L.A. Wars Read online

  “Ah,” said James Hawker. “I do.”

  Three days later Hawker descended through the clouds of the San Gabriel Mountains, and then the smog of L.A., landing at Los Angeles International Airport.

  From the air the city spread away like a Monopoly board ablaze. He had never seen so many cars in such frantic motion.

  Hawker rented a new Cutlass at the Hertz desk and used his pocket road-map to spirit him through the traffic jams and bustle to the San Diego Freeway—where there was an even worse traffic jam, and more bustle.

  The air was like acid. The sun glimmered through the carbon monoxide fumes like a yellow light bulb. People screamed at each other from convertibles and flipped hand signs from low-slung Mercedes.

  At the Manhattan Beach exit Hawker got off and headed east along Route 91, through the Quick Shop, topless bar and dimestore clutter of Torrance and Carson.

  The ghettos began in Compton: broken windows, junked cars, and winos.

  The few businesses that remained open were barred and locked like penal institutions.

  It didn’t get any better when he crossed into the corporate limits of Starnsdale. Bands of men and women roamed the streets in sweat-stained clothes, carrying bottles in brown bags. The streets were littered with trash. Emaciated dogs slept in the sun while winos curled up in the shade.

  Two words were repeated over and over in the street graffiti: PANTHERS and SATANÁS.

  The words were splashed on everything. Building walls. Stop signs. Cars and windows.

  Panthers was always written in black, Satanás in red.

  The slums of Starnsdale changed abruptly as he turned onto Hillsboro Boulevard. Homes here were well kept, neat stucco and wood buildings with hedges and verandas. Palm trees grew in the middle of the boulevard, and sprinkler systems waved water over mown lawns.

  Hawker had to turn around twice before he found the proper address. It was a small Spanish-style home with a smaller courtyard. Hawker noticed the bars on the windows and the alarm system wires as he knocked.

  “Mr. Kahl? Virgil Kahl?”

  “Yes?” A thin, ascetic man stood in the doorway, a book in one hand, a pair of bifocals in the other. Hawker guessed him to be about fifty-five.

  “Jacob Montgomery Hayes suggested I contact you.”

  “Hayes? Oh! Jake Hayes!” A shy grin flashed on the man’s face. “Come on in …”

  “Hawker. James Hawker.”

  “Come right on in, Mr. Hawker. We weren’t expecting you so soon.”

  Hawker followed him into a well-furnished living room lined with more books. On the wall were several photographs of Kahl with well-known stars of the fifties and sixties. Hayes’s file had told Hawker that Kahl was the organizer of the Hillsboro neighborhood watch program. It hadn’t told him Kahl’s occupation.

  “Are you an actor, Mr. Kahl?”

  The man’s smile widened. “Good God, no—and call me Virgil, please. No, no, I’m a scriptwriter. I used to do quite a few film projects, but I’m afraid my stuff has gone out of style with the younger producers. Now I do free-lance television work.”

  “Sounds interesting.”

  “Only if you like to sit in front of a typewriter day after day.” Kahl brushed his thin hair back, as if anxious to abandon conversational pleasantries. He put on his glasses and sat up straight. “So! Jake Hayes says you’re here to help us get the neighborhood watch going again.”

  “That’s right. I’m at your full disposal.”

  “I’m afraid it’s not going to be easy, Mr. Hawker. Our last outing was not very successful. Two other men and I were badly beaten. That was six months ago. I spent a week in the hospital. Since that time a member of our watch group was murdered. His throat was slit with a razor. Two other members have had their houses burned.”

  “The street gangs play rough.”

  “Rough? Why, they’re absolute savages,” Kahl said bitterly. “We’re not safe on the streets; we’re not safe in our homes, for God’s sake.”

  “Which of the gangs has been taking revenge on you?”

  Kahl made a helpless motion with his hands. “Who can say for sure? The Panthers is a gang comprised mostly of blacks. They wear blue and black bandannas. The Satanás is mostly Latin. They wear red bandannas. One’s as bad as the other. They’re both killers.”

  “Your watch group had confrontations with both of them?”

  “Yes. And did badly each time.” Kahl dropped his book on the desk wearily. He looked at Hawker, as if trying to make him understand why he felt so defeated. “We thought our main strength as a group was our brains and our organizational ability. But during each confrontation they just completely overpowered us. We didn’t have a chance.”

  “The gangs are comprised mostly of kids? Teenagers?”

  “That’s an interesting point. Most of the active members—the ones you see wearing their bandannas on the streets—are almost all teen-agers. But I know for a fact that they get backing from adults. Full-fledged criminals. They use the kids to do their dirty work. Under the banner of gang loyalty the kids will kill, steal, anything. The adults sit back, keep their hands clean, and collect the money.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “One of the detectives in the Los Angeles Police Department.”

  “The police are still trying to help you?”

  “As much as they can—which isn’t all that much. There are a great many street gangs in the City of Angels, Mr. Hawker. It would take an army of policemen to keep them under control. In other words we welcome your offer to help.”

  “I’ll do everything I can, Virgil,” Hawker said. “And I guess the best way to begin is to get a little more information. All gangs have headquarters, Virgil. Do you know where the Panthers and Satanás meet?”

  “The Panthers, of course, hang out in the black section. That would be between Rosencratz and Blitz streets. The Satanás are on the other side of Hillsboro—the east side—on Ybor Avenue. I don’t know any specific addresses.”

  “Do the two gangs ever operate together? Do they get along?”

  Kahl snorted. “Like fire and water. They kill more of their own kind than they do honest citizens—and our thanks for that. They call it ‘gang-banging.’” Kahl leaned forward to make an important point. “I’ve spent considerable time studying these groups, Mr. Hawker—”

  “James.”

  “James it is, then.” Kahl smiled. “I’ve watched and read extensively, trying to learn what makes these street gangs tick. I knew their activities resembled those of some other groups I’ve read about, but it took me a while to put my finger on it.” Kahl poked at his glasses. “Have you ever read some of the early observations on aboriginal behavior in Africa?”

  “Do Tarzan movies count?”

  “Oddly enough, yes. The aborigines in both history and fiction put great store in tribesmanship. They both love colorful, gaudy costumes, and they take special care in selecting or awarding nicknames. Both take pride in the theatrics they can lend to warfare—gang members call it being ‘cool.’ Street gangs like to give their violence a style, a flair. The more unusual the form of violence, the better.

  “You see,” he continued, “they are superstitious in that what they don’t understand either infuriates them or terrifies them. They function on emotion, not intellect. I think it might be the one chink in their armor, James. They are brutal and fearless because they never have to fight alone. They can’t be reasoned with, because they seem to lack any suggestion of morality. They understand only two things: violence and fear.”

  “So you’re saying the best way to beat them is to scare them?”

  Kahl nodded quickly. “If we could just find some way to scare them. They laugh at police. And they actually seem to take pride in being arrested—perhaps because so few of them are ever sent to prison.”

  “It’s not going to be easy, then,” said Hawker, deep in thought, an absent expression on his face. He sat silent for a time, then his face sl
owly lightened. “But maybe … maybe it won’t be quite as hard to scare them as we think.” He stood up quickly. “Do you think we could get your watch group together tomorrow night?”

  Kahl made a noncommittal gesture. “I can try. Most of them are ready to give up. Can I call you and let you know in the morning?”

  “Jacob Hayes rented a house for me on Manhattan Beach. I don’t know the telephone number yet—”

  Hawker was interrupted by a handsome, older woman’s rushing into the room. She had flaxen hair edged with gray and a plain, librarianlike face. She seemed surprised that her husband had company. Her hands were pressed together nervously, and her eyes showed concern. She looked from Kahl to Hawker, and then back to her husband. “Virgil,” she said anxiously. “I hate to interrupt, but Julie seems to be … missing. She was supposed to be home by three, and I’ve just finished calling all her friends.…” Mrs. Kahl choked momentarily, near tears.

  Kahl tried to make light of it. Julie was his teen-age daughter, he explained. She had gone to her summer-school class, and probably decided to go to a movie, he reasoned. But the worry was evident on his face.

  There was a big Seth Thomas grandfather clock in a corner of the living room, ticking the seconds away.

  It was six fifteen P.M.

  Hawker excused himself as they dialed the police.

  Virgil Kahl’s hand shook as he held the telephone.

  Hawker didn’t feel like waiting for official help. He drove to Manhattan Beach, found his rental house, showered, changed into jeans, a black T-shirt, and black cap. From one of the crates Jacob Hayes had shipped to the house, Hawker selected a few pieces of weaponry and hid them in the car with two changes of clothes.

  At first dark he headed for the slums of the street gangs.

  He would search for more than five hours before finding the body of Julie Kahl.…

  three

  As Hawker disappeared up the fire escape ladder, sirens wailed in the distance.

  The sirens mixed with the echoing screams of Cat Man.

  Hawker doubted that Cat Man would die. But he would spend a lifetime wishing that he had. And he would never rape again. Ever.

  Almost as important, Cat Man would spread the word. His tribesmen would visit him in the hospital, or in jail, and he would whisper the truth to them. He would tell them about the lone red-haired man who killed just as quickly and just as brutally as the most savage street fighter.

  Virgil Kahl’s theory had struck a chord in Hawker. The street gangs liked violence with a flair, he had said. It was the one thing they would both admire and fear.

  Hawker would give them plenty to fear. And he would start building his reputation.

  Tonight.

  Hawker made his way across the tops of the buildings. Occasionally he had to make a long jump from one rooftop to another. Twice he interrupted teen-agers in feverish copulation.

  Below him, on the streets, neon signs flashed garishly, red and green. Customized cars prowled, polished like gems. At stoplights drivers revved their engines. The fronts of the cars bounced like rearing horses.

  Low riders.

  Hawker wondered why California was the birthplace of so many strange fads.

  Perhaps it was boredom. Or the acid air. Or something in the water. Somewhere Hawker had read that trout raised in hatcheries had to be gradually introduced to acids and aluminum before being released in polluted lakes. It was the only way they would survive.

  Life forms can live in poison—as long as they are poisoned slowly.

  Los Angeles seemed the perfect proving ground.

  Hawker moved on through the shadows.

  It took him nearly an hour to work his way back to his car. He got in and drove slowly through Hillsboro. A police car sat outside Virgil Kahl’s home. A cop stood in the doorway. Hawker knew he had been burdened with the duty every cop dreads: breaking the news of a death in the family.

  Hawker barely knew the Kahls, but already he mourned for them. They seemed like a nice couple. And now their every waking hour would be shadowed with the horrors of their daughter’s last hour on earth.

  Three of the animals had already died. A fourth would now be suffering a horror equal to the Kahls’.

  It was two thirty-three A.M.

  Hawker still had a reputation to build. And he had plenty of time before daylight.

  Hawker made one circle through the Latin district of Starnsdale.

  On two different corners a dozen or more young men stood joking and smoking.

  They wore red bandannas tied over their heads, like pirates. On the backs of their leather jackets, SATANÁS was sewn in red silk.

  Several of them wore chains over their shoulders, like military braid. Others held heavy walking canes in their hands.

  In the middle of the block, Hawker noticed, was an abandoned store with bars in the windows. Through the bars Hawker could see more Satanás gang members sitting inside, laughing and drinking.

  The men inside looked older. Late twenties, early thirties.

  Hawker turned at the end of the block, formulating his plan and, more important, his escape.

  Once again he parked near the Hillsboro section. He strapped on a quick-draw shoulder holster over his bare chest, then inserted the .45 Colt Commander he had had customized by the Devel Corporation of Cleveland. They had flared the magazine well, added a Swenson ambidextrous speed safety and an adjustable Bo-Mar rear sight.

  Hawker filled three magazines with seven rounds each, fixed one in the Commander, then slid a round in the chamber before adding an eighth round.

  He buttoned on a blue, baggy shirt over the weapon.

  From the trunk of the car Hawker removed a plastic bottle with a squeeze spout. It contained a thick black liquid.

  Hawker stuck a couple more things into his baggy pockets, folded a small grappling hook and forty feet of line through his belt, then locked the car and headed for the Latin section.

  He wanted to introduce himself to the Satanás.

  An alley connected the backs of buildings on Ybor Avenue. It was used for deliveries and garbage pickups.

  Hawker cut down the alley behind the block where the Satanás had collected. It was dank and dark, and it stank of vegetable rot.

  Where the alley opened onto a side street, Hawker turned north. The backs of the Satanás gang members were dim shapes in the distance. He could see the glow of their cigarettes.

  Hawker pulled his watch cap lower on his head and hugged the shadows. He moved slowly, easily, as if he belonged there. No one saw him. Soon he was close enough to hear the talking.

  Hawker stood in the doorway of a tenement building, listening.

  They spoke in a fast combination of Spanish and English. Hawker understood enough to know they were talking about a robbery they’d just pulled off. Something funny had happened during the robbery. Their leader, a guy called Magnum, had cut his victim’s stomach open, then slipped and fallen in the mess.

  It was a perverted version of the old banana peel pratfall, and the Satanás thought it was funny as hell.

  As they laughed, Hawker moved behind them. He stopped about forty yards down Ybor Avenue in front of the gang’s headquarters. There were groups of gang members at each end of the block, and he could feel them watching him.

  Through the dirty windows of the building he could see a half-dozen Hispanic men inside. The floor was covered with trash. One man saw Hawker through the window. Everyone stopped talking.

  Hawker smiled at them and winked.

  He took the bottle of liquid from his pocket and uncapped it. He held it between his legs and, using his left hand to squeeze the bottle, squirted a wet design on the white stucco wall of the building. He knew it was too dark for them to see the bottle.

  “Hey! Hey, motherfucker!” a voice yelled from the street corner. “What you think you doing, man!”

  Hawker lifted his head and grinned. All the while he was hurrying to finish the design. “I think I’
m pissing on your headquarters—man.”

  The punks had been too shocked to move at first. But now they were trotting toward him. Inside the building the men had drawn handguns.

  “Who the fuck you think you are!” another voice yelled.

  Hawker jammed the bottle back in his pocket and took out a small AN-MB HC deteriorating smoke grenade. He popped the cardboard canister open and yelled through the screen of copper smoke, “I’ll tell you who I am! I … am … Satanás!”

  It was a word they would know well. It was the name they had chosen for their gang.

  It was also the Spanish word for Satan.

  Hawker ran through the smoke toward the next alleyway. They spotted him just as he rounded the corner.

  There was a sudden vacuum whomping impact over his head, and cement exploded at his feet.

  They were firing at him.

  Hawker ran halfway down the alley. The buildings were only two stories high here, and there were no fire escapes. He took the line and grappling hook from his belt and got it wedged between a brick chimney and the roof on the third throw.

  “There’s the son of a bitch! Get him!”

  A dozen of the Satanás were running at him from the mouth of the alley. Their handguns spurted fire, and slugs whacked into the brick walls beside him, screaming as they ricocheted.

  Hawker drew the Colt Commander, steadying it in two big hands. Squatting slightly, he squeezed off three careful rounds.

  The punk at the head of the pack exploded backward as if he had been garroted. His gun went spinning.

  A second gang member tumbled to the asphalt as a .45 slug destroyed his right thigh.

  A third jolted as if he had been hit in midstride by an NFL linebacker. The Commander had busted his shoulder open.

  None of them was dead. Hawker didn’t want them dead. Not yet.

  The others turned tail and ran—but not before Hawker had exploded another smoke grenade and disappeared, so it seemed, into thin air.

  On top of the building now, Hawker folded the grappling line and stuffed it back into his belt.

  He watched the remaining Satanás trot across the street toward the safety of their headquarters. They glanced backward over their shoulders, as if they feared being followed.