"Hearing me play the pipes can definitely be arranged." Ian chuckled. "No one else wants to listen to me. My wife and kids and friends run away screaming when they just see me blow up the bag. I wait for unsuspecting people like you to ask me."
Ian slowed in the alley, flashing his two-cell light toward some shadows in an apartment house doorway, but it was just two bony cats slinking through the alleys, prowlmg hungrily.
The little maroon Ford made a turn and was coming back their way.
It was now 10:00 p. M. and the unmarked Plymouth police car known as Six-Z-Four was emerging from the alley onto Carlos when the coupe crossed their headlight beam and they saw the two gaunt young men with their leather jackets and snap-brim leather caps in their little car with Nevada plates.
They would have aroused the suspicions of almost any policeman in Hollywood that night. It was patently obvious that they were not ordinary out-of-town tourists cruising the boulevard. The caps were rare enough, but with matching leather jackets, they were almost absurdly suspicious, even contrived. It was as though they'd just driven off the Columbia Pictures lot farther south on Gower, two extras from a Depression era gangster film, caricatures, Katzenjam- mer Kids.
But still, Ian and Karl had to look for something more tangible, something to tell the court for probable cause in case they came up with an arrest. They could not, or would not, depend upon their own ability to articulate a well grounded suspicion, nor the court's ability to understand the several intangibles which go into the decision to stop and frisk and interrogate. So they looked for and immediately found something else: the tried and true "rear plate illumination."
Even if the Ford's license plate lights had not been out, it is doubtful that Ian Campbell and Karl Hettinger would have let this car go its way. The little Ford looked "too good," which in police jargon means it looked too bad, too suspicious, a "good shake." It had to be stopped and a reason found to search.
The little Ford had but to turn left on Vista Del Mar and it could have proceeded south to Hollywood Boulevard and never have been stopped by Six-Z-Four that night, but Greg decided on a U-turn, and on their ninth night together, the partners made their last wrong turn on Los Angeles streets.
"Fuckin dead ends," Jimmy grumbled when they turned around. "We always seem to be runnin into dead ends."
"We should check these two," said Ian as the little Ford stopped for the red light at Gower.
"All right. When do you wanna take them?"
"Right now," said Ian, who pulled up behind the coupe, turned on his red light, and tooted the horn.
Gregory Powell glanced into the rear view mirror, tightened his grip on the steering wheel, and said: "Cops!"
As the coupe turned the corner onto Gower and stopped, Karl saw the heads move a^it closer.
"Let's be careful," said Karl.
Jimmy felt the red light before seeing it, felt the heat from the red light searing the back of his neck, and he was whispering, "I knew it. I knew it," even as he unzipped the brown leather jacket Greg had bought him, removed the .32 automatic Greg had bought him, and gingerly dropped it on the floor, kicking it across the car with his new thirty-five dollar shoes. Greg's eyes were glued to the mirror and the kick was subtle but sharp enough so that the gun ended up very close to Greg's left foot where Jimmy wanted it. It was far enough from Jimmy so that he could swear that Greg had just picked him up hitchhiking and that he knew nothing of the two guns in Greg's possession. Weren't they in Greg's name? And in case that story didn't work he was sure he could come up with others.
"Just take it easy, it may just be a ticket. Just sit tight," Greg said, looking at Jimmy for an instant, and Jimmy tried to answer, wanted to say something sarcastic, but found himself unable to speak.
He could not take it easy, was in fact frantic, wanting as much distance as possible between himself and Gregory Powell when the cops found the gun on the floor at Greg's feet, and the one in Greg's belt. Who knows, this maniac might just try shooting his way out! Jimmy wouldn't put that past him, and he just wanted to show the cops he was only riding along with this guy, a hitchhiker, that's all.
I got nothin to hide, and I just gotta be cool, gotta be cool, he told himself. But he was all the way to the right, as far as he could sit in the little coupe, and still felt too close to Greg, felt at that moment like they were Siamese twins. And then he leaped out of the car and looked into the eyes of Karl Hettinger, who was flashing his light, advancing slowly on the sidewalk.
Jimmy came forward, fear bursting all over him, and Karl reached inside his sport coat, placed his right hand on the gun butt in the cross-draw holster, and said what he knew was obvious enough despite the unmarked car: "Police."
Jimmy Smith froze at the sound of the word and threw his hands in the air.
Karl's pulse bucked. He glanced inside the car at Greg and quickly back at Jimmy standing stock still on the sidewalk, hands high in the air, though Karl had neither drawn his gun nor told Jimmy to raise his hands, and Karl knew for certain. Any policeman would have known. Something. There was something. Narcotics perhaps. They looked like hypes, but Ian was on the street side of the car and couldn't see Jimmy's panic signals.
Jesus, what if he sees the gun? thought Jimmy. What if Greg starts shootin? Christ, I gotta get away from this maniac!
Karl's eyes were not close set, nor did the irises bleed into the pupil, but Jimmy was to f ore vej% remember Karl's eyes as being close set and glittering behind his plastic-rimmed glasses. Jimmy bore it as long as he could, about five seconds. Then he said, "What's the trouble, officer?"
"Police officers," said Ian to Greg, coming up on the driver's side, not bothering to show a badge, because it went without saying that these two would certainly know they were police. He wanted one hand free since the other held the flashlight.
"Oh, Lord, I know what I'm getting a ticket for this time," said Greg, with only a faint hope that he could bluff the cop, knowing that plainclothes police don't write traffic tickets. Knowing that when you get stopped by them it's usually a frisk and questioning. He knew it the first instant he looked up at the big policeman, seeing his dark sport shirt buttoned at the throat, and his old gray flannel slacks, and his well worn sport jacket, knowing they were on something other than normal uniform patrol or traffic detail. He knew there would be no traffic ticket.
"Would you mind taking your license out of your wallet?" asked Ian.
"Sure."
"How long have you been in town?" asked Ian, glancing at the license.
"We just got in today."
"Would you mind stepping out of the car?" asked Ian, handing back the license.
Greg placed the driver's license in the left front pocket of his leather jacket and lifted and loosened his gun.
"What's this all about?"
"It's just routine."
"Okay. Okay." Greg smiled, shaking his head and sighing, seeing Ian open the door and step back, seeing that Ian held only a flashlight in his hand. Greg turned to his right to back out, then wheeled to his feet.
Ian was looking at the Colt in Greg's hand and stepping backward slowly, unbelieving. Then Greg was behind him, holding him at the back by a handful of jacket, dizzily remembering the things he had learned in the prison yards about police disarming movements. So he clutched the big policeman by the jacket, and if he felt him turn he could push away and step back, and . . .
Karl had been watching Jimmy, who was licking his lips, cotton mouthed, stone still in the flashlight's glare, asking, "What's the trouble, officer?" And then Karl saw Ian coming around the car, with the suspect walking behind not in front, and that was wrong, all wrong. And then Greg peeked from behind Ian's back and said, "Take his piece," to Jimmy Smith and fluids jetted through Karl's body and he jerked the six-inch service revolver from the cross-draw holster and pointed it toward the man who was almost completely hidden behind Karl's much larger partner.
"He's got a gun on me," said Ian. "Give him your gu
n."
And then no one spoke and Karl pointed the gun toward the voice, but the voice had no body. It was like a dream. He was pointing his gun toward Ian, toward a glimpse of black cap and a patch of forehead showing around Ian's arm, and there was no sound but the car sounds, tires, cars humming past on Gower, and headlights bathing them in the beams every few seconds. But no cars stopped or even noticed and Karl found himself now pointing the gun at Jimmy Smith, who was like a statue, and then Karl aimed toward the voice again. It was so incredible! It couldn't happen like this. Back and forth went Karl's gun and he was crouched slightly as on the seven yard line at the police combat range. But this wasn't the combat range. There was no sound except from passing cars.
Ian spoke again: "He's got a gun in my back. Give him your gun."
Then Karl looked at Ian, hesitated, and let the gun butt slide until he was holding it only with the thumb and index finger, the custom wooden grips smooth and slippery between his cold wet fingers. Then he held it up and Jimmy, dark eyes shining, walked toward him and took Karl's Colt revolver.
Jimmy Smith held the gun clumsily in both hands at chest level and raised it toward the street light on Gower and squinted with astigmatized vision, like a primitive seeing a gun for the first time. And it did seem to him like the first time. This was a cop's gun! It was also unreal to him.
For another moment then they were inert. All four of them. Four brains fully accelerated, four bodies becalmed. Staggered. Inertia for a long moment. Four young men bathed in the purple glow of the street light. Detachment on the faces. Total bewilderment. Two policemen facing that which all policemen firmly believe can never happen to them. Two small-time robbers, fathoms deep, holding the Man at bay. Four minds racing. Tumbling incoherent thoughts.
Perhaps the first one to move was Karl Hettinger. Hands upraised, he began moving the big five-cell flashlight, ever so subtly, in a tiny circle, the beam flashing into the street, striking the windshields of the cars which passed unconcerned every few seconds. Then Ian noticed, and hands upraised, did the same with his little two-cell. Then Greg saw what they were doing and said, "Put those goddamn hands down."
Jimmy Smith stopped holding the gun to the light, stopped staring at it in wonder, and began trying to fit a Colt service revolver with a six-inch barrel into a four-inch pocket. He turned, staring from one to the other until he heard Greg's command, then he shoved the gun into his belt. Perhaps without a command he would have remained there forever.
"Get over there," Greg said, nodding toward the coupe, and hearing the voice, Jimmy wanted to obey. Then he realized Greg was talking to the cops, so he waited for his own orders.
Then it came. His chance. His final opportunity to order fate. Greg said, "Jim, go back to the police car and park it closer to the curb so we won't draw any more heat. And turn out the lights."
Jimmy nodded vacantly and Greg said to the policemen, "Get in the car."
"Where do you want me?" asked Ian, standing at the right side of the little maroon coupe.
"Behind the wheel," said Greg, who was thinking, watching, examining both men, sizing them up. At first it was merely Ian's physical presence which guided Greg. He was a big man. Put the big man behind the wheel where he can be watched more closely. The little man in the back.
"Where do you want me?" asked Karl.
"In the back."
Karl struggled with the seat trying to pull it forward not realizing it was a one-piece backrest and would not move.
"It's stuck," said Karl.
"Goddamnit, get in that car and I mean right now. Climb over the seat!"
Then Karl was inside behind the seat, sitting on the floor of the coupe, knees up to his chin. In the cramped space behind the only seat, on the metal floor of the car, flashlight in hand, pulse banging in his ears so that it was actually hard to hear for a moment.
Jimmy Smith was wrestling with the gears of the police car and with the emergency brake, but most of all with his courage.
"Won't move," he mumbled aloud to himself. "Got it in drive and it won't move!"
He fought with the Plymouth, stepping on the accelerator and killing the engine each time he was caught by the emergency brake. Jimmy Smith didn't know that emergency brakes on late model cars were no longer controlled by clumsy levers hanging down. He desperately yanked on the emergency foot brake but didn't know to tug the little chrome lever under the dash. He had been away too long.
"If I'd only knew about late model cars," he was to say later. "I coulda drove off in that police car. I coulda cut him loose right there. But I couldn't get that fuckin brake off."
"Hurry up," Greg yelled, and Jimmy gave up, got out of the car, looked toward Hollywood Boulevard, looked toward escape and made his last choice. He walked toward the Ford hopelessly.
"I couldn't get the brake off," Jimmy said to Greg who was seated in the passenger side of the coupe, Colt pointed at Ian's belly, hammer cocked.
"Leave the goddamn thing. Leave it," Greg said, sliding slowly close to Ian to make room for Jimmy in. the front.
At that moment a carload of teenagers drove by, talking loudly and laughing. One glanced at Jimmy for a moment and Jimmy became aware of the big revolver under his leather jacket and then the teenagers drove on. Jimmy got in the coupe.
"Did you check the police car for our license number?" asked Greg. "They probably wrote it down when they stopped, us."
"Yes," Jimmy lied, wanting to get away, to get away now, to have one more chance to cut Greg loose. If he just had one more chance.
"Where's the other gun?" Greg asked Jimmy, drilling Ian with his eyes, keeping the Colt at his belly, watching Ian's hands on the steering wheel. Already the little car was starting to reek from the smell of fear and sweat from the four of them.
"Where's the other gun?" Greg repeated.
"What other gun?" Jimmy asked, thinking of the automatic, hoping Greg would not notice that Jimmy had kicked it under Greg's side of the seat. And then Jimmy added further confusion to the moment by adding, "You mean the .45 automatic?"
And then Greg, not knowing that Jimmy was referring to the Spanish Star .32 automatic, felt panic, suddenly thinking there was still another cop's gun unaccounted for.
"Was this guy carrying a .45?"
"I dunno," said Jimmy, totally bewildered now, not knowing how many guns there were, or where they were.
"Well look around the floor for the goddamn .45 then," said Greg frantically.
"Gimme that flashlight," Jimmy said to Karl, and with the bright five-cell light he found the .32 automatic on the floor just under the edge of the seat where he'd kicked it. Now he had two guns in his lap: his own automatic, and Karl's Colt service revolver.
"This is all the guns there is," said Jimmy.
"Okay, all the guns are accounted for," Greg said in exasperation. "Now let's get outta here." And to Ian, "Do you know how to get on the freeway to Bakersfield? I want Highway 99."
"Yes," Ian answered. "We can go up the street here on Gower and get on the Hollywood Freeway."
"Well get going," said Greg. "Don't break any laws and don't go fast, because if you get us stopped you're both dead."
Jimmy switched his glance from Karl in the back to his partner Gregory Powell, and rode most of the trip in an uncomfortable twisted position where he could occasionally look at Karl.
Greg's voice had lost its rasp and was coming back normal and confident. "Son of a bitch, we couldn't be any hotter," said Greg, and Jimmy thought he detected a bit of elation in the voice. "I've already killed two people. I didn't wanna get in this business, but now that I'm in it, I gotta go all the way."
Oh Jesus, Jimmy thought. Greg was breathing regularly now and saying crazy things, and sounding like some punk Jimmy would expect to see in an old movie and, oh, Jesus.
"Why did you guys stop us?" Greg asked.
"Because you had no lights on your license plate," Ian said as he. drove onto the ramp of the Hollywood Freeway.
&n
bsp; Greg's gun hit Ian's ribs. "Just a minute. Where're you taking us?"
"This is the way to the Hollywood Freeway. I'm going the right way," said Ian steadily.
"It's the right way," said Karl, peering up over the window ledge from his place on the metal floor, looking over the space back there -finding a hubcap, rags, a bumper jack and handle, cans-nothing that could be of much help against two men and four guns in a cramped and tiny car, with one man holding a cocked revolver in the driver's belly.
"We're going on the freeway to the Sepulveda off-ramp. And that'll take us to the Ridge Route," Ian explained.
"Jimmy," said Greg, "your job is to look to the rear and cover that guy. And also to look for a tail."
"Okay," Jimmy mumbled, thinking: Thanks for telling them my name, you dumb . . .
"How often you guys check in on the radio?" asked Greg.
"About every hour," Ian said.
"I figure that gives us a fifteen-minute head start," said Greg, who would occasionally glance back at Karl. He and Jimmy were sitting twisted to the left, toward the two policemen. Greg said to Karl, "Don't try anything funny back there, because I got it in your partner's ribs."
"I won't," said Karl. "We've both got families. We just want to go home to our families." And he pulled, the corduroy sport jacket up around his chin because he was suddenly very cold.
"Just keep that in mind," Greg said, and now Jimmy sensed that Greg was totally relaxed.
Jimmy hated him more than he ever had because he himself was breathing so hard he was hyperventilating, and his heart was hammering in his throat. From this time on, Jimmy could never think of his friend as Greg. It would be Powell from this moment, whenever he thought of him, whenever he would dream about him.
Ian said quietly, "Don't get excited, but there's a radio car up ahead." And everyone in the car went tense as Ian kept up the steady speed in the slower lane, approaching the police car which was stopped in front of them.
"It looks like a roadblock, Jimmy," said Greg, voice razor thin. "Get ready!"
"It looks like they're writing a ticket," said Ian. "That's all. I'm just going to drive by at an even speed."
the Onion Field (1973) Page 16
