Earth Angels

by Gerald Petievich

  Black turned his fingers and looked at his cigarette longingly, waiting to take another puff. "No, actually I don't," he said. "I'm sitting here trying to treat you civilly and you want to give me shit. No one is trying to trick you or get you to incriminate yourself. I just have to fill out the required forms and get a brief statement from you. Then you're free to go. Like for real."

  "Bullshit."

  Black reached into his shirt pocket and took out a handcuff key. He leaned across the table and unlocked the handcuff. Payaso rubbed the deep red indentation in his wrist.

  "You're reading me wrong," Black said, looking him directly in the eye.

  "You're cold, man," Payaso said as the picture of Smokey and the others lying on the steps flashed through his mind. "You killed my people, but you're still not satisfied. Cold. Like for real."

  "This is just a job to me. Look, what happened on the street is just...a coincidence." Black turned the report form around and shoved it carefully across the table toward him. "I have no reason to lie to you."

  Payaso picked up the report form. On it the following had been printed by the detective:

  I PRIMITIVO ESTRADA (a.k.a. Payaso) WISH TO MAKE THE FOLLOWING STATEMENT OF MY OWN FREE WILL AND ACCORD: Today, Smokey Salazar, Luis Nunez, Ralph Hernandez, and I talked about getting back at Greenie from the Eighteenth Street gang. Greenie was the one who shot me at the Our Lady Queen of Angels Church three weeks ago. We agreed to do it. We all got in my Chevrolet and I drove the others over to Greenie's apartment on Eighteenth Street. I waited in the car and the others went up to Greenie's apartment and did the shooting. I kept the motor running so we could get away after we killed Greenie. THIS STATEMENT IS TRUE AND CORRECT TO THE BEST OF MY KNOWLEDGE AND BELIEF.

  Payaso felt his face growing ever redder with embarrassment as he took endless minutes to read the statement.

  Black reached over and set a ballpoint pen next to his hand. "Just sign right under the word 'belief,'" he said. "This is just paperwork."

  Payaso set the paper down on the table and shook his head.

  Black furrowed his brow in annoyance, quickly checked himself, and forced another smile. "This is what you need to sign so you can go home. Just a formality."

  "I ain't signing shit."

  "Why?

  "The only way you can get me is to have me say I knew the other dudes were gonna shoot. You're trying to put a conspiracy on me."

  "If you'll sign it you can walk right out the door. That's a promise."

  Payaso looked up at the cop and shook his head. "You're sending me straight to the county jail. You ain't gonna let me go."

  "It's best if you sign the paper. See, it'll show you got nothing to hide. I'm talking to you man to man now, son."

  "You ain't a man. You're a pig."

  Black picked up the report form and slowly tore it in half, then fourths, and dropped the pieces into a wastebasket. "It's too bad the way it worked out on the street. A damn shame."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "You being in the car."

  "What is this, a riddle? Like for real."

  "I mean, I wish I had had the chance to send you up yonder to the land of the dead cholos along with your incest bred compadres. "

  "You don't scare me, cabron. I ain't no punk."

  Glaring, Black pulled his chair around close to Payaso. He straddled it so they were face to face.

  "You're real slick, cholo," he hissed with tobacco breath. "But if you stay on the street, someday we'll surprise you just like we did your buddies. We're gonna pull the plug on you, cocksucker."

  ****

  ELEVEN

  Feeling relieved after the interview with Houlihan, Stepanovich shuffled out the back door of Hollenbeck Station into the parking lot. Fordyce's camper was parked near the door, and a television was on inside.

  "We've been waiting for you, homeboy," Black said, playfully pulling him in the door. The odor of whiskey was overpowering.

  Arredondo, sitting in the passenger seat, slapped Stepanovich on the back as he entered and handed him a half empty bottle of Jack Daniel's. Fordyce was tuning a ten-inch television resting on the utility table.

  Stepanovich drank directly from the bottle. Feeling the booze warm his mouth and throat, he handed the bottle back to Arredondo. "What happened with Payaso?"

  "He wouldn't sign a statement," Black replied. "Says his homeboys stopped by Greenie's to pick up a baseball mitt."

  Stepanovich turned to Fordyce. "What about Smokey?"

  "I interviewed him at the hospital. He's not wounded that bad. His story is he was invited to a party at Greenie's, and when he got there Greenie pulled a gun. So he pulled his own gun and defended himself."

  "And Greenie and the others in the apartment won't say anything and will never testify," Stepanovich said.

  "I already called the DA," Arredondo said. "He says that without a confession, we can't prove Payaso drove to Greenie's with the specific intent of committing murder. And since Smokey has his own bullshit story and his other homeboys are dead, there's not enough evidence to file a case. I asked him about filing misdemeanor weapons charges on Smokey, and he feels that since we already killed two of the assholes it would be a waste of time."

  "But take heart, gentlemen," Black said. "There are two less gangbangers in East L.A. So who really gives a shit whether the DA files charges?"

  Stepanovich nodded.

  On the television screen the blond TV newsman of earlier was standing on Eighteenth Street, bathed in artificial light. "From what I've been able to gather from police department sources," he said, "the officers involved in this shooting are assigned to an elite gang suppression detail that's been in operation for only a short time."

  Black held up the bottle. "Here's to the elite," he said. He took a swig and passed the bottle to Arredondo. He took a long pull and offered the bottle to Stepanovich.

  As Stepanovich took the bottle, he noticed a framed five by eight photograph on the wall depicting Fordyce standing with his arms around his parents. The three were wearing Levis and plaid shirts. Behind them was the motor home and snow-capped mountains. Stepanovich drank and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Houlihan said the shooting is good," he said.

  Black reached for the bottle. "Houlihan couldn't find his asshole with a flashlight."

  Fordyce drank from the bottle, coughed, and caught his breath. "He told me the same thing. That the shooting was within department policy. We have nothing to worry about." He handed the bottle to Stepanovich.

  Stepanovich took another sip. He could feet the effect of the liquor already. "What did he press you on?"

  "That from where I was, I should have been able to see who shot first. But I just kept telling him I didn't see anything."

  "Fordyce, you're a man among men," Black said. "Salt of the fucking earth." He was drunk.

  "Is that supposed to be a joke or something?"

  "When those fuckers were coming down the steps, it was them or us. Their balls were up and they were high on blood. We're lucky they didn't get us," Black said.

  "It's too bad Smokey is still alive," Arredondo said. "He's an asshole."

  "If we had gone by the book, we'd be dead," Stepanovich said. "We'd be at the morgue right now getting filleted instead of those homeboys."

  Black took another drink from the bottle, then stared at the label for a moment. "It's kinda comical when you think about it. These fuckers shooting up Greenie's place and running down the stairs." He laughed, a genuine belly laugh that the others didn't join. "They thought they were shittin' behind tall cotton. And the look on their faces "

  "It sounded like the shooting range on the last day of the month," Arredondo laughed.

  "We did it and we came through," Stepanovich said. "White Fence asked for it."

  Fordyce emitted a peculiar chuckle that he often used to introduce what he was going to say. "It's funny, we were investigating Eighteenth for shooting up White Fence and we ende
d up shooting White Fence."

  "Gangbangers are gangbangers," Black said, glaring at Fordyce, "We shoot 'em where we find 'em."

  "Don't take that in the wrong way," Fordyce said "I'm just pointing out an interesting fact."

  "Fuck your interesting facts."

  "I stood up like everybody else here," Fordyce said.

  "You're solid," Stepanovich said. "We're all solid."

  Black laughed again. "Right about now every gang cholo in this town is wondering where we'll show up next. "

  "Hey, ese, " Arredondo said in his best East L.A. gang accent. "The pigs are lowriding. They want to kill us, ese. "

  "Let's head for the Rumor Control," Black said. "Brenda is bringing some of her friends."

  During the ten-minute ride they finished off the bottle, and Black opened the door and tossed it out. There was the sound of the bottle shattering in the street. Moments later, a police car with red lights flashing pulled up next to them. Black leaned out the window and waved. The officer driving the police car recognized him immediately and gave an abrupt salute before turning off his red lights and making a U turn.

  Fordyce parked directly in front of the Rumor Control Bar. From inside came the sounds of jukebox music and booze confident voices a stark contrast to the surrounding industrial ghost town. The shooting party was already underway.

  Inside, the place was filled with laughter, loud voices, and cigarette smoke. It seemed to Stepanovich as if every drinker in the division had shown up.

  Harger threw an arm around him. "The gunfighters!" he shouted as the task force sauntered in the front door. The crowd cheered and applauded.

  Sullivan leaned across the bar and handed Stepanovich a beer. "Nice going, Joe."

  Black rushed forward to put his arms around Brenda and a woman standing with a high beehive hairdo. He gave a rebel yell. "Two down and one on the machine!" he yelled. There was a burst of shrill laughter and some applause and whistles.

  "If anyone here wants to join a gang, both White Fence and Eighteenth have openings," Fordyce yelled.

  Harger took Stepanovich aside. "I just talked spoke with the Chief, and he's assured me the shooting will come back clean. He told me he's overjoyed that the gangs got a taste of the blade for once. Don't you love that, 'a taste of the blade.' Those were his exact words." Harger touched his cocktail glass to Stepanovich's beer bottle and they tipped bottoms up. "The Chief knows your gang expertise helped make the Eighteenth Street caper successful. This could mean a promotion for you down the line."

  "I'm not looking to be promoted. I'm happy working the street."

  "I respect the fact that you aren't fighting for the limelight," Harger said. "But mark this day. The first step in destroying the power of the gangs has been taken and you were there."

  "It's not always going to be this easy," Stepanovich said. "Without luck, we might have had to continue the stakeout on Eighteenth Street for a month or two before anything happened."

  "We make our luck," Harger said, throwing an arm around him.

  "If you could call it that."

  Harger threw his head back and took in some cocktail ice. He chewed loudly, then swallowed. "Are you OK?"

  "Of course."

  "I don't think you realize what you and the squad have done. We have two less gang shooters in L.A. tonight. The whole department is talking about it. You guys are heroes." Smiling broadly, he moved toward the bar and threw an arm around Black and Arredondo.

  By four, Stepanovich was the only one left at the bar. Brenda and her beehived friend were in the corner slow dancing with Black and Arredondo to "Harbor Lights," playing for the umpteenth time on the jukebox. Arredondo was convinced the tune was an irresistible aphrodisiac to, in his words, "all women from virgin coeds to executive stockbroker cunt."

  Fordyce was curled up asleep in the corner booth.

  Sullivan dipped a sponge and squeezed soapy water onto the bar. "I wonder if the bad guys have a party when they shoot a cop," he said in a diffident tone than indicated that he didn't care if he got an answer.

  "Probably," Stepanovich said to a half empty glass of Jack Daniel's.

  Sullivan wrapped a napkin around two fingers to wipe out a dirty ashtray and dropped the napkin behind the bar. "Funny," he said, "when a cop gets killed, the shooting team investigates to find out what he did wrong. They re create the scene with videotape to show what a stupid asshole he was to get himself shot. Then a month after the funeral everybody forgets his name. But it's different with the gangbangers. A guy gets his ass blown away and he gains respect. Everybody in the turf talks about him. 'Loco was a cool dude. Loco wasn't afraid of shit,' they say."

  "It's a different culture."

  "It's fucked. That's what it is."

  "You don't have to tell me. I grew up here."

  Sullivan squeezed his sponge and gray water dribbled into the sink. "You're just as much of a cholo as the punks in White Fence."

  "Sullivan, you'd do anything to start an argument "

  "The gangbangers don't know anything outside their chickenshit little turf and neither do you."

  "I know the players."

  "I've heard prison guards say the same thing."

  "O.K., I'll admit it. I like putting gangbangers in jail. So maybe I'm crazy."

  "You can kill a hundred gang shooters tomorrow, and their baby brothers would just take their places. It wouldn't change jack shit." He tossed the sponge in the sink. Reaching behind him, he picked up a bottle of Old Granddad and filled a shot glass. With one hand holding the bar, he threw back the shot quickly, then made a smacking sound. "The idea of stopping gang murders is a dream," he said, dropping the shot glass into soapy water. With a practiced motion he set the Granddad back in its place.

  "I still believe in the Department," Stepanovich said.

  "The Department? Who are we talking about? The Chief? The slick sleeve who directs traffic at First and Main?"

  "Harger. I believe in Harger."

  Sullivan smiled wryly and nodded his head. "When I was a kid, I believed in the Lone Ranger and Tonto."

  "Harger's a solid guy from what I've seen."

  "That's because you haven't seen shit."

  "Just what is that supposed to mean?"

  "Someday you'll start putting in your eight hours without taking everything so serious. You'll be more concerned with where you can score a free lunch than who you're gonna arrest. It'll happen all at once. You'll be begging some mushmouth deputy DA to file a case, or you'll be working overtime to arrest the same mope the ninth or tenth time for the same offense, and all of a sudden you'll hear this little voice in the back of your head. It will say, 'Stepanovich, you're spinning your wheels in this shit.' From then on, until the day you retire you'll see yourself for what you are - a drone, a lackey for that half baked city politician calling himself the chief of police who is a drone for the mayor who is a drone for his rich, thieving friends eating caviar and fucking one another in the ass up in Beverly Hills. Right at that very moment when you realize that you've been breaking your balls to do nothing more than keep Leroy and Chuey from committing burglary in Beverly Hills, you'll change from a hotdog detective to a blue suit burnout. The job won't be interesting any longer, and you'll spend your the rest of your time on the job avoiding all the nastiness you thrived on. You'll hate coming to work, but you'll eat like a king and ... you'll steep better."

  "I'll quit first."

  Sullivan picked up an ashtray and dumped its contents in a waste can behind the bar. "You'll stay," he said, setting the ashtray back on the bar. "On the other hand, if the job doesn't burn you out, it'll eat you alive." He turned to the others in the place. "Last call, you people. I'm outa here."

  Black stopped dancing and swaggered behind the bar. Lifting a case of Budweiser from the cooler and balancing it on his head, he headed toward the front door.

  Sullivan glared at him.

  "One case of Bud on credit, you baggy eyed fuckhead," Black said on his w
ay out.

  Accompanied by Brenda, they adjourned to Fordyce's motor home. At Black's suggestion, they sat around the tiny dinette table and played poker. Brenda, like a dutiful geisha, kibitzed and served beer.

  Black began to laugh. "The look on their faces when they got to the bottom of the stairs." He dropped his jaw histrionically. "EEEE Ho Laaaa. " He aimed a simulated shotgun. "Boom! Boom!" He doubled up in a fit of laughter.

  The others joined in and the motor home rocked with barracks style, all night drinking male laughter that reminded Stepanovich of Nam.

  "You dudes are crazy," Brenda said after the laughter subsided. Lifting a leg and sitting on Arredondo's lap, she took the beer bottle from his hand. "And your boss Bob Harger is crazy too. I know him from when he worked Newton Division. This was before he made sergeant. "

  "How was he?" Black asked with a leer. Everyone laughed.

  "I don't talk about the men I ... date. How would you like me talking about all of you?"

  "C'mon, Brenda," Arredondo said. "We'll never say anything."

  "He used to come over to my house."

  "That doesn't answer the question," Arredondo said.

  "Lieutenant Harger is a very visual person," she said with a wry smile. "He used to bring his Polaroid and take pictures. He would set the timer and then jump on the bed and we would he doing it. I still have some of the shots. He has a cute butt."

  "The man likes exposure!" Black shouted into the din of laughter.

  During what was left of the night, the cops continued the poker game and drank heavily. Brenda, who seemed pleased at having been invited to the gathering, either listened in awe as the detectives recounted the shooting over and over again, served beer, or administered efficient blowjobs to whoever led her to the semi privacy of the upper bunk at the rear of the motor home. Perhaps because Black and Arredondo made two trips each, no one noticed that Stepanovich hadn't availed himself.