Hey, you. Yes, you. You've got that look in your eyes. The look of a renegade, a born killer who grew up in the CTs. Well, listen to my story, and maybe that killer mentality will fade, and leave you a decent outer shell and inner mind. What I'm about to tell you will, I hope, change you and make you a better police officer.
Here I am, a normal cop in L.A., the City of the Angels. I'm driving my beat on the highway when I get a call to report in. So I boost off to HQ, LAPD South. I get a message to report in to Captain Sadaka. So I ride the elevator up to the 14th floor and stop at Cap Gook's office.
It's not that I'm pejudiced, but I grew up in L.A. during the "rebirth," as newspaper writers called it, when white guys got beat on by the Oriental gangs, the Black gangs, and the Hispanic Gangs. That's not to say that we didn't do our share of beatings, but I was raised a bigot. And Sadaka knows it.
Sadaka's secretary buzzed him when I arrived. She ushered me in and grinned as she closed the door. I closed my eyes for a second, to let the spice smell saturate my body, then opened them to view Sadaka. He smiled and spoke, "Good afternoon, Officer Gunter. Nice to see you again."
I couldn't figure what was in his brain, behind those piercing black eyes. "Good afternoon to you, too, sir. What can I do for you."
His eyes softened, and his mouth turned into very slight smile. "We have a situation. A psycho from Kentucky is in the city. He killed eighteen people in a McAlges restaurant last night. Bad guy. I'm going to set you on it."
My head reeled with the possibilities. If I worked it right, this could mean a promotion. Maybe Sadaka wasn't so bad after all. But maybe he knew something I didn't. Turned out he did.
"The policeman from the original case is arriving today. He'll need a guide, someone who knows the city, the ways of the road, the people, and where this fugitive might go. I think you're the man for the job, Gunter."
I nodded. He did know something. Another of my peeves is a dislike of hicks. I had been beaten up by a couple of Georgian truckers a few years back, and I never forgot. "Okay, sir. Anything special I ought to know?"
He looked at his desk at an open file. Mine, I saw. "Deputy Sheriff Nick Varney will be at The Devil's Den truck stop at 1630." He checked his ornate water clock. "About an hour from now. Rush hour is starting, I suggest you leave immediately to meet him. You'll be on you own, basically. Backup will be provided, as well as access to the computers, but I'm not sending out a task force -- they city can't afford it.
"You'll have an expense account and full compensation for any damage, and, if you're successful, a week of paid leave. You'll be on detective hours, reporting only to me, once a day. Any questions?"
I shook my head. I'd been waiting for this break for three years. I'd make detective quick this ways. I stood and turned to leave. Sadaka's voice stopped me as I touch the doorknob.
"I know of your background, Gunter. I grew up in the CTs, too. On the northeast side. I ran with the Typhoons. You're dismissed, Officer. Good luck." Then he added something in an Oriental language; probably meant "Goodbye, Sucker" or something like that.
I was amazed his last statement. I never could figure Orientals. They think different than I do. I put it out of my head as I entered the elevator, punched the sub-basement where my cruiser was parked, and headed out for The Devil's Den and a load of trouble.
I arrived at 1642. The traffic had been murder. Literally. I'd seen eight fatals in the twenty miles between the station and the truck stop. I pulled into a parking slot, locked the car, and walked into the bar. The air-conditioned interior was enjoyable after the short walk across the blacktop parking lot. It had to be close to a hundred outside.
It wasn't too hard to pick out Deputy Sheriff Varney. He was the only person in the place wearing a badge and fighting with a pair of truckers who tipped the scales at close to three hundred each. They were about to jump on him when I walked up. Varney hadn't seen me. The two truckers had, though.
I raised my .42 autoloader, and the laser dot fell on one trucker's face. Both at once backed off, mumbling apologies. Varney whirled to face me, and tipped his hat. I nodded, holstering the Wesson.
"Hey there, Officer. Name's Varney, Nick Varney," he said, offering his hand. His grip felt like cold steel. He was strong for his size, but, I thought, aren't most hillbillies.
"I'm Officer Gunter. You can call me Bill. You had any chow?"
He shook his head and pointed to the counter. "Just a cup of black."
"Good. Let's head over to my place and eat, then we'll set out to check on your friend." I followed Nick to his truck. It was a mini-truck painted olive drab with a few flecks and notable patches. The black, stenciled name along both sides read "Morganville Sherrifs Department". The back had in the same stencil "Deputy Varney".
I told him to follow me, to keep in touch on frequency 3.24.81. hz, and not to provoke anyone. He followed my lead impeccably, and no one raised an eyebrow.
We parked in the underground parking ramp and I told him to leave his anti-theft off and not to bother locking the truck. Eighteen cops and lawmen live in the building, so robberies were nil. I offered to help take his stuff inside, and he handed me a suitcase, while he carried a stainless weapon case and a nylon bag.
The bag intrigued me. It was four feet long, a foot and a half high and several inches thick. My curiousity finally got the best of me as I unlocked my apartment door. "What's in the bag, Nick?"
"Bow." Leave it to the country boy. At my startled look, he elaborated. "It's a silent weapon, and I can kill a man at fifty yards." He unzipped the case and handed it to me.
It wasn't really pretty to look at, but then neither were the triple barrel gyrosluggers that the Narco cops carried. It was flat black, except for a stainless steel pin with a red semi-transparent light at the end of it. I fingered it, and Nick nearly became unglued.
"Don't. That pin sight, if you didn't move it, is priceless. If you did, the bow is worthless until I reset it."
Gently, I handed him the bow, careful not to touch the pin sight.
After entering and ordering food and a six of Gear Beer, we planned the rest of our evening. Varney said that Tanner was a loner, only appearing publicly to kill or buy weapons or parts. He knew that Tanner had been driving a Masochist pickup when he left Kentucky.
As we got ready to move out, I asked Nick why he was on the case.
"Two reasons," he replied. "First, I know Tanner, went to school with him, grew up a mile or so away. Other officers would kill him. I want to bring him to justice alive. Second, I've never seen anything far from Kentucky, and I wanted to see the USA. So the road trip to LA was perfect."
When we armed ourselves for the evening, our backgrounds showed themselves. I wore level two body armor, a vest with a fighting knife, my .42 Wesson, and two clips attached. I also loaded my Kochler 9.4 mm SMG and checked it's thermal scope.
Nick wore level one body armor with a flak jacket. He holstered a sawed-off shotgun on his hip and tucked two Willie Pete grenades into his pockets. A pair of deringers closed out his armament.
We went downstairs to the garage level and headed for my car, the "Fire Breather". It was a lux painted fire-engine red, with three flamers and an incendiary-loaded rocket launcher in the turret. I hopped into the driver's seat and Nick settled into the gunner position, facing rearward.
We crossed town to the northern side where most of the scum hang out. I have some heavy contacts there from my days of running with the RabidRats. I had to stop Nick from blasting two compacts for jumping on us. He wasn't used to the University student drivers. Most of those kids duel in the Nickel division. Not really a threat.
"Where are we going to start?" Nick asked. "The freeway's nice and all, but I think we're wasting time."
"Never fear, Nickie. I'm heading for my old neighborhood, to talk with a couple of friends who might know about Tanner."
We arrived in Coyote territory at 1904, and I pulled up to Vinnie's Vulcan View, the Tri-V to anyone who knew the turf, and left the plant on. "Hang around. Okay, Nick?"
He nodded as I got out. Vinnie's shop looked as decrepit as ever. It was a good cover. Inside was enough armament and electronics to outfit numerous Dollar division cars. Numerous.
I knocked, as was customary at Vinnie's. Although he left the door unlocked, the guy who just walked in got shot as often as not. Vinnie was a great help. Yes, a certain tall, dark-haired, fully bearded man in a Masochist pickup had shown up. Yes, he'd purchased ammo for an autocannon. He was staying in a hotel three miles away, waiting on some personal weapons. Vinnie gave me the address.
The Fire Breather did sixty through town, dodging bag people, MTA buses, and plain old peds. As we pulled up to Tanner's hotel, a Masochist left through an alley.
I'd never power-turned the 'Breather before, but I learned fast. My thoughts were on the fact that he seemed to have known that we were coming. Not a nice idea. I told Varney to hold fire. I didn't want to hit a civilian or start any fires.
Tanner was running the narrow alleys at fifty. I followed with both hands clenching the wheel. Shooting through the intersections as we were, I figured that Tanner would have hit something by now.
At intersection number eleven, Tanner came close to T-boning an MTA bus. He locked up his brakes. I did the same, and my car took minor damage when the rear swung into the alley wall. As soon as the bus was out of his way, Tanner punched the accelerator again, and jumped into the next alley.
By alley number thirteen, Tanner was back up to fifty when his luck ran out. Tanner T-boned a Courier, destroying the car and killing the driver, and ripping off half of his pickup's ramplate. Swerving at the last minute, I avoided hitting Tanner but ran through Courier parts. Nick fired the turreted launcher, scoring a hit on Tanner's front. I triggered the linked heavy flamers, also hitting his blasted front armor.
For our trouble, Tanner left us a 60mm projectile in my rear armor.
Tanner hit reverse and ran backwards down the alley we'd just come from. I tried another powerslide, but my right front tire blew out. Nick swore, and I punched it. I could still drive with three tires, just not as fast. "He's already got a good lead on us. Let's get fixed up and come back later."
We did just that. I had four new belted tires put on. I also had the mechanic reload the flamers and patch the armor. The paint job looked lousy, but I couldn't justify paying to repaint it when it was going to get shot up again anyway.
Tanner didn't know we were coming this time, so I wasn't surprised that his Masochist was still parked out back when we returned. I chambered a round in my Kochler, and we walked into the rear door of the hotel. The guy at the desk said that someone with Tanner's description was on the third floor. I nodded thanks, and we walked around the corner to the stairs.
I stopped short and held a finger to my lips for Varney to see. We heard the phone lift off the receiver. "Hey, there's a couple of guys headed upstairs looking for you... Yeah, I know. I'm giving you all the warning I can... Look, they knew you were here... Don't make it too messy."
I ran back to the desk and punched the guy as hard as I could on the chin. He folded and was out. Nick cut the phone wire. "Let's go up the fire escape."
We crept up, ducking the windows and trying not to make any noise. We had almost made it when my 9.4 mm hit a ladder rung.
Tanner swung his head out the windows and opened up with an assault rifle. Nick jumped down to the second floor landing and was ready to return fire, but I was in the way. I muttered a curse about the fire codes and fired an entire clip upwards.
As Tanner hit the dirt inside, I reloaded and resumed climbing. I reached the landing and levelled the Kochler, ready to hose the guy. But he was nowhere to be found. While Nick and I searched the place, the Masochist started up and drove away.
Nick was disgusted, and I was pretty steamed myself. No one seemed to be on our side. Common police problem: the same people screaming how we don't do our jobs when they get shot up in a burger joint are the same ones who squeal that we're coming. Stupid people.
Speaking of ratting, we decided to pay another visit to Tri-V and ask Vinnie real nicely how Tanner knew we were coming.
Vinnie seemed kind of nervous. "Billy, ah, what can I get you?"
"What I want is some information. Like ratting on a fellow Rat. Come on, Vinnie." My eyes caught some movement, and my hand drew the .42 by reflex.
"Drop the gun, Gunter. You know I'm faster and I don't miss." Vinnie's brother and bodyguard, Gino, was holding an elephant gun at me about ten feet away. We'd fought in the RabidRats together. But, we hadn't fought with Nick Varney, God bless his hillbilly hide.
Nick's scattergun was up. Gino saw it, muttered somethng in Italian, and lowered his gun.
"Good, Gino. Now, Vinnie, tell me why you squealed."
"The guy's got our little brother. I got to warn him so nothing happens to Steve." Vinnie's eyes said he was telling the truth.
"All right, Vinnie. We're cool. Tell him we came back and we're going home, 'cause we are." I offered my hand. Vinnie took it, and we shook as RabidRats for the last time.
It was the last thing Vincent Nichi ever did. While we were parleying, a certain criminal backwoods hick had snuck up on three of the best streetfighters in LA and a damn good shot from Kentucky, and dropped Vinnie with a shot from a big shotgun.
I dropped, fired three times, but missed. Nick ran outside and blasted twice with the 12 gauge. "I got him."
Gino and I went outside, saw a spatter of blodd on the pavement, and Nick reloading the shotgun. "I hit his arm. He went thataway." Nick pointed into the business district.
Just then, we heard the moaning in the back of the Masochist. In the bed of the pickup was Stevie, all trussed and gagged. Gino untied him and was still spouting names for Tanner as Nick and I hopped into the lux.
Nick swiveled the turret, searching for Tanner. We didn't have to search long. Tanner levelled a LAW at us and fired. The rocket made our car swerve a little, but I steered out of it, and headed straight for Tanner, who dropped the tube and ran for a building. He scrambled inside as Nick let off a round, hitting brick not flesh.
I ran in after him, hollering at Nick to go around back. We soon found ourselves in the same alley, shrugging our shoulders at each other. Cops all act alike, I guess. Act alike, not are alike.
Nick and I packed it in, and went home for more ammo and to eat. When we got to the apartment and dropped our gear, I hung up our stuff in the closet and told Nick a number to dial for a delivering diner. Delivery wasn't cheap, but the LAPD was paying for it.
Nick was incredulous. "They deliver in this crazy city with those lousy kiddie drivers?" I popped open a couple of Gears and passed one to Nick.
"Yeah. Beats me how they pay for the cars, but the pizza arrives hot and good."
I flipped on an all-sports network. Last night's action from the Slalom. Neat stuff. Mostly Quarter divs. A Dollar division was the main event, and the buzzer rang just when it started.
Hunger is the only excuse I have for not paying attention. When I opened the door, I was looking down a pistol barrel. I backpedaled and tried to slam the 3" plate door, but Tanner sacrified his left hand to stop me. The hand broke, but he had access to the apartment.
I turned and ran to the bedroom, where my bootgun was, slamming the bedroom door and snatching the pistol from the bedstand. I heard shots fired outside, and then the door burst open. I tensed, knowing that the first shot had to kill.
Before I could squeeze the trigger, Tanner's body slammed down to the floor, face down, with an arrow protruding from his neck. "Nick!" I yelled.
In the next room, Nick was laying on his side, his hand away from me, with a puddle of blood forming around him. I ran to him and turned him over. His eyes were shut.
"Nick! Come on, you dirty hick. You'd better not be dead. Sadaka'll kill me, too." He opened his eyes and grinned weakly.
"Captain Asian?" he whispered. "Not to worry. I've been messed up better'n this. A bear got hold of me a couple years back." He coughed fiercely. "Wish you hadn't messed up that pin sight. I should have hit his head, not his neck. But then, dead is dead."
So now you know. Don't think that just because they aren't you that they aren't better than you. Asian, Italian, Hillbilly -- especially Hillbillies. Okay, I know you've got to run to class. Yeah. Tell your instructor that Detective Gunter held you up with a story. He'll know what you mean.
I've got to go, too. I have a meeting with Commander Sadaka, and I can't be late. His waterclock keeps time perfectly, and he hates tardiness. Almost as much as I hate waterclocks.
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