L.A. Wars

by Randy Wayne White

In a city festering with crime Julie Kahl hadn’t been given much space. It was at the bottom of the local section—two paragraphs on the front, and then the story jumped to an inside page.

  Considering Julie’s death the reporter hammered at the gory details—multiple rape, mutilation with a knife, the naked corpse, et cetera.

  Hawker hoped like hell Virgil Kahl or his wife didn’t read the story.

  Only two paragraphs interested Hawker:

  Arrested at the scene was Martin “Cat Man” Washington. Washington was charged with rape, one count of first-degree murder, and three counts of second-degree murder, as well as possession of an illegal automatic weapon.

  Police speculate that the four members of the notorious “Panthers” street gang began to fight among themselves after the rape-murder of Ms. Kahl. Washington, with seventeen prior arrests on his record, was also seriously wounded. He is listed in critical but stable condition at Dominguez Hills Hospital.

  John Cranshaw’s home was two blocks from the Kahl residence, and twice as large.

  A stucco wall screened it from the street. Hawker noted the bottle shards cemented into the top of the wall to keep out burglars—an old and unfriendly Mexican custom.

  There were so many cars parked along the curb, it looked as though the Cranshaws were having a party.

  Instead it was more like a wake. Or a funeral.

  About twenty men sat on folding chairs outside. Two thick almond trees sheltered them from the gathering dusk of the summer night.

  There was no laughter, no loud and friendly conversation.

  The men sat with their hands folded, heads slightly bent as if expecting a blow. They spoke in low voices, as if in a church.

  A squat, heavyset man with a white beard approached Hawker. “James Hawker? Good, we’ve been expecting you. I’m John Cranshaw. Come sit beside me at the front of the group. I’ll introduce you.”

  Cranshaw had a pallid complexion but a good handshake. His mustache and his fingers were stained yellow with nicotine. Even as he introduced himself to Hawker, he mechanically lit another cigarette, hacking as he inhaled.

  As Cranshaw opened the meeting, Hawker took a careful visual survey of the men before him.

  Most of them were between thirty and fifty years old. The majority of them were white, with a few blacks and Latins sprinkled among them.

  Physically they were not an intimidating bunch.

  But they didn’t have to be. Hawker had learned early during his career as a cop that physical speed and strength don’t count for much on the street. Not when compared to the efficiency of a well-organized group, a group led by a man—or men—who refused to back down.

  A team with courage and leadership would win every single time.

  Now all he had to do was convince this group.

  One man in the group caught his attention. He was a huge, red-faced man with jet-black hair combed straight back. He had to weigh close to three hundred pounds. His metal chair bowed beneath him as if it were made of rubber.

  But what particularly set him apart was the furious scowl on his face, and the way he kept slapping his fist into his palm. Hawker wondered if he might be the man Virgil Kahl had warned him about—Scully McGraw. Even if he wasn’t, Hawker decided, he’d bear watching.

  Cranshaw went over what the watch members could do for the Kahls, and the date of Julie Kahl’s funeral. Wisely, he pointed out that people from their ranks had been murdered before—and that it might happen again.

  When it was Hawker’s turn to speak, he told them of the success of other such groups. He outlined how he could help them improve their own methods—as long as they were willing to train. He spoke slowly and carefully, taking care not to insult them by mentioning their past failures. He finished by saying they should talk privately among themselves. If they wanted his help, it was available.

  He was about to sit down when the huge man with the black hair stood.

  “I want to ask you something, Hawker,” he snapped. “Just who in the fuck do you think you are coming in here from God-knows-where, telling us how to run our program? The daughter of one of our members was raped last night by a bunch of niggers, and you come here telling us we should fall in line like Boy Scouts.”

  Hawker noticed the black men in the group flinch and tighten as the man spoke.

  A couple of other men yelled, “Sit down, Scully. The guy’s just trying to help.”

  “What about it, Hawker?” Scully demanded. “Personally, I think you’re just a little pile of shit who likes to act important. Now, if any man in here has the balls to join me, I’ll take him with me into the streets to crack a head or two.”

  Scully had been gradually moving closer and closer to Hawker, heading for the gate out. As he brushed near, Hawker held out his arm, stopping him. He could feel the eyes of every man in the place on him.

  “You know something?” Hawker asked easily.

  “No. So, tell me, asshole.” Scully had whirled to face him.

  “I’m having a hard time deciding whether you’re obnoxious or just plain hungry,” Hawker went on. “I know how mean fat people can get when they’re hungry.”

  Scully’s slab of face turned red as the other men laughed.

  He made a bellowing sound and swung a bearlike right fist at Hawker. Hawker saw it coming and ducked under it. Turning sideways, he slammed his elbow into Scully’s soft solar plexus. The air whooshed out of the fat man, bending him over.

  Hawker cocked his hips and jolted Scully’s head back with a right uppercut that crossed the man’s eyes and sent him teetering mountainously. The other men seemed to tense themselves for the resulting crash.

  It never came. Hawker caught the man by the collar and lowered him gently to the ground.

  He looked at the others and shrugged. “I’m sorry, fellows. I had no choice.”

  He loosened Scully McGraw’s collar and checked his pulse. The heart was pounding away like a hammer in the huge chest.

  Hawker stood and nodded to them. “Think my offer over, gentlemen. Remember, there’s no reason in the world why anyone in this country should have to live in fear. Together, we can put a stop to it.”

  Hawker thanked John Cranshaw, then walked outside alone.

  six

  Hawker considered making another assault on the street gangs but decided against it for two reasons.

  There would be a lot of police activity after Julie Kahl’s murder, and Hawker had no desire to end up running from the local cops.

  The second reason was that he felt he deserved a break. Melanie St. John’s party was a little too tempting to pass up.

  Hawker wasn’t wild about parties. And he didn’t relish the idea of listening to a bunch of actors he had never met rattle on about their work.

  But he did like the idea of seeing the stunning Melanie St. John again.

  Hopefully it would be worth an uncomfortable evening of loud music, loud talk, and manufactured smiles.

  He drove back to his beachside cottage. The sun had left a pale orange haze on the western horizon, like rust. Stars glimmered. The wind tapped at the chimes on the porch of his bungalow.

  Hawker stripped to his shorts and opened a cold beer. He put ice in a bucket and jammed his swollen right hand in. Punching people is not good for the knuckles. He sat on the porch drinking the good beer, his hand in the bucket, watching the night surf roll in.

  When he could bear the aching cold no longer, he went inside and soaped himself warm in the shower. He scrubbed his hair clean, lathered and shaved, then padded barefoot to the bedroom.

  Hawker always traveled light—one canvas carry-on that would slide under a plane seat—so he chose his clothes carefully. The clothes had to meet three requirements: they had to be comfortable; they had to be practical; and they had to be honest enough in design so that they wouldn’t make him stand out in a crowd.

  Hawker liked his anonymity. And that meant looking neither like a slob nor an Esquire fashion mannequin.<
br />
  He chose a pair of soft summer lamb’s-wool socks and then pulled himself into a pair of white military twill slacks. The pocket pleats and adjustable waistband were standard on RAF-issue pants during the war. It didn’t take him long to decide not to wear a tie, so he pulled a lime-colored cotton mesh shirt over his head before brushing his short, copper hair into place.

  After slipping into a pair of glove-soft Timberland deck shoes, he was ready. He cracked another bottle of Tuborg and headed outside.

  It was ten twenty-five.

  Melanie St. John’s “little” party consisted of about a hundred people drinking and dancing and talking—all at the same time.

  The house was huge, built high into the trees, and the circular drive was jammed with Rolls-Royces, Mercedes, and Jags. A couple of teen-age boys, working as parking valets, sat outside smoking a joint. They didn’t even look up as Hawker walked past.

  Inside, an electric band pounded out some esoteric acid-rock classic. It sounded like one long car wreck. There was a door bell, but it would have been ridiculous to use it.

  Hawker swung open the double doors and went in.

  The house was a back-to-basics marvel: huge, raw wood-beam ceiling, a stone fireplace, Navajo weaves hanging from the open balcony which spread across one whole upper side of the house.

  People danced on the balcony, near the fireplace, and directly in front of the band. They danced and shouted and mingled, shoulder to elbow.

  The place was packed with people, and all the people—so it seemed to Hawker—looked as if they came straight from a fashion magazine, or else straight from the silver screen.

  Hawker recognized a few of the faces. Major rock stars. A few major film stars, and a lot of lesser knowns.

  The women all wore dresses styled so that their breasts were on ready display with any twist or turn they made.

  The men all looked as though they either went to the same hairdresser—or were hairdressers.

  Smiling, Hawker worked his way through the crowd to the corner of the house farthest from the band. There was a table of hors d’oeuvres there, and he began to eat.

  A tawny-haired starlet in a sheer white dress stood beside him. He recognized her as the actress who played the sterotypical dizzy blonde on a current situation comedy. Supposedly, she had done for the T-shirt what Marilyn Monroe had done for the sweater.

  The white dress was transparent where her breasts strained against the sheer material.

  She looked at Hawker, then looked at him again. She snapped her fingers, saying, “Leo, right?”

  “Leo? No. My name is—”

  “Not your name, silly.” The woman giggled. She had the same high-pitched voice she used on television, and Hawker realized she probably was very much like the character she portrayed. “Leo—like the sign. Your moon sign.”

  “Oh.” Hawker couldn’t remember what sign he was. “Yeah. Leo—right. I’m a Leo.” All he could remember was that he wasn’t a Leo.

  She clasped her hands together, pleased with herself. “I just knew it. I can always tell a Leo man. People always sort of move out of the way when a Leo man walks into the room. They’re very masterful, you know.”

  “They are?”

  “You are, silly.”

  She smiled at him. “My name’s Trixie McCall.”

  “And I’m—”

  “No, no,” she insisted. “Let me guess. I guessed your sign, and I bet I can guess your name, too. I’m a moon child, and moon children have well-developed psychic powers. Even my astrologer says so.” She put her hand against her forehead, as if trying to communicate with the dead.

  Hawker waited, feeling foolish. He felt as if he were talking to a twelve-year-old who had taken an overdose of hormone pills. Across the room Melanie St. John caught his eye with a wave of her hand. She began to elbow her way toward him.

  Trixie McCall’s face brightened. “Doug! You’re name is Doug, isn’t it!”

  “Doug it is,” said Hawker agreeably.

  Trixie shook herself, delighted. She slipped her arm through his, resting the heat of her left breast on his bicep. “I get a good feeling from you, Doug.”

  “And I’m getting a nice feeling from you, too, Trixie.”

  She cuddled closer. “Don’t you think these parties are kinda silly? Out in the car I’ve got a couple of nice grams we could sniff. Then maybe we could slip into the Jacuzzi downstairs before it gets too crowded.”

  “Crowded?”

  “Oh, I don’t mind a few people watching, but I don’t want a whole audience. I’m kind of a prude that way.”

  “Why, James Hawker—as I live and breathe,” interrupted Melanie St. John, thrusting out her hand as if she were one New England farmer meeting another. She wore a slate-blue blouse of satin, and her blond hair was combed boyishly back, as if styled by the wind. She was beautiful.

  Hawker untangled himself and took Melanie’s hand, rolling his eyes.

  “His name is Doug,” Trixie McCall pouted.

  “I’m a Leo,” offered Hawker.

  “And he’s with me,” said Trixie, glaring like a cat about to fight for its prey.

  “There, there,” said Melanie, as if soothing a child. “You’ll find someone else to play with, Trixie. This man’s a doctor. He needs his rest.” Melanie slipped her arm through Hawker’s and led him away.

  “I knew you were a doctor!” Trixie McCall called after them. “I could sense it!”

  Melanie made her way through the crowd, smiling and nodding, fending off conversation. Outside they walked down the steps and across the lawn to the beach.

  The air seemed fresher after the smoke and noise of the party. The surf rolled through the darkness, crashing on the reef.

  “Hope I didn’t spoil your plans for the evening,” she chided.

  “I couldn’t tell if Trixie wanted me for dessert or the main course.”

  “She does have a healthy appetite, and strictly carnivorous.” She turned to him. “If you want to go with her, I certainly won’t—”

  “I’m funny about women,” Hawker cut in. “They have to be reasonably intelligent, or they leave me cold.”

  “My, don’t we have high standards?”

  “Reasonably intelligent means being able to spell ‘tree.’ I think Trixie would have had a tough time.”

  “So you were really about to turn down America’s hottest new sex symbol?” She gave him a look of appraisal. “Damn—I think you would have.”

  “Don’t be too impressed. The night’s young. My standards shrink in direct proportion to the amount of beer I’ve had. Even so, I began to lose interest in Trixie when she suggested we go out for a little snort of cocaine.”

  Melanie St. John was no longer smiling. “You don’t approve?”

  “No, I don’t. I don’t approve one little bit. I’m too much in awe of the human brain to think we should drug it for recreation. As far as other people go, I think anyone has the right to do to themselves what they damn well please. There are all kinds of ways to commit suicide, and it’s a free country. But when someone begins to sell, or give, or even offer their brand of suicide to someone else, that’s when it becomes a criminal act. And I think it’s wrong.”

  As he spoke, her head lowered and then she turned away from him.

  “I’m sorry if I offended you, Melanie,” he said. “It’s your house and your party, but I’ve got a bad habit of saying what I think. I’ll leave if you like.”

  “No,” she said softly. “Don’t leave. Stay.” She reached out and took his arm, and they began to walk back toward the house. They walked for a time in silence. She said, finally, “Drugs are a way of life out here, Hawk. And if you spend any time in L.A., you’ll learn it’s true. God knows, I did. I got my first film part seven years ago. I was twenty-three and a little naive. People offered me drugs, so I took them. Everybody was doing it. I thought it was a requirement for stardom, or some damn silly thing like that. I got more and more involved. I made a ba
d marriage. I’d like to blame it all on drugs, but I can’t. I was a bitch of a wife, and my husband was the star of a smash TV series who spent more time looking in the mirror than I did.”

  Hawker stopped walking. “There’s no need for you to tell me this, Melanie.”

  “I want to,” she said. “You’re a stranger, and somehow it’s easier to talk to a stranger. The right stranger, anyway.” She squeezed his arm briefly. “Why is it I feel like I can trust you, Hawk?”

  “It’s called ‘transference.’ A doctor-patient phenomenon. It happens every time I fix someone’s foot.”

  She chuckled softly. “Anyway, the marriage broke up. And I started using drugs more and more heavily. Last year I got involved with”—she hesitated—“I got involved with another actor. He lived for drugs. I think it’s a business with him.

  “Anyway, I moved in with this guy. He has a place at Malibu. From what I remember, every day was a party. He has a lot of friends who aren’t in the business. Rough-looking guys. They loved it. They feast on starlets. People on the outside don’t realize it, Hawk, but Hollywood—meaning the film world—is a nasty, nasty place. There are a lot of sickos around. Fanatics. They hang around the outskirts of the business like sharks. Charles Manson types. You never know when these freaks are going to bust into your place and start shooting people, or cutting people. They take strange drugs, and they join even stranger cults. For some weird reason this guy I was living with courted these types. He said they were ‘interesting studies.’ You know, that ‘actors are really artists who must study’ bullshit.”

  “So what happened?”

  She stopped in the darkness of the driveway. From the house came the sound of wild laughter and the driving electric rhythm of the band. She shrugged. “One night we had a party at his place. A friend of mine, an actress who was into drugs not even as heavily as I was, came. I found her the next morning. She was outside, stark naked. Three or four of my boyfriend’s sicko friends were taking turns on her. She was drugged out. Didn’t even know what was happening. My boyfriend kept a gun, and I ran the sickos off. My girl friend didn’t wake up for another hour. And you know what the first thing she said was? She said, ‘Hey, great party, Melanie.’ The poor thing didn’t even know what had happened to her.