A Good Bunch of Men
Page 33
No longer confined, he was now a contract killer, a pro. Neat and efficient.
But never had he been as bold as Whitey. He often thought of the story he had heard many times about the hit in the diner. To prove himself, someday Leonard would do something similar. He’d have to learn to shoot a gun though. How difficult could it be? He had always admired Whitey for his courage in walking up to two killers and doing them in front of an audience. That was a different kind of killing than Leonard knew, and because of it, he saw his friend Whitey as the bigger man. Maybe one day Whitey would read about him in the paper and be proud of his friend.
A woman stopped directly in front of Leonard, startling him out of his reverie. She never looked his way. In a moment, she moved on. Leonard let out a breath he had not realized he had been holding. She would have been the one, he thought, as he watched her walk away, if only he were allowed. But he would no longer choose his victims, that was part of the agreement. Although Leonard had silently questioned his concession to kill exclusively for them. Impulses might dictate otherwise.
He refocused on the target and continued to watch, hoping tonight would bring opportunity. He had been supplied with everything he needed to know, which did not include the why. That was the agreement: a name, a location, and a death warrant issued by the family. It was all he would need, and all he would receive. This one was to have no sexual component, and efforts to conceal the victim’s identity would be made. Simple enough. Killing is killing. You needn’t hear trumpets to bask in its glory.
FLOYD SAID, “LOOK it there, he’s back.”
Mongo looked up from his work.
I STEPPED THROUGH the back door into the squad room, a sea of desks beneath fluorescent lighting where men and women sat or stood or walked about in business attire. They were speaking into their cell phones or landlines or staring at computer screens or visiting with other detectives. It was a typical Wednesday morning at the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Homicide Bureau. No different from the way it had been the last time I darkened that doorway, though there were several new faces. The turnover rate rivaled that of a combat post in the middle east.
But for me, this was no ordinary Wednesday in the office. Not just another week, another bureau meeting. It was the return from a year’s absence. The return from a traumatic injury, two gunshot wounds that resulted in the loss of a kidney and a lengthy rehab. Physical and mental.
At times I had silently questioned if I were ready to return. Ready for the cheerful greetings and welcome backs and handshakes and high fives. Ready for the questions: How was I doing? How’s the wife? What’s it like being shot? Cops were direct like that, at least with one another.
How would I answer?
Great.
Wife’s gone. Strike two.
Being shot sucks.
I had concealed my concerns about coming back from those in my inner circle. Which had been reduced to my partner Floyd, my doctor, and my shrink. I assured each of them I was fit for duty.
It felt different, all of it. As if I were a stranger in this place I once called home. A place in which I’d spent much of my life over the past decade. Much more of it here, with Floyd, than at home.
Everyone seemed to look up at once from their work or conversations, some still holding phones but not speaking, maybe on hold or listening to the party on the other end. For a moment, the room stood completely silent; everything had come to a stop. It was awkward. Almost embarrassing.
My heart beat rapidly and sweat beaded under my hat. Then, suddenly, as if on cue from a director, the characters resumed their activities. They were back to speaking into phones, typing on computers, and talking to one another. The greetings began. Colleagues were welcoming me back. Some from afar, but others approached and gave me hugs or pats on the back. There were genuine smiles and friendly greetings, and I began to feel comfortable again in this place I called home.
My attention was drawn across the room and I locked eyes with those of a friend. My old partner. An ex-wife, I would often call him. Detective Matt “Pretty Boy Floyd” Tyler sat across the room, behind his desk, watching. Studying. Waiting patiently, a burgeoning grin on his face.
FLOYD’S PARTNER, MONGO, as Floyd called him, Detective Manny Diaz according to the placard on his desk, looked up over reading glasses that hung on the end of his nose. He was editing a report that Floyd told him needed to be finished by the end of the day. They had a meeting with the district attorney the next morning and it was the new guy’s job to have the case prepared for filing. Mongo had never met his partner’s former partner, though he had heard much about him. Maybe too much. Floyd never stopped talking about him, about their cases, about how well they worked together and how everything seemed balanced and cohesive. Floyd often spoke of the night that had become legendary around the bureau, a dark and rainy night in East Los Angeles that resulted in Dickie being shot. Floyd would recount the night, sometimes with a distant stare, and tell Mongo about finding his partner in a pool of blood. He told how Dickie had shot and killed the man who shot him, a convict who had murdered several prostitutes, a big case they had solved. Floyd would recount how he charged through the back door after hearing the shots, searching frantically for his partner. How he had gone bat-shit crazy and damn near killed the two assholes he encountered on the way in. One of whom was twice Mongo’s size, Floyd would say, “in both directions.”
Mongo had often felt like the new wife who couldn’t match up to the former, and he already hated the other woman. He leaned back in his chair, all two-hundred-and-fifty pounds of his five-foot-seven frame and watched as the man in the fedora walked slowly through the bureau, greeting at least every other detective along the way. He heard the various greetings, “Welcome back,” “Great to see you,” blah, blah, blah. He watched as some stood and approached him, embracing him with a hug or a handshake. Others, mostly the newer guys, sat and watched. It seemed overdone, maybe a bit of a spectacle.
Mongo had dreaded the arrival of this day.
He glanced over to see his partner, Floyd, leaned back in his chair, chewing on a pen and smiling with his hazel eyes, watching as his former partner made his way through the sea of detectives.
Mongo looked back at Detective Richard Jones and saw that through all the greetings and short conversations and distractions along his way, he continually looked in their direction. Back and forth, but regularly, as if he were homed in on Floyd. The two watched each other in the way only best friends or mortal enemies would, as if nothing around them had any significance compared to that which awaited them each.
Soon the man in the hat, Dickie Jones, stood near their desks. He was tall, probably six feet or better, and of average build for a man in his mid-forties. He had a thick mustache that was mostly gray, but hints of red were still there. The room had fallen silent as the two old partners held their gazes. Finally, Dickie smiled at his old partner. It was a closed mouth smile, or maybe it was more of a grin.
He let out a breath and looked at Mongo. “You’re in my seat.”
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Danny R. Smith
Dickie Floyd Novels
Dickie Floyd Detective Novels
A Good Bunch of Men
Door to a Dark Room
Echo Killers
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Dickie Floyd Detective Short Stories
Harder Times: A Cop Goes to Prison (Free to Newsletter Subscribers, visit dickiefloydnovels.com)
Danny R. Smith spent 21 years with the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department, the last seven as a homicide detective. He now lives in Idaho where he works as
a private investigator and consultant. He is blessed with a beautiful wife and two wonderful daughters. He is passionate about his dogs and horses whom he counts among his friends.
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Danny is the author of the Dickie Floyd Detective Novel series, and he has written articles for various trade publications. He publishes a weekly blog called The Murder Memo, which can be found at dickiefloydnovels.com.
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He is a member of the Idaho Writers Guild and the Public Safety Writers Association.