T Parker - The Renegades

“What can I do?” he asked.

“Names and l.k.a.’s of black gangsters he’d rousted or busted.”

“I’ll have them to you by noon. I’d look at Londell. Tell him I said hi. How are you holding up, Deputy Hood?”

“I can’t believe what happened.”

Draper was nodding. “How’d you get mixed up in IA?”

“They came to me. You know, I’m doing this for Terry.”

“If you go back to patrol, let’s ride sometime, Charlie. I can learn from you.”

“Judging from history I’m due back on patrol in about three weeks.”

Draper smiled. “I heard about all that. You nailed a bad cop. That was a good thing.”

Hood drank the last of his coffee and got out his wallet. “Draper, how come you do this? You make a dollar a year putting your life on the line. It could have been you sitting next to Laws.”

Draper stared at Hood. “Deputy Hood, I wish I was sitting next to Terry. I mean no disrespect. Law enforcement is something I feel strongly about. My father was a reserve deputy. His father was a real one. In Jacumba, down by the border.”

“Rough country.”

“The roughest in the world.”

Hood called Orr and told him what he’d learned about the bad blood between Terry Laws and Londell Dwayne, and that Londell looked enough like the shooter to warrant a knock-and-talk.

An hour later he met Orr and Bentley in the parking lot of Londell Dwayne’s apartment in Palmdale. The storm had blown through but the sky was dark and shifting. A few inches of fresh white snow lay everywhere. There were snowcapped tumbleweeds piled up against a sign that said “The Oasis-Now Renting.” Londell’s crib was upstairs.

Hood popped the snap on his hip holster and followed the Bulldogs up the concrete steps. Their weight vibrated the metal staircase, and the snowflakes on the railing wobbled and fell. The front windows of Londell’s place were blacked out with tinfoil and Hood heard a bass line throbbing inside. Bentley timed his knocks between the beats.

The door opened and the music got louder and Londell stood eye-to-eye in front of them. He was a slender man, no shirt, heavy bling, shorts below his knees and clean white K-SWISS ankle-highs. Hood watched him focus on the badge that Bentley held up. His eyes were deep brown in the middle and yellow outside. He looked at Bentley, then Orr, then Hood. Hood’s nerves rippled-goddamn if Londell didn’t look like the shooter. Facial type. Body shape. Posture.

“Bentley,” said Dwayne. “The whitest nigga in Antelope Valley.”

“We’d like to talk to you,” said Bentley.

“So talk to me.”

“You’ll have more privacy inside.”

“None of you is coming in here without no paper.”

“You know Terry Laws, the deputy,” said Bentley.

“I know he’s room temperature.”

“What else do you know?”

“I know he busted my ass for something I didn’t do, and he stole my dog and lost her. Her name is Delilah if you see her. She’s running loose somewhere in this world.”

“Were you there when Deputy Laws was shot?”

“Naw, man.”

“Yeah, man. We’ve got a witness who says the shooter looked a lot like you. He picked your picture right out.”

“I was here with Latrenya.” He turned back to the room. “Lattie, get over here and tell these guys the truth they want to hear.”

She appeared beside him, a tall woman with cornrows and hoop earrings. She was older and bigger than Londell. “We were right here. My sister, too. We heard about that killing this morning. We don’t know nothing about it. Nothing.”

“There,” said Dwayne. “Can you handle that much truth?”

“You were here all night?” asked Orr.

“Whole night except out for pizza at Little Caesar’s at seven o’clock sharp. Me and Latrenya and Tawna and Anton, right here where I currently stand.”

“They don’t have nothing on you, Lonnie. They acting like they do but they don’t.”

“You heard the woman,” said Londell.

“Give them Tawna’s number,” she said. “Let ’em talk to her. I’m going to write it down.”

She was back a moment later with a matchbook. Londell snatched it away from her and gave it to Bentley.

“See this? This a Pep Boys matchbook and these are the Pep Boys. When you’re done confirming my innocence with the phone number on it, you can poke little holes in their crotches and pull the matches through from the back. Make you laugh. You muthas need to laugh more. I can tell by the looks on your faces.”

The door slammed.

The three deputies stood in the parking lot. The snow-frosted tumbleweeds tried to climb the “Now Renting” sign while Orr called the number and put the phone on speaker.

A polite and soft-spoken girl named Tawna Harris told him she was Latrenya’s sister, and that she and her friend Anton had been with her and Londell from Monday evening around six until just after midnight: TV and King Cobras and Little Caesar’s and more beer and TV. She said that was the whole truth and nothing but.

Orr asked her a few questions, tried to get a contradiction, but couldn’t. He finally thanked her and punched off.

The Bulldogs drove away. Hood watched them. He wanted to be a Bulldog himself someday but he’d had his shot in L.A. and now it was gone.

He drove off, too, then circled back around and parked across the street and down half a block from the entrance of the Oasis. He could see the front door and the foil-covered windows.

Half an hour later Londell bounced down the stairs. He’d put on a clean white T-shirt and a pair of shades. He drove a sun-faded Chevrolet Impala to a 7-Eleven.

Hood followed and parked across the street and watched. Londell came out of the store a minute later with a case of beer and a bag of something, flipped off Hood and got back into his car.

So Hood drove to the Little Caesar’s. The girl behind the counter said she had just talked to two detectives about Londell Dwayne and she’d tell him the same thing she told them: She worked the six-to-midnight last night, she didn’t ever take a break except for the ladies’ room, and she didn’t ever see Londell and his ugly dog and ugly Detroit hoodie and his stuck-up girlfriend, Latrenya, never once, and she paid attention to every person who walked into that place because it was the most boring job in the world and you had to do something to make the time pass. And Londell was gonna make a move on Tawna, she promised Hood that.

Draper made himself a martini and carried it to his tiny Venice backyard and looked up through the bowing telephone lines at the cool, clear sky. The storm had passed and the stars looked polished. Music played from somewhere as it always did.

His shoes were quiet on the concrete as he crossed the old driveway and punched the code for the wooden gate. He walked thirty feet down the Amalfi Street sidewalk then into the parking lot of Prestige German Auto. He let himself into the small building, deactivated the alarm system, then walked through the short dark hallway past his office and into the garage. The familiar smells of gasoline and oil and steel and rubber all greeted him. He turned on the overhead fluorescents and saw the five bays, each with a German car either racked up or straddling a repair pit. He sipped the drink and turned off the lights.

Back in his office he reviewed the last few days of business on the computer. His manager, Heinz, had run a tight, fast ship. Draper liked Germans because they were dogged enough to grapple with the complex cars so proudly overengineered by their countrymen, and intelligent enough to prevail. They were honest with the customers- und here are ze old Bilsteins veetook off -and therefore honest with him. He paid them well. Prestige German had grossed almost twenty thousand dollars in the last week, which after payroll, overhead, and insurance would land thirty-five hundred dollars in Draper’s pocket.