The Tin Collectors Page 9

  “Is it okay for him to be in here?” Shane asked, referring to the fact that they were in a bar that served hard liquor.

  “Yeah, he can go play the video games over there. Technically, that’s not in the bar area.”

  Shane dug into his pockets and gave Chooch some change. The boy moved over to a small alcove in sight of the bar, sat on a stool, and began feeding coins into one of the machines.

  Shane slid the Letter of Transmittal over to DeMarco, who read it carefully, then set it on the bar between them. “Mark, gimme another Lone Star,” he yelled. “How ’bout you?” he asked Shane.

  “Slow down on the brewskies, will ya? I’m on fire here.”

  “Then you’re in luck. With this bladder, I can piss it out for you,” DeMarco quipped. “In your telephonic absence, I went ahead and covered some pro forma ground. Tell ya this much, Alexa Hamilton doesn’t let much grass grow under her magnificent gym-trained ass. She already got the rotation list for your judging panel and faxed it to me. Seven names: four sworn members of the department above the rank of captain and three civilians. If you remember how it works from before, you get to throw off two of the cops and two of the civilians, leaving you a panel of three judges: two sworn, one civilian.” He reached into his blue-jean vest pocket and pulled out two slips of paper. “This ain’t much of a beauty contest,” he said, sliding both slips over to Shane. “In my opinion, all of these department guys are douche bags. Tell me who you like. I hate the whole bunch.” DeMarco read the names aloud while Shane studied the list. “Captain Donovan McNeil, West Division; Commander Mitchell Van Sickle, Ad Vice; Deputy Chief Laurence Gadsworth—he’s the chief’s administrative staff officer, so forget him; and Captain Bernard Cookson.”

  “Jesus,” Shane said, “except for Donovan McNeil, who I used to go fishing with occasionally, aren’t these guys all in Chief Brewer’s golf foursome?”

  “Yep. But it gets worse. Look’t the civilians: all lawyers from South Temple Street; one’s a retired judge, a Crispin crony, of course. I checked the others—all work at the municipal courthouse and all have strong political ties to Mayor Crispin. This guy here, Knox Pooly, actually chaired his committee to reeled.”

  “What’s going on here, Dee? This isn’t right.”

  “No shit. You’re getting screwed without the Vaseline. If Donovan’s an old friend, I’m surprised he made this list of suckfish.”

  “He figures. A year ago he was the chief’s community affairs officer. They probably picked him not knowing he was a friend of mine.”

  “Okay, so we keep him on the list and hope that he’ll at least have divided loyalties. Who else?”

  “Not Deputy Chief Gadsworth, of course. I’ll take Commander Van Sickle.” Shane looked at the list of three civilians and cocked an eyebrow at DeMarco for help.

  “Beats me,” DeMarco said. “Throw ’em out alphabetically or just drop ’em over your shoulder and the one closest to the door stays. Good a way as any.”

  “I’ll take Clifford Finch. At least he’s a defense attorney.”

  “Okay, then your panel is Captain Donovan McNeil, Commander Van Sickle—he’ll be the chairman, based on rank—and Cliff Finch. Good fuckin’ luck. This bunch would convict Santa Claus of home invasion, but I’ll notify Alexa that these are our choices.”

  Shane sat and brooded as DeMarco was served his fourth beer, then started to gulp it down. “Go easy, will ya?” Shane murmured.

  “When I’m being fucked, it feels better if I get a little loaded first,” DeMarco said dourly. He picked up the Letter of Transmittal and reread the Rationale Section. “Two things here; let’s take ’em in order. One: they think you took something from Ray’s home.”

  “It’s bullshit. I don’t know anything about it.”

  “You wouldn’t hold back on me again, would you, Shane? You did last time.”

  “I don’t know what they’re talking about.”

  “Okay, so what’s with this old fistfight in the garage at Southwest Division?”

  “Nothin’, just frayed nerves. It was way back in ’84, for God’s sake. You and I were just going through the BOR. I was uptight. I boiled over, that’s all.”

  “Shane, you gotta tell me the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth; otherwise, we’re gonna get blackjacked at that board. I’m gonna ask you again. What the fuck was going on between you and Ray and Barbara? Why did you get into that fight?”

  “We never talked about it, but you knew who really beat that Hispanic kid half to death.”

  “My guess—it was Ray.”

  “Right.”

  “So, not that it matters all these years later, but why don’t you do me a favor and finally spit it out. Tell me what happened.”

  “I was in a gas station, taking a leak. I came back to where our patrol car was parked, and Ray was beating this kid with his baton. I broke it up. If I hadn’t stopped it, Ray would have killed him. Then, after the complaint got filed by the boy’s family, Ray begged me to take the blame. The kid’s head injuries had him blank on the incident. He couldn’t remember who hit him. Since I was just a probationer and had no complaints on my record, Ray convinced me I would probably get only a few weeks’ suspension. He said he’d make up my lost pay out of his own pocket. I was his partner—real young, impressionable. Back then I was just like some of these rookies today. I thought he was the best cop on the streets of L.A. He had a way of getting to you, making you believe in him. And he was brave. More than once he risked his life for a brother officer. His two Medals of Valor were not bullshit. So I said okay. I took the complaint for him. But later, while you and I were going through the hearing, I started having nightmares. In those dreams, Molar and I would both be beating that kid. We’d be taking turns. I’d wake up sweating, hating myself. I was under a lot of stress back then, and I guess it was the beginning of my seeing Ray for what he really was—a vicious, violent son of a bitch who wasn’t a cop so he could protect and serve. He was a cop so he could kick ass and hold court in the street….

  “It boiled over that night in Southwest. Barbara had just broken up with me. I was under investigation at IAD, and I just snapped. I yelled at him. He went into the coffee room, got a pitcher of ice water out of the refrigerator, told me to cool off, and threw it on me. I pushed him; he fell; we ended up in the parking garage. It wasn’t much of a fight.”

  “You were way out of your weight division,” DeMarco said softly. “He had almost a hundred pounds on you.”

  “That’s the whole story.”

  Again, DeMarco swigged on the beer. He put the bottle down and began making Olympic rings on the varnished bartop, stamping them out with the bottle’s wet bottom. Finally he wiped his artwork away with his palm. “ ’Nother longneck, Mark,” he shouted.

  “Listen, Dee…I hate seein’—”

  “Give it a rest. Okay?” DeMarco said sharply. “Don’t tell me how to lead my life. While you were running around with your cell phone turned off, I’ve been working this thing. I’m not through filling you in yet, so shut the fuck up.” Shane nodded. “This morning I wrote up a standard petition to overturn the 1.61 and requested your return to duty. It’s kinda pro forma when a police officer has been suspended without pay, like an automatic appeal, only I’ve never seen one get approved before. Guess what? You’re the exception.” He reached into his back pocket and shoved a fax over to Shane. “Signed by the Big Noise himself.” Shane looked at the document. It was as DeMarco said, signed by Chief Burleigh Brewer. “The whole shebang, from application to acceptance, took two hours. Now go figure that.”

  “I can’t,” Shane said, staring at the fax in disbelief. The document put him right back on duty with full pay. It didn’t make sense in the face of everything else.

  “I called Bud Halley and asked him about it. He told me Tom Mayweather walked it through the system personally. However, Halley also told me where they’ve reassigned you. You’re not in Southwest Detectives anymore.”

/>   “Where am I?”

  “You ain’t gonna believe it….”

  “Oh, shit. What is it this time, the grain and drain train at the city jail?”

  “You’ve been assigned to the chief advocate’s office at Internal Affairs.”

  “I’ve been what?!” he said, his voice so loud that Chooch momentarily turned away from the video game he was playing and looked in their direction.

  “You report to the tin collectors at the Bradbury Building at eight-thirty A.M. tomorrow.”

  “That’s nuts. I’ve never heard of an officer awaiting a Board of Rights being assigned to the very division that’s trying to terminate him.”

  “Me neither. But after thinking it over…”

  “They want to keep me where they can watch me,” Shane said.

  “A winnah. Give the man something from the top shelf. You is da new Dark Side kick-me. I guess Chief Brewer doesn’t want you running around looking for whatever it is they think you took out of Ray’s house. They want you on a tight leash.”

  The bartender brought DeMarco his new beer. He took three long swallows, then set it down with the others. “All in all, not a good start, Shane, but rigged boards are my specialty. These tin-collecting assholes can be had ’cause they all got target fixation. Just go down there and keep your nose clean. Let me do the grunting and groaning.”

  As he sat on the barstool, looking at the old defense rep, his heart sank, taking his hopes down with it. He had no choice. He had to go down to Internal Affairs. He’d been ordered, and failure to comply with a direct order was also a termination offense. The only bright spot was that he was still on the payroll. He’d still collect his bimonthly base salary of $2,170.20, plus his ten-year longevity compensation of $60. In return, he’d be working down at IAD, forced to endure the biggest collection of milk-fed assholes on the planet. As he sat there, he decided that he would devote all of his nonworking hours to finding out what was missing from Ray’s house.

  “Yes! Kick ass!” Chooch yelled suddenly as his game buzzed victory and he was advanced to the next level.

  “Don’t worry, Shane. I’ll unwind this for you. I’ll get you off,” DeMarco said, causing Shane to look back at him.

  “Factus non verba,” Scully said darkly.

  11

  The People Rule

  As soon as Shane got home, he called Sandy. She said she was sorry she hadn’t gotten in touch with Thackery, but promised she would. She said she’d had a tough two days.

  “What’m I supposed to do with Chooch tomorrow?” Shane asked. “They’ve got him sitting in detention all day. He’s not even going to classes.”

  “That guy Thackery is a complete ass,” Sandy said. “He’s on Chooch for smoking dope? What a hypocrite.”

  “Not smoking it, Sandy, selling it.”

  “I was there at the school two months ago when Chooch enrolled. Thackery was just driving out. He put down the window of his crummy, rusted-out van to talk to me, and the smell of old pot was so strong in that thing, I got a contact high.”

  “Sandy, lots of people smoke pot, okay? It’s a sad social truth, but there it is. It doesn’t matter what Thackery does in his off-hours. You’ve gotta call him and set up an appointment.”

  “Right. Okay, I promise, sugar.”

  “You promised yesterday.”

  “This time I pledge it. I swear it, okay?” She changed gears. “You go ahead and take him to school tomorrow. Forget Thackery. I’ll have already called that snooty headmaster, Mr. St. John. I’ll square him away. That guy is always leering at me. Wants to get in my pants.”

  “You always put things so delicately,” Shane said, beginning to wish he’d never met the beautiful raven-haired informant.

  “Don’t be such a prude. When I get through with St. John, he’ll be at Camp Fantasy, pitching a tent in his Jockey shorts. Don’t worry about Chooch.”

  After she hung up, Shane went outside. Chooch was already out there in one of the metal chairs. Shane dropped his tired ass in the vacant seat beside him. They looked out at the still canal, both lost in separate thoughts. Finally Shane jerked his mind off his department problems and focused on the boy sitting sullenly beside him.

  “If your mom and I could keep you in school,” Shane started slowly, “would you go there and really give it a try?”

  “Moot point, ’cause you can’t. I already got the scarlet E for ‘expel.’ I’m gone, brother.”

  “Chooch, I’ve been thinking about it. You’re really smart. You’ve got a great head on your shoulders. You could be something important in life. You have it in you to be anything you want.”

  “Like a cop?” he smirked.

  “Better than a cop. You could go to college, pick any career. Your mom has money; she’ll pay for anything. That’s a big advantage for you. It’s a chance most guys never get.”

  They sat in silence, looking at the still canal water, both of them rocking slowly in the old metal chairs.

  “I know you’re trying to help, man,” Chooch finally said, “but it ain’t about having a career. Y’know…it’s just not what it’s about. It goes much deeper than that.”

  More silence, then Shane turned in his chair to look at the teenager. “Wanna know something?” Chooch didn’t answer. “I believe in you, Chooch,” he went on softly. “I know that whatever you want, you’ve got the ability to get it. You’ve got what it takes. I think you’re special.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Chooch shot back.

  “No, it’s not. I’ve been watching you…how you handle stuff. You’ve got guts. You stand up. You walk your own trail. That’s very rare. It takes strength of character. Most people can’t do that.” More silence. “Listen. I told you I wouldn’t lie to you—not ever. So this is the straight stuff. It’s what I see in you, and it’s impressive.”

  Chooch turned his face away from Shane. His breathing had changed. His right hand darted up and brushed his cheek under his eyes. Then he stood up, and anger flared. “Don’t fuck around with me. Okay? I can’t take any more bullshit. Just leave me alone.” He moved quickly into the house.

  Shane sat in his garden until the setting sun began turning the still canal bright yellow, then orange and purple, and finally black. After the sun surrendered its hold on the day, a cold evening wind came off the ocean, blowing marine air across the coastline. Shane was getting a chill, so he got out of his chair and walked back inside the house.

  “It’s fucking forty minutes too early!” Chooch glowered as Shane pulled up in front of the Harvard Westlake School the next morning. There were no waiting lines of foreign cars as Chooch opened the door and dragged his book bag from the front seat.

  “I’ve got a new duty assignment downtown, so I need to get there early. Live with it,” Shane said.

  “Sure, no problem. Live with it. That’s my fuckin’ motto anyway.” Chooch angrily moved away from the car and sat alone on a bench near the athletic pavilion.

  Shane pulled out of the driveway and drove two miles to the Valley Division HQ. He figured if he hurried, he’d be able to get everything done before eight-thirty.

  Fifteen minutes later Shane was back in the Harvard Westlake faculty parking lot waiting for Brad Thackery. After ten more minutes the assistant dean of admissions pulled his rusting Ford van into his parking stall and got out. Shane moved to him. “Good morning, sir,” he said pleasantly.

  “Maybe for you, but it’s not a good morning for Chooch. I saw him sitting out front when I drove past. Since I still haven’t heard from Mrs. Sandoval, you can just go right back around and pick him up and depart the premises, ad quam primum. He is no longer welcome at this school,” Thackery said harshly, then added brusquely, “and remove your vehicle from faculty parking. This is a restricted area.”

  “How do you say that in Latin?”

  “I’m through talking to you, whoever you are. Good-bye.”

  Shane pulled out his badge and held it up for Brad Thackery to read. Thack
ery looked at it, surprised, readjusted slightly, then with less anger said, “Big deal.”

  “You’re right, it is a big deal, ’specially since your van there is crawling with vehicular irregularities. You wanna put that blinker on? Seems to me it wasn’t working when you turned in here.”

  “I’m about to get it fixed.”

  “ ‘About to’ doesn’t cut it,” Shane said. “Put it on, please. I want to check it out.”

  Thackery glared at Shane. “This is what really gets you guys off, isn’t it?”

  “Yep. Can’t get enough of it.”

  As Brad Thackery opened the van, Shane moved to his Acura and opened the back door. A black Labrador jumped out and, with his tongue lolling, followed Shane back to the van. Thackery was leaning into the front seat, fiddling with the blinker and trying to get it to work, when the dog started barking and pacing back and forth along the side of Thackery’s van.

  “Whoa…whoa…whatta we got here?” Shane said with mock surprise. Thackery jerked his head out of the van.

  “Get that dog away from me.”

  “This isn’t a dog, Mr. Thackery, this is a drug enforcement officer. His name is Krupkee. It looks like Officer Krupkee’s got a noseful. Where is it, boy? What ya got?”

  The black Lab had moved to the rear of the van and now had both paws up on the spare tire, which was hooked by a locked bracket to the back of the van. Then the black Lab started barking and pawing at the tire.

  “Oh boy, this ain’t good, Mr. Thackery. You wanna give me the key that releases that back tire?”

  “No. No, I don’t.”

  “Lemme put it another way, sir. Gimme the key, or I’ll pry the fucking thing off with my tire jack. Officer Krupkee just gave me probable cause for a search.”

  After a long moment, Thackery reluctantly dug into his pocket and produced the key that unlocked the tire bracket. Shane swung it away from the van and looked into the tire. There, attached by magnets to the inside of the tire drum, was a small metal box. Shane pulled it off and opened it. There were about four ounces of grass in a canvas bag and a bottle with a few pills. Shane opened the bag and poured some low-grade pot into his palm.