The chorus of boos grew louder. Suddenly people in the front rows stood up and started throwing fruit at the stage; pulling oranges and plums out of carry-bags, brought in anticipation of this demonstration.
Carl Cummins and the nine other members of the city council bolted from their chairs as they were pelted with fruit, making a hurried exit from the stage.
The pushing and shoving was getting increasingly intense in the auditorium, threatening to turn into a riot.
"Let's go!" Shane said, grabbing Chooch. "Stay close to me. Hold on to my belt."
He felt Chooch grab hold of his belt in the back, and then Shane pushed through the melee to the fire exit on the same side of the room that Carl Cummins and the city council were using as a retreat. By now most of the frightened council members had left the stage.
Shane got to the fire exit, but it was guarded by another Long Beach cop. "Sorry. This is an alarmed fire door," the policeman said.
"Long Beach Fire Marshal," Shane bullshitted. "I'm authorized to open it under Regulation 1623. Excuse me."
He handed the startled cop his official LAPD business card and jostled him, hoping he couldn't read it in the commotion. In that moment of hesitation, Shane pushed down on the silver bar and opened the door. The alarm bell sounded. People were panicking as fruit continued to fly. Shane pushed past the Long Beach cop, dragging Chooch into the hot sunshine.
Up ahead, he could see a black limousine waiting with several chase cars. Then Shane spotted Anthony Spivack beside the limo. With him were several of the men Shane had photographed in Arrowhead. He assumed one of them must be Calvin Sheets. The people with Spivack started piling into cars. Carl Cummins arrived with one of the other council members and jumped into Spivack's limo. Like the last politicians leaving Saigon, they slammed car doors and squealed away from the angry mob pouring out of the doors behind them.
"Stay with me!" Shane said, trying to get an idea which direction the fleeing cars were headed while simultaneously sprinting for the Taurus, parked almost a block away.
He and Chooch finally reached the car. Both were out of breath as they jumped in. Shane put the car in gear and sped across the lot, cutting between parked cars. He bounced over the curb, shot out onto Front Street, and took off heading south, after the speeding limo and its four chase vehicles.
"What's going on?" Chooch asked.
"Some of these guys were in the house up in Arrowhead," he said, fearing he couldn't catch up with them.
Shane had lost sight of the cars but was now driving along a frontage road that bordered the Long Beach Airport. On a hunch, he turned into one of the executive terminals, past an open bar-arm at the end of a ramp, driving out onto the tarmac that bordered the runway. As he sped along past a row of FBOs (flight base operators) that lined the west side of the field, several ramp attendants and cargo loaders started screaming and waving their arms at the brown Taurus. Shane just ignored them, racing past parked Lears and Gulfstreams.
He thought he saw the black limo in the distance parked near a large Sikorsky helicopter, idling with the rotor turning slowly.
He drove around more executive jets transportation necessities of the megarich.
Finally he could see the helicopter more clearly. Spivack and Cummins were getting into the idling chopper with the rest of the men from the Arrowhead house. He was close enough to the helicopter to read SPIVACK DEVELOPMENT on the side door as the huge green-and-white nine-passenger Sikorsky lifted off.
Shane got there half a minute too late. He watched in frustration as the chopper hovered for a minute a few feet above the tarmac, then the rotor changed pitch, and the helicopter streaked away, climbing to the north. Soon it was just a speck in the bright blue cloudless sky.
Chapter 33
TAIL JOB
AT A FEW MINUTES before five in the afternoon, Shane was back inside the Appaloosa, watching a cockroach trying to hide under the molding that framed the tabletop, one feeler reaching out, tentatively tapping the Formica. He was in the same cracked vinyl booth in the back, nursing a Coke grudgingly supplied by the same greasy-coated Mexican waiter. "Das all chu gonna haf?" the man said.
"Yep," Shane said. "Working." The waiter left. Shane kept a wary eye on the barricaded cockroach and while "Malaguena" played through ruptured speakers, he was thinking about Chooch, whom he had left ten minutes earlier at the Spring Summer Apartments with the TV blaring. Shane had convinced Long-board to stop by the Venice house, get Chooch's book bag with his homework assignments, take it to the apartment on Third, and stay with the boy until Shane got back. In return for this service, Shane had given up his Lakers-Trailblazers tickets for the weekend. He made a mental note to call by six to make sure Longboard had gotten there okay.
Surprisingly, with trouble and chaos swirling around his own life, Shane found himself worrying about Chooch's back homework assignments as well as his emotional well-being. Something about this newly found concern for someone else's future seemed to settle his own emotions in a way he couldn't understand. Underneath the boy's grumbling and bitching about the extra supervision, Shane suspected that he appreciated the concern. Earlier in the hectic day, when Shane had turned around unexpectedly and caught Chooch staring at him, the expression on his face was one of wonder. It said more than any words could convey.
Perhaps Shane could work out something more permanent with Sandy. She had her hands full right now with the DEA, but after that, she'd change teams and be on to some other predicate felon. He, on the other hand, was in the checkout line. If he didn't end up in prison or the grave, he was certainly through being a cop. Once he was off the force, he could devote more time to Chooch, stop farming him out to Longboard. Chooch didn't know who his father was, and although Shane couldn't fill that role, he sure as hell could be a big brother. Then he looked up, and she was coming through the door.
Alexa stood backlit in the late-afternoon sunshine, holding her briefcase under her arm, the shoulder strap tucked inside. She let her eyes adjust to the cavelike darkness of the windowless bar-restaurant. Finally she spotted him and moved across the room, her hips swaying seductively with the motion.
She slid in and smiled wanly at him. "Our spot," she said dryly.
"If it is, we've gotta either train these cockroaches or start killing them." She looked puzzled, so he lifted the sugar shaker, and the eight-legged German roach took off like a shot.
She let out an involuntary feminine squeal, then returned to form, slapping at it bare-handed and missing. The roach dodged, shooting across the table as Alexa slammed her palm down again the only thing she hurt was her hand. The roach went off the end of the table, hit the floor, and was gone.
"Sign him. Good broken-field run." Shane smiled.
She checked around the perimeter of the booth, looking for relatives, then glanced at Shane. "Strong survival instincts. We should take lessons."
He took out the Arrowhead pictures he'd had developed and slid them across the table to her. "Know any of these guys?"
She went through them while he waited.
"Yep. All of 'em. This one is Calvin Sheets." She pushed a picture over and showed it to Shane. It was of the medium-built man with the ash-blond hair, setting a box down at the back door. Shane realized he'd been right, that Sheets had been the man standing with Tony Spivack at the limo.
"This is Coy Love," she said, sliding another photograph over to Shane, who could see why you wouldn't want to "fuck with Love." He was large, over six feet, with a huge, jutting jaw and a cruel, angular face. He had a thin, lipless mouth, straight as a ruler.
"These other two guys were cops on Calvin's Coliseum detail. They both got terminated with him on his bullshit time-sheet hustle." She pushed those shots over. "Lon Sherwood and Carter something, I can't remember his last name."
She looked up, and the waiter was back, hovering like a dragonfly over a lake, waiting for her order.
"I'll have what he's having."
"Chu makin' my d
ay." He left, grumbling.
"Cummins is president of the Long Beach City Council, and I found out Spivack Development Corporation owns Cal-VIP Homes." Shane filled her in on the Long Beach City Council meeting; the dispute over the transfer of the naval yard to L. A. for water; the chase through Long Beach trying to catch Sheets, Spivack, and Cummins; and their eventual helicopter escape. She was holding her briefcase on her lap in both hands, ready to strike in case another cockroach took off on an end run around the Mexican condiments.
"You had a busy day," she said.
"I won't ask how your day went, for fear it'll severely depress me."
"I hope DeMarco is staying busy, 'cause I'm getting good prima facie stuff," she said, needling him.
"Don't worry about DeMarco. The Saint's all over this. He says with what he has, we'll probably want to to file a civil action."
"Good. 'Cause I'd heard he'd become an alcoholic a blackout drunk and that's why he pulled the pin."
"Don't worry about Dee. He's kicking ass."
Blackout drunk? I'm fucked, Shane thought.
She looked at her watch as the waiter set down her Coke and left. "I ran both Drucker and Kono through the Office of Administrative Services at the Personnel Group," she said. "Drucker just got reassigned from Southwest to Hollenbeck. He's working street patrol day shift. Kono has a worrisome nickname. They call him Bongo. I'm hoping that's because he's of Hawaiian ancestry, and not because he beats people like a drum."
She picked up her Coke and drained it. "Thirsty," she apologized. "Anyway, Kono's still in South Bureau, but now he's working day watch in University Division. That means we're going to have to split up if we want to follow both guys." She glanced at her Timex. "We better get moving. Day watch breaks in forty minutes. Which one a' these raisin cakes do you want?"
"Ladies first."
"Chivalry always knocks me out," she said drolly. "Okay, since he's closer, I'll take Drucker."
He put some money down on the table for the two Cokes, and they both stood.
"Let's communicate on a tactical frequency," she said. "One of the high ones nobody uses. Organized Crime is on tac ten, and that division doesn't have much going now. Let's use that."
"I don't have a police radio; my car's in Venice. I'm using a rental."
"You really bring it all to the table, don't you, Scully," she said sarcastically.
He needed her help, so he let it go.
"We can pick up a handset at IAD. I saw a whole bunch of them in a box in the IO's section," Shane suggested.
She nodded. "We better move it, or they'll both be EOW before we get there."
? ? ?
The University Division station was an old concrete four-story building located on South Adams Boulevard, near USC. Shane left the Taurus in the only available spot he could find, half a block up the street. He fed the meter, moved away from it, and sat on a bus bench across from the station. From there he had an unobstructed view of the station parking lot. He had on an L. A. Dodgers cap, pulled low over his eyes, and a dull green-and-brown camouflage windbreaker he had picked up that afternoon at a surplus shop downtown for fifteen bucks.
Shane felt invisible and ready for action: Mr. Brown-and-Green in his camo jacket and dirt-brown Taurus. He had the police handset in his lap and was watching as the day watch started streaming out in civilian clothes, on the way to their private vehicles. It was 5:45.
"Six to Five. Target D is in motion." He heard Alexa's voice coming over the radio on tactical frequency 10. They had chosen their radio code numbers in the parking lot outside the Bradbury while doing a quick equipment check. He picked up his handset.
"Copy, Six. I'm still parked and waiting."
"Roger that," she said. "Target D just left Hollenbeck, heading up onto 91. He's westbound."
"Roger. Standing by on tac ten." He laid the radio on his lap and sat on the bus bench waiting for Kris "Bongo" Kono.
Officer Kono was one of the last ones out the station side door. He was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and was carrying a duffel bag. He sprinted to his car, obviously late. He jumped into a blue '76 Camaro with racing stripes and a primered left front fender, then pulled quickly out of the lot, burning rubber.
Shane was caught leaning. He was half a block away from the Taurus and late getting back to it, fumbling to unlock the door as the Camaro made a sharp turn out of the parking lot. The 455-cubic-inch engine and blown mufflers on the muscle car roared angrily past and sped up the street.
"Shit," Shane said, finally piling into the Taurus and starting it up. He found a hole in traffic and pulled out, already dangerously behind. He watched, frustrated, as the Camaro went through the intersection up ahead on the yellow light. Shane tried to make up ground, spinning his wheels, chirping rubber, trying to get around slower traffic. When he got to the cross street, the light was against him, so he leaned on his horn and broke recklessly through the intersection against the red light, causing an eastbound truck on Atlantic to slam on its brakes. The angry traffic started screaming at him, blaring their horns and flipping him off.
As Shane shot through the red light, he could see the blue Camaro one block ahead, speeding through another light on the yellow.
"Slow the fuck down!" Shane yelled at the Camaro as he was forced to stop at the second light, trapped behind a row of cars, unable to get around them. He could see the Camaro a block ahead, turning right, heading up onto the 110.
"Come on, come on, come on . . ." Shane begged the five-way light that was trapping him. Then it turned green, but an old woman in a rusting Subaru was making a cautious left, blocking traffic, afraid to go. "Come on, lady. You got the fuckin' right-of-way!" he shouted at his windshield.
"Six, I'm on 91, heading west, passing Olive," Alexa's voice announced. Static, then: "Six, do you copy?"
Shane had his hands full as the woman finally completed her turn. He was flooring it, illegally passing a city bus on the right, shooting past the line of traffic, hanging a right, going up the on-ramp. His tires squealed on the sun-hot asphalt.
He hit the 110 going way too fast for the flow of rush-hour traffic that loomed before him on the packed freeway. He had to hit his brakes to keep from plowing into the right side of a Ford Escort, startling the two hard hats inside.
"Six, this is Five. Do you copy?" Alexa's voice persisted. "Six, you are Code One. Copy, please." Code One was a command to respond and was given only when a unit did not answer a radio call and was perceived to be in difficulty. It was imperative to respond to a Code One, if at all possible.
Shane impatiently snapped the radio up off his lap. "I copy. I've got my hands full, for Chrissake. Gimme a minute." He threw the radio back down on the seat and managed to get around the Ford Escort. He couldn't see the blue Camaro anywhere. "Fuck!" he said, but kept heading west on the 110, going as fast as he could, dangerously passing cars, trying to make up lost distance, driving on the right shoulder, getting angry horn blasts from a whole line of drivers.
"Six, Target D is transitioning to the 710. I'm making that freeway change now." Alexa's voice, pissing him off, was cool and in control. Fuck her.
Shane was sweating. A river of perspiration ran down under his arm, slicking his shirt and rib cage. People around him were screaming through their car windows as he passed them on the shoulder illegally. He was running out of room, so he veered back into the right lane, forcing the Taurus between a sixteen-wheeler Vons Grocery truck and a green Chevy van. Both drivers yelled obscenities at him. The grocery truck blew its heavy six-tone air horn, scaring the shit out of Shane, but he forced his way in, now catching a glimpse of the blue Camaro in the far left lane. Kono was transitioning off the 110 to the 105.
Shane was fucked. He slammed the heel of his hand on the steering wheel. He was fenced off by four lanes of bumper-to-bumper traffic and was pushed helplessly along by the slow flow, past the 105 transition, heading uselessly in the wrong direction. The tail was completely blown. He snapped up the
radio.
"Five, this is Six," he said.
"Roger," she said.
"I lost K. He was on the 110. I got trapped, missed the transition. He's southbound on the 105, running clean." Shane waited for Alexa to curse him out or belittle him for losing his man. But she didn't do either.
"Okay, I copy," she said. "My guy just left the 710 at Ocean. We're down by the water. I'll talk you in."
"Roger that, coming your way," he said, feeling like a complete rookie.
For the next ten minutes she was silent, then: "I'm Code Six at 2300 Ocean Boulevard. Take the 710 to the end of the freeway and turn left. I'm in a gas-station parking lot."
"Copy that," he said.
It took him another ten minutes before he pulled up Ocean Boulevard and saw Alexa's gray Crown Victoria parked in a Texaco station across the street from a vast piece of fenced property.
Razor wire ran for miles in both directions. He could see two big gates, each with a private security guard. The sign over the drive-through arch had been torn down.
Shane pulled into the darkened gas station, parked near the Crown Vic, got out, and slid into the front seat next to Alexa.
"Sorry, I got totally jammed on the 110."
"It's okay," she said. "All roads lead to Rome."
"Huh?"
"Your boy just pulled through that gate five minutes ago. A blue Camaro with racing stripes and a bondoed front fender, right?"
"Yeah."
He looked through her windshield at the five-hundred-acre piece of land across Ocean Boulevard next to the bay. On the east side of the property, the buildings were still standing, but to the west there were piles of rubble where the structures had already been knocked down. It looked a little like pictures of Berlin after the bombings in '45.
the Tin Collector (2000) Page 20
