Hard-Boiled- Box Set

by Danny R. Smith

  17

  LEONARD HAD NO idea why they wanted a cop clipped, but he did know that after the first night watching, he now needed a new ride. He was concerned that the cop—Leonard’s new job—may have already noticed him and would be suspicious of his return. He flicked a lit cigarette out the window while driving across Hollywood Boulevard and immediately regretted doing so. He checked the mirrors to see if any cops were around who might have noticed. He didn’t see any. That’s all he needed, to get picked up for something stupid like littering.

  Driving a beater Oldsmobile with Florida plates would draw too much attention for the work he was now doing; he needed to find a different car. He had stayed clear of the cop over the weekend in an effort to let things cool. He had a month to do the job, regardless of what Moses Fuckface said. During the weekend, he had put a lot of thought into the situation and had decided a new car was a must. But he needed to buy one for cash with no questions asked. Which is why he had driven to Hollywood. An addict outside his hotel had told Leonard where to go and who to see for just such a business arrangement.

  Leonard had $19,000 cash, or a little shy of it, having now received four separate wires of $5,000. Separate wires from different institutions and addressed to four individuals, the names for which he had corresponding identifications. He was paid $20,000 for the first two hits, which he thought was a good deal. So far, he had spent less than a grand of it, forking out $250 per week for his room on Main Street downtown, and buying food, gas, cigarettes, and booze. He thought maybe he’d look for an apartment that cost less but he liked the cash deal with no names at the front desk where he stayed. Parking was nonexistent but he had figured out to park at various restaurants in the area and move the car every four or five hours, even overnight. It wasn’t easy getting around by foot once he parked, and on one occasion, he had been accosted by a bum and had ended up stabbing the filthy bastard. He worried about it after, concerned he could contract the AIDS virus from the man’s blood all over his hands and arms. Leonard had ditched the knife and washed up at a diner before heading back to the century-old hotel. Now he needed a new knife.

  He found the gypsy car dealer just outside of Hollywood. He had no sooner pulled into the lot and stepped out of his car than a smiling Russian in bright colors came directly toward him. The man seemed to be determined to live up to the sign on the building behind him that read Friendly Auto Sales. Before the man spoke a word, Leonard knew he hated him.

  “Velcome,” the stocky man said with a heavy accent. As he neared, he offered his right hand to Leonard.

  Leonard looked away, scanning the rows of cars around him. He wasn’t about to shake hands with this foreigner, or anyone else for that matter. He didn’t touch people unnecessarily in order to avoid germs, and he abhorred others placing hands on him and wouldn’t allow it. Not only was it a matter of cleanliness, Leonard also worried that through touch some people could know things about you, or somehow feel connected. There was also his concern for safety. He wouldn’t take a chance of being pulled into someone’s grasp by offering a hand. Martial artists shake with two hands in order to maintain control and be prepared for combat. Leonard had read about that while he and Whitey studied martial arts in their cell, learning from publications they purchased through the mail. The two had practiced their techniques on one another, all day, every day, for nearly a decade. Each had become proficient in hand-to-hand combat. Leonard didn’t want to touch anyone, and nobody was going to touch him.

  As a good salesman who would not be deterred, the man withdrew his hand and introduced himself. “Grigori, my name . . . is call Gregory for you Americans. Or, you maybe call me Greg, is better, no?”

  Leonard looked at him with a sour expression, and still didn’t say anything. What he wanted to say is What the fuck is that smell? These foreigners and their goddamn cologne.

  “You want, I sell you nice car?”

  “Look, man, I’m not here to make friends. I don’t care what the fuck your name is, and you don’t need to know mine. There’s a reason I’m here and not down at the Hollywood fucking Ford or Chevy, ya know what I mean?”

  Grigori was undeterred. “Yes, is okay. I sell you nice car, I not know your name.”

  “I’ve got twelve hundred. Give me something that runs good and looks like all the other cars on the road, if you get me. Nothing that stands out, attracts attention.”

  “I have jus’ da car.”

  “I don’t need no papers or titles or any other bullshit. Just give me something clean that the cops won’t pay attention to. All the lights and blinkers better fucking work. And the air-conditioning.”

  The Russian’s smile widened as he held a finger in the air as if to signal he had just the right vehicle in mind for his special customer. “I have plenty car, they all clean title. Clean as Safeway chicken.”

  Leonard noticed the finger with its gold ring, and he noticed the other gold rings and bracelets on both hands. He took note of the thick, gold rope necklace around the man’s neck with a giant Mercedes emblem that was buried in salt and pepper chest hair, enough to weave a Russian blanket.

  The man was saying, “For you, my very good friend, I fix up special.” He motioned for Leonard to follow and led him to a silver Ford Taurus that looked like a businessman’s special. It would work just fine, Leonard told him, and the two headed for the office to seal the deal.

  Leonard walked behind the man and noticed a bulge beneath his untucked, button-up, short-sleeved shirt. He knew it was a gun. Leonard thought about asking him about it, thinking he really did need to learn to use a pistol, and maybe start carrying one. Especially if he was going to have to grease this pig named Dick. But he decided he didn’t trust the man. How could you trust a Russian? As they walked up the steps into a mobile home that had the word Office hand-painted on the door, Leonard pictured the guy pulling the piece on him inside and robbing him for his cash. There would probably be a dozen more hairy assholes that couldn’t speak fucking English waiting inside, smoking their cigarettes and smiling at each other like a bunch of simple foreign assholes. These goddamn Russkies were happy just to be in America where they could commit their crimes and nobody killed them for it. American prisons were vacation destinies for these assholes. Hell, they fed you and gave you TV.

  He was relieved to see only a large-breasted, bottle-bleached blonde in a low-cut blouse sitting behind a desk, smoking a long cigarette. Her eyes were painted with silver and blue and her lips were bright red. Whatever she had been doing, she stopped and watched the two of them as they filed in and sat at an adjacent desk.

  Grigori Kosloff was the name on the business card he tried to hand Leonard after they sat down. Leonard declined by looking away. The man told him that since he didn’t want any papers, maybe it would be best to have his card. He said, “Is okay, you have polize stop at you, tell her you jus’ tes’ the car, you no buy.” He winked and said, “I take good care my special friend.” He offered the card once more and Leonard took it from him.

  The Russian then asked what he wanted to do with his other car, and Leonard said, “I’ll give you another hundred to scrap it, make sure it leaves here in a big block of crushed metal.”

  $1,300 later, Leonard had a fresh set of wheels with plates as clean as some type of chicken—he had no idea what the fucking Russian even meant—and his other car would disappear from the face of the earth with its Florida plates and who knows what kind of evidence that could possibly link him to half-a-dozen murders. He liked the neutral color, and the light tint on the windows would help conceal him if he wore dark clothes and sat low and still. Especially at night. It was his new work car, and he liked it. But it was also one he could walk away from if needed. Leave it where he had to, if it came to that. Disposable cars were the way to go in his line of work.

  Leonard took the Hollywood Freeway north following the map program on his company—rather family—provided phone. He thought maybe when he returned it, he’d leave the pict
ures of the dead girl on there to give Feldman something to get off on. The map told him to exit on Barham Boulevard. The next thing he knew he was on Olive and driving right through the center of Burbank. It was just past noon and he hadn’t eaten since last night, so he stopped at the In-N-Out and waited in a line of a dozen cars or more to get a burger, fries, and a vanilla milkshake.

  Burbank was a nice town. Maybe he’d settle down here someday.

  He had some time to kill, knowing his job wouldn’t be back for several hours, if not longer. He hadn’t patterned him yet, but with the suit, Leonard figured him for a daytime cop. Probably an admin guy, captain or higher. Maybe a detective, but he didn’t look smart enough for that. Leonard pictured the man sitting on the balcony drinking his beer. The more Leonard watched people, the more his contempt for them would grow. He had realized this as a young boy watching people as they slept. He found it equally true—if not worse—in prison. Watching someone for any length of time made the killing easy. People irritated him.

  Leonard thought more about the cop as he finished his burger. Then he thought about how the guy looked like a detective, and it gave him an idea. He’d need to find a phonebook, see where there was a place nearby he could buy a suit. Then, find a place where he could buy some cop shit, maybe a badge and a flashlight or something. Where did cops buy their cop shit? Was there a cop shop type of a place? He’d have to figure it out. He chuckled to himself picturing a store with a bunch of uptight assholes with their mustaches buying cop shit, mirrored sunglasses and whistles.

  I hung up with Eddie Short, an investigator with the California Department of Motor Vehicles. Ray was waiting to hear what had been said on the other end.

  “Nothing he can find, though it’s complicated.”

  “Complicated, how? Don’t they have an off the record list of undercover vehicles, fed cars and such?”

  I shook my head. “Apparently not, but he’s going to double-check with the Law Enforcement section of the clerk’s office. He said he remembered that for a while, back in the eighties, they had to move everything out of the computer system that was considered deep cover after discovering there were some friends of the Hell’s Angels working in the Law Enforcement section. These broads had the job of filing cops’ confidential records. Can you believe it?”

  “Nice.”

  “Yeah, the Angels were putting their old ladies inside. Brilliant, really. Makes you wonder where else they’ve infiltrated.”

  “I’ve heard the Eme did the same thing with cops, groomed youngsters to stay clean and get on the job. You ever heard that?”

  “Never have, but it wouldn’t surprise me, Ray.”

  “There was a new deputy at the jail, just a few months out of the academy, who they caught muling dope in for the Eme. They arrested him, and when they processed him, he said he didn’t want protective custody. Said he’d walk the mainline. That might have been while you were off; it wasn’t very long ago.”

  “A cop who didn’t go P.C.?”

  “Yeah, that’s balls there. Or, I guess, confidence. You know you can walk the mainline because you’re mafia.”

  “So he had worn a costume, not a uniform.”

  “Exactly,” Ray said. “Is this guy going to get back to you, the DMV investigator?”

  “Yeah, that’s the plan. Have you heard anything back from the lab or the coroner’s office on our Jane Doe?”

  “No, but I have it on my list of calls to make,” he said. After a moment he asked, “Hey partner, are you worried about this deal, that guy watching you?”

  “I don’t know, Ray, I guess a little. I’m more pissed off about it than anything else.” I stood and paused before walking away. “You know, I’m just glad it’s only me now, nobody else to worry about getting hurt. It makes it easier, to be honest. Someone wants part of me, come and get it. I’m too old to be worried about dying now. That’s something these youngsters don’t realize. A guy gets to a certain age, and he’s been through the shit, and now he’s just doing time in a miserable existence, he might actually welcome a bullet. One thing for sure, he won’t be running for cover and hiding under a table. At least, not me. Next time I see that prick, he and I will have to have that conversation.”

  I walked away thinking of Val as I fumbled for the cell phone in my pocket.

  18

  LEONARD HAD A problem that had been eating at him for the last two days since the assignment came in. How do you kill a cop who carries a gun all the time when you don’t have a gun yourself? He had considered running him down when the cop went to his car, and that was about the best he’d come up with. He didn’t do guns or explosives or poison, so Leonard’s options were limited. The problem he saw with running him down was that he envisioned doing it at the man’s house. The problem with that was there was no easy way to get back onto the freeway, and the cops were everywhere around that town. The Burbank Gestapo.

  He didn’t see being able to strangle, stab, or beat the cop to death with a hammer. He needed to come up with something else.

  He had finished his lunch and was now driving across Hollywood Way headed for The Cop Shop, a uniform store he had found in the phone book. Maybe if he had some type of badge he would be able to get close to the cop and overtake him while his guard was down. The man looked older and maybe a little heavyset. He was probably soft, out of shape, and wouldn’t be much trouble for a man proficient with martial arts and in good shape from years of calisthenics, such as Leonard. He thought of his good friend—his only friend—Whitey Blanchard and how he had walked in and popped two killers. Bam, bam . . . and that was it. Turned and walked out. That’s how to do it. That was balls. He pictured blasting the cop as he walked to his car one morning, or maybe smoking him when he came home from work, still seated in his cop car. Walk up to ask a question, or maybe look official, a fellow law officer, and catch him flat-footed. Bam! Turn and walk away. He pictured Whitey smiling at the news.

  When Leonard walked into the uniform shop, an elderly man, maybe the owner, wearing slacks and a dress shirt, noticed him and came toward him directly. “How may I help you, sir?”

  Leonard’s social skills were lacking. He knew this about himself. He preferred not speaking to nor interacting with anyone he didn’t know. He tried to brush the man off with a simple, “Just looking,” and walked away.

  The old man lingered and trailed along as Leonard slowly browsed the shop, seeing racks of uniforms of various types: police, security, paramedic, even mailman. He glanced back at the old man who quickly averted his eyes and turned to adjust a pair of boots on a shelf.

  There were bullet-proof vests and wind-breaker type jackets with police emblems. Leonard wondered if he could buy either one. He didn’t know what the rules were for buying police gear but reasoned they must have to control certain sales. He didn’t want this to become more awkward than it already was.

  Leonard turned up the next aisle and was now along the back wall where a glass case enclosed the good stuff: handcuffs, flashlights of all sizes, canisters of mace, belt buckles, watches, and miscellaneous jewelry with badges and department logos and letters. There was a gold necklace with the bold letters LAPD. Leonard pictured it hanging from the neck of a dainty blonde with manicured nails and saw himself rip it from her neck and laugh over her dead body.

  He glanced at the next display case and saw it was full of pistols and revolvers, guns of varying shapes and sizes. He knew he couldn’t legally get a gun, so he looked from the firearms display back to the jewelry before him. He chuckled at another piece that was a gold pig on a necklace.

  The employee walked up behind him. “Decide on anything?”

  Leonard continued looking at the display and said, “Yeah, I’ll need a pair of handcuffs, some type of flashlight, and what kind of badge can I buy?”

  The man said from behind him, “What kind of work are you doing, fella?”

  “Security,” he said quickly, and felt proud of himself for his fast thinking.
>
  “Where at?”

  “Huh?”

  “Where are you working security?”

  That stumped him for a minute. “Uh, In-and-Out, over there,” he said and nodded back behind him to indicate the direction he believed it was, the direction he thought he had come. He wished he had thought of something better, but he had been caught off guard and his stop for lunch was the freshest on his mind.

  The man said, “Oh? I didn’t know they had security now. I know all the guys from the PD, right here in Burbank. I’ll have to ask about that.”

  In his peripheral vision, Leonard saw the man walking as he finished saying it. Leonard looked up to see the shopkeeper was now behind the counter, watching him. Leonard looked around the shop. He didn’t see anyone else working or shopping. He saw a door to a back room but wasn’t sure if that was an office or a supply room, and of course he had no idea if anyone was back there. Leonard followed the man with his eyes as he made his way back toward him, now on the other side of the counter. The two were watching each other closely. Just before the old man was across from him, he reached under the counter. Leonard reached behind his back for his knife that was no longer there, and in that instant, he saw himself throw the bloody knife into a dumpster. He hadn’t yet replaced it. Panic began taking ahold of Leonard as he planned his assault. He would jump over the counter and hit the old man, pow, land one square on his nose. That should drop him, and then he’d probably just choke him to death. He glanced around the store again to make sure nobody had come in. He placed his palm on the glass top and prepared to jump over just as the man came up with a set of keys in his hand.

  The old man said, “Have you picked out which one you’d like?”

  Leonard silently let his breath out, removed his hand from the glass case, and pointed to a silver shield that had Security in small letters across the top and Officer in much bigger letters beneath it. “That one there’ll do,” he said, “and whichever handcuffs and flashlight you’ve got that ain’t too expensive.”