“No, no, that’s okay,” Troy said. “I gotta get on the road myself.”
“Where you gonna spend Christmas?” Tootie asked.
“Up north, ’Frisco.”
“You’re coming back down, aren’t you? This is hometown, right?”
“Uh huh. I’ll be back next month sometime.”
“Man, I’m glad to see you,” said Vidal. “Lemme give you my card.” From the desk drawer, he pulled a business card from a stack fastened with a rubber band; he passed it over to Troy, who put it in a shirt pocket, said his good-byes, and departed. As he came out of the short hallway into the main room, he stopped and looked around. Delia was at a booth, taking an order. Troy walked up and stopped. She looked around to see who it was.
“When do you get off?” he asked.
“About two-thirty,” she said.
“Wanna get some breakfast?”
“I’ll see you then.”
“Good.”
He went out. Thinking about her aroused him. What time was it? He thought it was about ten-thirty but he had no watch. Back in the car, News 98 said it was nine-twelve. Five hours plus. He would eat and go to a movie. He’d noticed Pulp Fiction on a downtown marquee. It was the only movie he had any real desire to see.
At 2:15 A.M., Troy turned onto Huntington Drive from Eastern Avenue. He immediately spotted the spinning blue lights atop the police cars—several of them, plus an ambulance, outside Vidal’s club.
A uniformed officer was standing in the street with a flashlight. Flares were down. Part of the street was marked off and two officers were looking for spent cartridges on the asphalt. “So much for pussy tonight,” Troy muttered, moving over to the far lane and following the car ahead. The policeman waved them to keep going. As Troy went past, a flashbulb went off. A body was lying on the pavement near the curb. A drive-by? Whatever it was, he wasn’t going to see Delia tonight. “’Bye, baby,” he said, and started thinking about the quickest way to a freeway. Any of them would take him to Interstate 5.
16
It was midafternoon of the next day when Troy turned down the street of small tract homes. The development was three years old and most of the houses had landscaping, although the trees were still small. Some had lawns turned winter yellow, while others were green with rye grass. Several houses remained unsold, their front yards still bare dirt.
In the middle of the street, half a dozen boys played touch football. They moved aside for the car. Troy saw Diesel’s Mustang in the driveway. Troy pulled in behind it. Diesel had put in a lawn without subsequently caring for it. It was yellow brown except near a dripping faucet, where it was green and dandelions grew tall. The garage door was open; Troy could see the rear end of Gloria’s new car, the one Diesel had told him about over the phone. Before exiting the car, Troy removed his pistol and clip holster and put them under the seat.
From the house, Diesel saw the Jaguar pull in. He went out to meet his friend. “I see you found it, bro’,” he said, extending a hand. “Glad you’re here. You’re gonna spend Christmas with us.”
“What’s the old lady say about that?”
“Fuck her. I run this pad, y’know what I mean? When the bitch can whip me, then she can call the shots.”
“Naw, naw, bro’. I don’t wanna be the focus of a family squabble. I’ll spend Christmas in the city.”
“Suit yourself. That’s tomorrow. This evening I’m gonna barbecue some sirloin for you. I don’t want no bullshit about that.”
“Okay, I’ll go for that.”
“We gotta go to the market. Wait here while I go tell the old lady.”
Diesel went inside. Troy stood outside and watched the touch football game. A minute later, Diesel came out. They took Troy’s car because it was the easiest to back out. As he started the engine, the boys playing football started to horseplay. The one with the ball zigzagged and cut back, finally trying to keep the car between himself and his pursuers. Diesel rolled down the window to say something when the two boys in pursuit went around both sides and the boy being chased had to take off across the street.
Wilson Walter Williams, night manager of the Safeway market, was in the upstairs office above the meat section. Down below, the market was filled with shoppers. His eye went to the two men as if to a magnet. The big one pushing the cart wore a short-sleeved shirt that displayed countless blue handmade tattoos. To the night manager, the big man seemed jittery and suspicious. The store had recently suffered an inordinate amount of loss from shoplifting, especially meat and cigarettes. The other man matched the description of someone the morning box boys had chased but had gotten away a few days earlier.
Wilson Walter Williams reached for the telephone. The number for the police station was under glass on his desk.
Down below, Diesel selected a big cut of sirloin and dropped it in the cart. He had a list Gloria had given him. “I gotta get all this shit, too.”
“Do your duty, brother. I’m gonna go sit in the car.”
“I won’t be long.”
On the way out, Troy picked up a package of mini-doughnuts. He also got some Pepto-Bismol for the heartburn. While waiting in the express lane, he picked up a People magazine to look at while he waited in the car. He paid the cashier and walked out to the car.
Behind the market, a police car with two officers, one white female, one black male, pulled up to the loading dock. The manager was waiting. “The big one is still inside. The other guy is out in the car, a burgundy Jaguar. I didn’t get the license number.”
“Did you see him take anything?” Officer Lincoln asked.
“No … but the one in the car was here last week. He got away with half a case of cigarettes.”
The black male officer was on the passenger side. “I’ll check out the big guy in the store.”
Officer Melanie Strunk waited until the two men disappeared through the loading dock door. Then she drove slowly down the alley and turned toward the parking lot.
Inside the market, Diesel was pushing the cart piled high with Gloria’s list and whatever else caught his eye. His pistol was working its way out of his waistband under his sweater. He looked around. So many people were shopping on Christmas Eve. Still, he couldn’t have it falling out on the floor. He pushed the cart down the last aisle and looked around. Nobody was able to see him there, so he lifted his sweater and moved the .357 Python to a better position.
Up above, Officer Lincoln and Mr. Wilson Williams saw the suspicious movement. Officer Lincoln also saw the blue India ink tattoos on the big man’s hands. The Training Academy had taught him that those blue tattoos were put on in reform school or prison. He unsnapped his walkie-talkie and flipped it on. “Say, partner, we might have a pair of boosters.”
“Should I call for backup?”
“Naw, not for shoplifters. Find that burgundy Jaguar and run a make on the plates.”
Out in the parking lot, Troy ate a doughnut and leafed through the magazine, wondering why he’d even picked it up. It gave no intellectual nourishment and he was only minimally interested in the soft gossip about movie stars, although he’d sure masturbated over a few during the years of prison.
His peripheral vision and the constant alertness of the predator made him aware of something behind the car. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw the black-and-white car parked across the rear of the Jaguar. His heart jumped. He started to turn and saw the uniform outside the driver window.
“Excuse me,” said Officer Melanie Strunk, “could you step out of the car, sir?”
He hid his fear. “Sure. What’s up?” He reached for the door, but she opened it for him and stepped back. He wished he could see her eyes. They were hidden behind dark aviator glasses.
He got out. “What’s wrong, officer?” He wondered what had attracted her. Was there probable cause? The money and the shotgun were in the trunk. His pistol was under the seat.
“Why’s your license plate covered?”
“What?”
He stepped to the rear (she backed up) and looked at the rear license plate. A newspaper had been draped over it at the fold. It was the kids horseplaying outside Diesel’s house. That was the only possible explanation. He snatched it away. “Some kids must’ve been playing games.”
“Is this your car, sir?” Her suspicion was less than it might have been because he was a well-dressed white man of thirty-five. A young black in baggy clothes would ring her alarm bells.
“Yes. I just got it.”
“Can I see your driver’s license?”
“Sure.” He brought forth his wallet and extracted the license in the name of Al Leon Klein.
“Stay here,” she said, taking his license back to run a make. She was on the other side of the police car, looking over it at him.
The police car blocked him from backing out, and in front of the Jaguar was a knee-high concrete barrier. Should he run? No. The driver’s license and license plates would go through. He looked around. A few people were outside the market, watching the scene. No Diesel.
Melanie Strunk returned and handed him the license. “All right, Mr. Klein. There’s been a lot of shoplifting here. Do you mind if I look in your car?”
Oh shit! The law said he could refuse; she lacked probable cause. But if he said no, she would never let it go. If he gave permission, he would waive his rights. “Am I under arrest?” he asked.
“No. Not yet.”
Over her shoulder, Troy saw Diesel come through the glass doors. The big man cradled a bag of groceries in each arm. Troy thought of the pistol under the seat. Could he get it out and turn fast enough?
“Do you mind if I look?” she asked again.
“What are you looking for?”
“Do you have stolen merchandise?”
“No, of course not.”
“Do you have narcotics or a weapon?”
“No.”
“So what do you have to hide?”
“Not a thing.”
“So …?”
“Okay … sure. Let me get my sweater.” It was on the other side of the front seat, above the pistol. He opened the car door. From the corner of his eye, he saw her unsnap her holster. He could never get the pistol in time. He whirled back to face her, desperation charging him.
“Freeze!” he said. “You’re covered from behind.” As he spoke, he moved forward so they were chest to chest. He loomed over her.
For a moment she froze; then she took a step back and reached for her pistol.
Troy threw a right-hand punch.
Melanie turned enough so her helmet took the blow and broke one of his knuckles. A bolt of pain ran up his arm.
Melanie fell against the adjacent car, her head ringing as she pulled her service revolver. Before she could raise it, Troy had grabbed it with his other hand and tried to twist it away. She grabbed it with both hands and wrapped both legs around one of his.
Down they fell between cars, struggling for the pistol. Troy would have easily wrenched it away except for the broken hand.
Diesel saw the sudden struggle. What should he do?
Before he could decide, Officer Lincoln and Mr. Williams rushed past, brushing against him as they ran to help the struggling officer.
Troy was twisting the pistol back and forth. Melanie was hanging on. She had a thumb in the hammer so it wouldn’t discharge.
Troy heard the crunch of footsteps. Then a terrible pain and a flash of light shot through his brain. A rock?
Again the flash and pain. A nightstick bounced off his skull. Blood ran down into his eyes. A forearm went around his throat in a choke hold, dragging him away.
They rode him down, shoving his face into the asphalt. Hands twisted his arms behind his back. The steel bracelets clicked through the notches and fastened. Someone kneeled on his back. He went limp. Where was Diesel? Why hadn’t he come to help? Troy wished he was dead. Then he heard the manager say: “There’s the other one over there in the crowd.”
Diesel didn’t hear the words, but he saw the heads turn toward him. Until then he’d thought they didn’t suspect him. They had touched him while going by. As he’d stood watching the melee, he had pulled his pistol and held it under the groceries. He tried to steel himself to go to Troy’s aid. It happened too fast; he didn’t have his mind locked. Neither could he bring himself to fade away and abandon his friend.
Now that was all moot. The two police officers were coming toward him, splitting apart to cover each other. All he had was the pistol, a minor felony, and a year earlier he would have surrendered and served the six-month-to-five-year term. Now, however, he faced a life sentence because it would be his third felony—no matter how minor it might have been. He knew what he had to do. It was better to kill or die than surrender the rest of his life. The female cop was coming right at him. The black cop kind of circled. The crowd parted for her. She was five feet from him.
“You,” she said, pointing at him.
He looked around, feigning that he thought she meant someone else. Others in the crowd also looked around. Melanie Strunk moved another step closer.
Diesel turned back. He saw her freckled face framed by the police helmet. Her bulletproof vest distorted her uniform blouse, which was disheveled and dirty from rolling on the ground with Troy. She didn’t see the pistol under the bag of groceries. She had a fraction of a second, which wasn’t enough, when the muzzle appeared and exploded. The bullet hit her in the lower abdomen, below the vest. The force of the heavy bullet threw her hips backward and half turned her as she went down, a short cry of pain coming from her.
The crowd screamed and exploded away from him.
Officer Lincoln dove for the cover of a car and grabbed at his pistol.
Troy, his cheek ground into the asphalt by the manager’s knee, jerked at the gunshot. He coiled and tried to rise. The store manager and a box boy jumped on his back.
Diesel fired one wild shot in the direction of the black officer, and ran toward the end of the building. Oh God, oh God, oh God, his mind chanted. The evening had suddenly become apocalypse.
Melanie Strunk rolled on the concrete, holding her wound and crushing her teeth together to keep from crying out. Blood seeped between her fingers.
Officer Lincoln waited until the big man had turned the corner before jumping up and running after him.
On a street behind the market, a retired deputy sheriff heard the shot and saw the figure come around the corner and head toward a fence and a road beyond. The retired deputy slammed on his brakes, jumped out, and yelled, “Hold it, buster!”
Diesel leaped onto the fence and vaulted over, landing clumsily, facing the fence and stumbling backward until he fell on his rump.
The retired deputy was right behind the big man. He spread his arms like a linebacker readying for a tackle. Diesel was back on his feet. He tried to run over the man, but when he felt resistance, he shot him in the leg. The hero fell down and Diesel jumped in the deputy’s car.
Behind him, Officer Lincoln assumed a firing position and aimed. The range was thirty-five yards. As he squeezed the trigger, Diesel leaned to shift into gear.
The bullet went through the driver’s window, missed Diesel by an inch or two, went out the passenger window, crossed the street, and made a hole in a barbershop window. Carl Ellroy was in a barber chair, unaware of anything except a shave—until the heavy slug smashed into his forearm, breaking the bone and his Christmas present wristwatch.
Diesel stomped on the gas. The car fishtailed getting underway. As it careened down the street, bullets tore into it—but it kept going. Diesel could feel them hit, but he was unaware of the two big holes in the gas tank, where a bullet had passed all the way through. Gas streamed onto the street as he sped away. He looked at the gas gauge: half full.
Back at the market, hysterical voices called for an ambulance. Motorcycle officers and police cars screamed up with sirens and lights going full blast. Policemen took over from the manager. Troy saw the legs in blu
e uniforms. As a cop stepped on his head and ground his face into the pavement, he could see the granite walls of Folsom Prison. Rough hands jerked him up by the handcuffs behind his back and dragged him to a station wagon with a wired-off rear compartment. His head banged into the door frame. Someone pushed his head down and they threw him in back. He could see the spinning blue lights outside. As the station wagon got underway, Troy heard the clackety-clack of a helicopter. Run, Diesel, run, he thought through his own despair.
The hijacked car covered a mile before it ran out of gas. It was in a neighborhood of older frame houses. Thick maples canopied the street, creating night before the sun was all the way down. As Diesel got out, a chill wind blew over his sweating body and he shivered. He had to get another car. He had to get away. He would snatch one. He ran down the block, went through an alley to the next street. He went up on a porch and rang the bell.
No answer.
He ran across the lawn. Light came through the front window of the next house. He pushed the doorbell and waited, shivering and looking over his shoulder. Footsteps approached and, as the door opened, the sound of TV from inside. A man in his sixties faced him. “Yes,” the man said. Behind him was a Sheltie, barking loudly. “Shaddup,” the man said, pushing the dog back.
The screen door was closed but unhooked. Diesel opened it and put the pistol in the man’s stomach. “I need your car. Where’s the keys?”
The man was speechless. All that issued was “Uh … uh … uh …”
Diesel grabbed his shirtfront and rammed the pistol in his stomach. “Where’s your fuckin’ car keys?”
“In the … the car.”
The small dog was yipping at Diesel’s leg. From somewhere inside came a woman’s voice: “Who is it, Charlie?”
“Never mind, honey,” the old man yelled back. “I’ll take care of it.”
Diesel feinted at the dog, which made him run off, as Diesel wanted.
The old man had been in the Marine Corps, and after the first bolt of fear, he had control of himself. “Take it easy, mister. I won’t give you any trouble.”
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