The Losers (34 page)

Raphael swore and went back inside to the telephone to call Denise.

“Where have you been?” she demanded. “I’ve been waiting for your call.”

“I’ve got a problem,” he told her. “What?”

“It’s Flood. He’s been running with a motorcycle gang, and they’re getting geared up for a war with a rival gang. I’m going to have to see if I can’t get him off to one side and try to talk him into staying out of it.”

“Why?” She said it flatly.

“Come on, Denise. The man’s a friend of mine.” “Some friend.” There was a long pause. “It’s not Flood at all,” she accused him. “It’s that girl again, isn’t it?” “What are you talking about?”

“That girl—the one with the big belly. It’s
her
you want to be with, isn’t it?”

He was stunned. He’d never expected
this.
“Denise.” He said it very calmly. “What?”

“Stop and think for a minute. Think about me and then about what you just said.”

There was another long pause and then a slightly embarrassed laugh. “I’ve never been jealous of anyone before,” she admitted. “I’m not very good at it, huh?”

“Would you accept incompetent?”

“All right. I’m sorry. What’s her name?”

“She’s the girl on the roof.”

“That’s all? You don’t even know her name?”

“Why would I want to know her name? She’s not here anymore anyway. She went home to Metalline Falls. I persuaded her to make a run for it before the social workers got her. My caseworker broke down and cried when I told her that the girl on the roof made a getaway.”

“The puppy?”

“That’s the one. She probably went home and chewed up a pair of slippers after I told her about it. The problem really
is
Flood, Denise. Look, why don’t you come over here? Why don’t I come and get you? I could fix dinner for us here.”

“No thanks, Rafe. That might not be a good idea. I’ve never met this wonderful friend of yours, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Look. Let me see if I can get him squared away, and then I’ll call you back.”

There was a long, slightly sulky silence. “I’m sorry, Rafe,” she said finally, her voice contrite. “I was being selfish. I’m just disappointed, that’s all. I’ve never been stood up before. You do what you have to and call me back, okay?”

“Thanks, dear.”

“Dear?”

“Would you prefer ‘sweetie’?”

“You ever call me sweetie, I’ll steal your crutches.” “Love you,” he said. “Me too.”

vii

It was all very well to speak of talking Flood out of the evening’s insanity, but the question was how to go about it. He knew that the woman who rented the house was named Collins, and that the phone would be in her name, but would a phone call pull Flood away from the tense excitement that was erasing his brain at the moment? Perhaps some false emergency would do it—some personal appeal for help. At this point, however, Raphael was not sure that Flood would even respond to that. Perhaps the answer was simply to drive slowly by, stop, and call Flood over to the car. The problem with that, of course, was that Flood would be directly under the jealous gaze of Big Heintz, and there would be no way that he could get out of his commitment to the Angels, even if Raphael could talk some sense into him.

From up the street there came a roar of engines, and Raphael hurried out onto the roof. It was too late. He had been sure that they would not leave until after dark, but the tension apparently had built up to such a pitch that they were not able to sit anymore, or perhaps the gathering of the clans was going to involve a great deal of driving around looking tough. The motorcycles pulled slowly into the street, with Big Heintz in the lead and Little Hider and Marvin flanking him. Flood’s sports car was behind them, and the battered, smoking cars of the rest of the Angels were strung out to the rear.

They pulled down in front of Raphael’s apartment house, grim-faced and girt for war. Flood glanced up once as they passed and waved at Raphael with a cryptic smile on his face. The street had claimed him. The thing that Raphael had feared had happened.

There would be no reasoning with him now. Somehow, in spite of everything, Flood had become a loser.

Raphael watched helplessly from his rooftop. The caravan rounded the corner and was gone, leaving the late-afternoon street filled with silence and the stench of exhaust fumes.

Raphael went back into his apartment and switched on the scanner. Then he went to the telephone.

“Crime Check.”

“I’m not sure exactly how to put this,” Raphael apologized, “but would you be interested in something I heard about a gang fight in the making?”

“Could I have your name, sir?” It was the same officer Raphael had spoken with about Crazy Charlie’s cats.

“I don’t think that’s important. I overheard a conversation. There’s a motorcycle gang camped out down in People’s Park. I heard some members of another gang talking about them. The plan is to go down there in force for a confrontation. From what I gather they aren’t planning to make it just a fistfight. There was quite a bit of talking about knives, clubs, and chains.” He hesitated, then decided to mention it. A week or two in jail would be far better for Flood than twenty years to life for second-degree murder. “I think one of them has a gun,” he added.

The other end of the line seemed to crackle with a sudden alertness. The word “gun” seems to do that to policemen. “Were you able to get any kind of notion about when this is supposed to happen, sir?” the officer asked.

“Sometime tonight, I think. Bikers tend to be a little vague about things like time. This group was pretty well fired up about it, though, and they looked very determined when they took off.”

“We’ll check it out, sir.”

Raphael slipped the receiver back into its cradle. He had just violated a fairly elemental rule; he had snitched. Under the circumstances, however, he felt no particular guilt about it. He watched the winking red lights of the scanner and listened intently.

It was fully twenty minutes before the call went out. “Three-Eighteen,” the dispatcher said. Three-Eighteen was one of the downtown units, the one who usually got the messy calls. Raphael knew that Three-Eighteen was a
very
tough cop.

“Three-Eighteen.” The man even sounded bored.

“We have a citizen’s report that wasn’t really very specific. The citizen told us that there’s the possibility of a fight between two rival motorcycle gangs down in People’s Park sometime this evening. Do you want to take a swing down there and have a look around?”

“I’ll check it out.”

Raphael waited.

“This is Three-Eighteen.”

“Go ahead.”

“I’m down here in People’s Park. There are some people camped down here, all right. They
could
be bikers, I suppose. It’s mostly the women, though. I didn’t see any bikes around. Maybe the fight’s been called off. There’s nothing going on now. I’ll keep an eye on the place.”

Raphael almost howled in frustration. The Dragons had obviously made a beer-and-burger run. They’d be back, and Heintzie would get his war. “Dumb cops!” Raphael almost shouted.

The sun went down lingeringly, staining the sky off to the west.

Raphael listened to the scanner and waited. By nine o’clock his nerves were wound up like springs. He felt himself actually start at each new voice on the scanner. He called Denise and told her what was happening. Her tone was still disappointed, but they talked for a while and smoothed that over.

Raphael fixed himself a sandwich and continued to listen.

“All downtown units,” the dispatcher said, “we have a report of a disturbance in People’s Park. Complainant states that several dozen bikers are involved.”

Raphael’s stomach tightened. He waited, almost holding his breath as the scanner winked its tiny red lights, reaching out in search of a voice.

“This is Three-Eighteen,” a tense voice came through after several minutes. “This thing down here in People’s Park is completelyout of hand. There are nearly a hundred of them—knives, clubs, and chains. We’re going to need a lot of help.”

“All units,” the dispatcher said, his normally calm voice edging up a notch, “we have a seventy-six in People’s Park.” Rapidly he began diverting cars and reassigning areas to provide minimal coverage of the rest of the city while releasing every possible car to the troubled area.

“This is Three-Eleven,” a new voice, crackling with authority, came on. “Advise all units that I want a lot of lights and sirens down here. I want these people to know we’re here.”

“Yes, sir,” the dispatcher said.

“Also, contact Spokane County Sheriff’s Department and Washington State Patrol. We’re going to need every unit they can spare.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come
on,
people!” Raphael said. “Come on!”

“All units responding to the seventy-six situation in the People’s Park area,” the dispatcher said, “be advised that the situation is
not
—repeat
not
—under control. Approach with caution. Three-Eleven requests the use of lights and sirens. All other units go to channel two. Channel one is restricted to emergency traffic until further notice.”

“This is Three-Eleven.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Alert the hospitals and respond ambulances to this location. We have numerous injured subjects. Also respond the fire department. Ask the battalion chief if he can get a pumper truck down here. We might have to use fire hoses to break this up.” In the background behind his voice Raphael could hear shouts and curses.

“Spokane PD,” another voice came in.

“Unit calling?” the dispatcher said.

“WSP. Advise Three-Eleven that we have four cars responding to his location. ETA approximately two minutes. Find out where he wants us.”

“Stand by. Three-Eleven?”

“Go ahead.”

“Washington State Patrol is responding four cars to your location. They should be there in approximately two minutes. Where do you want them deployed?”

“Have them move to the extreme left end of the line of cars. I want to—” A faint popping sound came over the shouts in the background.

“We have shots fired!” Three-Eleven said sharply.

“Shots fired!” the dispatcher repeated. “All units responding to the People’s Park area, be advised that shots have been fired!”

Raphael stared helplessly at the blinking scanner.

For the next few minutes the transmissions were a garbled mishmash of confused and contradictory calls. Then Three-Eleven’s voice cut in sharply. “Has anyone got a positive on the subject with the gun?”

“This is District Four. The subject crossed to the other side of this creek that runs into the river here. He had a car over there.” “Can he get out through that way?”

“He can go out through the cemetery, Lieutenant,” another voice cut in. “Once he hits Government Way, he can go just about anyplace.”

“Did we get a make on the car?”

“A red Triumph,” District Four said. “Out-of-state plates.
I
couldn’t make them out.”

Raphael felt suddenly hollow. There was no question now. It was Flood. The voices of the policemen coming over the air were very excited, and there was still shouting in the background. Raphael found himself quite suddenly on the other side of the law. It was probably very natural, but it seemed strange to be rooting
against
the police. It was still possible that Flood might escape entirely. Without a license-plate number to identify the red Triumph, the police had very little to go on; and despite their other faults Heintz and his cohorts would absolutely refuse to reveal Flood’s name. It all depended on his getting his car out of sight.

“Three-Eleven,” the dispatcher said.

“Go ahead.”

“We’ve had a report by a citizen that a red Triumph has been seen westbound on Driscoll Boulevard at a high rate of speed.” Raphael quickly opened his city map.

“It must be a different car,” Three-Eleven said. “There’s no way to get across the river between here and there, is there?”

But Raphael saw a way, and so did the dispatcher. “Yes, sir, there is. He could have gone down through the junior-college campus and across the Fort Wright Bridge.”

“Do we have any cars up there?”

“This is District Nine,” another voice came in. “I’m at Francis and Maple. I’ll try to intercept.”

Raphael looked at the map intently. The Triumph was very fast, and Flood was clever—assuming the fight and the shooting had not completely scrambled his brains. To the north of Driscoll there was a rabbit warren of winding streets where he might drop out of sight. But if he stuck with Driscoll after it turned into Nine Mile Road, he would be out of the city with no side streets to dodge into. After that the only alternative would be flight—full-out, pedal-to-the-floorboards flight.

“District Nine, what’s your location?” the dispatcher said after several minutes.

“This is Nine. I have a late-model red Triumph with Michigan plates northbound at a high rate of speed on Nine Mile Road. Am in pursuit.” The voice that came back was excited, and the siren wailed in the background.

“What is your location, District Nine?”

“Just passing Seven Mile. Subject vehicle is going in excess of one hundred miles an hour.”

“All units,” the dispatcher said, “be advised that District Nine is in pursuit of a late-model red Triumph with Michigan license plates northbound on Nine Mile Road. Subject vehicle possibly involved in a shooting incident at People’s Park within the past few minutes.”

“See if Stevens County sheriff can get a unit down there to block him off,” Three-Eleven said. “Yes, sir.”

Raphael sat tensely, his map clutched in his hands. “Come
on,
Flood! Get off that goddamn highway!”

The scanner tracked in silence, the tiny flickering red lights reaching out, looking for voices.

“He lost it!” District Nine said. “He missed the S-curve at Nine Mile!”

“Is he in the river?” Three-Eleven demanded.

“No, sir. He hit the rock face on the right-hand side and then bounced across and hit a tree. You’d better respond an ambulance out here—and a fire-department unit. It looks like we’re going to have to cut him out of that car.”