The Tin Collectors

by Stephen J. Cannell

  “What’s the problem, Rich?” he asked the motor cop.

  “Guy says he’s a cop. Wants t’drive through.” He handed Shane’s card to the assistant director, who looked at it.

  “We’re still a bit away from the shot,” the AD said to Shane. “Lemme see if I can set this up. Hang on.” He turned and ran back to the group of men huddled near the armored car, handing the card to a tall man in a safari jacket. The man looked at the card, then up the street to Shane, and nodded.

  The assistant director waved his arm at Shane to come ahead. The motorcycle cop was pissed off and didn’t look at Shane as he moved the barricade.

  Shane got back in the Taurus and pulled up the street, right into the activity of the movie set. He was trying to get around the idling helicopter when a man stepped out from the group by the armored car and motioned him to stop, then leaned in his passenger window, smiling.

  “Hang on a minute,” he said.

  Suddenly Shane felt something cold and hard press on the left side of his head.

  “Howdy-do,” a low, soft voice said with a country twang. “Y’all wanna slowly get out of the car?”

  Shane tried to look back, but the second man had positioned himself to the left of Shane and behind him, pointing the gun through the driver-side window, placing it against the left side of his head. Shane didn’t have to see the gun to know what it was.

  “This is pretty dumb, whoever the fuck you are,” Shane finally said.

  “Hey, dipshit, we been lookin’ all over for you. You’re the dummy. I sent you the nine-one-one. We was down here anyway, and you stumble right on in here, nice as can be.” Then the man with the gun suddenly shouted at the man in the safari coat.

  “Dom,” he yelled. “What if, when Arnie leaves the car, we stage Sandra’s abduction like this. Lookee here.” Then he opened the door to the Taurus. “Out,” he growled at Shane. “We’re gonna get in that chopper. You’re sitting in the back right side.”

  “You’re gonna kidnap me in front of all these people?”

  “This ain’t a kidnapping, it’s a rehearsal,” he said. “You’re gonna be Sandra Bullock. Don’t fuck with me, pal. You make trouble, I’ll clock you and carry you over. It’ll look like blocking to these idiots.” Then he pulled Shane out of the car, led him twenty feet to the helicopter at gunpoint, and shoved him into the back. Shane saw that it was Calvin Sheets.

  Waiting in the helicopter was another piece of muscle Shane had never seen before. He was holding a gun low, out of sight. Shane settled in, and the man’s cold eyes never left him. Calvin looked back down at the director, who shouted, “Yeah, maybe that could work, Cal. But I gotta deal with this first.”

  Calvin shouted back, “Hunter just called. We’ll be back in half an hour, if that’s okay.”

  “Go ahead,” the director shouted. “We’re an hour away, but we need the chopper back by eleven.”

  Calvin waved, climbed into the helicopter, and motioned to the pilot, who revved up the motor.

  They lifted up off the pavement, hovered, then veered over the street and climbed away from the movie company.

  Shane looked out the window and saw the fully rigged and lit street with the hundred or more movie people who had just witnessed his kidnapping without realizing it. They became miniatures as the chopper rose.

  “So this is a Logan Hunter film,” Shane said.

  “Huh?” Calvin shouted back over the roar of the chopper.

  “Forget it,” Shane said.

  Then the helicopter turned north and flew toward the mountains, picking up altitude, leaving the L.A. basin far behind.

  33

  The Hat

  I’m gonna put her down in the Valley of the Moon,” the pilot yelled over the rotor noise. “I’ll call the house; they can meet us there.”

  Calvin responded with the okay sign. They were flying low, streaking through the San Bernardino Mountains, following a river-cut canyon about fifty feet off the ground. Occasionally Shane could see the moon shadow of the helicopter against rock outcroppings of the granite cliffs on the west side. Suddenly the helicopter rose and veered right, then flew around a mountain peak.

  “Arrowhead Peak!” the pilot yelled at Sheets, pointing at the pinnacle, acting like a tour guide instead of a fucking kidnapper.

  They skirted the mountaintop and cleared the east face. Shane could see Lake Arrowhead shimmering off in the distance directly ahead. A few miles closer was a smaller body of water five or six miles west of Arrowhead, which Shane remembered was Lake Gregory.

  The helicopter streaked low, skirting the shore of Lake Gregory, until finally they were hovering over the appropriately named Valley of the Moon…no trees, no rocks, just acres of brown dirt.

  The helicopter engine picked up rpms as it hovered. Out of the window below, Shane could see a late-model Land Rover streaking along a dry riverbed, its headlight beams bouncing against the ground. The pilot pointed to the black four-wheel drive racing toward them, and Sheets nodded.

  They found a flat spot in the center of the riverbed, and the pilot lowered the chopper until it was just a few feet above the ground. The black Land Rover came to a stop a few hundred feet away. Dirt flew out in every direction, sandblasting the shiny new vehicle, pitting its ebony surface. Then the helicopter touched down its skids. The pilot didn’t kill the engine; the turbine whined and the rotor flashed overhead as Sheets and the man sitting opposite Shane opened the door.

  “Out!” Sheets commanded. Shane looked out of the helicopter at the desolate terrain, wondering if he was going to get a seat in the Land Rover or become an eternal resident of the Valley of the Moon.

  Before he could protest, he felt cold steel on the back of his head as Sheets pushed the weapon against his skull. Shane didn’t move.

  “Just gimme a reason, and I’ll put one through your wet wear.”

  “This hard-ass routine you got ain’t working, Sheets.”

  “You know who I am?”

  “Everybody in Southwest knows you. You ran the French embassy in the Coliseum parking lot.”

  “Get the fuck out,” Sheets snarled.

  “Calm down,” Shane growled, but he got out of the chopper before Sheets could sucker punch him. He ducked his head reflexively as the rotor spun safely above him and the silent man. Sheets got out last, and they pushed him toward the Land Rover. Dust was flying, getting into everybody’s eyes.

  They scrambled to the SUV, driven by a shorthaired, bullnecked man. Before they could get the Land Rover turned around, the helicopter revved its engine and lifted off, pelting them with sand and destroying what was left of the paint, starring the back window near Shane’s head with a flying rock.

  “Shit. Fucking guy…” Sheets said, glowering at the chopper as it spun around and flew away, hurrying back to Spring Street, Arnold Schwarzenegger, and the money shot.

  Shane was glad to be in the SUV, moving out of the Valley of the Moon. The fact that they were taking him anywhere gave him some hope. If he was being brought here to be disposed of, they probably would have gone ahead and chilled him in this desolate valley.

  Calvin Sheets sat next to the bullnecked driver, looking out the front window, the .38 snubby still in his right hand. The silent man from the helicopter sat in the backseat next to Shane, never taking his eyes off him.

  They raced along the creek bed in four-wheel drive, bouncing through rain ruts, and after five tire-pounding minutes, shot up onto the paved highway. The driver shifted out of four-wheel and sped past a weathered sign that identified the road as North Drive.

  Soon they came to Bay Road, which Shane knew went all the way around the perimeter of the Lake Arrowhead shoreline. He watched the shimmering lake appear and disappear, peeking out from behind buildings and trees as the Land Rover sped around the lake, finally turning onto Peninsula Road, making a left onto Long Point.

  They pulled up to a dock at a deserted camping area. Shane could see a man with his left arm in a sling s
tanding next to the same classic reproduction Chris-Craft inboard that had delivered his assailants to Ray’s dock two days before. The varnished sides glistened against soft teak decks.

  Sheets went through his rough-guy routine again, poking at Shane with the gun. “Let’s go, asshole,” he growled. Shane got out of the Land Rover and moved ahead of the ex-LAPD sergeant, toward the boat.

  Now he was struck by another gruesome possibility: maybe, instead of a dirt nap, he was about to go swimming with a forty-pound anchor. He didn’t have much time to worry about it, though, because as he stepped up to the boat, the man with his left arm in the sling stepped forward as if to help him aboard, then, unexpectedly, threw a right hook, knocking Shane back against Sheets. His vision starred; he bit his tongue; his mouth filled with blood.

  “Cut it out, Marvin,” Sheets growled. “Rich, get the lines.”

  “Motherfucker,” Marvin said, snarling at Shane, who was trying hard to clear his vision. The blow had landed high on his cheek. His eyes started watering badly. This was probably the guy who stopped his bullet and left the two pints of blood on Ray’s linoleum floor.

  “You know what they say, Marv. The kitchen is the most dangerous place in the home,” Shane said.

  “Fuck you,” Marvin growled.

  Rich untied the boat as Marvin got behind the wheel and turned the key; while the engine burbled and growled, they all took a moment and listened like teenage boys to the throaty rumble of the blown 257 flathead. Shane was pushed into the enclosed backseat of the boat, which was separated from the front by a teak deck and a second chrome windshield. He found himself wedged in tightly next to Sheets and the silent man named Rich from the helicopter.

  Marvin angrily slammed down the throttle with his good hand caught the wheel, and the boat roared away from the dock, picking up speed as they headed across the lake in the shimmering light of a three-quarter moon.

  Shane could see Arrowhead Village twinkling across the water, about half a mile to the right. Finally Marvin slowed the boat and turned the wheel. Ray’s party house and dock were ahead, about a hundred yards away. Seconds later they were slowing down, and Shane could feel the heavy inboard bumping softly against the wood dock.

  “Out,” Sheets ordered, again jamming the pistol in Shane’s ribs.

  They walked up onto the porch. The door was unlocked and they went inside.

  Coy Love was waiting in the living room. Shane had only seen his picture, and the photo didn’t begin to capture the essence of him. At least six foot six, he towered over all of them, wearing a blue windbreaker and jeans. His thin, lipless mouth, oversize head, and stringy, muscled neck dominated an overpowering physical presence. He stood Lurch-like and speechless until they all got inside and closed the door. “This doesn’t have to end badly,” he said. His voice was rough—hard and dusty, like boots marching through gravel.

  “That’s good news,” Shane replied.

  “I want to show you something,” Love said. “Follow me.” He turned abruptly and led them through the hall into the master suite.

  The lights were all on in the room. Shane tried not to look at the mirror, which, he knew from before, fronted the hidden room with its glory hole. A small suitcase was open on the bed, and it was full of cash. The used bills were stacked and banded. As soon as he saw the money, Shane was sure that he was being videotaped.

  It seemed that Coy Love was in charge, which momentarily surprised him, because Love had been only a rookie patrolman when he’d been terminated. Sheets had been a sergeant, a watch commander. Yet Sheets seemed content to stand in the background and do his funky gun-poking routine while Love ran the show. Shane figured the shift in roles was primal—the law of the jungle. Love was more dangerous and brutal and, therefore, the alpha male. “Don’t fuck with Love” the message machine had said. Love was the hammer.

  “We need to come to terms,” Coy Love said, his bloodless lips stretched tight across tombstone-shaped teeth.

  “Good,” Shane said. A one-word answer—keep it thin; don’t volunteer anything.

  “That’s yours,” Love said, indicating the cash in the suitcase on the bed. “A hundred grand in tens and twenties.”

  “Lucky me. Did I win the lottery?” Shane asked.

  “Yeah, you were down to your last ticket, and then you got lucky, hit the number. If you start acting smart now instead of just running around like a hard-on with dirt for brains, then maybe there’s another suitcase like that one in your future.”

  “I like this so far.”

  “We got some rules that go with giving you this hat.” Police terminology for a bribe.

  “Rules? Okay.”

  “One. You go home, you sit in your house, and you stay there.”

  “Trouble with my house is, it’s full of nine-millimeter federals. The Major Crimes dicks have been digging them out of the walls like fruit seeds.”

  “That was a mistake. We apologize.”

  “I accept.” Shane was beginning to think that maybe he might actually get out of there alive.

  “Two. You stop messing around in Long Beach. Stop going to the naval yard.”

  “No problem there. I didn’t like it much anyway.”

  “Three. Whatever you think you’ve figured out about Mayor Crispin or the top floor of the Glass House—forget it.”

  “Okay…it’s forgotten.”

  “Let me explain to you why you are being offered this hat instead of a plot at Forest Lawn.”

  “Okay.”

  “Since you shot Ray, you have been in the press a lot. We’re trying to keep a low profile. You get to live as long as you play ball.” Love moved around Shane, forcing him to turn sideways to the mirror while keeping his own back to it. This was definitely being videotaped. Shots of Shane Scully taking a suitcase full of cash. Damning evidence if he ever changed his mind. On the plus side, it also probably meant the murder one charge wasn’t coming. If the DA had what he needed, these guys wouldn’t be doing this.

  “Okay, since we’re playing ball, I assume I’m the catcher,” Shane said.

  “That’s what you are. You just caught a break. If you’re smart, you won’t catch a bullet.”

  “I’m gonna be smart. I’m gonna just take my suitcase of untraceable cash and go home and sit in my bullet-riddled living room until you tell me it’s okay to come out.”

  Love closed the suitcase, snapped the clasps, and handed it to Shane, spinning him slightly so that he was looking more toward the glory hole. Love kept his back to the bedroom mirror the whole time.

  “Is that it?” Shane asked. “Is our business concluded?”

  “Not quite yet. Come in here.” Love moved out of the bedroom and back into the living room. Shane followed him, carrying the suitcase, thinking the hundred thousand in small bills was surprisingly light. Sheets, Marvin, and Rich stayed behind him.

  In the living room Coy took a videotape box off the TV, opened it, slid the tape into the VCR, then turned his frightening, bloodless smile on Shane.

  “I think it’s important that you do not mistake kindness for weakness,” Love said as he grabbed the remote off the TV and turned the set on. He punched PLAY.

  Suddenly Shane was looking at Chooch and Longboard Kelly on the videotape. They were tied to wooden chairs in Shane’s rented apartment on Third Street. He recognized the faded wallpaper and frayed blue drapes. Both Brian and Chooch had silver duct tape across their mouths. A man was offscreen holding a shotgun, the barrel of the weapon sticking about an inch into the frame.

  Shane felt his guts tighten into a knot. Bile instantly flooded the back of his throat. “He’s a fifteen-year-old kid,” he protested weakly. “Brian Kelly is just a surfboard shaper. He doesn’t know shit.”

  “You go home and stay quiet for two or three days. Then, if everything goes right, you get them both back. Otherwise, I’m gonna put these cowboys on the ark,” Love said.

  On the tape Chooch was struggling against his ropes. Longboard l
ooked dazed and had blood on the side of his head.

  “Seen enough?” Coy said, and when Shane nodded, he turned off the TV and handed Shane a set of car keys. “There’s a department car parked in the driveway. Take it back and leave it in the motor pool at the Glass House. Then take a cab home and pull the grass up over your head.”

  Shane took the keys and the suitcase and walked on wooden legs out of the house. They all followed. There was a gray Crown Victoria with blackwalls in the drive. He got behind the wheel, started the car, and pulled out of the driveway. The headlights swept across the four ex-cops as he backed into the street, turning right. He was operating on autopilot…his mind on the sickening video images of Chooch and Brian tied to the chairs.

  He drove down Lake View Drive, the black suitcase full of cash jiggling on the seat beside him. He took the correct turns from memory and found himself back on I-7, heading out of Arrowhead toward L.A.

  As he drove, he could picture Chooch’s black Hispanic eyes staring out at him from the recesses of his memory. He remembered the boy’s swarthy, handsome features as he sat in the Little Bruin deli in Westwood, looking out at the traffic, his gaze averted so Shane wouldn’t see his pain.

  “Do you know who my father is?” the boy had asked. “Did Sandy ever tell you?” Hurt and longing in the question.

  Shane had wanted to fill the void in Chooch’s life, just as he had wanted to fill it in his own. But he had been slow out of the blocks and running two steps behind, a clown in swim fins, flapping along, heels down while the rest of the field breezed past him.

  Almost without thinking, he picked up his phone and for the second time in twenty-four hours asked Alexa for help.

  By the time he got to the San Bernardino Freeway, he had explained to her in detail what had happened and what was on the videotape. “I’ll meet you at the Spring Summer Apartments,” she said. “Maybe we can pick up something there.”

  An hour later he was back in downtown L.A. He found a spot at the curb on Third Street, across from his rented room. He could see Alexa’s gray Crown Vic at the curb across the street. He quickly got out of his borrowed car and hurried into the building, afraid of what he might find in the cramped rented single on the third floor of the dingy rooming house.