the Viking Funeral (2001)

by Stephen - Scully 02 Cannell

  Nobody moved.

  "Is somebody gonna have to shed blood over this?" Jody asked softly.

  "I ain't down with this shit, and I ain't sharin' my end with this peckerwood," Tremaine growled, but the rest of the Vikings turned, and Tremaine finally followed them toward the beach.

  After they left, Jody smiled. "Give 'em a little time, Hot Sauce. They'll get over it."

  "Right..." Shane said softly. "I'm gonna count on you to make that happen." Then he followed Jody down to the beach, feeling intense emotions directed toward his childhood friend--frustration, disillusion, and murderous rage.

  Chapter 22.

  THE VIKING FUNERAL

  THE SMALL GAS generator hummed.

  The tiny ink-filled needle whirred.

  Tears filled Shane's eyes.

  Lester Wood hunched over Shane's left ankle while Jody held it against a driftwood plank to stabilize it. Slowly, Sawdust drew the crude Viking helmet, freehanding the tattoo without a stencil, the horns reaching up the inside of Shane's foot unevenly, curling around his ankle bone.

  Sawdust leaned into the needle, painfully blunt-ending the job. Shane could see a dark, sadistic smile twitching at the end of the ex-cop's bloodless, ruler-straight mouth. Shane clenched his teeth, determined not to cry out.

  They had been on the beach all day, drinking. Shane had tried to keep away from the alcohol, realizing that his survival depended on a clear head, but the ache inside him continued to grow. Finally, about noon, depression overcame him. He consumed beer after beer until sometime late in the day he realized he'd finished more than two six-packs and now felt bloated, sick, and unruly.

  As the morning sun came up, the Vikings had stripped off their shirts, and Shane could see the insanity of Sawdust's body art; most of it done with standard stationery-store black ink. Hot Rod was sporting what street parlors call a Fullback Royal--a badly proportioned hand-drawn eagle emblazoned across his shoulder blades. It was still red and looked as though it was getting infected.

  All of the Vikings except Tremaine Lane had the same freehand Viking helmet on the inside of their ankles, with additional designs on their arms and shoulders. It was low-grade prison-quality art, done in black ink with Sawdust's amateurish scrawl. For some reason, the African American ex-sergeant had no tattoos.

  "There she be.... All done," Lester Wood said in his West Texas drawl. Shane looked down at his ankle: red, raw, and bleeding from dozens of deep new puncture marks.

  "That's a tattoo?" he said angrily.

  "Right now, it looks like beef day at the Injun Agency, but you wait an hour, then git it in the ocean, wash her off. It'll look fine when she heals." Sawdust snapped his kit closed, got up, grabbed a beer, and wandered off.

  Shane's ankle throbbed as he stood. Most, if not all, of the Vikings seemed either wired or wasted. Shane watched as they drifted up the beach, away from him. Throughout the day he caught glimpses of their stash and saw fresh needle marks hiding in tattoo ink. Only Jody seemed to be drug-free, but he had been guzzling beer after beer.

  Shane noticed that the unit was divided. Lester Wood sat at the north end of the beach with Tremaine Lane. Smith and Rodriquez stayed at the other end. More than once Shane caught the steroid junkie and the gray-eyed Mexican whispering, making plans and looking in his direction.

  The end of the day finally came. At sunset, when Jody and Shane walked down the beach away from the others, Jody pulled a bottle of tequila out of his pocket. "How 'bout a shot a'Mexican courage," he said, handing it over.

  Shane took the bottle, telling himself he would take only a sip, but once he got it up to his lips, he found himself swallowing hungrily, trying to burn loose the tangled knots inside him. His eyes were closed as he gulped it down, until he felt Jody's hand tugging at the flask.

  "Hey, hey, Hot Sauce... Save some for me." Jody pulled the bottle down to find it half empty.

  "Yeah, right," Shane said. "Sorry."

  "You hit the number this morning... Put that round right through the ten ring. Clean shooting, Salsa." Jody was talking about Alexa's murder as if it had been a firing-range event.

  Subliminal memories flashed:

  Alexa flying backward, arms extended.

  Blood spurting.

  Eyes lifeless.

  Shane winced inwardly and his face contorted. Jody saw the flinch. "Fuck her, man.... Give it up. She deserved what she got."

  Shane nodded, but Jody's eyes were drilling-- reading his thoughts, seeing his devastation.

  "Don't do this grief thing, Salsa. Get over it." Jody ordered.

  Shane nodded again. "You're right. Fuck it," he finally said. They walked on in silence for a few feet, then: "You got a disaster here, Jody. All these guys are cranked up."

  "I know they seem a little fractured, but I'm trying to keep things in balance," Jody said.

  "Balance... Yeah, right." Shane took a deep breath. "Victory Smith is popping Amies like they're M&M's. He's got 'roid-rage'; it's the reason he wants to rip the shit outta everybody. The guy's got enough gym juice in him to bench-press a school bus. And Lester Wood... I saw his Baggie: cocaine and pills. Tremaine is just an alcoholic, and I think Rodriquez is candy flipping--heroin and Ecstasy. The only straight guy you got is VanKirk, and he just sits in that fuckin' helicopter playing Game Boy. You got a mess here, Jody."

  "I gotta cut 'em some slack. I can't ride 'em too hard anymore, or they'll mutiny. The only one I'm seriously worried about is Victory.... He used t'be a good hammer, but you're right... Lately his brains are on tumble dry. He quit functioning even before you shot him. But I'll handle it. Leave him to me. We'll all be straight when the deal goes down." He paused and leaned back against a rock outcropping.

  What deal? Shane thought, but didn't ask.

  "Back in the beginning, before we started doin' doors for Medwick, I had a tight group," Jody continued. "These guys were the best-- handpicked. But once we began committing felonies, the LAPD Rules of Discipline and Engagement didn't cut it anymore. At first Mayweather just had us doin' low-grade stuff, and only against big-time organized criminals. We'd break into some shot caller's house and go through his desk, find out what his action was. Then we'd either dime him out to the appropriate division in the department and let them make a bust they could take to trial, or we'd swing down outta some tree and start capping the assholes, handle it ourselves, y'know? The drug-use thing started slow. At first I didn't know they were using, 'cause they did it in their own cribs at those damn airport houses. But once I thought about it, it made sense."

  "Cops using drugs?... That's never gonna make sense."

  "These guys were warriors, man--the best of the best--and the department had them committing crimes. It was fucking them up. So after some low-grade B&Es, a few started doing a line of coke here and there, maybe a little Mexican grass... Nothin' too nasty, just a little chemical help after a confusing day. But after we took down Medwick and Shephard, a couple a'guys started seriously freaking. I even had t'lose a guy. He went completely haywire. We buried the poor motherfucker on a beach up in Oxnard. Right now I'm just trying to keep some balance here. I only need to hold it together for a little longer."

  "Jody, you've been hanging with 'em too long. You've lost your perspective. These guys don't give a shit about anything.... Not money... Not life or death. They don't want what you want."

  "You got 'em all figured out, huh? You're here six hours and you got the whole thing scoped," Jody said angrily, but handed Shane the bottle. "Give it a rest, Salsa."

  They sat on a rock and watched the sun go down. A quarter moon came up and rode low on the horizon, reflecting on the silver-black ocean. Shane looked over and saw Jody staring out to sea; his expression was fixed but strangely wistful.

  "I'm not saying it's not my fault.... I shoulda seen it coming." Jody was silent for a minute before turning toward Shane. "When you cut to the chase, we all just got sold a buncha shit-- end of story."

  Shane wasn't sure what he was
talking about. Whatever was going through Jody's mind, Shane couldn't fathom it. Somewhere along the way, Jody Dean got lost and this new person he didn't even recognize had taken his place.

  The almost-empty tequila bottle slipped from Jody's grasp, then clattered onto the rocks and broke. "Protect and serve... Respect for individual dignity, compliance with lawful orders, duty to report misconduct... Courtesy, gallantry, and morality in the service of the public trust. What a crock, huh?" Jody sounded drunk. "These Glass House swivel-chair commanders write this shit up. They put it in The Management Guide to Discipline. They force-feed it to us at the Academy, and we swallow it whole, like a buncha brain-dead assholes. It's a worthy ideal, but it's ill-conceived because you can't give life-or-death power to a bunch a'eighteen-year-old testosterone cases and not have a recipe for disaster. And the strange part is, the bosses in the Glass House don't give a shit; otherwise, they wouldn't sanction units like SIS or SWAT and fill them up with adrenaline junkies."

  Shane remembered the discussions they'd had at the end, just before Jody faked his death and disappeared. Back then, Jody had argued that the department needed these two controversial units. He said it was cutting-edge law enforcement like the Special Investigations Section and Special Weapons and Tactics that held back the tide of criminal pollution.

  "I thought you loved SIS."

  "I was wrong. They finally let me see what a crock a'shit the whole deal really was." He paused, took a deep breath, then went on: "Right after the Vikings were formed, we were working a big drug laundry out of Southwest. We had forty Mexican bankers bagged and tagged and ready for the bus. Had these guys dirty, on videotape... Big guys, white-collar crooks, at big banks like Bancomer and Banco ProMex. We had the pricks. The case was solid, so we took it to the bosses, Medwick and Mayweather... And guess what?"

  "They cratered the investigation."

  "Worse. They farmed it out to Justice because they were afraid of the political repercussions. If we arrested all these white-collar crooks in the Mexican banking system, they were afraid of the international pressure that would come down. Then, of course, Justice shut down the investigation to avoid the political turmoil. The same people who keep preaching about how we have to protect our children from drugs limited the scope of the investigation so it wouldn't become an international banking scandal for our NAFTA buddies in Mexico.

  "When over a year's work hit the wall, we were already set up on this new sting, the one we're working now. It's even more potent. But instead of working it for the department so they could throw it away when it was time to book the perps, we decided to go ahead and work it ourselves. We had already stumbled onto an independent criminal contractor who was into something too good to turn down. We... How do I put this? We moved in on him and took over his action. We eventually had to lose him, too, but now we're runnin' his operation and interfacing with his criminal targets. Only this time, nobody gets busted. This time, we're keeping what we make. We're gonna say good-bye to that pile a'bricks up in L. A., split up and live on the Riviera or some damn place.... Anonymous millionaires."

  "You had to lose him?" Shane asked. "You mean you killed him."

  Jody turned and smiled suddenly at him. The smile seemed wide and loose and tinged with madness.

  "So what is it?" Shane finally asked, changing the subject to get that scary look off Jody's face. "What's the new play?"

  "Not yet, Hot Sauce... Not yet." He pushed himself away from the rocks and stood. "We're outta here soon as I make a phone call and get the okay. Come on... I don't like to leave 'em alone too long to plot against me." He was grinning, but they both knew it was true.

  It was after midnight.

  Shane was on the beach, trying to sleep, but hadn't been able to shut his mind down. He had his head buried in the crook of his arm, while thoughts of Alexa tormented him. His ankle tattoo was throbbing. Twice earlier that evening, he had asked if he could check the locked motor home for bandages, but the Vikings just looked at him with dead eyes, as if they didn't want to waste precious medical supplies on a walking corpse.

  Jody had been up the beach arguing with somebody on a portable satellite phone, so Shane didn't bother him. Finally, he had just torn off the bottom of his shirt, wet it in tequila, and wrapped his lower leg.

  Shane was looking up at the stars, the ache of Alexa's loss deep inside him. Then he heard something....

  He lay still and heard it again: a rustle, like a puff of wind blowing dry grass.

  He felt movement on the packed sand nearby. Although Jody still had his Beretta, Shane had found a palm-size granite rock earlier and had put it next to him for protection. He reached out and slowly curled his fingers around it. The round, smooth surface filled his palm. His heartbeat quickened; neck hair bristled. He knew without looking that the man who was snaking up from behind was about to strike. He waited until he felt the ground quiver.

  Shane lunged violently to his right.

  A knife thundered down exactly where his chest had been. He scrambled to his knees and tried to spin around, but Hector Rodriquez lunged forward and grabbed him. The Mexican's muscular arms locked around Shane's neck, his gray eyes shining. The knife fell out of his hand onto the sand.

  "Motherfucker," Rodriquez grunted, bearing down now, closing Shane's windpipe.

  Shane dug his heels into the sand for traction as Rodriquez shifted his grip, going for the police choke hold. Shane had to move fast before his carotid artery was closed, shutting off the blood supply to his brain.

  "Die, motherfucker," Rodriquez rasped into his ear, ratcheting down even harder. Shane felt consciousness dimming. He was out of options. He swung the rock in his right hand as hard as he could.

  It hit with a mushy thud, and Rodriquez screamed. The Mexican let go of his throat, so Shane struggled up onto his knees, then spun around to face the big Hispanic, whose crushed nose was now spread across his face. Blood, lit by moonlight, appeared almost black and dripped from his chin, splattering in ugly Rorschach patterns on the white sand.

  Rodriquez went to his belt with his right hand, pulled out a mini-Uzi, and chambered it. "Cocksucker!" he roared.

  Then the muzzle flash of automatic gunfire lit the dark beach.

  But it was Rodriquez, not Shane, who flew backward. Most of the Mexican's head was missing when he flopped onto the sand a few feet away.

  Shane, startled and exhausted, looked over and saw Jody standing in the dark, holding a short-barrel Heckler & Koch machine pistol.

  After a moment of silence, Jody walked over and pried the mini-Uzi out of the dead man's hand. "Dig a hole.... Let's get him buried." For the first time since he'd known him, Shane thought his old friend looked shaken.

  Shane's eyes found Victory Smith behind Jody.... The weight lifter's pockmarked face was stretched into a grimace of hate. Shane knew that Smith had somehow managed to talk Rodriquez into the attempt on his life. Now, with Hot Rod dead, Victory Smith was not going to be held in check, no matter what Jody said.

  Shane watched from the doorway of the motor home as Tremaine Lane dug the shallow grave, then Lane and Wood dragged the near-headless body of Hector Rodriquez over and laid him at the edge of the fresh pit. Victory Smith teetered on his crutches in smoldering silence.

  Jody came to the motor home, opened a side compartment, and pulled out a five-gallon can of Coleman lantern fluid. "We're gonna give him a Viking funeral. No invitation required. Come on," he said.

  They walked to the edge of the hole where the three other Vikings stood, expressionless.

  "Okay, let's get something straight," Jody said. "Rodriquez died because he couldn't focus on the problem. I talked to Papa Joe this afternoon, and the plans have changed. He wants us up in the Springs tomorrow night to meet the other players. That means we gotta get movin' now. We've got a week, maybe less, before we cash in. After that, we don't ever have to see each other again. But I can't pull this off if we keep losing people." He looked around at their sullen faces. "Sta
rting tonight, no more drugs. This guy's dead 'cause he couldn't keep the spike outta his arm. I'm friskin' everybody 'fore you get on the coach. If you don't ditch your stash, you don't leave with us. The Lord of the Skies will fly you back, and you lose your cut." Nobody spoke, but they all stood there, glaring. "Okay, let's plant him."

  Tremaine Lane and Lester Wood rolled Rodriquez into the hole. He thudded when he hit the bottom, three feet down.

  "Anybody wanna say anything?" Jody asked.

  "Motherfucker sure used a lot of X," Tremaine finally murmured.

  Jody emptied half a can of Coleman lantern fluid onto the body, then dropped in a match. The body exploded in fire. They stood there, around the flaming grave, watching Hot Rod burn until they could no longer make out the shape of him.

  As Shane watched, he felt another wave of soul pollution that darkened his world and deadened his senses. The moment stood as a dark premonition of the path his life had taken. The depression brought with it a listless loss of self that made everything seem unimportant-- even Alexa's murder.

  The body crackled and burned, until finally all that was left was glowing ash.

  "That concludes the service," Jody said softly.

  Chapter 23.

  LISA

  SHANE SAW THE distant lights of Palm Springs shimmering on the horizon like a counterfeit jewel. The motor home was crusted with brown sand from the rutted dirt roads they had taken in Mexico before finally crossing the border at Mexicali, then turning northwest toward the Cochella Valley.

  The entire way across Baja and into California, nobody had mentioned the shooting of Rodriquez, but the memory certainly lingered.

  Then they were driving through downtown Palm Springs, on North Palm Canyon Drive, past Arby's barbecue joints and faux French restaurants, past golf courses and Bentley dealerships.

  They left Palm Springs proper and started to pass through neighboring towns, strung back-to-back along Highway 111 like brightly painted beads. They passed Smoketree Village and Palm Springs Heights, with their estate homes built low on the desert hillsides... Then drove through Cathedral City, the only tarnished bead on this expensive necklace of resort towns. Used-clothing stores and taco stands stood side by side like passengers at a skid-row bus stop trying desperately to ignore one another.