American Bang by Doug Richardson

Author:Doug Richardson [Richardson, Doug]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Velvet Elvis Entertainment

25

South Los Angeles. 9:12 p.m.

The air was crystalline, nary a wisp of smog or mist. Gonzo loved flying nights, weekend nights especially. Action was guaranteed. But when visibility was so stark and crisp, it was like watching TV in high definition after a lifetime of viewing in the old standard resolution. At a cruising altitude of five thousand feet, the entire city was in readable relief. Even from as far south as Watts, she could see from the Port of Long Beach all the way past the Hollywood Hills and into the San Fernando Valley. The summer-into-fall marine layer remained offshore, hovering beyond the island of Catalina, held at bay by the Santa Ana winds.

“Still on ’em?” asked Gonzo, her voice playing back inside her headphones.

“Five o’clock, turning south on Wilmington,” replied Bobby, her wet-behind-the-ears observer, whose job was to eyeball and operate the variety of high-tech lenses the helicopter was equipped with.

Gonzo tipped the stick of the Bell JetRanger, gently feathering the rear stabilizer with her feet. The chopper dipped slightly into a bank steep enough for Gonzo to glimpse her prey. Far below, traveling like a trifecta of ants chasing each other were three cars of identical persuasion, grill to tail to grill, all nineties-era Honda Accords.

“That’s so not sexy,” remarked Bobby. “If I’m gonna triple-jack cars, it’s gonna be something in the Corvette genus of rides.”

“Knock yourself out,” grinned Gonzo. “Make you some kinda high-wire criminal.”

“I like to make me a strong impression.”

The game unfolding on the blacktop below was well-known to LAPD’s air support division. The Southland’s most popular stolen vehicle was a nineties model Honda Accord because of both its ease of theft and street ubiquity. Gangbangers looking to pull a crime or a drive-by shooting would most often express their act in a stolen car that could never be traced to the offender. For street cops or helo-units, seeing a pair of Honda Accords driving in tandem was a suspicious tell. Encountering three Accords moving across the city asphalt in a uniformed roll was a veritable jackpot. A delivery to someone who wholesaled in ripped cars was obviously taking place.

“Me likee this job,” nodded Bobby.

Gonzo glanced at him sideways. Smirked. Someone at Parker Center had a sense of humor, pairing Lydia Gonzalez with Roberto Gonzales.

Me of the Z and he of the S.

Both cops had spent their lives nicknamed Gonzo. Lydia had put any competition over the moniker to rest the moment they’d been introduced at LAPD’s Hooper Heliport. Thirty-year-old Bobby had just moved over from Traffic Division and was bent on getting his pilot wings one day.

“I’m Gonzo,” she’d introduced herself with a cool air of seniority. “And from now on, you’re not.”

And that had been that.

The night had been relatively quiet. But it was a Sunday, the last night of a warm weekend. Criminal activity and the subsequent 911 calls were sure to pick up the pace. Until then, Gonzo and Bobby had fish nipping at the line.

“Time to drop the net,”

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