It looked like a probable meeting place.
Hawker continued on to the south edge of the park. Except for a couple of winos sleeping on street-side benches, the place was deserted.
Hawker returned to the fountain, studying the heavy oak trees that surrounded it. Over one thick limb he tossed a grappling hook, then tested it with his full weight. Carrying the bitter end of the rope, Hawker climbed high into the branches of another tree.
Hawker knew he might have to move—and move quickly.
The rope would help.
He pulled the rope tight. If they noticed it at all, it would look like a power cable.
Straddling a limb, Hawker braced his back comfortably against the tree. From the pack he took a cut-down version of the Cobra crossbow. It was made of light, alloy metal and had a heavy woven drawcord. By breaking the crossbow over his knee, he caused the self-cocking device to lock the hundred-pound pull drawcord in place.
The Cobra had a killing range of two hundred meters. The short aluminum shafts—or bolts—traveled a hundred yards a second.
Hawker inserted a three-edge kill bolt and rested the crossbow on his knee.
It was nine twenty P.M.
He waited.
The Panther chieftains arrived half an hour later. Razor came sliding through the shadows, whistling softly. His hands were in his pockets, as if he were out for an evening stroll. The earring glinted in the lobe of his ear.
He made a relaxed trip around the fountain perimeter, his quick eyes surveying the area. When he was sure it was safe, he waved his two lieutenants in.
Amin was dressed in the same clothes he’d worn when Hawker first saw him. The chain was still belted around his huge waist. His belly protruded from the open Levi’s jacket. His black boots glistened and his massive biceps flattened themselves against his sides.
Blade came next. His wild Afro haircut waved in the wind like a headdress. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth. There was a distant, dreamy look in his eyes as he mechanically opened and closed his switchblade. Hawker guessed he had recently shot up.
“They ain’t here yet,” Razor said.
Amin looked nervous. His massive, black gorilla face tracked back and forth, like a radar dish. “Don’t like it, man. Don’t like this joint operation shit.”
“We done it before. Can’t operate without the Hammer. He got the connections.”
“Yeah, but we never done it without the soldiers. What if they catch on, man? They put two and two together, and we out of business.”
“Them boys ain’t gonna put nothing together.”
“Still don’t like it, Razor. We ain’t never let the soldiers mix alone before.”
“And we never had this Hawk dude sneaking around killin’ us “before, either, Amin. Just relax, man. Relax.”
“What if Hammer set us up? What if he brought us here to hit us?’
Razor shook his head, getting weary of the conversation. “He needs us, too, man. If it’s a trap, I’ll recognize it.”
“Then what?”
“Then we kill them first. You carrying?”
Amin patted the bulge beneath his jacket. “Got a .44 Magnum. Blow their fucking Spanish asses away, they mess with Amin.”
Blade chuckled as if in approval. He said nothing. Hawker noted the bulge beneath his jacket.
They were all armed.
A few minutes later Hammer arrived. He was backed by the wolfish sexual deviant, Lobo, and Jesús, the self-styled prophet. Hawker noted that Matador, the suave drug addict, wasn’t with them. He wondered if he might be somewhere in the bushes, gun ready.
It was not a friendly group.
The animosity and distrust among the four lieutenants was like a sour odor in the air. They glared at each other, playing stare-down like kids.
Hammer ignored it. He pawed at his nose like a boxer and spat. “We got problems,” he began.
Razor stiffened. “You said it was smooth, man. You said it was all set.”
“That was last night. My connection’s upset about something. He’s going to meet us here. He wouldn’t talk on the phone. He’s late.”
Razor jammed his fists on his hips. “Don’t be fucking with us, Hammer! You pull any shit with us—”
“Calm down, damn it!” Hammer snapped. “You think I want trouble, man? All I want is a clean operation. If my connection says we got trouble, then we gotta listen. He wants to make his money, too, and he knows if he ain’t straight, then we go someplace else.”
Jesús crouched suddenly. “Someone’s coming, man!”
“It’s him,” said Hammer. “Relax.”
Razor waved Amin and Blade back into the bushes. “If this dude’s as straight as you say he is, then you won’t mind if we just sort of disappear for a minute, will you?” Razor said, testing.
“I don’t give a fuck what you do,” Hammer snapped.
The footsteps were getting closer—a big man not used to moving quietly. Twigs broke beneath him, and the breathing was heavy.
Hawker was not surprised to see who walked into the dim glow of the fountain.
The man Hammer referred to as his “connection” was huge. His face was red, visibly agitated. He wore black slacks and a straw-colored Cuban shirt. He took a cigarette and lighted it before he spoke.
Hawker noticed that the man’s hands shook slightly as he held the lighter.
It was Sully McGraw.
“I couldn’t talk on the phone,” McGraw said without preamble. “That bastard’s got a tap on. Has to.”
Hammer’s face was like rock. “You could have called from a pay phone, McGraw. You can’t tap every pay phone in Starnsdale.”
“It’s not my phone that’s tapped, dumb shit,” McGraw said, exhaling smoke. “It’s yours. How else do you figure Hawker knew about your hit tonight? Christ, he called Cranshaw—the watch group’s leader. Told him all about your plans. Told him what time, where, and how many to expect. The bastards are laying for you. They’re ready.”
“How you know that, man?” demanded Razor as his men followed him out of the bushes.
“You’re with the Panthers?”
“Yeah.”
“Then he’s probably got a tap on you, too. It’s a guy named Hawker. A red-haired guy. Says he’s an ex-cop, but I think he’s with the feds. I joined the watch group a year ago to sort of keep an eye on things. When Hawker showed up, I smelled something rotten. The fucker’s smart. Too smart. When I started reading in the paper about your people getting bumped off, it all started to make sense.”
“You think he knows about the fencing operation?” Hammer asked. “Because if he knows, we might as well pack—”
“I’m already cashed in and packed,” interrupted McGraw. “Believe me, I wouldn’t leave a chain of pawnshops and a hundred-thousand-dollar house behind if I didn’t think my ass was on the line—”
“Wait a minute,” Hammer cut in, his face grown suddenly pale. “If he knows about our plans for the hit tonight, then—”
“Then he probably knows about us meeting right now,” Razor finished, drawing a revolver from his jacket.
In a moment they all had guns out—including McGraw. Hawker drew back into the shadows of the tree as their eyes darted back and forth, searching the cover. As they looked, the seven men backed into a loose circle.
Lobo was the first to notice the rope. Hawker watched him closely. He watched the pale, wolfish eyes following the rope. As Hawker watched, he thought about Lobo’s police record. Sexual deviant. Child molester. Hawker wondered how many terrified kids had looked into those sick, sick eyes.
Lobo’s eyes peered deeply into the shadows of the tree. Hawker drew back, holding perfectly still. Lobo started suddenly, and his eyes grew wide, His gun jumped toward Hawker, and his mouth opened as if to shout out a warning.
But the words never came.
Hawker lifted the modified Cobra and squeezed the trigger.
All the other men heard was a whistle
of air and a thud. Lobo jolted to the ground, his hands scratching at his chest.
His mouth was still open as if to shout. Bloody bubbles formed on his lips. He studied the stub of plastic feathers which protruded from his chest, as if perplexed.
He died with the look of confusion frozen on his face.
“Son of a bitch!” shouted Razor as he and the others slowly realized what had happened. “Where in the fuck is he?”
“Over there!”
“Naw, it had to come from over there!”
They flattened themselves on the ground, guns firing wildly into the bushes.
“Wait a minute!” yelled McGraw. “He’s up there. In the tree!”
From his weapons cache Hawker had taken another Ingram. This one didn’t have a silencer, but it no longer mattered. He grabbed the end of the rope and swung away toward the fountain.
A salvo of lead cracked branches behind him.
With the fountain between him and the others Hawker released the rope as he crashed through a wedge of bushes. He dived for the protection of the fountain’s rock retainer and came up firing.
The chain-rattle bursts from the Ingram roared in his ears, the barrel hot in his left hand.
Hammer and Razor were standing side by side. Hawker swung the Ingram at them, as if making sweeping brushstrokes.
Hammer screamed and clawed at his throat. As Razor turned to look, his cheek exploded. The impact of slug against bone snapped Razor’s head back, breaking his neck, and he collapsed to the ground as if he had been magically deboned.
Hammer writhed on the earth beside him, bleeding from two black holes in his neck.
With the same drug-dazed expression Jesus charged Hawker, the revolver in his hand spitting fire. The slugs smacked into the water inches from Hawker’s head.
Hawker swiveled and squeezed off four shots in rapid fire. Jesús jerked backward as if absorbing a series of blows, spinning wildly. The fountain retainer caught him thigh-high, and he fell face first into the water.
The lighted spray began to glow red.
“You dead, motherfucker!”
It was Blade. Hawker hadn’t noticed Blade circling around behind him. Hawker pivoted toward the voice just as Blade leaped toward him, the switchblade making a silver are toward his face.
Hawker ducked to the side, then cracked down hard on Blade’s elbow with the metal butt of the Ingram.
Dug addict or not, Blade was quick. From his knees he grabbed the submachine gun, trying to wrestle it away. Hawker kicked him in the stomach twice, hard. When Blade released the weapon, Hawker locked his right fist on the black man’s throat. He jerked up and away with all his force.
Clutching his ruined neck, Blade rolled over and over, his feet kicking wildly, his eyes bulging.
Something hit Hawker from behind. It was like being hit by a truck. He was being driven toward the rock retainer wall of the fountain. Something hard and cold was locked around his neck. Hawker forced his fingers under it, trying to stop the crushing weight on his throat.
It was a chain.
Amin’s chain.
Amin was trying to ram him into the rock wall before finally choking him to death.
The wall rushed toward Hawker. His head roared from lack of oxygen. He punched backward, driving his elbow deep into Amin’s stomach.
Amin didn’t seem to notice.
Just as his face was about to smash into the wall, Hawker made a last-ditch effort. He dropped to one knee and thrust forward with his upper body.
The momentum carried Amin over him. The chain jerked violently away from his neck as the huge man tumbled into the knee-deep water.
Hawker threw himself onto Amin’s massive shoulders and used his elbow like an axe, to chop down hard on the back of his neck.
Amin bellowed like a wounded animal. They were both in the water now. Amin struggled to his feet and swung a giant right fist at Hawker’s head. Hawker caught most of it with his forearm, but the force of the punch still knocked him down.
Amin lunged at him, but Hawker rolled away. They both floundered to their feet, but Hawker was a step faster. He launched a sizzling left hook into the big man’s ribs, then followed with three quick rights that cracked Amin’s face open.
From somewhere a knife appeared in Amin’s hand. Hawker clubbed him once more in the face, then tripped his legs from under him. As he went down face first, Hawker locked his hands on the back of Amin’s neck, holding the grotesque face underwater.
Amin struggled savagely for half a minute, then drew still.
Hawker let the corpse drift away as he climbed wearily to his feet.
“Impressive, Hawker,” said a voice. “Damned impressive. You killed six out of seven. But six out of seven isn’t good enough in a game like this. Now you’re going to die.”
Hawker turned to see Sully McGraw standing a few feet away, his revolver beaded on Hawker’s chest.
“You make me sick, McGraw.”
The fat man allowed a thin smile to cross his lips. “Because I double-crossed my fine, upstanding neighbors? Tsk, tsk. Or because my business partners are”—his eyes surveyed the carnage meaningfully—“I should say were drug addicts and criminals? Either way it doesn’t bother me, Hawker. My neighbors in Hillsboro are fools. And these dead lunatics made me a lot of money. They stole cheap. And I sold expensive.”
“So now you’re a rich and happy man,” Hawker said with heavy sarcasm. “How long did it go on, McGraw?”
“From the moment I got smart and decided the life of the poor but honest businessman was for schmucks. Owning a pawnshop, I got plenty of hot stuff offered to me. So, about four years ago, I started going for it. Built up a nice little organization. The more money I made, the more shops I bought. Every now and then I’d stage a fake break-in just to keep the cops from getting suspicious. It was going real smooth until you showed up, Hawker.” McGraw drew back the hammer of the revolver.
Hawker’s mind raced, looking for some opening. McGraw was about ten feet away from him—too far to try to jump him. And the knee-deep water would make any running impossibly slow. Hawker kept talking, fighting for time. “And what about your drug connections, McGraw?”
He shrugged. “What this scum did with their money was no skin off my nose. If they wanted to buy and sell drugs, that was their business.”
“But you knew about their Hollywood connection?”
“Julie Kahl, you mean? She was just a dumb little mixed-up girl. Wanted to be a star, and her daddy didn’t have the pull anymore. So she tried to worm her way in with the drugs. Virgil suspected, but he never had the balls to do anything about it. But she was strictly nickel-and-dime stuff.” McGraw’s thin smile grew wicked. “America would crap its pants if Hollywood’s main drug connection was ever caught. But you’ll never have a chance to find out, Hawker, because I’m tired of talking. And I’m tired of looking at that ugly broken nose of yours.” He gripped the gun in both hands. “Have a nice trip to hell, Hawker—”
“I’d be dropping the gun, if I were you,” interrupted a voice from the shadows, “unless you’re interested in making the same journey.”
McGraw’s face went white. He hesitated as if about to drop his gun, but then he pivoted and began to fire wildly toward the trees.
A deeper ker-whack erupted twice from the bushes. Sully McGraw buckled over as the slugs slammed him backward.
McGraw gasped as he struggled to turn his revolver toward Hawker. Hawker watched with a mild and distant interest as McGraw died with his eyes open, glaring at the California night sky.
“Nice shooting,” Hawker said to the voice’s unseen owner.
“Coming from you, that’s a high compliment indeed.”
Holding a .44 automatic, Lieutenant Detective Walter Flaherty materialized from the shadows.
sixteen
“Good evening, Detective Hawker.”
Hawker stepped out of the fountain and inspected McGraw’s body. “I never thought I’d be saying
this, but I’m damn glad to see you, Lieutenant.”
“Ah, sure, and I’m growing rather fond of you myself.” Flaherty walked around the fountain, touching bodies with the toe of his brown shoes. “The lawyers aren’t going to make a cent off these lads, are they?”
“How did you find me? How did you know where I’d be?”
Flaherty sniffed and blew his nose. He was wearing a gray tweed jacket and baggy pants. He stuffed the handkerchief into his back pocket. “The marvelous recording machine back at your little cottage told me. Interesting conversations those Panthers and Satanás had. They do have the poet’s touch with profanity, don’t they? I cringe to think how my dear Irene would react if she heard such talk.” Flaherty smiled. “When they said they would meet at a neutral park, I immediately knew it would be Hyde Park.” He winked. “I know the territory, you see. And I’ve also come to know you. I suspected you would be here.”
“You broke into my place? You had a warrant, I suppose.”
Flaherty’s face created a mock look of chagrin. “Ummm … I did not. And I’m rather ashamed. Are you going to tell?”
“I don’t think it’d be much of a bargaining tool with the Los Angeles district attorney.”
“What? No, I suppose not—upstanding man that he is. Wouldn’t carry much weight at all, I’m afraid.”
“You decoyed me, Flaherty. You put another man on as my tail. I should have known. He was just a front, wasn’t he?”
“Not at all, not at all—do you think I’m a sneak?” Flaherty looked offended. “I found the files you sent very interesting. It didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already suspect, but it gave me sufficient leverage for a fine and proper arrest warrant. It is, in fact, the very reason I stopped by your cottage. I was going to honor you with an invitation to come along.” He shrugged. “Obviously that was impossible, since you weren’t there. I gave the detective who was supposed to be watching you a regular tongue lashing, I did—then sent him and two other men to make the collar by themselves.”
L.A. Wars Page 11