“Fucking savages.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Any evidence?”
I smiled.
“Video?”
I nodded.
“Let’s see it, Dickie. I might have to arrange movie night with Cedric the Entertainer.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking. The tech crew came down and took the digital hard drive from the recorder. I didn’t mess with it, so I don’t know if we have footage or not. But I’m hopeful. I could use a little good luck on a case, for a change.”
Floyd’s eyes drifted beyond me and he nodded slightly to draw my attention. I turned as Josie walked up behind us. “Victim two is deceased.”
“Well shit, that sucks. I guess we picked up a double. Did the desk notify you?”
“No. I called Killer King and checked his status.”
Killer King. I was starting to like my new partner. Not only had she taken the initiative to call and check on our other victim without being prompted to do so, but it seemed she was unconcerned with political correctness. Martin Luther King, Jr. Medical Center was commonly called Killer King by cops who worked the area and were familiar with their lackluster care. Everyone knew about a particular deputy who died as a result of their incompetence back in the early nineties. He had come in with multiple gunshot wounds, and the emergency room doctors saved his life. You had to admire their ability to treat gunshot victims. The military certainly did; for years they would send medics to intern there as there were no other hospitals in the country that consistently treated the volume of high-velocity, military-caliber type gunshot wounds seen at MLK. However, we deputies had always said that if you go there, get out as soon as you’ve been stabilized, and go somewhere else. The deputy who died there had seemed to be pulling through, then suddenly took a fatal turn. Lawsuits followed, and experts testified that the care he received post-op had been criminally negligent. He should have been moved. Several years before, there had been a well-respected Firestone deputy who made a stand against a protocol stating that deputies would be taken there for treatment. He had dug in and fought with the department brass, stating no deputy sheriff should ever be taken to MLK, and declared he would never comply with the order. But as often is the case, his legitimate concern and righteous battle was ignored by the department executives. The deputy was rolled up to West Hollywood Station for his sin, taking a stance against Killer King.
I smiled at Josie. “Nice. Thanks for doing that.”
“No problem. I also updated the dead sheet at the desk, notified the coroner’s office, and pulled another coroner’s case number. Do we need to update the lieutenant?”
This girl had done her homework and was able to handle some of our clerical duties without being prompted to do so. I had not yet mentioned these tasks to her, much less shown her how to take care of them. The fact she took that initiative endeared her to me that much more and added to the good impression I had of her thus far. “Yeah, just let Lieutenant Black know so he can reflect that in his murder memo. Thanks.”
“No problem,” she said.
Floyd watched her walk away and then turned to face me. “She rocks, dude.”
I smiled. She was definitely growing on me. “Yeah, you might be right about her, but only time will tell. Listen, we need to find your crime scene. I have a feeling that your boy, Cedric, wasn’t bullshitting you about what he said he saw.”
“How do you propose we go about doing that, slick? It isn’t as if I haven’t tried.”
“Wanna go for a ride?”
Floyd glanced at his watch, no doubt thinking he’d already stayed longer than he had hoped today. He was probably about to tell me he missed his workout or needed a beer, or the kids had games or Cindy was on his jock again about the long hours. “Jesus, dude, seriously? I haven’t been to the gym all week—”
“You can go tomorrow. Come on.”
I stood and waited. Took a step away, stopped and waited again. “I’ll drive, and I’ll buy you a steak and beer after.”
He huffed as he stood. Mongo had again turned from the work on his desk and sat watching. Floyd said to him, “I’ll see you Monday, partner. Apparently, my dickhead needs a dinner date tonight.”
I smiled and walked briskly to my desk to grab my briefcase. Josie sat with files strewn over her otherwise tidy desk that sat next to mine. She looked up from her notebook and lifted her brows in a questioning gesture.
“Why don’t we call it for tonight?”
“Okay, I was just catching up my notebook.”
“I’m going with my old partner—”
“Floyd?”
I grinned. She was fast. Fast to learn the job, fast to pick up profiles and personalities, and seemingly very aware of some of the office dynamics. “Yeah, Floyd. We’re going to take one of his witnesses out for a bit, see if we can find a crime scene.”
“Is that the kid, the one who might have seen a murder similar to our case?”
“Yeah, how do you know about that?”
“Reading teletypes and murder memos. I stayed late last night and spent some time familiarizing myself with recent cases. I saw the request he sent out to local law enforcement to see if he could identify a case where two gunmen dressed in black with ski masks did a robbery murder of a market. Sounds similar to ours, I’d say.”
I was speechless and for a moment felt guilty for not asking her to come along. “Right, you nailed it. But so far, he hasn’t found any cases that match what the kid described. He wants to take the kid out for a ride, see if maybe we can at least narrow the area down where it might have happened, and go from there. Probably a long shot, but worth a try. Plus, I owe him dinner.”
She smiled. “I heard you two were inseparable.”
I broke eye contact first, feeling overpowered at the time. As I gathered my belongings I suggested we meet at the office tomorrow around nine. It would be quiet on a Saturday morning and we could catch up on our reports and then hit the streets for follow-up on our case. Then I told her goodnight, and turned to see Floyd waiting at the back door in his suit and shades, a smirk on his face. As I drew near, he said, “You don’t want to bring cha-cha along?”
“I wouldn’t let her hear you call her that, partner. You might be tough, but I don’t think you’re that tough.”
On our way through Bell Gardens and South Gate heading to our old stomping grounds in the Firestone District of Los Angeles County, Floyd called Mrs. Nathan to let her know we’d like to take Cedric for a ride to work on his case. When he disconnected, I looked over and said, “We set?”
“Set, Dickie.”
“Right on. Dickie Floyd, ten-eight in Firestone.”
“It doesn’t get any better than that, does it? I better call the wife, let her know I’ve once again fallen in with a fast crowd.”
I smiled and turned onto Holmes Avenue, feeling alive and charged in South Central Los Angeles with my old partner, Pretty Boy Floyd.
Cedric the Entertainer stood outside his foster home under the watchful eyes of Mrs. Nathan as I swerved my Crown Vic toward her driveway and left it half in the street. Floyd introduced me to Cedric and asked Mrs. Nathan if she remembered the mean guy in the hat. She smiled and said, “That big teddy bear? He’s not mean. Of course I remember Detective Jones.”
We drove off with Cedric leaned over the seat between us, anxious to get started. Floyd said, “Sit back and put your seatbelt on, Cedric.”
“Y’all don’t have all y’all’s seatbelts on.”
I glanced over at Floyd and grinned. He grinned in turn, and then said to Cedric: “Yeah, well, me and Dickie might have to get out and kick someone’s ass. You never know.”
Cedric didn’t hesitate to reply: “Yeah, well, me too.”
I looked at Floyd and said, “It’s hard to argue with that.”
He shrugged. “The kid’s got a point.”
8
Travis Hollingsworth sank comfortably into a worn couch and plunked his scuffed
black boots onto a coffee table. Dirty ashtrays, empty beer containers, a Soldier of Fortune magazine, and a cocked and locked .45 caliber pistol sat on its tinted glass tabletop. A shotgun sat propped against the wall at one end of the couch, a Colt AR-15 rifle mirrored its position on the opposite end. On the carpeted floor there were several green military surplus duffle bags, all of which contained various tools, equipment, and supplies used by operators.
That was the preferred term for killers of men, he would say: operators.
A man appeared in the hallway, buttoning the fly of his black tactical pants. He nodded as a manner of greeting Hollingsworth. “I hoped it was you I heard out here.”
Hollingsworth shook a cigarette from its package and offered it to the man in the black pants and t-shirt. His name was Carlos. He accepted the smoke and took a seat at the opposite end of the couch, placing a pistol of his own on the table before him. He leaned toward Hollingsworth who struck a flame on a Zippo lighter and met him halfway. Carlos leaned back and blew a plume of smoke at the ceiling fan.
“Where’s mi hermana?”
Hollingsworth frowned at his friend, a young operator in training. Someone he had taken under his wing and had committed to teaching all he had learned as “an operator.”
“Don’t talk like a fucking cholo, Carlos. You ain’t in Compton anymore.”
Carlos sat silent for a moment, sulking. He then stood and started for the kitchen. “You want a beer?”
“Yeah.”
He returned with two cans of Budweiser and again took his seat on the couch. After handing a beer to Hollingsworth, Carlos opened his and took a long pull. Hollingsworth could see he was butt-hurt again. Carlos always got butt-hurt when Hollingsworth made comments about Mexicans, or cholos or beaners or greasers.
“The fuck’s wrong with you? You get your feelings hurt again?”
Carlos took another sip of beer, keeping his eyes straight ahead, maybe looking at the television that sat muted with news showing on the screen.
“She’s watching the gook’s place, to answer your question,” Hollingsworth continued. “She’s convinced he’s alive. I don’t know how the fuck he could be alive, all the lead we sent downrange. I know I hit him, and I think she did too. How could she miss with that sawed-off boomer?” He chuckled and continued. “You know, it’s funny, her and that little shotgun. She packs it everywhere we go and always has a pocket full of shells. Two shots at a time, and then she reloads. Blam, blam. But she never takes the first shot, or at least she hasn’t so far. It’s like she’s unsure of herself, so she just follows my lead. I shoot, then she shoots. Pop, pop-pop-pop-pop—BLAM, BLAM!” He laughed and shook his head, and had a gulp of beer. “I swear to God, it’s every fucking time, too. Pop, pop-pop-pop—BLAM, BLAM!”
Carlos was smiling now.
Hollingsworth, the big man, tipped his beer back and held it until the contents finished draining down his throat. He crushed the can in his big hand and laughed until he coughed. “Like having a gun parrot, repeats everything I say. Pop—blam! Like a fucking echo.”
“That’s cool, man.”
Hollingsworth looked off across the room for a moment, then came back to Carlos, who seemed to be waiting for more. “You know, I seen my share of action, man, and I seen some funny-ass shit happen along the way. But I don’t know there’s nothing funnier than Tina lighting off with that sawed-off boomer of hers after I start shooting. It’s almost distracting. I’ve stopped and looked at her and thought, ‘What the fuck?’, and her eyes pop out through those little holes in her mask when she looks over at me laughing at her. Then I laugh more, cause the fucking mask is usually crooked on her little face by then, and she looks like a little kid playing cops and robbers. Bonnie and Clyde, or some shit. We can’t find anything small enough for her at the surplus. Even those britches she wears are twice her size, and they don’t do anything for that killer little ass she’s got. You’d think with all the bitches they got going in the military now, they’d make britches for bitches.” He coughed through his laughter. “Bitches and Mexican midgets.”
Hollingsworth continued laughing. He found himself hilarious, and he didn’t care whether or not anyone else did. He didn’t bother to look and see if Carlos was butt-hurt again; he was certain the sensitive little wetback would be.
“So, she’s watching the store?” Carlos asked. “Alone?”
“Yeah, she’s sitting down there in her little car trying to get a glimpse of the slope, see if he’s still alive or if they got a new gook running the joint. She thinks he’s alive. I told her if he is, he’s a lucky sonofabitch, but not for long.”
“What are we going to do, if he’s alive?”
“What are we going to do?”
Carlos nodded.
“We’re going to get your hands dirty, Ortiz. That’s what we are going to do. It’s time you put in some wet work, so we know we can trust you.”
Carlos went to the kitchen and came back with two more beers. “I’m ready for some action.”
Hollingsworth was skeptical about whether or not Carlos could put in the work. Sure, he says he can, but Hollingsworth had heard that before.
“You say you are; we’ll see. I seen plenty who’d freeze up when it happened, especially during their first contacts. I seen it more’n once. When I was with the Cav, and we was overseas, you’d see what a guy was made of when the shooting started. Once the rags started popping their AKs at you and shooting rockets under your fucking Humvee, that’s when you found out what you were made of. Not when you were sitting in the living room drinking fucking Budweiser.”
“I’m ready.”
“We’ll see about that when I put the gook on his knees in front of you. And after that, I might let you cap a little green-eyed nigger kid. That’s if your sister figures out the gook’s still alive, and if we can find the kid.”
Carlos glanced at the watch on his wrist, a bulky plastic beveled piece with dials and buttons and an olive-drab cloth band. “When’s she gonna be back?”
“After they close, I guess.”
“She shouldn’t have gone alone.”
Hollingsworth looked over at the young operator-in-training. “Your sister’s fine. Like she said, she fits in down there, doesn’t draw no attention. I guess we could have sent you with her, but you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing.”
Tina Ortiz watched as they closed the store at nine. A woman came out first, made two trips back and forth to the car. She seemed to be looking around the parking lot as she did.
Tina felt comfortable across the street; the woman never looked in her direction. Other than an occasional crackhead passing by and eyeballing her car, nobody seemed to notice Tina at all. Even those who did take a look—the crackhead, a gangster or two—were not likely able to see her sitting low behind her tinted windows. No matter, she had her shotgun across her lap.
A flash of light drew her eyes back to the front door where the woman appeared again and the man followed, limping along behind her with a pair of crutches tucked under his arms. Tina could tell by their body language they were arguing, the woman waving her arms around and the man shaking his head. The door closed, stealing the bulk of light that allowed Tina to see clearly, and moments later the two were loading into their car.
Tina Ortiz had just started her car and was about to turn on her lights when the detectives passed her and then jerked their unmarked police car into the lot. Tina shut off the ignition, not wanting to draw their attention. She sank deeper into her seat and became aware of her heart pounding beneath her black hoodie. Her finger stroked the trigger guard of her sawed-off coach gun—that’s what Travis would sometimes call it—and her thumb caressed the two hammers that she knew rested on live rounds of 20-gauge #6 shot. Travis called the shells duck shot, and he had told her when she was big enough to shoot a 12-gauge, she’d move up to buckshot.
The cops were out of the car talking to the storekeepers. She thought about her cell phone and wond
ered if she should call Travis, or her brother. But why? What could they do? Why would it matter? It was news that the man was still alive, but it wasn’t news that the detectives would be calling on him and his wife. After all, their store had been shot up in a botched robbery attempt. By the appearance of the owner, he had been shot up too. But not killed, just as she had thought and had told Travis.
She waited, breathing slowly while processing all of the possibilities and what her actions would be in response to the various scenarios she imagined. She pictured the cops suddenly turning and focusing on her, pulling their guns and running toward her. But why would they? She had to relax, this was all routine and nobody knew that it was she who had stood in that doorway just a few days ago, firing at will. Now she was just another Latina in a car in Compton, and nobody could see her anyway. Still, she caressed her coach gun.
The one detective wore a hat and looked like a cop out of an old noir film. The other had the physique of an athlete—you could see it through his suit—and she pictured him in a movie you might see now, the type of movie where a beautiful woman would fall for the dark-haired, handsome cop. Maybe a Mexican woman from the barrio who falls in love with a local cop, a white guy who has a blonde wife and a couple of kids at home. He takes them to dinner on Friday nights but keeps a girlfriend in the ghetto where he works. But tonight was Friday night and this good-looking cop wasn’t home with his wife and kids and this wasn’t a movie or a love story either.
Tina thought about Travis and how she’d often ask him to take her to dinner, but he’d send her out instead. He’d tell her he can’t be out in the neighborhood with all her people because most of them were fucking savages and he didn’t want to have to kill everyone he met, not that he was opposed to doing so. He’d remind her of his combat experience and how, as a Ranger, he had learned to kill men a hundred different ways, with or without a weapon. She knew, though, that he’d never been a Ranger. He had failed Ranger school, but in the civilian world, he’d never mention that part. Travis would usually be drunk by the time they finished eating whatever it was she had brought home, and that’s when he’d go through his stages from being happy to getting mean to wanting to make love. That’s what he called it, making love. Until he was good and drunk, and then it would be humping or fucking or tearing a piece off.
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