“He grabbed me by the shirt and slammed me into the wall. I tried to fight him, Hammer. Smacked him good a couple of times. But it was like my fists went right through him. And you know how hard I can hit!”
There was laughter and a few profane observations.
“Shut up! So what happened after you hit the gringo, Caña?”
“He just sorta laughed at me. Like he knew I couldn’t hurt him. Then he pulls out this big silver pistol—like no gun I’ve ever seen. I mean, it was like it was on fire! Put it to my head, and it was hot, man. Real hot.”
“What did he say, Caña? And you best tell us the truth—”
“I ain’t lying to you, Hammer! I wouldn’t lie to a cuz.”
“Then you better not. What happened next?”
Caña hesitated, formulating his lie. “He … he gave me a message to give to you, Hammer. Called you by name! He knows all about us, Hammer—everything, man. Mentioned Jesús and Matador and Lobo, too! Like magic—”
“What was the message, Caña?”
“He said: ‘Tell Hammer and the rest that I’m going to destroy them. Tell them I’m going to take them back to hell.’” There was the sound of a scuffle, and Julio began to cry again. “Don’t be hittin’ me no more, Hammer! I’m tellin’ the truth, damn it. Don’t be blaming me for what the Hawk did. He’s wicked, man. I tried to fight him, Hammer, but he’s too wicked, man. He told me himself—he’s the devil!”
Hawker switched off the set and finished his tea. He carried the Eavesdrop unit back into the cottage. He set the recorder and armed the receiver.
It was ready to record conversations in both street-gang headquarters.
Suddenly Hawker felt very tired. It was just after one A.M. He considered finishing his work in the morning, but he decided there wasn’t time. He would have to work far into the night because there were too many unknowns. Too many factors he had yet to uncover.
Of one thing he was sure: There was more to these two street gangs than just violence-hungry kids.
Their operations were too well-organized. Their scores too big. It takes money to buy five bags of heroin. Big, big money—and complicated connections, as well.
The Satanás were into more than just street crime. Maybe the Panthers, too.
Hawker switched on the fluorescent light over his desk. He took out a pen and a blank notebook. As he read through the files he had stolen from the Panthers and the Satanás, he began to make notes. Occasionally he gave a light whistle of surprise.
When he was done with the files, he booted his computer and dialed the State Crime Information Center in L.A. He requested information on a list of ten names.
After a few seconds of scanning, the SCIC banks marched data in lime-green letters across Hawker’s computer screen.
Only one name surprised him.
When he was done, Hawker switched off his computer and turned again to his notebook. He wanted the hierarchy of the street gangs clear in his own mind.
Using only their nicknames, Hawker made a list:
PANTHERS
Razor: Chieftain. Twenty-seven. Arrests numerous. Suspect in three murders. One conviction: rape. Three months served in a detention center. Takes nickname from favorite weapon: straight razor. Known drug user.
Amin: Lieutenant. Twenty-four. Arrests numerous. Considers himself a political revolutionary. At age twelve turned over to authorities for torturing schoolmate. Released after therapy. Convicted of armed robbery and assault, 1981. Paroled. Known drug addict.
Blade: Lieutenant. Twenty-two. Arrests numerous. Suspect in one murder, three rapes. No convictions. As nickname suggests, uses a knife. Considered extremely dangerous by Los Angeles police. Known drug user.
SATANÁS
Hammer: Chieftain. Age unknown. Puerto Rican mother, anglo father. Arrests numerous. Suspect in the sledgehammer murder of L.A. businessman. Case dismissed. No convictions.
Matador: Lieutenant. Twenty-six. Known for flashy dress and good looks. Considers himself an actor. Arrests numerous. Identified by eyewitness as suspect in a 1981 rape/murder case. Case dismissed due to prosecutor’s error. No convictions. Known drug user.
Jesus: Lieutenant. Twenty-four. One arrest, Considers himself a political activist and a racial/religious prophet. Suspect in the double mutilation murder of two L.A. prostitutes. Released after questioning.
Lobo: Lieutenant. Nineteen. Three arrests. Arm withered by polio as child. Known sexual deviant. Convicted of sodomy and child molesting at age fifteen. Six months in detention center; twelve months of therapy. Released. Considered extremely dangerous by Los Angeles police.
Hawker finished the list, then tossed the pen down, disgusted. Somewhere he had read that nations live under the governments they deserve. Hawker wondered how voters and politicians could have allowed the courts to degenerate to the point where such animals were allowed to freely roam the streets.
It was not a new topic of thought. He had been shocked and disgusted by the leniency of the liberal justice system during his years as a Chicago cop. It was a primary reason why he’d resigned.
Once again he wondered if it was because the judges and politicians were naive—or if it was because they really believed the rights of the criminal are more important than the rights of potential victims.
Whatever the reason it sickened Hawker. And he couldn’t help believing that a large percentage of Americans felt exactly as he did.
His only comfort was in knowing that the animals listed in his notebook would not go free.
For once they would be made to suffer for the suffering they had caused.
For once they would be given swift and just punishment.
Though they didn’t know it, they had already been sentenced to death.…
eleven
She came to him in the night, smelling of body powder and shampoo.
Hawker heard the screen door swing shut as he lay in his bed. He padded naked to the living room. Melanie St. John stood in the darkness. Her breasts were erect mounds beneath the filmy material of her nightgown.
“I missed you,” she whispered. “I’m sorry … if I woke you.”
She slipped comfortably into Hawker’s arms, warm against his skin.
“I tried to call you. You were out.”
“I had a busy night,” said Hawker, yawning.
“Out looking for work, right?”
“Right.”
She tangled his hair in her right hand and pulled his lips hard against hers. Her tongue was hot and alive against his. Her soft fingers traced the geometric chunks of muscle on Hawker’s stomach, then slid downward, finding Hawker with her small hand.
“My, you are aggressive tonight, woman.”
She smiled vampishly. “You don’t seem like the kind of man who’s intimidated by aggressive women.”
“What do you think?”
She squeezed him. “Umm … you don’t feel intimidated.” She kissed him again, harder, then whispered in his ear. “I’m tired of being treated like something special, Hawk. That’s why I like you. To you I’m just another woman.”
“Maybe you are something special, Melanie.”
“Not tonight, I’m not. Tonight I’m … feeling wicked.”
“Is that what they call that thing you’re feeling?”
She trembled as she laughed. “I’m sick of being treated like a great lady, Hawk.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I want you … I want you to fuck me … fuck me any way you want; make it as rough as you want. Treat me like the lowest whore in creation, because I feel like a whore tonight. I want you to fuck me tonight, Hawk … please, now … and hard … if you’re man enough.”
Trying not to look as amused as he felt, Hawker lifted her into his arms. She had demanded he play a role. An interesting role—but a theatrical part nonetheless. It was sexual playtime, and Hawker had been given the caveman costume.
Deciding it was better than a bit part on CHiPs, Hawker carried her to t
he bedroom and threw her roughly on the bed.
Hawker loomed over her for a moment, muscles glistening. Her back arched, and her soft mound of pubic hair lifted as he ripped her gown away and shot it against the wall.
Throwing things was part of the role.
“Yes,” she whispered. “That’s what I want. Take me, Hawk, fuck me. Use me any way you want.”
As Hawker shoved her over onto her stomach and slapped her thighs wide, her buttocks lifted, moist and open.
“Oh, yes,” she moaned. “From behind … yes … deep inside me, Hawk …”
Hawker climbed onto the bed, kneeling behind her. He glanced idly at his watch.
It was three fifteen.
Hawker wondered if people in California ever took time to sleep.…
Only half-awake, Hawker felt the woman kiss him gently on the cheek and get out of bed.
“That was wonderful, darling,” she whispered. “I’m going to get a glass of water. Want some?”
“Yeah,” grumbled Hawker. “In the morning. With my breakfast.”
She laughed and patted him. Hawker heard her walk cautiously across the room, then fumble for the light switch.
The glare of light and the scream were simultaneous. Hawker jolted upright. It took him a long minisecond to focus, and then understand what he saw.
A man stood in the bedroom doorway. He had a greasy red beard and long, peroxide-bleached hair.
Melanie had crumpled back against the wall, her hands at her mouth, terrified.
The man had something in his hand. It was a gun. Slowly, almost as if he were enjoying it, he leveled the revolver at Hawker.
There was a tight smile on his lips.
“Present from a friend,” said the man with the red beard.
Hawker’s hand swept under the pillow. Shots thudded into the bed behind him as he rolled onto the floor.
Hawker hugged the floor, waiting—the little Walther automatic cold in his hand.
As the man came around the bed, Hawker took the first target presented. He squeezed the trigger twice, and the man’s kneecap exploded.
The man collapsed backward. His scream was more like a hiss.
Hawker stood, the Walther fused between his two big hands. Red Beard had one hand wrapped around his knee in agony.
In the other hand he still held the revolver. His eyes seemed to focus through the pain, and another shot smashed into the wall over Hawker’s head.
Hawker didn’t hesitate. He squeezed off one careful round. An ember-red eye suddenly appeared on Red Beard’s forehead. The eye began to spout blood. Red Beard’s hands quivered. The revolver fell heavily on the carpet.
Melanie St. John began to scream. The scream was like the wail of a siren.
Hawker went to her and shook her gently. “It’s okay,” he said calmly. “It’s over. He’s dead.”
The woman shook herself, breathing heavily. “You … you killed him.”
“It seemed like the thing to do.”
“He’s dead.”
“Unless he’s a hell of an actor, yes.”
Hawker helped the woman to her feet. He went to the kitchen, flipping on lights as he went. He brought her the water she had wanted, then sat her down on the bed beside the phone.
“Can you talk? Coherently, I mean.”
She couldn’t take her eyes off the corpse. Hawker shook her again, “Hey, listen to me. I want you to call the police. Have the operator connect you.”
She buried her face in her hands and began to weep softly. Hawker stroked her hair. “Never mind,” he said. “I’ll do it myself. But first I want to go out and have a look around. Our friend might have a partner.”
Hawker pulled on his running shorts and a pair of leather sandals. Carrying the Walther, he made two slow trips around the cottage.
The dark, indifferent sea still roared over the reef. A dog barked in the distance, and there was the sound of faraway traffic. Hawker found nothing.
He went back inside. Melanie sat on the porch. She had found Hawker’s robe, and she held the collar tight around her neck. A bottle of Scotch sat on the table beside her. The tumbler she held was half full.
“No one out there. He was alone, I guess.”
“My God, it’s like a bad dream.” She gave him a pathetic look of helplessness. “It’s not a dream, is it, James?”
“No. I wish it were. But it’s not. Did you know the guy?”
“No. I didn’t know him.”
There was a moment’s hesitation before she answered. Hawker didn’t press it. He went into the kitchen, opened a bottle of beer, then picked up the phone.
The information operator offered him the LAPD emergency number. Hawker asked for the dispatch desk instead.
A man answered. Hawker asked to be connected with homicide. As the phone rang, Hawker heard the electronic beep which informed him the conversation was being recorded.
“Homicide. Lieutenant Detective Flaherty.”
“My name is Hawker, Lieutenant. A man broke into my rental cottage fifteen minutes ago. He shot at me, and I returned fire. He’s dead.”
Hawker gave his telephone number and his address. He hung up and went out to the porch.
Melanie studied him for a moment. She held up the tumbler. It was almost empty. “My first drink in almost two months.”
“Tonight I think you can consider it medicine. A sedative. Maybe you ought to have another.”
She shook her head and turned the tumbler upside down on the table. “Not now. Not tomorrow. Not ever.”
“You have a will of iron, woman.”
She gave a derisive chuckle. “I acted like your typical hysterical twelve-year-old in there, James. You know it. I know it. And I’m ashamed. If it had been a movie, I’d have been in complete control. You would have turned to me, whimpering for support. After all the times I’ve played that role, I’d actually sort of come to believe it.” The bitter laugh slipped from her lips again. “Now I know just what a silly fool I am.”
“So you’re human. Wait here while I call the National Enquirer. The world will be shocked and disappointed. For Christ’s sake, Melanie, give yourself a break. Thankfully, very few people ever see another human being die violently. When it happens, most well-adjusted people go right into shock. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
Her eyes locked onto Hawker’s. “You didn’t. You didn’t go into shock.” When he didn’t react to the implied question, she continued, “But, then, most people don’t keep guns under their pillows, either. You do, though. And you know how to use it, too. I watched you, James. I saw everything like it was in horrible slow motion. You knew exactly what you were doing when you shot him. Your eyes didn’t even blink.” She stood and touched his face, looking deep into him. “Why won’t you trust me, James? Are you still a cop? Hell, I don’t care if you’re a cop. I love you anyway. Are you in trouble? Maybe I can help.”
Hawker took her arms and swung her gently back into the chair. “I’m neither, Melanie. It’s a long story, and maybe I’ll tell you about it when we’re both bored and have nothing else to do. But right now, from the sound of those sirens, I’d say the cops are about four blocks away. I want you to go home. Now. If you stay, they’re going to ask you a lot of embarrassing questions, and the press is going to get wind of it, and you’ll be in for a hell of a lot of bad publicity.”
“No,” she said firmly. “I’m staying.”
“Damn it, Melanie, I know about this stuff.”
“Damn it yourself, Hawk! I know a little bit about how things work myself. I’m no empty-headed blonde. I was an eyewitness, and having an eyewitness is going to save you a lot of time and trouble.”
Hawker smiled. “You’re sure?”
Her voice was right out of a 1940s detective movie. “Just sit down and shut up, ya big lug. Leave everything to me. I’ll twist those screws around my little finger.”
twelve
Lieutenant Detective Walter Flaherty, as Hawker soon learne
d, wasn’t the kind of man easily twisted around anyone’s finger.
He pulled up in an unmarked Ford behind the two squad cars, all three skidding to a halt on the sandy side street.
Flaherty was the last to get out. He wore a summer-weight tweed jacket and wrinkled slacks. He had the plain, benign face of a country priest. Thin brown, curly hair was visible beneath the woven Sussex hat that was pulled low—as if he expected rain. Flaherty had the overall appearance of a peaceful man on a European fishing vacation. He looked like a dull little clerk who wanted nothing more than to sit in some anonymous house and watch his children grow.
Except for his eyes. Hawker took one look at the man’s eyes and knew he would have to tread carefully. They were gray-green prisms that reflected shrewdness and wit and bulldog tenacity. Hawker felt the eyes survey him as the uniformed cops brushed by them to check the corpse. Flaherty nodded, studied Melanie St. John until he seemed satisfied that he recognized her, then followed the cops into the bedroom.
Hawker stayed on the porch with the woman. She seemed nervous. Hawker caught her eye. “Just tell the truth,” he said.
“And what else would I tell them?”
“I have a feeling you’ve seen the guy who broke in here before, Melanie. No, don’t argue, now. If I’m wrong, I’m wrong. But if you did lie to me—for whatever reason—don’t lie to Flaherty. I’ve seen his kind before. He’ll give you all kinds of rope—then come back a few days later and use it to choke you. Think about it.”
Flaherty had returned to the porch so quietly that he surprised even Hawker. He had both hands stuffed into his pants pockets, and he rocked calmly back and forth on the balls of his feet as he talked.
“Yes, the man is indeed quite dead. Nasty case of bullet in the head,” he said. “You’re James Hawker? The gentleman who called?”
“That’s right.”
“This is your house?”
“I’m leasing it.”
“Have you been here long?”
“Less than a week. I’m from Chicago. I’m thinking of moving to California.”
“The man broke in and you shot him?”
“I did. He opened fire on me first. I was very lucky. I still can’t quite believe it really happened.”
L.A. Wars Page 8