Authors: Gerald Petievich
Stepanovich nodded, moving past Sparky to the black Chevrolet. "We came up with one latent belonging to a White Fencer. But he won't talk."
Sparky shook his head. "That's too bad," he said sincerely. "Damn. Where do you go from here?"
Stepanovich touched the tarp covering the Chevrolet. "Only so much we can do," he said somberly. "Without help."
Sparky stopped eating. Slowly he came to his feet and tossed what was left of the hamburger into a brimming wastebasket. He yanked a shirttail from his trousers and wiped his hands. "I'm an ex marine," he said. "You don't have to beat around the bush with me."
"Is anyone else working tonight?"
"I'm the only one here all weekend," Sparky answered warily.
Stepanovich set his hand on the fender of the Chevrolet. "I need this car."
Sparky pointed to a greasy clipboard hanging on a hook. "The evidence log is right there. Sign and it's yours."
"I don't want to sign for it."
Sparky stared at him for a moment, suddenly realizing it was odd that Stepanovich had arrived on foot. He turned and looked toward the street. "I could lose my tow contract with the city by letting somebody tamper with evidence."
"I'll bring it back in an hour."
Sparky wiped something shiny from his chin and examined it. "But technically the car never left here, right?"
Stepanovich nodded.
Sparky ran his sooty hands through his hair. "If you have an accident, I'm still responsible for the car."
"If I'm not back here in an hour, you can report it stolen. You can say you left the tow yard for a few minutes and when you returned, the car was gone."
Sparky licked his rough lips nervously. "Actually report it stolen?"
"That way you'd be covered."
"What about the mileage reading on the impound form?"
"I'll handle that."
"I'm still sticking my neck out."
"If there is any fall to take, I'll take it," Stepanovich said, looking Sparky in the eye. "You have my word."
Sparky rubbed his hands together for a moment. He tugged the sleeve of his grease-stained shirt and checked his wristwatch. Then he extended a set of keys from the shiny retractable key chain attached to his belt. Using both hands, he freed a key and tossed it to Stepanovich.
"That’s the key to the front gate. I'll be back in an hour and a half."
As Stepanovich stood there holding the key in his hand, Sparky stepped to his desk and flicked a switch on his answering machine. He headed out of the garage and climbed into his tow truck. After it turned over a few times, the engine started and the truck rattled out the driveway and turned onto Mission Road.
Stepanovich located the ignition key to the Chevrolet on the keyboard behind Sparky's desk. He looked about and spotted a flashlight among a pile of other tools on a greasy workbench. He picked it up and, approaching the Chevrolet, grasped the tarp and pulled it off. Using the key, he unlocked the driver's door.
Bending down to look under the dashboard, he used the flashlight to find the odometer cable, then unscrewed it. Without turning on the headlights, he drove slowly out of the garage and past the gate.
Once on the street, he stopped the car and pulled the heavy sliding gate closed behind him. Using a thick chain and padlock hanging over the top rail, he locked the gate securely. He checked his watch and climbed back behind the wheel, then sped down Mission Road to the parking lot.
Standing by the police sedan, Black and Arredondo looked extremely nervous as he pulled up beside them. Black opened the trunk of the police sedan and took out a pump shotgun. He climbed in the rear seat of the Chevrolet, and Arredondo climbed in front.
Stepanovich turned the steering wheel sharply and stepped on the gas. As the caper car made a U turn, there was the sound of the front tires rubbing the wheel wells.
"Any trouble getting Sparky to go along with the program?" Black asked as Stepanovich sped past a railroad utility yard.
"He's solid," Stepanovich said, turning on Soto Street and heading south past Wabash Avenue.
At Seventeenth Street, Stepanovich slowed down and pulled to the curb. Black cranked the beavertail of the shotgun and chambered a round. Arredondo reached inside his windbreaker and pulled out his six-inch revolver. He snapped open the chamber and checked rounds. With a flick of his wrist he snapped the chamber shut again.
Stepanovich's palms felt damp on the steering wheel. "Eighteenth knows this car," he said, driving on. "That means we get one pass only. So wait until I get us into position."
"Let's go for it," Arredondo said, climbing into the backseat.
As they neared Eighteenth Street, Stepanovich was scanning left and right. The area was quiet and no one was on the sidewalks. He made the right turn onto Eighteenth carefully, eyes still roving to either side of the street. Then, his decision made, he accelerated steadily to the middle of the block. Reaching Greenie's apartment house, he slowed and veered to his left. The sedan lurched as the front wheels, then rear wheels bumped over the curb and across the sidewalk onto the lawn in front of the apartment house. In the middle of the lawn he swerved and braked; the car came to a stop with the driver's side facing to the front of the dwelling. Black and Arredondo readied their weapons.
Stepanovich pressed the horn three times. It seemed louder than any sound he'd ever heard. There was no movement at the window of Greenie's apartment. He leaned on the horn again.
"We can't sit here all night," Black said nervously.
Finally someone pulled the curtain back from Greenie's window.
Stepanovich pulled his revolver. "Now," he commanded. He and Black rolled the windows down. Stepanovich aimed his revolver up at the apartment and pulled the trigger in rapid fire.
Black fired his shotgun and the car rocked with a deafening blast. Glass crashed as the apartment window shattered. Firing rapidly, Arredondo emptied his revolver out the same window.
"Barrio White Fence!" Stepanovich shouted. "Barrio White Fence!"
"Viva White Fence!" Arredondo shouted.
Stepanovich dropped his revolver onto the front seat and slammed the accelerator to the floor. He steered the Chevrolet across the lawn, sidewalk, and, with the sound of metal bumper scraping cement, over the curb into the street. Swerving to the right, Stepanovich headed to the corner at full speed. Turning left, he slowed down a little to avoid drawing attention from passing cars. As he weaved through side roads in the direction of Soto Street, his eyes burned from the acrid odor of gun smoke inside the car.
"I hope we got some of 'em," Black said.
Arredondo laughed nervously. "They'll never figure out what happened."
Having made a series of rights and lefts through residential areas, Stepanovich was relieved to finally turn onto Soto Street. He glanced at the speedometer, making sure he was traveling under the speed limit.
As he neared the freeway, flashing red lights suddenly appeared in the rearview mirror. Stepanovich's stomach muscles snapped taut and terror gripped him.
"Oh no. Oh shit," Arredondo uttered without turning his head.
Suddenly the red lights swung to the left of the Chevrolet and sped past. It was a fire department sedan with a flashing red light.
Black laughed nervously. "What are you worried about, homes?"
Arredondo let out his breath.
Stepanovich felt wetness under his arms. His hands were shaking.
Arredondo broke into laughter and, hidden from the eyes of East L.A. by the smoked windows, Stepanovich and Black joined in. They laughed hysterically and Stepanovich felt tears of relief at the corners of his eyes.
Minutes later, Stepanovich pulled into the parking lot where they'd left the police sedan. After Black and Arredondo climbed out of the car, he sped out of the lot and down the street to Sparky's impound yard.
The gate was still locked.
Stepanovich checked his wristwatch. He'd been gone exactly twenty-nine minutes. He climbed out of the car, unlocked the gate, and shoved it open. Quickly he slid back behind the wheel and steered the car into the garage. After he parked it in the same spot, he hurried to close the garage door to insure that anyone passing by on Mission Road couldn't see what was taking place. Shielded from the street, he used rags to wipe down any possible fingerprints from the car's interior. Then he reattached the odometer cable. With this task completed, he hurried to the gate, rolled it closed, and locked it with the chain and padlock.
Being careful to remain in the shadows of the billboards and buildings lining the street, he ran back to the parking lot and climbed into the police sedan.
There was static coming from the police radio.
"A shots fired call just went out," Black said. "But no requests for an ambulance, so I guess we didn't hit anyone."
At the Rumor Control Bar they slipped in the back door one at a time, Stepanovich last. The bar was now three deep with cops wearing the LAPD off duty drinker's uniform of T-shirts and Levis. The crowd was divided into the usual huddles by rank, job classification, or cabal, and the jukebox was blaring a country and western tune. Even though it was Friday night, the noise level was subdued and there was no ass grabbing or drinking contests, which Stepanovich attributed to the recent funeral.
Brenda, serving drinks behind the bar, was wearing her seashell halter top, tennis shorts, and had her hair drawn to the top of her head and tied with a fluorescent orange ponytail holder. Stepanovich slid between a couple of leather faced motor cops at the bar and got Brenda's attention. Even as he ordered a scotch and water, she spun the cap off a bottle of Teacher's.
"Where's Sullivan?" he asked.
"He got sick and went home," she said, filling a glass with ice. "He used to go fishing with Fordyce and he's just taking it real hard."
As Stepanovich picked up the cocktail, he realized his hand was shaking. "Any calls for me?"
Brenda shook her head, reaching into a cooler for a frosty beer mug, and lifted it to a tap spigot. Stepanovich stepped away from the bar.
"You guys gonna be around later?" she said, drawing beer.
Stepanovich pretended he hadn't heard and made his way to the corner booth where Black and Arredondo were seated. He slid across the red leather seat and took a sip of scotch.
"We did it," Arredondo said, sniggering mischievously. Black joined the laughter and Stepanovich found himself laughing too.
When the phone rang, though, they all stopped laughing. Brenda picked up the receiver. She looked about, spotted Stepanovich, and waved. He made his way back to the bar.
"It's Harger," she said, handing him the receiver.
"Stepanovich."
"Just got off the phone with the Hollenbeck watch commander," Harger said. "Somebody just shot up Greenie's apartment in a drive by. You'd better get over there and see what you can find out."
"That's a roger."
Stepanovich set the receiver down and returned to the table. "There's been a drive by at Greenie's," he said, smirking.
"
Hijo la
, " Arredondo said in mock surprise.
There were a lot of gawkers standing around in front of the apartment building: ghetto zombies shuffling about on the sidewalk in the glare of flashing red lights. As at most crime scenes, no matter what the hour, at least half of the crowd was made up of children.
Stepanovich parked the police sedan in a space at the curb between two black and whites. A short female officer was standing in the middle of the front lawn making notes on a metal clipboard as she interviewed a tall, obese Mexican woman in a pink chenille robe and hair rollers. The young officer's uniform had been tailored to complement her striking hourglass figure. Her police utility belt and holster were shiny patent leather, which meant that she had purchased it herself rather than wear the standard department issued equipment. It occurred to Stepanovich that when he'd joined up, there had been height requirements for police officers, and uniforms as small as the officer was wearing were sold only to police explorer scouts.
Stepanovich waited until she had completed her interview before he approached.
"What do you got?" Stepanovich said.
"Who are you?"
"Sergeant Stepanovich. O.C.B. CRASH. Special Detail. "
"A gang detective?"
Stepanovich nodded, irritated by her obvious inability to recognize another cop when she saw one. On the other hand, he thought, without the uniform he wouldn't have guessed she was a police officer in a million years.
"You got an ID card?"
Feeling irritation turn to angry goose bumps on the back of his neck, Stepanovich took out his police identification card and showed it to her. As she examined it, he noted her nametag: Forest, C. Now he remembered. Candi Forest.
She nodded diffidently. "I was the first car to arrive," she said. "It's a drive by a black Chevy. But no one got a look at the occupants because the car had smoked windows." She pointed to the place in the lawn a few feet away. "They drove up onto the lawn about here and fired into that apartment. Two witnesses heard them yell, 'White Fence.' They sped off the lawn back into the street and headed south. Because of the grass, there are no tire prints."