T Parker - The Renegades

Warren nodded and sat back and looked over at the bartender planted in front of the TV. One of the patrons set his glass down hard and the barkeep moved toward him without turning his gaze from the set.

“Follow him again this Friday,” said Warren. “If we can establish a pattern we can find a way to make it work for us.”

“I’ll need a plainwrap that doesn’t look like one of ours,” said Hood. “The Camaro is too conspicuous for two runs in a row.”

“Rent something. Charge it to the IA number I gave you. How do you like the Hole?”

“It’s cold and miserable, sir.”

“I used to ice-fish on Porters Lake, Pennsylvania, when I was a kid. It was similar.”

“I used to ride a bike through the Bakersfield, California, oil patch on winter afternoons. Not similar.”

For a minute they sat in silence. The drinkers at the bar were quiet and Hood could hear the mumble of the TV.

“What went wrong with the Renegades, sir?”

Warren looked across the booth at Hood. Hood had always liked the history in the faces of old men and he saw now that Warren had much of it.

“The Renegades were a false good idea. On paper we made sense-we were principled and tough and effective, and we kept each other sane. But the world isn’t run by ideas. It’s run by human nature. I didn’t know that then.”

“Human nature as in Roland Gauss?”

“And men like him. They find each other. To some of us the oath we took and the tattoos on our ankles were a bond of honor. To them it was an excuse. A joke.”

“I see Roland Gauss in Laws and Draper,” Hood said.

“I do, too.” Warren leaned toward him and spoke softly. “You’ve got to shadow Draper one more time, Charlie. I know you want to take him down now, but follow him south again. We have to know him. And when we know him we’ll see a way. I want him. And when we truly have him, I want his people in Cudahy. And when we have them, I want his people in Mexico. I want to lay waste to them all. They’re sucking the blood of this country through a golden straw.”

Sunshine flooded through the door, was sustained, then gone. A middle-aged couple walked to the bar in a hail of hellos and shoulder slaps, and the bartender poured their drinks without them ordering.

“Reed and the defense rested yesterday,” said Warren. “I was there for the closing arguments. She was terrific. The jury was instructed and now it’s up to them. Ariel and I had a cup of coffee after. She sends her regards.”

Hood thought of Ariel summing up, artfully swaying her jury, locking her cage around the accused, a cage that he had helped make.

“I won’t ever get used to putting my own guys away,” said Hood.

“I haven’t.”

“It’s the worst job a cop can have.”

“No. It’s worse watching one get away with it.”

Warren folded his big gnarled hands on the table and looked at Hood. “Play it very cool on Friday with Draper. If he does anything erratic or unusual, hit the brakes and come home. You’re way out of jurisdiction. I’ve cleared you with San Diego Sheriff’s but they won’t be in a hurry to help you out. Don’t be a cowboy. That’s one thing about IA, Hood-most of the time you’re alone.”

Hood understood going it alone from Anbar, from wondering if the bullet that caught him would come from an Iraqi or from one of his own. He believed that the most terrible thing in the world was to be hated by your own people.

That afternoon Draper put on his reservist’s uniform and drove to Cal State Los Angeles to participate in the fourteenth annual “Career Crusade.”

He walked past exhibits set up by the various municipalities, corporations, trade unions and employment services. The city of Los Angeles had a large tent, as did Santa Monica and Long Beach. The Los Angeles Times had a good-sized tent also, and hundreds of newspapers for giveaway. The Retail Clerks Union exhibit was bustling. There was even a booth for the Musicians’ Local, featuring a motley bunch of apparent musical artists, and one magnificently lovely young redhead who tracked him from behind her sunglasses as he walked by and nodded at her. Draper had never thought of musicians as organized labor.

In the LASD tent he shook hands with Sergeants Beverly Cresta and Mike Grgich, and several uniformed deputies. A newish cruiser was parked in the shade, freshly washed and waxed, doors open and windows down. Cresta had put together a bulletin board with pictures and articles about the Sheriff’s Department, and a divisional breakdown with lists of various job descriptions and salary ranges. Grgich sat beside a large monitor that played a Sheriff’s Academy promotional video on a loop. Grgich was stout and muscular and reminded Draper of his old partner, but when Draper shook his hand he felt the very distinct aura of contempt coming off the man. It was a common reaction to reservists.

He took a seat behind a folding table littered with brochures and promotional LASD decals and applications fastened to clipboards. The day was cool but the sun was bright so he put on his shades and tried to look friendly and welcoming. Draper had personally recruited four people to his department. Two were now deputies, one was enrolled in the academy, one had washed out last winter. None of the three was particularly promising to Draper-they were straight, dull and uninterested in bettering themselves outside the rules of the department. Perfect law enforcers. But who knew? If he kept talking to the young men and women of L.A., he was bound to find a person with the same ambition, courage and dedication to self that had gotten him to where he was today.

Draper understood that one person was only one person, and could only accomplish so much. But two people were much more than just twice as many. Two were a force, and could easily become three and four or five, and a force could do things that one man could only imagine. The bigger your force was, the better, up to a point, of course.

He let the sun warm his face and thought of the Renegades, and the small steps they had taken a decade ago, before they were turned against each other and busted and outlawed. He understood that an ankle tattoo could mean much more than just membership in a clan within the department-it could mean power, breadth and capacity. Draper knew he could lead the New Renegades, if he could only find them. He had had a start with Terry, and now he was ready to pick up where he and Terry had left off.

A stoop-shouldered young man with a cadaverous complexion examined a “Physical Requirements” pamphlet, set it back on the table and tapped it thoughtfully, then walked away.

A big-bodied blond woman came up to Draper. “What’s the starting pay?”

“Four thousand and eighty-three dollars a month for a sworn deputy,” he said. “Support staff and technical start around two thousand.”

“So you don’t get rich working for the sheriffs.”

“Who told you you’d get rich?”

“I want riches.”

“Why?”

“I believe I deserve them.”

“You deserve nothing.”

Draper saw Grgich look his way.

“What I mean,” he said, “is that few people get rich working for other people. And there are other rewards in law enforcement.”

She shrugged and walked off.

Emblematic, he thought. There was no shortage of desire for riches out there, but so few people had the intelligence to find a way to accumulate wealth, and fewer still had the drive and energy to make a profitable idea real.

“So, what’s the starting pay?”

The question was delivered to mock the pugnacious tone that the big woman had used, but it was a man’s voice. Draper recognized it. He looked up at the boy. He was tall and built well, wore his black hair long and a neat goatee. The pretty, red-haired musician was with him. She wore a long black coat, jeans that were worn thin at her thighs, and red cowboy boots. She studied Draper from behind her sunglasses.