Stress (6 page)

Joe Piper changed the subject. “I may have a customer for those Ingrams.”

“How much?”

“Thousand a piece.”

“Two thousand’s the price. I said that before.”

“I’m not talking about a couple of guns here. This is a shipment. Twenty grand in a lump.”

“I’m not sure I can deliver twenty.”

“You told me just last month you had twice that many sitting around in cases under an Indian blanket.”

“Iraqi. And that was last month. Come the new year, when they tot up those shooting statistics, Congress shakes loose appropriations. The ATF cracks down. I can promise maybe ten. If they haul me over with more than that I’m looking at three to fifteen in the federal house.”

Joe Piper said shit. “I don’t fucking believe this. You sort mail for a living, you might get a paper cut. Cops and the ATF are the reason we’re talking thousands instead of hundreds. You got such a hard-on for safe you should’ve stayed in and kept on stacking undies till retirement.”

“Not enough thousands. Two’s the price if it’s twenty you want.”

“Twelve hundred then. Shit. My balls ain’t exactly off the block either.”

Angell walked away and laid a jersey-gloved palm against the fender of a tank. The milky vapor of his spent breath frothed and shredded in the wind. “Sherman Mark Five,” he said. “Tiger eighty-eights punched holes in that eighty-five-millimeter skin like your finger through cheap toilet paper, but they couldn’t punch holes in all of them. Not enough shells in Europe for that. Volume, that’s what wins our wars. If we dumped one-third of the material we’ve got rusting on parade grounds and in museums on Vietnam, the whole damn peninsula would break off and sink. Only that’s not how we do war now.”

Joe Piper wiped his nose on his sleeve and waited. Christ, he was getting to hate the people he had to work with. Between the redneck hawks and niggers with razors, the wild-eyed Irish revolutionaries his Uncle Seamus used to bitch about sounded like bankers. The business was filling up with psychos. Just the kind of people you wanted to put behind a gun that fired 1,145 rounds per minute.

“…hear of Billy Brock?”

Angell was looking at him now, ice-crystals glittering on his pale eyelashes. Jesus, it was cold. “Who?” Joe Piper had quit listening. He had heard the where-we-went-wrong-in-Nam speech before.

“General Sir Isaac Brock. You won’t see the name next to Napoleon and Kutuzov, but he pulled off something no one could before or since: force a North American city to surrender itself to occupation by a foreign army. In August 1812 he lobbed a couple of four-pounders across the river from the Windsor side, hit a tree on East Jefferson, and the next thing you know the Union Jack was flapping over city hall. One shot from the seventy-five mounted on this Sherman would’ve made a hell of a difference.”

“Not as much as an ICBM, but they didn’t have them yet either.”

“Not the point. Return fire from a couple of dozen flint-locks would have at least made the Brits sweat a little. As it was the commander in charge of Fort Detroit didn’t do so much as fire a musket in its defense. That’s the kind of mentality we’ve got running the Pentagon now. Fifty thousand dead in twelve years and in went the towel. The Romans lost sixty-three thousand at Cannae and went on fighting for nine more years and wound up throwing Hannibal clean out of Europe.”

“Shitty damn shame.”

“Who’s your customer?”

The question surprised the gun dealer. “Forget it, Homer. You don’t have the temperament to peddle your own merch.”

“If I did we wouldn’t know each other. Are they commies? Because if they are the deal’s smoke. It’s bad enough they own the rice paddies in Saigon.”

“Worse than commies. Black Panthers.”

Angell nodded almost imperceptibly. “Great military organization. The discipline is admirable. You don’t just put on that black beret and call yourself a Panther. Their boot camp stands up beside any in the world. Except the Dutch, of course.”

“Of course.” He wondered if the wooden shoes got in the way of the drills. “Twelve hundred’s the offer.”

“Eighteen. At that price you have to score your own ammunition.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s a legitimate purchase. Just walk into any sporting goods store and lay your money down.”

“You have to sign for it at the counter. I haven’t written my name on a piece of paper in three years.”

“What about IRS?”

“I retired from the cement business in sixty-nine. Signed everything over to my wife. She lists me as her dependent. Fifteen hundred apiece, ammo included. That’s the last trip to the well. My ass fell off ten minutes ago.”

“I hope for your sake the marriage is airtight.” Angell stepped over and stuck out his hand. “How soon do you need delivery?”

“I’ll let you know.” Joe Piper grasped the hand, grateful for the moment that he had lost most of the feeling in his fingers. Later, when they thawed out, the aftermath of Angell’s crushing grip would be agony. “The feds are too busy roasting Nixon’s nuts to haul you over anyway.”

“They should’ve let him finish what he started in Cambodia.

P
AUL
K
UBICEK REMINDED
C
HARLIE
B
ATTLE A LITTLE
of his uncle; but only superficially.

Since his stroke in 1971, Anthony Battle, three-time professional wrestling Heavyweight Champion of the World, had spent most of his time in the eggshell vinyl Strat-O-Lounger in the extra bedroom in his nephew’s apartment, watching television. Battle, who found it more and more difficult to drag any kind of response out of his uncle, had no idea if the old man was following what was happening on the screen or, if not, what pictures were playing inside his cast-iron skull. He seemed alert and far away at the same time. So the STRESS sergeant appeared in his threadbare padded swivel, staring at the dusty picture tube of the black-and-white Zenith on the same table that supported an electric percolator and an open box of powdered doughnuts in the file room behind the STRESS command center at 1300.

The program was
The Mod Squad
, one of Battle’s personal picks for early cancellation, but now bumping along through its fourth season. Linc, the black and beautiful undercover cop with a weakness for wraparound sunglasses, hula-hoop afros, and dashikis short enough to run in without having to hold up the hems like Scarlett O’Hara, was chasing a scuzzy white drug pusher through a maze of L.A. alleys, accompanied by a synthesized score that sounded like a truckload of skillets rolling over. A few minutes and several commercials later, having made his collar, he would receive a pat on his upholstered head from his partners, the Hollywood hippie and the blonde tart in love beads, and the three of them would go out to a rib joint and celebrate. It was enough to make Battle nostalgic for
Amos ’n’Andy
.

The station broke and a bullet-headed man in an undershirt came on to intone that he couldn’t believe he ate the whole thing. Kubicek, the trance shattered, sat back and hooked his thumbs inside his belt. Jesus, it was braided white, just the thing for his Stay-Pressed suit with flared trousers; if the ecology shrills were right and the world’s petroleum supply was running out, the entire plainclothes division was going to wind up naked.

“Man, I love cop shows,” Kubicek said. “Keeps my mind off work.”

“
Kung Fu
does it for me.” Officer Aaron Bookfinger, seated astraddle another swivel with a bumper sticker on the back reading HAVE A NICE DAY, covered the bottom half of his face as he pulled smoke into his lungs. “You can cut that guy Caine’s balls off and feed them to him in the first half hour and he won’t say shit, but you better not ask him directions in the last fifteen minutes.”

Sergeant Stilwell rearranged the red curls covering his baldness. “That boy thinks he can kick. I dated an exotic dancer from the Pussycat that could fold both feet behind her neck.”

“She any good?” Kubicek asked.

“Like fucking a mackerel.”

They laughed, Battle too. Kubicek laced his fingers together and stretched his arms over his head. His knuckles went off like a string of firecrackers. “Ain’t it the truth. Them broads save it for the runway.”

Bookfinger said, “Charlie here wants to ask you a couple about the Crownover shoot.”

The STRESS detective took in Battle’s crisp uniform. His eyes were the dull gray of soft-nosed slugs. “What’s this, Saint Patrick’s Day?”

“He’s on loan from City Hall,” Stilwell said. “Zagreb’s idea.”

“Cap’n Crunch. Shit. He still floating-plastic boats in his bathtub? Cuts a fart, hollers ‘Torpedo’?”

Battle smiled. He was leaning back against the closed door. “I want to talk about Harrison’s gun.”

“Hunky piece of junk. I’d rather pick up a fresh turd.”

“Did he have it in his hand when you spotted him?”

“He was going for it. His hand was in his pocket.”

“Did you shoot Nampula first because you weren’t sure Harrison was armed?”

Kubicek grinned lopsidedly at Stilwell, standing near the room’s only window. Greektown glowed cheerfully through the steel mesh, Detroit’s best-lit block. “You never hunt duck?”

“Duck? No.” Battle was pretty sure the question was meant for him.

“You got two in formation, you shoot the farthest one first. Plenty of time to get the closest one after.”

“Especially when the farthest one has a scattergun,” Bookfinger offered.

“So you shot Harrison second.”

“Hell no. Didn’t you read my report?”

“What’s the procedure with three ducks?”

“There ain’t no procedure. The best shooter that ever lived never got more than two at a pop.”

“Let’s forget the ducks,” Battle said. “As close as you say Harrison was when you spotted him, he had to be a lot closer after you shot Nampula. But you shot Potts next. Wasn’t that taking a risk?”

“Shit fire, I never thought of that. I wouldn’t get mixed up in no shooting if I thought there was risks.”

Stilwell chuckled. Bookfinger covered his mouth and blew a rattling jet of smoke at the ceiling, already tinged orange from generations of nicotine. Battle was beginning to feel like the freshman at a hazing.

“Help me out, Sergeant. I’m just trying to get a picture of what happened New Year’s Eve.”

“There was a lot of civilians running around. I lost track of Harrison. Meanwhile there was Potts pulling down on me with a fucking magnum. What would you do, rook?”

“The same thing, probably. And I’m not a rookie. I’ve been with the department a year and a half. Why do you suppose Harrison made a break for the terrace? He must have had a clear shot at you while you were dealing with Potts.”

“Just because you got your dick in your hand don’t mean you can get it up. He seen his partners go down and he rabbited.”

“Did you see his gun before you shot him?”

Kubicek looked at Bookfinger. “You boys in Special Investigations need to lay off me and sit in at the academy. They’re leaving out some things. Or maybe Mr. Year-and-a-Half skipped class the day the rest of the fish learned you don’t have to see a gun when a suspect fleeing an armed robbery forgets to stop when you tell him to.”

“I was just asking if you saw it. It landed on the terrace next to him when he fell, and I’m curious to know why he took it out if he wasn’t going to use it.”

“Don’t ask me. I don’t know how them people think.”

“What people? Black people?”

“You said that, not me.” Kubicek leaned forward and snapped off the set in the middle of the opening credits for
Owen Marshall.
Instead of leaning back, he remained in a kind of crouch with his forearms resting on his knees. His stiff suitcoat pouched behind his neck in a way that reminded Battle of a snapping turtle. “Everything’s race with you colored guys. I’d of shot them three just as quick if they was white. What do you think I am?”

“An experienced cop collecting dust in a back room watching TV while the murder rate goes to Pluto. The quicker we get through this the quicker we can get you back on the street where you’re needed. Is that okay with you, Sergeant?”

“Yeah. Okay.” He sat back. “Excuse the nerves, son. I got a pension to think about and a daughter who wants to be F. Lee Bailey. That’s spelled M-O-N-E-Y. If I knew this guy Springfield and his Ethiopian Congress was going to hang me out to dry over a scroat like Harrison, I wouldn’t of taken the Crownover job and that’s for damn sure.”

“Let’s talk about that. Did Crownover—no, not Crownover; what’s the husband’s name?” Battle looked at Stilwell, who was still playing with his curls next to the window.

“Ted Ogden. I guess that’s the downside of marrying that old auto money, nobody remembers your name.”

“I could live with it,” Bookfinger said.

“Did Ogden say he was expecting trouble when he hired you for security?” Battle asked Kubicek.

“No, he wanted to keep his insurance company happy. There was jewels and shit there.”

“What about the motorboat?”

“It was a motorboat.”

“Do you think it was a coincidence it was there by the dock and took off after the shooting?”

“Yeah, and it was running on Kentucky sipping whiskey. What do you think a boat was doing there New Year’s Eve, fishing for confetti? Them boys wasn’t going to walk across the lake after they shook down all the guests.”

“You didn’t see the pilot.”

“No. Christ, how many times am I going to have to answer that one?”

“No registration numbers? Not even a partial?”

“It was dark. I was in the light. You ever try to catch a license number standing under a streetlamp at midnight?”

“Well, was it a four-cycle or a high-speed job? They sound different.”

“No shit?” Kubicek lifted the end of his necktie, apparently searching for stains, then smoothed it down. Battle was pretty sure it clipped on. “It was a speedboat. One of the fiberglass jobs, probably. You don’t see no wooden rowboats on Saint Clair.”

“Think it was stolen?”

“I ran it through Records. Nothing reported since Labor Day. Nobody heists boats in December.”

“Back to Harrison. Your report said you identified yourself and ordered him to halt. What exactly did you say?”