Dangerous Times (6 page)

Sell the house…

Yeah, right. Couldn’t sell a house that
quick. Have to sell it from—wherever. And even then, he had only 14
years in it, on a 30-year mortgage.

Had to be a way out, Hicks told
himself…spotting a gray cloud through the windshield. He watched it
creep across the sky, its shadow passing over the old tree.

And he was again captivated by the bare
branches that stirred in the January wind. Like the gnarled fingers
of a decayed hand reaching from out of the grave. His boy, come
alive in the earth, suffocating, struggling desperately for his
freedom.

Jefferson, Hicks lamented.

Freedom, he thought.

Money…

Chapter
13

Captain Harold Davis sat at his desk
studying the report filed by Officers Doyle and Diaz. What they had
seen last night when they came upon Lieutenant Hicks beating the
19-year-old Earl Sinclair. And then their interview with the night
clerk at the convenience store.

The Captain’s eyes dropped to his stomach.
Hardly able to get his uniform buttoned he would have to order some
new ones.

“Sorry, what was that?” the Captain said,
raising his eyes.

Inspector General Carol Cole sat in the
leather chair at a corner of the desk. On her lap lay a copy of the
patrolmen’s report. In her hands a history file on Lieutenant
Hicks.

She said, “I was just asking the Lieutenant
about race relations here at Harbor Division.”

Hicks was at the other corner of the desk,
in a straight-back chair that made him look all the bigger. Tim
Burns, he thought, says the inspector general is a woman but leaves
out she’s black. Color-blind fool, Hicks smiled inwardly; or maybe
Burns didn’t know the color part, he thought. Hicks wondering then
if he’d get some sympathy out of her, figuring the color card ought
to be in his favor.

Captain Davis was doing his own wondering.
“What’s race relations got to do with it?” he asked Carol Cole.

“Maybe nothing,” she said. “The Lieutenant
is the only African-American under your command. Might add to the
pressure of the job. Vis-a-vis his unorthodox behavior last
night.”

Visa-a-what? the Captain asked himself. Got
myself one smart-ass black bitch here. “No, no, we don’t have that
sort of problem,” he said.

Yeah, right, Hicks thought.

Captain Davis clasped his plump hands on the
desk. “Okay now, let’s get on with the real problem.”

“Yes, let’s do,” Carol Cole answered with a
look at Hicks. “The loss of your son and the divorce that followed?
Your file indicates you had no department counseling at the time.
You didn’t feel you needed any?”

“No, ma’am, not back then,” the Lieutenant
said softly, appearing sorrowful, eyes lowered to the floor.
“Looking back over last night, I should’a gotten help.
Yeah…should’a.”

This is it, Hicks thought. Like Burns said,
gotta use it. “I saw the Sinclair kid as my son. Saw my boy in him
an’ wanted to teach him a lesson. Beat some sense into him. Save
him from…”

Hicks lifted his eyes to Carol Cole and felt
the moisture in them. Damn, real tears. And why shouldn’t they be;
his boy, Jefferson, gone forever.

Carol Cole cleared her throat and said,
“Would you be willing to see someone at Psych Services?”

“Sure ‘nough would,” Hicks nodded.

Captain Davis thinking the bitch is on
Hicks’ side. What a fucked-up show this is. “Okay,” he said, “he
sees a head doctor, then what?”

The inspector general shifted in the leather
chair. “All right,” she said, facing the Captain directly. “On
Monday morning the Lieutenant will meet with the city attorney.”
Adding with a glance toward Hicks, “I’ll be there with you.” Then
back to the Captain, “On Tuesday morning he’ll meet with Internal
Affairs. Which means you may keep him on until they make their
decision, and that should come on Thursday.”

Shifting her weight back toward Hicks she
said, “Tomorrow is Saturday. We have a psychiatrist at Psych
Services who puts in a half day. How is eleven o’clock in the
morning for you?”

“Yes, ma’am, that’s good,” Hicks thinking
that seeing the psychiatrist could be like taking a lie-detector
test. But the truth’s the truth, he heard Tim Burns say from the
shadows of his mind.

“Well now, wait a minute,” Captain Davis
said. “Earl Sinclair’s parents have already gotten an attorney. And
there was an article in the paper about it.”

“Any names mentioned?” Carol Cole asked.

“No, but the press’s been calling for more
information. How’s it going to look if they come out with his name
and he’s still on duty?”

“The Lieutenant doesn’t have to be on duty.
His file shows he has more than enough sick days to take advantage
of. And until there’s a decision, there won’t be any objection from
Internal Affairs.”

“This’ll be his second charge of excessive
force,” the Captain said quietly, restraining his anger.

“Lieutenant Hicks was acquitted of the first
charge,” Carol Cole stated. “Therefore it is something we need not
consider.”

She looked at Hicks. “Have you visited Earl
Sinclair at the hospital?”

Hicks remembered that Burns had asked him
the same question. “No, ma’am,” he said. “You think I should?”

“Definitely,” the inspector general smiled.
“Show your concern. As of now, you’re off duty. Do it today.” Then
added, “If his parents are there, all the better. It will give them
a chance to see how you’re taking this. Possibly give you a chance
to ask for their forgiveness.”

Hicks couldn’t believe she said that. Ask
for their forgiveness?

Captain Harold Davis leaned back in his
chair. I give up, he said to himself, thinking how outrageous this
was. Black bitch hadn’t even let him agree with her or not. Okay,
he went on thinking, let’s just wait until Internal Affairs gets
through with him, find out what an angry son of a bitch he is…kick
his black ass off the force.

Hicks knew pretty much what Fat Cap was
thinking. Motherfucker. Hicks then hearing but not listening to
Carol Cole explaining department procedure to the Captain, as to
civil lawsuits.

Hicks felt his throat tighten. He needed
more than 12 thousand to buy his freedom. Yeah, more, and had until
next Thursday to come up with it.

Damn…

Chapter
14

Comfortable in his camelhair coat Frank had
chosen a table away from the heaters, alongside the rail that
overlooked the Main Channel. He took a sip of tea and thought about
the waitress who had brought it to him. How pretty she would be
without all those extra pounds.

Waiting patiently for his order he brushed
back his blond hair and slipped on his tortoiseshell sunglasses.
Frank gazed at the channel, motor yachts churning the water,
sailboats gliding past. On the other side of the channel, the oil
refinery sat on Terminal Island under a partially cloudy sky. At
the refinery’s upper end, there was a bridge that linked San Pedro
to the island.

Frank stood, leaned over the rail and looked
up and down the Ports O Call Village that lined his side of the
channel. Nice, he nodded, amusement park and restaurants
refurbished, some newly built. If the city council would redo the
rest of San Pedro, Frank thought, they would have an even better
tourist trap.

He then eyed the Main Channel southward to
the open sea. Impossible, he complained to himself. There wasn’t
anywhere to dock a speedboat. Frank returned to his chair and
opened the Thomas Guide he had brought with him from the car. He
took his sunglasses off, thumbed his way to the San Pedro map and
found where the Main Channel met the ocean.

“There you are,” he muttered, finding two
smaller channels with pictured slips, all tucked in at San Pedro’s
southern tip.

He turned the page and looked at the map
that included the international waters far off the coast of Los
Angeles. Where Eddie’s yacht would be anchored tonight. It
confirmed that the speedboat trip from the yacht to San Pedro
wouldn’t be any trouble.

The waitress appeared with his oatmeal and
whole wheat toast. Frank closed the Thomas Guide and slid it aside
as she set the food down in front of him.

“Thank you,” he smiled, seeing how cold she
was in her scant uniform.

She blushed under the warmth of his smile.
“I’ll keep an eye on you from the inside,” she giggled. “Need
anything, gimme a wave and I’ll come a runnin’.”

“Thanks again,” Frank said, gaze lingering
on her chubby legs as she scurried back into the restaurant.

He spread apple butter on his toast, then
reopened the Thomas Guide to the San Pedro map. Munching on the
toast he noted a lighthouse planted at the ocean end of Gaffey
Street: Historic Lighthouse it was called.

All right, Frank said to himself, run the
speedboat past the Historic Lighthouse, then a little farther to a
second one he saw now, the Angels Gate Lighthouse. That’s where he
would make an easy turn into the Glen Anderson Ship Channel, and
then another turn into the smaller channels.

“Perfect,” he whispered. He would drive down
there after breakfast and have a look.

Stirring his oatmeal he turned westward and
gave San Pedro a quick study. It was all hillside, sweeping
westward up and away from him, and its length ran from the farthest
points north to south. Above the crest Frank saw more clouds
rolling in from off the unseen ocean beyond.

He dropped his eyes to the bottom of the
hillside. Frank was nearly able to pinpoint 10th and Cabrillo. An
image of the Beverly Cottages came to mind…soon to be his new
home.

Frank returned to his oatmeal and took a
spoonful. He looked over at the only other occupied table, a couple
seated directly under a heater. Temperature couldn’t be below
fifty-five or so, he judged. Guessing the couple grew up in the
southwest. Thin-blooded people, unlike Frank who had been raised in
the northeast.

Blood, he thought, wondering now what time
John Kirk got off work. He took another spoonful of oatmeal.
“Christ sake,” he grumbled. A tern sat on a rail post not more than
three feet away. Sneaking up on him like that, with its filmy eyes
on him. Frank hated when animals watched him eat. He wanted to pull
his gun and feed it a bullet.

Instead, he slammed his spoon on the table.
The tern flinched and flew off. “Good-riddance,” Frank said as he
reached under his coat. He took the Tom Pincus phone out, called
information and asked for Staub’s Import Motorworks at 23rd and
Pacific.

He got the number and disconnected. This was
going to be good, calling there and finding out what time he gets
off. But not ask the question outright, Frank smiled. No fun in
that.

He had some more oatmeal, some more of the
apple-buttered toast, and a sip of tea. Clearing his throat he
tapped in the number. Two rings and a gruff voice answered. Frank
assumed it had to be the middle-aged flabby guy he had seen at the
shop.

“Hi,” Frank said. “Is there a, um-uh, John
Kirk there?”

“Yeah, hold on,” the gruff voice responded
irritably.

A moment later Frank heard hello at the
other end.

“Good-morning,” Frank said in his neighborly
way. “We’ve never met but I’ve heard about you, and-uhh thought I’d
give it a shot. See if you had time after work to look at a
Mercedes that won’t start. Pay you, um-uhh, sixty an hour to check
her out here at the house. What time you get off?”

Kirk told him 5 o’clock, then asked if he
belonged to Triple A.

“Sure do,” Frank answered, “but having her
towed down to-uhh…I shudder to think about it, tow truck driver
banging her around, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, I do,” Kirk said, sounding hesitant.
“What’s the address?”

“Oh, gosh,” Frank said, “hold on a sec…well,
son of a gun, this is embarrassing,” he laughed. “My wife says it
started. Tell you what. Gives us any more trouble, I’ll-uhh call
you later or tomorrow. Okay?”

Kirk said not tomorrow, they were closed on
weekends.

“No problem,” Frank said, “we’ve got two
cars. She dies on us again, I’ll, um-uhh, try you later or on
Monday. How’s that?”

“Good,” Kirk agreed flatly.

Frank enjoyed their little talk, along with
all the ums and uhhs he got to play with. Though he did wonder why
an extra 60-an-hour didn’t seem to interest the mechanic.

Gets off at 5 o’clock, Frank thought. Get
over there at 4:30, he told himself, in case his pigeon gets off a
little earlier.

Frank worked on finishing his tea and
envisioned what was to come. Eddie’s speedboat would pick him up at
the L.A. Marina at 11 o’clock. Friday night traffic meant leaving
San Pedro no later than 10. The Lincoln left behind with the body
in it, then the cab trip to the L.A. Marina. Frank considering the
fare a paltry investment for such a big return.

4 million, maybe 5.

Ling, he thought then. Eddie’s lieutenant in
charge of U.S. operations. Ling gets in the way, Frank fumed, he’ll
blow the Chinese bastard’s head off.

That’s all right, Frank smiled when he
pictured Eddie’s face. The sag of it when he discovers his errand
boy had run off with the money; sending out the troops in search of
him.

Until some innocent stranger stumbles on the
body in the Lincoln. What a surprise, Frank Lester Moore robbed and
killed in San Pedro. Eddie Jones then having to hunt down his money
with no idea who had it.

Christ sake, this was going to be good.

Chapter
15

The BMW up on the lift, John Kirk was under
it removing the oil pan. 60-an-hour he was thinking, hoping
what’s-his-name wouldn’t call back about his Mercedes.

Extra 60, extra 120, didn’t make any
difference. It wouldn’t change anything. And Kirk foresaw the rest
of his life. Stuck like a fly on a web, waiting for the
inevitable.