Kind of Blue (39 page)

When the door opened, I spotted a short, skinny teenager wearing oversized jeans and a white T-shirt. When he saw me, he crossed his arms. “I got a little surprise for you—
detective.
”

Damn, I thought. The woman from Watts had warned him I was coming.

As I reached for my Beretta, a stocky black kid with a wispy goatee walked through the kitchen door aiming a .357 Magnum Colt Python at my head.

“Get your hand off your holster or I’ll blow your fucking dome off,” the kid with the .357 said. His pinkie and ring finger were missing from his left hand. The flesh was jagged and scarred, like the fingers had been sawed off in an industrial accident.

Slowly, I put my arms to my side

He motioned to the little guy, who I figured was Rip, and said, “Tape him.”

Rip walked into the kitchen, and I could hear him opening and closing drawers.

“Where you put the tape, Li’l Eight?”

“On the kitchen table, you dumb ass.”

I pointed to his left hand. “I see where you get the name.”

He gave me a cold smile, revealing a top row of very white buck-teeth. “You smart. But not smart enough.”

Rip returned with a pair of scissors and gray duct tape.

Both were wearing oversized jeans and white T-shirts that were so baggy I couldn’t check out their upper arms for the Crip Killer tattoo.

Eight pointed to Rip and said to me, “Follow him.”

He led me to a musty back bedroom.

“On your knees,” Eight commanded.

“So far, you guys aren’t in real trouble. You tape me up and they’ll nail you for kidnapping. That’s a life sentence. Get smart. You should—”

“Nobody going down for kidnapping,” Eight said. “’Cause ain’t gonna be no witness.”

Before I could respond, Rip covered my mouth with a strip of duct tape. Then he reached inside my coat and grabbed the Beretta from my holster. “Always wanted a piece like this,” he said, jamming the gun into his waistband.

He tightly taped my ankles and knees together, jammed my hands
in front of me, and taped the wrists together. Eight walked over, examined the taping job, and pushed me to the ground. They walked off to the living room, laughing.

Lying on my side on the threadbare carpet, which smelled of dog piss and mold, I frantically tried to free my hands. But Rip had wrapped my wrists several times, and there wasn’t any give. After several minutes trying to kick the tape loose, I couldn’t free my legs either. Sweat streaming down my face, my wrists rubbed raw and ankles stinging, I looked around the room, searching for a sharp object to cut the tape. But the room was spare, with just a mattress on the floor, a floor lamp in the corner, and a large CD player on a small wooden table.

As I strained to hear what they were doing in the living room, I flashed back to the afternoon Ariel had asked me to speak to his second grade class. It was career week, and the fathers of the students gave brief presentations. Most were doctors and lawyers and accountants and businessmen. Marty was out of town on business and Ariel had asked me to speak to the class, insisting I wear my full uniform, with the Sam Browne belt and holster, ammunition pouch, baton, handcuffs, and the service stripes on my sleeves. Most of the kids asked the typical questions: Why did you want to become a policeman? How many bad guys have you arrested? Have you ever shot anyone? One little curly headed boy—who the teacher later explained was autistic—asked me a question that took me aback because I thought it was so perceptive. Arms crossed, eyes closed, rocking back and forth, the boy asked, “What are you most afraid of?” I tossed off a facile answer for the class, but as I was driving back to PAB that afternoon I contemplated the question.

And now I realized I knew the answer.
This
is what I was most afraid of. Tied up, helpless, facing the prospect of being killed without having the chance to fight back. This must have been what it had felt like for my father, his brother, his parents—and all my other relatives—packed into cattle cars, rolling along to their death, defenseless. With a groan, I tried to free my hands again. Rolling over on my back, I took a few deep breaths, exhaling slowly. Now is not the time to panic, I told myself. Conserve your energy. Wait for an opening. Then exploit it.

I heard the door open, looked up, and saw Eight and Rip standing over me.

“We been talking ’bout what to do wit’ you,” Eight said.

Rip smiled, his eyes glittering with malice. “What to do wit’ you—
before
we cap yo’ ass.”

“We ol’ partners from the joint—Tehachapi State Prison,” Eight said. “That where we get a taste of getting a little mud for the duck.”

Rip punched his palm. “You know, a keester stab.”

“The ol’ butt fuck,” Eight said. “We gonna turn you into a punk. Just like we do inside.” He aimed the Colt at me. “Before you get a taste of this.”

They left the room, and a moment later I thought I heard Eight talking on the telephone. Tasting blood in my mouth, I realized I had bitten the inside of my cheek.

I had never had to use the little two-shot derringer I kept in my right front pocket as a backup; I had never even shot it. But if I could just loosen my wrists an inch or so, I might have a chance. My only chance. I rolled over onto my side and tried to reach into my front pocket. I strained, my shoulder muscles quivering, but my wrists were tied too tightly.

Again, I tried to stuff my hands into my right front pocket, but I could only get my pinkie inside. And I was a good three inches from the derringer. I did a half sit-up, stomach muscles straining, reached for my pocket, and fell over with a thud.

Eight rushed into the room, jammed the barrel of the Python between my eyes, the steel feeling cold as ice on my skin, and looked through me with dead eyes. “Make any more noise and I’ll plug you right now.”

When he left, the image of those dead eyes stayed with me. Again, I tried to reach into my front pocket, but my wrists were simply taped together too tightly. I was never going to get the gun that way, I realized. I took a deep breath, slowly exhaled, and began rolling across the carpet, trying not to make any noise. I could feel the derringer, through my pocket, clank against the ground. I continued rolling and every revolution I began jerking my hips, hoping to work the derringer out of my pocket and onto the floor.

Freezing, I heard footsteps outside the door. I thought I heard Eight talking on the telephone again. I waited a minute, then began rolling again, thrusting out my pelvis, as I tried to jostle the derringer out of my
pocket. A dozen more times I rolled across the floor, twisting my hips, until I was so dizzy I began to retch. But I didn’t stop. Until I heard a sound so sweet it brought tears to my eyes: a solid thud. The sound of metal hitting carpet. The gleaming derringer was only a foot away. I inched over, grabbed the gun, and quickly clasped my hands together, hiding it.

I curled up on my side, breathing heavily, wheezing with exertion, my shirt soaked with sweat. I closed my eyes and tried to catch my breath. When Eight and Rip returned, I knew I couldn’t afford a mistake. There were only two bullets in the barrel and they were .22-caliber. Not much stopping power. I had to make them both count.

About ten minutes later, they returned. Eight softly ran his hand along my haunches, making my skin crawl. My teeth ached from clenching them. “He gonna do you. I gonna do you. Then when I done, I gonna take care of you with this,” he said, jabbing me in the ribs with the Python. “How you like that?”

“Cut his ankles and knees loose,” he called out.

Rip returned from the kitchen with a butcher knife, crouched beside me, and poked me in my butt with the tip. I cried out in pain.

“That right,” he said. “You gonna be yelping plenty while we grind you.”

He cut the tape with the knife and rolled me onto my knees. My hands were sweating so heavily, I was afraid the derringer would slip out and onto the floor. He unbuttoned his Levis, dropping his pants to his ankles, and set my Beretta on the carpet beside him. When he crouched behind me, I looked over my shoulder and saw Eight behind him, grinning madly, laying his Python beside the mattress.

“Rip the warm up act. I gonna finish you off, punk.”

As Rip reached around my waist, trying to unbuckle my belt, I whirled around, on my knees, jammed the derringer toward his face and fired.

His right eyeball exploded, spraying my face with a viscous blast of blood and tissue and bone fragments. I rolled to my side, grabbed the Beretta, and fired at Eight, missing him but splintering the door.

As I climbed to my feet, firing, he ran out. But the shots were wild
because my hands were still taped together. I saw the door slam and, through the window, spotted him jumping into his car. By the time I had the Beretta aimed at him, he was careening down the street. Then he was gone.

I walked back to the bedroom and lifted the sleeves on Rip’s baggy white T-shirt. I examined both arms, but all I saw was an expanse of smooth brown skin, without a single tattoo.

I finally finished briefing Daryl Sippleman—the captain from the 77th assigned to coordinate the search for Li’l Eight—Duffy, and the two detectives from the Force Investigation Division, who asked me a series of softball questions. I had shot and killed Rip and shot at and missed Li’l Eight, who was still on the loose. I told Sippleman how the woman from Watts had set me up, how Rip and Li’l Eight were waiting for me. He said his detectives would hook her up for conspiracy to kill a police officer and try to put together a case against her.

I was too ashamed to admit to them what Rip and Li’l Eight had planned to do to me. I just told the detectives they taped me up and were going to execute me. Because the shooting was clearly a case of self-defense, I was not put on administrative leave.

When Duffy and I finally left the house, he followed me to my car and slammed his fist into an open palm. “I told you to stay away from that Patton case. I
ordered
you to stay away. Didn’t I?”

I shrugged.

“You didn’t listen and you almost got yourself killed.”

I rubbed my wrists, which were still sore.

“You going to finally listen to me? You going to back off this case now?”

“Yeah.”

“This isn’t our case anymore. South Bureau Homicide’s got it. You fuck with me on this again, Ash, and you’re going to regret it. I’ll call I.A. myself and report you for violating department policy. You can’t poach on another division’s case just ’cause you’ve got a beef to settle. You understand me?”

I nodded.

“When you got the lead, you should’ve let the department investigate it. No more flying solo. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“I cut my San Diego trip short. All night I was calling you. Now I see why you didn’t get back to me. I’m putting you back on call tomorrow night. You got too much fucking time on your hands.”

“You promised me I couldn’t go back on call until Monday. I’ve still got a lot of paperwork to finish up.”

Duffy shook his head. “I changed my mind. Tomorrow night. End of discussion. So how’re you feeling?”

“I may be out a Zegna suit. I think that duct tape ruined my pants.”

“Listen, Ash, you got to be careful. That one gangster got away. You want a unit outside your building?”

“I can’t live like that. Anyway, I’m sure this guy’s laying low.”

“So you think Li’l Eight’s your guy?”

“At least I know Rip isn’t.”

“You don’t know for sure that Li’l Eight was involved. Right?”

“Not for sure.”

“He may have just wanted to put the hurt to a cop. And it sounds like that gal you jammed who put you on to Rip and Li’l Eight may’ve been blowing smoke up your ass—just to get you off her back.”

“Maybe.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter now. Because all you can do is wait for Captain Sippleman to find Li’l Eight. Let him do his job.”

I drove back downtown and returned to my loft. Grabbing a bottle of ale out of the refrigerator, I took a few long pulls and walked to a back window. I could see in the distance a patch of the Los Angeles River, encased in high cement banks, the shallow water slick and black, glimmering under a full moon, trickling to the sea. Pushing myself away from the window, I downed the rest of the ale, hoping it would calm my nerves. It had been a long time since I had felt like this: heart pounding, pulse racing, a quicksilver mood shifting from sudden exultation to anger. Exultation because I had escaped death and was alive. Anger because someone just tried to kill me. This was how I felt when I was a soldier, after a firefight, returning from a night patrol.

I had been shot at numerous times then, and when I was a young patrolman I had a few close calls. But I felt much more rattled now. Maybe
it was the humiliation; maybe I’m just getting too old for this shit. After downing my ale, I was still anxious and jittery. I knew another ale would just give me a headache. One of my patrol partners at Pacific called me “The Two Brew Hebrew” because I rarely ordered a third when we went drinking after our shift. Occasionally I did, but I paid for it the next morning. I told him that the stereotype about Jews being unable to tolerate much alcohol was true. My Uncle Benny once quipped that Jews don’t drink because it interferes with their suffering. But I read a more scientific explanation somewhere that Jews have a genetic mutation that increases the levels of a toxic chemical when they drink, which brings on headaches and nausea.

I jogged down the steps, climbed into my car, pulled onto the freeway, and headed toward the ocean. Fifteen minutes later I was crouching beside a window, in a stand of oleander, that offered me a clear view of Nicole reading on her living room sofa. I surveyed the room, decorated in an expensive, eclectic style, with gleaming hardwood floors, an intricately woven Persian rug, hammered-copper wall sconces and Art Nouveau floor lamps flanking the sofa. I circled the house, and when I was sure her boyfriend was not lurking about, I rang the bell.

“Who is it?” she called out.