Copp For Hire, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series)

by Don Pendleton

  Which shows you that my pal Billy did not know me quite as well as he thought he did.

  So I thought.

  I went into a convenience shop with conveniently late hours and bought an appropriately casual outfit. For me that's not easy but I lucked into some reasonable fits; took the stuff to my room and changed. Felt just like a tourist when I went down to the coffeeshop and stoked up a bit.

  It was close to ten o'clock when I claimed the car. I am thinking practical joke when I see it. It is one of these Japanese sub-subcompact models and just possibly I might outweigh it.

  But it is surprisingly roomy inside, once I get folded in.

  The weapon in the glove box is a Smith & Wesson auto pistol, model 59. It's double- action, packs a fourteen-round clip of 9mm Luger; nice piece, clean and oily and ready to go. Fits snug and flat into the waistband of the wash-and-wear slacks I am now wearing. Two boxes of reloads are also there and a spare fourteen-round clip is loaded and ready, too.

  I am wondering if all this was planned especially for me or if it is just a Billy Inyoko standard operating procedure to stash arsensals on wheels about the countryside.

  But how could it have been planned especially for me if everyone was as surprised by my visit as I was?

  Of course, it took me five hours to get there, once I had decided to go. A lot can happen in five hours.

  So . . .

  Was it pure chance that Billy was there to meet me at the airport? Or did the guy have eyes on L.A?

  The papers on the car showed it to be the property of a local rental agency and checked out as "HPD Complimentary" at five o'clock that afternoon.

  I went back inside the hotel and called Billy.

  Took about ten minutes to run him down.

  I asked him, "How'd you know I was coming?"

  "Saw you get off the airplane, Joe."

  "You knew before that, pal."

  He chuckled. "Maybe I had a premonition."

  I was not chuckling when I told him, "Maybe someone helped you get it."

  He said, "What's your problem?"

  I said, "My problem is who helped you get it."

  He said, "Cops are a nasty and suspicious bunch, aren't they."

  "They come by it honestly. Are you going to level with me, Billy?"

  "Sure, I knew you were on the plane. How else could I have cleared the path for you?"

  "Exactly what do you expect of me here in Honolulu?"

  He sighed. "At the least, Joe, we're hoping you can take care of your own garbage."

  "Like that, eh."

  "More or less."

  "More or less what?"

  "Like that."

  What was I saying a while ago about your inscrutable Orientals? Suddenly I realized that I did not know this guy at all. A weekend drinking buddy in San Francisco many years ago, then a voice on the telephone from time to time, some mutual respect for efficient police work ... that was it.

  So what did I actually know about him?

  Damned little, and most of that secondhand.

  I asked my increasingly scrutable Oriental pal, "How far does more or less extend? Where do I stand after a shootout, if it gets to that?"

  "I guess that would depend on where you've put your feet down. You can't expect us to give you a blank check over here, Joe. Play it straight and you're okay. But you'll answer for excesses here the same as anywhere."

  "But you want me to handle the garbage."

  "That would be nice."

  "Nice for you."

  "Nice for everyone, yes. This is—"

  "A small island, yeah. It's likely to get smaller, Billy, before I leave it. Want you to know that. But surely you already know that. So I need to know. Just how wide a path have you cleared for me?"

  "Joe . . . we've stamped your investigator's license and extended the courtesies. But all that gives you is what you have in L.A. I am just saying—"

  I said it for him. "Behave myself but take the garbage away."

  "More or less, yes."

  "You know something, Billy?" I told him, "You are an entirely scrutable Japanese cop."

  Maybe. But his laughter was the old one hundred ten percent American cop as he told me good-by and hung up.

  I still did not know the guy.

  And I had the uncomfortable feeling that he knew me a lot better than I knew him.

  Chapter Twenty

  I WAS AT the Kahala estate of Jim Davitsky at twenty minutes past ten, parked just up the street and casing for an entry when the outside lights came on. Two men emerged and went quickly to one of the cars in the driveway. I had to read that as Davitsky and Jones, but I was too far away for a positive ID.

  Then I had to make a quick decision. Should I tail those two or should I seize the opportunity for a private visit with Linda Shelton? Tails won the mental toss as their car hit the street squealing; I gave them a block, then sent my little funny car in pursuit.

  We angled northward and caught the free-

  way toward downtown. At that time of night it was only a twelve- to fifteen-minute run.

  This was my first visit to the island since I was .a kid, so I was definitely on unfamiliar territory and crowded closer for comfort as the going became thicker.

  We left the freeway near Chinatown. You don't have to know this island to know what Chinatown in Honolulu means. Its reputation extends beyond its physical boundaries. Not exactly Sin City, but close. Hotel Street features a lineup of porn shops and strip joints— where, I am told, anything goes—and that seemed to be our destination.

  I lay back there and gave them room to find a place to leave their car. Then I just idled along in the barely moving traffic close enough to keep an eyeball on and watch their progress.

  They went into one of the sleazier-looking joints in the first block of North Hotel. I went on by and found a place for my car, returned on foot and hit the doorway about three minutes behind my buddies from the mainland.

  This was definitely no place for the genteel tourist. It was shades of old Hong Kong, in old Hong Kong's raunchier moments.

  The tobacco smoke hung in there like third- stage smog from Los Angeles. Canned music provided throbbing background for two nude Oriental girls onstage doing a vertical number on each other—but the real action seemed to be offstage. I had to pay a cover charge to get in and then there was barely standing room in the joint—maybe because there were almost as many girls as guys present, and the girls obviously worked there. One of them squeezed past me on her way elsewhere and managed to give me a welcoming squeeze in transit.

  Enough said about Hong Kong Charlie's.

  Honolulu has traditionally been—liberal?—in its official outlook on morals. They had legalized prostitution well into World War II and clamped it down then only because of federal pressures. The world's oldest profession flourishes on the island today, I am told, and the official attitude seems to wink at it unless the display becomes too flagrant. I am talking now Waikiki and the tourist milieu. But Chinatown downtown apparently knows no restraints that amount to anything.

  I was propositioned four times before I could get a drink.

  With all that, I had spotted Davitsky and Jones within the first few seconds after I got inside. They'd had no problem at all finding a place to sit; were being treated like honored guests at a big booth on the side; had their heads together with two other guys, both Orientals.

  I had to read a planned meeting into that, and I'd positioned myself at a stand-up bar where I could keep an eye on them. Became obvious within a short while that one of the Orientals occupied a position of authority over the establishment, or just authority period. He was getting a lot of kowtowing from the help. Now, the islands have their own homegrown version of so-called organized crime. It is probably strongest in the ethnic neighborhoods; I've heard that there's an especially strong syndicate that controls most of the action downtown. So maybe this guy was one of the local godfathers. Or maybe he was just a small-time businessm
an trying to get by in a hostile world.

  Whatever, there was no apparent lack of interested conversation between this guy and Davitsky. I could not hear it, of course, but I could tell that the general tone was very serious.

  Jones seemed to be totally relaxed and enjoying himself. A pretty Chinese girl wearing a shorty silk wrap over nothing else had slid in beside him and was keeping him entertained while the other guys talked.

  I was having a tough enough time fending off the girls at the bar. I will just say about that: never has the old bod been so touched in so many ways in so short a time. It was a good thing that the meeting was a short one, because I was developing a short fuse. These women were determined and practiced. I am a normal man.

  I was damned glad to see my turkeys standing up to take their leave, so glad that I didn't even mind when I noticed that they were being escorted to a rear exit.

  I went on out the usual way and headed along the street amid the late-night throngs for an eyeball on their car.

  My boys emerged from an alleyway, each with a girl on the arm. All six piled into the car as I pulled a hasty retreat toward mine.

  I got lucky.

  They eased on along Hotel Street and passed me just as I was tucking myself into my own car. I pulled out six cars behind them and had no problem with the tail while we fought clear of Chinatown.

  But then as we were approaching the freeway I became aware of the caravan. A third car was in that lineup—I was sure of it—and maybe even a fourth behind that one.

  So I turned away two blocks from the freeway and came back in at the rear of that procession just as it hit the ramp heading east.

  But I still had one behind me, and it had been there all the way from Chinatown.

  Was this developing into a laugher?

  I mean, if Billy had a guy on me and also a guy on Davitsky....

  But of course there was nothing to say that Billy had a guy on either of us.

  And if he did not, then this was anything but a laugher.

  I had to know.

  At least I figured I knew where my turkeys were headed.

  So I turned off at a Waikiki exit and ran toward the beach.

  The same dark sedan jumped off and ran with me.

  Let me tell you something about the Honolulu cops.

  These guys do not drive official cars. They buy their own vehicles with high-performance engines and cruise around unmarked. There is no such thing as an off-duty cop in Honolulu. He's always armed, always ready; and he does not screw around with you. There is a law on the books over there informally called the cop-harassment law. Does not have to do with cops harassing the citizenry. Has to do with the citizenry harassing the cops.

  If one pulls you over for running a stop sign and you give him any lip at all, that is harassment; and it will land you in jail, booked and fingerprinted. It also could land you a baton against the side of the head if you do not respond quickly enough.

  So I did not know what the hell.

  I am cruising along Kapiolani Boulevard at twenty mph in my funny car.

  This black sedan with two guys up front are cruising along a hundred yards off my rear bumper.

  I turn down Date—headed, I think, in the general direction of the Kaimuki district just north of Diamond Head.

  Soon as I do that, this black sedan surges forward and is coming around me like fifty mph.

  I get a glimpse of an Oriental face in my sideview and something that could be a gun barrel sliding up into view over the door on the passenger side.

  I hit my brakes and slam toward the curb.

  The black sedan hurtles past and three quick gunshots roar out of it. A plate-glass window to a shop just off the nose of my funny car shatters and rains all over me.

  Two more shots come back as the black sedan plunges on. These hit an empty car parked at the curb behind me.

  I am understandably upset by all this.

  So I lean into the steering and acceleration at the same time and jump it back onto the street.

  I have that silly little four-cylinder engine winding up like a siren and I am gradually closing the distance on those s.o.b.'s.

  The S&W 59 comes out of the waistband of my slacks and I thumb off the safety.

  Paradise of the Pacific notwithstanding, those sonsabitches don't get away with crap like that.

  Copp for Hire is in fast pursuit in his funny car. And he does not much care who or what he finds up there in that black sedan.

  And, yeah, Paradise is definitely getting lost.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  MIDNIGHT COULD VERY well be a peak hour around Waikiki. I had not been around long enough to do any studies on that but I knew that some of the bars—those with dancing facilities—were allowed to stay open until four A.M. For sure I knew that the town was definitely perking at midnight with many vehicles on the streets and a lot of foot traffic.

  So this was not the best of all possible times for a running gun battle along the city streets.

  Actually I did not have that in mind.

  I just wanted to climb onto that rear bumper and hang there like glue until my shooting buddies either stopped to confront me eye to eye or found a nice quiet street where we could play out the string in relative solitude.

  Apparently they did not want to do either.

  The guy was shooting at me through his own shattered rear window, at damned near point blank, and my funny car had shaken off three hits when I decided I needed to revise my options. Either I had to break off and let them go, or I had to return the fire. But then something intervened in my decision-making process. I don't know if the guy was trying a funky maneuver to get me off his rear bumper or to line up a better shot for his triggerman—or maybe he was just paying more attention to me in his rearview than to his own driving—but suddenly the big car braked and swerved toward the center of the damp street. He overreacted; the sedan spun out, did three pirouettes along the dampened street, clipped a parked delivery truck, stood on its nose for a moment, then slammed on for a couple of end-overs before coming to rest on its roof in the center of an intersection.

  I went on through and parked on the other side. People were running to the scene from everywhere and several cars had stopped nearby. I am still not sure of the exact location, but Diamond Head was straight ahead a very short distance and a golf course bordered the intersection on two sides.

  I saw no evidence of cops, so I pushed through the spectators and began shouting warnings about the possibility of fire and explosion, which sent most of them toward an uneasy withdrawal. But a small group of die- hards remained clustered about the wreckage trying to help the occupants.

  I could have told them they were wasting their time.

  Two guys were crumpled inside the wreckage. All the windowglass was gone, the top was caved in and pinching into the head area. Blood was all over the place. One of those guys in there I had seen before. I did not ID that from the face because it was upside down and distorted and covered with blood; everybody in that condition looks pretty much the same. But the clothing was fairly memorable and I'd seen it earlier in a booth at Hong Kong Charlie's. Not the Godfather or whoever but his companion. The guy with the steering column in his chest was just another stiff.

  I reached in on the passenger side and tugged a wallet loose from an inside coat pocket.

  One of the helpful citizens gave me a dirty look. I gave him one back and he looked away for assistance. I dropped the wallet into my pocket and walked away, joined the growing crowd and went on through it, got to my car about the time the emergency sirens were close enough to hear.

  Didn't check out the wallet until I was well clear of the scene.

  The guy's name was Daniel Woo.

  He was thirty-eight years old, five-feet-eight, one hundred and thirty pounds.

  And he was an officer of the Honolulu Police Department.

  I was mulling over what Billy Inyoko had said to me about getting my feet down in the
right place, and wondering how I could have possibly put them down in a place more wrong. But let's keep the perspectives clear, here. I was feeling no remorse over the fact that the dead man was carrying a badge. A kinky cop, as you've gathered, is the worst thing in my book, at the head of the list in front of psychopathic killers and rapists and you name it— because a kinky cop is a traitor of the worst kind, a scumbag who uses his badge to defeat and disgrace everything the badge stands for.

  Enough guys like that and the badge stands for absolutely nothing...except maybe a swastika. And the less the badge means to the average citizen, the harder it is for the good cop to do his job. Brings back to mind Honolulu's harassment law I mentioned earlier. What that really says to the citizen is you've got to respect the badge. Don't argue, don't alibi, don't resist; the man is at least out here trying to do a job so behave yourself and let him do it properly and without resort to force. Imagine what it would be like if every cop had to draw his weapon to win a debate over every exercise of his police authority. The cops are overwhelmingly outnumbered, you know. Take a city like Honolulu with upwards of a million residents and maybe four to five million visitors a year. I would guess the Honolulu force at something under two thousand officers for twenty-four-hour coverage 365 days a year. How does such a handful police a town like that unless the average citizen at least respects the badge?

  I guess a lot of armchair constitutional lawyers would take a dim view of that Honolulu law, which at first glimpse seems to butt against individual rights. Well, I think it's a good law and it should be universal and universally enforced. Save the lip for the courtroom; let the cop write his ticket or make his collar as efficiently and peacefully as possible and get on with the job of protecting the community.

  Okay, so that's how I feel about the badge.

  But I did not fight a badge. I fought a guy who'd already trashed his own badge, and I've no apology to make for that. Besides, the guy was dead on his own initiative; dead while trying to make me dead, for a reason nowhere connected to his badge.

  I did feel, though, that I'd put my feet down in quicksand. It could suck me under at any time. And I had to wonder what the hell I was doing over here on this alien turf, anyway. I'm a private cop, for God's sake, in business for myself and very probably headed into bankruptcy. I had no client and therefore I had no case, was not even on expenses. So who the hell, you might ask, commissioned Joe Copp to police the world and save society from itself? You'd have a point.