The Tin Collectors

by Stephen J. Cannell

Shoot it; frame it; hang it in his gallery of defining moments. The Lady Macbeth Exhibit. He finished with his feet and then stood under the hot spray, trying with less result to cleanse his spirit. Finally he got out of the shower, wrapped himself in a towel, and looked in the foggy bathroom mirror. The face was angular and rugged. Dark eyes wore a raccoon’s mask of sleeplessness. His hair hung black and limp on his forehead. He stared at himself for a long time, trying to see if he looked as different as he felt. In his thirty-seven years Shane had never killed anyone before; on the drive home from the department, that change in his life experience had started to weigh on him. Now, as he stood in his bathroom, it was plunging him into a fit of depression, which, according to the self-help psych books he had started reading recently, was self-hatred turned inward, driving his spirit down. He turned away from the mirror and dressed in slacks, white shirt, maroon tie, and a blue blazer. He slipped on socks and loafers, clipped his backup gun onto his belt, grabbed his pager, badge, and handcuffs, then went into the living room, where Longboard Kelly was snoring on the sofa.

  Shane shook the twenty-eight-year-old blond-haired surfboard shaper’s shoulder to wake him. Brian had turned out to be a surprisingly good friend. In the two years since Kelly had moved in next door and had started running his surfboard business out of his garage, the resinhead and the cop had surprised themselves with their unlikely friendship.

  “I’m back, Brian. Thanks, man.”

  “Mmmmsaaakjjjjaaaawww,” Longboard said, and rolled over, turning his back on Shane.

  Shane smiled and headed into the kitchen, where Chooch was now seated at the small wooden table. Chooch had one of the strawberry Pop-Tarts in his hand, nibbling at the edges. He had struck an insolent go-fuck-yourself pose with one hand jammed deep down in his pants pocket. His bare feet were up on the table.

  “So, how much is the upslice bitch paying you?” Chooch started, unexpectedly.

  Shane knew, from years on the street busting gangbangers and pavement princesses, that upslice meant a cheap woman and referred to the vagina. It pissed him off that this kid would refer to his own mother that way.

  “She’s not paying me anything.”

  “So what’s the deal, then? She carving you some beef?” Another gangbang sexual reference.

  “I’m not sleeping with your mother, Chooch. I’ve got other reasons. Now get your feet off the table, we’ve gotta eat off a’ there.” He slapped Chooch’s feet hard, knocking them off the wooden tabletop. Chooch exploded out of the chair, anger and violence seething.

  “Don’t fuckin’ hit me,” Chooch said, breathing through his mouth, his right hand balled into a fist at his side.

  “Go on…take your best shot,” Shane said softly, “but you better tell me where you want your body sent first.”

  “Oh, you’re gonna swing on a fifteen-year-old?”

  “Hey, son, I’ve seen fifteen-year-olds roll pipe bombs under taxis and peel a clip-a’-nines at a passing squad car. Being fifteen gets you nothing.”

  Chooch unclenched his fist and stood there for a long moment.

  “Gee, look’t this. I think we’re really beginning to communicate,” Shane said sarcastically, then moved over and grabbed a second strawberry Pop-Tart out of the box on the counter. He dropped it in the toaster and pushed the lever down. “You do your homework last night?” Shane asked, not really knowing what to say to the hostile Hispanic youth across the kitchen, glowering at him with smoldering eyes. At six feet, he was almost Shane’s height, and already Shane could see he’d been hitting the weights. He had Sandy’s dark good looks.

  “I don’t do homework. I got fly bitches do it for me.”

  Shane could see why Sandy had begged him to take Chooch. “Do whatever it takes,” she had said. “He needs a male authority figure. He’s got to see where this path he’s on is headed.”

  “Chooch, you and I have to get along for a month. Let’s try and keep from peeling the skin off each other. Now get your stuff together, we gotta get you to school.”

  “I ain’t goin’ to school. I quit. Where’s the TV? I can’t find it. What kinda jerkoff ain’t got a TV?”

  Shane didn’t answer. He moved out of the kitchen and into the guest bedroom. The house was on one of the Venice, California, grand canals, and through the side window he could see the morning sun glinting off the still water. It was 7:10; he figured if he hurried and there wasn’t much traffic, he could still get Chooch across town to the Harvard Westlake School by 8:15. The school was located on Coldwater, in the Valley.

  As he started to grab Chooch’s book bag, he saw that there was a stash of tobacco tucked into the side pocket. He took the Baggie out and held it up. Two ounces of marijuana. He carried the book bag into the kitchen, where Chooch was standing, looking out the back door, his arms folded across his chest. He pretended not to be watching as Shane emptied the Baggie of Mexican chronic down the kitchen sink and turned on the disposal. It finally dawned on Chooch what was happening. He exploded away from the wall and made a grab for the Baggie.

  “Hey, what you be doing with my bale, man?”

  Shane grabbed Chooch by the collar, spun him, and backed him up, slamming him hard against the refrigerator, pinning him there.

  “Hey, asshole, take this to the bank. Rule one: You’re not gonna smoke grass in my house. Not today, not ever!”

  “That shit was hydro, man.”

  “And you can stow the rap dictionary, okay? We’re talking English in this house.”

  “Fuck you.”

  They were nose to nose, breathing hard. Shane was close to the edge, focusing his frayed nerves and growing depression on this angry fifteen-year-old. He took a deep breath to calm down. Then he let go and took a step back. “I don’t know whether you get away with stuff like this at school, but it won’t work here,” he said in a calmer voice.

  “I don’t wanna stay here. I’m leaving,” Chooch said softly.

  “Okay, here’s the deal…. One: Use any dope in this house, you’re gonna get a chin-check from me. Two: You do what I tell you, when I tell you. Three: Knock off the Hoover Street attitude. Four: You’re gonna do your own homework and not farm it out to girlfriends. If you live up to those four rules, here’s what you get from me in return. You get room and board. You get my friendship and respect. You get a fair deal; I’ll lay it out straight. I won’t ever lie.”

  “Like I give a shit.”

  “And clean up your mouth.”

  “You think I wanna stick around and go to your bullshit white-slice Gumby boot camp?”

  “You take off, I’ll put the LAPD Runaway Squad on you. You’ll go to juvie detention and then to a CYA camp, where you won’t have to worry about some private-school geek in a bow tie who teaches chemistry. You’ll be slappin’ skin with the heavy lifters from south of Hawthorn.”

  The two of them held gazes. Even though Shane was tired and mad, he had to admit that Chooch Sandoval had been dealt a bad hand. Sandy had made a bunch of horrible choices when it came to her son. Now Chooch was full of anger and resentment. His hormones were raging, and he was looking for a place to park all that frustrated hostility. On the plus side, Chooch had not whimpered. He didn’t feel sorry for himself, and he was no cupcake. Somewhere deep down inside, Shane had already begun to respect him.

  “I’m through going to that school,” Chooch said. “I got no friends there. It’s not what I’m about.”

  “That’s one of the best private schools in California. You’re throwing away the chance of a lifetime, and for what? So you can hang with a bunch a’ street characters?”

  “They’re my brown brothers. My home slice.”

  “They don’t care about you, Chooch.”

  “And you do? Or Sandy? I ain’t for sale, asshole. You can’t buy me with clothes or a school or this crummy deal you got here. You ain’t got what I need, Mr. Policeman.”

  “Get your shoes on. Where are they?” Shane asked. “And change out of that shirt.” Chooch
snorted but didn’t move, so Shane went into the guest room, found another T-shirt and Chooch’s tennis shoes. He reentered the kitchen and handed them over. “Let’s go…. Put ’em on, or face the consequences.” Chooch changed shirts, then slipped his shoes on without bothering to tie them. Then he exited the back door, insolently brushing Shane with his shoulder as he went past.

  Shane followed him out into the alley behind the house, where the department Plymouth was parked. It was a detective car but looked exactly like a regular black-and-white minus the Mars-bar light on the roof.

  Back in 1997, Chief Willy Williams had started making sergeants drive them instead of the preferred plainwraps. In the old days, before Chief Gates, one of the perks of being a detective had always been driving an unmarked car, but now nobody bothered to check out a department car off duty except in extreme circumstances. Trying to work a stakeout or surveillance in a slickback was absurd, so detectives ended up using their POVs—personally owned vehicles.

  “I ain’t gonna show up at school in this,” Chooch said, looking at the car, appalled.

  Shane opened the passenger door, then spun Chooch around, took out his cuffs, and slapped them on, cuffing his hands in front of him.

  “What you doin’, man? What’s this for?”

  “Comin’ to school handcuffed in a squad car oughta harden your rep. You’ll be chasing the fly bitches away for a week.” He pushed Chooch into the front seat of the car, and he could see the boy smile slightly as he walked around and got behind the wheel.

  It was 7:45 A.M. before Shane finally caught his first minor break of the day. Traffic on the 405 was unusually light. It took him only forty-five minutes to get over the hill, into the Valley. Harvard Westlake was half a mile up Coldwater Canyon, on the left side. All the way there, Chooch had remained silent. He had pulled his CD player out of his book bag and plugged himself in.

  Even with the break on the traffic, Shane arrived at Harvard Westlake fifteen minutes late. He pulled past the Zanuck Swimming Stadium and the Amelia and Mark Taper Athletic Pavilion. He let Chooch off at the Feldman Horn Fine Arts Building, where his first-period class had already convened. The intended image-enhancing uncuffing ceremony passed without audience.

  “I’ll pick you up at three-thirty,” Shane said, putting his handcuffs away.

  “Whatever,” Chooch growled. Then with his book bag over his shoulder, he did a gangsta lean into the building.

  Shane watched him go, feeling a sense of frustration and uselessness. What on earth was he ever going to be able to give this boy? It had seemed like a good idea two weeks ago when he’d told Sandy yes…. A chance to contribute to Chooch Sandoval’s life in an important way. Shane had been fighting recent bouts of intense loneliness and had seen himself helping Chooch sort out his adolescent problems. Shane hadn’t expected him to be such a hard case. Now that he had him, he doubted he would be able to make any deposits in Chooch Sandoval’s adult experience account. This boy was already molded by the strange circumstances of his life. And now, in the harsh reality of Chooch’s anger, it occurred to Shane that maybe he had just planned to use Chooch to find meaning in his own life. While Shane was pondering these thoughts, his cell phone rang and dropped him back onto an even more distressing playing field.

  “Yeah.”

  “Shane, Captain Halley.”

  “What’s up, Skipper?”

  “I don’t exactly know how to tell you this, but the Molar shooting is turning into a red ball.” A red ball was any department case with such a high priority that failure to succeed threatened career advancement. “They’re not going to take it to a Shooting Review Board.”

  “Whatta you mean, they’re not gonna? They have to.”

  “Your case is jumping the Officer Involved Shooting Section and going directly to a full Internal Affairs Board of Rights.”

  “It’s what?” Shane couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “How can they send it to a Board of Rights without first giving me a shooting review?”

  “The chief can send any case he wants to a full board on his sole discretion. He doesn’t have to give any reason. Look, Shane, I don’t know why this is happening, but you can’t stop it. It’s inside departmental guidelines.”

  “Sir, you gotta talk to them. I mean, I don’t wanna go through another BOR. I’m gonna get time off without pay. It’s career poison. It’s gonna be in my jacket. This is nuts. Anybody would’ve done what I did. For God’s sake, he fired on me. It was self-defense.”

  “It’s what the chief wants.”

  “I don’t even know Chief Brewer. I only met him once. He gave me a Citation of Merit.”

  “I’ve gotta go. You’d better get in touch with a defense rep. Who handled your case last time?”

  “DeMarco Saint.”

  “You like him?”

  “I guess. He got me off,” Shane said dully.

  “I think he’s retired, but because of IAD crowding, there’s a new provision for using retired officers. If you want, I can get you his address and give him a call.”

  “Sure, check and see if he’s still living at the beach.” Shane waited on the line for a few seconds. His head throbbed. His stomach churned. The captain came back on.

  “He still lives in Santa Monica, on the Strand—3467 Coast Highway. I’ll let him know you’re coming.”

  Shane put his car in gear and pulled away from the shaded, tree-lined splendor of the private school, then made his way back toward the beach and the shrewd counsel of DeMarco Saint.

  All the way there, he kept trying to figure it out. Ray Molar had been a black hole in his life from the day he first met him seventeen years ago. In the beginning, he’d been too green to see it. Eventually he recognized Ray for what he was and had gotten away from him. Last night, with Barbara’s call, he’d been pulled back into Ray’s sinister orbit. In one second he’d ended Ray’s life and opened some kind of evil vortex that now threatened to destroy him as well.

  6

  Defense Rep

  Any police officer facing an administrative review gets to choose a defense rep to defend him. According to Section 202 in the Police Bill of Rights, that representative can be anyone in the department below the rank of captain. The charter provides that the chosen officer must serve as the accused’s defense representative unless such service would cause undue hardship or unless the chosen officer has a current duty assignment of such a sensitive nature as to prohibit the time commitment.

  Over the years, several officers had become very adept at winning Internal Affairs cases and, as a result, got chosen as defense reps time and time again. They became schooled in the legal vagaries of the department disciplinary system, and most of them viewed Internal Affairs as a black hole of intrigue that they referred to as “the Dark Side.” In a way, these men and women were mavericks inside the department, seeing themselves as an important demarcation line between the accused officers and the meat-eating “politicians” who worked at Internal Affairs.

  Such a man was retired Sergeant DeMarco Saint. He lived on the beach in Santa Monica. His house was run-down and desperately in need of a new roof and paint. He had made his place a hangout for a young, breezy beach crowd: everybody from surf bums and Rollerbladers to volleyball players and sidewalk musicians. They hung in clusters in front of his wood-shingled bungalow. DeMarco Saint presided over this collection of party animals like a wise, bearded guru. He had been a police officer for thirty years and had pulled the pin just last December. Then he had made an almost seamless transition from maverick cop to New Age swami.

  Shane pulled his slickback into the public parking lot two doors down from DeMarco’s house and showed his badge to the attendant, who greeted the free-parking move with a frown. Shane locked the car and walked to the beach bike path. He could hear loud rap music pounding before he even got on the pavement. As he got closer, he saw several young girls in string bikinis and some tanned surfers in boxer shorts sitting on DeMarco’s low brick wall like pr
izes in a game of beach Jeopardy being played all day at high energy under a synthetic drumbeat.

  Of course, Shane looked like a cop to them right off, and the conversation shriveled up like rose petals in a hot summer wind. By the time he got to DeMarco’s wall, only the recorded rap of Snoop Doggy Dogg managed to ignore his presence.

  “DeMarco around?” he asked the closest girl, a tall brunette in her mid-twenties.

  “Inside,” she said, arching a pierced eyebrow and clicking her silver tongue stud against her teeth to see if it would piss him off.

  “That’s nothing.” He smiled. “I’ve got mine through my dick.”

  She laughed as he moved past her and through the front door of DeMarco’s house.

  He found the fifty-eight-year-old defense rep on his hands and knees, trying to adjust one of the blasting speakers while a teenage boy watched.

  “Fucking bass is vibrating. Sounds like shit,” the young surfer with bleached blond hair and black roots said sullenly.

  DeMarco kept fiddling and finally took some of the low end out. He leaned back on his knees to listen. “Whatta you think?” he asked. “Better?”

  Snoop Doggy Dogg’s staccato voice was bouncing ghetto hatred off the walls while DeMarco leaned forward again to screw with his woofers and tweeters.

  “Gotta fuck the pigs. Gotta make da man die, if he come passin’ by da pork’s gotta fry,” the Snoopster rapped violently.

  “You got a minute?” Shane yelled.

  DeMarco turned and saw him, grinned, and stood up. He was over six feet tall, and since Shane had last seen him, he’d let his gray hair grow. It was now tied in a ponytail that hung a quarter of the way down his back. He was wearing a tank top and had added a few tattoos that Shane thought looked ridiculous on his spindly arms, but not anywhere near as ridiculous as the silver cross that dangled from a chain in his left ear.

  “Halley called. Been expecting you.” He turned to the fifteen-year-old surfer. “You tinker with it for a while.”

  As the rap banged against their ears, he led Shane through the kitchen, where he grabbed two cold Miller Lites out of the refrigerator, and then out the back along the side of the house, onto Santa Monica’s long, sandy beach. The waves were unusually high that morning because of a storm in Mexico. They broke energetically forty yards away, shaking the sand under the two men’s feet.