The Tin Collectors

by Stephen J. Cannell

  But Chooch said nothing.

  “You told me once that you wanted to be the most important instead of the least. And I get that, man. I really do. But lemme ask you something. If I let you stay here, knowing that I was in some real danger and that you might end up hurt, what kinda guy would that make me? And how important would you be to me if I just flat disregard your safety?”

  “Whatever…You’re gonna do what you wanta.”

  “You want me to understand, to care about your problems, but you don’t want to understand or care about mine.”

  “Is this gonna take much longer?”

  “You’re going to Sandy on Monday. Sorry you and I can’t talk about it.”

  “You say you’re in danger, that someone’s gonna ride on you? And I’m supposed to believe this?”

  Now it was Shane who didn’t answer.

  “Well, I don’t. Okay? I see it as total doo-rah. You’re a fuckin’ liar.”

  Shane got up and moved toward the door. Before going in, he turned and talked to Chooch’s back. “There are defining moments in a man’s life, Chooch. You’re at one. You can deal with this like a man, or you can run from it like a kid. If you run—if you take off and go hang with a buncha street bravos, you’re gonna regret it.”

  “ ’Cause why? You’re gonna get me booked on a juvenile court detaining order?” he said, surprising Shane that he knew the exact document, and further proving he’d been hanging with some very unsavory people.

  “You’re at an important crossroad. Read the signs carefully before you choose what direction you want to go. You’re fifteen. Nobody can tell you what to do anymore, certainly not me. You’re gonna make your own decisions, no matter what Sandy or I say. You’re almost a man now, so you stop getting the juvenile discount. But you also gotta pay adult rates—be careful.”

  Shane went inside and undressed for bed. It had been a strange night. He had left Alexa not knowing what she would do, or whether she believed any of what he had told her. Then he had come home to this draining conversation with Chooch. He lay on his pillow, looking at the cracked ceiling, wondering where it was all heading.

  In his wildest imagination, he never would have expected what happened next.

  Shane heard something outside the house.

  It woke him.

  He didn’t know whether it was part of a dream or someone in his yard. He lay still, his heart pounding, his senses tingling; then he rolled out of bed and crept slowly to the dresser, where he had put his gun. He retrieved it, snuck out of the bedroom, padded down the hall in his underwear, and checked the guest room. Chooch was asleep in the bed next to the wall, so Shane went back up the hall.

  He wasn’t two steps into the front room when a machine gun opened up, blowing out the entire front window. Glass rained in on him, taking part of the drapery with it. Shane dove for the floor as the machine gun kept firing, stitching holes in the wall behind him, breaking plaster, shattering pictures. He worked his way toward the front door on his stomach.

  Another burst from a second gun came through the side window. Nine-millimeter slugs tattooed the living room’s east wall. He was pinned in a deadly cross fire. Shane rolled over and sat up, firing blindly out the broken side window with his .38. Then he heard a car start in the alley.

  Chooch ran into the living room, and Shane launched himself at the teenager, taking him down seconds before another barrage of bullets screamed just above their heads, breaking a lamp and turning an end table into splinters. Shane pinned Chooch under him, protecting the boy with his body.

  “Let’s go. Let’s get outta here!” somebody shouted.

  A car door slammed; an engine roared. There was the chirp of rubber and then the sound of a car speeding away.

  “Stay here. Stay down,” Shane ordered Chooch. He wormed his way out the front door, slid down the front steps on his belly, and rolled behind a low wall. He didn’t want to risk sticking his head up until he had a chance to check out all possible lines of fire. He strained to hear in the dark, to identify any warning sound, trying to be sure all of them had left. Then he rolled up and scooted back on his ass until he could feel the side of the house against his shoulder blades.

  His neighbors were starting to shout: “What’s going on!?” “What the fuck’s happening?!” “Call the police!”

  Shane couldn’t remember how many shots he had squeezed off, so he flipped open the cylinder…three cartridges left. He snapped the revolver shut and got to his feet, quickly making a lap around the house. He ran into Longboard in the backyard and almost shot him.

  “Get back inside, Brian,” he ordered.

  The surfboard shaper turned and ran back into his house.

  After Shane was certain the house was secure, he went back inside.

  “Let’s go,” he said to Chooch.

  “Where?”

  “You’re going to your mother’s. You can’t stay here. Get your clothes, now! Meet me in the garage. We’re outta here!”

  They could hear sirens approaching, way off in the distance.

  “Let’s go. I don’t wanna be here when the cops arrive. Move it!”

  Shane grabbed his clothes out of the bedroom and, not waiting to put them on, bolted for the garage. He was already pulling the Acura out when the teenager arrived, carrying his shirt, shoes, and pants; Chooch jumped into the passenger side. The police sirens were now only a few blocks away.

  Shane shot up the alley behind the east canal, made a left away from the water, and floored it. Miraculously, he didn’t choose the same streets as the arriving squad cars. Five minutes later they were on the freeway, both clad only in their undershorts, heading toward Barrington Plaza.

  Chooch sat quietly in the passenger seat, shaken by the experience. Finally he looked over at Shane.

  “I thought it was bullshit,” he said.

  “Now you know,” Shane answered, but he hadn’t been prepared for the ferocious machine-gun attack. He had never imagined that somebody would stand outside his house pouring lead into his living room. His hands were shaking; he was glad he was gripping the steering wheel so it didn’t show.

  “Who were those guys?” Chooch asked. “They ride down on you with fucking machine guns….”

  “I’m not sure. Bad cops, I think.”

  When he looked over at Chooch a second time, he saw a strange expression on the boy’s face, too complicated to read.

  They got off the freeway at Sunset. Shane found a dark spot and pulled to the curb so they could change into their clothes in the car. Then they drove around the corner and pulled in at Barrington Plaza. Shane badged the doorman with the braided shoulders. Sandy was standing in the living room wearing a silk robe belted around her slender waist. Her hair was tousled. She looked composed but concerned, an actress playing a scene.

  “I can’t believe it,” she said after Shane filled her in.

  “This isn’t going to be a discussion, Sandy. You’re taking Chooch.”

  “My God, who do you think they were?”

  “I’m not sure, but I have a few hunches.” He stood there, feeling a wave of fatigue. Then he looked at Chooch, wearing the same strange expression Shane had seen in the car. In the better light of Sandy’s apartment, it looked a little like regret, or maybe it was guilt.

  “Okay, here’s the deal, Chooch…”

  The boy jerked to attention and faced Shane.

  “Disneyland, next weekend. You stay here till then, and I’ll be back for you. It’s a promise.”

  Chooch nodded.

  As Shane moved to the door, he heard Chooch call his name, and he looked back. “I’m sorry,” the boy said. “I thought you were lying, but I was wrong.”

  24

  The Police Bill of Rights

  When Shane got back to his house on East Canal Street, it was sunup. Five black-and-whites and a crime-scene station wagon were blocking the street. He edged the Acura past them and pulled into the garage.

  There were ten cops
standing in his living room. When he entered, they turned, clearly surprised to see him.

  “Where the hell you been?” Garson Welch asked. The fact that the old detective had been called out on this told Shane that he was still a murder suspect in the criminal investigation surrounding Ray’s death.

  Welch had been given this call because he was investigating Molar’s shooting and this machine-gun attack was most likely connected. The old detective looked at Shane with his basset-hound expression and tired brown eyes. “We just put a bulletin out on you.”

  “I had something personal to take care of,” Shane said.

  “What the fuck was this?” Garson said, pointing at the destroyed wall where Crime Section techs were busy digging 9mm slugs out of the plaster and bagging them as evidence for a ballistics comparison later. That is, if they ever found the weapon, which was right up there with the odds on Shane’s next promotion.

  Shane was sure that the machine guns were illegal street sweepers: AK-47s, maybe MAC-10s, most likely taken from the vast array of confiscated weapons held in the Firearms and Ammunition Section’s secure property room, destined for eventual burial at sea.

  “Who did this?” Garson asked.

  “Don’t know,” Shane said. “The lights were out, and I was flat on my stomach eating carpet.”

  “Okay, let’s go. You got an appointment at Parker Center.”

  “Shit…do we have to do that again?” Shane asked. The remark was greeted by a flat stare.

  Shane was taken from his house and again made the early-morning ride across town to the Glass House. Garson Welch stayed quiet as they drove. He had the case but didn’t want it. As far as Welch was concerned, the brass at Parker Center could ask the questions. They pulled into the parking garage next to the huge lit police building, then rode the elevator up to the ninth floor. This time Shane found Deputy Chief Tom Mayweather standing in the hallway waiting for him, looking very GQ in his black pinstripe suit, white shirt, maroon tie, and matching pocket accessory. His bald head was gleaming, his handsome face theatrically troubled. He didn’t say anything but motioned Shane down the hall. Garson Welch stayed in the lobby, glad to be out of it.

  Shane followed Mayweather into his office. The room was not as large as Chief Brewer’s by half but had a picture window with a Spring Street view. The shelves were littered with Mayweather’s old basketball trophies, game balls, and team photos, along with the more standard police memorabilia: his Academy class picture, civil-service awards, and plaques attesting to his superiority as a police officer.

  Mayweather stepped behind his desk, using the large, light oak piece of furniture as a barricade to separate them and define their roles. Shane stood while Mayweather sat in his tan executive swivel chair. The overhead ceiling spot kicked white light off his shaved head.

  “You are an amazing piece of work, Sergeant,” the deputy chief finally said.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I wasn’t complimenting you. Why the hell didn’t you come back from Arrowhead and report in here, as instructed?”

  “I left you a message.”

  “Right…the ‘I had an accident/fell asleep at the wheel/stayed in a motel’ message, left with my secretary at eight-fifteen A.M.” He shook his head in wonder. “You must think I’m one stupid son of a bitch.”

  “How would you like me to respond to that, sir?” Shane was getting mad now, wanting to fire back but on tender ground professionally.

  Mayweather leaned back in his chair, the knife-sharp creases in his pants now visible over the desktop. “Take off your gun and hand me your badge. You’re suspended from duty without pay pending your Internal Affairs Board of Rights.”

  “Don’t you have to write up a 1.61 before you can suspend me?”

  “Consider it written.”

  “The Police Bill of Rights really seems to have its limits where I’m concerned, doesn’t it?”

  “The 1.61 will be in your hands before nine o’clock. Take off your gun and give me your badge and ID card.”

  Shane removed the clip-on holster from his belt, then pulled his badge and ID in the brown leather fold-over out of his pocket.

  “Put them on the desk, please,” Mayweather commanded.

  Shane did as he was instructed. “Now what?”

  Mayweather seemed puzzled by the question, so Shane added, “Doesn’t the district attorney show up about now with a murder warrant and cart me off to the lockup?”

  “You really have an active imagination.”

  “I didn’t imagine the nine-millimeter machine-gun slugs in my living-room walls. Chief Brewer has been threatening me with a murder indictment. Since you’re not doing that, something else must be happening. Maybe you just want to leave me on the street without my gun and badge, where I’ll be easier to get at?”

  “You are a sick, paranoid man, Sergeant Scully. There are other ways to view what just happened.”

  “Let’s hear.”

  “I think you’re involved with the wrong people, vice or drugs…some other street action. You were taking a ‘patch’ and you took too much.” A “patch” was police argot for a payoff to a cop for letting a crime happen, differing from a “buy down,” which was a bribe to turn an arrestee loose or book him for a lesser crime. “People you thought you had fooled, or had under control, got tired of paying and threw you a party,” Mayweather added.

  “You surprise me, Tom,” Shane said, using the deputy chief’s first name to show he had lost respect for him. “The word in the department is you’re a good guy, a smart guy, but what’s happening here right now, between us, isn’t smart at all. If you really don’t know what’s going on, then you’re being used—played for a patsy. Either way, it marks you.”

  “I see.” Mayweather seemed to consider this, sitting still, thinking, his big trophy-filled office and black Armani pinstripes dissing Shane—making him small. Then the deputy chief seemed to make up his mind and sat upright. “Get out. Check in every day with Captain Halley. Go home and leave this alone.”

  “Go home? Should I sit in the window?”

  “That will be just about enough of that. Go home. Stay put. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop making trouble.”

  “You can suspend me, but you sure as hell can’t tell me not to work on my own defense. Somebody made a big mistake. They thought I took something out of Ray’s house and they overreacted. Now they’re pretty sure I don’t have it, but Chief Brewer leaned too hard and got me looking in the wrong places. Suddenly I have too much of it and have to be neutralized. Whoever’s behind this had one easy shot and missed. I won’t be stumbling around, half asleep in my undies, next time. It’s gonna be much harder.”

  Shane turned and walked out of the office without looking back, leaving his badge, gun, and career in police work behind.

  Once again, he was stranded downtown without his car. He didn’t trust anybody enough to ask for a lift, and as a suspended officer, he couldn’t check a slickback out of the motor pool…so he walked four blocks east to the Bradbury Building and waited in the parking garage for Alexa Hamilton to arrive.

  25

  Print Hit

  Seven thirty-five A.M. Alexa pulled the gray Ford Crown Victoria into the parking structure and parked in her spot. She was early, as usual, getting a jump-start on the day while DeMarco slept late.

  She got out of the car, dressed for success in a dark charcoal pantsuit tailored to her trim, twenty-three-inch waist. She was carrying another cardboard box full of files, her bulging, faded leather briefcase hanging from a strap over her shoulder. She headed toward the elevators and stopped when she saw him standing next to a concrete pillar in the shadows of the huge, underlit parking garage.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” she said.

  “I know, I should be in a slumber room at Forest Lawn.”

  She walked toward him now, closing the distance, stopping two feet away. He could smell her perfume. He’d never thought of her as w
earing perfume.

  “What happened?” she asked. “The chief advocate called me at six. He said somebody shot up your house.”

  “Shot up…My house was massacred. I got enough lead in the walls to go into strip mining. On top of that, I got suspended this morning by Mayweather. He took my gun, badge, and ID, kicked me loose. So I’m back on the street running around, a moving target. It’s been way too entertaining. I was expecting to get hit with a murder one indictment, but for some reason it didn’t happen. I guess things were bound to slow down sometime.”

  “The warrant’s coming. The writ got signed. I saw it yesterday. Looks like they’re holding it in reserve…. Let’s go back and sit in my car,” she said unexpectedly.

  They walked to her car. She put the box in the backseat, then they both slid into the Crown Vic and closed the doors.

  “Look, I don’t understand what’s happening. I agree, something’s going on. I don’t get it myself…but I’m compromised here,” Alexa said with some anxiety.

  “Lemme see if I got this straight,” he said. “I’ve been threatened by Chief Brewer and most of Ray’s old den. Somebody blew the shit out of my living room, Mayweather just suspended me, I got a murder warrant pending, but we’re worried you’re ‘compromised’?”

  She sat quietly, deep in thought. He sensed there was something she wasn’t telling him.

  “What is it? You know something else,” he said.

  Finally she opened her briefcase and pulled out a sheaf of papers.

  “Those are the missing files from the Chief Advocate’s Office. On my way in this morning, I stopped by the Office of Administrative Services. They supervise the Officer Representation Section at Parker Center. I have a friend down there. She pulled the duplicates on all missing case folders from the discovery files and made copies for me.”

  Shane took the missing files and looked through them. “Jesus, look’t this, it’s just what I thought. All of them involve Hoover Street Bounty Hunters. Lee Ayers was beefed by a store owner just like Drucker; slow response to Code Thirty calls. Kris Kono is also accused of a slow response. Joe Church failed to Mirandize a banger after a street homicide. The case got pitched.” He looked up at her and, for the first time, saw indecision on her chiseled face. “Why would Ray’s old den be kicking gangsters loose?” he asked.