Diabolical (26 page)

Hatcher held out the tire iron for T-Bone to see, rotated it as if there were writing on it he wanted him to read, then cracked it off his forehead with a flick of his wrist.

“God
damn
, man! Knock that shit off!”

“I'm not in the mood for banter. What does he look like?”

“Short hair, like a marine or somethin.' Big ol' arms and chest. He looks like a big dick, which he is.”

“Where do I find him?”

Grimacing, T-Bone pushed himself into a sitting position. He touched the side of his face gingerly. “It's Thursday. Tuesday'n' Thursday afternoons he teaches some karate bullshit or something. Told us not to bother him when he's there. Or else.”

“Where.”

“Shit if I know. Go hassle some slant 'n' ax them.”

Hatcher grabbed him by the head, pointed the wedge end of the tire iron toward his eye.

“Fuck, man! Some joint over on Santa Monica Boulevard! Aint got no fuckin' address! Never even seen the shit!”

Hatcher stood. “If you're lying, I won't leave you breathing next time.”

“I ain't lying.” The kid touched his face again and winced. “Go, see for y'self, sadistic motherfucker. You two deserve each other.”

Hatcher turned to leave, took several steps, then walked back as if remembering something. He kicked T-Bone hard across the face, knocking him off his ass onto his back, causing his skull to bounce off the concrete.

“That's for using the N-word, you little shit.”

THERE WERE AT LEAST SIX MARTIAL ARTS SCHOOLS ON SANTA Monica. Two were Brazilian jiujitsu, one was Kempo, one was kung fu, and two had generic signs that said KARATE.

But only one had a patrol car in front of it. Three patrol cars, in fact.

The place with the cruisers out front was a low-slung stand-alone with a single row of parking The front was mostly window, broad sections of it painted over with the yin-yang symbol and the Korean flag. But there was enough clear glass to see inside from certain angles, and from what Hatcher could tell, there were three guys in there. Three guys, three squad cars. That meant three cops.

Hatcher checked the time on his cell phone. Just after four. Three cop cars, no one else. Odds were Fernandez either ran the place or taught classes. Probably showed up for a workout with some buddies before the first evening session. That would start at five or five thirty, at the earliest. Just enough time.

Traffic was a bit heavy, but it only took him five minutes to double back to an electronics store he had passed. Ten minutes to buy a mini-DV camera. He found one on sale for a little over sixty bucks. Pink, on closeout, about the size of an iPod. Half the time was spent making sure it had the features he needed, the other half hoping he had enough money in his account for his debit card not to get rejected, since he'd been using it lately without keeping track. He took another five minutes to stop at a convenience store on the way back and pick up a large pack of Big League Chew, scooping a bunch into his mouth that made his cheek bulge.

Then he parked on the far end of the parking lot away from the cruisers and out of easy sight, powered up the camera and checked the battery, and walked into the dojo.

The three guys were to the left, in a large workout space, separated from the no-frills reception area by a low wooden divider. Looked like two of them were doing some light sparring, practicing kicks and blocks. The other one was doing forms a safe distance away, kicking and punching in a prearranged series of moves. Each was wearing a white
gi
held closed by a black belt. Fernandez's
gi
top was so wide open he was practically bare-chested, something Hatcher didn't think was by accident since his pecs were shaved smoother than a lingerie model's ass. The other two were a bit taller than Fernandez, but neither looked nearly as built. The one sparring with him was lean and angular. The one doing kata was thick and a bit puffy, carrying a gut that looked like he'd swallowed a medicine ball.

Hatcher blew a bubble, let it pop loudly.

Fernandez looked over. He gave him the just-a-minute gesture with his index finger as if Hatcher were a prospective student, not recognizing him. It wasn't mutual. Hatcher had already expected as much based on T-Bone's description, and now he had confirmation. This was the same cop from the other day, the one who had knocked him around for no apparent reason.

But now it was obvious there had been a reason.

Fernandez said something to his sparring partner, a bit of instruction, pointing to his leg and pantomiming a block, then gave the man a pat on his shoulder and headed Hatcher's way. He slowed down after a few steps, finally realizing who it was.

“You,” he said.

“Me,” Hatcher said. He spit the wad of gum into his hand and smacked it down on the wooden railing. Then he took out the mini-camcorder, started it recording, and wedged it standing up into the sticky mound.

Hatcher made eye contact with Fernandez, then let his gaze drift around the practice area. Two duffel bags were stashed against the wall on the far side, near the corner. As far from the entrance as possible, but not out of sight. He programmed the location into his mental hard drive. His first rule of engagement: keep the party from drifting in that direction.

There were plenty of reasons he was reluctant to confront Fernandez at a martial arts studio. He knew there would likely be other people around, people probably inclined to fight, people like cops, and even if there were no cops or anyone else anxious to get involved, witnesses wouldn't make the going any easier. The larger the number of people, the harder it was to control the situation.

But on the drive over, he warmed up to the idea. There were some definite advantages. The most significant one being, this would be one of the few places a cop wouldn't be armed.

The guns, however, wouldn't be kept far away, or out of sight. Hence the duffels.

There were other cops, as it turned out, but three unarmed cops instead of one armed one was a trade he was happy to make.

He passed through an opening in the divider and walked out onto the practice floor.

“Forgive me if I don't take off my shoes.” Hatcher raised his arms and turned full circle, showing his waist band. “No gun, no knife.”

Fernandez shot a furtive glance over his shoulder at the others, then pointed a finger. “You better just turn around and get the fuck out of here.”

The guy who'd been Fernandez's sparring partner moved closer. “There a problem, Joey?”

Fernandez took in a breath, then smirked. Couldn't sell it, though. Too much tension behind the lips.

“Looks like we have ourselves an unhappy citizen,” he said. “I witnessed him assaulting a pedestrian a couple days ago. Vic fled, so I let him off with a warning. You'd think he'd be grateful.”

The third guy stopped his kata, walked over slowly.

Normally, three on one presented bad odds no matter how skilled you were. Real fights weren't choreographed sequences like those in movies or TV shows. People wanting to pummel you didn't politely wait their turn to attack. When there were three, usually the first one engaged for only a few seconds before the other two dove in. All it took was someone to grab the legs or waist from behind and drag you to the ground. And cops in particular were trained in how to subdue people once they got them to the ground. Normally, that wouldn't make for good odds.

But three was practically a magic number today. Three was just enough numerical superiority that none of them would feel compelled to make a dash for his weapon, just enough to make them feel comfortable moving in the opposite direction from the duffels. But not enough to make the disparity overwhelming.

As long as he cut the total to two before they could take advantage of their number, that was.

The kata guy to the rear bothered him. Not because he looked particularly formidable but because he was hanging back. Closer to the duffel bags. Not much, but enough.

Hatcher pointed a finger at him. “Hey.”

The cop's eyes narrowed as he shifted his weight.

“You look like you'd have a coronary if you so much as listened to someone talk about a fight.” Hatcher jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Just waddle your fat ass out of here.”

The man stomped forward several steps, only to bump up against Fernandez's outstretched arm.

“You're here to fight?” Fernandez said. “Is that what you're saying?”

“Call it a challenge. This is a dojo. I'm saying you're a punk.” Hatcher spread his hands vaguely, then dropped them. “So, what now?”

Fernandez said nothing. Hatcher looked to the sparring partner. The skinny one. He was the closest.

“I have to assume you're all as crooked as your buddy, so I'm guessing you'd prefer not to have me showing the video I have of him taking his money from the Chesterfield CPs.” Hatcher's eyes shot back to Fernandez. “What are they moving for you? Rock? Meth? Smack?”

Fernandez started to say something, then glanced over at the camera. It sat erect on the wooden rail, protruding from a wad of pink.

Hatcher said, “Here's how it is. You win, you get to keep the video, destroy or erase it or whatever, throw me in county lockup if you want. Inflict as much damage to me as it takes to get you off, brag to all your precinct buddies. I win, you tell me what I want to know. And I keep the video as insurance.”

The sparring partner shot an exasperated look at Fernandez. “Why are you taking this shit off him? Let's just run him in. You asked him to leave, and he refused. We got trespassing, disorderly conduct, felony menacing.”

Hatcher looked at the man, thinking,
well, that's a shame
. That was the reaction of an honest cop. Or not a crooked one, at least. Maybe even the two of them, him and bowling-ball gut, were straight. Didn't matter, though. They could be saints with badges and it wouldn't make a difference. He needed Fernandez to talk.

He felt a twinge of anticipatory guilt, a sense that maybe he should've given this more thought. But then he thought of Vivian, and everything soft inside him hardened.

Extracting what he wanted to know meant getting Fernandez under control, and that meant incapacitating all three of them. The first step toward that end was leveling the odds. There was only one way to do that.

Though the average person tended not to realize it, a fight against multiple opponents was actually several individual fights happening simultaneously. The key to prevailing was to remember you weren't in one fight against three guys; you were in three fights and against three separate guys that just happened to be occurring at the same time. Prevailing in two out of three of them wasn't good enough. The only realistic way to manage the street math was to reduce the number of fights by winning them as quickly as possible.

Hatcher raised his fists, squared his body to the sparring partner. He made sure to raise his elbows high, exposing his midsection. He locked onto the man's eyes and, with an exaggerated motion, lunged forward.

Most fights were effectively over within thirty seconds, and often the outcome depended on who had more information about the other person or who made the right guess. Boxers could be expected to fight in a certain way, requiring a different strategy than what might work against a grappler. Knowing what to expect from an opponent was a tremendous advantage. If your information was accurate.

The Korean flag on the window meant the art practiced there was Tae Kwon Do, not actual karate. Tae Kwon Do people liked to kick above the waist. During the little bit of sparring Hatcher had seen, this guy seemed no exception.

The man cross-stepped toward Hatcher, blading his body, and loaded a side kick. Hatcher cut on a diagonal the moment the guy committed, swung his rearmost arm under the extended leg as it fired past him, and grabbed the collar of the man's
gi
. Using the momentum of the kick, he swung his arm up and launched the man off the ground. The man's leg acted like a lever and Hatcher held him aloft, turned him over, and slammed his upper body face-first against the wooden floor. The sound of breaking teeth cracked the air like a whip. Hatcher sprang up and stomped his heel against the back of the man's head, once, twice, before immediately circling toward the middle of the dojo, his back to the front window. Facing the other two.

The cop he left behind sprawled on the floor didn't move.

One down.

Surprise had clearly been in his favor, but that was gone now. The guy with the large girth stared at his fallen brother officer for a moment, then struck a stance, one foot forward, fists up. He glanced uncertainly over to Fernandez, looking for direction. He was unlikely to find any. Fernandez's face was flush with rage, but his eyes moved erratically. Hatcher took note. The man was already thinking about the cover-up, putting together some plausible scenario to pitch. Good.

Two fights on his hands now, and his job was to reduce it to one. Hatcher circled farther to his left, placing belly cop in between himself and Fernandez. The movement created a small window of opportunity, a brief moment where the angle would place them in a line and block Fernandez off. But it was only a moment. Hatcher couldn't afford to keep circling. Giving one of them a quicker route to the duffel bags could ensure things would end badly.

Belly cop turned in place, keeping a squared-off stance. This time, Hatcher kept his hands a bit lower, palms out, and bounced on his feet. He made a sudden feint forward, and the guy bit. He charged Hatcher, barking a
kiai
shout, and threw a straight punch. Not a bad punch, all things considered, but exactly the move Hatcher had expected. Hatcher dropped low, letting the man's fist pop into vacant air just above his head. Pivoting on the way down, he thrust his forward leg out, smashing the hard edge of his shoe against the man's shin, just below the knee. The guy's leg buckled and he took a wobbly step back. Hatcher launched himself forward and up, rotating at the hip, drilling an uppercut against the man's chin. The blow snapped the cop's head back and sent him sprawling into Fernandez, who caught him under the arms.