L.A. Wars (5 page)

“Who should I ask for?”

“A man named John Cranshaw. Oh, and James—don't be surprised if the reception you get from some of the members is a little cool. Some of them didn't like the idea of an outsider coming in to help. Especially watch for a man named Sully McGraw. He can be a—” In the background Kahl was interrupted by a high, wailing cry. “Oh, lord,” he said shakily. “My wife's woken up again. She's gone quite mad, James.… I've got to call the doctor. I'm sorry.…”

Hawker jotted down the hasty address Kahl gave him and hung up, feeling both sorrow and frustration.

He needed information. He had to find a way to go to the very source of the gangs, find out who or what motivated them, and for what purpose.

He couldn't just go on killing the punks one by one.

But for the time being it was the only plan of attack he had.

And until something better came along, it would have to do.…

Just after seven Hawker slid into his rented Cutlass and drove down Highland Avenue, parallel to the beach.

The sun was evaporating westward, toward Japan.

More surfers were out, the pretty surfing groupies trotting heavy-breasted down the beach, their nylon bikinis the color of psychedelic Easter eggs.

Hawker had never seen a heavier concentration of beautiful girls in his life. Driving through early-Saturday-night traffic, he decided it must be because, during the nineteen thirties and forties, every good-looking, out-of-work man and woman in the country probably gravitated to Hollywood, dreaming of stardom.

Few of them made it, of course.

Those who didn't probably settled for menial jobs. And dull marriages.

But they certainly had produced some beautiful babies.

Hawker stopped at a Greek restaurant, ate two gyros with extra sauce, and bought the afternoon paper.

In a city festering with crime Julie Kahl hadn't been given much space. It was at the bottom of the local section—two paragraphs on the front, and then the story jumped to an inside page.

Considering Julie's death the reporter hammered at the gory details—multiple rape, mutilation with a knife, the naked corpse, et cetera.

Hawker hoped like hell Virgil Kahl or his wife didn't read the story.

Only two paragraphs interested Hawker:

Arrested at the scene was Martin “Cat Man” Washington. Washington was charged with rape, one count of first-degree murder, and three counts of second-degree murder, as well as possession of an illegal automatic weapon
.

Police speculate that the four members of the notorious “Panthers” street gang began to fight among themselves after the rape-murder of Ms. Kahl. Washington, with seventeen prior arrests on his record, was also seriously wounded. He is listed in critical but stable condition at Dominguez Hills Hospital
.

John Cranshaw's home was two blocks from the Kahl residence, and twice as large.

A stucco wall screened it from the street. Hawker noted the bottle shards cemented into the top of the wall to keep out burglars—an old and unfriendly Mexican custom.

There were so many cars parked along the curb, it looked as though the Cranshaws were having a party.

Instead it was more like a wake. Or a funeral.

About twenty men sat on folding chairs outside. Two thick almond trees sheltered them from the gathering dusk of the summer night.

There was no laughter, no loud and friendly conversation.

The men sat with their hands folded, heads slightly bent as if expecting a blow. They spoke in low voices, as if in a church.

A squat, heavyset man with a white beard approached Hawker. “James Hawker? Good, we've been expecting you. I'm John Cranshaw. Come sit beside me at the front of the group. I'll introduce you.”

Cranshaw had a pallid complexion but a good handshake. His mustache and his fingers were stained yellow with nicotine. Even as he introduced himself to Hawker, he mechanically lit another cigarette, hacking as he inhaled.

As Cranshaw opened the meeting, Hawker took a careful visual survey of the men before him.

Most of them were between thirty and fifty years old. The majority of them were white, with a few blacks and Latins sprinkled among them.

Physically they were not an intimidating bunch.

But they didn't have to be. Hawker had learned early during his career as a cop that physical speed and strength don't count for much on the street. Not when compared to the efficiency of a well-organized group, a group led by a man—or men—who refused to back down.

A team with courage and leadership would win every single time.

Now all he had to do was convince this group.

One man in the group caught his attention. He was a huge, red-faced man with jet-black hair combed straight back. He had to weigh close to three hundred pounds. His metal chair bowed beneath him as if it were made of rubber.

But what particularly set him apart was the furious scowl on his face, and the way he kept slapping his fist into his palm. Hawker wondered if he might be the man Virgil Kahl had warned him about—Scully McGraw. Even if he wasn't, Hawker decided, he'd bear watching.

Cranshaw went over what the watch members could do for the Kahls, and the date of Julie Kahl's funeral. Wisely, he pointed out that people from their ranks had been murdered before—and that it might happen again.

When it was Hawker's turn to speak, he told them of the success of other such groups. He outlined how he could help them improve their own methods—as long as they were willing to train. He spoke slowly and carefully, taking care not to insult them by mentioning their past failures. He finished by saying they should talk privately among themselves. If they wanted his help, it was available.

He was about to sit down when the huge man with the black hair stood.

“I want to ask you something, Hawker,” he snapped. “Just who in the fuck do you think you are coming in here from God-knows-where, telling us how to run our program? The daughter of one of our members was raped last night by a bunch of niggers, and you come here telling us we should fall in line like Boy Scouts.”

Hawker noticed the black men in the group flinch and tighten as the man spoke.

A couple of other men yelled, “Sit down, Scully. The guy's just trying to help.”

“What about it, Hawker?” Scully demanded. “Personally, I think you're just a little pile of shit who likes to act important. Now, if any man in here has the balls to join me, I'll take him with me into the streets to crack a head or two.”

Scully had been gradually moving closer and closer to Hawker, heading for the gate out. As he brushed near, Hawker held out his arm, stopping him. He could feel the eyes of every man in the place on him.

“You know something?” Hawker asked easily.

“No. So, tell me, asshole.” Scully had whirled to face him.

“I'm having a hard time deciding whether you're obnoxious or just plain hungry,” Hawker went on. “I know how mean fat people can get when they're hungry.”

Scully's slab of face turned red as the other men laughed.

He made a bellowing sound and swung a bearlike right fist at Hawker. Hawker saw it coming and ducked under it. Turning sideways, he slammed his elbow into Scully's soft solar plexus. The air whooshed out of the fat man, bending him over.

Hawker cocked his hips and jolted Scully's head back with a right uppercut that crossed the man's eyes and sent him teetering mountainously. The other men seemed to tense themselves for the resulting crash.

It never came. Hawker caught the man by the collar and lowered him gently to the ground.

He looked at the others and shrugged. “I'm sorry, fellows. I had no choice.”

He loosened Scully McGraw's collar and checked his pulse. The heart was pounding away like a hammer in the huge chest.

Hawker stood and nodded to them. “Think my offer over, gentlemen. Remember, there's no reason in the world why anyone in this country should have to live in fear. Together, we can put a stop to it.”

Hawker thanked John Cranshaw, then walked outside alone.

six

Hawker considered making another assault on the street gangs but decided against it for two reasons.

There would be a lot of police activity after Julie Kahl's murder, and Hawker had no desire to end up running from the local cops.

The second reason was that he felt he deserved a break. Melanie St. John's party was a little too tempting to pass up.

Hawker wasn't wild about parties. And he didn't relish the idea of listening to a bunch of actors he had never met rattle on about their work.

But he did like the idea of seeing the stunning Melanie St. John again.

Hopefully it would be worth an uncomfortable evening of loud music, loud talk, and manufactured smiles.

He drove back to his beachside cottage. The sun had left a pale orange haze on the western horizon, like rust. Stars glimmered. The wind tapped at the chimes on the porch of his bungalow.

Hawker stripped to his shorts and opened a cold beer. He put ice in a bucket and jammed his swollen right hand in. Punching people is not good for the knuckles. He sat on the porch drinking the good beer, his hand in the bucket, watching the night surf roll in.

When he could bear the aching cold no longer, he went inside and soaped himself warm in the shower. He scrubbed his hair clean, lathered and shaved, then padded barefoot to the bedroom.

Hawker always traveled light—one canvas carry-on that would slide under a plane seat—so he chose his clothes carefully. The clothes had to meet three requirements: they had to be comfortable; they had to be practical; and they had to be honest enough in design so that they wouldn't make him stand out in a crowd.

Hawker liked his anonymity. And that meant looking neither like a slob nor an
Esquire
fashion mannequin.

He chose a pair of soft summer lamb's-wool socks and then pulled himself into a pair of white military twill slacks. The pocket pleats and adjustable waistband were standard on RAF-issue pants during the war. It didn't take him long to decide not to wear a tie, so he pulled a lime-colored cotton mesh shirt over his head before brushing his short, copper hair into place.

After slipping into a pair of glove-soft Timberland deck shoes, he was ready. He cracked another bottle of Tuborg and headed outside.

It was ten twenty-five.

Melanie St. John's “little” party consisted of about a hundred people drinking and dancing and talking—all at the same time.

The house was huge, built high into the trees, and the circular drive was jammed with Rolls-Royces, Mercedes, and Jags. A couple of teen-age boys, working as parking valets, sat outside smoking a joint. They didn't even look up as Hawker walked past.

Inside, an electric band pounded out some esoteric acid-rock classic. It sounded like one long car wreck. There was a door bell, but it would have been ridiculous to use it.

Hawker swung open the double doors and went in.

The house was a back-to-basics marvel: huge, raw wood-beam ceiling, a stone fireplace, Navajo weaves hanging from the open balcony which spread across one whole upper side of the house.

People danced on the balcony, near the fireplace, and directly in front of the band. They danced and shouted and mingled, shoulder to elbow.

The place was packed with people, and all the people—so it seemed to Hawker—looked as if they came straight from a fashion magazine, or else straight from the silver screen.

Hawker recognized a few of the faces. Major rock stars. A few major film stars, and a lot of lesser knowns.

The women all wore dresses styled so that their breasts were on ready display with any twist or turn they made.

The men all looked as though they either went to the same hairdresser—or were hairdressers.

Smiling, Hawker worked his way through the crowd to the corner of the house farthest from the band. There was a table of hors d'oeuvres there, and he began to eat.

A tawny-haired starlet in a sheer white dress stood beside him. He recognized her as the actress who played the sterotypical dizzy blonde on a current situation comedy. Supposedly, she had done for the T-shirt what Marilyn Monroe had done for the sweater.

The white dress was transparent where her breasts strained against the sheer material.

She looked at Hawker, then looked at him again. She snapped her fingers, saying, “Leo, right?”

“Leo? No. My name is—”

“Not your name, silly.” The woman giggled. She had the same high-pitched voice she used on television, and Hawker realized she probably was very much like the character she portrayed. “Leo—like the sign. Your moon sign.”

“Oh.” Hawker couldn't remember what sign he was. “Yeah. Leo—right. I'm a Leo.” All he could remember was that he
wasn't
a Leo.

She clasped her hands together, pleased with herself. “I just knew it. I can always tell a Leo man. People always sort of move out of the way when a Leo man walks into the room. They're very masterful, you know.”

“They are?”

“You
are, silly.”

She smiled at him. “My name's Trixie McCall.”

“And I'm—”

“No, no,” she insisted. “Let me guess. I guessed your sign, and I bet I can guess your name, too. I'm a moon child, and moon children have well-developed psychic powers. Even my astrologer says so.” She put her hand against her forehead, as if trying to communicate with the dead.

Hawker waited, feeling foolish. He felt as if he were talking to a twelve-year-old who had taken an overdose of hormone pills. Across the room Melanie St. John caught his eye with a wave of her hand. She began to elbow her way toward him.

Trixie McCall's face brightened. “Doug! You're name is Doug, isn't it!”

“Doug it is,” said Hawker agreeably.

Trixie shook herself, delighted. She slipped her arm through his, resting the heat of her left breast on his bicep. “I get a good feeling from you, Doug.”