Authors: Gerald Petievich
"Eighteenth is planning to hit a White Fence vato named Payaso."
"Dora has mentioned his name."
"Eighteenth is planning to kill him. They're going to hit his house on Ortega Street, and they're probably going to do it soon. Just relay that information. Please." He leaned down and kissed her on the lips. Aware he was late, he headed back toward the sedan.
"When will all this be over?"
"Soon," he said, climbing back behind the wheel. "I promise. "
After dark, Stepanovich and the others returned to Manuel's taco stand, and made a final check of equipment. Everything seemed to be in order. To avoid the danger of parking even an unmarked police sedan anywhere in White Fence territory during the surveillance, Stepanovich phoned Brenda and asked her to drive them in. She readily agreed. Arriving a few minutes later, she remarked that she thought they looked cute dressed as painters.
With all the surveillance equipment, the three of them barely fit into the Mazda.
On Ortega Street, Brenda drove slowly down the darkened street and came to a stop in front of the apartment house across the street from Payaso's house. Stepanovich surveyed the street carefully. There was no one in sight.
"OK," he said. "Let's go for it."
"Be careful, dudes," Brenda whispered as they climbed out of the car, dragging the equipment with them.
Brenda drove off. The three hurried along a cement walkway and entered the open chain link gate at the entrance to the apartment house. Without speaking. they moved quickly to the door of Apartment 13.
The place was vacant. A threadbare shag carpet was spotted and worn, and the walls were covered with nail holes. The air was warm, stale, and held the faint reek of Lysol. Stepanovich closed the door behind him and set the equipment he was carrying on the bare living room floor. The living room window facing Payaso's house was covered with tattered drapery. In the kitchen and bedroom, the windows were cloaked with a combination of cheap curtains and sheets he figured would shield them adequately.
In the living room, Black had removed the shoulder weapons from the duffel bag and laid them out carefully in front of the bay window. He was leaning close to the window, peering out through a break in the curtain, when Stepanovich joined him. There was a clear view of the front of Payaso's house. "This is perfect," Black whispered.
Arredondo handed out bullet proof vests and the three men helped one another don the gear, fastening the velcro ties tightly around their torsos to keep the vests from hindering arm movement if they had to shoot.
At the sound of footsteps and voices outside, Stepanovich hurried to the window. Three men were approaching Payaso's house.
Black reached behind him for the Uzi submachine gun. There was a ratcheting sound as he cocked it. Arredondo grabbed a shotgun and ran to the kitchen window.
The door at Payaso's house was opened. Payaso allowed the men to enter and they stood in the doorway conversing. After a while he looked both ways in the street and closed the door.
"They're White Fencers," Stepanovich said. "Gordo and Lyncho ... and here comes Smokey. They must have parked the car down the street."
Smokey, carrying a long, thin piece of what looked like rolled carpet, hurried onto the porch and went inside with the others.
Arredondo returned from the kitchen. "It's working," he said, unable to hide his zeal. "They're here. They're waiting for Eighteenth to hit."
Black had a sardonic, toothy smile. "Pray for Eighteenth to show."
"They'll show," Stepanovich said confidently. Leading the others away, he took out a pen and pad, and drew two lines to represent the street, squares for Payaso's house and the apartment, and Xs for windows and doors. "And when they do, they won't know White Fence is waiting inside."
Black lit a cigarette. "If White Fence sees a car pull up, they're not going to just sit inside and wait to get shot up. They gonna let loose."
Arredondo coughed. "They'll probably come flying out the door shooting."
Stepanovich drew two lines to form a triangle emanating from the front door of Payaso's house. "When they do, we let go. C.R., you'll have the Uzi. Arredondo and I will take the blow guns." He pointed: "This is the direction of fire."
"Ready on the right," Black said, cigarette dangling from his lip. "Ready on the left. And ready on the firing line."
"They start it and we finish it," Arredondo chimed in, staring at the diagram. "The element of surprise."
Stepanovich cleared his throat. "Does everyone agree with this plan?"
"They wasted Fordyce so we're gonna waste them," Arredondo said bitterly.
"After it's over, no matter what happens, we all see things alike?"
Black formed a cruel smile. "The party line until the end of time."
Stepanovich put out his hands and, standing together in the musty room, the others clasped them forcefully. The next half hour was spent loading weapons and ammunition clips, double-checking bulletproof vests, and quietly opening the windows to better hear any movement on the street.
The evening passed slowly and, taking turns being posted at the window or resting on the musty carpet, they said very little to one another.
About nine o'clock Stepanovich suggested to Arredondo that they affix flashlights to the barrels of the shotguns with wide strips of black electrician's tape. To ensure the tape didn't affect the action of the gun, Stepanovich tried flicking on the flashlight, aiming at the wall, and dry firing the piece a few times. Arredondo did the same.
With the weapon readied for night action, Stepanovich set it on the sink within easy reach and stood at the kitchen window, because he thought it provided the best nighttime view of both the street and Payaso's house.
Because the windows were open and traffic was infrequent, every car turning the corner was cause for alarm, and as the evening passed, the tension mounted. He tried counting cars for a while to kill time. At twenty-eight he tired of the pastime and stopped.
"This is the way I like it," Black said.
"You like smelly apartments?" Arredondo said.
"Midnight to eight is where it's at. The night watch. Being the invisible man. I hate working during the day."
"You're nuts."
"In the middle of the night it's us against the crooks and no one else gets in the way. If a dude is cruising with a piece at four A.M. and gets stopped, he expects to get his ass kicked. Don't fuck with the night watch. That's the word on the street. The ten years I spent on nights was the happiest time in my life. It cost me a couple of wives, but it was worth it."
"So why did you transfer to detectives?"
"A new captain took over the division. He hated me, said I was nuts."
"We should have brought Brenda with us tonight," Arredondo said awhile later. "I can use some trim."
"Brenda would make a good wife," Black said.
"The captain was right. You really are completely fucking nuts."
"Think about it," Black said. "She never nags or complains and doesn't ask for money. She's clean and knows how to give a world-class blowjob. What more could a man ask?"
"She's done half the department."
"She's no virgin, all right. But neither were my first two wives."
A few hours later, Stepanovich, feeling hunger pangs, dug bread and lunch meat from the store of groceries. He slapped together a sandwich and ate quietly, staring out the kitchen window.
Black took his time lighting a cigarette. "I have the feeling it's not gonna happen. We're gonna be here all night for nothing."
"Maybe they know we're here," Arredondo said.
Stepanovich held his wristwatch up to a shaft of moonlight coming through the window. It was 2:13. Unlike hundreds of other surveillances he'd been part of, he felt no fatigue whatsoever. Occasionally his feet, back, or knees would feet stiff, and he would pace back and forth a few feet, balancing on the balls of his feet to increase circulation. Uncle Nick had taught him this beat policeman's trick when he was a child, while they were waiting in long lines at the Griffith Park pony rides. He could picture Nick, wearing his hat and looking like Dick Tracy, standing with his hands behind his back and demonstrating the position.
The night passed and nothing happened.
****
TWENTY-ONE
As the sun came up, Stepanovich and the others began to alternate taking one-hour catnaps. The food they'd brought with them was their only comfort in the bare apartment, and Stepanovich and the others found themselves munching frequently. Perhaps because he didn't feel Eighteenth would hit during the daytime the day passed slowly. Finally darkness fell and Stepanovich found himself stalking from room to room to get some exercise.
His mind wandering, he moved to the kitchen sink and fumbled in the darkness for the faucet. Leaning over, he splashed cold water on his face. Wet and dripping, he closed the tap, took a clean handkerchief from his back pocket, and dried himself.
"Funny," Arredondo said. "Across the street the White Fence homeboys are waiting for the same thing we are."
Black lit a cigarette, one of perhaps a hundred since they'd initiated the surveillance. "What are we gonna do if White Fence gets tired of waiting and decides to leave?"
Stepanovich coughed and cleared his throat. "We'll worry about that when the time comes."
There was the sound of a car engine.
Stepanovich stepped to the window. A pickup truck rounded the corner. It was going slow too slow, he decided. "Heads up," he said, picking up his shotgun. As the automobile continued down the street, it passed under a streetlight. It was red, the color of the caper car used at the church shooting.
At Payaso's house there was no movement.
Keeping the barrel of the shotgun pointed toward the floor, Stepanovich flicked on the flashlight attached to the barrel. When he looked, Black and Arredondo had already grabbed their weapons.
The pickup truck swerved close to the curb and cruised slowly closer to Payaso's house. The windows were down and there were at least three men in the bed of the truck. Stepanovich felt his pulse quicken. His mouth suddenly felt dry.
"Shooters," he said, and the sound of his voice echoed through the darkened apartment.
Black and Arredondo ran to the door and quickly cocked their weapons. Stepanovich pulled the curtain open to get a better look. Just as the pickup truck came to a full stop across the street, there was movement in the bushes on the west side of Payaso's house.
Suddenly the sharp crack of gunfire roared from those bushes. White Fencers firing revolvers rushed from the side of Payaso's house toward the pickup truck. The men in the truck fired back and the front of the residence and the street was lit with fire flashes.
Stepanovich dashed out of the apartment with the others.
As the barrage of gunfire, including automatic weapons fire, continued, he and the others dove for cover behind a Chrysler parked in front of the apartment. There were screams, glass breaking, and slugs slamming powerfully into the doors and fenders of the pickup truck.
Black lifted his Uzi over the fender of the Chrysler to fire, but Stepanovich pulled him back. "Wait."
The engine of the pickup truck revved and the car lurched forward, slamming into the curb. After another barrage of gunfire and shouts, the shooting stopped.
Figuring White Fence was out of bullets, Stepanovich came to his feet, pulling the butt of the shotgun gun into his shoulder. The powerful flashlight beam picked out Smokey Salazar. "Now!" he shouted.
At the same moment he squeezed the trigger and the powerful blast hurtled Salazar backward onto the lawn.
Gordo, running for cover toward the house with a revolver in each hand, was suddenly caught in a storm of tracer rounds from Black's Uzi, and his body spun and rolled and flopped onto the lawn as it was tom apart.
Stepanovich, aiming his death light quickly and without hesitation, was running across the street, firing, cranking the action to chamber a round, and firing again. Black and Arredondo were at his side firing rapidly, and in the din he could feel the hot empty cartridges sting his neck and cheek as they ejected from Black's raging Uzi.
Payaso, standing at the side of the house, turned to run. Arredondo fired, but Payaso had disappeared into the bushes.
Lyncho, lying wounded, was desperately fumbling with his Uzi trying to reload. Stepanovich fired and Lyncho's efforts ceased to matter.
In the bed of the damaged pickup truck two of the wounded were trying to climb out and escape.
Black, screaming shrilly in the heat of battle, ran madly into the street and raked them with fire. Then, commando style, he poked the barrel of the submachine gun into the cab. Holding the weapon in one hand, he emptied a clip at full automatic and the bodies inside tossed wildly and then lay still.
Suddenly the shooting stopped and there was a momentary lull.
Stepanovich, using the shotgun shells in his shirt pocket, reloaded quickly. With eyes darting and every muscle in his body taut, he roved about the lawn, checking to see if anyone was moving, The shotgun felt like it was welded to his hands.