Bad Guys (4 page)

“You talk to her.”

“I think she’s still mad at me, over the Pool Boy incident.”

“Yeah, well, who can blame her. I can’t believe Harley didn’t give you a prescription. You ask me, you need to be on something.”

THE PHONE RANG as I sat down at my desk. “Zack Walker,” I said.

“Lawrence here. You get any sleep?”

“Not much. You?”

“No. I ended up going back to the scene, talking to Trimble a bit more, trying for more information, but there wasn’t much to get.”

“What’s the deal with you two? I didn’t sense a whole lot of mutual admiration there.”

“We used to be partners. When I was still on the force.”

“Partners? You were partners?”

“Yeah, well, maybe sometime I’ll tell you all about it. We still on for tonight?”

“Of course. I was afraid, after what happened to Miles, maybe you wouldn’t let me tag along.”

“No, it’s okay. Meet me at ten, doughnut shop around the corner from Brentwood’s. Still too much traffic that time of night for anyone to try anything. Anything happens, it’ll be later.”

“You think they’ll come out, the night after they hit a store and ended up killing a guy?”

“Honestly, no.”

“I hate to ask, but you go anywhere near Crandall on your way?” If he wasn’t able to pick me up at home, I’d have to grab a cab, what with Angie needing the car.

Lawrence said nothing for a moment. He was probably consulting one of several mental maps he kept upstairs. “Yeah, sure, why?”

“No car tonight. But if it’s out of your way, I can get a cab, bill the paper—”

“No, no, that’s fine. Give me your address.” I did. “See you round nine forty-five.”

We were parked in the same place we’d been the night before, on Garvin, half a block down from Brentwood’s.

Although we’d not had to meet at the doughnut shop, Lawrence and I still pulled in there. He still had the old Buick, what Lawrence called his “business” car, at least the one he used when the business involved surveillance. When he wanted to make a better impression, he drove a Beemer or Jaguar or some other type of high-end yuppiemobile that he kept back at his apartment.

“Don’t get coffee,” Lawrence warned me. “You’ll be having to take a leak every twenty minutes.”

I ignored him and got an extra-large, triple cream with two low-cal sweetener packets, and half a dozen doughnuts.

“That makes sense,” Lawrence said. “Why don’t you get one more sweetener, and then you can get two more doughnuts.”

But later, sitting in the car, he said, “You got a double chocolate in there?”

“Aren’t you the one who mocked me for buying these?”

“You got one or not?”

I fished around, found a chocolate doughnut with chocolate icing slathered on top, and handed it to him with a napkin. Then I reached down for my coffee, tucked down in the cup holder, and had a sip. “Ohhh, my thanks to whoever invented coffee,” I said. “This is the only thing that will get me through this.”

“Yeah, well, when your bladder’s ready to burst, don’t think that you’re using my emergency kit,” Lawrence said, nodding his head in the direction of the backseat, where he kept a plastic juice bottle with a screw top.

The juice container was, as Lawrence had explained to me on our first night out, a key part of his surveillance kit. When you’re on a stakeout, and expecting your subject to be on the move at any moment, and you’ve got to take a leak, you can’t strike off searching for the nearest men’s room or slip into the nearest alley.

Lawrence fiddled with the radio, located a jazz station, someone playing piano. “That’s Erroll Garner. This is from
Concert by the Sea
.” He kept the volume down, but loud enough that he could tap his finger on the steering wheel.

I thanked him for picking me up at home. “We’re having a bit of car trouble.”

“Oh yeah? What kind?”

“We need another one.” I filled him in on the daily negotiations to try to get everyone where they had to be, and Sarah’s concerns about spending the money for a second vehicle.

“Interesting that this problem of yours should crop up now,” Lawrence said. “What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Usual.”

“There’s a government auction tomorrow, out Oakwood way. Where they sell off cars and other merchandise seized from drug dealers and other lowlifes, unclaimed stolen property—people already got their insurance payment, they don’t come looking for what they lost.”

“Okay, so?”

“I got my Jaguar at one of those for a song. You could probably pick up something reasonable, not much money. I know the people there, there’s a guy, Eddie Mayhew, knows what cars look good and what cars don’t. I was talking to him the other day, he said they’re selling off a bunch of merchandise that used to belong to Lenny Indigo.”

“I know that name.”

“He just got fifteen to twenty. Joint operation, local cops working with the feds, got him on trafficking, racketeering, half a dozen other things. They seized a few million in cocaine and took his cars and other toys at the same time. Indigo had his finger into everything in this town from drugs to table dancers and prostitution to robbery. Thing is, his organization is still around, some bozo’s trying to keep it together while he’s inside, but Indigo’s still trying to run the thing from the inside. Anyway, if you’re looking for a car with an interesting history, I know where you could get one.”

I shrugged. “Sounds worth going. Even to get a feature out of it. But I don’t think I’m in the market to buy anything. Sarah was pretty adamant this morning. It’s just not in the budget.”

“Let’s just go, then. I’ve been, even when I wasn’t looking for a car, bought one, sold it a week later for five thou more. It’s just after lunch. I’ll pick you up.”

We sat for a few minutes quietly, watching cars go past Brentwood’s in both directions. The store window lights had been dimmed by half, casting soft shadows on half a dozen headless mannequins decked out in expensive menswear. “That where you get your stuff?” I asked. Lawrence was dressed in a pair of black slacks, a dark silk shirt, and a black sports jacket that I guessed cost more than everything I had in my closet at home.

“Sometimes. Brentwood promised me a new suit if I find out who’s been hitting his store, but now, after last night, I don’t know. It’s hard to feel we’ve been doing our job very well.”

“You got anyone else helping you, now that Miles is . . .” I hesitated, “gone?”

“No. Thing is, they’re not going to be hitting Maxwell’s now. Next most likely target is here.”

“Why aren’t the cops out here, too? After what happened last night?”

“They promised to take a run by, step up patrols. Speak of the devil.” A city police car approached, slowed as it went past Brentwood’s, then kept going. “But they haven’t got enough people to stake out every place that
might
get hit. So that’s why you and I are sitting here.”

Moments after the police car had disappeared, a red, lowered Honda Accord coupe with a set of flashy after-market wheels slowed as it drove by the store. The windows were tinted, making it impossible to make out who or how many were inside. “Anything?” I said.

Lawrence looked thoughtful. “I don’t know. Maybe. But we’re really looking for a truck or SUV. Maybe this guy’s a lookout, cases the place, then calls his buds. Can’t even see with the dark windows.” The Accord moved on. “Looked like just one guy, but I couldn’t be sure. It’s easy enough to remember, with the chrome rims, so if we see it again, might be worth checking out.” He had a notepad on his lap and scribbled something down.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“The Honda’s license plate,” he said. The guy was quick. I hadn’t even thought to look at the plate.

That reminded me to dig out my own reporter’s notepad, make a few notes. I scribbled “red Honda” and “waiting” and “doughnuts.”

“So, you were a cop,” I said.

Lawrence nodded. “Went on my own about three years ago, still have plenty of friends on the force. They send work my way, help me out when I need a license plate ID, that kind of thing, which I’ll be asking them for in the morning.”

“Why’d you leave?”

Lawrence kept looking out through the windshield, chewing on a bit of double chocolate, never taking his eyes off the scene in front of Brentwood’s. “Oh, I don’t know. Differences of opinion, I guess.” He paused. “Hello.”

A big black SUV rolled past us. The windows were even darker than those on the Honda, and looked as black as the doors and fenders.

“That’s one of those whaddya-call-thems,” I said.

“An Annihilator,” Lawrence said. “They used them in the army, then regular folk wanted to get them. So they gussied them up with power steering, CD players, air bags, and now soccer moms can drop their kids off in something that could be used to launch surface-to-air missiles. Fucking ridiculous.”

The Annihilator slowed as it passed on the opposite side of the street, in front of Brentwood’s. Lawrence’s entire body seemed to tense. He turned off Erroll and wrapped his fingers around the steering wheel. I felt a tingle work its way through me, like I’d put a toe into ice water.

The towering sport utility vehicle inched ahead a bit more, then the brake lights went off, and the Annihilator continued up the street.

“Interesting,” said Lawrence.

“I thought you said they wouldn’t come back tonight,” I said.

“I might have made a mistake. It was bound to happen eventually.”

Suddenly I thought of the license plate. “Did you get the plate number?” I asked.

“It had one of those opaque covers over it,” Lawrence said. “Couldn’t make it out. Maybe, if it comes around again.”

I had a sip of my coffee, made a couple more notes. “Red Honda,” Lawrence said. “Coming this way. Can’t see the wheels, not sure whether it’s the same one. Come here.”

“Huh?” I said.

“Just come here,” he said, pulling me toward him and slipping his arms around me in an embrace. His cheek was pressed up against mine, his lips just to the side of my own. He felt warm, and there was a scent of aftershave. Hesitantly at first, I raised my right arm and slipped it around his shoulder.

As the Honda drove by, Lawrence casually moved his head around to give it a better look. Even with Lawrence’s head pressed up against mine, I could see that this car had simple hubcaps.

“Not our car,” Lawrence said, freeing me from his embrace and leaning back up against his window. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to get fresh. I was afraid, had it been the same car, he was going to make us. Two guys sitting in a car at night, that’s a surveillance. Two guys going at it, well, that’s something else. And congratulations on not freaking out.”

“I’m fine,” I said.

“Not to worry,” he said. “You’re not my type anyway.”

I gave that a moment. “What do you mean, I’m not your type?”

Lawrence glanced over. “I’m just saying, if you were gay, you wouldn’t be the kind of guy I’d go for.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Nothing personal,” Lawrence said.

“Of course not,” I said. As if it could be anything but.

“You could dress a little better,” he said.

We were both quiet for a moment. There was no traffic on the street. “So, let me try again,” I said. “Why’d you leave the force?”

Lawrence breathed out, sounded tired. “This isn’t for your feature.”

I slipped my pen through the metal spiral at the top of my notepad. “Go ahead.”

“I’d made detective about eight, nine years ago, I guess, and towards the end, last year or so, I was partnered with this guy, Steve Trimble, the guy you met last night. Okay guy, knew him back when we were both in uniform. Married, had a kid who must be in college by now. Didn’t seem to have any hang-ups working with a guy who was not only black, but gay.”

“The rest of the department, they knew?”

“I’m not keeping any secrets, man. This is who I am. You don’t like it, you can kiss my ass. Trimble seemed okay with it, we got along well, I got to know his wife, I’d go over to his place sometimes, hang out.

“We got a call one night. We’re plainclothes now, detectives, and we’re working some case, can’t remember what, but a call comes over, some sounds of gunfire in the west end, the warehouse district. We were a block away, I guess, so I thought maybe we should just take a stroll by, and Steve thinks okay, why not. So we turn off from this street of row houses, which is probably where the call came from, someone hearing shots, and we’re driving nice and slow, windows down, looking and listening for anything suspicious. And the thing is, it could be nothing, you know? Some old lady, hears a car backfire, she calls 911.

“We’re driving down between these two big industrial buildings when suddenly this car comes screaming around the corner ahead of us, one of these low-slung rice machine jobs with the dark-tinted windows, and Steve slides a flashing red light onto the roof, pulls across the street to block his way. Might be nothing, right, but it is suspicious, so few cars down there, this one appearing out of nowhere.

“So we try to flag him down, and he veers, going right up on the sidewalk and around, and by this time we’re out of the car, both of us, guns drawn, and Steve takes a shot, at the tires, because with the windows tinted you don’t know how many people are in the car, it’s just too risky. He doesn’t hit the car, but the driver’s losing control and hits a telephone pole a hundred yards up or so. The door opens and this white kid bails, starts running away from us, and Steve’s after him on foot and I go back for the car, turning it around and radioing in at the same time, looking for backup, and I catch a glimpse of Steve turning down this alleyway, elbow bent, gun drawn.”

Lawrence licked his lips, like his mouth had gone dry. “What we didn’t know, till later, was that this kid had just come from a deal gone bad, well, not from his point of view until we showed up. He’d gone to make a buy, and rather than hand over the money, shot his supplier. Gets his coke, keeps his cash. I try to head the kid off, so I drive around the block, and he’s coming out the other end of the alley when I get there. Steve comes right out after him.