“Take it!” Markov shouted. “The keys are on the table by the front door. Take it and get out!”
“You will shoot me, I think,” Kim said, and he fired two more rounds, one of which broke the ceramic lamp on the table behind the sofa, sending shards showering down on Markov.
“William, the police are coming!” Markov yelled. “The neighbors must have called them by now. Get out while you can!”
“Is too late, I think,” Kim said. “Too late.”
Mount Olympus was not a neighborhood from which “shots fired” calls emanated, not even on New Year’s Eve, let alone on a summer night under a lovely Hollywood moon. Shop 6-X-32 received the code 3 call with Flotsam driving and Jetsam unlocking the shotgun rack.
When 6-X-66 heard the call, Hollywood Nate said to Britney Small, “Mount Olympus is where the owner of Club Samara lives!”
Marius Tatarescu, of 6-X-72, asked his senior partner, Sophie Branson, “How fast shall I drive, Sophia? Code two and a half?”
“At least,” she answered, unlocking the shotgun rack.
Mel Yarashi and Always Talking Tony were right behind 6-X-72, and Fran Famosa was so close behind them that her new partner was more afraid of her driving than of a murderous Korean fugitive.
Within three minutes the entire midwatch was speeding toward Mount Olympus, hoping that the shots-fired call had something to do with the wanted killer William Kim.
“You are insane!” Markov cried from his place behind the sofa table. “Put down your weapon and run, William! Take my car and run!”
Kim fired two more rounds just for effect and said, “Too late.”
Then they both heard the siren wail as 6-X-32 roared up the winding streets, with cypress trees streaming past, ascending a new Mount Olympus where no gods lived.
“Here they come!” Markov yelled, making a dash to the front door, but Kim fired two more rounds and Markov threw himself to the floor again.
He heard glass breaking to his right, but movement came from the left, and then he smelled brandy and garlic and Kim was on top of him, twisting the revolver from his fingers.
“NO, WILLIAM!” Markov screamed, but Kim dropped his own gun and grabbed Markov by the throat with both of his powerful hands.
Everyone on the Job knew that there were two kinds of cops at the LAPD. This, after they’d lived for years under federal judges and outside auditors, following the Rodney King beating and the so-called Rampart scandal. After the chiefs were stripped of civil service protection and bureaucratic autonomy. After the Department was taken over by East Coast carpetbaggers and homegrown hacks. After the LAPD was forced to lower the drawbridge and surrender Excalibur forevermore.
These days, there were plenty of risk-averse cops who wanted to get through their closely supervised careers safely, and be promoted if possible, preferring to work hours and assignments that would let them lead lives similar to those of their middle-class counterparts. But then there were the retro, action-oriented risk takers, who always ran straight to the sound of guns, craving those moments when the belly and brain felt like they were pulling five g’s in an F-14. The midwatch was composed of that latter group, which was why they’d chosen to work the busy hours of Watch 5 in the first place.
So when those midwatch cars arrived at the Markov house, nobody talked about setting up perimeters, or requesting a SWAT team, or tear gas, or stinging hot gas, or a K-9 unit, or a hostage negotiator, or a remote-controlled “BatCat” to tear down the house piece by piece, or, God forbid, a supervisor! The arrival of a boss could result in an eighteen-hour standoff involving scores of people and a fortune in mechanized assistance, without anyone even knowing for sure if a barricaded suspect was dead or alive. Those Department-approved tactics would deprive the cops of the opportunity to take down the kind of vicious and dangerous killer that they might never get a chance at again.
So they deployed by silently surrounding the house in the moonlight, the only sounds coming from the creak of Sam Browne leather and the ripple of bootsteps. None of the midwatch cops bothered to shout surrender commands, which they thought would be superfluous and foolish in a situation like this. What Watch 5 of Hollywood Station wanted to do was simply handle the matter the same way self-starting LAPD coppers had done during decades past. That is, attack with the zeal of a holy warrior and either capture William Kim or kill him.
Jetsam advanced to the front porch with a shotgun, Flotsam right behind him. Hollywood Nate and Britney Small, toting a shotgun, padded along the side yard to the rear of the house, with the neighbor’s security lights going on and dogs barking in a frenzy.
Sophie Branson yelled, “Turn off those damn lights!” when they lit up the cops like ducks in a row.
In the rear yard Nate whispered to Britney, “Bench up, partner.”
She took a firing position with her left elbow on the low limb of an olive tree, and Nate deployed thirty feet parallel, behind a jacaranda tree. Both aimed their weapons at a forty-five-degree angle toward the steps leading to the rear door of the house, and they waited in the darkness for William Kim to run outside into a tactically designed funnel of death.
Nobody was at all surprised when Flotsam signaled with his fist raised and whispered to Jetsam, “I’m gonna boot it.”
Flotsam took two strides forward and slammed the sole of his boot against the oak front door. The frame splintered, but the door didn’t open. He kicked it again, and they heard a single gunshot from inside the house. That made Flotsam leap to the side of the door and wait. After half a minute of silence inside, he kicked the door again, right beside the dead-bolt lock, and it flew open, with one hinge breaking loose while the door dangled from the other hinge.
Both surfer cops peered around the corner of the open doorway and shined their lights inside while keeping their bodies behind the door frame. At that moment they weren’t thinking about the resident of the house; they were only looking for a large Korean with a gun.
Suddenly, Jetsam said, “One down at two o’clock!”
“I see him!” Flotsam said.
Jetsam took a few steps inside, holding the shotgun in firing position, with the butt against his shoulder and the flashlight pressed against the gun’s receiver, and said, “It’s the big Korean. Minus a chunk of skull.”
Flotsam lowered his pistol and yelled, “Awww, shit!”
William Kim had cheated them.
TWENTY-FOUR
The murder-suicide on Mount Olympus dominated the local news for a week. It was clear that William Kim, the suspected murderer of two Hollywood exotic dancers, had killed himself with a gunshot wound to the head. However, journalists were uncertain as to why the Korean had strangled Pavel Markov before his suicide, until the LAPD—ever conservative with new items and ever fearful of lawsuits and political criticism—revealed the lurid details and background of the case, but only a bit at a time.
Sergeant Murillo defended the midwatch officers against the nitpicking critics at West Bureau, who referred to his coppers as “overamped gunslingers” and “Seal Team Six wannabes” while making air quotes with their fingers. Despite them, the sergeant commended his troops in written attaboys and attagirls for the brave and decisive way they’d attempted to rescue the resident of Mount Olympus, while not knowing that the wanted killer had already murdered him. D2 Albino Villaseñor seconded that with a written commendation of his own.
Madame Tang was subjected to a great deal of questioning until she demanded a lawyer, but finally she could not be connected to any of the events spawned by the thirteen deaths in a cargo container at the Port of Los Angeles.
Hector Cozzo could not be charged for any provable crime after the deaths of Pavel Markov and William Kim. He was forced to give his parents a bonus of three thousand dollars to remain in their house after he was named as a “person of interest” in several news stories, thus bringing shame on an old Italian family that had lived in Pedro honorably for generations.
Dinko and Brigita Babic
h tried to assist Detective Bino Villaseñor in locating the family of Lita Medina Flores of the city and state of Guanajuato, Mexico. They gave Bino the name and street address of Lita’s mother, Luz María, which Lita had written down for them in case of emergency, as well as the telephone number of the woman who Lita had said was a helpful neighbor who would call her mother to the phone.
Bino tried the telephone number, but it was nonexistent. Then he contacted the Guanajuato city police, who informed him that there was no such street of the name that Lita had written down for Dinko and Brigita. Both the city police and the state judicial police checked Lita’s name and her mother’s against birth records, public health records, and criminal records, but no person was found who could’ve been the individuals in question. The Mexican police suggested to the Hollywood detective that his information was bogus.
With Bino’s assistance, along with a call to the office of the coroner from the city’s most powerful politician of Croatian ancestry, the Babich family was permitted to pay the county fees and claim the body of Lita Medina. She was interred at the Catholic cemetery favored by local parishioners, with only a funeral director, a priest, Dinko and Brigita Babich, and Bino Villaseñor in attendance. Brigita wept quietly all through the brief graveside service.
Upon walking to their cars afterward, the detective said to Brigita and Dinko, “I’ve done everything I can to find the family of Lita Medina Flores. I’m sorry.”
“Age nineteen years and four months,” Brigita added, wiping tears away. “That’s the way Lita would say how old she was.”
Bino said, “I think maybe she was just a lost migrant kid who came from nowhere and created a fictitious family and maybe a new name, as a way to deal with her unhappy life. But anyone could see she was a person of quality regardless.”
“She found herself a family,” Dinko said. “Lita was home at last.”
Two months later, summer was officially waning, but the days were still hot in San Pedro. Dinko Babich had thrown himself into his job and worked as many hours as he could on the docks. Every foreman commented that he was a changed young man since coming back from his thirty-day suspension. He’d become serious and taciturn, what the bosses called “all grown up,” and he helped less experienced longshoremen whenever he could, even young Latino gang members he’d previously avoided. Everyone said it was only a matter of time until the industrious young man would become a high-paid crane operator like his father.
It was after work on a particularly sweltering day that the ancient Italian widower who lived across the street from the Babich house stood on his porch, leaning on his walker, and beckoned Dinko to come and join him. The old man was in his nineties, and Brigita often took him a plate of mostaccioli, which he loved. It was worrisome to see him teetering on that duct-taped walker of his, but he would scrape along the sidewalk for half a block every evening before supper. That was his daily workout.
“Afternoon, Mr. Buccieri,” Dinko said.
“Dinko, I got something I keep forgetting to tell to you,” the old man said, and Dinko wanted to ask him to sit down before he toppled, but of course he couldn’t do that.
“What is it, Mr. Buccieri?”
“There was a man watching your house one night. I saw him standing out there smoking a cigarette.”
“When was this?” Dinko asked.
“I’m not sure,” the old man said. “Quite a while ago.” Then he added, “It was just before the poor girl got killed. That’s the reason I didn’t tell you back then. I thought he might be a Peeping Tom. But you had so much sorrow and trouble in your house, I didn’t want to add more. We got such a bad element all over Pedro nowadays.”
“What did he look like?” Dinko asked.
“It was a dark night,” the old man said, “and I only got a peek when a car drove by and the headlights hit him, but I still got good eyes. The other tuna fishermen used to say I could spot a sardine on the water two miles from our boat. He wasn’t a big guy at all, maybe about my size. A young guy like you.”
“A smoker, you say?”
“Yes. Do you know that when I worked on the boats everybody and his brother smoked cigarettes and cigars? Even their mothers smoked cigarettes and cigars.” He snuffled at his little witticism.
“Tell me, Mr. Buccieri,” Dinko said, “did you notice his hair?”
“Hair?” the old man said. “He had hair, very dark hair. Maybe he was a Mexican. They’re taking over Pedro these days.”
“What did his hair look like?” Dinko asked. “Think hard. Was it cut . . . different in any way?”
The old man pondered this. “Yes, different from your regular haircut. It was short all around the top but not in the back. It hung down long in the back, sort of like the cloth back flaps we wore under our hats on the boats, to protect our necks from the sun when we were hauling in the tuna. Back when times were good.”
“That’s called a mullet, Mr. Buccieri,” Dinko said.
Hector Cozzo had been going to the same bar on Sixth Street since returning home to Pedro. It had changed in the past decade, and he was sure that the young Latino customers with shaved heads and total tats were gang members, maybe West Side Wilmas. He stopped there almost every night after he had supper at one of his favorite Italian or seafood spots, and he was already half-juiced when he parked his ten-year-old Ford Mustang a block west. He never noticed the Jeep Grand Cherokee that parked half a block away.
He was working on his second drink when he heard a voice behind him say, “Hey, mullethead.”
“Dinko!” Hector said, and felt a preposterous shiver on this very warm night.
“I heard you’d moved back to Pedro,” Dinko said as they bumped knuckles.
“Everybody does. That’s Pedro pride.” Hector gave a forced chuckle. “Lemme buy you a drink.”
“Sure,” Dinko said. And to the bartender: “A juice of some kind, please. Cranberry, orange, whatever.”
“Cranberry?” Hector asked. “What happened to the Scotch drinker and pot smoker I used to know?”
“I think he died,” Dinko said. “Two months and three days ago. Now all I do is work as many hours as I can get.”
Hector was puzzled for an instant, and then he got the reference. “Yeah, that was a terrible thing about the Mexican dancer,” he said. “I guess you were pretty close to her, huh?”
“Lita,” Dinko said. “Lita Medina was her name.”
“Yeah, Lita. A terrible thing,” Hector said. “At least her killer went down for the count. I knew Markov from the club, but the Korean was jist some guy that brought in dancers once in a while. I never really knew the bastard, and may he rot in hell for all eternity.”
“That’s what happens to people that commit suicide,” Dinko said. “Hell for eternity. They taught us that in Catholic school, remember?”
“Those were the days.” Hector signaled for another drink with fingers more nicotine-stained than ever.
“Let’s talk about happier times,” Dinko said. “Seen any of the old pirates lately? What was the name of the Italian chick that Johnny Vidas was always chasing after?”
Brightening up, Hector said, “The one with tits from here to Long Beach? That was Sally Mancuso. Man, I wanted her bad!”
Hector Cozzo talked and drank Scotch, and Dinko Babich drank cranberry juice and listened, for nearly two hours. That’s when Hector started turning surly, and gave a contemptuous glance to one of the young Latinos with a shaved head, saying to Dinko, “We call that ‘aught bald.’ As in zero hair. When these dirts have a little stubble, we call it ‘one bald.’ A little more, we call it ‘two bald,’ and so forth. But they’re all jist a bunch of greasy onionheads.”
He was talking very loud, and one of the tatted-out Latinos turned and looked at him.
“Whoa, partner,” Dinko said to Hector. “I think you had enough. Let’s pay and take this outside.”
“You ain’t paying nothing!” Hector said boozily.
“Did you pi
ck a winner at the track, or what?” Dinko asked.
“I made a few bucks working in Hollywood,” Hector said.
“I’ll bet you did,” Dinko said. “Let’s get outta here.”
Hector staggered as they walked to their cars, and Dinko said, “Maybe you oughta let me drive you home.”
“No worries,” Hector said, lighting a smoke. “I can drive myself home.”
Dinko said, “They got sobriety checkpoints all over the place these days, and you’re pretty wrecked.”
“Fuck ’em.” Hector rubbed his face and had trouble feeling it. When they got to the Mustang he said, “That’s my ride.”
“What happened to the SL?” Dinko asked.
“I got sick of it,” Hector said. “I sold it. That’s how I got enough bank to tide me over for a while.”
“Yeah, that was a pricey car,” Dinko said.
“I’ll buy another one,” Hector said. “Soon as I get an angle.”
“Hector the angle man,” Dinko said. Then: “Tell you what, let’s get a nice hot cappuccino and then we’ll be able to go home and sleep like babies. I’ll drive.”
“Where’s your car?” Hector asked, peering down the dark street.
“Just a little ways behind yours.”
“I don’t need a wheel man,” Hector said.
Dinko said, “I got an idea. How about if I drive you in your car to Starbucks, and after the cappuccino sobers you up, you can drive me back to my car. It’s been a long time since I wheeled a Mustang around.”
Hector reluctantly took the keys from his pocket and handed them to Dinko, saying apologetically, “The brakes’re grabbing, and I hear a transmission whine. I’m gonna buy another cool ride soon as I get an angle.”
“Sure you are,” Dinko said, unlocking the door of the Mustang.
When Dinko turned the Mustang around, Hector said, “So what’s a sober, hardworking longshoreman do for entertainment these days when you ain’t working all them hours?”
Dinko said, “Oh, I try to lower my golf handicap, or I go to the movies with my mom. Sometimes I even go to bingo with her.”
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