L.A. Wars

by Randy Wayne White

  “That was eight weeks ago, Hawk. That’s when it finally dawned on me; that’s when I realized what I had become. I moved back into my place that day. Didn’t even tell my boyfriend I was going. All that night I stayed up ranting and raving like a madwoman. The next night was tough, too—but not as tough. I told myself I’d stay clean or die. And I stayed clean, because I knew it was true. I would have died, sooner or later.

  “I gave it all up: drugs, alcohol, even cigarettes. And you know what? For the first time in many, many years I feel good. I really like myself. I get up at dawn and go for my run. I work hard all day, and then I come home and run again. I think the poison is finally gone from my system, but it took a hell of a lot of sweating to do it.” She chuckled and motioned toward the house. “This party is like an official release from my own private clinic.”

  “A celebration?”

  “No. I think I had to prove to myself that I could suffer through a party without taking a drink or sniffing some coke. So I decided to throw a test party—and invite the wildest partygoers I knew.”

  “You’re not even tempted a little bit?”

  “That’s the weird thing—I expected to be, but I’m not. Those people in there used to be my world. Now they’re like strangers. Just silly, spoiled kids who can’t grow up; adult kids who have to play their game of ‘the tortured artist’ or ‘life in the fast lane’ because they think that is what’s expected. The games used to be important to me. Now they just seem tragic.”

  Her arms were folded across her chest, and she was looking out toward the Pacific. Her eyes glistened. Hawker put his hand on her shoulder, and she leaned against him, her head on his chest. “Thank you,” he said gently. “I don’t know why you told me, but I’m glad you did.”

  She sniffed and wiped her nose comically. “Maybe it’s because you’re the only one square enough around here to appreciate it.”

  “Hah! Square, am I?”

  She stood on her tiptoes, kissed him quickly on the mouth, and took his hand. “Anyone not in the movie business is square, buster.” She pulled at him, grinning. “Help make a tour of my health spa, and I’ll prove it to you.”

  “You have a health spa?”

  “Hell, yes. My manager says I’m rich, so why not? Come on.”

  Hawker followed her around the house and through a tall redwood gate. There was a tennis court, lighted. The light spilled over into the lime-green swimming pool. About a dozen men and women swam naked. They shouted and laughed, treading water to keep their drinks safe. Someone switched the underwater lights on, and they laughed louder.

  Another group of people hunched intently over a table. Four neat lines of white powder had been separated on the glass top. Trixie McCall sat at the table. She had stripped off her dress and now wore only sheer bikini panties. Her hair was wet, and water glistened on the famous breasts.

  Concentrating mightily, she rolled a bill into a tight tube. Hawker noted that it was a twenty-dollar bill. He turned away before she used the bill to pipe the cocaine up her nose.

  Beyond the pool was a full bar. Beside the bar was a massive Jacuzzi whirlpool bath.

  The lights were on in the Jacuzzi, and Hawker watched a muscular blond-haired man and a black woman, both aroused and glassy-eyed, locked in pounding intercourse.

  The man seemed to take strange pleasure in stopping just as the woman was at her climactic peak. He made a show of stopping to reposition her, plainly enjoying the chance to exhibit his freakish size.

  Other men and women, chest-deep in water beside them, watched idly.

  Melanie wrapped her arm around Hawker’s waist. Her voice seemed small and far away. “How about it, James? Are you square or not?”

  Hawker made a confused motion with his arms. “Where’s the weird stuff you wanted to show me? This is just a typical Saturday night back in Illinois.”

  She laughed, relieved. “Thanks for not being shocked. Anyway, this is the last big party I’ll ever have. And I’m already anxious for them to leave. So how about doing a lady a favor. How about sitting with me out on the beach until a reasonable time rolls around and I can tell them all to get the hell out.” She grinned at him, her blue eyes crisp and clear. “You can tell me your life story, okay?”

  Hawker didn’t get a chance to answer.

  As he was about to speak, a hand grabbed his shoulder and turned him roughly away. Hawker had no trouble recognizing the man who stood before him.

  It was Johnny Barberino. Hawker had never seen any of his movies, but he had seen the advertisements. Barberino had started out as a teen-ager in television dramas and then gone on to become America’s heartthrob by doing a series of discotheque rock operas. His screen image consisted of dancing, loving, and fighting.

  Hawker had the uncomfortable realization that this was Melanie St. John’s unnamed boyfriend.

  “I want to talk to you, Melanie,” he commanded. He gave Hawker a brief, burning look, then ignored him. “I want to talk to you now. Alone.”

  Hawker felt the woman draw near him, holding his arm. “No, Johnny. I told you I wasn’t going to talk anymore, and I told you to stay the hell off my property. Now go, damn it, before I call the police.”

  Hawker admired the bravery in her voice all the more because of the fear he saw in her eyes.

  The pool area was suddenly silent. People were watching and listening.

  Hawker got the impression they were hoping for another freak show.

  Behind Johnny Barberino his two rough-looking friends stood easily. They wore mild, drugged-out grins on their faces.

  “Goddamn it, Melanie, you’re going to come with me right now! Either that, or tell all of these schmucks to get the fuck out so we can—”

  “They’re not going anywhere, Johnny. You are. You’re leaving right now. I’m going to call the police.”

  She turned and stalked off toward the stairs. Hawker saw Barberino’s hand spear out to grab her, and he intercepted the actor’s hand midway. Squeezing his wrist, Hawker said easily, “Shouldn’t grab, now, should we? Why don’t you let the lady make her phone call, like a good boy.”

  “And why don’t you fuck off, asshole!” Barberino jerked his hand away. He glanced around, as if to make sure his buddies were behind him. They were.

  Hawker had no desire to get involved in a fight with a movie star—and he especially didn’t want to be around when the cops came to break it up. He held his palms out, saying, “Look, there’s no sense in fighting about this. Why don’t you and your friends just take off?”

  Barberino took it as a sign of fear. He flashed an evil grin. “Too late to try and talk your way out of it now, fucker!” He held his fists up in the stance of a fighter. It was like a pose for a movie poster. He spoke louder now, so everyone could hear how he was making the red-haired stranger back down. “You give me shit, man, and I’ll jam it right back down your throat!”

  Hawker turned to walk away. A hand grabbed him from behind and swung him around. Barberino threw a series of fast jabs at his head. He was too far away to connect. Hawker didn’t even flinch.

  “Playing badass, now, huh?” Barberino was bobbing and weaving as he talked. “Why don’t you try to turn and run away again, dumb shit?”

  “Naw,” said Hawker as his hands made slow fists. “You had your chance. I think it’s time someone kicked that famous ass of yours.”

  Barberino shot out another series of jabs—these, too close. Hawker knocked his fist away and ducked under the awkward right cross. He planted his left foot on top of the actor’s shoe, then slapped him three quick times in the face, hard.

  “Don’t you hit my face, you son of a bitch!” Barberino roared, outraged.

  He jerked his knee up, but Hawker caught most of it with his hip.

  “You have to learn not to give strangers orders, sonny,” Hawker said. He buried his left fist in the actor’s side, then put his weight behind a right that caught Barberino flush on the side of the neck. He spun around lik
e a top, bent at the hips. Hawker timed it just right. His kick caught the actor in the seat of the pants, driving him into the pool.

  “He’s got a knife, Doug! Look out!”

  Hawker was glad, for once, he had met the dizzy Trixie McCall.

  Barberino’s two friends had been patiently waiting for the actor to polish off Hawker. Now they had decided it was their job.

  They looked more like members of a motorcycle gang than actors. Hawker remembered what Melanie had said about her boyfriend’s sick friends.

  One thing was for sure. These two were playing for keeps.

  They each had knives.

  Slowly, they came at Hawker. They were stalking him, knives held low, and vectoring.

  Hawker backed away, careful not to stumble.

  They were trying to trap him against the fence.

  From the corner of his eye he noticed Johnny Barberino crawling groggily out of the pool. He also noticed a beer bottle on a stand by the pool.

  Hawker grabbed the bottle. He faked once as if to throw, then really did throw it. He had played two seasons of professional baseball in the Tigers’ organization, and he could still throw hard enough to make the ball hop between home and second. The bottle jolted the man’s head back like a .45 slug.

  He fell to the deck, face bloody, unconscious.

  The second man lunged at Hawker. The knife blade razored through Hawker’s shirt as he jumped back. Hawker caught the man’s arm in both hands and drove it down against his knee.

  The elbow joint popped like firewood.

  A thin scream escaped the man’s lips, but Hawker was no longer in a forgiving mood. He wrapped his fist in the matted black hair and clubbed the man’s face to pulp with a series of short rights.

  “Hawk! Stop! James, please stop. You’ll kill him!”

  Melanie St. John was pulling him away. Realizing she was right, Hawker shook his hand free.

  The man fell in a heap at his feet.

  The fury still cold in his gray eyes, Hawker searched the area until he saw Johnny Barberino. The actor was cowering in a corner by the dressing rooms. The right side of his neck was already purple, and swelling. His carefully combed hair hung in a wet mess over his ears. He looked at Hawker, then looked quickly away.

  Hawker pointed at him. “Get the hell out of here, you obnoxious little punk,” he whispered between clenched teeth. Barberino got to his feet, sulking. Hawker stomped his foot. “Now!”

  The actor half-walked and half-trotted toward the gate, yelling over his shoulder, “You’ll pay for this, motherfucker. You’ll be damn sorry you ever touched me!” Barberino was still yelling threats as he disappeared.

  Melanie was working on his shirt. “Christ, they tried to stab you. You’re bleeding, Hawk.”

  By the table Trixie McCall stood, looking at him with concern. Hawker winked and nodded. “Thanks for the help,” he called to her. She still wore only the bikini underwear.

  Now that she was standing, Hawker could see that her national admiration was well deserved.

  Melanie saw what he was looking at. She took him primly by the arm. “This time I’ll play doctor,” she said, leading him away. “And my first orders are: Take your eyes off little Miss Trixie’s scenic peaks.”

  She pulled herself closer to him, adding in a whisper, “You have other mountains to climb.…”

  seven

  The next night Hawker continued his assault on the street gangs. He waited until first dusk, then headed for Starnsdale’s black slums.

  He had one objective: terrorism.

  If Virgil Kahl was right, fear and violence were the only two things the Panthers would understand.

  Hawker was determined to give them plenty of both. People who are frightened lose their confidence. And they make mistakes.

  Hawker also knew that frightened people are dangerous. Damn dangerous.

  Like rats trapped in a corner, people who are scared will fight to the death.

  Even so, he had to soften up the street gangs. He had to make them vulnerable if the citizens of Hillsboro were to have a fighting chance against them.

  They needed all the help they could get.

  That afternoon Hawker had had his first training session with the Hillsboro watch group. The men in the group, it seemed, were good men. They had homes and kids and businesses.

  They had plenty to fight for. But they were not fighters.

  Not yet, anyway. They lacked training and they lacked confidence.

  One would follow the other, Hawker hoped. Because to fight effectively, he knew, men had to practice. To be successful, they had to work. And work damn hard.

  Courage was just another facet of confidence. And confidence could only be built through hard training.

  Hawker told the men this. It seemed to cheer them. Hard work was something they could understand. They had all worked hard in their lives. It made the possibility of success seem within their reach. It took that strange word fighting out of the frightening, near-mystic world of machismo.

  Hard work was something they could all understand, young and old, fat and thin.

  The enthusiasm showed on their faces.

  Only Sully McGraw was less than enthusiastic. Hawker was surprised he’d even shown up.

  Even so, the huge fat man took orders, followed instructions, and kept his mouth shut.

  In the spirit of reconciliation Hawker tried to draw him into conversation during one of their breaks. The file Jacob Hayes had given Hawker included brief biographies on many of the men in the watch group. McGraw, a widower, was the father of three adult daughters. He owned a chain of Los Angeles hock shops, and he was a member of several ultra-right-wing citizens’ organizations.

  Hawker decided business was a safe conversational topic, and he asked him about his hock shops.

  Sully favored him with a long, wilting look and walked away.

  “Real talkative guy,” Hawker said to John Cranshaw, who had witnessed the one-sided exchange.

  “McGraw can be a little strange,” Cranshaw explained. “But he’s one of the most imposing figures in the group. We need him.”

  Hawker could only agree.

  Hawker began with the basics: safe confrontation of a suspect. Proper backup positioning. Hand signals among team members. Travel overwatch.

  It was simple stuff, straight from the SWAT handbook. Hawker drilled it into the men until he was sure they had it—then he drilled it in some more.

  He told them they had one simple responsibility during their training:

  “You must learn this stuff so well,” he instructed, “that, when you’re in a tight spot, you will do everything automatically. You won’t have time to think. You won’t have time to search your memory. Your life, or the life of a team member, can depend on how automatically you react.”

  After two hours of intensive training Hawker turned the group over to Cranshaw for the closing meeting.

  He drove back to his bungalow on Manhattan Beach to shower, eat, and maybe even get a little rest before his assault on the Panthers.

  He hadn’t gotten much sleep at all the previous night. As he drove through the wild Sunday traffic, Hawker couldn’t help thinking about Melanie St. John.

  After his fight with Johnny Barberino and the two goons, she had walked him back to his cottage. With the efficiency of a trained nurse she had stripped his shirt away and studied the shallow knife scrape across his stomach.

  “What’s the prognosis, doctor?”

  “I think you’re very lucky, Hawk.”

  “You say that with authority. It’s not a line from some role you’ve played, is it? Florence Nightingale?”

  “I play the pretty rural type, with a backbone of steel, remember?”

  He touched her chin and kissed her softly. “Typecasting.”

  She returned the kiss, holding his head, her lips soft and swollen. Then she pulled away, exhaling loudly. “Hey, don’t get me started.”

  “Hard for you to stop
?”

  She eyed him shrewdly. “With you it would be. Besides, I need to get your cut taken care of, then walk back home and say good night to my guests—not to mention the police.”

  Hawker put his hands behind his head and said nothing. She scrubbed the cut clean, added disinfectant, and bandaged it.

  Noticing the scars on his left shoulder, she hesitated, then said, “It looks like you make a habit of this sort of thing.”

  “I’m accident-prone.”

  “My, we are evasive, aren’t we?” She tore off a strip of surgical tape. “I just realized that you know a good deal about me, but I don’t know a single thing about you. Maybe it’s the way you listen. You smile at the right places, and nod at the right places, and it gives people the impression you care so much, it’s like you’re really communicating without talking.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. So talk to me, Hawk. What are you doing in L.A.? What kind of work do you do? Are there a pretty little wife and kids back home? And—”

  “And where did I get the scars, right? You’re pretty nosy, woman.”

  Her voice was formal, but the words weren’t. “I like you. You’re an interesting and attractive male. I’m an unattached female—not that I’m interested in being attached—and you are completely different from the men I’ve known out here. So I want to hear about you.” She paused for a moment, then gave him a studied gaze. “For some reason I keep thinking you’re a cop.”

  “I was. In Chicago. I quit less than a year ago.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I’m looking. I saved some money. My ex-wife runs an art gallery that provides her with a penthouse apartment and a Mercedes. She’s a very nice and very smart lady who doesn’t need my support. We had no kids. I wish we had. So I’m on my own, scars and all.”

  “That’s a pretty simple story.”

  “I’m a pretty simple guy.”

  “Are you sure you’re not still a cop? Maybe one of the feds, sent out here to Tinseltown to get the real dope—excuse the pun—on us actors?”

  “Not me.”