Hard-Boiled- Box Set

by Danny R. Smith

  “Don’t I know. I grew up ’round ’em, had to go to school with them cholos. Motherfuckers be stabbin’ niggas in they backs.”

  Roland drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, steering his rig through the afternoon traffic and thinking about his woman at home. That had been as close as he had come to dropping the hammer on anyone since he left law enforcement. He replayed the scene in his mind, seeing the man walk quickly and directly at Darnell from an angle that would be considered a man’s blind spot. Roland had moved to the rear, drawn his pistol, and even thumbed the safety off as he stuck the barrel through one of the gun ports near the back door. He had taken a bead on the would-be bad guy and had started putting pressure on the trigger when the man suddenly retreated. Roland replayed it slowly in his mind, and he saw Darnell’s expression change. His face twisted from its usual smile to intensity and anger. Roland remembered Darnell’s right hand going for his pistol as he stepped back and yelled at the man who was near him, stopping the man in his tracks. As Darnell backed toward the door, Roland had opened it and grabbed his partner’s collar, guiding him back inside the truck. The Mexican had disappeared by then, but it was as close as either of them had ever been to being robbed, at least while in the course of their employment.

  He was too old for this shit, he thought, his heart still pounding, the palms of his big hands damp with perspiration as he gripped the wheel tighter than usual. The air blowing from the vents did little to cool his temperature. Fifty grand or not, he didn’t need this shit. Maybe he had pushed his luck too long. Maybe it was time to call it quits. He’d talk to the wife about it over dinner. Tomorrow. Today was his long shift. When they finished their normal route, he and Darnell would make the big run downtown. They would load up all of the day’s proceeds from all of the routes and take the money downtown for a big deposit, usually in the ballpark of a hundred grand. They’d each get double-time plus a hundred-dollar bonus for their efforts.

  In the van, Travis said, “You trying to get yourself shot?”

  “I just wanted to see how alert the dude is.”

  “Right, but we didn’t want to put these guys on edge, either. This was just to see how they react when someone gets close. You damn near got shot.”

  Carlos chuckled. Tina sat with her lips pursed, drawing deep breaths through her nose and trying to calm herself. She had seen the guard go for his gun and had panicked during the brief moments that followed. Travis was right, Carlos pushed it a lot harder than he should have. His job was to get a close look and give Tina and Travis the opportunity to see how they responded to a man approaching the guard outside of his truck. They had definitely been given a good look at how the guards might respond. The guard outside was alert and had gone for his gun, and the one inside remained steadfast. He didn’t drive away, as they had heard was the protocol for these drivers. He had remained, though they couldn’t see what he did in response to Carlos’s approach. Maybe he had been asleep, for all they knew.

  Carlos said, “That dude’s pretty alert, aware of his surroundings. He isn’t going to be easy to creep up on.”

  “Probably a veteran,” Travis said. “Civilians don’t act that way. Vets, and cops. Some crooks. Not many of these two-bit guards. Look, we’re going to watch them all day and see their whole routine. There might be a better time and place to make this happen.”

  “Just follow them around?” Tina asked, touching her swollen eye around the edges.

  “Why not wait until the truck is full? Hell,” Travis said, “this could be our last job, if we do it right. One big hit and head for Mexico. Spend the rest of my life surrounded by beautiful Latinas.”

  He glanced back at Tina, but she didn’t smile. To her, it sounded like a great idea. Get the money and head south. She could pay a Tijuana whore to cut the fat fucker’s throat for a hundred bucks, and keep her hands clean of it. Though maybe she’d at least watch.

  After lunch, I took Josie into the conference room where it was quiet and out of view of the rest of the detectives in the bureau so that we could dictate our reports to date. Homicide Bureau was the only place in the department where working cops dictated reports and secretaries typed them for us. Everywhere else, you typed your own reports. Of course, there was no other assignment where typewritten reports routinely exceeded fifty pages. Some case reports would exceed a hundred pages, and occasionally there would be reports of several hundred pages. A murder book—the completed investigative file, which consisted of all of the investigators’ reports plus the reports of all others: crime lab, coroner, et cetera—would routinely consist of several hundred pages. Some cases would require several volumes of books to contain thousands of pages of documentation. Good secretaries were imperative in the murder business.

  The act of dictation was a learned skill, one that always seemed awkward when first attempted. Soon, you could dictate with people watching. You could dictate while riding down the road with your partner, or even while driving in L.A. stop-and-go traffic. You could dictate anywhere: at home, on a plane, in the court hallway or jury assembly room while waiting for your case to be called. You could stay at home and dictate naked, for all anyone cared. You could go outside and dictate naked. I wouldn’t put anything past homicide detectives. Especially Floyd.

  We left our clothes on and passed the digital recorder back and forth to keep a chronological order of events. Dictating together would make correcting the rough draft and finalizing the report a simpler process when it came back from the secretaries.

  When we finished, I tried again. “Is something going on, I should know about?”

  Silence hung in the room for a moment as she looked deep into my eyes. The longer she waited, the more uncomfortable I became.

  “Never mind,” I said, “it’s probably something personal, and I don’t need to know. You both are single, anyway, so it’s none of my business what you’re doing.”

  “Who’s single?” she snapped. “Who’s ‘you both.’ ”

  “You and Lopes.”

  She grinned. For a minute, I thought she was going to start laughing. But she didn’t. She just stood and walked to the door.

  “I guess that answers that.”

  She turned from the door. “Look, my personal life is just that—personal. But, so that you can put it to rest, there is nothing going on between me and Lopes.”

  “Didn’t you guys go out for drinks?”

  “Don’t you and Floyd? You guys aren’t gay, are you?”

  “Jesus Christ, Josie.”

  She hit me in the chest with the back of her hand. It was a surprisingly strong blow, though clearly meant to be playful, given the smile on her face. “I’m just fucking with you. I know Floyd’s not gay.”

  She walked out and the door closed behind her. I was stuck in my tracks. “Jesus,” I said again. I opened the door. “Wait, what’s that supposed to mean?” She didn’t look back.

  I followed her to our desks where the usual bustle and typical banter of our colleagues prevented any further discussion. It was probably for the best. I may have bitten off more than I could chew with this woman.

  I had left my cell phone in the top drawer with my car keys, and I gathered both with the thought of heading for the bar. But my phone showed three missed calls and two text messages, all of them from Katherine. I pulled my chair from my desk and sat to read the texts while Josie sat within arms reach, acting as if nothing had happened.

  Hey there, tried calling but no answer. There’s some things we need to talk about, a lot is changing back here and not for the better. I’ll be home this weekend. I hope we can talk then. Will you be off?

  I started to return the text but didn’t know what to say. Staring at my phone, thumbs at the ready, I stalled and my mind went blank.

  “That your lady you’re texting?”

  I looked up and Josie was smiling. Then she winked. She fucking winked at me!

  Floyd appeared over my shoulder. “Did you figure out who the ninjas are
yet?”

  “The ninjas?” Jesus, had everyone around me gone crazy?

  “Those assholes in black everything who killed Ho and the wino. That could be a group: Ho and the Winos. A real ho-down for the homies. What the hell are you doing, Dickie?”

  A beat went by before I answered. “What the hell am I doing?” I glanced at my partner. “I’m trying to figure out women.”

  “Good luck with that. You’d be better off trying to solve the Zodiac killings. No offense, Detective Sanchez.”

  Josie turned in her chair and smiled widely at him, her eyes almost sparkling. “None taken, Floyd.”

  He grinned back. “Well check you out.”

  “Jesus.”

  “What’s wrong, Dickie?” Floyd asked, now smiling and glancing from me to Josie.

  “Oh, nothing. Other than the fact I’m the only sane person in this goddamn place.”

  Josie answered a call. Floyd helped himself to an empty chair and put a shoe on my desk. “Anything new on the case?”

  “No. What about yours?”

  “Cedric the Entertainer left me a message, said he needs to talk to me about something.”

  Floyd pushed his sleeves up. “He’s probably just lonely, wants to go for another ride-along. Mongo’s in court today. Do you want to take a ride with me?”

  I looked over to see Josie had finished her call and now sat grinning at the work in front of her. I was pretty sure she was still enjoying her comment about us being gay. I also knew that Floyd was going to die when I told him the story. More than anything, I needed some time away from her, and with my old partner. We had a lot to discuss. The subject matter was right up his alley. I’d lay it all on him and see what Doctor Floyd would come up with. “Let me hit the head and grab a soda for the drive.”

  When I returned to my desk Floyd was nowhere to be found. I pictured him outside waiting by my car to suggest that I could drive, if I didn’t mind. Josie had earphones on and a sheaf of papers in front of her. At a glance, it appeared to be some type of court transcription. I tapped her on the shoulder to get her attention. She removed one earbud and nodded.

  “Listen, I didn’t mean—”

  She held up a hand to stop me. “No need to say anything. We’re good. I hope I wasn’t out of line.”

  “No, no, not at all,” I stammered.

  We sat looking at one another for a long moment.

  “What are you proofing?” I finally asked.

  “Transcripts.”

  “Oh.” I waited, but it didn’t seem she was going to offer any further details. But we were partners, and this was obviously business. Even though I knew it wouldn’t be anything from our case at this point, it seemed appropriate for me to know what she was working on. I was her training officer. “Transcripts from what?”

  She hesitated, looked back at the sheaf of papers, and sighed. After a long moment, she swiveled her chair around to face me squarely. “I’m being sued, and we’re going to trial next month. These are transcripts from the criminal case, my testimony and my partner’s. I’m going through it when I have time, a little here and a little there, to prepare myself. It’s all county business.”

  I pulled my chair back out and plopped down, took my hat off and set it crown down on my desktop. “I know, I didn’t mean to imply that it wasn’t. So, what’s it about, anyway? What are you being sued for?”

  “This one’s a force beef. We caught a man in the act of raping a woman in a public restroom. The suspect spent some time in the hospital, the result of our arrest. It’s not the first time I’ve been sued, but it’s the first time the county didn’t pay it off to avoid trial.”

  I nodded.

  “Have you been sued?”

  “Yeah, a few times,” I said. “I’ve only stood trial once, and it was a bitch. I don’t envy you.”

  Her brows were low, showing concern in her soft brown eyes. “It’s not going to be easy. I know that. I’ve been dreading it for a long time as it kept being continued. Now, of course—now that I am here and really don’t have time for this shit—it’s set for trial.” She shook her head as she finished saying it.

  I was back in the driver’s seat. She had put me on the ropes in the conference room, and showed me her strength. Showed me to be careful with her. But now we were back to business and that is where I held the high ground and where I found strength, courage, and confidence. I nodded as I thought about her situation. “How’s the case against you look?”

  “In today’s climate? The jury will hang us out. The only saving grace might be that the victim is black, and we expect her to testify favorably. The suspect—oh, I’m sorry, the plaintiff—is also black. I don’t know if that matters, but the attorney has of course played the race card since the cops aren’t black.”

  “Who was your partner?”

  Her gaze fell to the floor. “Lopes.”

  23

  “Lopes?”

  Josie closed her eyes and gave a slight nod to affirm it. Her eyes remained down and she picked at lint on her black slacks.

  “How long ago was this? He hasn’t worked patrol for fifteen, twenty years.”

  She quietly responded. “About four, five years ago. He was here at Homicide at the time; I was working gangs. Both of us were carped out one day and that’s when it happened.”

  CARP, Cadre of Administrative Resource Personnel was the department’s ingenious way to cut overtime costs by reassigning detectives to various other assignments one day each month. There was no doubt some house-fairy had promoted behind the creation of it. Everyone else hated it. At least the real cops did. It wasn’t as if detectives had extra time to go play bailiff or jailer somewhere. But to my knowledge, nobody from Homicide had ever been carped out to work a patrol assignment.

  “In patrol?”

  “No,” she said, now looking up at me with soft eyes. “We were each assigned to work court security on a high-profile case at the Criminal Courts Building. That was the first time I had ever worked with Lopes, but I knew of him and had seen him around more than a few times over the years.”

  “Everyone knows Lopes.”

  “At lunch, we decided to go to Stops down in Lynwood. He actually decided, and I agreed to go with him. We were doing a speed run and picking up lunch for the entire crew that was working the detail. There were six or seven of us, and one of the guys there had worked with Lopes at Firestone, back in the old days I guess. They were reminiscing about the good old days and eating spots had become central to the conversation. They started talking about hot-links at Stops, and everyone sounded interested. So, Lopes and I took a black and white and headed south. Crazy man was driving, and as we’re headed down Central, we get flagged down.”

  I chuckled. “Crazy man, huh?”

  “Well, he is a bit wild, I’d say. I can only imagine what he was like in his twenties.”

  “Was this in LAPD’s area?”

  “No, it was in Firestone. Will Rogers Park.”

  “No shit huh?”

  “It was a lady, and you could tell she was really upset about something. Lopes asked what was wrong. She said a man followed a woman and her little boy into the women’s restroom, and she pointed out a building across the park.

  “Lopes jumped the curb and drove across the park like a bat out of hell. Mexicans were grabbing their soccer balls and diving for cover. Some were yelling at us. He didn’t hit the siren, and thinking back, picturing the intensity on his face, he wanted to catch this guy in the act.”

  “Oh, I’m sure of it. Who wouldn’t?”

  “We tore up twenty feet of sod skidding to a stop by the restrooms, and then the two of us hurried inside.”

  As she told the story, I could see the park in my mind, and I reflected on chasing gangsters through it back in the eighties. They would congregate at the far sides where the advantage would be theirs in seeing the cops before we saw them. Occasionally, we would coordinate swoops on them, and some of us would go in on foot from the ba
ck side while patrol cars would come at them, driving across the park. Inevitably, there would be runners—those with guns or dope who knew the hammer was coming down. It would be chaos for a few minutes, like an out-of-control rugby match with cops running and tackling gang members and cop cars skidding across the grass as they came to the aid of their colleagues. Patrol had by far been the most exciting days of my career.

  Josie’s eyes were fixed off in the distance as she recounted the afternoon that had been seared into her memory, and now she was being forced to bring it to the surface.

  “Well, the lady had it right. There was a man in there, and he hadn’t been invited by the woman. He had a knife to her throat. Her pants and panties were down around her ankles, as were his. The woman’s top had been removed and placed over the boy’s head to cover his eyes. The little boy was standing next to them in the stall.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yeah, it was the real deal. Right in front of us. The dude had a hold of himself and was just about to penetrate her when Lopes screwed his gun into the asshole’s ear. Surprise. The guy dropped the knife immediately. We pulled him out of the stall to get him clear of the woman and child so we can hook him up. This asshole makes the mistake of resisting arrest. He actually tried to run past us to escape through the door with his pants around his ankles. Lopes hit him across the head with his pistol, cracked him open like a ripe melon. The guy went down, hard. But he still had plenty of fight in him, so the two of us basically beat him into submission. It wasn’t pretty.”

  “Sounds clean, though.”

  “It was, but since when does that matter? He’s got the scars and the medical reports to show we beat his ass.”

  “He deserved it.”

  “Sure, in our eyes. In normal peoples’ eyes. What about attorneys, jurors?”