Earth Angels

by Gerald Petievich

  "I don't care about that."

  "But then Johnny killed somebody from the Clover gang. He was convicted of first-degree murder and sent to San Quentin for the rest of his life. Just like that, Johnny was gone. I remember my mother, who'd begged him not to hang around with the gang, sold his car and gave away his clothes. Johnny'd been devoured by the neighborhood, by White Fence machismo. From that day on, I never spoke to another gang member. In high school I kept to myself. That's how much I hate the violence."

  "Then why stay here in the old neighborhood?" Stepanovich said. "Why not move out and work at a hospital in Palm Springs or Beverly Hills?"

  "Because the people in Palm Springs and Beverly Hills aren't my people. I'm a Chicana. My people are here: the bad and the good."

  "Your kind of people shot a little girl in church the other day."

  "I'm staying here to help."

  "What do you think I'm doing? If it weren't for the Department, East L.A. would have killed itself years ago. I'm not going to apologize for being a cop."

  There were tears in her eyes. "You're in it for revenge, not for the law. You're a veterano like my brother Johnny and the man he killed. Shooters and victims vengeance going all the way back to God knows when."

  Stepanovich moved close to her. When she looked up at him, her eyes showed a weary anguish he'd seen on the faces of a hundred women who'd lost men to violence. He could see them, generations of mantilla-draped Mexican widows comforting each other at the cramped gravesites of Evergreen Cemetery. He touched her cheek. "What happened two nights ago has nothing to do with us," Stepanovich said.

  "My brother was drawn into the darkness," she said. Stepanovich tried to embrace her, but she held him away. "You're just like him."

  "There's nothing we can do about the past."

  Soberly she wiped tears from her eyes, "I don't want to be consumed by the violence and hatred of this neighborhood. "

  "I can't help who I am," Stepanovich whispered.

  "Being a policeman is more important than anything else to you. It's because when you're a cop, you're always in control."

  "Do you want me to leave?"

  "Yes," she said, her voice cracking.

  ****

  THIRTEEN

  Though it was sweltering outside, the air conditioner kept the motor home relatively comfortable. Stepanovich held the binoculars up to the opening in the black curtain covering the side window, and slowly he scanned the half block of brown spotted lawn that was Hazard Park: a baseball diamond, a windowless cement block public restroom, a swimming pool protected by a high chain link fence, the all day shadow cast over the eastern corner of the park by an elevated section of the freeway. The cement stanchions upholding it, the walls of the swimming pool, the aluminum bleachers behind home plate, the trunks of the park's eight trees, and every inch of sidewalk was sullied with spray can gang graffiti.

  Black was lying on his side in the motor home's upper bunk eating a sandwich. He wadded the clear plastic sandwich wrapper and tossed it at Fordyce. The missile hit him on the top of the head and bounced to the floor.

  "Thanks, fella."

  "Next time get something other than deviled egg."

  Fordyce yawned. "You guys said get whatever I wanted. Well, I like deviled egg sandwiches. When I was a kid I always ate egg sandwiches. My mom thought I was crazy "

  "Egg's good for you," Arredondo said, sitting across the table from Fordyce. He popped open an aluminum can of Coke. "It puts lead in the chingas. "

  "Fordyce doesn't need any extra bullets," Black said. "He can already hit the shower curtain."

  The others laughed, but Stepanovich didn't join in.

  "I'm tired of being the butt of every one of your stupid jokes," Fordyce said.

  Black formed his mouth into an O and belched stridently.

  "Do you have to do that in here?" Fordyce pleaded.

  For the next few hours they took turns at the window watching a group of twelve year olds play baseball. At one point Arredondo spent what seemed like a full half hour announcing the events on the field as if he were a sports announcer.

  Though he knew violence could erupt at any time, Stepanovich had difficulty keeping his mind on anything but Gloria. Over and over he reviewed their first meeting at the county hospital, their dinner at the Jade Tree Inn, their night together. He could feel her hands on the back of his neck. Finally he convinced himself it was better to do nothing. Hell, she would call him eventually.

  That night at midnight, when the last park visitors had left and the lights in the park had been extinguished, Fordyce crawled from the motor home shell into the cab and started the engine. He drove to Hollenbeck Station, where they decided by mutual consent that they would separate to get a few hours' rest and be back at Hazard Park by the first light to avoid being noticed by the people living in the area.

  The only message on his answering machine when Stepanovich arrived back at his apartment was one from the local cleaners telling him to pick up a sports coat that had been there for two weeks.

  The second day of the surveillance he still couldn't get her out of his mind. She still hadn't called.

  During the afternoon of the third day he realized that she was never going to call him. She was as stubborn as he was. If he was ever going to see her again, he would have to initiate the contact. That night, after concluding the surveillance, he drove straight to her apartment.

  He knocked lightly on the door. No answer. He knocked louder. A light came on inside, followed by the sound of footsteps. The door opened. Gloria, dressed in a robe, was holding a book in her hands.

  "I know it's late, but I'd like to talk."

  She stood there for a moment without saying anything, then stepped back to allow him inside.

  "If you don't want to see me anymore, I understand. But before that happens, I want to get something off my chest."

  She motioned him to the sofa. When he sat down, she took a seat at the opposite end.

  "I've been doing a lot of thinking for the past couple of days," he said. "I'm not here to change the way you feel about what happened. In fact, if the situations were reversed, I probably wouldn't want to see you again either. But I want you to know that the last thing in the world I would ever do is knowingly hurt you, I'm sorry about what happened."

  "Thanks, Joe."

  "I guess that's about it," he said after a pause. He rose to his feet and retreated slowly toward the door.

  "I've been thinking about you too," she said.

  "My job has always been more important to me than anything else ... until the last few days."

  "Joe, I gave up the values of the barrio a long time ago. But you didn't. That's what is standing between us."

  "Values change."

  "Can you change?"

  "I'm not sure. But I'm willing to try."

  Gloria stood up and came to him. She put her arms around him and nestled her head in his shoulder. "I don't want to be hurt."

  "I'll never do anything to harm you." His lips moved to hers and suddenly he was lost in her softness, the smell of her hair, the sensation of her body close to his. "Since the day we met, I haven't been able to get you off my mind," he said when their mouths parted for a moment.

  He carried her into the bedroom and they undressed quickly. Without hesitating, she took him and firmly guided him into her, and they rocked for a long, long time until they were both liberated from every care in the world.

  Afterward, lying in bed with his arms around her, Stepanovich could feel the tingle of perspiration evaporating slowly from his neck and back.

  "Let's go somewhere this weekend," she whispered. "I don't care where."

  "I'm stuck on a stakeout," Stepanovich said softly.

  "When will it be over?"

  "There's no way of telling. We're expecting trouble at Hazard Park."

  "There's always trouble in East L.A. The way to stop it is to change the conditions causing it."

  "Let's not
argue, Gloria."

  "If the gangs would just leave each other alone. If the violence could stop ... just for a while ... maybe things would change."

  "Maybe. "

  Soon he found himself aroused again and drew her close. Her velvety smooth brown legs saddled him, and they were face to face, breathing hard, lost in each other.

  Later, they showered together and dressed. In the kitchen Stepanovich helped Gloria as she prepared an elaborate Mexican meal, and they sat down to a quiet dinner of steak picado.

  The next morning he woke early with Gloria in his arms. His first thought was relief that she hadn't noticed the CRASH tattoo on his ankle. Or had she just chosen to ignore it?

  Quietly disengaging himself from her arms, he slid out of bed. Into the bathroom he tiptoed for a long shower. Back in the bedroom, watching her steep, he picked up his holstered revolver from the dresser table where he'd placed it the night before and slid it onto his belt. Having carefully arranged it in the cross draw position, he moved quietly to the side of the bed and knelt down. He kissed her on the cheek. Her eyes opened.

  "I have to go to work."

  Her hand touched his cheek. "Please be careful."

  Outside, as he climbed in his car, he looked up. Gloria, wearing a white robe that seemed almost fluorescent in the morning sunlight, was standing at her bedroom window looking down at him. She waved and he waved back.

  Driving off, he checked the rearview mirror. She was still watching him.

  On the way to Hazard Park a female dispatcher cackled East L.A. emergency calls over the police radio: " . . . group with guns, possible gang activity. Fifteen sixteen Crusado Lane. 459 suspect there now at 2642 Drew Street. Suspect described as a male Hispanic, brown khaki pants, white T-shirt attempting to enter residence through rear window. PR is in a car across street from the location. Ambulance cutting: 3200 North Broadway at the gas station. Vandalism suspects spray-painting a garage door. Any unit in the vicinity, gang activity, possible narcotics involved at Pecan Playground First Street and Pecan. All units and Four Adam One, a shooting in progress, 2932 Greenwood Street, Apartment B . . ." Rather than listening closely to the transmissions as he was supposed to, Stepanovich was caught up in reliving his night with Gloria.

  By the ninth day of the surveillance, the incessant metallic hum of the motor home's air conditioner had become an unending source of irritation to Stepanovich. For what seemed like the thousandth time, he used the binoculars to check the park. By this time he'd become an authority on the park and everything around it. Hell, he could diagram every inch of the place ... or write a book about it. Because nothing had happened in nine full surveillance shifts, he knew the book would rank among the most boring in history ... until today.

  Today, he could tell, something was wrong.

  The only people in the park were a couple of elderly Mexican men playing checkers on a park bench and a group of young boys tossing a football.

  "It's Saturday," Stepanovich ruminated. "There should be a lot more people in the park."

  Fordyce, who was sitting at the table resting his head on his arms, stirred and sat up.

  "Something's up," Stepanovich said. "I can feel it."

  Fordyce rose and joined him at the window. "I don't see anything out of the ordinary."

  "There should be a lot of picnickers here by this time of day."

  Black climbed off the bunk and checked outside. "Maybe they all went to the Dodgers game," he said.

  "The Dodgers are playing in New York," Arredondo said, tugging back the curtain to check for himself.

  "Maybe the gangbangers know we're here," Stepanovich said.

  "There wasn't a soul on the street when we parked here this morning," Fordyce said. "It was dark. Besides, there are other motor homes parked on the street. We don't look out of place."

  Nothing else was said for what seemed like a long time. Black opened a can of Coke and guzzled it. Arredondo took his time unwrapping a second sandwich. Then he chuckled. Stepanovich recognized the chuckle as a signal he was going to tell a cock story.

  "Last night Christine and Gilda joined the beaver club," he said.

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "They came over to my apartment and they went down on each other."

  "Bullshit," Fordyce said.

  "I swear to God."

  "Let's hear the details," Black said.

  "A coupla weeks ago I'm having a few drinks with Christine. She's drunk and we're just talking shit and I asked if she would let a broad go down on her. Like it's a theoretical question. Not that she would have to do anything, but just if she would lay there and let another broad eat her pussy."

  "You're sick," Fordyce interrupted. "Really sick."

  "Let him finish, goddammit."

  Arredondo sipped his Coke. "Good 'ol Christine kind of laughs and says maybe. Right then I knew I had her. 'Maybe' means they've been dreaming about it. Then last night Gilda comes over to my apartment after work. I ask her the same question. She says maybe. So when Gilda makes a trip to the john, I hop on the phone to Christine and invite her over. It was a little strained at first, but I make the introduction and mix a couple of drinks. Pretty soon they're talking real nice. When Christine is out of the room for a minute, I tell Gilda that Christine begged me to call her." He laughed.

  "Don't stop there, cowboy," Black said.

  "By midnight the three of us are in bed, and I have Earth Angel playing on the ol' tape player. It was all tits and clits, a real circus act. They were really chowing down on beaver. I'm talking hair pie frenzy. Then they took turns blowing me and when I reached my rocks I came all over their faces and they lapped it up like a couple of dogs,"

  "Sick," Fordyce said. "Warped."

  "Sounds like good clean fun to me," Black said.

  "The bitches were really working out," Arredondo said.

  Black cleared his throat. "The only problem, amigo, is that I saw Gilda at the Rumor Control last night. She was there until two."

  Arredondo coughed nervously, "This happened the night before. "

  "You know, you've got some great stories. But come to think of it, I've never seen you with a broad."

  Arredondo's face was flushed. "Just what is that supposed to mean?"

  "Nothing. "

  "You calling me a liar?"

  "It's just that for a guy who claims to be the king of the dicks, no one's ever seen you with a woman."

  "Except Brenda," Fordyce said,

  Black laughed sharply. "And she doesn't count because she'd fuck the Ayatollah Khomeini if he showed her a badge."

  Stepanovich, choosing to avoid the discussion, turned toward the window. Just at that moment a black four-door Chevrolet slipped slowly around the corner and drove past the motor home. The windows of the car were tinted, eerily masking the driver and any passengers from view. The Chevrolet cruised slowly down Hazard Street to the other end of the park, near some metal swing sets and slides, then made a U turn and pulled in at the curb facing back down the street. Stepanovich picked up the binoculars and checked the ear. "Lowriders in a black Chevy," he said. "They've parked down the street facing this way."

  Fordyce sidled next to Stepanovich in order to get a better look. "Tinted windows."

  Stepanovich adjusted the binoculars to focus on the front of the car. "No front license plate." He felt his abdominal muscles tighten.

  Now Arredondo took a look. "Probably just some White Fence homeboys out to smoke a little weed. 'Let's go down to the park and smoke some shit, man,' " he said, mimicking the barrio dialect.

  Black moved to the small rectangular window in the bunk area and thumbed the curtain back. "Don't worry. Eighteenth Street shooters wouldn't dare park around here."

  Stepanovich's eyes were riveted on the Chevrolet. The windows, reflecting the August sun, were rolled up all the way. He felt his senses quicken: the familiar, inarticulable feeling that meant danger.

  Black leaned close to the porthole. "It could
be some White Fence bangers toking up before hitting Eighteenth. Getting their balls up for a drive by shooting."

  Fordyce chuckled nervously. "That'd be all we need. We're sitting here waiting for Eighteenth to hit White Fence, and White Fence cruises over and hits Eighteenth."

  Stepanovich checked his wristwatch. Only two minutes had elapsed since the Chevy had arrived. He swung the binoculars to the opposite side of the park. The group of boys who'd been playing baseball were hurrying out of the north end of the park toward the housing project across the street, looking back toward the Chevrolet. They climbed onto bicycles and pedaled away.

  "Something's wrong," Stepanovich said.

  There was the sound of Black clicking open the chamber of his service revolver to check the load. He snapped the cylinder shut.

  Suddenly the Chevy began to move slowly in their direction. "The Chevy's moving ... this way," Stepanovich said. The others crowded next to him to get a look out the window. He could hear the others breathing. "Something's up."

  Staying close to the curb, the Chevy cruised slowly along the curb line parallel to the park. As it came closer, Stepanovich's binoculars caused his vision to blur. He pulled them away to get a better view.

  At that moment the Chevy accelerated and swerved directly toward the motor home. The barrel of an automatic weapon extended from the left rear passenger window.

  "Gun!" Stepanovich shouted, but the sound of his voice was swallowed by a heavy burst of automatic fire ripping through the thin aluminum and wood walls.

  Fordyce shrieked. Stepanovich was struggling to pull his gun and get low at the same time. Shouts of "White Fence! White Fence!" came from outside.

  Stepanovich slapped the door handle downward and propelled himself out the rear door, holding his gun in both hands. The Chevy was nearing the corner. He dropped to his knees and, aiming low to account for windage, fired all six rounds as the car made a right turn at high speed. From beside him came popping gunfire as Black and Arredondo also emptied their revolvers.

  The car disappeared down Third Street.