Earth Angels (12 page)

As an Army intelligence sergeant in Vietnam, Stepanovich's first assignment had been at MACV headquarters in Saigon, analyzing stacks of intelligence reports about enemy sightings. Like most Army administrative jobs, his duties seemed fruitless, particularly when it became clear to him that most of the reports were fabricated by low level sources scrambling for favors or a few bucks in confidential funds or by enemy double agents.

The war became more real to Stepanovich when the Ling Hoc Hotel, where he and the other members of the intelligence unit were billeted, was blown up by a Vietcong satchel charge, and he fell from the second floor into the lobby as the building crumbled. Miraculously, his only injury was a two-inch cut on his back.

Seeing men he knew killed, he volunteered for the field rather than remain in Saigon, where he knew he could stay for the rest of his combat tour.

At a base camp outside of Duc Loc, he had interrogated prisoners and prepared reports like the ones he'd been analyzing in Saigon. There, he'd been as brutal as the other interrogators in getting information out of the Vietcong prisoners because it was the only way to get back at the enemy. Also, as foolish as it sounded to him now, he believed in the mission. At the time he believed the President and the Congress wouldn't have sent him all the way across the world if the cause wasn't just. Though a loyal, hardworking spook, he also recognized even then that few of the intelligence reports he was sending forward could be relied upon because neither he, nor, as far as he was concerned, any other American in Vietnam, could figure out what the hell was going on at any given time.

His three-year tour of duty completed, he'd been discharged just before the fall of Saigon.

Suddenly there was the sound of radio static.

"What's up out there?" Harger said after giving Stepanovich's call sign.

Stepanovich picked up the microphone. "No activity. They're drinking beer inside."

"Keep me advised. I want you to stay on it. If nothing happens, I'll get some Metro officers to relieve you tomorrow afternoon."

"That's a roger."

Stepanovich climbed out of the car and walked around awhile to stay awake. Around two Fordyce reported that the lights had been turned off in Greenie's apartment. Stepanovich used his night binoculars to check the television watchers. The man was still sitting in his easy chair staring at the tube.

For the rest of the night Stepanovich alternated between taking catnaps in the car and walking about on the hillside road. As the sun came up the next morning, he gained something like a second wind.

It was four the next afternoon by the time he and the others were relieved by officers from Metropolitan Division.

Back at his apartment, the exhausted Stepanovich stripped and climbed into a hot shower. He soaped up his entire body, scrubbed, and rinsed thoroughly. He stepped out of the shower, dried off on the only clean towel he could find in the apartment, then dropped into bed. Lying there, he thought about Gloria until his eyes closed.

****

NINE

At 5:00 A.M., on his way back to the surveillance, Gloria was still on his mind. He stopped at an all night convenience market on Brooklyn Avenue and purchased a package of salami, three French rolls, a jar of pickles, a handful of Snickers bars, and a six pack of Coke provisions he figured would last him for the day. Because of the light traffic, it took him less than fifteen minutes to arrive at the hillside road above Eighteenth Street. He parked his sedan in exactly the same place as the day before.

During the next hour he exchanged bits of radio conversation with the other members of the task force. After a few transmissions he was confident the surveillance was again in place. Nothing more was said. Everyone had accepted another day of police ennui: sitting in a car in one place waiting for crime to happen as the bad guys drank beer, played pool, slept, or knocked off a piece of ass. For Stepanovich it certainly wasn't the first time. He remembered hiding in the woods above Elysian Park for a three day holiday weekend waiting for a rumored gang assassination. As families picnicked, lovers necked, teenagers drank beer and played softball in the crowded park, he had watched and waited, feeling somehow detached and excluded, as if holidays were only for others.

He and the other members of that surveillance team had made up for the isolated weekend at the Rumor Control Bar drinking heavily through the night.

The day passed slowly. Stepanovich moved his car every couple of hours to keep it in the shade of the eucalyptus trees protecting him from being seen by anyone on Eighteenth Street. At two he climbed out of the car and did some stretching exercises. Then, in a clear area under the trees, he dropped down and did a hundred push ups, counting them out loud. Feeling refreshed after the exercise, he ate his lunch.

In the afternoon, the meticulous Fordyce reported via radio that men were coming and going from Greenie's apartment. Stepanovich figured they were Eighteenth Street gang members just dropping by to talk about Greenie's arrest and release.

As dusk came, Eighteenth Street was bathed in a gray, weakening light. Because it was summer, darkness didn't come until almost nine. With the absence of sun, Stepanovich felt a chill on his neck and figured he had a slight sunburn from being out of the car so much during the day.

For the next couple of hours he listened to a female radio talk show host with a heavy New York accent give advice to troubled callers. "Walk away from your husband," she advised the wife of a man who preferred carving wooden ducks in his garage to showing her affection and sharing his day. "Move out," she instructed a young woman living with a fry cook who didn't want to get married.

When he tired of the radio fare, he used his night binoculars for a while to spy on the couple he'd watched the night before through the bay window ensconced in front of their television. They were in their respective couch potato positions in their living room. The man would leave the room every twenty minutes or so and return with something to eat. Again Stepanovich tried to guess what programs they were watching for a few minutes, but that only held off the boredom for a few minutes. He closed his eyes and relived his date with Gloria. After lengthy consideration he decided that, though aloof and independent, she probably was as interested in him as he was in her. Otherwise, he told himself, she wouldn't have agreed to got out with him in the first place.

The rest of the night passed uneventfully.

At nine, he and the other squad members were relieved by some officers from Metro Division. After a short meeting at Manuel's taco stand with the others, he drove directly to Gloria's residence. He parked his car in the parking lot and climbed the stairs to her apartment. The lights were off and there was no sound coming from inside. Figuring that she'd gotten off at midnight and had had time to get a full night's sleep, he rapped on the door. A few moments later, the peephole opened and closed. The door opened from the inside. Gloria was wearing a pink silk robe and her hair was neatly pulled back with a barrette.

"I hope I didn't wake you."

"I've been up. I thought you were on twenty four hour surveillance."

"I just got off."

"You look like you can use some coffee."

She opened the door wide and Stepanovich stepped inside. He shoved the door closed behind him and followed her into the kitchen.

"I hope you like instant."

"Fine."

Gloria spun the cap off a coffee jar. "Must be exciting, watching someone all night."

"It's boring."

"I'd probably fall asleep."

Stepanovich crossed the kitchen to be close to her. "I was thinking about you all night."

She spilled a spoonful of coffee on the sink. Setting the spoon down, she turned to him and their eyes met. "And I've been thinking about you."

He took her in his arms.

"No," she whispered as he covered her mouth with his. He could feel her teeth softly bite his lower lip. His hands slid to her firm breasts, then cupped her buttocks.

As she breathed heavily, her nurse's hands were on him, unbuttoning his shirt, tugging his belt, then his zipper. Suddenly the whole world consisted only of them undressing each other. She took his hand and led him into a bedroom that smelled faintly of a female fragrance lilac? In the streetlight shining through sheer curtains, she led him onto the bed. Grasping him firmly, efficiently, she took him without reservation fully into her mouth. Lost in a sexual trance, Stepanovich maneuvered to touch her erect nipples, her wetness, and she moaned with pleasure. Feverishly he arranged her dark, silken legs. His tongue found her and he was lost in her taste and the sound of her long moans of pleasure.

Finally he was in her: thrusting, dissolving, submitting to the rocking violence of sex for what seemed like an eternity, and her fingernails dug deeply into his shoulders as to punish him for resisting orgasm. Then her breath unexpectedly started, and with a cry she arched to him rapidly. Unable to restrain himself a moment longer, he surged to an almost painful pleasure. All at once he was giver, taker, killer, and protector.

Later, as they lay on the bed with arms around each other, he could tell from the rhythm of her breathing she'd fallen asleep. But rather than the fatigue he should have felt because of the sleep he'd lost in recent days, he felt rejuvenated.

In the afternoon, he awoke alone in the bed. There was a note on the nightstand that read:

Good morning Jose Stepanovich,

I didn't wake you up to say good-bye because you were sleeping like the dead. I had to go in early to fill in for an emergency room supervisor who called in sick. But I'll be off tonight.

I'll be thinking about you all day.

Gloria

P. S. Please help yourself to the contents of the refrigerator.

He was on duty at his surveillance post above Eighteenth Street less than an hour later. All during the day and into the next evening he found himself reliving his time with Gloria. A couple of times during the day he even almost talked himself into leaving the surveillance position to phone her, but he figured that the way things were going, with nothing much happening at Greenie's place, he would get relieved by Metro officers again and would be able to see her.

As evening came and he began to survey Eighteenth Street with the night vision binoculars, he opened a bag and nibbled on a chunk of French bread left over from the day before, then washed it down with a can of Diet Coke. He ate the last candy bar for dessert, deciding at this point he was sick of junk food.

At about eleven Stepanovich was leaning back in the seat with his eyes shut when suddenly the police radio came alive. "Fordyce to Stepanovich." There was tension in Fordyce's voice.

Stepanovich grabbed the microphone. "Go. "

"Four lowriders in a blue Chevy just made a slow pass. They're hawking the location."

Stepanovich grabbed the binoculars. The Chevrolet, tinged an eerie green, continued past Greenie's apartment and turned right at the corner. Safely out of sight from Greenie's place, the car pulled slowly to the curb. Holding the binoculars with one hand, Stepanovich picked up the radio microphone and brought it close to his lips as he pressed the transmit button. "This is Stepanovich to all units. Stand by. The Chevy is one block south of the location."

Keeping his eyes on the Chevrolet, Stepanovich wondered how many times in his career he'd been alerted to possible danger and had his heart race, as it was right at this minute, only to determine it was only a false alarm. Hell, for all anyone actually knew, the Chevrolet could be simply pulling over to check a flat tire. But, nevertheless, his policeman's sixth sense was telling him danger was present.

The Chevrolet pulled away from the curb, made a U turn, and cruised slowly back in the direction of the apartment house. As it passed under a bright street lamp, Stepanovich focused the binoculars. The man in the passenger seat was Smokey Salazar. "This is Stepanovich," he said, keying the microphone. "We have visitors. Repeat. Visitors. Meet me at location one."

Stepanovich dropped the microphone on the seat and started the ignition. He slammed the car into gear, stepped on the accelerator and, to avoid drawing the attention of anyone on the street below, sped downhill without headlights. At the bottom of the grade he swerved into a service alley running parallel with Eighteenth Street. He stopped his car about a hundred feet from the rear of Greenie's apartment house. Quickly he clipped the walkie-talkie to his belt, then reached into the backseat, and grabbed his shotgun and bulletproof vest. He climbed out of the car.

Changing the shotgun from hand to hand, he shrugged on the thick vest. Then, aiming the shotgun at the ground, he cranked the beavertail and chambered a round.

Arredondo and Black jogged up to him from the darkness. Both held shotguns in the port arms position and were wearing bulletproof vests.

"I got a look at the driver when they cruised past me," Arredondo said, catching his breath. "I think it was Payaso, the one who got shot at the church."

Stepanovich's walkie-talkie came alive. "The Chevy is pulling up in front," Fordyce said with a quavering voice. "They're parking. Repeat. They are parking. "