****
NINE
At 5:00 A.M., on his way back to the surveillance, Gloria was still on his mind. He stopped at an all night convenience market on Brooklyn Avenue and purchased a package of salami, three French rolls, a jar of pickles, a handful of Snickers bars, and a six pack of Coke provisions he figured would last him for the day. Because of the light traffic, it took him less than fifteen minutes to arrive at the hillside road above Eighteenth Street. He parked his sedan in exactly the same place as the day before.
During the next hour he exchanged bits of radio conversation with the other members of the task force. After a few transmissions he was confident the surveillance was again in place. Nothing more was said. Everyone had accepted another day of police ennui: sitting in a car in one place waiting for crime to happen as the bad guys drank beer, played pool, slept, or knocked off a piece of ass. For Stepanovich it certainly wasn't the first time. He remembered hiding in the woods above Elysian Park for a three day holiday weekend waiting for a rumored gang assassination. As families picnicked, lovers necked, teenagers drank beer and played softball in the crowded park, he had watched and waited, feeling somehow detached and excluded, as if holidays were only for others.
He and the other members of that surveillance team had made up for the isolated weekend at the Rumor Control Bar drinking heavily through the night.
The day passed slowly. Stepanovich moved his car every couple of hours to keep it in the shade of the eucalyptus trees protecting him from being seen by anyone on Eighteenth Street. At two he climbed out of the car and did some stretching exercises. Then, in a clear area under the trees, he dropped down and did a hundred push ups, counting them out loud. Feeling refreshed after the exercise, he ate his lunch.
In the afternoon, the meticulous Fordyce reported via radio that men were coming and going from Greenie's apartment. Stepanovich figured they were Eighteenth Street gang members just dropping by to talk about Greenie's arrest and release.
As dusk came, Eighteenth Street was bathed in a gray, weakening light. Because it was summer, darkness didn't come until almost nine. With the absence of sun, Stepanovich felt a chill on his neck and figured he had a slight sunburn from being out of the car so much during the day.
For the next couple of hours he listened to a female radio talk show host with a heavy New York accent give advice to troubled callers. "Walk away from your husband," she advised the wife of a man who preferred carving wooden ducks in his garage to showing her affection and sharing his day. "Move out," she instructed a young woman living with a fry cook who didn't want to get married.
When he tired of the radio fare, he used his night binoculars for a while to spy on the couple he'd watched the night before through the bay window ensconced in front of their television. They were in their respective couch potato positions in their living room. The man would leave the room every twenty minutes or so and return with something to eat. Again Stepanovich tried to guess what programs they were watching for a few minutes, but that only held off the boredom for a few minutes. He closed his eyes and relived his date with Gloria. After lengthy consideration he decided that, though aloof and independent, she probably was as interested in him as he was in her. Otherwise, he told himself, she wouldn't have agreed to got out with him in the first place.
The rest of the night passed uneventfully.
At nine, he and the other squad members were relieved by some officers from Metro Division. After a short meeting at Manuel's taco stand with the others, he drove directly to Gloria's residence. He parked his car in the parking lot and climbed the stairs to her apartment. The lights were off and there was no sound coming from inside. Figuring that she'd gotten off at midnight and had had time to get a full night's sleep, he rapped on the door. A few moments later, the peephole opened and closed. The door opened from the inside. Gloria was wearing a pink silk robe and her hair was neatly pulled back with a barrette.
"I hope I didn't wake you."
"I've been up. I thought you were on twenty four hour surveillance."
"I just got off."
"You look like you can use some coffee."
She opened the door wide and Stepanovich stepped inside. He shoved the door closed behind him and followed her into the kitchen.
"I hope you like instant."
"Fine."
Gloria spun the cap off a coffee jar. "Must be exciting, watching someone all night."
"It's boring."
"I'd probably fall asleep."
Stepanovich crossed the kitchen to be close to her. "I was thinking about you all night."
She spilled a spoonful of coffee on the sink. Setting the spoon down, she turned to him and their eyes met. "And I've been thinking about you."
He took her in his arms.
"No," she whispered as he covered her mouth with his. He could feel her teeth softly bite his lower lip. His hands slid to her firm breasts, then cupped her buttocks.
As she breathed heavily, her nurse's hands were on him, unbuttoning his shirt, tugging his belt, then his zipper. Suddenly the whole world consisted only of them undressing each other. She took his hand and led him into a bedroom that smelled faintly of a female fragrance lilac? In the streetlight shining through sheer curtains, she led him onto the bed. Grasping him firmly, efficiently, she took him without reservation fully into her mouth. Lost in a sexual trance, Stepanovich maneuvered to touch her erect nipples, her wetness, and she moaned with pleasure. Feverishly he arranged her dark, silken legs. His tongue found her and he was lost in her taste and the sound of her long moans of pleasure.
Finally he was in her: thrusting, dissolving, submitting to the rocking violence of sex for what seemed like an eternity, and her fingernails dug deeply into his shoulders as to punish him for resisting orgasm. Then her breath unexpectedly started, and with a cry she arched to him rapidly. Unable to restrain himself a moment longer, he surged to an almost painful pleasure. All at once he was giver, taker, killer, and protector.
Later, as they lay on the bed with arms around each other, he could tell from the rhythm of her breathing she'd fallen asleep. But rather than the fatigue he should have felt because of the sleep he'd lost in recent days, he felt rejuvenated.
In the afternoon, he awoke alone in the bed. There was a note on the nightstand that read:
Good morning Jose Stepanovich,
I didn't wake you up to say good-bye because you were sleeping like the dead. I had to go in early to fill in for an emergency room supervisor who called in sick. But I'll be off tonight.
I'll be thinking about you all day.
Gloria
P. S. Please help yourself to the contents of the refrigerator.
He was on duty at his surveillance post above Eighteenth Street less than an hour later. All during the day and into the next evening he found himself reliving his time with Gloria. A couple of times during the day he even almost talked himself into leaving the surveillance position to phone her, but he figured that the way things were going, with nothing much happening at Greenie's place, he would get relieved by Metro officers again and would be able to see her.
As evening came and he began to survey Eighteenth Street with the night vision binoculars, he opened a bag and nibbled on a chunk of French bread left over from the day before, then washed it down with a can of Diet Coke. He ate the last candy bar for dessert, deciding at this point he was sick of junk food.
At about eleven Stepanovich was leaning back in the seat with his eyes shut when suddenly the police radio came alive. "Fordyce to Stepanovich." There was tension in Fordyce's voice.
Stepanovich grabbed the microphone. "Go. "
"Four lowriders in a blue Chevy just made a slow pass. They're hawking the location."
Stepanovich grabbed the binoculars. The Chevrolet, tinged an eerie green, continued past Greenie's apartment and turned right at the corner. Safely out of sight from Greenie's place, the car pulled slowly to the curb. Holding the binoculars with one hand,
Stepanovich picked up the radio microphone and brought it close to his lips as he pressed the transmit button. "This is Stepanovich to all units. Stand by. The Chevy is one block south of the location."
Keeping his eyes on the Chevrolet, Stepanovich wondered how many times in his career he'd been alerted to possible danger and had his heart race, as it was right at this minute, only to determine it was only a false alarm. Hell, for all anyone actually knew, the Chevrolet could be simply pulling over to check a flat tire. But, nevertheless, his policeman's sixth sense was telling him danger was present.
The Chevrolet pulled away from the curb, made a U turn, and cruised slowly back in the direction of the apartment house. As it passed under a bright street lamp, Stepanovich focused the binoculars. The man in the passenger seat was Smokey Salazar. "This is Stepanovich," he said, keying the microphone. "We have visitors. Repeat. Visitors. Meet me at location one."
Stepanovich dropped the microphone on the seat and started the ignition. He slammed the car into gear, stepped on the accelerator and, to avoid drawing the attention of anyone on the street below, sped downhill without headlights. At the bottom of the grade he swerved into a service alley running parallel with Eighteenth Street. He stopped his car about a hundred feet from the rear of Greenie's apartment house. Quickly he clipped the walkie-talkie to his belt, then reached into the backseat, and grabbed his shotgun and bulletproof vest. He climbed out of the car.
Changing the shotgun from hand to hand, he shrugged on the thick vest. Then, aiming the shotgun at the ground, he cranked the beavertail and chambered a round.
Arredondo and Black jogged up to him from the darkness. Both held shotguns in the port arms position and were wearing bulletproof vests.
"I got a look at the driver when they cruised past me," Arredondo said, catching his breath. "I think it was Payaso, the one who got shot at the church."
Stepanovich's walkie-talkie came alive. "The Chevy is pulling up in front," Fordyce said with a quavering voice. "They're parking. Repeat. They are parking. "
Stepanovich unsnapped the walkie-talkie from the holder on his belt and pressed the button. "Stay where you are and tell us what they are doing."
"Roger."
"They're here for blood," Black said, thumbing green shells into the magazine of his shotgun.
Arredondo drew his revolver and snapped open the chamber to check the load. With a flick of the wrist he clicked the chamber shut.
There was the sound of radio static coming from the walkie-talkie. "They're getting out of the car," Fordyce said. "The driver is staying behind the wheel."
"They've got their balls up. They're gonna do it," Arredondo said.
Stepanovich said nothing, motioning to the others to follow him down the walkway leading toward the front of the apartment house. "We'll take 'em before they go upstairs. "
Black didn't move. "Arrest 'em now and they'll be home before we finish writing the report."
Stepanovich stopped.
"C.R.'s right," Arredondo said. "Greenie killed a little girl. Let White Fence give him some of his own medicine. "
Stepanovich, keyed up for the arrest, suddenly had another feeling an excitement akin to a kid playing hide and seek when the seekers are getting closer the stifled urge to both piss and yell at the top of his lungs at the same time.
"They're headed toward the steps," Fordyce said via radio, "Repeat. They are gonna do it."
Stepanovich slowly pulled the walkie-talkie from his belt, hesitating before pressing the transmit button. "Stepanovich to Fordyce. We're getting set up," he said, then released the button.
"You'd better hurry ... they're at the steps ... going up," Fordyce replied. "They're prowling."
Stepanovich lowered the volume on the walkie-talkie a few notches and clipped the radio back on his belt.
"They have to come down the same way," Stepanovich said. "We'll set up at the bottom of the stairs."
Using the shadows for cover, Black and Arredondo followed Stepanovich along a six-foot cinder block wall adjoining Greenie's apartment house. As the wall's elevation dropped a foot or so, Stepanovich could see Smokey Salazar and the others creeping along the dimly lit second floor landing and into a shadow where Greenie's apartment was situated.
"They're trying to figure out which apartment is Greenie's," Arredondo whispered.
Salazar's Chevy was parked in front of the apartment building next door, just out of sight of Greenie's apartment. There was a driver sitting behind the wheel. Stepanovich stopped the others and pointed to him. Crouching low, holding his shotgun balanced in one hand, he crept in the darkness along a row of Italian cypress trees leading to the curb. Peeking from behind the shrubbery, he could see Payaso staring straight ahead.
Without hesitation, Stepanovich moved across the parkway, keeping down out of Payaso's view, and around the car to the driver's side. Arredondo was behind him.
Stepanovich poked the barrel of the shotgun in the driver's window and touched Payaso's temple. "Police, motherfucker," he whispered. "Keep your mouth shut. "
Payaso raised his hands slowly and Stepanovich adjusted the shotgun slightly to allow Arredondo to open the door. Arredondo's left hand cupped Payaso's mouth. He pulled him out of the car and to the asphalt.
Arredondo handcuffed Payaso quickly, then with a knee in his back, held his revolver to his head to keep him quiet.
Stepanovich immediately hurried back to the wall. Quickly he and Black climbed over it and, staying close to the apartment building for cover, edged toward the stairs leading to the second floor walkway. The bottom few steps were illuminated by the harsh light of an outdoor fixture attached to the corner of the building. He stopped. "Right here," he whispered. "They'll have to come down into the light." He motioned and Black, keeping his eyes on the well lit target area, moved a few feet away from him so they wouldn't shoot each other by accident.
From the second floor landing there was suddenly the unmistakable crack of rapid gunshots, screams, breaking glass, and male shouts of "White Fence!"
A thunder of frantic footsteps came along the landing and down the stairs.
Stepanovich, standing in the darkness a few feet from the steps, raised his shotgun to shoulder level and aimed. Smokey Salazar and two other men, all carrying guns, rushed down the stairs into the harsh illumination.
For a millisecond after Salazar spotted him, Stepanovich thought he detected a look of recognition on his face. Salazar's eyes opened wide and his jaw dropped. He could have been any creature in flight suddenly confronted by impending doom.
Stepanovich pulled the trigger. "One," he shouted to himself as he'd been trained to do at the police academy. The sound of shotgun blast mixed with that of human shrieks. He cranked the slide. "Two" and the world became muzzle flashes and deafening blasts as Stepanovich worked the action of his shotgun. Black was firing rapidly. "Three."
Bodies tumbled down the cement steps.
Black dropped his empty shotgun and it clattered to his feet. He pulled his revolver and advanced forward, firing alternately at the prostrate shooters.
"Hold it!" Stepanovich yelled.
Black stopped firing. The air was filled with the odor of gunsmoke. Stepanovich dropped his shotgun and pulled his revolver. Holding it in the two handed combat position, he moved closer.
The light was glaring on the three victims. Smokey Salazar was convulsing, holding his groin. The other two men were lying askew, unmoving. They had almost bloodless holes in their respective faces and chests. Stepanovich remembered the homicide school axiom: dead bodies don't bleed.
"Ahhhh," Salazar moaned. He was crying, whimpering.
Black holstered his revolver and knelt beside him. He pulled Salazar's hands behind him and ratcheted handcuffs onto his wrists. "Don't cry, fuckface," he said.
Fordyce's nervous falsetto voice came through the walkie-talkie. "Shots fired! Man down! Eighteenth and Toberman. Requesting paramedics and a field supervisor."
From upstai
rs there was the sound of a woman moaning.
Stepanovich raced past the dead and wounded and up the steps. Moving cautiously along the landing, he made his way to Greenie's apartment. There was shattered glass on the landing in front of the open door. He stepped inside. Greenie was on the carpet holding a blood soaked towel to his wife's head. A man was lying in a fetal position on the kitchen floor. Another man, shirtless and bloody, his eyes wide, was crawling across the floor. There was the wail of sirens in the distance.
Greenie looked up at Stepanovich. "My wife."
Stepanovich stood there, breathing hard, saying nothing. His left hand inadvertently touched the burning barrel of his shotgun and he yanked it away. He moved to a telephone hidden on the bare floor among empty beer cans. His hand was shaking as he picked up the receiver and began dialing Harger's number. Then he thought better of it and set the receiver down.
Retreating out the door, he hurried down the steps a few feet past the bodies to Black. Arredondo approached from the car, dragging the handcuffed Payaso. Payaso's shirt was torn open and his torso was covered with bandages.
"Those are my homeboys," Payaso cried. "You killed my homeboys."
Arredondo shoved Payaso facedown in the middle of the lawn facing away from the bodies. He moved closer to Stepanovich.
Stepanovich turned to Arredondo. "Your prisoner," he whispered. "What did he see?"
Arredondo shook his head. "Nothing. He was face down in the street when the shooting occurred."
Fordyce hurried toward them from the motor home. Suddenly he stopped, staring at the bodies.
"What did you see?" Stepanovich said.
Fordyce couldn't take his eyes off the men lying on the steps. Stepanovich grabbed his arm. "Did you hear what I said?"
"I saw you guys move toward the steps and the shooters coming down," Fordyce whispered back. "Then all hell broke loose."
Earth Angels Page 9