Los Angeles.

  The room filled with sounds of a fight, yelling and cursing accompanied by the dull thuds of violent blows striking human flesh. My brain insisted that I get up, fight through the fatigue and the pain and help my partner who was likely fighting for his life—or maybe for mine—but my body refused to comply. I tried to look for Floyd but was unable to see him, my vision limited to the fan that still twirled above me. But in my mind, I saw my partner fighting ferociously, a thing I had seen many times before. He would win, there was no doubt about that, and then he would be pissed at me for lying there bleeding, helpless and without a plan. We always needed to have a plan.

  A thick haze engulfed my mind as if I were drunk, and as the minutes passed I became less able to understand what was happening around me.

  The fan moved more slowly now, winding down to its inevitable stop, and the pain subsided and the sounds faded. There were no more angry voices, no more sounds of a fight, as the smoke settled and darkness descended on me.

  I drifted into a slumber, at peace now with what was next to come.

  Bad boys, bad boys . . .

  36

  IT HAD BEEN six days since Jorge Regalado, Gilbert’s uncle, had shot me with his .38 Special, once in the abdomen and once in the shoulder. Floyd stood at the side of my bed in jeans and a beige V-necked sweater, telling me how it went down: “Man, I damn near lost my mind when I heard those shots, Dickie . . .

  “While you were screwing around out fron
t, looking for a place to park, I chased Gilbert and some other asshole around the side of that house. Gilbert went into the back yard while his buddy took a left into the alley. I stayed with Gilbert and caught the little fat turd when he tried to go over a fence. I was in the back of that house trying to handcuff Gilbert—he’s a lot stronger than you’d think—when I heard the gunshots. I went, Jesus, what was that? I mean, I knew what it was, but it took me a second to process it. You know, like, what the hell’s Dickie shooting at while I’m back here rolling around with Gilbert? So, I pretty much decided, screw this, I don’t have time for any more of these reindeer games, and I bashed him over the head with my flashlight.

  “He went out cold, but I didn’t want to leave him there, let him come to and maybe lose him again. Plus, I was like, I’m not in that big of a hurry to see who you’d shot, right? Jesus, Dickie,”—he said, and took a deep breath, his eyes glassy but just for an instant—“it never occurred to me it could’ve been you that was shot. I mean, we don’t get shot.”

  He paused, maybe reliving it for a moment, and then he seemed to snap back, maybe before it felt too heavy.

  “So, I dragged Gilbert’s dumb ass over and handcuffed him to the fence, ran to the back door, and barreled through it only to run straight into this big-assed, Indian-looking asshole with bloodshot eyes, a big ol’ soggy cocksucker who took up the whole goddamned doorway. Now, I’ve already got Vanessa ready to go,” he said, tapping his hip though he stood in my hospital room unarmed, “and my first impression of this Tonto-looking bastard is he don’t come across as real accommodating, the friendly type, if you know what I mean. So I don’t bother introducing myself and making nice, I just cracked him across his forehead with the barrel—bam!—right across here”—Floyd said as ran his index finger over the center of his forehead—“and he folded like a cheap lawn chair.”

  I drank up every word, thirsty for the knowledge. Most of it had been previously unclear as I had tried to recall the scene, the action, wanting to know what happened and what went wrong on that dark and rainy night in East Los Angeles. Now, as I listened to my partner, I could see it in my mind, Floyd pistol-whipping the big Mexican there in the doorway, my partner vicious as any man could be when necessary. I could see the laundry room off the back door, the last thing I had remembered seeing before it all happened, before the flash of light, the explosions, the pain . . . I remembered hearing Floyd’s voice that night as I faded beneath a slow-twirling fan, Floyd cursing as he charged into the home of Gilbert Regalado. Now I put it together with what Floyd described like an action-packed detective novel, maybe an Elmore Leonard or Mickey Spillane.