L.A. Wars (10 page)

“Maybe Cat Man's right, Razor. Maybe it's this white dude with the red hair. He's a fucking killer, man—”

“I'm startin' to get a little nervous, Razor, no shit, man. This dude is bad news. Like a lunatic or somethin'—”

“… his throat's been crushed, man. Look the way his eyes be bugging out—”

“Quiet! Y'all just shut up, hear? Man can't hear himself think. How'd this dude know where to hit us? That's what I want to know. Anybody got an answer to that? And how'd this dude know we was gonna be out? And how in the fuck did he know about my ear collection, unless—”

“Shit, Razor, you don't think one of our bloods has gone over to whitey, do you? Like an informer—”

“Somebody been talking, damn it! That's the one thing that's clear here, man. This white dude been getting information from somebody. And I'll tell you this: If I find out who it is, they're dead. I'll kill them myself, and they ain't gonna die easy—”

“This shit's starting to get spooky, Razor. Maybe we ought to cool it for a few weeks. Close down—”

“Close down, my ass! We gonna find this informer, and we gonna kill him. Then we gonna find this Hawk dude, and we gonna kill him, too.”

“How in the hell—”

“No more talk, man! We got work to do. We got to get these TVs and shit out of here. Got to hide everything someplace else. And then we got to call the cops.”

“Gonna call the cops?”

“And what the fuck would
you
do, man? Try and hide three bodies in downtown L.A.? You nuts? They'll pin all this shit on us, if we do. Gotta get the cops in. Cat Man told 'em the story about this Hawk dude, and they didn't believe him. Maybe they'll believe him now.…”

Hawker switched off the machine and sipped his tea. He had heard at least six different voices on the tape. To him it meant that, no matter what Razor commanded, the word would, indeed, get out to the rest of the Panthers.

Their reaction, he hoped, would be even more emotional than that of their leaders.

All the elements Hawker wanted were there: fear, panic, and loss of confidence.

The Panthers were heading for a fall. A very hard fall. Now Hawker was concerned about the few—the very few—who didn't deserve to fall.

Hawker remembered what the young Sataná, Julio Balserio, had told him: “You fight them. Or you join them.”

Hawker wanted to give kids like Balserio a chance to get out. It wouldn't be easy to arrange. But it was important that he try.

Hawker backed the second tape and switched the Eavesdrop unit to circuit two. He used fast forward to skip the noise he had made, then listened as the Satanás returned.

The exclamations of surprise were in a profane mixture of English and Spanish—shock similar to that which he had heard in the Panthers' headquarters.

Then the recorder picked up the adolescent voice of Julio Balserio—Caña, to the other Satanás. Julio spoke in English.

“… saw him, cuz. He put a gun to my head. Said he'd kill me—”

“Who the hell was it, Caña? And you'd better have a damn good reason for letting this
cabrón
—”

“The gringo; the gringo who hit us the other night, Hammer! He's the one that broke in here and tore the place apart. He's the devil, Hammer. I swear to God he's evil—”

There was the sound of someone being slapped, and then Julio began to cry.

“Don't hit me no more, Hammer. I couldn't do nothing. He'd already torn the place up by the time I found him.”

“Shit! Hammer, he blew open the fucking safe! He took the junk, man!”

The voices on the tape became muffled then. Hawker realized how stupid he'd been not to bug the storeroom. He could understand brief snatches of distant yelling, but nothing more. Soon, though, they returned to the meeting room. Julio was no longer crying, but the fear was still evident in his voice. He was reenacting what had happened.

“… door was open, so I came in. I kept calling for you, Hammer. And for Jesús. I didn't know you was out gang-banging with the Panthers. Got here by the toilet, and he just
appeared
. Like out of nowhere, he was just
there
. Like a ghost or something.”

“You fuckin' nuts, Caña. Ain't no such things as—”

“Let our little cuz talk, man! I seen that son of a bitch piss fire. You saw it, too. We got some scary shit on our hands here, Hammer.”

“Just a trick, man. That was just some sort of gringo trick—”

“Keep talking, Caña. What happened next?”

“He grabbed me by the shirt and slammed me into the wall. I tried to fight him, Hammer. Smacked him good a couple of times. But it was like my fists went right through him. And you know how hard I can hit!”

There was laughter and a few profane observations.

“Shut up! So what happened after you hit the gringo, Caña?”

“He just sorta laughed at me. Like he knew I couldn't hurt him. Then he pulls out this big silver pistol—like no gun I've ever seen. I mean, it was like it was on
fire
! Put it to my head, and it was hot, man. Real hot.”

“What did he say, Caña? And you best tell us the truth—”

“I ain't lying to you, Hammer! I wouldn't lie to a cuz.”

“Then you better not. What happened next?”

Caña hesitated, formulating his lie. “He … he gave me a message to give to you, Hammer. Called you by name! He knows all about us, Hammer—everything, man. Mentioned Jesús and Matador and Lobo, too! Like magic—”

“What was the message, Caña?”

“He said: ‘Tell Hammer and the rest that I'm going to destroy them. Tell them I'm going to take them back to hell.'” There was the sound of a scuffle, and Julio began to cry again. “Don't be hittin' me no more, Hammer! I'm tellin' the truth, damn it. Don't be blaming me for what the Hawk did. He's wicked, man. I tried to fight him, Hammer, but he's too wicked, man. He told me himself—he's the
devil!”

Hawker switched off the set and finished his tea. He carried the Eavesdrop unit back into the cottage. He set the recorder and armed the receiver.

It was ready to record conversations in both street-gang headquarters.

Suddenly Hawker felt very tired. It was just after one
A.M
. He considered finishing his work in the morning, but he decided there wasn't time. He would have to work far into the night because there were too many unknowns. Too many factors he had yet to uncover.

Of one thing he was sure: There was more to these two street gangs than just violence-hungry kids.

Their operations were too well-organized. Their scores too big. It takes money to buy five bags of heroin. Big, big money—and complicated connections, as well.

The Satanás were into more than just street crime. Maybe the Panthers, too.

Hawker switched on the fluorescent light over his desk. He took out a pen and a blank notebook. As he read through the files he had stolen from the Panthers and the Satanás, he began to make notes. Occasionally he gave a light whistle of surprise.

When he was done with the files, he booted his computer and dialed the State Crime Information Center in L.A. He requested information on a list of ten names.

After a few seconds of scanning, the SCIC banks marched data in lime-green letters across Hawker's computer screen.

Only one name surprised him.

When he was done, Hawker switched off his computer and turned again to his notebook. He wanted the hierarchy of the street gangs clear in his own mind.

Using only their nicknames, Hawker made a list:

PANTHERS

Razor: Chieftain. Twenty-seven. Arrests numerous. Suspect in three murders. One conviction: rape. Three months served in a detention center. Takes nickname from favorite weapon: straight razor. Known drug user.

Amin: Lieutenant. Twenty-four. Arrests numerous. Considers himself a political revolutionary. At age twelve turned over to authorities for torturing schoolmate. Released after therapy. Convicted of armed robbery and assault, 1981. Paroled. Known drug addict.

Blade: Lieutenant. Twenty-two. Arrests numerous. Suspect in one murder, three rapes. No convictions. As nickname suggests, uses a knife. Considered extremely dangerous by Los Angeles police. Known drug user.

SATANÁS

Hammer: Chieftain. Age unknown. Puerto Rican mother, anglo father. Arrests numerous. Suspect in the sledgehammer murder of L.A. businessman. Case dismissed. No convictions.

Matador: Lieutenant. Twenty-six. Known for flashy dress and good looks. Considers himself an actor. Arrests numerous. Identified by eyewitness as suspect in a 1981 rape/murder case. Case dismissed due to prosecutor's error. No convictions. Known drug user.

Jesus: Lieutenant. Twenty-four. One arrest, Considers himself a political activist and a racial/religious prophet. Suspect in the double mutilation murder of two L.A. prostitutes. Released after questioning.

Lobo: Lieutenant. Nineteen. Three arrests. Arm withered by polio as child. Known sexual deviant. Convicted of sodomy and child molesting at age fifteen. Six months in detention center; twelve months of therapy. Released. Considered extremely dangerous by Los Angeles police.

Hawker finished the list, then tossed the pen down, disgusted. Somewhere he had read that nations live under the governments they deserve. Hawker wondered how voters and politicians could have allowed the courts to degenerate to the point where such animals were allowed to freely roam the streets.

It was not a new topic of thought. He had been shocked and disgusted by the leniency of the liberal justice system during his years as a Chicago cop. It was a primary reason why he'd resigned.

Once again he wondered if it was because the judges and politicians were naive—or if it was because they really believed the rights of the criminal are more important than the rights of potential victims.

Whatever the reason it sickened Hawker. And he couldn't help believing that a large percentage of Americans felt exactly as he did.

His only comfort was in knowing that the animals listed in his notebook would not go free.

For once they would be made to suffer for the suffering they had caused.

For once they would be given swift and just punishment.

Though they didn't know it, they had already been sentenced to death.…

eleven

She came to him in the night, smelling of body powder and shampoo.

Hawker heard the screen door swing shut as he lay in his bed. He padded naked to the living room. Melanie St. John stood in the darkness. Her breasts were erect mounds beneath the filmy material of her nightgown.

“I missed you,” she whispered. “I'm sorry … if I woke you.”

She slipped comfortably into Hawker's arms, warm against his skin.

“I tried to call you. You were out.”

“I had a busy night,” said Hawker, yawning.

“Out looking for work, right?”

“Right.”

She tangled his hair in her right hand and pulled his lips hard against hers. Her tongue was hot and alive against his. Her soft fingers traced the geometric chunks of muscle on Hawker's stomach, then slid downward, finding Hawker with her small hand.

“My, you are aggressive tonight, woman.”

She smiled vampishly. “You don't seem like the kind of man who's intimidated by aggressive women.”

“What do you think?”

She squeezed him. “Umm … you don't feel intimidated.” She kissed him again, harder, then whispered in his ear. “I'm tired of being treated like something special, Hawk. That's why I like you. To you I'm just another woman.”

“Maybe you are something special, Melanie.”

“Not tonight, I'm not. Tonight I'm … feeling wicked.”

“Is
that
what they call that thing you're feeling?”

She trembled as she laughed. “I'm sick of being treated like a great lady, Hawk.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I want you … I want you to fuck me … fuck me any way you want; make it as rough as you want. Treat me like the lowest whore in creation, because I feel like a whore tonight. I want you to fuck me tonight, Hawk … please, now … and hard … if you're man enough.”

Trying not to look as amused as he felt, Hawker lifted her into his arms. She had demanded he play a role. An interesting role—but a theatrical part nonetheless. It was sexual playtime, and Hawker had been given the caveman costume.

Deciding it was better than a bit part on
CHiPs
, Hawker carried her to the bedroom and threw her roughly on the bed.

Hawker loomed over her for a moment, muscles glistening. Her back arched, and her soft mound of pubic hair lifted as he ripped her gown away and shot it against the wall.

Throwing things was part of the role.

“Yes,” she whispered. “That's what I want. Take me, Hawk, fuck me. Use me any way you want.”

As Hawker shoved her over onto her stomach and slapped her thighs wide, her buttocks lifted, moist and open.

“Oh, yes,” she moaned. “From behind …
yes
… deep inside me, Hawk …”

Hawker climbed onto the bed, kneeling behind her. He glanced idly at his watch.

It was three fifteen.

Hawker wondered if people in California ever took time to sleep.…

Only half-awake, Hawker felt the woman kiss him gently on the cheek and get out of bed.

“That was wonderful, darling,” she whispered. “I'm going to get a glass of water. Want some?”

“Yeah,” grumbled Hawker. “In the morning. With my breakfast.”

She laughed and patted him. Hawker heard her walk cautiously across the room, then fumble for the light switch.

The glare of light and the scream were simultaneous. Hawker jolted upright. It took him a long minisecond to focus, and then understand what he saw.

A man stood in the bedroom doorway. He had a greasy red beard and long, peroxide-bleached hair.