Tom-Tom laughed. He was bouncing in his boots, white hair flapping, fingers going at his sides as if he were hopped up on meth, though he required none. "Lookadit. His shirt. Doanfitchasogood." His voice sounded funny, altered through an oft-broken nose.
Kaner said, "Why should I stain mine?"
The man in the chair emitted a faint cry.
Goat laughed. "You sound like Chief. Next you'll have your bitches polishing your boots."
Chief stared ahead, unamused and silent, his thin lines of beard fastidiously sculpted.
As Kaner drifted behind the man, Den drew forward into a square of foggy light thrown through one of the tiny windows. The man tried to recoil in his chair, pulling his head back and to one side, muttering a prayer in Spanish.
Den's surprisingly handsome face tensed. "I won't ask again."
"Por favor...por favor..."
Den nodded at Kaner, who palmed the man's skull, his other hand locking beneath his chin, and ripped him and the chair backward. Kaner dragged him, shrieking, toward the kitchen area.
Den got there before they did and spun the arm of the vise. A metallic whir as the jaws spread. At the sound the man found a hidden reserve of strength, bucking against Kaner's hold. Goat and Tom-Tom stepped in, and then Kaner gripped the man's blood-slick ponytail, forcing his head back. The man grunted and strained forward against his hair, face reddening, veins standing up in his neck. At a snail's pace, both hands tightening around the ponytail, Kaner fought the head between the open jaws. Den knocked the handle with the side of a hand, and the device clenched.
A piercing scream that faded to whispered babbling.
Chief watched impassively from across the garage, looking mildly bored. He had not moved.
Den appraised the tools on the counter, picking up a pair of needle-nose pliers. He looked down at the trapped head.
The pliers rose into the man's view. "I tell you. I tell you todo."
"I know." Den bent sympathetically over the upturned face. "But I'm gonna work for a while first."
Chapter 8
The air-conditioned elevator filled with the Muzak stylings of "Arthur's Theme." Bear hummed along at the chorus, then rustled under Tim's and Guerrera's looks.
"What? I was clearing my throat."
The elevator stopped, and they stepped out into a marble foyer that led to glass doors with deco etching. Bear, who'd made short and noisy work of an eye-opener Super Big Gulp on the way over, ducked into a bathroom.
The foyer window looked down four stories onto South Rodeo Drive. Tim and Guerrera stood shoulder to shoulder and watched Jags and Hummers flash back the morning light.
Guerrera brought his knuckle to his jawbone, a nervous tap. "Listen, I'm sorry I lost my cool at the clubhouse yesterday."
"You let Pete get to you a little, that's all."
"Never seen you get rattled like that."
Tim laughed. "You don't read the papers."
"You know what I mean. You're level, even when you're not."
"They say racist shit to get a rise out of you. Don't give it to them. Detach."
Bear stepped out from the bathroom, readjusting the star on his belt, and by tacit understanding, Tim and Guerrera let the exchange end. The three headed to reception and flashed creds. After a fifteen-minute wait, during which they were forced to endure the receptionist's too-loud phone recollections of a recent shopping expedition, they were escorted past a secretary and a dressed-for-success paralegal to the Inner Office.
Dana Lake stood with her back to them, silhouetted against a sun-bleached pane of glass. A cordless headset slightly crimped her hair. "If you won't offer us anything better than that, I'll wait until five minutes before trial to plead him out. I'll make you spend six months building a case you won't even try. Yeah? Then don't waste our time with bullshit offers."
She pulled off the headset, shook out her hair, and pivoted to face them. "Don't fuck with my client. You want to talk to him, you bring a warrant or you phone me."
"Uncle Pete and I reached our own arrangement," Tim said.
She tossed the headset onto her meticulously ordered desk. "Credentials."
They handed them to her, and she wrote down their names and badge numbers on a yellow legal pad. A framed lithograph of the Laughing Sinner logo commanded the wall behind her desk. "To DL--a friend to bikers, my kind of tough broad." Danny the Wand's flourish of a signature was Sharpied beneath the dedication.
Dana stared at Tim's creds for an extra beat. "I hope you don't think you can get away with your celebrated stunts with my clients, Deputy Rackley. I'll have your ass in a sling."
"Ms. Lake, my ass lives in a sling."
"So. You've sicced the heat on the entire Laughing Sinners organization. Incisive investigative strategy. Was the Marshals Service the brain trust behind color-coding Arab travelers after 9/11?"
"You rep all the Sinners?"
"I do."
"How's that arranged?"
"Not that it's any of your business, but I'm on retainer to the club."
Bear said, "Lucrative, I'd imagine."
Her gaze dropped to his feet. "I don't buy my shoes at Payless."
"You know where that money comes from?"
"And your paychecks come from an Enron-funded junta government that supports tyrannical monarchies and wages illegal war in violation of international law and against UN votes. Looks like you've got the moral upper hand on a sleazy gal like me. Let's get to business. I bill six-fifty an hour. This diverting badinage with the constabulary has already cost me"--a glance to her Baume & Mercier--"a hundred and twenty-five dollars."
"I'm sure Uncle Pete'll pick up the tab," Bear said.
"Good idea. I'll inform Billing."
Tim produced the municipal permission allowing the Sinners to ride without helmets in that morning's funeral procession. She lowered her head into a pair of frameless half-glasses and perused it. She finished, and her glasses took flight, landing softly on the legal pad on her desk. "What's your angle?"
"Goodness of my heart. I was told to smooth things over so our fine city's middle-class churchgoers can sleep soundly in their beds."
She refolded the permission. "I'll drag you through the press if we take you at your word and you use it to roust my clients." She seemed to speak without breathing, a rapid-fire assault perfected by years of courtroom performance. "It's preposterous that riding bareheaded even has to be granted as a favor. We've been petitioning against the helmet laws for years. So much for Patrick Henry--you won't let people risk their own skulls."
Guerrera said, "Helmet laws save--"
"Great. A bean counter. Accounting can't justify everything. What you forget is, your numbers erode our freedoms. What's the deaths-per-year cutoff to make something illegal these days? What's next? Diet legislation to cut heart-disease stats? Burgers? French fries? Supersize it and ride the pine in county for the night. What do you say, boys?"
"We refer to them as freedom fries now, ma'am."
Tim said, "If any of the nomads contact you, we want to know."
"Of course. Insert yourselves into every aspect of everything regardless of your understanding or the casualty rate."
"I'm not sure I'm catching your drift."
"Bikers are true patriots. As American as laissez-faire economics. They administer their own justice. Surely you can relate to that, miraculously reinstated Deputy Rackley." She seemed disappointed by Tim's nonreaction, not that it slowed her down. "During the grudge match between the Sinners and Cholos, neither club complained to the police or requested protection. You should have let them be."
"To kill each other?"
"Beats killing federal officers and innocent bystanders. Which is what happened when you imposed your laws on them. Laws and bikers are like sodium and nitric acid. You're the geniuses playing chemist."
"Someone drank the Kool-Aid," Bear muttered.
"You're right. All three of you have stained chins. Aren't you sick of being
told what to do? The corporations pay the lobbyists, the laws get passed, and you enforce them. Tax laws. Drug laws. Patriot Act II, the Sequel. Your boss tells you to come sniff around here, and you prick up your little ears and obey."
"I hadn't realized my ears were pricked," Tim said.
"And my ears just stick out that way naturally," Bear added.
"So by way of protest," Guerrera chimed in, "you take the side of gang-rapists and cop killers."
"Don't you read the papers, Deputy? This country is rotting from the top down. There are no sides anymore."
Tim said, "There are always sides."
"Not for me."
"I bet that makes it easier to sleep at night."
"Don't play that card with me. I like my Jaguar. I like flying a chartered jet. I like billing six-fifty an hour. And I have no problems sleeping at night. You walk in here, your shoulders squared with all that unequivocal midwestern confidence that comes with thinking you're moral--"
"I grew up in Pasadena."
"Same difference."
"Not to me. I would have preferred the Midwest." Tim nodded at Bear and Guerrera, and they headed out. He paused at the door. "We'll be seeing you soon."
Her cheeks were still flushed from her tirade. "How's that?"
"I'm planning to spend more quality time with your clients."
Chapter 9
Twenty motor units led the official funeral cortege, an ironic biker send-off, followed by fifty black-and-whites. Behind the caissons bearing the caskets and two riderless horses with reversed stirrups--a tradition holding on from Saxon days--came another police phalanx, trailed by a solemn convoy of unmarked cars. The procession slowed around Chinatown to accommodate a pipe-and-drum band. Local-affiliate TV crews formed up with crowds along the downtown streets, grabbing highlights for the six o'clock news. Evincing terrorist-age sensitivity, people waved flags, prayed silently, pressed their hands to their chests. Uniformed peace officers wore black ribbons across their badges. Grief was rampant but, no less, fear.
As the draped caskets rolled past, spectators gave in to emotion. The martial choreography was, after all, largely for them--the citizens on hand and the multitudes tuned in from home. The void opened up by the slaying of an officer could be compensated for only by symbolism, an overwhelming show of force and tradition to reassure citizens that they weren't under attack, that the bedrock wasn't fractured, that the moorings still held.
The procession filtered through surface streets and access roads, skirting the freeways with as much dignity as it could, to arrive at Forest Lawn.
Uncle Pete straddled the yellow dotted line that ran past the clubhouse, his legs like pillars. The sun glinted off the exaggerated blade of Den's bowie knife, lent to him with considerable pomp and circumstance for the occasion. Before him the bikers, in a half-mile formation, throttled and lurched on their marks like angry steeds. Sinners had descended from all the satellite chapters, their bottom rockers a sampling of West Coast and Southwest geography.
Behind the vanguard of Sinner officers' bikes, a flatbed funeral trailer hitched to a Harley Road King interrupted the two-by-two configuration. Every inch of the exposed glossy coffin bore club imagery--licks of fire, clusters of skulls, Nigger Steve's likeness astride a dragon. Vans bookended the bikes, war wagons piloted by deeds and holding ordnance in case of attack. Another defensive weapon, Dana Lake, was suited up on the back of Diamond Dog's bike, looking for once out of place, about as hip as Dukakis in the tank.
Uncle Pete raised both hands over his head and jabbed the tip of the bowie blade into his thumb. He extended his arm, working the thumb below the cut. A bead of blood formed, then dropped.
"May this be the only Sinner blood spilled on asphalt this year!" Uncle Pete roared.
The bikers exploded into whoops and applause. Pete saddled up, hammering his heel down on the kick start. The column of motorcycles moved as one, filling the air with the grease-spatter thunder of engines venting.
Motorcycles flowed down from the San Gabriels' summit as if poured from the horizon. The Cholos rode erect, knights at attention, floating like a mirage over Palmdale tarmac. They traveled slow, the heavy bikes purring calmly beneath them. A coffin was linked sidecar style between two bikes, a cross spray-painted above the name--CHOOCH MILLAN. El Viejo led the pack, his worn-leather face braving the wind, the feathers of his headdress rippling. Carefully cultivated legend had it that he was half Navajo, half Mexican, descended from the Aztecs. Most of the Cholos wore helmets, but a few, like El Viejo, refused, flouting the law to enhance funereal dignity.
Cholo war wagons held lead and rear positions, keeping a respectful distance from the bikes. The convoy turned onto a two-lane highway, following the predetermined route to the Catholic graveyard.
A bagpiper led the procession through Forest Lawn to the first dug grave, the inner circle shuffling along, press and spectators keeping their distance. Palton's girlfriend showed up and lingered red-faced in the back until Jim went over and unceremoniously suggested she grieve elsewhere. Four helicopters did a flyover, one peeling off in missing-man formation just above the neatly dug rectangle. As a bugler played taps, the honor guard stood at attention, white parade ascots dotting their open collars. After they performed the flag fold, Marshal Tannino stepped in, awarding the firm triangle of nylon to a stoically postured Janice Palton. One of the Palton girls collapsed, and every deputy in the vicinity, glad for an opportunity to be useful, surged toward her.
The nonuniformed onlookers dispersed, catharsis complete. The cops and deputies remained, trying for impassivity though a few trickles glittered on motionless cheeks. After the brass's obligatory remarks about sacrifice and unwavering resolve, Jim took the podium. He still hadn't recovered hearing in his right ear; he spoke with his head inadvertently tilted.
"I never understood what 'human resources' meant. I thought it was more of that corporatespeak I hate. 'Human resources.' I mean, what the hell?"
Some nervous shifting in the crowd.
"But now I think I get it. You know how long it takes to make a deputy of Frankie's caliber? An all-state fullback in high school. A B.A. in criminal justice from City. He went through the academy first, you know, before FLETC. Two years as a patrolman, two more as a D-1. Then the Service. SWAT school. Surveillance school. Gang training. Six-month stint with DEA."
Janice was crying for the first time.
"You think that matters to some prick biker with an AR-15?"
The front rows bristled. Miller started toward the podium but caught himself.
"I been thinking a lot lately about how easy it is to destroy. To ruin. It took us how many years to learn to fly? Building airplanes, I mean. And the Towers. The engineering and architecture that went into them. The materials. Scaffolding. Man-hours. A whole civilization building on itself, decade after decade, and what?" Jim's cheeks glistened, but his voice stayed steady, gathering rage. Miller was at his elbow now, contemplating a tactful break-in. "A bunch of jackasses with box cutters can take down the whole enterprise. That's the thing with it. It's so goddamned easy. And what do we do? We make pledges. Like we did today. Law and order. Righteousness. Justice." A noise of disgust escaped between his teeth. "Even if we do nail the guys who killed Frankie..." He caught himself, nodded at Tannino's wife. "Sorry. I'm sorry."
Miller slipped an arm around Jim's shoulders and, smiling at the crowd, directed him away. Jim leaned back toward the mike. "We won't replace you, Frankie. We can't."
The crowd took a moment to resettle. Janice caught Jim stepping off the dais and hugged him, crying into his shoulder. As the coffin began its descent into the grave, a seven-man detail fired a rifle salute, three volleys that rolled back off the foothills.
Tannino rang the brass bell, sending Frank Palton off duty for the last time.
You got 'em yet?" Guerrera's voice crackled through the Nextel.
Tim pressed his binoculars to the tinted glass and refocused at the top of the opposin
g hill. Beside him in the Chevy cargo van, Roger Frisk and another Electronic Surveillance Unit inspector resumed their discussion about virtual dragon building. "Nope. Nothing."
Tim, Bear, and Guerrera were positioned around the cemetery, each with a pair of ESU geeks. It would have been too obvious if they'd tailed the biker procession from the clubhouse. The Sinners' highly secretive route, designed to throw off both law enforcement and revenge-seeking rivals, had most likely been charted out yesterday. Rather than burning resources playing clairvoyant, Tim had decided to pitch camp at the finish line.
The ground vibrated, ever so slightly, and the ESU inspectors finally shut up and grabbed their long-range lenses. The sound rose to a rumble, then a roar, as a landslide of metal overtook the road.
Tim had to raise his voice, even at this distance, to be heard. "Cue the locals. Remember, they've got to sell it."
A sheriff's car pulled forward, blocking the street to halt the procession, and the two brave souls emerged. Already Dana Lake was off the bike, unfolding the municipal permission. The notion of her accompanying the mourners to protect their right to bare heads--all the while earning her hourly--brought a grin to Tim's lips.
An animated discussion ensued, the lead deputy glancing from the paper to the bikers, who looked on with menacing impatience. Tim hoped that Guerrera's team, holed up in the warehouse beside them, was getting all the shots they needed; capturing the Sinners in formation without helmets would provide a wealth of information on the club's pecking order.
Tim keyed the radio. "Who's the guy front right, next to Uncle Pete?"
Guerrera's whispered voice: "We'll match face to name later, but that's the road-captain position."
"What, in case Uncle Pete gets lost?"
"You guessed it. He's got a notoriously bad sense of direction. He once steered an entire run one state wide of the mark, went to the Black Hills by way of Montana.
Bear chimed in on the primary channel, "Never said you needed brains for the gig."
"No," Tim said. "But he's got 'em."
Finally the sheriff's deputy held up his hands in concession, and he and his partner climbed back into their car and took off. The Sinners continued down the hill and slant-parked, one after another. Within seconds both sides of the road below were filled.
Troubleshooter (2005) Page 5