L.A. Wars (8 page)

He tested the equipment and found it operative.

There were more electronics, and Hawker unpacked it all. The most impressive addition to the hardware was a HFR Eavesdrop, a high-technology listening system built for the U.S. government by IBM.

Hawker unpacked the booster/receiver, which looked like a portable shortwave radio. There was a cassette tape recorder built in. The recorder was sound-sensitive, which meant it would automatically tape any conversation within the area of its minireceivers—little candy-colored bugs. The Eavesdrop's antenna was a modernistic dish, about the size of a suitcase.

In the growing darkness Hawker found a ladder and mounted the antenna dish on top of the bungalow, then ran the coaxial cable inside to the receiver.

He showered, then dressed in dark jeans, black knit pullover shirt, and his black watch-cap.

Hawker selected the weapons he wanted to carry and placed them in the Cutlass. Finally he took a plastic sack containing a dozen of the tiny bugging devices.

After the drinking bouts of Friday and Saturday nights the Starnsdale slums seemed to be in the grip of a massive hangover. The few people who roamed the streets were subdued. The pounding soul music which vibrated from the rows of sour bars wasn't turned up quite so loud.

The stray dogs and the winos slept side by side in the alleyways.

Hawker parked his car near the Hillsboro section, then retraced his route back to the slums.

He made his way across the tops of buildings, staying low, hugging the shadows.

The summer stink of asphalt and garbage lifted from the streets. As Hawker moved over the slum apartments, he could smell the fried-fat-and-greens odor of late suppers cooking.

Not far from where Julie Kahl was murdered, Hawker saw them: about two dozen men and teenagers wearing blue bandannas and sleeveless T-shirts.

They stood in serious conversation on a street corner. There were no jokes and little laughter.

Several of them carried wicked-looking clubs. Others had heavy chains wrapped around their necks like necklaces.

Something was up. Hawker recognized the signs. These guys were looking for a fight.

Hawker decided he would give it to them.

He hid himself behind a chimney, two stories above them. He crawled on his belly to the edge of the building and peered over.

He could see and hear them plainly. Their voices were thick with anger—and fear.

Hawker listened to the many voices, all trying to talk at once.

“… that's what I think we ought to do.”

“Bullshit, man. I'll tell you who hit Fat Albert and Spooky. It was them Satanás, man. And if you ask me—”

“Cat Man said it was a
Casper
, motherfucker. Said it was a white boy that wasted the brothers. Shot his fucking dick off, man, so he should know.”

“Yeah, and what about that weird drawing on the wall, man? Fucking big bird or somethin'.
Revenge
is what it said. This white dude be wanting revenge. Fucker's nuts, man. Cat Man say he didn't even
blink
before he hit 'em. Said he was cold as ice, man. Set it up so the cops think Cat Man did it—”

“Cat Man's crazy, blood. He's been doing his PCP thing too long. Don't be believin' that shit he talks. Razor the only man we listen to. The war council be meeting right now. So just hang loose. We got our leaders, man, and we follow our leaders. That the Panther way. Maybe you be a leader someday, little blood, then you know. Razor and Blade and Amin be deciding what we do. If they say we hit the Satanás, then we hit the Satanás. They say we go into Hillsboro and waste some Caspers, we do that, too.…”

On and on it went. Hawker tried to note all the nicknames he heard. One of them he already recognized: “Razor.” The other two, “Blade” and “Amin,” were unfamiliar—but they sounded deadly.

Hawker looked forward to meeting all three.

The war party wasn't long in forming. Directly beneath Hawker cement steps led down into a basement stronghold.

Hawker guessed it was the Panthers' headquarters.

He heard a door swing open, then clank shut: a metal door.

Three men came out in single file. At first Hawker could only see the tops of their heads, then the backs of their heads. They wore jean jackets with the sleeves cut off, and blue bandannas tied around their necks. Hawker didn't have to guess at their nicknames. They were embroidered on the backs of their jackets.

Amin was well named. He had the black, fat gorilla face of the infamous dictator, Idi Amin. Hawker guessed him at six feet tall, close to three hundred pounds. He wore glistening black boots, and a chrome chain for a belt. His head was completely shaved. The glistening sweat on his face and head gave Amin the appearance of some massive creature who has just climbed out of a tar pit.

The gang leader named Blade was Amin's antithesis. Blade was small and wiry with a bushy black Afro, and the chilling grin of a man-child who is stunted emotionally and intellectually, frozen in the black-and-white world of childhood.

But there was nothing innocent about Blade's strange grin. It was the wolfish smile of a killer.

Of the three Razor was the most striking, the most impressive. He was tall and lithe, with something of a jungle cat in him. His movements were fluid and sure. His manner, perfunctory.

He was the man in charge. He knew it. They knew it. He had a strong, coffee-colored face and tiny piggish eyes. Hawker put him at six two, and maybe two hundred pounds of pure, corded muscle. His biceps rippled in the sleeveless jean jacket. The harsh vapor streetlights glinted off the rings on his fingers and the lone jeweled earring in his right ear.

When Razor, Amin, and Blade appeared, the other Panthers crowded around. Razor snapped his fingers and they were immediately silent.

“The lieutenants and me have worked this thing over in our heads,” Razor began, surveying his troops. “I'm the one who talked to Cat Man in the hospital. I'm the one who heard his story. Dig? Cat Man says some Casper came to our turf and busted heads. Killed some of our own blood. Did worse to Cat Man.”

The gang members muttered among themselves. Hawker listened intently, wondering where Razor was going.

“What I'm sayin', brothers, is that I'm not going to be doubting one of our own. Cat Man says it was this white dude—this Casper that drawed the big bird on the alley wall—then I ain't going to say he's lying. Dig? When the word comes from one of our own blood, then it's gospel. We don't lie to our own kind.”

There were nods of approval from the others.

“But I will say this,” Razor continued, now speaking louder. “Cat Man wasn't in too good a shape that night. He'd been doin' some shit—you all know what I'm saying. He'd been dusting his brains out, and I think the PCP finally done got to him. I think maybe one of them bad Satanás cats come to our turf and got down on our blood—that's what I think. This Sataná dude probably looked white, probably wasn't wearing his colors.…”

The Panthers were hooting their approval now.

“But just in case,” Razor commanded above the other voices, “these are your orders: You find any Gasper on our turf' after dark, you kill him, dig? No talk, no questions—just
do
it. Cat Man says the dude had red hair. That's what you look for. Understand? If there really is some jive Casper cruising on our turf, we want to stop him and stop him quick. And I won't be happy until I got both his ears to add to my collection.”

The Panthers laughed at that, nodding knowingly. There was something in their laughter which told Hawker that Razor really did have a collection of ears.

Razor continued: “But in the meantime—listen to me!—in the meantime I think we ought to jump into the war wagons and take a little cruise into Satanás turf!” Razor reached into his back pocket and produced a wicked-looking straight razor. He flicked open the blade and made a slashing motion. “Who's with me, blood? Who's got the balls to revenge our own?”

Amid yells and war cries the entire gang crammed into three broken-down station wagons and rattled off.

Amin drove the lead car, with Razor and Blade riding shotgun.

eight

When they were gone, Hawker found a fire-escape ladder at the back of the building. He climbed down and moved through the shadows to the street.

A few drunks were out, carrying their bottles in paper sacks. Traffic was light. Women sat on front steps, fanning themselves in the night heat.

Someone was bound to see him break into the Panthers' headquarters. And that was just what Hawker wanted—so long as they didn't try to stop him.

Hawker had no desire to injure the innocent. By the looks of things the residents of Starnsdale's black slums had already suffered enough.

The windows of the basement floor headquarters were barred and painted black—so no one could break in, or see in.

Hawker swung down the stairs. The door was metal—as he'd suspected. They had snapped an industrial-weight padlock on it before they left.

From the small pack he carried Hawker took a thumb-sized chunk of plastic incendiary explosive. Hawker molded it around the lock and inserted the pyrotechnic blasting fuse.

Hawker lit the fuse and hugged the wall.

There was the
crack
of a rifle shot, and then the white-hot hissing of thermate. The lock glowed bright orange, then melted away.

Hawker, wearing a pair of thin leather driving gloves, swung the door open and flicked on the lights.

The Panthers' headquarters seemed to be a combination meetinghouse and warehouse.

Covering the floor were rows of television sets, tape recorders, kitchen appliances, bicycles, typewriters, and other odd goods. It took Hawker a moment to realize the stuff had all been stolen.

It was stored here, waiting to be fenced.

In the middle of the room was a long folding-table. There were empty beer bottles on the table, and the ashtrays were stuffed full. The walls were covered with psychedelic posters proclaiming soul singers, or demanding black power.

Hawker took two blue bugs from his pouch and tore off the adhesive strips on each. He hid one behind a Jimmy Hendrix poster and the other beside a wad of gum beneath the table.

In the far corner of the room was a metal desk with drawers. Kneeling beside it, Hawker found the drawers locked. He wondered how big a business gang-theft was. Big enough to keep files?

Hawker got down on the floor and rolled on his back so he could see the bottom of the desk. First he stuck another little blue bug on the base of the desk. Then he went to work on the steel rod that held the drawers locked. It took him a few minutes to slide it out.

The files were surprisingly neat. But they weren't labeled. Hawker began to riffle through the papers. A sheet of names caught his attention.

It was a membership list, complete with ages, addresses, and a few phone numbers.

A street gang with a membership list?

Razor was beginning to impress him. He was not only a leader but an organizer as well.

It was a dangerous combination.

A deep voice startled him. It came from the doorway.

“Somebody in here, I'll guarantee you that, man.”

Another voice agreed. “Shit—looka here. Burned the fucking lock right off.”

“Razor ain't gonna like this shit. He told us to keep an eye on things. We best do somethin'.”

“Yeah. An' I'll tell you just what we do, man. We go in there and kill any motherfucker we see.”

Hawker pulled the big Colt Commander .45 out of its holster and hid behind the desk as the door swung open.

Hawker didn't like what he saw. The two men were older than the others. Early thirties. But each wore a blue bandanna around his neck.

The lead man carried a sawed-off 12-gauge. A pump gun. The other held a feminine-looking automatic in his right hand.

They moved slowly into the room, their eyes searching.

“These lights ain't supposed to be on, man. There's somebody in here just as sure as shit.”

“Shut up, man! Just keep your eyes open, fool.”

“Maybe we ought to call the cops.”

“Cops?
Are you nuts, man? Cops get in here and see all this shit, and all our asses will be in prison. Now just shut that stupid head of yours and look, man.”

Hawker crouched lower as they came toward him. On the floor near the desk was a beer bottle. Hawker waited until they were both looking away. He tossed the bottle toward the far side of the room. When they whirled at the sound of the crash, Hawker stood.

“Freeze, assholes! I'll blow your heads off if you so much as blink. Now, toss those weapons away.”

The two men stood like statues. They hesitated before dropping their guns. Hawker drew back the hammer of the Colt. The sound of the hammer was like a command. They tossed their weapons away.

“Now turn toward me—slowly,” demanded Hawker.

The man who had held the automatic was visibly nervous. His eyes darted from Hawker to the open door. Hawker wondered if he might be thinking of bolting toward freedom. He moved between the two men and the door.

The man who had carried the shotgun had dark, fierce eyes and an ugly expression. He was the spokesman, and Hawker let him talk.

“You're the dude who wasted Fat Albert and Spooky, and shot Cat Man,” he said. It wasn't a question. It was a statement. The man's voice revealed no fear. Only contempt.

“That's right,” said Hawker.

A light sneer crossed the man's face. “You're dead, white boy. Right now you're breathin' and your heart's beating, but you're a goner. The walking dead, that's what you are. The Panthers are going to be hunting you, white boy. And you can't run far enough.”

“Pretty brave talk for a man with a .45 pointed at his head.”

The sneer broadened. “Things change, white boy. Things about to change right now, matter of fact.” He looked toward the open door. “Ain't that right, Charlie?”