Reaper by Doug Richardson

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

31

Compton

The way Lucky played it, the one-night policing of illegal fireworks was a waste of precious time. Let the other units chase Compton teens with backpacks brimming with weed, lukewarm liquor, and aerial mortars. Atom Blum was demanding action. And as far as Lieutenant Torres and his cartoon mustache were concerned, the department powers up on Temple Street were in full-fledged public relations mode. Show the movie director a good time and maybe—just maybe—he’ll make the L.A. Sheriff’s look heroic in his upcoming movie.

Yeah, right.

It was cynical and naïve of the downtown brass. Yet, in the moment, the presence of the obnoxious bastard in the black-and-white’s back seat served Lucky’s agenda.

“So what’s at the other end of these whistles we’re listening for?” The director kept shifting his long legs, looking for a comfortable way to stretch out in the black-and-white’s back seat.

Lucky ignored him, preferring to keep his ears clear and tuned out the car’s open windows. The air was populated with a constant stream of firework pop-pop-pops, both far and near. Because Lucky had passed the pink whistles out to some of the Compton homeless population, he stayed off the residential streets in lieu of cruising the back alleys that paralleled the more traveled boulevards.

“Looking for tips on a murder,” Shia eventually answered.

“Yeah?” piqued Atom. “Who got killed?”

“Sssshhhhhhhh,” hushed Lucky, signaling to his right ear.

“Fine, fine. But what kind of whistle?” asked Atom.

“Just a whistle,” answered Shia, twirling one on her index finger. “Like this.”

“Football whistle?”

“I guess.”

“So that means I heard something you didn’t hear?” grinned Atom.

Lucky drove his foot into the black-and-white’s brake. The surprise force sent Atom forward, though this time he caught himself with a stiff arm.

“Trying to give me another goddamn screen test?”

“You heard a whistle where?” Lucky’s question was both blunt and urgent.

“’Bout a minute back,” answered Atom. “Before we turned into the alley.”

Column shifting into reverse, Lucky twisted in his seat, pointed his nose at the rear window, and nearly floored the black-and-white. The tires spun first, then screeched as the vehicle lurched backward. The rear backup lights made for dim navigation. All the while, Shia kept her eyes on her side-view mirror, calculating if Lucky was going to trade paint with the junkyard furniture and abandoned appliances lining their path. In her head, Shia was already writing the vehicle damage report, her second in three nights on the job.

The unit cleared the alley without incident, launching onto a quiet residential street, twisting ninety degrees, and chirping to a stop.

“Ssshhhhhhhhh,” Lucky ordered.

“Just jealous that I heard it and he didn’t,” said Atom, unable to help himself.

“Said shut the fuck—” Lucky clammed his own lips, his head swiveling right and looking past Shia into the dark passage where the back alley continued.

Then they all heard it. Clear. Pitched over the continuation of fireworks—a distinct and unmistakable toy whistle.

Shia gripped the post-mounted light and beamed it into the alley. A block deep—perhaps two hundred yards into the alley—there returned a glint. Glass. The familiar motion of a bottle lifted to a person’s lips and lowered again.

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