As the sun was coming up, everyone was at that point of inebriation where every utterance sounded profound and utter nonsense was defended as perfectly logical.
"We need some fucking T shirts that say CRASH," Arredondo said.
Stepanovich, who'd folded his cards earlier, sat in the passenger seat with his eyes closed, thinking of Gloria. He had considered leaving more than once during the long night, but he didn't want to be the one to break up the party.
"Belt buckles," Fordyce said, slurring his words. "I know a guy who makes specialty belt buckles."
Black guzzled beer and belched. "Silk jackets. That's what we need. Black ones with CRASH written on the back." Everyone laughed.
Arredondo finished his beer and tossed the empty can into a cardboard box. "We're outa beer. No mas cervesa."
Fordyce climbed behind the wheel. "I know a place that's open," he said, starting the engine and slamming the car into gear. The motor home lurched as he steered over a curb and into the street and past dingy warehouses and loading docks.
"How about a medallion?" Brenda said proudly. "I like medallions. Like the ones from that place that advertises on TV. They make 'em to order."
"What the fuck you talking about?" Black said.
Brenda sipped beer. "You guys remember the Lone Wolf? The TV detective? He would solve the case and leave this wolf medallion. It was pure silver."
"How do you know it was pure silver?" Black said.
"Do you always have to be such a jerk?"
"Yeah," Arredondo said, "at the end of the show some whipdick would find the medallion and hold it up and say: 'It's the sign of the Lone Wolf.' "
Black popped another beer. "If I was the whipdick who found it, I'd just shove it in my pocket and shag ass to the nearest pawnshop."
"We need some fucking medallions," Fordyce said. His eyes were rimmed with red.
Black belched loudly. "I got your medallions hanging."
"Keep your eyes on the road, amigo."
Brenda moved to Stepanovich and sat heavily on his lap. "Why are you so quiet tonight?" Smelling her cheap perfume, he shrugged.
"Brenda's got a pair of medallions," Fordyce said.
Black shoved open the door and tossed out an empty. "Fuck the Los Angeles Police Department right in its dirty ass."
"If it wasn't for the police department you'd be shoveling shit on a farm," Arredondo said, discovering one last beer in a six-pack container. He popped open the can. "You wouldn't be shit."
"And you'd be right there working for me, homeboy.
"Where are we going?" Brenda said as they reached the Fourth Street Bridge.
As they crossed it, someone suggested tattoos. Though later Stepanovich was unable to remember whether it had been before or after they stopped at a liquor store and purchased more beer and a quart of whiskey, he was relatively certain it was Black who came up with the idea.
"We need some homeboy tattoos," he said.
Popping fresh cans of beer, they weaved past a backdrop of narrow, sooty streets lined with factory buildings and brick front flophouses to the very pit of Los Angeles: Main Street. Lying in the shadow of L.A. City Hall, the street was lined with secondhand clothing stores, peep shows, fruit bars, grimy fast food outlets, and shoeshine stands. A mixture of ex cons, elderly poor, sickly winos, bag ladies, Mexican illegal aliens, and Marines on weekend leave from Camp Twenty Nine Palms to roll queers, wandered up and down the street killing time.
Fordyce parked in a no parking zone directly in front of a tattoo parlor he said he remembered from his first year on the job when he'd walked the Main Street police beat accompanied by a training officer. The tattoo parlor was a fading, hutlike structure interposed between an abandoned movie theater and a dingy cocktail lounge called The Circus. Stepanovich and the others popped cans of beer as they climbed out of the motor home and barged into the place, the walls were covered with colorful tattoo size designs, and there was an overpowering medicinal smell.
"You guys cops?" said the owner, an intimidated tattoo artist with a ragged goatee and a pack of smokes rolled up in the sleeve of his dingy T shirt. His face, the only part of visible skin that wasn't tattooed, was etched with lines. Stepanovich's sixth sense told him he was an ex convict.
Black emitted a beer belch. "That's right, my man. We're the men from CRASH, so dig out some nice fresh needles."
"And women," Brenda said.
"Huh?"
"CRASH," Black said. "You’ve heard of the FBI and the CIA? Well, that ain't diddly squat compared to CRASH Community Resources Against Street Hoodlums. We kill gangbangers."
"We knock their dicks in the dirt," Fordyce said.
"Whether they like it or not," Arredondo added.
The men laughed. The tattoo artist said his name was Slim and recited the prices for tattoos.
"This is really stupid," said Brenda, downing a can of beer.
Black negotiated price as Fordyce, like an art connoisseur, took his time scanning the walls for an appropriate tattoo.
Because Stepanovich was drunk, he had trouble focusing on the various tattoos. One in a frame and much larger than the others depicted a smiling human skeleton waving a checkered racing flag. The inscription below the flag read: "THE WINNER." Probably because he was drunk, he suddenly had an overpowering sense of déjà vu. He felt as if he'd seen the tattoo on the wrists of a thousand people he'd arrested.
Fordyce pointed to a design. "Here it is."
Slim lifted the design from the wall and the others gathered around. It was a three dimensional crucifix, the kind favored by East L.A. gang members. Everyone readily agreed it was the perfect unit logo. As Slim readied needle and ink, Black, stripping off his shirt, insisted on being the first to be tattooed.
"I want a tattoo on my butt," Brenda said.
To Stepanovich it seemed they were in the stuffy parlor for an eternity.
****
TWELVE
That evening, Stepanovich woke up in his apartment lying fully clothed on his mattress.
He craned his neck to look at the clock radio. It was after ten and his bladder was full. Coming to his feet, he walked to the bathroom to relieve himself. At a dull ache throbbing from his ankle, he looked down. Then he held it up to the mirror on the back of the door. There, in an area he remembered that the tattoo artist had shaved with an electric razor, was a swollen, scabby green tattoo: the letters CRASH above a three-dimensional Latin crucifix.
Hazy, lightheaded from the beer and whiskey, he staggered back to bed. Lying there with his mouth dry and his ankle aching, he tried to remember how he'd gotten home. His mind wandered through a boozy haze to the image of Brenda lying nude from the waist down on a long table as Slim worked on her alabaster right buttock with his electric needle/Black, shirtless and tattooed, unashamedly pissing on the sidewalk in front of the place/Fordyce passed out on the floor of the motor home/Arredondo walking around the tattoo parlor in his underwear with beer cans in both hands.
Later, to ease his growling stomach, Stepanovich made his way into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. It was empty except for a head of lettuce and a tomato. Using two heels of bread he found in the bread drawer, he prepared a tomato and lettuce sandwich with lots of mayonnaise. He gobbled down the vegetarian repast in a few bites, then returned to bed.
He slept fitfully for what was left of the night and awoke the next morning with a vivid picture of Greenie holding a bloody towel to his wife's head. He rubbed his eyes for a long time, as though to massage the thought away. Then remembering that it was Gloria's day off, he climbed out of bed and picked up the phone. The other end of the line clicked and he listened as a tape recording of Gloria's voice asked him to leave a message. At the sound of the tone, he recited his name and phone number, and set the receiver down. Then, realizing he was nearly late for work, he showered quickly and dressed.
On his way to the gang unit office at Hollenbeck Station he was stopped several times by other officers and co
ngratulated on the shooting. He made his way down the stairs. There was no one else in the gang unit squad room.
The phone rang. It was his mother. In the background squeaked a metal conveyer belt.
"I saw the television," she said.
"I'm OK, Mom. There's nothing to worry about."
"I could tell something was bothering you. You've been acting like you did when you came home from Vietnam."
"Television always blows things up."
"You're in some kind of trouble, aren't you? I can tell by the tone of your voice."
"They had an shooting investigation, but that's normal."
"It's not normal to shoot people. I want you to get out of that gang unit. You can be a teacher at the police academy and get paid the same money. Let them find someone else to do that gang crap. You've been there long enough."
"I'll come over when I get a chance and we can talk. "
"Don't treat me like one of your girlfriends. I'm your mother and I know what's good for my son."
"I know you're frightened because of what you saw on TV, but everything is OK, Mom. There is nothing to worry about," he said, staring at the desk.
There was the sound of a horn in the background. "I have to get back on the line," she said. "I'm going to go to church tonight and pray for you. Please be careful, son, I love you."
The phone clicked. Slowly Stepanovich set the receiver back on the cradle.
Harger stepped out of his office and motioned Stepanovich inside. As Harger closed the door behind them, Stepanovich saw on it a framed photo of Harger dressed in police SWAT team gear holding an M-16 rifle at port arms.
"How are you feeling?" Harger asked, moving to the hot plate in the corner of the room. He picked up a glass coffee pot, filled a styrofoam cup, and handed it to Stepanovich.
"Still a little hungover."
Harger filled another cup. "I just spoke with the Chief. He wanted me to extend unofficial congratulations to you and the others. He insisted I write all of you up for medals of valor. I've never seen him so positive and upbeat."
"And the shooting investigation is OK?"
"The Chief made sure you and the others came out clean in the final report," Harger said with a wry grin. "He's the angel watching over the gang unit." Without warning, Harger's expression suddenly turned hard. "Gimme one sentence on the effect of the shooting, Joe. Just between you and me. What does it mean on the street?"
"Both Eighteenth and White Fence lost face," Stepanovich said.
Harger sipped his coffee. "What's next? Give me the street gang big picture."
"Because of the shooting, they'll probably lay low for a while."
"Then what?"
"It's hard to say."
"I want you to look into that crystal ball for me. You know how these gang assholes think. What's their order of battle?"
Stepanovich sipped the bitter coffee as he reflected. "With Greenie's wife in the hospital, Eighteenth Street will be after blood. When the time is right, they'll come into White Fence's turf for a payback."
"How? What will they do ... and where?"
"Their shooters will cruise Hazard Park. The first White Fence member they see gets blown up. If no gang members are around, they'll shoot whoever is there. "
"Why Hazard Park?"
"White Fence turf is small and mostly residential - lots of cul-de-sacs. It's an easy place to get trapped after they shoot someone. On the other hand, Hazard Park is at the edge of their territory. They can open fire and speed onto the freeway. That's where they'll hit. "
"A drive by shooting," Harger mused on the way to his desk. With a furrowed brow he pulled his chair back and sat down. He made eye contact with Stepanovich. "I want you to be at Hazard Park waiting for them. "
"The park'll be hard to cover. "
Harger used an index finger to wipe a design in the moisture coating his coffee cup. "You'll manage," he said smugly.
"If we keep this up, eventually the gangs will figure out what we're up to."
"Then we'll change tacks, but until that time we're going to set up one trap after another. We're going to keep the heavy heat on 'em until every time they cruise for blood, they'll be worrying as much about us as the gang they are going to hit. I want to give them nightmares, then make the nightmares come true."
Back in the squad room, the others members had arrived and Stepanovich related what Harger had told him. As he spoke he noticed how pale and hungover everyone looked. Having completed the briefing, he stepped to the wall map of East Los Angeles posted above the copying machine. He pointed to a small green square on the left side of the chart representing Hazard Park. "If it's gonna be a drive by shooting, they have to drive down Breed Street," he said, running his index finger along a black line on the north side of the park. "They'll either come off the freeway and make a left turn, or approach from Fickett."
Arredondo pointed at the map. "There's a wall right here."
"Right. If they're going to open fire they'll have to be at this end of the street. If so, afterward there's only one logical way to escape."
"You're right," Black said, studying the map.
"We'll never be able to mount surveillance on Hazard Park," Arredondo said. "The homeboys know that any stranger in the neighborhood has to be a cop. "
"We could stake out near the freeway," Fordyce suggested.
Concentrating on the problem, Stepanovich leaned against the copying machine. Perhaps because of his hangover, the colors on the map a thick red line for the freeway, the blue rectangle designating a housing project near the park seemed harsh. He closed his eyes for a moment, picturing the park where he'd played as a child. He opened his eyes. "The freeway is too far away. If a shooting goes down we need to be close enough to respond. Otherwise, there's no point being there in the first place."
"We can use my motor home," Fordyce said.
"I'm afraid you're right. It's the only way we can watch the park without the gangbangers knowing what we're up to," Stepanovich said.
Stepanovich and the others spent the rest of the day cleaning weapons, checking out equipment, and completing overdue reports. Though they hardly talked, Stepanovich felt a sense of anticipation among them, a sense of oneness he'd experienced only with his platoon in Vietnam. Because of the shoot out and the wild night afterward, they shared a bond that no one on the outside would ever understand.
Around six they loaded the equipment into the motor home. Stepanovich informed the others to meet him in the station parking lot the next morning at five, and everyone headed for home. Concerned that Gloria hadn't returned his call, he picked up the phone and dialed her number. She answered on the sixth ring.
"Did you get my message?"
"No, I, uh, just got home."
"How would you like to go to dinner with a nice policeman?"
"I'm busy tonight," she said in a tone that told him there was something wrong.
"I thought this was your night off."
"Yes, but, I, uh, have a lot to do."
"Is everything OK?"
There was a long moment of silence. "We'll talk sometime."
"We're starting a surveillance tomorrow. I may not be able to call you.
"I have to go," she said softly. "Bye."
The phone clicked.
Stepanovich set the receiver down and left the office. The drive to Gloria's apartment took about five minutes. "What's wrong?" he asked as she turned away from the opened door. Closing it behind him, he followed her.
Gloria picked a newspaper off the coffee table and handed it to him. The headline read: "GANG COPS KILL TWO." Below the headline was a poorly lit photograph of the front lawn of the Florentine Gardens city housing project. Lying on the steps leading from Greenie's apartment were two sheet-covered corpses. In the background, he, Arredondo, and Black were conferring together on the lawn. Because of the distance and the lighting in the photograph, their faces were blurry.
Gloria pointed at him in the photo. "Is
that you?"
He nodded.
"One of the men you killed was a friend of mine," she said, her voice cracking. "Luis Nunez."
"Jesus."
"He and his family lived next door to me when I was growing up "
"I had no idea who he was when it happened," Stepanovich interrupted. "We were on a stakeout."
"He'd been involved with the White Fence gang since he was ten years old. His whole family was involved with the gang." She walked to the window. "I always figured Luis would end up this way. Strange, isn't it? Luis, who's never held a job, who spent his whole life hanging on street corners and getting in trouble never accomplished anything in his entire life will now be a hero. All because he got himself killed by the police." She shook her head. "It's so sick."
"He and the others had guns "
"Guns and shootings and gangs. Violence. I grew up with all that. It turns my stomach, Joe."
"Do you think I like it?" he said after a while.
Gloria brushed her eyes quickly with the back of her hand. "I think it's better if we don't see each other anymore," she said without looking at him.
"This is just, just something that happened," he said, "a one in a million chance "
She turned to him. "This is what always happens. You're the one who chose to be 'out there on the street,' as you call it. It's the same thing the gangbangers say. "
"It's my job."
"What kind of job is it to shoot people?"
"You act like we're from different worlds," he said angrily. "Don't forget, I was raised here too. This isn't Disneyland. This is East L.A. Your friend Luis and his homeboys shot three people."
"There's something you should know," Gloria said. "When I was growing up, the White Fencers were always around the house. My stepbrother Johnny ran with the gang. He was tough. He had a lowered Mustang and his nickname was Spider." She stormed toward him, her index finger touching the tiny scar close to the corner of her right eye. "See this? It used to be a teardrop tattoo before I had plastic surgery to remove it. I was a White Fence girl. A cholita."
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