L.A. Wars (13 page)

“You got a pass, sir? You need to have a pass to get into the studios.”

Hawker took out his billfold and flashed the tiny badge. Then he quickly put the billfold away so the guard wouldn't see that it was his badge from the Chicago P. D.

“Somebody here called and reported getting some obscene phone calls. I'm supposed to check it out.”

The guard studied his clipboard again. “They didn't call me to say you were coming. They're supposed to call.”

Hawker shrugged. “Doesn't matter to me, buddy. These actor types are a pain in the ass, anyway. I'm just as happy if you don't let me in.”

Hawker shifted the car into reverse, but the guard stopped him. “Naw, that's okay. Go on in. They'll get pissed off at me if you don't show.”

“You must have some real bastards working in here.”

The guard shook his head wearily. “You don't know the half of it, partner.”

Hawker drove slowly past a line of buildings the size of jet hangars. A group of men in Indian costumes sat at a table outside playing cards and eating lunch. Gaffers pushed columns of lights on booms along the side of the road. Several men in business suits hurried after a striking blonde. Her T-shirt strained against her jiggling breasts.

The blonde glanced at Hawker, turned away, then glanced back and waved gaily. “Doug!” she exclaimed.

It was Trixie McCall. For some strange reason she looked younger and prettier in daylight.

Hawker waved back and drove on.

The personnel office was a small concrete-block building painted white. A window air conditioner rattled against the summer heat. Hawker walked up the steps and went in.

The woman at the desk looked as if she had spent her thirty-odd years eating nothing but cakes and cookies. The floor seemed to strain beneath the weight of her. Her yellow hair was piled on her head in a tight bun. The corpulent cheeks and jowls were interrupted by thin, tight lips and tiny little blue eyes.

“Yes?” The tone of her voice was chilly.

Hawker swung out the billfold. “Police. I'd like to take a quick look at one of your personnel files.”

“Someone was already here. This morning. He had a warrant.” The fierce little eyes challenged him. “Do you?”

“I'm working under the same warrant. He missed something. He sent me back.”

“Lieutenant Flaherty?”

Hawker was both surprised and relieved. “Right.”

The fat woman looked less than convinced. “So why don't you describe Flaherty for me?”

“You don't trust an honest cop?” Hawker gave her his best smile.

It didn't budge her. “There aren't any honest cops. Describe him, buddy.”

Hawker described him. She seemed disappointed. The fat woman wheeled back in her chair with a heavy sigh, as if being forced to move ruined her whole day.

She pawed through a cabinet and tossed a file on the desk. “Make it quick,” she said. “I've got work to do.”

“I will—as soon as you bring me the right file.”

“That's the one Flaherty wanted.”

“That's why he sent me back. I need to check another one.” Hawker leaned over the desk and scribbled the name on a piece of paper. “This is the one I want.”

The woman looked puzzled. “I'll check to see if we have it—but I don't guarantee anything.”

“You know,” said Hawker. “Your cheeks get a nice color when you're mad. Kind of pretty.”

The woman blushed. “You're just trying to get your file.”

“That's right.” Hawker grinned. “But that doesn't have anything to do with the way you look when you're mad.”

She smiled for the first time. “Would I be helping you if I was mad?” she asked as she lumbered back to the cabinet.

fourteen

Hawker made one more stop—an appliance store—then drove back to his bungalow.

The wind blowing off the Pacific had a bite to it. The dusk sky was a luminous jade-green as the sun melted into the sea. The air smelled of rain.

From the wall phone in the kitchen Hawker watched the unmarked police car pull up to the beach and park.

Hawker checked his notebook and dialed. Virgil Kahl answered. Hawker had talked to him briefly at the funeral. He had looked twenty years older, a broken and beaten man.

Hawker didn't expect him to recover. He had lost too much. The listless voice on the other end confirmed Hawker's observations. Kahl sounded as if he was still in shock, far, far from the horrors of reality.

“James Hawker? Oh, yes—I remember. I saw you at the funeral, didn't I?”

“I've been working with the watch program, Virgil.”

“Oh, yes, how could I have forgotten. This has been such a terrible, terrible week. We lost our daughter, you know. Our only child.”

“I know, Virgil. And I'm sorry. That's why. I called. I want you to do me a favor, Virgil.”

“A favor? Certainly. I'd do anything for a friend of my daughter.”

Hawker shook his head, feeling helpless. Kahl had gotten even worse. He decided to try, anyway. “Virgil, listen to me. I want to ask you a question. I need some information. Did you ever work with a young actor named Johnny Barberino? At World Film Studios, maybe?”

There was a long silence, as if he had to process each word individually. “Barberino? Why should I know him? I don't know any actors anymore.”

“Are you sure, Virgil? Please think.”

“I'm quite sure. Now, please don't bother me anymore. I'm tired of questions. We've lost our daughter, you know. Our … our only child.”

The line suddenly went dead, and Hawker realized Kahl had hung up.

Feeling sickened by it all, Hawker cracked a cold bottle of Tuborg and took the Eavesdrop recorder onto the porch with him.

The talk in the Satanás' headquarters was the same as it had been for the last three days: speculation on who the Hawk was; wild talk of revenge and murder.

But this time the wild talk had crystallized.

Hawker listened closely as the recorder played back a telephone conversation for him. Hawker recognized both voices. The caller was Hammer, the half-breed leader of the Hispanic street gang. The other voice belonged to Razor, the Panthers' chieftain.

“You know who this is?” the tape began.

There was a long pause. “What the fuck you be callin' me for?”

“We got a problem, amigo. We got a
mutual
problem.”

“Don't be giving me that ‘amigo' shit, mother—”

“Razor, just calm down for a minute, man. You don't dig what I've got to say, just hang up. But at least listen.”

“Make it quick, Hammer. The young dudes be getting real suspicious if they knew I'm talking to you.”

“So shut up for a minute. Okay? Look, you've been getting burned by this Hawk dude, just like we have, right?”

“Until we kill the fucker—”

“You ain't killin' nobody, man! Face it. The fucker's too smart for you. He's been too smart for us, too—until now.”

“What you mean, ‘until now'?”

“I got a plan, Razor. But it's gonna take both groups. We're gonna have to have our boys hit together.”

“Hit
who?
You think it gonna take thirty of us to kill this Hawk dude?”

“We're gonna hit the whole Hillsboro section, man. I've got some information from a good source. This Hawk is nothing but a jive ex-cop. He came to help them jerks in Hillsboro. Think about it, Razor. It makes sense. This fucker's been hired as a protector. If we send our dudes to Hillsboro, he's gonna show up. We'll march 'em right down the street, kicking ass the whole way. You and me and our main men will be waiting off to the side. When we catch the first glimpse of this red-haired character, we'll blow his ass away.”

Razor chuckled. “Yeah? You're sure? Well, it may work. Smoke the motherfucker out.”

“Damn right it'll work. I've already told my boys to meet at the corner of Hillsboro Boulevard tomorrow night. Midnight. I'm gonna start passing the word now that the Panthers are going to help us. And no fighting among ourselves, Razor. Tell that lunatic Amin to save it all for the Hawk.”

“Yeah? Well, tell the same thing to them fucking weirdos of yours. That little crippled dude, Lobo, be screwin' kids, and that Jesús—”

“Hay-soos, dumb shit. It ain't pronounced ‘gee-suz.'”

“I don't give a fuck how you spies say it. That Jesús cat gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

“Just get the word to your boys, Razor. Get the word out today so they'll be ready. Just have them be at Hillsboro. Tell them to bring some tools—nothing heavy. Chains and canes. Tell 'em the plan and tell them to go heads up with the civilians. Remember, make it real clear you and me and our main men aren't exactly going to be leading them. We'll be off to the side, waiting for this Hawk to show.”

“Midnight, right?”

“Right. And Razor—you and me and the other chiefs ought to get together tomorrow night before the hit and go over what we're going to do.”

“Where?”

“Someplace neutral, man. You know where. The park. About ten.”

“You bringing your three lieutenants, man?”

“Except Matador. He's got some business tomorrow night.”

“Me and Amin and Blade will be there. And one more thing, Hammer.”

“Yeah?”

“When we see this Hawk dude, we ain't gonna waste him. Not right there, anyway.”

“No?”

“No.” The tape recorder buzzed with Razor's oily laugh. “We gonna bring him back to the turf and have some fun, man. We're gonna do the same thing that fucker did to Cat Man. We're gonna to cut his dick off. And then I'm gonna add his little pink ears to my collection.”

Hawker clicked off the recorder and reset it. Then he went to the phone and made two more calls.

The first was to John Cranshaw.

“How are the men doing, John?” Hawker asked after identifying himself.

“Great, James. Just great. I think they'll be ready for almost anything in another couple of weeks.”

“They'll have to be ready a lot sooner than that.”

“What?”

Hawker told him about the street gangs' plans. Cranshaw gave a low whistle. “Gee, I don't know, James. Maybe we'd better just call the police and let them handle it.”

Hawker's voice turned cold. “Sure, John. Do that.”

“It's just that it sounds dangerous.”

“It will be. And it will be dangerous next week and the week after that. It will be dangerous just as long as they know they can bully you.”

“But what if we … aren't ready?”

“It doesn't matter, John. All the men have to do is fight. And show they're not afraid.”

Cranshaw cleared his throat nervously. Hawker waited as he thought it all out. Finally he said, “Damn it all, you're right! I'll call everyone tonight. It's time we stood and fought.”

“You're making the right decision, John.”

“Hell, I'm even looking forward to it.” He chuckled. “It's going to feel good, acting like a man again.”

“Personally, I don't think any of you ever stopped, John. By the way, some packages are going to be delivered to your house tomorrow. They're T-shirts. Have the men wear them.”

“T-shirts?”

“Right. And one more thing, John—don't forget to call Sully McGraw. He's the kind of guy who likes to be reassured he's needed.”

“He'll be first on the list. And, James? Thank you. Thank you for all your help.”

Hawker hung up and then leafed through his notebook until he came to young Julio Castanada Balserio's name. The file he had stolen gave a telephone number but no address.

Hawker would have liked to see him in person, but he didn't have much time. Besides, Flaherty's man would have followed him.

An old woman answered on the first ring. In his kitchen Spanish, Hawker made it clear he wanted to speak with Julio.

There was a long wait while Julio's name was called loudly in the background.

“Diga.”

“Julio, this is a friend of yours. We met the other night—at the Satanás headquarters.”

The young Latin was quiet for so long that Hawker began to wonder if he had fainted. Shifting to English, he finally said, “I got into a lot of trouble over that. They beat me. They beat me bad. I'm supposed to be in the hospital right now.”

“They didn't beat you, Julio. They slapped you around. But they believed you. Save your lies for them, okay?”

“How … how did you know?”

“I know a lot of things, Julio. That's why I called you.”

“I don't want to get into no more trouble.”

“You won't. Not if you do exactly as I say.”

“I'm listening.”

“The Satanás and the Panthers are going to hit Hillsboro tomorrow night—together. Did you know that?”

Julio hesitated. “Yeah. Hammer called about an hour ago.”

“He and the other leaders are going to meet in some park before the hit. I need to know which park, Julio.”

“They didn't tell me, but I guess it would be Hyde Park. It's kinda weird, us two gangs getting together, but Hammer said there'd be nothing to it. Said the hit would be easy.”

“That's bullshit, Julio. There's going to be a lot more to it than they think. Listen to me, Julio, and listen good. Hammer and the other leaders have been using you. You and all your friends. They let you guys do the dirty work while they sit back and collect the profits.”

“What profits, man?”

“What do you think they do with that stuff they have you steal?”

“We don't do no stealing.”

“I've seen your headquarters, remember, Julio?”

“Well, I guess we do steal. Some. But Hammer don't cheat us. He uses the money to fix up the headquarters. He bought us jackets.”

“There were enough stolen stereos and television sets alone to buy a new headquarters, Julio. Use your head for a second. He fences that stuff to professionals, and he and his four sick friends split the money. They give you guys just enough to keep you happy. And it's not hard to keep you happy because they keep pounding that ‘die-for-the-Satanás' crap into your heads. They use the money they make to buy drugs. The drugs they don't use, they sell. They're getting fat, and they're laughing at you guys behind your backs.”