Hard-Boiled- Box Set

by Danny R. Smith

  Junior lied. “She said she was from nowhere. I should have blasted that bitch right then.”

  Bandit was getting in his car, a ’79 Oldsmobile that sat low on skinny tires and chrome rims. “Come on, Junior, let’s go see what it’s all about.”

  Oso followed Junior to the car, not wanting to be seen as a punk. When the three were inside, and Bandit was backing out of the driveway, Oso said, “Don’t be jumpin’ off, ese, ‘less I say so. Let’s see what’s going on, first. See what this bitch is all about. Plus, she’s probably gone now anyway.”

  Bandit glanced over but didn’t respond. Junior was silent in the back seat. Oso glanced back to see if his little brother was even paying attention, and he saw the revolver in the boy’s small hands.

  “Where’d you get the gat, eh?”

  “From a big homie.”

  “Who?”

  “I ain’t no rat, eh.”

  Bandit chuckled and took a swig of his beer. “Attaboy, Lil’ Oso. Let’s go fuck some bitches up.” He looked over and smiled at Big Oso, but received nothing in return. “The fuck’s your problem, homie? You didn’t find God in prison, did you?”

  “Fuck you,” Oso said to his homie. “Shut the fuck up and let’s ride, ese.”

  At the command post, Josie Sanchez found me and Floyd huddled with half a dozen other homicide detectives. We were discussing the direction of the case with one of the two handling investigators, Tim Crane, and waiting for an assignment. Tim looked over at Josie, who stood quietly behind me. “Are you here to help out?” When I turned I was surprised to see it was Josie he was speaking to.

  “Sure. What do you need me to do?”

  “You speak Spanish, right?”

  Josie nodded.

  Tim said, “Don’t go anywhere; I will definitely be putting you to work.”

  She nodded, and Tim turned to his lieutenant and began speaking in a low voice. I nodded to my partner. “What brings you out? Did they call you?”

  “No,” she said, “I just figured they might need help here. I also expected you and Floyd to be here too.”

  “She has your number,” Floyd said.

  “I went up to that armored car robbery in downtown.”

  “Oh?”

  Josie pulled a notebook from a pocket of her suit jacket, swiped the tip of her thumb across her tongue and began leafing through it. “I have a friend who works Robbery-Homicide with LAPD, and I saw him on the news. I was having dinner in Hollywood and thought, what the hell, I’d stop by and see what they had. I hadn’t seen him for a long time anyway, and when they mentioned that the robbers wore ski masks, I was just a little bit curious if these might be our same shooters.”

  Floyd and I exchanged glances. “What’d you find out?” I asked.

  She looked down at the notes. “Three suspects, two male and one female. One of the males was killed at the scene by a guard. The other two escaped.”

  “How did they identify one as a female?”

  “She went crazy when the one was killed. Ran to him and cradled him and was talking and crying. It was a woman.”

  I nodded. “Interesting.”

  “But three?” Floyd asked.

  “We think the third was the driver in our Compton murder, never seen by anyone.”

  “Oh, gotcha. Interesting.”

  Josie closed her notebook. “He said when they I.D. the dead guy, he’ll let me know.”

  “Who’s your friend?”

  “Bobby Gillette. Do you know him?”

  I smiled and looked to see Floyd smiling too. “Yeah, we know him.”

  “Yeah, I know, he’s a dog. But I don’t know him like that. We met working gangs and I’ve never dated him.”

  I threw my hands up. “I didn’t say anything.”

  “I know what you both are thinking though. You’re all pigs. Every last one of you.” She pushed past me and Floyd and approached Tim. “Where do you need me?”

  Floyd grinned at me. “You’ve got yourself a real pistol with that one, partner.”

  Travis had started to back out, and stopped. He pulled forward in the parking stall and looked at Tina. “I forgot to get smokes.”

  “Hurry up.”

  “You’ll be fine, killer.”

  “And stop calling me that.”

  She watched the glass front door close behind him. Tina turned and looked behind her, and then scanned the parking lot and adjacent areas. She kept watch for the bicycle while absently thumbing the shotgun that lay across her lap. She felt nervous about being here and was anxious to get out of town. Travis was smiling as he shouldered through the door while tapping a pack of cigarettes against the palm of his hand. He acted as if nothing in the world was going on. They hadn’t just botched an armored car robbery. Her brother hadn’t just been killed. They weren’t AWOL from the army. She hadn’t just threatened to kill a little gangster. Tina knew you didn’t put the blinders on after something like that. The gangster had been on a bicycle, which meant he was close to home—and homies. They would be back for her. Yet the big dummy Mr. First Cav and I’ve Seen the Shit was having a ball, enjoying life with a pack of fucking Marlboros.

  When he closed the door she said, “Hurry up, goddamnit. Let’s go!”

  He started the car and began backing out when a low-rider pulled in behind them. “Get the fuck out of my way,” he said to the image in his mirror.

  Tina turned her head to look. “Fuck, it’s them!”

  Chief Warrant Officer 3 Charles Farley said to Lazarevic, “Why don’t we go sit out there a while, give Morgan a break.”

  They were in the command post a couple of blocks from where Morgan sat at the home of the AWOL soldier’s grandmother. After Lazarevic spoke with him on the radio, she had been unsettled and had mentioned it to their team leader. “Charlie, Morg’s got that Indian shit going on again. He’s listening to the spirits of his forefathers who your people slaughtered for their land. They’re apparently sending him bad juju.”

  “You believe all that spiritual wagon-burner bullshit?” Farley had asked.

  “If you remember, he had the same thing going on right before we were nearly captured in Kandahar. He also mentioned his ‘bad feelings’ right before the shootout in Fallujah. Morgan has something the rest of us don’t, and you can call it whatever you want. But I’ve learned to trust his gut, and right now his gut’s telling him something isn’t right.”

  It had been quiet for a moment after they discussed it. The news played on the television across from where they sat, at a round table with fast food containers and empty coffee cups piling up. Farley had sat fiddling with his mustache while looking at the TV, which still showed the news. But Lazarevic could tell his mind was elsewhere. She could see in his eyes that he was contemplating what she had said. He was a smart man, and she respected him for his leadership abilities. He would take time to analyze a situation, to contemplate, and avoid overreacting. He wasn’t the type to put much stock in feelings or hunches. He had a responsibility to all of the team members, and to the United States Army, to follow solid leads and be able to justify the actions of his team subsequently. “Feelings” would not be part of any debriefing.

  She knew when he suggested going out to relieve Morgan, that he had considered how all actions would be reported. Now it was his idea. They would go “relieve” Morgan for a while. And while they were there, well, maybe they’d just hang out for a while.

  As they prepared to leave the command post, Farley said, “Give Montoya or Ridley a heads up that we’ll be out in the field, just in case they were to stop by the C.P.”

  “Yes sir,” Lazarevic replied, sharply.

  “You’re not going to believe this.”

  Floyd and I turned to see Josie coming toward us. She had her phone held out in front of her, the display illuminated, and she glanced up from it only after nearly bumping into me. I could smell a lavender scent as she leaned in to show me a message on her phone. “The dead guy is Carlos Ortiz.”r />
  “What dead guy?” Floyd asked.

  I was searching my mind for the name. It seemed familiar, but I couldn’t recall where I had heard it.

  “The armored car guy.”

  “Wait,” I said, “the guard, or the robber? There were one of each killed in that deal, right?”

  “There were two guards killed, and one suspect. The dead suspect is Carlos Ortiz.”

  “Okay, Josie, I’m not tracking here. Who is Carlos Ortiz?”

  “Well, there may be more than a few of them, but I know of one for sure. The little brother of Jimmy and Christina Ortiz was named Carlos. Jimmy’s the one that was killed by the off-duty deputy last weekend in Long Beach. Christina is the sister who is AWOL from the army, or that’s what those army investigators believe. Remember? I couldn’t remember his name before, but I’m pretty sure it was Carlos, now that I’ve heard it. In fact, I’m sure of it.”

  I was nodding as it all came back to me and began lining up in my head. “And the girl who went AWOL did so with a big white boy, as I recall. Is that right?”

  “Yes, and that makes three. Two men and a woman. I think this is them. I think this is who we’re looking for.”

  “Weren’t the CID guys watching grandma’s house?”

  She nodded. “Last we heard.”

  “We need to get ahold of them. Do you have their contact information?”

  “Not with me,” she said, meeting my increased energy.

  I began walking toward my car. Floyd followed, and Josie, having paused for a moment, jogged to catch up. “It’s at the office, in the file. I’m sorry, I didn’t plan on working tonight.”

  “None of us did. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Should we run up and get it?”

  I stopped at my door and looked at her. “No. We’ll go straight to grandma’s house. You remember how to get there, right?”

  “Pfft. Those are my stomping grounds, dude.”

  Floyd chuckled. “You heard her, dude. Let’s go!”

  I snaked through the conglomeration of emergency vehicles and media strewn about the parking lot. Once clear, I put my foot into the gas and headed toward the freeway. “Are you texting your boyfriend, Bobby?”

  “He’s not my boyfriend. But yes.”

  “Let him know we’re on our way to grandma’s house, and tell him that CID might be out there Code Five. There’s going to be too many cooks in the kitchen if something goes down.”

  Floyd said, “Wait, they have a surveillance going?”

  “The army does. They were thinking after the one brother was killed last weekend, that maybe the AWOL chick would come by grandma’s. Now she’s got two dead brothers, if Josie’s right about this.”

  “Too much to be a coincidence,” she said from the back seat.

  “You think she’s headed there now?” Floyd asked.

  “I don’t know. You wouldn’t think so, but maybe if she’s going to head for the border, she’d stop and pay her respects. But then again, how do you face grandma if your actions got her grandson killed? I don’t know, partner, what to think.”

  “Um, actually, I’m your partner now, Dickie.”

  Floyd and I both glanced behind us, and grinned.

  29

  Tina had turned in her seat, her shotgun leveled just above the window and her eyes locked on the occupants of the car. The boy in the backseat had his head and shoulders out the window, and he was bringing his arm up toward them. She saw the gun in his hand. “He’s got a gun!”

  Travis yelled, “Hang on!” and floored it in reverse.

  “Fuck!” she yelled as the shotgun went off—BLAM! The stolen Toyota smashed into the side of the Oldsmobile, and Tina’s shotgun flew out the window. Travis pulled forward, and then floored it in reverse again, crashing into the Oldsmobile. He pulled forward again, and Tina heard tires squealing behind them. He raced backward once more but the other car was no longer blocking him in. He pulled the shifter down to Drive and cranked the wheels as more gunshots rang out. There were five or six shots, and several projectiles hit the windshield, spraying fragments of glass throughout the car. Tina covered her head and tucked it between her legs. Travis held a hand up to shield himself from the debris, and hit the gas. He made a sharp left, and they drove over a parking block and off the curb. Once in the street, he accelerated and they headed south. He yelled over the revved engine and sounds of air whistling through open windows and bullet holes, “Get another gun out of my bag. Back seat.”

  Tina reached back and unzipped the bag. “What do you want?”

  “I’ve got what I want. Get something for you. One of the pistols, probably.”

  She took a Glock and fished around until she found two of the extended magazines. While doing so, she saw the Oldsmobile coming up behind them. “They’re following us.”

  Travis glanced in one mirror and then the other. A smile crept onto his face. “Perfect. Let’s take them somewhere special and see what they’ve got. Now that I think of it, get me the short AR out of my bag, and a couple of thirty-round mags for it. This is going to be fun. Fucking wetbacks.”

  “Take the Atlantic Avenue south up here,” Josie said, from the back seat. “I should have told Crane or the lieutenant we were leaving.”

  “There’s plenty of people they can get to habla for them. We need to let the little green army men know what’s going on. This could get interesting.”

  Floyd chuckled. “ ‘Little green army men.’ ” He turned his head toward the back seat. “So, you grew up down here, or you worked the area?”

  “Both,” she answered, before continuing with directions. “Go straight now.”

  After a moment, he said, “I guess you know the area then, huh?”

  “I know the streets, and I know a lot of the players.”

  Floyd seemed to be thinking of what else to talk about. “So, what’s the deal with you and Lopes?”

  “Jesus, dude. Really?”

  He looked at me. “What?”

  I shook my head.

  Josie said, “There’s a liquor store about a mile south of here where the Longos hang out. Turn left on the first street after it.”

  “Actually,” Floyd said, “stop at the liquor store real quick so I can pick up a can of Copenhagen. It might be a long night, Dickie.”

  “Perfect. We can kick it with the Longos.”

  From the back seat: “Fuck that.”

  I turned into the lot. There were people gathered outside of the store, milling about, looking around. All of them watched our arrival with great interest. Something had happened here, I could feel it. A man in his fifties headed toward our vehicle with urgency in both his gait and expression. Josie said, “That’s Abram, the owner. Something’s wrong here.”

  Floyd rolled down his window and the man called Abram began pointing south. “They went that way. Both of them.”

  Josie jumped out of the back seat. “Who, pops? Who went that way? What happened here?”

  He went to her, his hands extended toward her. “Sanchez, thank you for coming.”

  She took his hands in hers. “Pops, you need to tell me what happened.”

  “I told you on the phone, the nine-one-one. They were shooting.”

  “Who, pops? The gangsters?”

  “Everyone. The gangsters. The girls. The big man in his army coat. He crashed his car into that cholo, a dozen times. Then they went that way.” He pulled one of his hands from Josie and again pointed south.

  Floyd and I had exited the car and were standing near Josie and Abram. Neither of us was looking at them, though. I was scanning south, and then north, and also taking in the crowd of onlookers to see if any of them met my eyes. Sometimes a witness would let you know they had information, but not now, not here. You had to watch for it and then figure out a way to slip them a business card without singling them out. Other times, you’d see the face of someone you knew had information, but they had no intention of ever telling anyone. Like one of the
homeboys, or homegirls. You’d deal with them directly, which would often lead to a semi-consensual ride to the station—You don’t mind coming with us, right?—where a private conversation might be more beneficial.

  Josie was writing down what the owner told her about the cars. “A foreign job, and a low-rider,” he said. “It’s a white one with the shiny rims. You see it around here all the time.”

  Floyd had looked at me and shrugged. “Gang shit?”

  “The dude in the army jacket though. What’s up with that? White boy.”

  He nodded. “Robbery maybe?”

  “Maybe.”

  Josie turned from the storeowner. “Sounds like a robbery in the parking lot. The victim would be the white guy who rammed his car into the cholos trying to get away. There was a female in the car too. She may have been the intended victim. The cholos chased them both away. That way,” she said, pointing south.

  I looked past Josie and grabbed at my gun as a wino stepped from the shadows with a sawed-off shotgun in his hand. He held it up and called out, “They left it here,” just as I cleared leather and shoved Josie out of the path between him and me.

  I realized immediately the man was no threat. I approached the wino and retrieved the shotgun from him before lowering my pistol back into its holster. “Where did you find this?”

  He rubbed the gray stubble on his face and then pointed toward the ground close to where I stood. “It was right there. The lady dropped it. When they left, I picked it up. I figure it’s worth twenty bucks, anyway.”

  I reached into my pocket and thumbed through my money clip, peeled off a ten and gave it to him. He was thirsty, but twenty bucks might kill him. Floyd took the shotgun from my hand. He broke it open and cleared the chamber, removing an expended shell and a live shell, and headed toward the trunk of our car. Josie opened a notebook and asked the man for his identification. He didn’t have any, he said, so she asked for his name and date of birth and wrote it in her notebook. When she asked where he lived, he pointed toward an alley behind the store. “Mostly back there.”