The Tin Collectors (24 page)

Shane and Alexa took the creaking elevator back down to the lobby and walked out of juvenile hall into the harsh Xenon lights of the parking lot.

"This kid has more jailbreaks than Dillinger," she said.

"They pushed Drucker's board back to get time to arrange for this. They let him go so he wouldn't be around to testify," Shane said. When she looked over at him, he added, "I'm telling you, it's been like this ever since I shot Ray. Somebody is pulling strings, making shit happen. It's been orchestrated better than the Philharmonic."

"You're being paranoid," she concluded.

"I'm being framed," he corrected.

Chapter
27

I'M MAKING ARRANGEMENTS for you to go back to your mo
m o
n Monday," Shane said.

They were sitting in his backyard chairs, Chooch with his feet up on the low picket fence, leaning way back, trying to look as though he couldn't give a shit. "Make any arrangement you want, but I won't be here on Friday," Chooch snarled. "You can go quakin' about it with the cave bitch all you want, don't matter, 'cause I'm gone."

"You think that I'm dumping you, that I don't want you here, but you're wrong. I'm telling you the truth, Chooch. I feel shitty about this."

No response.

"Tell you what. I should be clear by the end of next week. Whatta you say you and I get outta town, go do something together."

"What're we gonna do? Score some tasty together? Do som
e j
ay?" He was smirking now, letting Shane know he was back on the other side.

"I told you no drugs. How 'bout a weekend at Disneyland?" Shane said. "We'll stay at the hotel there, ride the Matterhorn, Space Mountain; do the Log Ride, all that stuff."

"You think I'm some little kid? You can't bribe me with a trip to Disneyland."

"You ever been to Disneyland?" Shane asked.

Chooch shrugged, not answering.

"If you've never been, you don't know what you're turning down. And if you wanna score some tasty, there're girls all over Disneyland," letting Chooch know he understood rap lingo.

But Chooch said nothing.

"You told me once that you wanted to be the most important instead of the least. And I get that, man. I really do. But lemme ask you something. If I let you stay here, knowing that I was in some real danger and that you might end up hurt, what kinda guy would that make me? And how important would you be to me if I just flat disregard your safety?"

"Whatever . . . You're gonna do what you wanta."

"You want me to understand, to care about your problems, but you don't want to understand or care about mine."

"Is this gonna take much longer?"

"You're going to Sandy on Monday. Sorry you and I can't talk about it."

"You say you're in danger, that someone's gonna ride on you? And I'm supposed to believe this?"

Now it was Shane who didn't answer.

"Well, I don't. Okay? I see it as total doo-rah. You're a fuckin' liar."

Shane got up and moved toward the door. Before going in, he turned and talked to Chooch's back. "There are defining moments in a man's life, Chooch. You're at one. You can deal with this like a man, or you can run from it like a kid. If you run
if you take off and go hang with a buncha street bravos, you'ffe gonna regret it."

" 'Cause why? You're gonna get me booked on a juvenile court detaining order?" he said, surprising Shane that he knew the exact document, and further proving he'd been hanging with some very unsavory people.

"You're at an important crossroad. Read the signs carefully before you choose what direction you want to go. You're fifteen. Nobody can tell you what to do anymore, certainly not me. You're gonna make your own decisions, no matter what Sandy or I say. You're almost a man now, so you stop getting the juvenile discount. But you also gotta pay adult rates
be careful."

Shane went inside and undressed for bed. It had been a strange night. He had left Alexa not knowing what she would do, or whether she believed any of what he had told her. Then he had come home to this draining conversation with Chooch. He lay on his pillow, looking at the cracked ceiling, wondering where it was all heading.

In his wildest imagination, he never would have expected what happened next.

? ? ?

Shane heard something outside the house.

It woke him.

He didn't know whether it was part of a dream or someoiie in his yard. He lay still, his heart pounding, his senses tingling; then he rolled out of bed and crept slowly to the dresser, where he had put his gun. He retrieved it, snuck out of the bedroom, padded down the hall in his underwear, and checked the guest room. Chooch was asleep in the bed next to the wall, so Shane went back up the hall.

He wasn't two steps into the front room when a machine gun opened up, blowing out the entire front window. Glass rained in on him, taking part of the drapery with it. Shane dove for the floor as the machine gun kept firing, stitching holes in the wall behind him, breaking plaster, shattering pictures. He worked his way toward the front door on his stomach.

Another burst from a second gun came through the side window. Nine-millimeter slugs tattooed the living room's east wall. He was pinned in a deadly cross fire. Shane rolled over and sat up, firing blindly out the broken side window with his .38. Then he heard a car start in the alley.

Chooch ran into the living room, and Shane launched himself at the teenager, taking him down seconds before another barrage of bullets screamed just above their heads, breaking a lamp and turning an end table into splinters. Shane pinned Chooch under him, protecting the boy with his body.

"Let's go. Let's get outta here!" somebody shouted.

A car door slammed; an engine roared. There was the chirp of rubber and then the sound of a car speeding away.

"Stay here. Stay down," Shane ordered Chooch. He wormed his way out the front door, slid down the front steps on his belly, and rolled behind a low wall. He didn't want to risk sticking his head up until he had a chance to check out all possible lines of fire. He strained to hear in the dark, to identify any warning sound, trying to be sure all of them had left. Then he rolled up and scooted back on his ass until he could feel the side of the house against his shoulder blades.

His neighbors were starting to shout: "What's going on!?" "What the fuck's happening?!" "Call the police!"

Shane couldn't remember how many shots he had squeezed off, so he flipped open the cylinder . . . three cartridges left. He snapped the revolver shut and got to his feet, quickly making a lap around the house. He ran into Longboard in the backyard and almost shot him.

"Get back inside, Brian," he ordered.

The surfboard shaper turned and ran back into his house.

After Shane was certain the house was secure, he went back inside.

"Let's go," he said to Chooch.

"Where?"

"You're going to your mother's. You can't stay here. Get your clothes, now! Meet me in the garage. We're outta here!"

They could hear sirens approaching, way off in the distance.

"Let's go. I don't wanna be here when the cops arrive. Move it!"

Shane grabbed his clothes out of the bedroom and, not waiting to put them on, bolted for the garage. He was already pulling the Acura out when the teenager arrived, carrying his shirt, shoes, and pants; Chooch jumped into the passenger side. The police sirens were now only a few blocks away.

Shane shot up the alley behind the east canal, made a left away from the water, and floored it. Miraculously, he didn't choose the same streets as the arriving squad cars. Five minutes later they were on the freeway, both clad only in their undershorts, heading toward Barrington Plaza.

Chooch sat quietly in the passenger seat, shaken by the experience. Finally he looked over at Shane.

"I thought it was bullshit," he said.

"Now you know," Shane answered, but he hadn't been prepared for the ferocious machine-gun attack. He had never imagined that somebody would stand outside his house pouring lead into his living room. His hands were shaking; he was glad he was gripping the steering wheel so it didn't show.

"Who were those guys?" Chooch asked. "They ride down on you with fucking machine guns. ..."

"I'm not sure. Bad cops, I think."

When he looked over at Chooch a second time, he saw a strange expression on the boy's face, too complicated to read.

They got off the freeway at Sunset. Shane found a dark spot and pulled to the curb so they could change into their clothes in the car. Then they drove around the corner and pulled in at Barrington Plaza. Shane badged the doorman with the braided shoulders. Sandy was standing in the living room wearing a silk robe belted around her slender waist. Her hair was tousled. She looked composed but concerned, an actress playing a scene.

"I can't believe it," she said after Shane filled her in.

"This isn't going to be a discussion, Sandy. You're taking Chooch."

"My God, who do you think they were?"

"I'm not sure, but I have a few hunches." He stood there, feeling a wave of fatigue. Then he looked at Chooch, wearing the same strange expression Shane had seen in the car. In the better light of Sandy's apartment, it looked a little like regret, or maybe it was guilt.

"Okay, here's the deal, Chooch ..."

The boy jerked to attention and faced Shane.

"Disneyland, next weekend. You stay here till then, and I'll be back for you. It's a promise."

Chooch nodded.

As ShL
. I
e moved to the door, he heard Chooch call his name, and he looked back. "I'm sorry," the boy said. "I thought you were lying, but I was wrong."

Chapter
28

WHEN SHANE GOT BACK to his house on East Canal Street, it was sunup. Five black-and-whites and a crime
-
scene station wagon were blocking the street. He edged the Acura past them and pulled into the garage.

There were ten cops standing in his living room. When he entered, they turned, clearly surprised to see him.

"Where the hell you been?" Garson Welch asked. The fact that the old detective had been called out on this told Shane that he was still a murder suspect in the criminal investigation surrounding Ray's death.

Welch had been given this call because he was investigating Molar's shooting and this machine-gun attack was most likely connected. The old detective looked at Shane with his basset
-
hound expression and tired brown eyes. "We just put a bulletin out on you."

"I had something personal to take care of," Shane said.

"What the fuck was this?" Garson said, pointing at the destroyed wall where Crime Section techs were busy digging 9mm slugs out of the plaster and bagging them as evidence for a ballistics comparison later. That is, if they ever found the weapon, which was right up there with the odds on Shane's next promotion.

Shane was sure that the machine guns were illegal street sweepers: AK-47s, maybe MAC-lOs, most likely taken from the vast array of confiscated weapons held in the Firearms and Ammunition Section's secure property room, destined for eventual burial at sea.

"Who did this?" Garson asked.

"Don't know," Shane said. "The lights were out, and I was flat on my stomach eating carpet."

"Okay, let's go. You got an appointment at Parker Center."

"Shit... do we have to do that again?" Shane asked. The remark was greeted by a flat stare.

Shane was taken from his house and again made the early
-
morning ride across town to the Glass House. Garson Welch stayed quiet as they drove. He had the case but didn't want it. As far as Welch was concerned, the brass at Parker Center could ask the questions. They pulled into the parking garage next to the huge lit police building, then rode the elevator up to the ninth floor. This time Shane found Deputy Chief Tom Mayweather standing in the hallway waiting for him, looking very GQ in his black pinstripe suit, white shirt, maroon tie, and matching pocket accessory. His bald head was gleaming, his handsome face theatrically troubled. He didn't say anything but motioned Shane down the hall. Garson Welch stayed in the lobby, glad to be out of it.

Shane followed Mayweather into his office. The room was not as large as Chief Brewer's by half but had a picture window with a Spring Street view. The shelves were littered with Mayweather's old basketball trophies, game balls, and team photos, along with the more standard police memorabilia: his Academy class picture, civil-service awards, and plaques attesting to his superiority as a police officer.

Mayweather stepped behind his desk, using the large, light oak piece of furniture as a barricade to separate them and define their roles. Shane stood while Mayweather sat in his tan executive swivel chair. The overhead ceiling spot kicked white light off his shaved head.