‘Nice shot,’ the officer murmured, repositioning his cap, anticipating the advice that would be proffered. Master race, master of both shots, the concept of dominance and superiority came easily to Bell.
‘Mighty long par 4. You wanna watch that water, Jack.’ You wanna go fuck yourself, the cop thought. ‘Carry as much as you can if you’re going for the green with your second. You’ll need everything you got.’
All I need is a bit of goddamn quiet. The response came in angry body-language, in the reddening flush about the neck as the captain turned to select his club. ‘Right.’
‘You could play safe with an iron and be sure to hit the fairway.’
Temper-control was part of being on the LAPD roll. He employed his skills-base now, leaning to place the tee. That sonofabitch Bell used his short game to keep a low handicap. It wouldn’t be enough to save him on the fourth hole. Bet on it. He lined up, drove. Shit. The ball sliced a little, curved into a bunker to the right of the fairway.
‘Came off that one slightly, Jack. Could be worse.’
Not by much. The captain let out his breath slowly, calming himself. It was barely worth getting upset over. Just a game, just an al fresco operational conference. The cart was parked up on a slight incline, handbrake applied. Potential there for a runaway situation, for diversionary tactics and escape.
A hand clamped on his shoulder. ‘Those funerals must be unnerving you, Jack.’
‘I’ll cope.’
‘Nine fellow officers buried? Thought you were only used to seeing earth shifted when you swung a three-iron.’ Bell liked that one, really liked it.
The cop stowed his club and turned to face him. Nine grieving widows, nine gun salutes, nine flags folded. Quite moving, for the men had been martyrs in ways neither they nor their families would have ever anticipated. MacArthur Park was important, set the scene and the tempo, the precedent, the reference point for future news broadcasts, the justification for any coming action. It would happen. You didn’t shoot a uniformed officer and expect a mild reprimand; you couldn’t gun down a cluster of them and expect your community to go unscathed. From Rampart to Ocean, the force were hurting. The hurt would be excised.
‘So, what’s the mood?’ Bell was asking.
‘What do you think? Nervous, angry, uncompromising, uncomprehending, festering.’
‘Infectious.’
‘Extremely.’
‘Good. It’ll keep the law off the streets, their heads down until they’re ready for blood. Allows us to up the pace without interference.’
‘Allows the niggers to think they rule the sidewalks.’
‘I’m happy with that. They’ve already taken the prisons since the Aryan leaders got aced. Gets Caucasians scared, the negroes pumped. And the higher they walk, the harder they’ll take it when they fall.’
‘Pressure-cooker stuff.’
Bell tipped his shades. ‘We could be judged a bad influence on American race relations, Jack.’
‘Lucky we’ll never be judged, then.’
‘The Feds?’
‘Panicking, as lost as the cops. And the mayor, the governor and Washington biting at their asses. Got their two caped crusaders and drafted teams hard on the case, snooping.’
‘Special Agents Althouse and Wood?’ Bell wrinkled his nose. ‘They’ll wish they stayed in Gotham City by the time we’ve finished.’
‘By the time we’ve finished, the President of the United States will wish he’d stayed circling at 40,000 feet on Air Force One.’
‘It’ll improve his view. Red sky at night, cities alight.’
The captain went to climb into the passenger position. ‘How d’you want the FBI pair dealt with, wet or dry?’
‘What are their primary vulnerabilities?’
‘Mortality.’
‘Goes without saying. The woman’s white, she’ll be leading. I need to know our leverage.’
‘Not much. Her teenage daughter’s predeceased.’
‘Pity. Kids are handy.’ He climbed in and rested his fingers on the wheel.
‘This one had her accident before we got to her. Drugs and metal-jacketed rounds don’t mix.’
‘Remind me of that if we ever play host to the mother. Krista Althouse – siblings, parents, lovers?’
‘Divorced, single, dedicated to her work. Ex-husband’s a limey, lives in London. Her parents are alive and growing old in Santa Barbara.’
Bell scratched his chin. ‘I’d hate to knock the status quo.’
‘Keep them in reserve.’
‘They won’t lose value. We can always think of something special for the federal fuckers who executed McVeigh.’ He lifted the brake, allowing the cart to accelerate weakly. ‘Meantime, we’ll throw enough off-trail bait and jail decoys to keep Krista occupied and breathing.’
‘She and her office won’t recognize the landscape at the end.’
‘Friend, landscape won’t be in the vocabulary.’
