Riding the Snake (1998)

by Stephen Cannell

  The four Crip gangsters got out of the car and silently closed the door. They left LaFrance at the wheel, telling him to be ready to bone out after he heard the gunfire. Two of them shouldered Russian automatic assault rifles that they got out of the trunk. The guns had been bought for top dollar from the Chin Lo several months ago. The other two grabbed cut-down shotguns known as "street sweepers."

  All four killers moved silently toward Nadine's darkened house.

  Chapter 37.

  Irish Charlie

  It was a complicated string of events that had put "Irish Charlie" McGuire aboard the Hornblower charter boat on Thursday night. The deal had started two days before, when a barely understandable skinny Chinese teenager named Lo Sing had booked a charter for Friday night. He wanted to rent a seventy-foot, triple-deck party boat. The youth had put down nine hundred dollars in cash to secure the deal, and had said in horrible broken English that he wanted enough fuel to go at least thirty miles out. The suspicious charter boat company called the LAPD. The call had been kicked over to Asian Crimes and had landed on Al Katsukura's desk. Al called Parker Center to get help on the surveillance, and that's how Irish Charlie McGuire, the Major Crimes detective with the most boat-handling experience, got tapped to stand in for the Hornblower charter boat captain.

  At a few minutes past eleven on Thursday night, the same skinny Chinese asshole had reappeared with a handwritten note, demanding that the time of the charter be changed. The note said he wanted to move it up twenty-four hours, to just before midnight, which was a bitch, because Charlie was at home sound asleep when the boat company called and told him the Hornblower was out on the bay with a load of Orange County insurance salesmen, celebrating their annual bonuses.

  "Then get the fucking boat back to the slip. I don't give a shit about the insurance guys," Charlie had told the booking agent.

  The rest of it had been your standard slide-for-life last-minute police bullshit. Charlie McGuire had called the three other under-covers he'd already recruited from Major Crimes, waking them up, listening to them bitch and moan before telling them to shut up and haul ass. Then he dug around in his wallet for the phone number of the owl-eyed Jap who had tapped him for this shit detail in the first place.

  "Yeah," Al Katsukura said. He was at Parker Center, talking on his cellphone.

  "Operation Dry Dock is happening," Charlie told him.

  "Now?" Al whined, not wanting to leave Parker Center because he was beginning to suspect that the Cassidy case was going to be an all-time, Hall of Fame, once-in-a-lifetime hot grounder. They had allowed Wo Lap Ling his one call an hour ago. Al had been a short distance away from the pay phone trying to overhear, but Willy was speaking Fukienese in a soft voice. Al was fluent in Japanese, but knew only a little Cantonese and even less Fukienese, so he missed all of it. Since then, they had been sitting around waiting for the next shoe to drop. Tanisha Williams and Wheeler Cassidy had left; so had Cameron Jobe. Al had decided to spend the rest of the night there so he wouldn't miss out on the pinch. Now, of all times, his fucking immigration case had come alive. He had to beat ass out of Parker Center and get all the way down to the marina in less than an hour. His part in Operation Dry Dock was to maintain "on the water" surveillance from a harbor patrol boat, then be on hand to call in and coordinate the ground units in the resulting full-scale surveillance.

  He moved quickly to the parking lot across from Parker Center, found his P. O. V., and pulled out. He grabbed the list of numbers for his hand-picked surveillance team and began waking up angry Asian cops while he drove too fast with one hand.

  Everything was in place when Dry Dragon, using his real name, Lo Sing, walked down the pier with Long Snake and Fighting Rooster, his two Bamboo Dragon accomplices. All three were dressed in black. Charlie McGuire was waiting next to the yacht with two U. C. S from Major Crimes: Detectives Leo Huff, overweight, red hair; and Clark Johnson, overweight, no hair. Both were dressed up in cornball Hornblower crew uniforms that looked ridiculous on them: white bells, with striped blue-and-white T-shirts under white linen jackets. They looked like a couple of badly cast gondola drivers from a fifties musical.

  "You go now," Dry Dragon said, pointing at the boat.

  The three Chinese teenagers all had backpacks on, and Charlie hoped to God they weren't packing guns.

  "You got the rest of the cash?" Charlie said. "You only put down half. This boat is nine hundred an hour. Minimum is eighteen hundred."

  "Go now," Dry Dragon repeated, putting a little oomph in it this time for emphasis.

  "You got cash money?" Charlie rubbed his fingers together in the international signal for greenbacks, and Dry Dragon finally got the message. He dug into his pocket for a wad of hundreds, then handed Charlie a piece of paper with a compass heading on it. "Go now!" he demanded one more time, pissing Irish Charlie off.

  Fifteen minutes later the three Bamboo Dragons and three undercover Major Crimes detectives were on a moonlight cruise together, clearing the harbor bell buoy in an empty, barely seaworthy boat heading straight out to nowhere.

  "You shit fingers sure ain't being too subtle about this,"

  Charlie muttered.

  The Hornblower chugged along under its single-screw diesel engine at its top speed of seven knots. It had been designed for bay cruises, and in open water it rolled like a pregnant hog. After ten minutes Charlie was amused to see all three of the tough teenagers hanging over the rail, emptying eggrolls and wonton soup into the drink.

  Charlie McGuire checked his Department-issue .38-caliber Smith & Wesson Airweight revolver to make sure it wouldn't stick on his waistband and, if necessary, would be easy to pull from under his shirt. He wasn't too worried, because he didn't think three skinny seasick boys in black PJs would be hard to handle. The one called Lo Sing moved back into the cabin. He looked white from throwing up. He also had sweat on his face, even though the warm Santa Ana winds had stopped blowing and it was turning cold outside. There was panic in his teenage eyes. He looked to Charlie like a man who was scared of the water.

  Finally Charlie spotted the running lights of a distant boat. As he got closer he could see the moonlit silhouette of a rusting trawler.

  The Hornblower approached the Golden Hind from the east to take advantage of the new, cold, onshore breeze. Irish Charlie backed down the single engine and tried to get the boat alongside the rolling trawler without bashing his starboard-side paint. He yelled at his cops to throw over the fenders as he backed the throttle down. He could see groups of Chinese huddled on the deck of the old boat, leaning over the rail, anxious to get off the rusting hulk.

  Once they made the lines fast, Charlie moved from behind the wheel and climbed up onto the trawler. He was greeted by a Mexican captain with oily hair, greasy skin, and a sweat-stained T-shirt.

  Charlie could not believe the stench aboard the trawler. It was unlike anything he had ever encountered: a mixture of old engine oil, mildew, human excrement, and vomit. He looked into the frightened, seasick faces of almost two hundred Asian immigrants, who were whispering in half-a-dozen different languages. Three women were holding scrawny babies; the rest were clutching soiled bundles containing their meager possessions. A young Chinese man seemed to be in charge of the Snake Riders. The skinny asshole in the black pajamas approached that man. They spoke for a minute and then the asshole came back over to him.

  "We go now," the boy ordered, pointing at the Hornblower.

  "Can you say 'Eat my dick'?" Charlie replied.

  "Go now!" Lo Sing said again, and pointed with greater emphasis to the Hornblower.

  Charlie nodded, and they began to load the Chinese Snake Riders aboard. They grinned and pointed at the clean toilets. They kneeled and touched the shiny, polished linoleum deck. The Horn-blower's interior had been finished in plywood by an apartment building contractor and Charlie thought it looked about as nautical as a tax auditor's office, but to these Chinese immigrants it was the Queen Mary. They sat down on benches, their
knees together like good children waiting for the school bus. The Hornblower rocked heavily in the trough, banging against the rubber fenders and occasionally trading paint with the trawler as it crashed against its rusting hull.

  Finally, they were finished loading the immigrants aboard and his two U. C. S got busy untying the two boats. Charlie went out to supervise the operation.

  Dry Dragon nodded at Long Snake and Fighting Rooster. All three quickly pulled 9mm automatic pistols from their backpacks. Long Snake and Fighting Rooster went to where the two U. C. S were leaning over the rail to catch the lines from the trawler's crew. The boats were banging together, rocking precariously.

  Dry Dragon moved up behind Charlie. "Go on inside, sit down. We got it," Charlie yelled in anger at the skinny teenager.

  "Fuck you, Joe!" Dry Dragon said, using his only other English expression. Then he unloaded the pistol into Charlie McGuire, knocking him over the rail and into the water. Simultaneously, Long Snake and Fighting Rooster did the same, firing in unison at the unsuspecting U. C. S, amidst the screaming of terrified Snake Riders. In seconds, the three L. A. cops were dead and overboard.

  Fighting Rooster moved to the helm. He loved boats. This one looked slow, but easy to operate. He studied the dash and turned the key. The Hornblower started. He throttled up and pulled away, leaving the rusting trawler behind.

  Fu Hai stood on the back deck, bile still in his throat. He watched in fascination as one of the dead policeman rolled in the moonlit wake, his blue-and-white shirt billowing with trapped air like the belly of a bloated fish.

  Al Katsukura was hoping he wouldn't vomit into the sea. The Marina Del Rey Harbor Patrol boat was rolling badly, because it had to run at slow speeds to stay out of sight of the lumbering Hornblower. At about one A. M. the weather had suddenly turned cold. The Santa Anas had been blowing hot all day, and now, without warning, the winds had stopped and a thick marine layer began descending over the water, coming out of nowhere. In twenty minutes they were wallowing around in a pea soup fog.

  'The fuck," Al said, looking at the wall of white air.

  "We got radar, no sweat," the patrol boat skipper said, turning the Furuno radar on.

  Using the radar they followed the Hornblower down the coast, which in the Santa Monica Bay area runs roughly east and west. Unexpectedly, the Hornblower bypassed the Marina Del Rey Channel and continued southeast.

  "Where the fuck is Charlie going?" Al said, not realizing that Charlie had stopped going anywhere, and was now sinking in the water five miles away. Then suddenly the Hornblower stopped moving and just parked out in the ocean about a mile south of Del Rey. The skipper of the patrol boat throttled back, and again they began rocking in the thick fog. Fifteen minutes passed and the party boat still hadn't moved.

  "Whatta you wanna do?" the patrol boat captain asked.

  It was now almost two-thirty in the morning and Al was out in Buttfuck Nowhere, rolling in the tide, swallowing air like a guppie, trying to keep his dinner down.

  "I don't know," he finally said.

  "I can just park here and let whatever happens happen, but this doesn't look good. We could buzz 'em. Ask 'em if everything's all right, and then if it is, just move off like we're patrolling out here."

  "Okay," Al said. "Let's try that."

  The boat captain put the vessel in gear and moved forward. The heavy gas engine vibrated under Al's feet as they finally gained speed. The forward motion steadied the boat and Al's stomach. Although the radar said they were close, almost without warning the stern of the Hornblower loomed up at them, out of the fog. The patrol captain hit reverse and backed his boat down. They drifted about five yards off, watching the huge, unwieldy triple-deck party boat wallow and roll in the three-foot swells. All of its lights were out. The Harbor Patrol captain grabbed the mike.

  "Hello, Hornblower, everybody okay?" he asked over the loud hailer.

  No answer from the darkened vessel.

  He put the patrol boat in gear and moved slowly around the starboard side of the Hornblower. There didn't appear to be anybody aboard.

  "I wanna get on," Al said, his heart pounding in panic. He moved to the rail as the Harbor Patrol captain jockeyed the boat into position so Al could grab a trailing rope and pull himself up. His feet slipped and skidded on Hornblower's rub rail and he almost went into the water, but managed to finally clamber aboard.

  There was nobody on the first deck. He checked the toilet: nothing. He ran up the stairs to the second deck, clawing for his service revolver as he ran. The second deck was also deserted. He checked the toilets there, then moved to the top deck. Again, nothing. There was not a soul aboard the huge boat. He moved back down and started walking the decks.

  "Everything okay?" the patrol captain shouted from a few yards off. Al didn't trust himself to answer. When he got to the port side, his heart froze. There, in the scuppers, washed with sea-water, was Charlie McGuire's police-issue S&W Airweight. He turned and looked around the decks. His gaze fell on a line which was lying in a tangle on the front deck. He bent down and stared at it. The rope was soaked with blood. Al knew that Irish Charlie and his two U. C. S were dead.

  Everybody else had vanished into thin air.

  Chapter 38.

  The White Man's Nightmare

  Something wasn't right. Tanisha could feel it, tangible as a silent touch. She rose up on the sofa and looked out the front window. LaFrance's "glass house" was again parked in the driveway. She could see the occasional hot glow from the tip of a cigarette inside the car. She looked at Wheeler, who was beside her on the sofa, sexual satisfaction still alive in his blue eyes.

  "LaFrance is sitting in his car in the drive," she said.

  "He's a hard little shit to get rid of," Wheeler grinned.

  "Damn," she said, and scrambled up, grabbing her skirt and blouse. Wheeler sat up and watched her. He was still naked.

  "This ain't right," she said, looking out the side window into the driveway. She thought she saw a shadow moving out there; dark clothing against a green hedge. It was just a glimpse, she wasn't sure. "Get dressed. Let's go," she said, zipping her skirt and snapping her bra.

  "What's wrong?" he said as he started looking around in the dark for his Jockey shorts. He found them and tried to get them on, almost falling as he jumped around on one foot trying to find the leg hole in the dark.

  They heard the back door open and close. "Shit," she said, grabbing her shirt, purse, and Wheeler's hand, dragging him toward the stairs.

  Wheeler had managed to get his undershorts on, but was still clutching his pants as they ran, Tanisha pulling him along behind her, taking the stairs two at a time. As they got to the landing they heard the door downstairs in the den open and close. Tanisha dragged Wheeler down the upstairs hall and into Breezy's bedroom at the end of the corridor. She closed the door silently behind them and ran to the window, which looked out onto the roof at the far side of the house. She unlatched it and pulled it open.

  "What's going on?" he said, as she got the window open. They could hear footsteps in the hall, and Tanisha pulled the Glock out of her purse, jacked a round into the chamber, and held the piece with both hands out in front of her just as the door flew open and a nineteen-year-old shaved-bald gang-banger stood there, unexpectedly looking right into her gun barrel.

  "Sheee/f, Mama, what you doin'?" he squealed, as he tried to inch the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun over at her.

  "Don't!" she yelled at him, and he froze. "Wheeler, get out the window, now!" she commanded.

  Still holding his pants in his right hand, he clambered out the opening onto the roof, while she held the gangster in a deadly standoff.

  "What the fuck is this?" the banger said.

  "Drop the breakdown or I get busy and start peeling caps!" she said.

  He quickly dropped the shotgun, and she heard more footsteps on the stairs.

  "Why?" she said.

  "Not my doin'. You worth fifty keys a' China White, Mama," he
said. "Everybody be gettin' ovah on yo' ass for dat much racehorse." He was holding his palms out to indicate he was no threat anymore. "I be on E here, baby. Don't pull no jack move!"

  Then two more gangsters appeared at the far end of the hall behind him. They had assault weapons. She stepped forward and pushed the banger in the chest, forcing him back into the hall. Then she kicked the door shut and locked it. Two shots rang out, splintering the door by her head, and she quickly moved across Breezy's bedroom, then dove headfirst out of the window onto the roof. Wheeler helped her up and they ran across the flat roof to the edge of the house. They could hear the door of Breezy's room being kicked in. "Follow me," Tanisha said, then grabbed the limb of an elm and started climbing down. The trunk of the tree was in the neighbor's yard.

  One of the gangsters appeared in the window of the room and yelled out at them, "We don' wan' you, baby, we want da snow brother."

  "Who?" Wheeler asked, as they landed in the next yard.

  "That's you, Casper. Let's go." She grabbed his hand and started to thread her way through a backyard full of junk cars and old refrigerators. She knew where she was going and moved fast, not hesitating for a moment as she ran. Then she ducked through a hole in the fence and they were suddenly in a narrow alley. They took off running. Pebbles and broken glass cut their bare feet as they ran, still carrying their clothes.

  Tanisha led him through a broken fence into the backyard of another house, then through a back gate, and finally stopped next to an old shed. They were both breathing hard.

  "Jesus," he said, trying to catch his breath. "Naked in Watts--the White man's nightmare."

  "This is Monster C.'s house. He used to be my boyfriend. He's in Lompoc, but I think I can trust his mother." She held her blouse up in front of her, looking for an armhole.

  "Tanisha, we can't trust anybody here. Nobody."

  "This is my hood."

  "This is their hood. You heard that punk. Fifty keys of China White, Chinese dope. Willy supplies these assholes. They all work for the Triad. We're fucked down here," he said, desperately trying to put on his pants.