Dog Eat Dog (28 page)

“Naw, not for shoplifters. Find that burgundy Jaguar and run a make on the plates.”

Out in the parking lot, Troy ate a doughnut and leafed through the magazine, wondering why he’d even picked it up. It gave no intellectual nourishment and he was only minimally interested in the soft gossip about movie stars, although he’d sure masturbated over a few during the years of prison.

His peripheral vision and the constant alertness of the predator made him aware of something behind the car. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw the black-and-white car parked across the rear of the Jaguar. His heart jumped. He started to turn and saw the uniform outside the driver window.

“Excuse me,” said Officer Melanie Strunk, “could you step out of the car, sir?”

He hid his fear. “Sure. What’s up?” He reached for the door, but she opened it for him and stepped back. He wished he could see her eyes. They were hidden behind dark aviator glasses.

He got out. “What’s wrong, officer?” He wondered what had attracted her. Was there probable cause? The money and the shotgun were in the trunk. His pistol was under the seat.

“Why’s your license plate covered?”

“What?”

He stepped to the rear (she backed up) and looked at the rear license plate. A newspaper had been draped over it at the fold. It was the kids horseplaying outside Diesel’s house. That was the only possible explanation. He snatched it away. “Some kids must’ve been playing games.”

“Is this your car, sir?” Her suspicion was less than it might have been because he was a well-dressed white man of thirty-five. A young black in baggy clothes would ring her alarm bells.

“Yes. I just got it.”

“Can I see your driver’s license?”

“Sure.” He brought forth his wallet and extracted the license in the name of Al Leon Klein.

“Stay here,” she said, taking his license back to run a make. She was on the other side of the police car, looking over it at him.

The police car blocked him from backing out, and in front of the Jaguar was a knee-high concrete barrier. Should he run? No. The driver’s license and license plates would go through. He looked around. A few people were outside the market, watching the scene. No Diesel.

Melanie Strunk returned and handed him the license. “All right, Mr. Klein. There’s been a lot of shoplifting here. Do you mind if I look in your car?”

Oh shit! The law said he could refuse; she lacked probable cause. But if he said no, she would never let it go. If he gave permission, he would waive his rights. “Am I under arrest?” he asked.

“No. Not yet.”

Over her shoulder, Troy saw Diesel come through the glass doors. The big man cradled a bag of groceries in each arm. Troy thought of the pistol under the seat. Could he get it out and turn fast enough?

“Do you mind if I look?” she asked again.

“What are you looking for?”

“Do you have stolen merchandise?”

“No, of course not.”

“Do you have narcotics or a weapon?”

“No.”

“So what do you have to hide?”

“Not a thing.”

“So …?”

“Okay … sure. Let me get my sweater.” It was on the other side of the front seat, above the pistol. He opened the car door. From the corner of his eye, he saw her unsnap her holster. He could never get the pistol in time. He whirled back to face her, desperation charging him.

“Freeze!” he said. “You’re covered from behind.” As he spoke, he moved forward so they were chest to chest. He loomed over her.

For a moment she froze; then she took a step back and reached for her pistol.

Troy threw a right-hand punch.

Melanie turned enough so her helmet took the blow and broke one of his knuckles. A bolt of pain ran up his arm.

Melanie fell against the adjacent car, her head ringing as she pulled her service revolver. Before she could raise it, Troy had grabbed it with his other hand and tried to twist it away. She grabbed it with both hands and wrapped both legs around one of his.

Down they fell between cars, struggling for the pistol. Troy would have easily wrenched it away except for the broken hand.

Diesel saw the sudden struggle. What should he do?

Before he could decide, Officer Lincoln and Mr. Williams rushed past, brushing against him as they ran to help the struggling officer.

Troy was twisting the pistol back and forth. Melanie was hanging on. She had a thumb in the hammer so it wouldn’t discharge.

Troy heard the crunch of footsteps. Then a terrible pain and a flash of light shot through his brain. A rock?

Again the flash and pain. A nightstick bounced off his skull. Blood ran down into his eyes. A forearm went around his throat in a choke hold, dragging him away.

They rode him down, shoving his face into the asphalt. Hands twisted his arms behind his back. The steel bracelets clicked through the notches and fastened. Someone kneeled on his back. He went limp. Where was Diesel? Why hadn’t he come to help? Troy wished he was dead. Then he heard the manager say: “There’s the other one over there in the crowd.”

Diesel didn’t hear the words, but he saw the heads turn toward him. Until then he’d thought they didn’t suspect him. They had touched him while going by. As he’d stood watching the melee, he had pulled his pistol and held it under the groceries. He tried to steel himself to go to Troy’s aid. It happened too fast; he didn’t have his mind locked. Neither could he bring himself to fade away and abandon his friend.

Now that was all moot. The two police officers were coming toward him, splitting apart to cover each other. All he had was the pistol, a minor felony, and a year earlier he would have surrendered and served the six-month-to-five-year term. Now, however, he faced a life sentence because it would be his third felony—no matter how minor it might have been. He knew what he had to do. It was better to kill or die than surrender the rest of his life. The female cop was coming right at him. The black cop kind of circled. The crowd parted for her. She was five feet from him.

“You,” she said, pointing at him.

He looked around, feigning that he thought she meant someone else. Others in the crowd also looked around. Melanie Strunk moved another step closer.

Diesel turned back. He saw her freckled face framed by the police helmet. Her bulletproof vest distorted her uniform blouse, which was disheveled and dirty from rolling on the ground with Troy. She didn’t see the pistol under the bag of groceries. She had a fraction of a second, which wasn’t enough, when the muzzle appeared and exploded. The bullet hit her in the lower abdomen, below the vest. The force of the heavy bullet threw her hips backward and half turned her as she went down, a short cry of pain coming from her.

The crowd screamed and exploded away from him.

Officer Lincoln dove for the cover of a car and grabbed at his pistol.

Troy, his cheek ground into the asphalt by the manager’s knee, jerked at the gunshot. He coiled and tried to rise. The store manager and a box boy jumped on his back.

Diesel fired one wild shot in the direction of the black officer, and ran toward the end of the building. Oh God, oh God, oh God, his mind chanted. The evening had suddenly become apocalypse.

Melanie Strunk rolled on the concrete, holding her wound and crushing her teeth together to keep from crying out. Blood seeped between her fingers.

Officer Lincoln waited until the big man had turned the corner before jumping up and running after him.

On a street behind the market, a retired deputy sheriff heard the shot and saw the figure come around the corner and head toward a fence and a road beyond. The retired deputy slammed on his brakes, jumped out, and yelled, “Hold it, buster!”

Diesel leaped onto the fence and vaulted over, landing clumsily, facing the fence and stumbling backward until he fell on his rump.

The retired deputy was right behind the big man. He spread his arms like a linebacker readying for a tackle. Diesel was back on his feet. He tried to run over the man, but when he felt resistance, he shot him in the leg. The hero fell down and Diesel jumped in the deputy’s car.

Behind him, Officer Lincoln assumed a firing position and aimed. The range was thirty-five yards. As he squeezed the trigger, Diesel leaned to shift into gear.

The bullet went through the driver’s window, missed Diesel by an inch or two, went out the passenger window, crossed the street, and made a hole in a barbershop window. Carl Ellroy was in a barber chair, unaware of anything except a shave—until the heavy slug smashed into his forearm, breaking the bone and his Christmas present wristwatch.

Diesel stomped on the gas. The car fishtailed getting underway. As it careened down the street, bullets tore into it—but it kept going. Diesel could feel them hit, but he was unaware of the two big holes in the gas tank, where a bullet had passed all the way through. Gas streamed onto the street as he sped away. He looked at the gas gauge: half full.

Back at the market, hysterical voices called for an ambulance. Motorcycle officers and police cars screamed up with sirens and lights going full blast. Policemen took over from the manager. Troy saw the legs in blue uniforms. As a cop stepped on his head and ground his face into the pavement, he could see the granite walls of Folsom Prison. Rough hands jerked him up by the handcuffs behind his back and dragged him to a station wagon with a wired-off rear compartment. His head banged into the door frame. Someone pushed his head down and they threw him in back. He could see the spinning blue lights outside. As the station wagon got underway, Troy heard the clackety-clack of a helicopter. Run, Diesel, run, he thought through his own despair.

The hijacked car covered a mile before it ran out of gas. It was in a neighborhood of older frame houses. Thick maples canopied the street, creating night before the sun was all the way down. As Diesel got out, a chill wind blew over his sweating body and he shivered. He had to get another car. He had to get away. He would snatch one. He ran down the block, went through an alley to the next street. He went up on a porch and rang the bell.

No answer.

He ran across the lawn. Light came through the front window of the next house. He pushed the doorbell and waited, shivering and looking over his shoulder. Footsteps approached and, as the door opened, the sound of TV from inside. A man in his sixties faced him. “Yes,” the man said. Behind him was a Sheltie, barking loudly. “Shaddup,” the man said, pushing the dog back.

The screen door was closed but unhooked. Diesel opened it and put the pistol in the man’s stomach. “I need your car. Where’s the keys?”

The man was speechless. All that issued was “Uh … uh … uh …”

Diesel grabbed his shirtfront and rammed the pistol in his stomach. “Where’s your fuckin’ car keys?”

“In the … the car.”

The small dog was yipping at Diesel’s leg. From somewhere inside came a woman’s voice: “Who is it, Charlie?”

“Never mind, honey,” the old man yelled back. “I’ll take care of it.”

Diesel feinted at the dog, which made him run off, as Diesel wanted.

The old man had been in the Marine Corps, and after the first bolt of fear, he had control of himself. “Take it easy, mister. I won’t give you any trouble.”

“Good. Move it.”

The old man came outside and closed the door. Diesel pressed close, holding the pistol down by his leg on the side away from the old man—the way police are trained to do. He was going to take the old man with him. Two in a car might allay suspicion. He could imagine the hornet’s nest of enraged police pouring through the streets.

They both came down off the porch, down the driveway beside the house, and went to the garage. It was unlocked and the old man lifted it, exposing the rear of a ten-year-old Cadillac Seville, the kind with the humped trunk.

As they stepped inside, the spotlight hit them from the street. An amplified voice bellowed: “
Police officers! Don’t move!
”

Diesel looked over his shoulder. The spotlight nearly blinded him. He could barely see the outline of the prowl car.

“Be cool, old man,” he muttered. “Don’t say nothin’.” Diesel’s first bolt of despair and terror was replaced by a kind of indifference. If this was the end of the game, so be it. He’d gone too far to give up now. “What seems to be the trouble, officer?” he asked, looking through the glare to see if it was one or two.

“Stay where you are,” said a different voice. Two of them. He heard their footsteps moving down the driveway. He could see the figures against the light.

The back porch light went on, and the back door opened. The old man’s wife stuck her head out. “What’s going on out here, Charlie?” she asked.

The porch light illuminated the cops. One turned to her, swinging his shouldered shotgun away. It took Diesel a couple of seconds to lock his courage into place and raise the pistol.

“
He’s armed!
” yelled the other cop.

The shotgun swung back.

Diesel shot first. The bullet missed. The policeman pulled the shotgun’s trigger. Click. The hammer fell. He had forgotten to cock it. His partner shot with his pistol. Diesel felt the punch in the abdomen; then a hot poker in his guts, a weird sensation. The Python jumped in his hand again. This shot hit the first officer in the hip, breaking the bone and knocking him down.

The retired marine hit the garage floor as his wife screamed and fell back into the house onto the floor.

After he shot, the second officer ducked behind the garage wall. The spotlight beam from the street brought daylight to the garage interior. Diesel was half-blinded by the glare in his eyes as he crouched beside the car’s front fender. The cop had him pinned. He would be duck soup if he tried to run out of the door. Yet he couldn’t stay where he was. Where was the old man? He would be his hostage.

As if Diesel’s thought was a trigger, the retired marine jumped up on the other side and ran out: “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” he yelled, his hands up.

The officer held his fire. He could see his partner writhing on the ground, which was dark from the blood. He knew the suspect was on the other side of the car. “Give it up,” he yelled. “You can’t get past me. We got backup coming.” As soon as he yelled it, he moved along the outside of the garage, using his flashlight to guide himself. If Diesel had run out in those few seconds, he would have had a clear path to the street. The officer came around the rear and up the other side of the garage. He was next to the opposite wall from where Diesel thought he was.