Under a Raging Moon (10 page)

“What?”

“This. On my face.”

“Your boo-boo?”

“Fuck you, motherfucker. That’s police brutality and I want a picture of it.”

Kopriva paused as if considering the request. Then, “How about a pi
c
ture of my foot up your ass?”

“Fuck you, faggot! I wanna talk to a supervisor.” Spittle flew from Morris’ lips and struck the plastic shield. “I wanna see one of them gold-badge motherfuckers!”

“Call him from jail, kitty-kat.”

“YOU CALL HIM!” Morris yelled, enraged.

Kopriva snorted. “I’m not a rookie, Cat-man. Save your act and call him your little old self.” Ignoring Morris’s tirade, he turned the radio back up and caught the tail end of the song as he pulled into jail.

2230 hours

Isaiah Morris struggled to get himself under control.

That fucking punk cop! Little wise-ass cracker! He thought he was so tough with a badge and a gun. Pul
l
ing his little tricky kung fu stunt on me back there at the car.

As the car slid into the jail sally-port, he forced himself to calm down. The jailers knew him and they didn’t like him. If he gave them any reason, the racist motherfuckers would beat the black right out of him. He sat as still as he could manage, waiting while the cop exited the car and locked his gun in the gun safe.

I’d like to try you now, motherfucker,
he raged silently.
Take these cuffs off and see, bitch.

The cop walked into the booking area and several moments later, three jailers came out and headed for the car. He remained calm. Cops were always telling the jailers how crazy he was, but unless they saw it for the
m
selves, they treated him mellow enough.

The first jailer, a fat one with a receding hairline, opened the door. “Are you going to cooperate tonight, Morris? Or do you want to go with the holding cell for a few hours?”

“I’m chillin’.” Morris tried to keep his voice calm. “Just don’t beat me like that last cop did. That man is a racist.”

The door opened and pudgy hands helped him from the car. He walked i
n
to the officers booking area and straight through to the prisoner’s recei
v
ing area. The fat jailer began booking him into jail, a process familiar enough to Morris. He cooperated completely, anticipating the jailer’s que
s
tions and orders. He knew hard time and he knew easy time. There was a lot less leeway in here than out in the street. And fewer wi
t
nesses.

The hotshot cop who arrested him came in and read him his warrant. He knew it was required by law and made no effort to interrupt.

“This is your warrant,” the punk bitch intoned. “It’s in Superior Court for failure to appear on an original charge of possession of crack cocaine. Bail is set at $25,000. Signed on August 24th of this year by Judge Antonio Calabrese.” The cop looked up. “Any questions?”

“Fuck you,” whispered Morris.

“Same to you,” the cop replied in a low, even voice and turned to walk away.

“I’ll get you,” Morris gritted, anger seething inside him. “One-eight-seven, motherfucker.”

The California penal code for homicide, ‘one-eighty seven’ was a co
m
mon way among gang members to threaten to kill someone. The cop must have known what it meant because he snarled something under his breath and took a step toward Morris. Two jailers intervened, holding the young hothead back. Morris wished the jailers hadn’t been there so the cop could have hit him. How sweet would it be to press charges against him with all these witnesses who were too stupid to lie?

The jailers walked the cop out of the receiving area. Morris smiled and blew him a kiss. “One-eighty-seven,” he repeated as the cop reached the door.

“Shut up, Isaiah,” the fat jailer told him, “or we will do this the hard way.”

Morris remained quiet. He answered all questions and signed that his property had been removed. Then he signed his booking notification on the warrant with $25,000 bail and for assaulting an officer with $5000 bail. He cooperated patiently as the jailer meticulously snapped his picture and fingerprinted him. Finally, they allowed him to use the phone.

It took one phone call to his cuz, $4500 out of his stash and a second call, this to a bail bondsman, before he was booked back out. The process going out seemed even quicker than going in, an irony that was not lost on Morris. He hit the street and got into T-Dog’s car exactly one hour and forty-eight minutes after being brought to jail.

Sunday, August 21st

0021 hours

Stefan Kopriva left the property room where he’d just written his report and placed the magazine and ammunition on the property book. He heard a screech of tires from the corner. A Cadillac approached, the silhouette of a head sticking out the rear window.

Kopriva drew his pistol and held it at his side. He moved quickly to the patrol car for cover.

The car rolled closer and he saw Morris in the window.

“One-eighty-seven, motherfucker-r-r-r-r-r!” the gangster yelled.

Kopriva raised his gun in case Morris fired, but the tires squealed and the Cadillac pulled away. At the i
n
te
r
section, they took a right and disappeared.

What is he doing out of jail already?
Kopriva shook his head.
What a screwed up system.

When he holstered his gun, he suddenly realized he was breathing rapidly.
Damned adrenaline
. Kopriva took several deep breaths, taking his time and forcing himself calm before he got into the patrol car and started the engine. By the time he notified dispatch that he was clear, he felt steady again.

Sunday, August 21st

Day Shift

1132 hours

There are some things that a man should be left alone while doing. As far as Sgt. David Poole was co
n
cerned, working on his car was one of them.

He adjusted the valves on his 1969 Chevrolet Chevelle Super Sport. It had a huge engine, a 396 large block that sucked gas like a greedy bitch. He’d put a stock, stiff four-speed in it and it had never given him any trouble. Then again, he never missed a power-shift, either.

He’d sipped a Michelob throughout the valve adjustment and now that they were fine-tuned, he allowed himself a deep draught. It felt good to have completed something worthwhile for a change. Something that made him happy. The beautiful rumble of the 396 did just that. He reached down near the carburetor and revved the engine slightly. The rumble rose to a slight roar.

Beautiful.

Then his sister Angela arrived and broke into the sanctity of his g
a
rage.

“Davey?”

Damn, he hated being called that.

“Over here, Ang.”

Angela Poole-Nyerson appeared at the edge of the garage. “Working on the racecar?” she teased.

“Yup.” Poole took another slug of his Michelob. “What’s up?”

“I’ve been trying to reach you all day. Have you been home?”

“Been home.” Poole started to wipe off his tools and put them away.
Damn
.
And today had been a fairly decent day, too. Not like I get many of those these days.
“I turned off the phone.”

“Hiding from work again?” she needled playfully.

He looked up. “Would you want the Bon Marché calling you on your days off?”

Angela smiled and winked. “What days off?”

Poole softened the tone in his voice. He knew Angela meant well. Hell, she was the only one in the family who even talked to him since the divorce. He probably shouldn’t alienate her as well, but he had no patience any more. He’d heard somewhere that you shouldn’t burn bridges that you don’t have to or something like that. That thought ran through his mind like a logic problem, and he found that he really didn’t care either way.

“What did you want, Angela?” He wiped off a wrench, and hung it on his pegboard.

“Okay, grump. Mom’s birthday is next Monday. Donald and I are putting together a surprise party for her. It’s a picnic at Franklin Park. Can you come?”

Why was she asking?
Poole wondered.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Come on, Davey. It’s her birthday.”

“No one will miss me if I’m not there,” he told her.

“Mom will.”

Poole shrugged. His mother had been the first person to tell him that he blew it with Sherrie. Not that she was sad that it hadn’t worked out or even that she’d always liked Sherrie. That he blew it. “I doubt it. If so, she’ll be in the minority.”

“Well, what do you expect?” Angela flared.

“Nothing.” He refused to look at her but his jaw clenched. “I expect
nothing
.”

Angela swore and turned away. Then she stopped. “No. You need to be told.” She stepped around the car to face Poole. “I really do want to know what you expect, Davey. I mean, you cut yourself off from everyone in the family. Your kids never see you. Mom doesn’t, either. You don’t hardly ever call me or Donny. What are we supposed to do?”

Poole didn’t answer, so she went on.

“I’m sorry your life is the pits, Davey. I’m sorry you got divorced, that you’ve been alone this past year. I know it’s hard.”

You have no idea.

“And I’m sorry if your career isn’t going the way you want. But all I’m asking you to do is show up for one lousy afternoon on your own mother’s birthday.” Angela paused. She opened her mouth to say more, but stopped again, half-sobbing instead. “Goddamn you.”

Poole looked up and caught her eye. Tears streamed down her face, but it didn’t move him. Through clenched teeth, he told her, “Don’t preach to me, sis. Everyone in this whole happy family knew Sherrie was fooling around on me. Did anyone think to tell me? No.”

“It was none of our business!” she protested, wiping her eyes.

“Well, it certainly became everyone’s business when I filed for divorce, didn’t it? When, suddenly, I somehow became the bad guy? Tell me how the fuck that happened!”

“No one can talk to you!” Angela yelled at him and ran out of the g
a
rage.

Poole listened to her descending footfalls. He heard her Jeep start and squeal off. He tried to care but failed.

It wasn’t so bad that he got the divorce. It was being played the fool that made him angry. He never really loved Sherrie. Just a pair of kids themselves, they’d married because she’d gotten pregnant. It wasn’t like she’d been the love of his life.

Somehow, being duped and having everyone know it seemed worse when no heartbreak had been i
n
volved. Or maybe he just noticed the anger more b
e
cause there wasn’t any heartbreak taking up space on his emotional hard drive.

Most of the real anger came from betrayal. Not so much from Sherrie, but from the rest of the clan. She got to each of them with her sweet public persona and they bought into it, leaving him to play the role of the bad guy in the whole affair.

Poole replaced the valve gasket and cover, trying not to hurry. Dark anger continued to build inside of him. Anger at his family, whom he cons
i
dered a pack full of traitors. Some for Sherrie, for not just breaking it off with him first before she started sleeping around. And the job, of course. The fucking job. Hart making his gold bar and everyone considering him the lieutenant’s flunkie. Hart probably most of all. Some friend he turned out to be.

Life just plain sucks.
I need some heavy metal.

He pushed a button and Metallica roared out of his boom box. Carefully, he tightened down the valve cover. By the time he slammed the hood, he really needed to drive.

1216 hours

The robbery alarm tone caught Karl Winter by surprise. Scarface had never hit before eighteen hundred, and Winter couldn’t recall a robbery on day shift since June or so. He slipped his sandwich back into his lunch cooler and brushed the crumbs off his shirt as he listened intently.

“Suspect fled eastbound. White male, tall and thin wearing black jeans and a blue windbreaker. Long black hair with a scar on the left side of his face.”

That had to be him. The description was too close. Winter dropped the car into gear and headed in the d
i
rection of the robbery. He decided to put his theory to the test, so he drove to Grand Boulevard and parked. He watc
h
ed cars as they cruised past, looking for single females driving large cars.

Ridgeway and Giovanni both radioed their arrival at the area of the robbery near Southeast Blvd.

There!

Winter saw a slender white female with dark, stringy hair westbound on 29th approaching Grand. She a
p
peared nervous and made the right turn without using her signal. A thrill shot through Winter. That could be it.