Just as she had decided to listen to the Universe after all, she saw the sign displayed boldly at the top of the building: Yee Me Loo. And, miraculously, or maybe horribly, a car was just pulling away from the curb in front of it; a perfect parking space had opened up right in front of her. Astonished, she pulled her Audi Q-5 to the curb and turned off the engine. She sat for a minute, telling herself run away, Katherine, run away. Then she pulled down the visor, checked her face in the mirror one last time, and got out of the car. She shut the door a bit harder than she meant to—resolutely, she told herself—and strode toward the entrance door. Beyond it, she knew, lay uncertainty, upheaval, and possible unhappy consequences. And Richard.
Leonard drove by, saying, “Fucking Chinamen everywhere, you can’t find a place to park.” And answering himself, “Right there, dummy.” He wheeled the Ford van to the curb. It looked like something a serial killer would drive. He laughed at the thought. Serial killer.
After waiting nearly an hour, Leonard looked at the time displayed on his phone—how long does it take a pig to finish his slop?—and wondered if he was actually there to eat, or if this was where he came to drink. He had wondered why the asshole was never home. Now he knew. The prick drank all night and probably shacked up with a Chinese woman. He glanced at his phone again. He’d give him a half hour. That’s it. If he didn’t come out in thirty minutes, Leonard would walk in Whitey-style and blast the man while he ate his chow mein. Right there in front of everyone. Bam, bam. Or maybe pew, pew. He laughed.
This was it. He could feel it. Everything lined up perfectly, and his brilliance had paid off. After numerous trips through the nonsensical road patterns of Burbank, he finally figured it out. There were only two ways to get on the freeway in the whole damn city, and only one that made sense from the cop’s apartment. So he decided to stake out the route, not the house, and it had paid off. Leonard had just driven his new van from the uniform shop across town, found a spot to sit—expecting to see the cop coming home from work—when he noticed the Crown Vic driving toward the freeway onramp. At first he thought there was no way, he couldn’t be that lucky, but when he saw that the driver wore that stupid hat, his gangster fedora, Leonard knew that was his mark. The Job. It was time to finish the job and get the hell out of California. Florida was calling his name.
It had been easy trailing the cop to the restaurant in this crowded part of town because Piggy drove as slow as a ninety-year-old man. For some reason, the area was full of Chinamen and Chinamen-women. They were everywhere, these Chinese people, and they drove horribly, pulling out in front of you, never looking where they were going, putting along like they had nowhere to be for a month. They parked no better.
Leonard opened the duffle next to him and pulled out one of the pistols. It was a nine-millimeter. He knew that because it was printed on the side of the gun. He had made sure when selecting the ammunition that it would all match up. It took him a minute to figure out how to release the clip, but once he did, he found it easy to load. Leonard did this with two identical pistols. Then he racked a round into the chamber of each, having realized that he had failed to do that with the Russian’s gun, and that that had probably been the problem when he tried to shoot the cop and his buddy yesterday. He had seen enough movies and shows to know you had to rack a round into the chamber. Then he pulled the hood of his piggy sweatshirt over his head and leaned back to wait. He checked his phone. It had been five minutes.
I had just hung up with Floyd when she walked in, ten minutes late. I almost didn’t recognize her wearing a Yankees ball cap. She had changed out of her professional attire into jeans and a blouse, and topped it off with the hat. Perfect! Hopefully the surveillance team wouldn’t notice her either; I was sure at least two of the three watching had met her before in a professional setting. Dr. Katherine James had agreed to meet me for a drink but she had been tentative about doing so. The idea of it went against all manner of ethical conduct, she had said, though she had a warm smile when we parted company. Against my better judgment, I had just told Floyd all about it. He would have killed me if I hadn’t, and I was nervous about the whole setup now with a team on me. About that, Floyd had said, “Who gives a shit?” When I told him that she and I were meeting at Yee Me Loo’s, he had said, “You’re taking her to our place?” Then he said, “Hey, have fun. Maybe I’ll pop in accidentally in an hour or so to see how things are going. You could buy me a gin and tonic. Besides, Doc loves me.”
I asked that he not, and then said, “Here she is, gotta go.”
I stood to greet her and pulled a stool away from the bar to offer her a seat. “Doctor.” I realized how corny it sounded the second it came out of my mouth.
“Katherine, please,” she said.
She slid onto he stool and swiveled it my direction. I took my seat next to her. “Would you rather sit at a table?”
She looked around the small bar crowded with businessmen, lawyers, cops, and local citizens. A layer of smoke hung above the bar though smoking inside any establishment—including bars—in California had been outlawed more than a decade before. There were no tables in the bar. If it were a garage, you could fit two cars in long-ways, but not side-by-side. A jukebox sat against one wall. Though there were country and pop available as selections, it usually played vinyl classics such as Sinatra, Dean, the Beach Boys, and Elvis. From where we sat you could see into the dining area. It wasn’t much larger than the bar, and it appeared to be equally as crowded. Katherine said, “It looks like we’re lucky to have these two seats,” and glanced at the back of the man who leaned against the bar next to her, his light blue dress shirt showing wrinkles and sweat stains on its back.
“What would you like?”
She glanced at my drink. “Gin and tonic?”
I smiled. “Good guess.”
“It’s not a guess, it’s data. You told me two years ago that you and your partner, Floyd, would come here for gin and tonics occasionally.”
“When we shoot someone.”
She nodded, but the smile dissipated. “I’ll have a glass of Chardonnay, whatever they have.”
I signaled the bartender, a small and frail older Asian gentleman with gray hair tight against his leathery face. He glided effortlessly down the bar that is dimly lit by tile lanterns hanging on the wall along with statues of various immortals of Chinese lore. I asked for a glass of his best Chardonnay and signaled for a refill on mine. He nodded politely and disappeared, moving like a cat behind the bar.
Sinatra was singing about doing things his way when she leaned closer to speak over Frank. “This place is an interesting little dive.”
I smiled. “It is a dive, but a classic at that. This place—Yee Me Loo’s—has been here for fifty years or better. Serving cops, lawyers, businessmen, writers, artists . . . who knows, maybe a shrink or two.” I winked, and she smiled. Her wine was delivered so we lightly clinked our glasses, and each took a drink.
“You know, if anyone who knows me saw us together, this would be really bad. Career-ending bad.”
“Would you rather go to My Place?”
Her eyebrows shot up. “That’s a little forward, Richard.”
“It’s a bar out in the valley, another place I occasionally visit.” I smiled, and I could see her relax. “I just thought I’d throw it out there as a suggestion. Also, to see what type of reaction I’d get.”
She narrowed her eyes at me, but her mouth turned up slightly, enough to show she wasn’t bothered by any of it.
“So, how’s that work. If we date, I mean. Do I still see you professionally?”
“I’m not sure we can date, Richard. I don’t know why I agreed to meet you. It was foolish, honestly.” She put her hand on my forearm. “It’s unprofessional at the very least. Doctors are never supposed to become involved with patients on any emotional level, even after they stop treating the patient. Although I do hear from time to time about a doctor and an ex-patient establishing a more personal relationship.”
She took a sip of her wine, then looked at me, considering. She sighed a little, and looked down at the floor, then directly at me. I wondered what was going on in her head. She let a beat go by, then spoke. “Richard, I will be completely honest. I do find myself . . . I find that I think . . . I find you interesting.” Katherine had definitely taken over, the always-professional Dr. James in full retreat. I was drawing a breath to answer her, or to ask a question, or to speak to her somehow—I had no plan really—when she continued. “I am attracted to you, Richard.” And then more softly, “God help me.”
“Hey now.”
She smiled. “Well, tell me I’m wrong. You’re a wreck.”
“I know. I need to find a new doc, someone who can get me all fixed up.”
“So, you’re already cheating on me.”
“Touché,” I said, and we clinked our glasses gently again.
He looked at the phone. Twenty-five minutes. He was tired of waiting. Leonard pictured Whitey walking into the diner and blasting the two hitmen as they sat with associates. He saw it in his mind the way he always had from the first time Whitey told the story. He was riveted by it. Then and now. And here was his chance to give Whitey something to be riveted by himself. Walk in and do the cop in front of everyone. Walk out. Anyone tries stopping him, they get smoked too. Jesus, he thought, if only he was being paid for all the assholes he had had to kill just to finish this one job. He needed to ask for a raise. A raise, and a transfer. He’d had all he could take of Los Angeles.
Leonard tucked both guns into his waistband and left the van at the curb with the keys dangling from the ignition. He didn’t want to have to look for them when he returned. He crossed the road, weaving through slow-moving traffic, and headed directly to the front door.
Dwight looked at his radio as it crackled and then picked up a conversation in progress. It was Steve Kelly. “—on the freeway, now headed into the restaurant with a hoodie up over his head.”
“Come again, Kell, you were broken.”
“The guy crossing the street right now, he’s right across from you . . . Do you see him, wearing the dark hoodie?”
“Yeah, I see him—”
“He just got out of a van I swear I had eyeballed on the freeway. It was hanging back, and I tried to get a look at the driver, but could barely see in. But the van, I’m certain this is the same van. I remember the stickers on the back window, NRA and something else about supporting police. This doesn’t feel right, boss.”
“He’s almost at the door. He’s going in. Let’s go. Brandi Gil, did you copy?”
“Copy, I’ll cover—”
Floyd saw Dwight crossing the street toward Yee Me Loo’s and said in his otherwise empty car, “I’ll be damned. I guess surveillance guys get thirsty too.” Then he saw Dwight drawing his gun. In Floyd’s peripheral vision he caught another man running across the street. This one was white. It was Steve Kelly and he was carrying a sawed-off shotgun. His badge—hung by a chain outside of his shirt—bounced beneath his scraggly beard as he jogged toward the door. Floyd abandoned his sedan where it stood in the middle of the street and started for Yee Me Loo’s. He yanked his nine from its holster and called out, “Behind you, Kell.” He didn’t want to run up and startle a man wielding a sawed-off shotgun.
Kelly glanced back. “Blue hoodie, white male. Nothing confirmed yet, but he just stepped inside, right ahead of us. Dickie’s in the bar.”
Leonard saw his target at the far end of the bar facing the front door. It was as if he were waiting for someone to arrive, watching as Leonard walked in. He felt the cop recognized him instantly. Now the cop was standing, his eyes showing intensity as he shoved a woman off her barstool and—Jesus, now this cop is pulling his gun.
“Get down!” I yelled across the bar as I jerked my gun. The second I saw his face I knew it was him. It flashed in my head from yesterday, and I saw him in my mind pointing a gun at me from his car directly in front of my apartment. Now here he was, coming for me again. There was no doubt in my mind as the two of us locked eyes across the crowded room as if nobody else was there. But they were there, a lot of people, innocent bystanders, and I knew this was going to get ugly. He was reaching under his sweatshirt, going for a gun. I was sure, but I couldn’t shoot. Once again, I couldn’t shoot. Would he actually pull a gun and shoot at me here in this bar crowded with civilians, innocent people? It would leave me no choice.
The door flew open behind him and he spun to face it. Gunshots rang out and muzzle flashes brightened the dark room like fireworks against a moonless black sky. Time slowed to nearly a stop, as it always seemed to do during shooting situations. The players all froze. Silence fell. There was nobody between him and me, at least nobody I could see. Everyone was likely on the ground now. Glasses, bottles, and ashtrays full of burning or smoldering cigarettes littered the surface of the bar. But there were no patrons, none that I could see, though moments before there had been standing room only. Now, nothing stood between me and the man who, for reasons unknown to me, had been stalking me, waiting for the chance to kill me. His back was to me. As had been the case twenty-some years earlier when I chased through a dark alley another man who had tried to kill me. This time, though, I wasn’t trying to take aim while running, and the threat remained. I had a clear view and a steady aim. The man in the hoodie stood shooting toward the door, but at whom, and why, I had no idea. I knew he had come in looking for me; there was no doubt it. He would be shooting at me next if he survives the battle at the door. This time, I wasn’t going to spend the rest of my life regretting the outcome. I had a shot, and I took it.
I pulled the trigger twice. I paused a beat, and fired twice more. I could see the bullets striking him in his back. He jerked with each shot but continued to fire his pistol toward the door he had just walked through. Gunfire continued from the smoke-filled doorway. There were steady bursts of light and then a larger flash that accompanied a concussion. It had to have been a shotgun blast. The man in the hoodie staggered backward in my direction and his arms went up in the air. A muzzle blast from the pistol in his hand went toward the ceiling. His momentum carried him several strides, and then he collapsed.
As time and sound slowly returned to normal, I became aware of men crowding the front door. I was surprised to see Floyd was one of the men. The others were Steve Kelly and Dwight Campbell. They were approaching the man on the ground with their guns pointed at him. Floyd searched the room until our eyes met across the bar. We held our gaze for a moment. People began rising from the floor, gasping, shrieking, and some were crying. They crowded one another, pushing and shoving while they funneled through the back and into the adjacent restaurant; it was their only path of escape from the dark shooting gallery that was Yee Me Loo’s.
Katherine’s hand was on my arm. I hadn’t noticed until I moved it to holster my weapon beneath my suit coat. I looked at her. She was frightened, but also sad. I said, “Welcome to my world.”
40
A GENTLE BREEZE persisted from the west. Katherine gave up and pulled her hair back, tying it in a ponytail.
She said, “I like the view.”
I saw the mountains to the east with only a hint of smog yet to be blown out of the valley. Although an hour of daylight remained, a new moon showed itself on the horizon. My eyes fell on the street below and I thought of Leonard Freeman, the serial killer-turned-contract killer who had sat watching and plotting my death. I pictured him as I last saw him, over on Mission Street, lying on a cold stainless-steel table with his scalp peeled back and his skull sawed open. His brain had been removed and plopped into a bucket where its weight was recorded before it would be stored for further analysis. They had opened his chest like a canoe and removed his breast plate by cutting through the ribs with large pruning shears. Some of his ribs were already severed and splintered from the violent impacts of lead projectiles. Much of his thorax had been destroyed by multiple nine-millimeter projectiles and double-ought buckshot that had cut through
his flesh, organs, and bone. He had been hit more than a dozen times by gunfire from me and three other shooters: Floyd, Dwight Campbell, and Steve Kelly. His demise had been quick. Before the smoke had cleared, LAPD, Sheriff’s Homicide investigators, and two prosecutors from CAPOS—the L.A. District Attorney’s Crimes Against Peace Officers Section—had descended upon Chinatown. The yellow tape had been strewn across the front of the business as Leonard Freeman worked to achieve room temperature on the floor of my favorite watering hole, Yee Me Loo’s.
I felt her eyes on me and turned to meet her gaze. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? It seems more peaceful now that . . .” I didn’t finish. Neither of us had spoken about the killer who had watched from the street below. Though he was no longer a direct threat, he had also left no answers to the questions of why, and whether someone else would be sent. Each time this crossed my mind I pictured Jorge Regalado and that night in East Los Angeles just a year before when we stood face to face, our eyes locked while our pistols erupted into one another’s torsos. I couldn’t help but believe that that incident was the catalyst to this one. Why else would anyone want me killed? Sure, I had put many men and a few women in prison for the rest of their lives, but many cops have. It was a rare occasion when retaliation followed. There were always threats—both implicit and explicit—but it was one in several thousand or more who followed through and tried to exact revenge.
She smiled with her eyes and turned back to the view. We sat in comfortable silence for several minutes.
Hard-Boiled- Box Set Page 62