Earth Angels

by Gerald Petievich

  She broke into tears.

  "I'm at Evergreen Cemetery. Get my car at Smokey's and pick me up at the front gate. If there's la chota on the street, just drive past and come back in an hour. If you get pulled over, tell them you are on your way to work. Do what I tell you, homegirl."

  Payaso set the receiver down and stepped out of the booth. Lifting his T-shirt, he pulled his .38 revolver from his belt holster. He reloaded with the six rounds in his right pocket and dropped the empty rounds on the grass.

  From the left pocket he took a tiny paper packet and unwrapped it. There were four white pills. Though his mouth was dry and he knew it was going to be difficult to swallow, he tilted his head back and dropped the pills back in his throat. He swallowed three times, but the pills wouldn't go down. He knelt at the sprinkler and, cupping his hands, took water into his mouth. He swallowed until the whites went down, then stood and moved near the fence so he could keep an eye on the street.

  He felt renewed energy almost immediately. The first sign was the warmth of surging blood starting at his temples and spreading across this face and into his extremities, including his cock and balls. Closing his eyes for a moment, he saw himself, gun in hand, shooting it out with the cops in front of his house and the cops falling.

  By the time Sleepy arrived, he was supercharged.

  He climbed over the fence, hurried to the driver's side of the car, and climbed in. Sleepy was wearing a tight sweater and skirt. She threw her arms around him.

  He shoved the car into gear and accelerated.

  Frightened, she pulled away from him. "How did they know you were "

  "It had to be the one who told you. She set us up for the cops."

  "Gloria? She would never "

  "Gloria este la rata. "

  "No. She would never do anything to hurt anyone. It's not her way."

  "Her boyfriend is a pig."

  Sleepy cried quietly. "She's in love, but she wouldn't."

  Sensing the full effect of the whites, Payaso leaned back in the seat. If he wanted, it seemed, he could bend the steering wheel into a knot or shove his hands through the windshield or even fly through it without suffering injury. His gun felt warm and alive as if it were part of his body.

  He turned left into a dead end street and pulled to the curb directly under a streetlight. Killing the engine, he cupped Sleepy's chin. There were tears streaming down her face.

  He lifted her skirt.

  "People can see," she whispered.

  He pulled down her panties and massaged her fuzzy softness.

  "Not now, Payaso," she whispered. "Payaso. Payaso."

  Leaving his trousers and revolver in place, he slid his zipper down and exposed his erect cock. He pushed her down on the seat. Arching into her, he grasped her breasts tightly. She held his shoulders and moaned deeply as he pounded into her.

  "Please, not so hard, baby," she said, her voice shaking.

  At that moment he came powerfully into her, then sat up immediately. He arranged himself quickly and secured his zipper.

  Sleepy sat up. Staring at him, she pulled down her dress. "Are you high?"

  Payaso grabbed the steering wheel and started the engine.

  She slid next to him. "Payaso?"

  He made a U turn, and headed south on Fourth Street.

  "That's a red light!" she screamed as he drove through a four-way intersection. "Please be careful."

  "Everybody is dead," he said.

  "Where are we going?"

  "White Fence rifamos. "

  Stepanovich drove down City Terrace Avenue to the Tahitian Arms apartments. As he pulled into the parking lot, he mulled over what he was going to say to Gloria. Hell, he regretted not having come directly to the apartment from the station rather than stopping at the Rumor Control Bar.

  As he climbed out of his car, he noticed a blue customized Chevrolet parked at the curb across the street the kind of car Payaso owned.

  Stepanovich's breath caught in his throat and his muscles tightened. He looked up at Gloria's apartment. The lights were on.

  Payaso, with his hand on the butt of his revolver, stood back from the doorway. Sleepy, standing in front of the door, was shaking with fear. "Do it," he whispered.

  "Please. Don't make me "

  "Do it, homegirl."

  Sleepy wiped her eyes and, with her hand shaking, knocked on the door lightly. After a moment the door opened. "Gloria."

  "Dora. What's wrong?" Gloria said.

  Payaso stepped in front of Sleepy and shoved Gloria to the floor. He pulled Sleepy inside. He grabbed Gloria by the hair and put his gun in her face.

  "You set us up, bitch."

  "Dora. What is this?"

  Sleepy broke into an uncontrollable bout of tears. "I told him what you said about Eighteenth coming to his house."

  "The cops were waiting," Payaso said. "They killed the homeboys "

  "I'm sorry," Gloria cried, coming to her feet. "I didn't want anyone to get hurt."

  Payaso slapped Gloria with an open hand. Her head snapped back and she cried out. He aimed his revolver at her.

  "No! Please don't hurt her!" Dora cried.

  Payaso's face was tingling with heat. He felt light on his feet, potent, and invincible as he cocked his revolver. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted movement at the open door and whirled about.

  Stepanovich grabbed Dora from behind and held his gun to her head. "Let Gloria go, Payaso." Payaso considered firing at Stepanovich, but hesitated because Dora would certainly be shot. Payaso kept his gun aimed at Gloria. "Your bitch is dead, pig," he said.

  "She has nothing to do with what happened. Drop your gun."

  "Fuck you, pig."

  "Payaso, you pull the trigger and your woman is dead."

  Suddenly Payaso realized with a start that although Stepanovich was using Dora for a shield, he himself was exposed. He tried to pull Gloria in front of him, but she resisted.

  There was the sharp crack of gunfire.

  Payaso felt himself being ripped backward and down as Stepanovich came at him firing. Though he knew he was getting killed, he restrained the urge to fire back because he might hit Sleepy, his ruka. With the sound of Sleepy shrieking and the gunshots and the cop screaming, "Drop the gun!" he was exploded over and over again. Lying there breathless, he. watched Stepanovich kick him in the ribs to roll him over. His arms were pulled behind him, and handcuffs clamped his wrists for the hundredth time in his life. As blackness took him, Payaso's last thought before lapsing into unconsciousness was that he was thankful for dope. Because of the pills he'd taken, there was little pain.

  And to die without pain was good.

  Stepanovich picked up Payaso's gun from the carpet and came to his feet.

  "You killed him!" the woman screamed. She seemed stunned as Stepanovich frisked her. Sobbing loudly, she dropped to her knees next to Payaso.

  Gloria, her hands doubled under her chin and eyes wide with fear, was standing with her back to the wall, staring at Payaso. Stepanovich walked over to her and reached to take her in his arms. She pulled away.

  "Everything's OK now," he said, feeling his pulse in his mouth.

  "Deeeeeeaaaaaaadddd!" Dora wailed.

  From outside came the sound of sirens and rushing footsteps on the stairs. He pulled his badge from his belt and held it up as two young Hispanic officers burst through the doorway with revolvers held in the two handed combat stance.

  "Everything's code four," Stepanovich said.

  The officers lowered their weapons.

  "Call an ambulance and notify the watch commander by land line. Tell him there's been an officer involved shooting."

  "What do we have?" the taller officer said.

  Stepanovich turned. Payaso's eyes were open and white foam was bubbling from his mouth. "Gang retaliation. He had a piece and I did him." Stepanovich nodded at the woman. "Take her in for murder."

  The other officer hurried to the woman and snapped handcuffs on her w
rists. "Payasoooooo!" she screeched hysterically. "My Payaso is deeeeeaaaaad!"

  The officer pointed at Gloria. "What about her?"

  "She's a witness. I'll take her to the station myself."

  The sound of footsteps was followed by the arrival of more uniformed officers. Stepanovich briefed them quickly. Two uniformed city paramedics arrived. A younger man carrying a medical case knelt down next to Payaso and held a stethoscope to Payaso's chest.

  "No vital signs," he said brusquely. "Looks like we're not needed."

  His partner, a balding man, glanced at his wristwatch, then reached to his back pocket and took out a blue printed pad the size of a traffic citation book. He filled out the top page quickly, tore out the carbon copy, and handed it to Stepanovich.

  Stepanovich looked up suddenly and found Gloria staring at him.

  As officers began stretching yellow evidence tape across the doorway, Stepanovich took her by the arm and led her outside to his car. He opened the door for her and she climbed in.

  "Do you feel OK?"

  Gloria stared straight ahead.

  "Try not to think about what happened."

  ****

  TWENTY-THREE

  Stepanovich drove Gloria around the corner to the two-story house where her sister lived.

  He helped her out of the car. "I'm going to the station. When the shooting team investigators arrive, I'll send them over here to interview you," he said, leading her up the short walkway. He could hear a vacuum cleaner going inside.

  Without looking at him, she knocked on the door.

  "Are you OK?" he said, realizing his hands were still shaking.

  The vacuum stopped. The door opened and Gloria's sister, Armida, a handsome woman resembling her, frowned in concern. "Gloria. What's wrong?"

  Gloria broke into tears and Armida threw her arms around her.

  Stepanovich returned to Hollenbeck Station to brief the shooting team investigators. He spent the next seven hours answering questions and writing reports about the two shootings. With these duties finally taken care of, he hurried back to Armida's house. Armida came to the door and told him Gloria was lying down and would be with her for the night. He told her he would be back in the morning.

  At his apartment, Stepanovich fished a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. He had a horrible, nauseating headache.

  In the kitchen he opened a drawer and fished among kitchen utensils, supermarket coupons, and some plastic corncob holders Nancy had left behind until he found the bottle of aspirin. He spun the cap and tipped three of the white pills into his cupped hand. Filling a glass from the dish drainer, he tossed the pills back and washed them down.

  In the living room the red light on his answering machine was blinking. He touched the PLAY button: a message from the landlord reminding him to pay the rent. He turned the machine off. In the bathroom he stripped and took a long shower, soaping up and rinsing himself three times.

  In bed, though the aspirin had made the headache disappear, every time he closed his eyes he pictured Gloria and heard gunshots.

  Unable to sleep, he turned on the radio and flipped through channels for a while, finally stopping on a talk show featuring a panel of motorcycle gang members. Then he turned off the radio and lay there in the dark, intermittently reliving the shootings and seeing Gloria and Payaso holding the gun to her head. After an hour or so of tossing and turning, he concentrated on the persistent hum of the freeway floating through the open window and managed to drop into fitful sleep.

  In the morning, a loud knocking woke Stepanovich from a frightening dream in which he was naked, precariously riding a motorcycle on a wire extended between skyscrapers.

  He opened his eyes. It was light. Still half asleep, he staggered to his feet and pulled on his trousers. The pounding on the door continued as he shuffled through the living room to the front door. Stepanovich used the peephole. It was Houlihan and two other grim internal affairs detectives.

  Stepanovich rushed to the telephone and picked up the receiver. He began to dial Arredondo's number, then stopped when he realized the phone might be bugged.

  "Internal affairs!" Houlihan shouted. "Open up!"

  Stepanovich set the receiver down on the cradle, took a deep breath, and walked back to the door. He unfastened the chain lock and pulled the door open quickly.

  Houlihan stepped back as if startled. "Internal affairs investigation," he said nervously. The other detectives, athletic looking men with closely cropped hair, Stepanovich recognized by face but not name. They were dressed in neat but obviously cheap suits and ties and were carrying briefcases. Both avoided looking him in the eye.

  Stepanovich, carefully avoiding making any expression whatsoever, just nodded at Houlihan.

  "I guess you know why we're here," Houlihan said nervously.

  Stepanovich forced a smile. "Looking for your wife?"

  Houlihan's face turned a purplish red. "You are the subject of a personnel investigation. Captain Ratliff, Commander of Internal Affairs Division, has ordered us to search your apartment."

  "I hope you have that in writing."

  Houlihan reached inside his coat, proudly displayed a folded sheet of paper, and handed it to Stepanovich. Because he figured Houlihan wouldn't have the guts to do anything without official backing,, he handed the paper back without reading it.

  Like a magician doing a silk scarf trick, Houlihan hid the paper inside his coat and came out with a small plastic laminated card. He read: "You have the right to refuse consent for this search, but if you do, the Department may choose to legally close and secure this dwelling and seek the issuance of a legal search warrant from a duly authorized judge "

  "I know my rights. What's the allegation?"

  "CUBO," Houlihan said. "Conduct unbecoming an officer."

  "Go ahead," Stepanovich said, believing there was nothing in the apartment of evidentiary value, and stepped back from the door.

  Houlihan moved past him into the living room and the others followed. As Houlihan pointed the detectives toward rooms, Stepanovich stepped into the kitchen, picked up a coffee mug, and filled it with water. He opened the cupboard and took out a small glass jar of instant coffee.

  "I'd appreciate it if you would stay in one place and not move around while we search," Houlihan said.

  Stepanovich glanced into the living room to make sure they were alone and there were no witnesses. "Fuck you," he said in a tone low enough so that if Houlihan wrote him up and accused him of refusing to cooperate with an internal affairs investigation the others wouldn't be unable to corroborate the allegation.

  Houlihan knew what Jose was doing. He just stood there glaring, red faced. Stepanovich twisted the cap from the coffee jar, picked up a spoon, and measured a heaping teaspoon into a cup. As Houlihan watched, he opened the microwave door, set the cup inside, and fixed the digital timer for two minutes. He closed the door and touched the ON switch. The microwave hummed.

  Cautiously, keeping his eyes on Stepanovich, Houlihan began to casually sort through the stack of mail on the kitchen table.

  With the coffee heated, Stepanovich carried it to the table and sat down. He slurped the coffee loudly and looked Houlihan directly in the eye.

  "I'm just doing a job," Houlihan said.

  Stepanovich stared at the mail in Houlihan's hand. Guiltily Houlihan set the mail down and left the table to explore the living room, checking thoroughly under sofa cushions and thumbing through some Serb World and American Legion magazines piled in the corner.

  When the detectives returned to the living room, the taller one, standing with his back to Stepanovich, handed something to Houlihan. "This was on the dresser."

  Stepanovich picked up his coffee cup and sauntered across the room.

  Houlihan, staring at the carbon of the weapons receipt Black got for the shoulder weapons, was smiling broadly. He looked up. "Looks like you were planning a heavy operation without the knowledge of your superiors."

  Th
ough Stepanovich felt like grabbing the receipt out of Houlihan's hand, he just sipped his coffee.

  Houlihan shoved the receipt in his suit jacket pocket. "Did you hear what I said?"

  "Yes."

  "It's your name and your handwriting, isn't it?"

  "Probably," Stepanovich said, knowing that he would be violating a Department regulation by not answering. Besides, a police handwriting expert would be able to identify his handwriting.

  "You might as well tell us the truth and save yourself a lot of trouble."

  "Is your search completed?" Stepanovich said.

  "You could say that."

  "Do you have any further questions?"

  "Not right now."

  "Then get the hell out of my apartment."

  "Do you want a receipt for the evidence?"

  "No," Stepanovich said, opening the door. "I want to go back to sleep."

  Houlihan and the others had barely stepped across the threshold when Stepanovich slammed the door. He walked to the window and pulled the curtain back a few inches. The detectives walked down the stairs and stopped by the car to converse animatedly. Houlihan looked pleased. Finally they climbed into their police sedan and drove out the driveway and around the corner.

  Stepanovich ran into the bedroom and threw on a T-shirt and shoes. He shoved some change into his pocket, and jogged back through the living room and out the door.

  At the pay telephone across the street from the apartment, Stepanovich dialed Arredondo's number. The phone was answered on the first ring. Stepanovich, articulating clearly, read off the phone number of the pay telephone.

  "Got it," Arredondo said in a tone indicating he recognized Stepanovich's voice.

  Stepanovich hung the receiver back on the switch hook.

  Less than five minutes later, the phone rang.

  "Are you at a pay phone?" Stepanovich said.

  "If you're going to warn me about IA, they've already been to my place and gone. Black just called. They hit him too."

  "Did they get anything?"

  "They didn't get anything at Black's, but they took my address book."

  "Is Brenda's number in there?"

  "I think so."

  "Shit."

  "They're going to try to hang us," Arredondo said.