by Neal Arbic
Delware stared blankly. His imagination plagued with pictures of a murderous messiah, an anti-Christ standing proudly over the Tate massacre. “How can he, they…do that? I mean, I get it. You find a guy screwing your wife, some asshole steals your life savings. But…how do you kill a room full of strangers?”
Jack turned onto Sunset. “Because they weren’t people to him, Psychos are loners and other people are just empty puppets to them. It doesn’t matter how we feel, what we want…if we live or die. We’re not real. Only he is. To him, we’re nothing more than pigs.”
“That’s why he does it?”
Jack nodded. “That’s why we gotta find him.”
They drove in silence. Minutes passed. Streets passed. The dazzle of the sun softened as it descended towards the ocean. The air cooled. The streets had that strange just-before-rush-hour quiet. The Packard hit the highway. The weight of silence was too much. Delware flipped on the police radio and was surprised not to hear the usual chatter. The airwaves were dead. The static was ominous, like the entire LA police force had disappeared. He looked up to see if LA was still there. Then a breathless voice broke out from the static. “Right on Olympic Boulevard! Right on Olympic!”
They exchanged glances. The voice shouted through the tinny speaker. “They’re up an alleyway towards San Marino!!”
Jack turned to Delware. “Communications Operator must have cleared the frequency so all units could talk to each other.”
The voice cried over the radio, “I lost them!”
Delware and Jack stared down at the radio.
Another voice shouted from the shortwave. “Got ‘em! Five-A-Four in pursuit! ‘58 Chevrolet heading north on Western Avenue past the plaza!”
They listened as a box-in and roadblock were attempted. Both failed with bursts of gun fire exchanged at each. Jack turned up the radio. Delware recognized the streets, could see the chase like a sports cast. Jack tried to be nonchalant, but after a few close calls, his eyes were more on the radio than the road. Another road block. Two cars in pursuit. It looked like the end for the Chevrolet. Jack and Delware leaned towards the radio, silently rooting for their team. It was close, but the Chevrolet slipped through the net. Both men howled.
The suspects were making good use of the nameless alleyways, making a coordinated chase difficult. It looked like they might actually lose their pursuers. Doggedly, the high speed cat and mouse continued.
Unconsciously, Jack started speeding towards the chase in the downtown core. After a full minute without a sighting, the Chevrolet popped out of an alleyway right in front of a radio car. “Eight-A-Four! We have them on San Marino headed east! In pursuit!” The officer on the radio was now shouting street names as the ‘58 Chevrolet passed them. They were ripping through the streets; Delware guessed the speed by how quickly the names came. “Westmoreland! Elden! Magnolla! Arapahoe!” The voice competed with the wailing siren and growling engine coming over the radio. “North on Hoover! Christ! They hit a pedestrian at Wilshire!”
Another voice jumped in, the squeal of tires in the background. “Five-A-Four. They’re on Wilshire! Chevrolet now north on La Feyette Park!! Jesus! We’re taking fire! They’ve turned on Sixth! Headed east!”
Two patrol cruisers and an unmarked car from Vice starting screaming over each other. They were west on Sixth St. and setting up a road block at Alvarado.
Jack laughed, “Vice! The whole Department is getting in on the act!” Jack recognized one of the voices and gave a sporting cheer. “Go Buck!”
The female voice of the Communications operator shouted, “Five-A-Four, what’s your 20? Five-A-Four, come in!”
“Still east bound on Sixth-” The squeal of tires interrupted. Breathlessly his voice came back, “Approaching Alvarado!”
Buck’s voice at the road block came back. “Suspects approaching!”
The short silence that followed seemed an hour. Jack and Delware were not aware they were holding their breath. A terrible voice broke the static, the pop of gunfire in the background. “L10, I’m shot! Officers down! Officers down! Sixth and Alvarado!” The channel stayed open for a second more. Gunfire was all that could be heard, then static.
Communications Operator’s voice was pitched up high. “Is that officer down, or officers down!”
The voice didn’t come back. Jack wondered if Buck was alright. He looked up and hit the brakes. “Damn!” The Packard had been speeding almost out of control down the Hollywood Freeway. He got it to a manageable speed and then raced on.
“Five-A-Four, we lost them.” Delware could tell Five-A-Four had crashed. The engine roar in the background was gone. “They cut through MacAuthur Park, heading south.”
Once again the ‘58 Chevrolet was free and eluding radio cars sent to head them off. There was a long silence. Both Delware and Jack listened intently to the static, waiting for a voice. They could feel every cop in the city leaning towards their radios. The suspects had gone under the radar, would they come up again?
Jack whispered, “Come on, you flat foots, where are they?”
A near scream cut through the hissing static. “Wilshire at Witmer, ‘58 Chevrolet just ducked into an alley south towards 7th!”
Delware’s eyes flashed at the off ramp sign. “Jack! We’re just around the corner!”
Jack did a double take and couldn’t believe his eyes: he had driven right past the off ramp to City Hall. Easing up on the engine, he turned off the police radio and listened. He could hear it: the chase. Distant sirens raced through the streets all around them. Jack frowned and shook his head. “Forget it, kid. It’s not our call.”
Delware shot an arm out the window, pointing. “Jack! We’re right there, Eighth is right ahead!”
His old eyes glanced at the sign over the off ramp, the distant sirens ringing in his ears. Jack tried his best, but he couldn’t resist the call of the sirens. He swung the wheel at the last second. The car skidded and skipped onto the off ramp almost out of control. The Packard swept down the ramp and nearly spun out on Eighth, narrowly missing a head-on collision. Jack gritted his teeth as he sped west on Eighth. “Goddamn it, kid! Now look what you got me into!”
Delware strapped himself in and fumbled for the radio mic.
Jack turned to yell at Delware again, but Delware’s window showed a ‘58 Chevrolet barreling out an alley right at them. Jack tried to step on the gas, but too late. The speeding car clipped their back end and sent the Packard spinning into oncoming traffic.
***
Jack’s eyes were trying to open. At first, he only caught glimpses of a frosty window. He thought he was twelve-years-old and on vacation in New York on a December morning, but then his eyes cleared enough to see the shattered windshield. The roaring in his ears slowed and he heard Delware shouting far off, “Freeze police!” And another voice, farther away, “Drop your weapons!” followed by the popping of gunfire.
Looking to the empty passenger seat, Jack realized he must have been knocked out for a while because Delware was already out of the car. Beside the Packard, two poles were down and sparking wires danced. A toppled fire hydrant in the side mirror shot a pillar of water ten feet high that rained over everything. Scattered cars and a truck on its side blocked the roadway. Feeling a sharp pain above his right eyes, he lifted his fingers and they came back bloody. Jack kicked his door open. A woman lay facedown and bleeding in front of him. Jack pushed himself from the car and spit blood from his mouth. There were bodies everywhere, drivers, passengers tossed from their vehicles. Some lifeless, some moaning. On the north side of the street a red Rambler had jumped the sidewalk and crushed its front end into a brick wall. A woman’s leg protruded from the windshield, her stocking and flesh shredded. To the west, somewhere unseen, a woman was screaming bloody murder, a man’s voice nearby cried for help. A fat man lay dead on his back on the sidewalk beside an overturned truck.
Jack checked the bloody woman at his feet. She was not breathing. As Jack rose he noticed the sharp m
etallic chinking of bullets hitting metal. He looked around. Clustered by the alleyway to his south were empty black and whites - their doors flung open. Delware and uniformed officers took cover there, shooting their service revolvers and pump-action shotguns. To his north, Latino men, scattered along on the north side of the street fired back. Jack stood between them, caught in the crossfire.
Eighth Street by the freeway was a narrow canyon of brick, steel and glass. The .10 gauge shotguns echoed like canons. The reverberations sent people running and ducking, covering their ears. Bullets whistled and shotguns boomed from both sides of the street. The car window beside Jack popped and cracked. He rubbed his throbbing forehead and glanced down at his holster. His gun was still there.
He couldn’t see it, but Jack heard the unmistakable pop of a German Luger. Jack smiled to himself in the hail of bullets. Judging by their weapons and lousy aim, these were Hollenbeck Boys, a gang near Boyle Heights. They were taking wild, one-handed shots. Bullets flew everywhere. The cops were taking two handed shots, but weren’t landing any.
Jack wanted nothing to do with an out-in-the-open gunfight, even if it was amateur hour at the O.K. Corral. Without drawing his gun, he stumbled through the carnage. Broken windshield glass crackled under his feet. Lead was ricocheting all around him, the air was deadly, but Jack didn’t give a damn. He hunched his shoulders like it was a walk in the rain. He counted six shooters: Latinos in wife-beaters. A fat Latino wielded a .10 gauge wearing double bullet belts across his chest like Pancho Villa. Pancho waved the others to move back towards the packed parking lot of a small grocery store. A few of the gang followed spraying lead. A lot of it. A young patrolman, not recognizing Jack as an officer, yelled at him to get down. He ignored the warnings and grumbled at the bullets whining through the air and popping into the cars around him.
Jack took note of a Latino in a red baseball cap firing two automatic pistols, one in each hand. One was the WWII Luger. Baseball-cap ignored Jack, mistaking him for a confused old man. Jack bet even money the Latinos were thinking of holing up in the grocery store for cover. He made his way to the north end of the street to an alley beside the grocery store. At the mouth of the alley, Jack looked back, the suspects were now hightailing it across the lot and into the grocery store. Hiding pedestrians now caught in the crossfire ran in every direction to get away. Jack glanced at his car. His trunk had been knocked wide open; the back bumper knocked clean off.
He muttered, “Goddamn. My fuckin’ bumper!”
The police had taken back the street and more officers were arriving. The large windows of the grocery store were shattering with shots from both sides. Delware, in a running crouch, dodged between cars taking the parking lot. He had reloaded several times and was now out of bullets. A wounded officer lay behind a black Mercury Comet. He was clutching his shoulder that oozed red. Delware saw a pump shotgun beside him and made a dash to the officer. Bullets trailed him. He tossed his .38 and snatched the shotgun. “You alright?”
The officer howled at him with a twisted face. “Fuck! Fuck! FUCK!” Delware saw the man’s gun was still in his holster, grabbed it and put it in his own holster. “I might need this too.”
Screams could be heard in the store, Delware feared hostages would be taken.
A black and white, siren screaming, roared up the north end sidewalk and scraped several cars as it spun to a halt in the grocery store’s parking lot. Its windows already full of bullet holes, Delware guessed it had been at a failed roadblock. A young officer kicked open the driver’s door and starting firing, using the door as a shield. An older, fat officer sprang out of the passenger door with a shot gun. He bent low behind the hood and began firing and reloading at an amazing rate. Both red faced officers seemed intent on revenge. Quickly, all gunfire from the store was directed at them. Delware took advantage of the distraction. He charged directly at the front door, a few younger officers joined in. Delware led the charge pumping and firing his shotgun. He had not proven himself a good shot, but now he was up close. With a single blast to the chest he took down Pancho Villa. The gunfire from the store turned on Delware. The officers from the spun out cruiser took advantage of it and came charging. The young cop stopped mid-charge, raised his gun mid-chest and with one well-placed shot clipped the head of Baseball Cap. The remaining four men firing from the windows retreated deeper into the store. Delware threw down the empty smoking shotgun and burst through the front door. He pulled the wounded officer’s gun from his holster. Two bullets snapped by his head. He returned fire only to find the gun was empty. He glanced down at the revolver with horror and disbelief, his finger still squeezing the trigger. Ducking to grab his backup piece on his ankle, the glass above his head shattered.
In the alley the noise of the gun battle was muffled. Jack unclipped his holstered .38 and turned the corner. He found the store’s backdoor and leaned against the brick wall, pulled his .38. and kissed it. “Don’t fail me now.” Blood still ran from his forehead, he dabbed it away. Leveling the gun at the door, he didn’t have to wait long. The heavy metal door burst open. A suspect with a gun flew out. Jack squeezed the trigger. The gun clicked, the hammer fell. The gunshot in the narrow brick alley was loud. The man’s head jerked to one side. The other side of his skull blew apart and hit the inside of the white metal door. Red splattered.
The man fell lifeless. His head hit the ground still spouting blood.
Another suspect, firing back into the store and not looking where he was going, came out a split second later. Tripping over the dead man, down he went. Jack fired and missed, chinking the pavement beside the man’s head. On the pavement, the man rolled taking a shot that whistled by Jack’s head. Jack’s second bullet hit him in the temple, spraying blood across the alley. The man twitched and went limp.
Jack whispered, “Adios.”
Inside, Delware ran crouched behind aisles of fruit, the glass doors of the milk freezers behind him exploding, raining shards on his head. He stopped at a bread rack. Across the aisle, a young mother on the floor clutched a six year old girl, both crying. Delware peeked around the corner and saw a man firing at officers entering the store. He took three shots. The first missed, alerting the man who turned to return fire, but the other two connected with his torso. His feet slipped from under him. He hit the floor hard and did not get up.
Jack waited at the back door. A shotgun came flying out. A voice inside yelled, “OK, man. I give up. I’m coming out!”
Jack stepped away from the door, his gun still trained on the empty passage.
The first thing to appear was the man’s leg. Jack fired. The man fell out of the doorway and rolled on the ground howling, holding his leg. A litany of curses came as he rolled in pain.
A black hand holding a badge appeared at the doorway. Jack heard Delware shout, “Police officer.”
Jack yelled, “It’s OK, Delware! It’s me.”
Delware stepped out of the doorway, looked down at the two dead men and the one howling. He looked up at Jack impressed.
Jack relaxed and walked smiling at Delware. “That’s all of them?”
Delware nodded.
The man on the ground interrupted his profanity long enough to shout at Delware. “He fuckin’ shot after I fuckin’ surrendered!”
Delware dutifully began reading him his Miranda rights, “You have the right to remain silent-”
Jack interrupted. “Hey, kid! That’s not the way you do it!”
With a youthful twinkle in his eye, Jack walked up and kicked the man across the mouth. He gave Delware a smile, then bent over the now unconscious man. “Hey screwball, you got the right to remain silent.”
***
The street looked like a battlefield: cars flaming, smoke and the smell of gunpowder still in the air, plate glass windows shot out, shards of broken glass scattered like confetti, trails of spent shotgun shells. The wounded moaned, the corpses silent. Jack sat in his car, his leg resting on the running board. He looked up angrily at Del
ware. “You stupid kid, they’re going to bury us!”
Jack’s mood had turned on a dime. The adrenaline rush was over and now he was crashing. Delware, still high on the adrenalin, stared bewildered. “What?”
Jack scowled. “What! This! Do you know what this means? Paperwork. A bottomless pit of it. This is gonna rob us of days, steal hours from us for weeks! We’re on the Tate case now part-time - thanks to you! Because the rest of the time we’ll be sorting out what happened here. We fired our guns! That’s endless crime reports in triplicates. Reports on everything. Reports on reports!” Disgusted, Jack looked away. “Get lost. Don’t bother me, kid. I got things to think about.”
Delware stood like a puppy who didn’t understand.
Jack jumped at him. “Beat it! Get the hell out of my sight, will ya!”
Turning, Delware walked away. His head spun as he wandered through the wrecked cars and fallen poles. Ambulance workers loaded up the bleeding. Morgue men loaded corpses onto gurneys. Rounding a corner, he left the chaos, his triumph now a dismal defeat. Had he really screwed them out of solving the case? He walked fast and hard down busy streets not looking where he was going, just wanting Jack and the crime scene far behind. He stopped and sighed, leaning against a wall in a quiet alleyway. His eyes followed normal people living normal lives. They hurried by, things on their minds. Across a street a mother pushing a baby carriage stopped to admire a dress in a window. A black man emerged from a deli eating a sandwich. Three hippies rounded the corner.