"You were way out of your weight division," DeMarco said softly. "He had almost a hundred pounds on you."
"That's the whole story."
Again, DeMarco swigged on the beer. He put the bottle down and began making Olympic rings on the varnished bartop, stamping them out with the bottle's wet bottom. Finally he wiped his artwork away with his palm. " 'Nother longneck, Mark," he shouted.
"Listen, Dee… I hate seein' "
"Give it a rest. Okay?" DeMarco said sharply. "Don't tell me how to lead my life. While you were running around with your cell phone turned off, I've been working this thing. I'm not through filling you in yet, so shut the fuck up." Shane nodded. "This morning I wrote up a standard petition to overturn the 1.61 and requested your return to duty. It's kinda pro forma when a police officer has been suspended without pay, like an automatic appeal, only I've never seen one get approved before. Guess what? You're the exception." He reached into his back pocket and shoved a fax over to Shane. "Signed by the Big Noise himself." Shane looked at the document. It was as DeMarco said, signed by Chief Burleigh Brewer. "The whole shebang, from application to acceptance, took two hours. Now go figure that."
"I can't," Shane said, staring at the fax in disbelief. The document put him right back on duty with full pay. It didn't make sense in the face of everything else.
"I called Bud Halley and asked him about it. He told me Tom Mayweather walked it through the system personally. However, Halley also told me where they've reassigned you. You're not in Southwest Detectives anymore."
"Where am I?"
"You ain't gonna believe it…"
"Oh, shit. What is it this time, the grain and drain train at the city jail?"
"You've been assigned to the chief advocate's office at Internal Affairs."
"I've been what?!" he said, his voice so loud that Chooch momentarily turned away from the video game he was playing and looked in their direction.
"You report to the tin collectors at the Bradbury Building at eight-thirty A. M. tomorrow."
"That's nuts. I've never heard of an officer awaiting a Board of Rights being assigned to the very division that's trying to terminate him."
"Me neither. But after thinking it over…"
"They want to keep me where they can watch me," Shane said.
"A winnah. Give the man something from the top shelf. You is da new Dark Side kick-me. I guess Chief Brewer doesn't want you running around looking for whatever it is they think you took out of Ray's house. They want you on a tight leash."
The bartender brought DeMarco his new beer. He took three long swallows, then set it down with the others. "All in all, not a good start, Shane, but rigged boards are my specialty. These tin-collecting assholes can be had 'cause they all got target fixation. Just go down there and keep your nose clean. Let me do the grunting and groaning."
As he sat on the barstool, looking at the old defense rep, his heart sank, taking his hopes down with it. He had no choice. He had to go down to Internal Affairs. He'd been ordered, and failure to comply with a direct order was also a termination offense.
The only bright spot was that he was still on the payroll. He'd still collect his bimonthly base salary of $2,170.20, plus his teji-year longevity compensation of $60. In return, he'd be working down at IAD, forced to endure the biggest collection of milk-fed assholes on the planet. As he sat there, he decided that he would devote all of his nonworking hours to finding out what was missing from Ray's house.
"Yes! Kick ass!" Chooch yelled suddenly as his game buzzed victory and he was advanced to the next level.
"Don't worry, Shane. I'll unwind this for you. I'll get you off," DeMarco said, causing Shane to look back at him.
"Factus non verba" Scully said darkly.
Chapter 14
THE PEOPLE RULE
As soon as Shane got home, he called Sandy. She said she was sorry she hadn't gotten in touch with Thackery, but promised she would. She said she'd had a tough two days.
"What'm I supposed to do with Chooch tomorrow?" Shane asked. "They've got him sitting in detention all day. He's not even going to classes."
"That guy Thackery is a complete ass," Sandy said. "He's on Chooch for smoking dope? What a hypocrite."
"Not smoking it, Sandy, selling it."
"I was there at the school two months ago when Chooch enrolled. Thackery was just driving out. He put down the window of his crummy, rusted-out van to talk to me, and the smell of old pot was so strong in that thing, I got a contact high."
"Sandy, lots of people smoke pot, okay? It's a sad social truth, but there it is. It doesn't matter what Thackery does in his off-hours. You've gotta call him and set up an appointment."
"Right. Okay, I promise, sugar."
"You promised yesterday."
"This time I pledge it. I swear it, okay?" She changed gears. "You go ahead and take him to school tomorrow. Forget Thackery. I'll have already called that snooty headmaster, Mr. St. John. I'll square him away. That guy is always leering at me. Wants to get in my pants."
"You always put things so delicately," Shane said, beginning to wish he'd never met the beautiful raven-haired informant.
"Don't be such a prude. When I get through with St. John, he'll be at Camp Fantasy, pitching a tent in his Jockey shorts. Don't worry about Chooch."
After she hung up, Shane went outside. Chooch was already out there in one of the metal chairs. Shane dropped his tired ass in the vacant seat beside him. They looked out at the still canal, both lost in separate thoughts. Finally Shane jerked his mind off his department problems and focused on the boy sitting sullenly beside him.
"If your mom and I could keep you in school," Shane started slowly, "would you go there and really give it a try?"
"Moot point, 'cause you can't. I already got the scarlet E for 'expel.' I'm gone, brother."
"Chooch, I've been thinking about it. You're really smart. You've got a great head on your shoulders. You could be something important in life. You have it in you to be anything you want."
"Like a cop?" he smirked.
"Better than a cop. You could go to college, pick any career. Your mom has money; she'll pay for anything. That's a big advantage for you. It's a chance most guys never get."
They sat in silence, looking at the still canal water, both of them rocking slowly in the old metal chairs.
"I know you're trying to help, man," Chooch finally said, "but it ain't about having a career. Y'know… it's just not what it's about. It goes much deeper than that."
More silence, then Shane turned in his chair to look at the teenager. "Wanna know something?" Chooch didn't answer. "I believe in you, Chooch," he went on softly. "I know that whatever you want, you've got the ability to get it. You've got what it takes. I think you're special."
"That's bullshit," Chooch shot back.
"No, it's not. I've been watching you… how you handle stuff. You've got guts. You stand up. You walk your own trail. That's very rare. It takes strength of character. Most people can't do that." More silence. "Listen. I told you I wouldn't lie to you not ever. So this is the straight stuff. It's what I see in you, and it's impressive."
Chooch turned his face away from Shane. His breathing had changed. His right hand darted up and brushed his cheek under his eyes. Then he stood up, and anger flared. "Don't fuck around with me. Okay? I can't take any more bullshit. Just leave me alone." He moved quickly into the house.
Shane sat in his garden until the setting sun began turning the still canal bright yellow, then orange and purple, and finally black. After the sun surrendered its hold on the day, a cold evening wind came off the ocean, blowing marine air across the coastline. Shane was getting a chill, so he got out of his chair and walked back inside the house.
???
"It's fucking forty minutes too early!" Chooch glowered as Shane pulled up in front of the Harvard Westlake School the next morning. There were no waiting lines of foreign cars as Chooch opened the door and dragged his book b
ag from the front seat.
"I've got a new duty assignment downtown, so I need to get there early. Live with it," Shane said.
"Sure, no problem. Live with it. That's my fuckin' motto anyway." Chooch angrily moved away from the car and sat alone on a bench near the athletic pavilion.
Shane pulled out of the driveway and drove two miles to the Valley Division HQ. He figured if he hurried, he'd be able to get everything done before eight-thirty.
Fifteen minutes later Shane was back in the Harvard Westlake faculty parking lot waiting for Brad Thackery. After ten more minutes the assistant dean of admissions pulled his rusting Ford van into his parking stall and got out. Shane moved to him. "Good morning, sir," he said pleasantly.
"Maybe for you, but it's not a good morning for Chooch. I saw him sitting out front when I drove past. Since I still haven't heard from Mrs. Sandoval, you can just go right back around and pick him up and depart the premises, ad quam primum. He is no longer welcome at this school," Thackery said harshly, then added brusquely, "and remove your vehicle from faculty parking. This is a restricted area."
"How do you say that in Latin?"
"I'm through talking to you, whoever you are. Good-bye."
Shane pulled out his badge and held it up for Brad Thackery to read. Thackery looked at it, surprised, readjusted slightly, then with less anger said, "Big deal."
"You're right, it is a big deal, 'specially since your van there is crawling with vehicular irregularities. You wanna put that blinker on? Seems to me it wasn't working when you turned in here."
"I'm about to get it fixed."
" 'About to' doesn't cut it," Shane said. "Put it on, please. I want to check it out."
Thackery glared at Shane. "This is what really gets you guys off, isn't it?"
"Yep. Can't get enough of it."
As Brad Thackery opened the van, Shane moved to his Acura and opened the back door. A black Labrador jumped out and, with his tongue lolling, followed Shane back to the van. Thackery was leaning into the front seat, fiddling with the blinker and trying to get it to work, when the dog started barking and pacing back and forth along the side of Thackery's van.
"Whoa… whoa… whatta we got here?" Shane said with mock surprise. Thackery jerked his head out of the van.
"Get that dog away from me."
"This isn't a dog, Mr. Thackery, this is a drug enforcement officer. His name is Krupkee. It looks like Officer Krupkee's got a noseful. Where is it, boy? What ya got?"
The black Lab had moved to the rear of the van and now had both paws up on the spare tire, which was hooked by a locked bracket to the back of the van. Then the black Lab started barking and pawing at the tire.
"Oh boy, this ain't good, Mr. Thackery. You wanna give me the key that releases that back tire?"
"No. No, I don't."
"Lemme put it another way, sir. Gimme the key, or I'll pry the fucking thing off with my tire jack. Officer Krupkee just gave me probable cause for a search."
After a long moment, Thackery reluctantly dug into his pocket and produced the key that unlocked the tire bracket. Shane swung it away from the van and looked into the tire. There, attached by magnets to the inside of the tire drum, was a small metal box. Shane pulled it off and opened it. There were about four ounces of grass in a canvas bag and a bottle with a few pills. Shane opened the bag and poured some low-grade pot into his palm.
"This is not good, Mr. Thackery. As a matter of fact, you're under arrest, regnat populus." He poured the dope back into the bag. "So you won't get the wrong idea about me and think I'm some overeducated, Latin-quoting blowhard, that's just the state motto of Arkansas. I was stationed there in the Marines. It means 'the people rule,' and the people of Los Angeles don't like this one bit and are about to rule that you go to the city lockup."
Shane pulled out his handcuffs, spun Thackery around, and put them on.
"You can't do this," Thackery protested.
"Somebody should tell that to my watch commander. In the meantime, you're gonna sit this one out downtown. Don't worry, I'll call the principal for you and tell him his assistant dean of admissions is gonna be at County Jail riding the pine in the detox box."
"Is this about Chooch? Is that what this is all about?" Thackery's eyes were darting around, hoping no other member of the faculty would come driving in and witness this debacle.
"You bet it's about Chooch. But it's also about you, Brad. If you weren't such an insufferable asshole, I probably wouldn't have gone so far out of my way to knock your dick in the dirt."
"Look, Chooch has problems. Okay? He's got deep emotional difficulties. Besides, he's selling drugs."
"Bet he didn't sell you this crummy bag a' bird food," Shane said, holding up the bag of thin, seed-ridden grass.
"You think this is funny, is that it?"
"It's about as funny as prostate surgery. How do guys like you end up teaching school?"
"What do you want?"
"I want you to cut Chooch some slack. I want you to go to bat for him."
"I can't change the course of events. It's too late. They've already had a faculty meeting about him."
"I'd think the assistant dean of admissions would have a little pull around here," Shane said. "Of course, after this bust, you'll be lucky to be in charge of school bus schedules."
"Look, okay… maybe…"
"Maybe what?"
"If I… if I said to them I'd work with him separately, maybe do some drug counseling or something…"
"I don't think you're exactly the right guy for that, but go ahead, keep talkin'."
"Maybe if I really try, I could get him another chance. Just one…"
"Okay, that sounds more promising. You give him another chance, I give you another chance."
Just then, two other faculty cars pulled into the parking area and slowed as they passed Thackery's van. He was standing there with his hands cuffed behind him. A woman put down her window.
"Is everything okay, Brad?" she asked, looking at the handcuffs.
"We're fine." Shane said. "I'm the magician Mr. Thackery hired for next month's high-school assembly. Just showing Brad here how I do my handcuff escape." Shane smiled and she drove on, not looking too convinced.
"I want immediate results, Thackery. I'm looking for Chooch to get outta that detention hall this morning and back into regular class. If he gets goofy about anything in the future, don't bust him. Call me."
Shane shoved his business card into Thackery's shirt pocket and then unhooked the cuffs. He put the dope and pills in his jacket pocket, gave Brad Thackery back his car keys, then he led Officer Krupkee over to the Acura.
The Lab jumped into the backseat, Shane put the car in gear, pulled out of the faculty parking area, then drove back to Valley Division and returned the dog to the Valley Bureau Drug Enforcement Unit. He shot back onto the freeway and got to Internal Affairs downtown with ten minutes to spare.
Chapter 15
THE DARK SIDE
The Bradbury building never failed to amaze Shane. He felt that it was the most magnificent building in Los Angeles. Only five stories high, it had been designed in the late 1800s by Gregory Wyman, a draftsman with no architectural degree. It sat bravely on the corner of Broadway and Third while slovenly men leaned forward to piss against her or curled up to sleep, rubbing the grime from their clothes on her magnificent yellow bricks.
Shane pulled into the modern concrete parking structure that had been built next door, took the ticket, then found a spot on the second tier. He rode the elevator down and came out onto a brick patio with umbrella tables that served as a lunch area. It was located directly behind the old building. Along the concrete wall adjoining the patio was the historic fresco depicting the life of an African-American woman named Biddy Mason. The wall chronicled her odyssey, from her birth as a slave in 1810, through her incredible life journey, all the way to her final heroic years of service as a nurse delivering babies in Los Angeles hospitals in 1870.
/> The fresco had been placed there to show the early African-American commitment to the quality of life in L. A. Shane found it strange that in post-Rodney King L. A., this monument was behind the Internal Affairs building, in a patio where mostly cops accused of misconduct would ever see it.
He pushed through the back doors of the Bradbury, through a section under reconstruction on the first floor, into the building's magnificent covered courtyard. He looked up at the five floors stacked above him. Light brick contrasted with the intricate black wrought-iron railings. They wrapped around the interior hallways that surrounded the open atrium. Polished oak banisters snaked along the top of the ornate black-painted iron. On each side of the building's courtyard were beautiful, antique turn-of-the-century open elevators. They ran on exposed counterbalances that carried the filigreed boxes up and down. They moved slowly, stopping carefully at each floor as if time had not sped up in modern L. A. or had not fallen into desperate conflict with elegance. Over it all hung a glass roof five stories up, supported by black metal grates.
Shane stood there for a long time. He had been here for a week during his last BOR and had learned the rituals of the place. He knew about the waiting-room silence that followed the bustle of echoing voices in the atrium just before the nine o'clock commencement of the boards. He remembered the tense posture of witnesses and police officers as they leaned over the metal railings near the fifth-floor hearing rooms, waiting nervously to testify. There were the subtle, silent signs that were read only by the people familiar with the activity in the building and who spread the word on each board's outcome. The elevator operators watched carefully as accused officers left their penalty hearings, checking to see who was carrying the accused's gun. If it was in the advocate's hand, it meant the officer had been terminated.
The administration of LAPD justice churned relentlessly in the building, leaving bits and pieces of its victims' lives bobbing like scattered garbage in its wake. Like the Tower of London, it was way too beautiful a place for all the beheadings that occurred there.
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