The Whip Hand

by Whip Hand (epub)

  The Whip Hand

  by W. Franklin Sanders (Charles Willeford)

  Chapter 1

  Bill Brown

  MY reinitiation was off to a thundering start. It was my first day back in Traffic after three good years in the Auto Theft Bureau, and the day was not a pleasant one for me. Not pleasant in the smallest detail. My determination to make the best of my comedown and see it through was already running into serious trouble. Shame and disgust were banging brutal, body blows against my determination, and my hot temper was a rotten referee in the clinches.

  I told myself I wasn't the first man on the force to be knocked down as an example. I had seen it happen before. It wasn't entirely a new idea. But this time it had happened to Bill Brown, and that made it seem all too new and personal. With a bit of 20-20 hindsight, the events leading up to my humiliation were not too hard to trace. In fact, the trail was quite clear.

  The Auto Theft Bureau snarls the lines on a pair of raids which fills our nets, and the big ones get away. Then we overlook another lead passed to us from Homicide in routine paper work and it turns out that a prompt follow-up would have paid off big for us. A big stink is raised. A bigger investigation is ordered, and stuff bounces off the fan in every direction. A shake-up rattles through the Bureau and the whole Los Angeles Police Department.

  When the charges and counter-accusations start flying back and forth it isn't amusing. Every instance of lax efficiency, questionable conduct, or carelessness is apt to be spread out and raked over, and usually is. It boils down to every man for himself--and anybody he thinks he can depend on to help whitewash him. My short seniority in the Bureau didn't rate me much help or sympathy.

  Before one of these investigations is over, fingers get pointed at some vulnerable miscreants found in any large organization. Also at a few unlucky individuals trapped by circumstances and appearances. This time those fingers were pointed at me, among others. And they had pushed me right down to where I stand now. Demoted. Back in uniform. Turning with the signals at Eighth and Broadway, downtown L. A.

  Only petty allegations against me had been substantiated by the investigation, like keeping the wrong company. But serious charges had been rumored and strongly suspected. They wondered if I had been taking payment for services rendered on both sides of the fence. My previous record and the natural absence of any tangible evidence had saved me from getting blown off the force completely. I knew I should quit, but I was sore and a little stubborn. And accustomed to eating regularly.

  My one dubious consolation was that I was better off than the police commissioner had been. He had quit under the pressure, and a new commissioner, a real fire-eater, had been appointed. At least I wasn't out of work like the ex-commissioner.

  I had more work than I could handle. In moving up the ladder to the Bureau it had pleased me to forget what a traffic job was like, but today was the time for remembering. The day was a scorcher; one the Chamber of Commerce would like to take back to the exchange window. People were angry. Most of the pedestrians were bent on jumping under rolling wheels, and impatient drivers apparently were anxious to accommodate them. In the middle of all this, I was uncomfortable.

  I had put on a few surplus pounds in the Bureau and my uniform pants were too tight in the waist. The heavy .44 on my hip wasn't doing the kidney section any good. I longingly thought of the compact shoulder holster I'd carried until today. The kidneys were full of pain. The feet hurt. I was hot all over, and my clothes were damp and sticky in the most bothersome places. And I no longer doubted the statistics on the number of cars and trucks in L. A.

  Being very conservative, you might say I wasn't too happy. But I got even less happy when a familiar blue Lincoln sedan charged into the intersection and rocked to a sudden stop beside me. I had to bend the traffic around the Lincoln.

  I knew the driver, too. I wished I had never seen his pasty face. I also knew some of his hard-bitten playmates, in a casual pool-hall, card-room, off-duty-type acquaintance. I'd always figured them as comparatively harmless hoodlums. I had been disillusioned to learn during the investigation that most of them were important cogs in the organized rackets up and down the coast. They had been under tight surveillance by the Narcotics Division, which had not nailed them yet, but had certainly helped to establish my erstwhile accidental association with them.

  That flimsy association had been the main reason I was slapped under a suspension during the investigation and later booted out of my Bureau assignment, back into the fever of this intersection. I didn't like them before; I intensely disliked them now.

  I had learned from the interrogations that the one driving the Lincoln was supposed to be some kind of a payoff messenger working for unknown higher-ups in the rackets. Maybe even for the syndicate's top dog on the coast, a human eel no one had been able to finger. He was referred to by our side and the opposition alike as simply The Man.

  I stepped up to the Lincoln and leaned down to the driver's window. "Have your wisecrack and go on through, Hubs," I ordered.

  He gave me a lazy laugh. "Take it easy, Flatfoot. This will interest you. I've got orders for you from the top. You know, from The Man."

  I wanted to pull the talking corner of his mouth out of his face. He was one reason I was on this particular corner of Hell.

  "My orders come from a different headquarters, Hubs. Pull out of here before I run you in."

  "If you want to live, you'll listen, Brown. Did you know The Man has a connection or two in your headquarters?"

  An obvious fact, considering the crime boss always knew when his operations had the green light and when to apply the brakes. It meant buying inside information and protection where it counted. But no large payoffs had been traced yet; peanuts to beat cops for winking at everyday infractions, but nothing big.

  "So he has connections. What's it to a working cop like me?"

  "There's a lot in it for you. You're in between a rock and a hard place and just don't know it."

  I had been thinking along that very line for many days; but Hubs made me wonder what could happen next.

  "Pull over there in that loading zone, out of the way. You can tell me about my troubles better over there."

  Hubs moved the shiny sedan smoothly into the soot I pointed out. I walked over to his window again. "Break the news, but don't waste my time. As even you can see, I've got a job to do."

  "I'll give it to you straight, Brown. Your new commissioner has some pull, down south of the border. He's got his hands on those missing witnesses--you remember, the weedheads they couldn't locate during the investigation. He thinks he can tie you in tight with them, like helping them get dope through the border check point to deliver here in L. A. Or even bringing it yourself, maybe."

  I had been down to Tijuana and Mexicali and deeper into Mexico several times, working with the border guards and the San Diegan and Mexican police. We were trying to root out hot car change-over plants at the time. But I couldn't remember ever talking with the pair Hubs referred to. I was pretty sure none of my reports had mentioned anyone like them. I had heard quite a bit about them during the investigation; but their names and descriptions had meant nothing to me. But, hell, neither had most of the other deals the commissioner had tried to fit me into.

  I shook my head. "Those boys are your friends, Hubs. I never saw them in my life."

  "Well, it ain't my say-so. But I guess The Man thinks the commissioner could be right. Nobody knows. And just a little bit of a certain kind of information can hurt business for a long time."

  "Send him word not to worry--if I had anything, the commissioner would already know it."

  "Oh, I don't think he expects you to volunteer any dope, because like you say, you already would have. But it could be you
're in so deep down Mexico-way it would hang you to open your mouth."

  "So even if I knew anything, would I open my mouth? That isn't very bright."

  "The trouble is The Man thinks the new commissioner is mean enough to twist whatever you do know out of you, the hard way."

  "Get out of here, Hubs, and send a message to your boss that I wish I had enough to ruin his business for keeps. Nobody would have to beat it out of me."

  "That won't satisfy him, Brown. Tomorrow morning, if they can find you, it's the sweatbox with you and those mugs from Mexico in the middle. The Man ain't worried too much about them--they're off the stuff and they've come through grillings before. But he don't want no ready-made surprises thrown at them; maybe like any statement they get out of you. The Man can't afford to let another big roundup get under way right now. So he says you've got to disappear. Now. That's what he said--just plain disappear."

  I considered the ultimatum only a moment. The hell with it.

  "Wait here, Hubs. I want to use the call box over there. I'll see you at headquarters after they drag you in." I started moving away.

  "Now, Brown, use your head. You don't think I'm crazy enough to come here and lay myself wide open if I didn't hold all the cards, do you?"

  I turned back toward him. "You are wide open, but you'll be closed up soon."

  "Don't try it, Flatfoot." His voice was cold, confident and unafraid. I waited, hesitating, to see if he would elaborate.

  "This play is well organized. You're covered from several angles right now, Brown, in the scope sights of high-powered rifles. The instructions are you don't call and you don't go back to headquarters where they can put you on ice till morning. Think it over."

  "You're bluffing," I said, but I didn't go toward the call box.

  "You know I ain't bluffing. And I'd kind of hate to see you get dead. You've got time to get across the state line before you're due off. It's simple--you go or you get rubbed out. It's up to you."

  "Is everybody in L. A. crazy? If I did run, it's like confessing I was on the dope ring's payroll! The commissioner would turn the country upside down to bring me back."

  "He won't find you before we can spring the mugs he's holding; and nobody will take them in again. Ever."

  I could see that I was an important prize in a big game, and all my knowledge put together wasn't worth a white chip. The hell of it was I seemed to be the only one who wanted to think so. Well, I'd make them believe it. I wouldn't run and let the commissioner think I was guilty and hiding out.

  "I'll think it over, Hubs. Now you pull out of here. That's my last time to tell you." I was sure I could get word to headquarters without his gunmen knowing it. A prowl car could pick me up at a slow roll and the planted executioners would be caught with their pants down. Then I'd meet the commissioner anywhere but at headquarters.

  Hubs prepared to go. "Okay, I'm on my way. If you aren't off this corner and on your way ten minutes after I leave, they'll pick your remains up here." The Lincoln rolled forward a few inches, slowly. He stuck his head out the window and looked back at me. "I forgot to tell you--if you try to cross us or have to be knocked off your brother Ed gets erased, too. Right after you."

  I lunged for the window to get my hands on his throat, but he had timed it right and gunned out of there so fast my hands just brushed the side of the Lincoln behind the rear window. I instinctively went for the .45, then thought better of it. I was stunned by Hubs' last remark.

  Why should they bother my brother? Ed was on the force, too; but he didn't know any more than I did. The investigation hadn't even touched him. Maybe they figured I might have spilled anything I knew to Ed. Or that I'd be more likely to go underground if it would keep Ed off their list. The more I thought about it, the more I decided they might be right.

  For a few minutes I worked hard at my job and got the flow of iron through the intersection fairly well regulated, without bloodshed. But Hubs' threats were eating at my mind and irritating the itchy spot between my shoulder blades. I didn't have much time. I was certain Hubs hadn't been bluffing and was so crazy mad I couldn't think. But two things kept spinning around dizzily in my hot brain: the threat to kill Ed, and what the commissioner was going to think.

  There wasn't any out, and I knew I was going to have to run for cover this time. And everyone would be sure I'd sold out to a dope ring. If only I had some other reason for disappearing. But nothing could be done about it in the short time I had left.

  A sudden commotion among the pedestrians behind me diverted my attention from my unpleasant contemplations for a moment. A driver had started to swing right, against the red, and screams and threats were being hurled at him by his near-victims. I blasted with the whistle in time to prevent plural manslaughter. He stopped, and when I turned away I was grinding my teeth. I thought of something I could yell at him without breaking too many regulations and turned back to give him some witty sarcasm. Just in time. He was making the turn anyhow.

  He heard the whistle--I guess they heard it in Pomona --and stopped once more. Then he grinned at me. A slow, insulting grin. It made me hate him; it made me like him; and it made me sorry for him. He was a ready-made excuse for the disappearance of Bill Brown.

  I was very deliberate about walking over to his car, opening the door and slamming my big fist into his silly grinning face. The grin disappeared, and he slumped down with his head rolling loosely. I think that's when my headache began.

  I'd never had a headache in my life that wasn't a hangover. Before I got away from the mess I had made, two barbed arrows ran through my temples and joined somewhere in the middle.

  The guy was out. I didn't know for sure if he was even breathing. A kid about seventeen was standing next to me with his jaw at half-mast.

  "You sure slugged him!"

  "Never mind. Can you drive?"

  He sneered. "Show me a heap I can't drive."

  "Know where Georgia Street Receiving is?"

  "Sure I know."

  "Then get in there and get going. Fast!"

  The kid was quick-witted. He shoved the sleeping victim over in the seat, climbed in beside the body, and shot away down Eighth toward Figueroa. He would probably set a record to the hospital. I just hoped it wasn't too late when he started. I felt sorry for his limber-necked passenger. I felt sorry for myself, too.

  It took a couple of minutes to get the crowd moving. There was no more blood to see and they were disappointed. When the confusion was normal, I took a slow breath and a quick look around. Then I walked away, looking straight ahead. Let the blaring horns and fist-shaking pedestrians work out their own rights of way. I had problems of my own.

  I crossed over to Main and walked into the bus station. The cop on duty knew me. It was Griego of the Main Street Detail. He was hoping the other Mexican he was watching would make a wrong move. Griego bobbed his dark head at me, grinning.

  "Bill Brown. I heard yesterday you were back in harness."

  "Griego," I said, "you haven't seen me. At all. Okay?"

  "Sure, Bill. More trouble?"

  "You just haven't seen me. It's best for both of us."

  "I haven't seen you." His eyes shifted back to the other Mexican.

  I started into a vacant phone booth, and when I tried to close the door I learned I had company. He was short, squint-eyed, pale, ugly and serious. His right hand held the booth door, about shoulder high, and his left rested on the lapel of his sport jacket. If I'd had any doubt my movements were covered, he quickly dispelled them.

  "Leave the door open, copper. I'm supposed to keep you from getting yourself in bad trouble.'

  I left the door open and dialed my apartment. I was in luck; Ed was still there. I tried to shake the pain out of my head enough to remember what I would need.

  "Ed. I want you to come to the bus station on Main."

  "I go on duty in a hour, Bill."

  "Never mind. Bring me a suit and a shirt, and a hat."

  "What for? Why not co
me home and change clothes?"

  "I'll tell you that when you get here. Make it fast. I'll be in the men's can." I hung up and my eavesdropper moved away so I could leave the booth, but I knew he'd be around for awhile.

  I went to the men's room and bought a shine to pass the time while I waited for Ed. I wondered how soon the alarm would go out for me, and if the pock-marked bodyguard would try to perform the execution right in the station if a squad came after me. He hadn't bothered to follow me into the can. I thought about the citizen I had hit, afraid I had hit him too hard. Much too hard.

  The shine boy patted my toe. I paid him and eased into the waiting room.

  There was no excuse for putting it off any longer, so I checked my billfold. As I'd figured, I was short. Much too short. I read the signs ringed around the walls showing fares to various places. L. A. to San Francisco. L. A. to Seattle. L. A. to Chicago. L. A. to Dallas. That one appealed to me. It fit. It was the farthest point my billfold would reach.

  I couldn't think of anybody I knew in Dallas. It was big, I'd heard; and I didn't want to drop into a whistle-stop.

  It wouldn't do to be remembered by any ticket clerk, so I returned to the men's room.

  "Shine, go buy me a one-way ticket to Dallas." I pressed the exact fare into his hand. He looked surprised but went.

  When he came back, I took the ticket and handed him a dime. He stared at the dime a while, but when it didn't grow he put it away.

  Then my brother, Ed, came in. He hadn't thought to bring a suitcase. The clothes were bundled in newspaper. I took the bundle, squandered a nickel and entered a pay toilet to change. I could hear Ed walking around on the hollow-sounding tile.

  I unrolled the newspaper and swore at him. He had brought the suit I hated, the green gabardine, and a yellow sports shirt and a checkered cap. I'd be real hard to identify if they ever learned what I wore out of town! The kid had the taste of a Boyle Heights Vaselino. I let him sweat his curiosity until I finished changing. Then I stepped out.

  "What's up, Bill?"

  No one was in earshot.

  "I hit a guy."