Detroit Combat

by Randy Wayne White

  “He also violated the human rights of everyone involved with that porno ring,” Claramae Riddock shot back. “He killed Solomon Goldblatz in cold blood—a man who had never been found guilty of a crime—”

  “Goldblatz was a kink, for Christ’s sake! He raped children.”

  “He was never found guilty in a court of law.” She glared at McCarthy. “In this country, you’re still innocent until proven guilty.”

  “The kids’ parents wouldn’t let them testify.”

  “Then that’s the parents’ problem, not the problem of the Detroit Police Department. In the eyes of the law, Mr. Goldblatz was innocent. And for Mr. Hawker to kill him is murder, plain and simple.”

  “I didn’t kill him,” Hawker interrupted coolly. “But I wish I had.” He gave the woman a look of appraisal. “Tell me, Detective Riddock, have you done much work in the field?”

  “I’m not on trial here, Mr. Hawker.”

  “Sidestepping the question?”

  “Not at all. My job is strictly internal affairs. I’m not ashamed of it.”

  “You’ve never been shot at, or had to shoot someone?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You’ve never worked the streets—the streets where any one of a hundred people would love to slit your throat just for the fun of it? You’ve never been in the pits with the crooks and killers and the rapists? I’d love to take you out some evening and introduce you to some of these fine, decent law-abiding folks you’re so hellbent on protecting.”

  “Now who’s lecturing, Hawker? I’ve met plenty of criminals. I work with them every day. That’s why I know that they’re usually just people a little more unfortunate than you and I, just people who have had some bad breaks. They’re not animals and they’re not freaks. They’ve made mistakes, but they still have rights—rights that must be protected.”

  “And what about the victims?”

  “Once the law has been broken, there’s not much a cop can do for the victim. It’s unfortunate, but that’s the way it is.”

  Hawker finished his beer and prepared to leave. He looked at McCarthy. “Paul, it has been a lovely evening. But I think I’d better go now before I lose my temper and tell Detective Riddock what a naive little airhead she really is.”

  Hastily the woman put her purse on the table and unzipped it. Hawker couldn’t quite believe it when she pulled out a nickel-plated .38 police special. She pointed it at Hawker. “You’re not going anywhere, mister. I’m placing you under arrest for the murder of Solomon Goldblatz.”

  Hawker smiled his disbelief. “Because of what we said here tonight? Come on, lady, it’s your word against the two of us.”

  Just as calmly, she reached into her purse and produced a tiny tape recorder. The reels were turning. Detective Sergeant Claramae Riddock smiled. “Say what you want about me, Mr. Hawker, but I am no airhead.” She switched off the recorder. “Properly introduced, I think I have enough here to put you and McCarthy behind bars for a long, long while.…”

  NINE

  Hawker found himself paying the bill for a woman who fully intended to send him to prison. It made him feel even more ridiculous.

  She put the gun away when McCarthy solemnly promised the two of them would accompany her peacefully to the station house. One by one they filed through the restaurant door. McCarthy looked at the vigilante and rolled his eyes as if to apologize. Hawker smiled. “If it makes you feel any better, Paul, that was the best steak I’ve ever had in my life.”

  He chuckled grimly. “If Annie Oakley there gets you sentenced to the electric chair, we’ll know just what to bring you for your last meal.”

  “That’s a happy thought,” said Hawker. “I feel better already.”

  “And maybe we can share a cell!”

  “Gee, what fun.”

  “I’ve always wanted to learn how to play the harmonica.”

  “I just changed my mind. I think I’m going to ask for a private cell.”

  “How about the accordion?”

  “I’ll ask for a cell in a different time zone.”

  Behind them, Claramae Riddock said with sarcasm that held no humor, “You two men are a real credit to law enforcement. Keep on joking. Is there anything important enough for you to be serious about?”

  “I have a theory,” said McCarthy, ignoring the question. “I think one of the unacknowledged side effects of birth control pills is habitual nastiness. How else can the behavior of the modern woman be explained?”

  “Watch it,” said Hawker wryly. “She has a gun and doesn’t know how to use it.”

  “So?”

  “The warning shot could be fatal.”

  A northwest wind had blown the smog away, and the December sky was clear and black and misty with stars. In the parking lot, fresh snow creaked beneath their feet, and their breath vaporized in gray plumes as they talked in the cold night. It was late; only a few cars remained in the lot.

  When they got to his Corvette, Hawker faced the woman. “So what’s the plan, Detective? Do you want Paul and me to follow you in, or are you going to radio for reinforcements?”

  Riddock didn’t smile. “Paul can drive himself. I’ll ride with you.”

  “You trust him but you don’t trust me? Keep it up, Detective, and you’re really going to hurt my feelings.”

  “Paul grew up in Detroit; he has family here. There’s not much chance he’ll bolt. And if he does, we know where to find him. You’re a different story, Hawker. I’ll have a uniform give me a ride back to my car.”

  “And, once we’re alone, what’s to stop me from knocking you on the head and dumping you in a ditch?”

  The woman reached into her purse and produced the .38. “Hawker, don’t think for one minute I won’t use this if you make me. Get it through your head: You’re under arrest. I’ve taken your gun, I’ve read you your rights, and you’re in one hell of a lot of trouble. Instead of thinking up wisecracks, I’d be concentrating on which lawyer to call.”

  Hawker said nothing. McCarthy jingled the car keys in his hand. “Sorry, James. This is my fault. I was dumb as hell to think we could talk some sense into Joan of Arc there.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Paul. Maybe it’s time to spread some facts before the public. And a court is the best place to do that.”

  As McCarthy trudged toward his car, the woman opened the passenger door of Hawker’s car. When the courtesy light flashed on, Hawker had the impression that several things happened at once:

  The figure of a man inside the Corvette lunged toward the woman. In that microsecond, Hawker realized he had seen the ink-black hair and pockmarked face before. It was the man with Brenda Paulie—one of Queen Faith’s people.

  The woman screamed, but before she had the presence of mind to fire, the man hit her hard in the face. His fist against her flesh made an ugly cracking sound, and she sprawled heavily into the slush.

  The man turned immediately toward Hawker, a heavy-caliber revolver in his hand. “I’m going to make sure you don’t poke your nose into business it don’t belong no more,” he said with a growl.

  Before Hawker could react, he heard the sound of heavy footsteps behind him. Paul McCarthy called out, “Freeze! Police!” He had both hands pressed together as if he held a weapon—but he didn’t. It was a bluff. The woman had taken their guns.

  It was a bluff Queen Faith’s man didn’t fall for. Without a moment’s hesitation, the man swung and fired. McCarthy’s hands flew up as his legs skated out from under him. The impact of the .357 slug slammed his body into a grotesque somersault and he landed with a thud on his shoulders and neck. McCarthy groaned once and lay still. The white snow steamed and melted as blood seeped into it.

  “You!” The man waved the revolver at Hawker, then motioned at a brown Plymouth parked beside Hawker’s car. “Spread ’em!” The man frisked him quickly and efficiently and, for the first time, Hawker was glad he wasn’t carrying his knife. The man used the .357 to give Hawker a halfhearted b
low to the back. “Are you listening to me, asshole? Are you listening real good?”

  Hawker nodded. “I’m all ears.”

  The man hit him again. “Then pick up that woman and shove her into the backseat of the Plymouth. Did you hear me?” The man kicked him in the thigh. “Move!”

  Hawker bent over the woman and took her wrists in his hand. She tensed immediately, so Hawker knew she was conscious. On the pretense of bending down to check her pulse, Hawker whispered, “Whatever happens, don’t open your eyes. The first time we stop, jump out of the car and run like hell—no matter what.”

  “Hey, what in the hell are you doing?” The man gave Hawker another kick and jerked open the car door. “Get your ass in gear! What are you, a doctor or something?” Hawker watched for an opening as he shoveled Claramae Riddock into his arms, but the man stayed a safe distance away. As Hawker shoved the woman into the backseat, the man ordered, “You drive, ace. Do just what I tell you or I’ll blow your fucking ears off one at a time. Savvy?”

  Hawker nodded and reached for the woman’s purse. Once again the man kicked him. The vigilante stood and put his hands on his hips. He said, “You know, I’m getting real tired of your doing that. If you’re trying to prove you’re tough, then put down that gun and let’s see how tough you really are. If not, let me get the lady’s purse, and I’ll do whatever you tell me to do.”

  The man hunched toward Hawker. He wore a red ski jacket with frayed sleeves. He was thin, a little taller than Hawker, and he had a narrow, rodentlike face. “Don’t you worry your little head about the lady’s purse,” he sneered. “I’ll take care of that and the lady. You just get in and drive. Got it?”

  Hawker shrugged. With a last look at Paul McCarthy, who still lay motionless in the slush, Hawker slid in behind the wheel. Behind him the back door slammed, and the man barked, “Get us out of here, nice and easy. Don’t play cute. No speeding, no swerving, no trying to bring the cops down on us. Go.”

  Hawker shifted the Plymouth into gear and backed up. As he pulled away, he saw a man and a woman come out of the restaurant. In the rearview mirror, he watched the pair stiffen as they saw McCarthy’s body. The woman’s hand went to her mouth and she staggered. The man took a step toward the restaurant before he reconsidered and caught the woman. From the backseat, a voice ordered, “Turn right; stay in the slow lane.” Hawker did it, and he could see no more.

  They drove on in silence for a few minutes. Hawker could hear the man pawing through Riddock’s purse. He chuckled, saying, “Hey, who is this chick? She’s got a lot of hardware in here. She’s got a big automatic and a Browning Hi-Power, plus she had that little thirty-eight I got off the ground.”

  “I think she’s an arms dealer,” Hawker said dryly. “I’m not sure, though. I picked her up in the bar. She said something about just getting back from the Persian Gulf. A missile deal or something.”

  The man slapped him in the back of the head. “No more of your bullshit, buster! She’s a fucking cop. I got her badge right here!”

  “So that’s why she arrested me.”

  The man was quiet for a moment, suspicious. “Hey,” he said finally, “are you telling the truth? She really did arrest you?”

  “Cross my heart. She thinks I killed that Hershey highway jockey back on East Jefferson.”

  “What?”

  “That fairy director you blew away—she thinks I did it. That’s why she arrested me.”

  The man laughed uproariously for a moment, then sobered. “Hey, I wish I’d known that. I’da just let her take you in. Hell, you coulda been serving my time for me. I’d of skated, and you’da been out of the way, and everyone woulda been happy.”

  “No one said life was fair.”

  “Boy, you can say that again.”

  The man told Hawker to turn northwest on Highway 75. Traffic was heavy for late Wednesday night—people out doing their Christmas shopping. When the big green signs announced Pontiac was just ahead, the man ordered Hawker to cloverleaf off. They made two more lefts and a right, and soon they were on a fast two lane. Rows of suburban ranch houses, draped in red and green holiday lights, blurred by. Between some of the houses were vast tracks of flat space that reflected the sky’s darkness. It took Hawker a moment to realize they were lakes. One more right turn, and they were on another two-lane road—this one desolate, badly maintained. Hawker felt a chill go through him. He had hoped the goon was taking them to Queen Faith’s—at least then he could confront his killer.

  The remoteness of the road told him all too clearly what was about to happen.

  Behind him, there was the flare of a lighter. It flickered for several seconds. Finally the man exhaled the monoxide odor of cigarette smoke. “Hey,” he said, “I just got my first good look at this dame’s face. She’s a knockout. Damn, why didn’t you tell me?”

  Hawker, trying feverishly to think of some means of escape, said nothing. He looked in the rearview mirror. He could no longer see the man’s face. Then he heard the clatter of broken buttons, the rip of fabric—and he knew why.

  “Shit, you ought to see the tits on this bitch. Hell, this as good as gold to me, boy. I can make some dough off this woman, cop or no cop.” He gave a feral chuckle. “But first I’m going to have me a little taste of this.”

  Hawker was surprised the woman was able to play dumb as long as she did. It took one hell of a lot of courage and self-control. But she couldn’t play dumb now. With a wildcat screech, Riddock reached out and clawed the man’s face ferociously. The car swerved violently as Hawker reached back to help her—but the goon had the last say. He brought the .357 up, slapped Hawker away, then backhanded the woman twice, hard. He spit blood from his lips. “One more time,” he hissed, “one more wise-guy move, and I’ll blow your brains out and dump you in the ditch.” He grabbed Hawker’s hair and yanked his head back. “You best just keep on driving, buddy boy. You best just keep driving while I take me a little piece of this, because the moment you stop driving is the moment you die.”

  Hawker nodded perfunctorily and tried to tune out the woman’s initial screams as the man slapped her again and began to strip the clothes off her. The vigilante’s knuckles grew white on the wheel.

  Think of something!

  The woman’s screams had become sobs as the man wrestled himself into position. “Please,” she begged him. “Not this, please.…”

  Ahead, Hawker could see the starlight glimmer of another lake. He hit the bright beams. A dirt road veered gradually off the main road toward the lake. Hawker slowly increased speed and, at the same time, rolled down his window and the window on the passenger’s side.

  “Hey, you trying to freeze my ass off?”

  “It’s getting hot in here,” Hawker said calmly. “You two are steaming up the windows.”

  The man’s laugh was ugly. “I’m the only hot one back here—so far. I got me one real bad case of the hots for this little bitch.”

  Hawker swung gradually onto the dirt road, hoping the goon wouldn’t notice. The lake was coming up, and Hawker increased speed. The snow had smoothed the ruts. There was a gradual dirt incline, and Hawker hit it going fifty.

  “Hear that, woman? We got the windows steamed up!” The goon cackled in the backseat. “Maybe you never been with a man before, huh? Maybe there’s a lot I could teach you if you’d just cooperate.”

  Holding the wheel tight on its course, Hawker called over his shoulder, “Hey, asshole!”

  “What?”

  “Get her to teach you how to swim first.”

  “What?”

  “I think we’re in for a touch of cool weather.”

  The Plymouth lifted off the incline, seemed to hold motionless in midair for a moment, then plummeted toward the quarry blackness of the lake.…

  TEN

  The car tilted perilously, twisting in midair.

  Behind him, there was the animal bellow of the man as he fought to lift his head off the seat and see just what in the hell was goi
ng on. His bellow mixed with the quick intake of breath and short scream of the woman. Had it not been for his seat belt, Hawker would have been thrown out of control. Instead, he was still behind the wheel when the Plymouth plunged thunderously into the lake.

  With the windows open, icy water flooded through in a torrent. The water was more than just a surprise—it was shockingly cold; a numbing, bone-chilling, jaw-aching cold. The car wallowed, lifting and rolling in its own wake, then began to list sideways as it quickly filled with water.

  It was sinking—and sinking fast.

  The woman screamed in earnest now. Hawker shook his head groggily. Seat belt or no seat belt, something had given him a nasty blow to the head. Water was up over his thighs and he had to force his mind to work; force it to tell his numb hands and fingers what to do, step by step. The woman screamed again, and something else cracked him from behind.

  It was then he realized he hadn’t been hurt in the car crash. The man in the back was clubbing him.

  Hawker tried to pull himself out the open window, but couldn’t. He swore softly between clenched teeth—he hadn’t unsnapped the seat belt. He yanked the belt free, then hauled himself through the window. The car was up to its door handles in water.

  Still holding onto the car, Hawker reached back through the window. The goon and the woman were fighting each other to escape—straining to be the first to squeeze through the narrow opening before the car went down, straining to escape the nightmare horror of being trapped in a sinking prison. They both made desperate animal noises as they fought the freezing water to get over the front seat and out.

  Hawker probed with his hand among the bodies until he felt the satin texture of the woman’s hair. He knotted his fist in it, braced his feet against the car, then pulled steadily, steering her over the front seat and out the window.

  She exited gasping and floundering, clinging to Hawker in the cold. The man, Hawker noticed, had stripped off her jacket, blouse, and bra. Her breasts were round and full and erect from the cold. Her only clothing was the dark skirt.