Chapter
3:
Just
Shoot Me
February
18, 1986
Today
the news was shitty all 'round. First of all, my employer - Xeno
Corporation - had just confirmed the rumor that had been floating
around the office for weeks: Xeno was going to eliminate 300
positions at its Seattle corporate headquarters, due to steadily
falling demand for its mainframe computer software. The bad news
didn't come as a shock to me, as it was clear that businesses had
begun to favor the use of networks of personal computers over their
much larger cousins, and this trend promised to be permanent. I had
years of experience operating huge mainframe computers, but so far my
only experience using a PC consisted of typing and printing my job
resumes. Six weeks hence, I was to find out whether or not there was
an urgent need for an updated one.
And
the other big news of the day didn't exactly inspire my faith in
local law enforcement: a Grand Jury had been empaneled to investigate
corruption within the Prince County Sheriff's Office (for which I
happened to be an informant). The Grand Jury was going to examine
allegations that elements within the Sheriff's Office had allowed
crime to run rampant around the outskirts of Seattle-Tacoma
International Airport, among other places. Voters living in
communities adjacent to the airport were loudly demanding a clean-up
of the notorious prostitution and gang-related drug problems in that
locale. These problems had become more severe ever since the
election, four years ago, of a new sheriff who had served in the
Prince County Sheriff's Office for the past 20 years. On the face of
it, it was unlikely that this sudden explosion in criminal activity
could exist there without the willful ignorance of, or even the
connivance of, the sheriff. This apparent tolerance for criminal
vice had incubated a sleazy environment which soon led to the murders
of dozens of airport-area prostitutes, most of them done-in by the
infamous Green River Killer (who, incidentally, was still at-large).
Due in part to my hard-headed insistence on living cheaply, Angie and
I found ourselves living in the middle of that societal cesspool.
However, we had been making plans to move from the area as soon as
possible - with the cost being a secondary consideration.
*
* *
Three
days later:
I
drove to Tina's mother's apartment in order to fix Tina's broken-down
car. The problem turned out to be nothing more than a couple of
fouled spark plugs. She leaned against a fender and watched me
cleaning sludge off the plugs, and I said, “Tina, you really ought
to change your oil once in awhile.” Two giggling little Hispanic
girls ran past us as they chased each other around the parking lot.
With
a shrug she replied, “Hey I changed it less than a year ago.”
“Right.
So, where've you been keeping yourself lately? Been staying with
your mom long?” I hadn't seen and had hardly spoken to Tina in
days.
“No,
I've just been workin' a lot of overtime this week - Laurie's on
vacation.” After a long pause, she sounded a bit defensive: “What
- you think I'm hidin'-out because the law ain't caught-up with A.J.
yet? I don't understand why yer still worried about him, Hercules.
He ain't got no beef with you.”
“He
would, if he knew all the stuff I've been telling the cops. I
suppose Angie told you already.” When she responded with a blank
stare, I prompted her with, “You know, about A.J. and
Marta.”
She
didn't seem to know what I was driving at: “What - that he was
fuckin' that little bitch? Everybody in my building must know it by
now.”
I
had assumed that chatterbox Angie had told her all about
Marta's video escapade. The fact that she hadn't I found rather
curious. “No, I'm talking about the video tape that
she
- “ All of a sudden we heard loud popping noises coming from the
street abutting the parking lot, sounding like a string of small
firecrackers but detonating at evenly spaced intervals. With my head
under the hood, I didn't fully comprehend what was happening until
Tina's left front tire abruptly went flat. Another bullet ricocheted
off asphalt and hit the left rear hubcap with a metallic twang. “Get
down! Get on the fucking ground,” I roared, grabbing Tina's pant
leg and pulling her down off the fender. With Tina whimpering and
cursing into my ear, I lifted my head in time to glimpse of the rear
of a purplish-colored car peeling away from the curb. Unfortunately
I couldn't read the license plate.
The
scene became abnormally hushed for a moment, until one of the two
little girls began crying plaintively over her fallen playmate. From
a 2nd-floor landing, agonized screams erupted from the victimized
girl's mother. I tried to help by stanching the blood flowing
heavily from an artery in her leg and then applying a tourniquet,
while Tina tried without much success to calm the mother's hysterics.
However, the girl was still conscious when paramedics whisked her
away 10 minutes later. Moments before detectives from the Prince
County Sheriff's Office began to interview us and other witnesses, I
told Tina, “Well, that asshole really fucked-up, this
time!”
Her
eyes still expressing shock, she replied, “Who you talkin' about?
A.J.? Don't give me that bool-shit! This happens all the time - we
just got caught in the wrong place at the - ”
“Of
course he was in on it! Who do you think they were targeting -
that poor kid? Or maybe someone in another car? What other
car? They either followed me here or already knew where you were.
He knows that your mom lives here - right?”
She
glumly replied, “Yeah.” I recalled Angie once telling me that
A.J. had been Tina's mother's boyfriend at one time. However,
broaching that subject with Tina would not be prudent, as I didn't
want a punch in the nose.
I
told the Gang Unit detectives about my suspicion that I had been the
intended target and that A.J. was responsible for shooting the girl,
but that did little good as at least two police agencies were already
hunting for him. I described the drive-by car as a late-70s reddish
Chevy Monte Carlo with fancy wire wheels, a car similar in model and
color to the one reportedly used in the assault on Marta's father.
As for Tina, she pleaded total ignorance to the detectives. However,
she hadn't actually witnessed anything aside from hearing the shots.
The
first thing I did after answering the detective's questions was to
find a phone to contact Angie, who was at work. After a coworker
told her that I was on the line, Angie said into the phone, “Hi,
Den. We better make this a quickie - I got three hungry customers to
deal with, and the manager is glaring at me.”
After
telling her what had just happened, all I heard was her anxiously
heavy breathing. “Angie, are you still there? Listen to me - when
your shift is over, do not go home! Just stay right there. I
got Tina with me - we'll come get you as soon as we can.”
Then
I attempted to call Detective Jameson. The Sheriff's Office
switchboard operator informed me that Jameson was in court that day,
but that she could beep his pager and have him return my call when he
was free. When the operator asked for a contact number, I hesitated,
wondering if “court” meant that Jameson was testifying before the
Grand Jury, which had convened for its first session today. The
thought of that scared me. For all I knew, he was deeply
involved in the very corruption the Grand Jury was investigating.
And even before today, I had worried that someone inside the
Sheriff's Office had tipped-off A.J. or his confederates that I was
an informant. If that worry was justified, it would explain why his
gang seemed intent on killing me. “Thanks anyway, but it can wait
til tomorrow.” By then, I planned to be living outside the
jurisdiction of the Prince County Sheriff.
Returning
to the parking lot, I reluctantly granted an interview with a
newspaper reporter but adamantly refused to go on camera with a local
TV station's reporter, who clearly wanted to exploit my first-aid
“heroics” for all it was worth. The highly photogenic Tina
didn't mind being on TV. In fact, she appeared to enjoy the
attention, in spite of having been scared out of her mind only an
hour ago.
Since
the detectives were nearly finished with their on-scene
investigation, I hurriedly mounted the spare tire onto Tina's car so
we could get the hell out of there before they left. While I did
that, Tina and her mother Laverne carried-on a heated discussion in
the parking lot, and I occasionally felt Laverne's eyes bearing down
on me in stern disapproval. She scorned interracial relationships
even more than my own mother did. A minute later, as Laverne marched
stridently back to her apartment, Tina approached me. Tightening the
last lug nut, I said to her, “I distinctly sense that your mom
blames me for this, and she probably has good reason to.”
“Aw,
don't take it personal, Hercules. She just don't like me shackin'-up
with a honkie.”
“I
gathered that. Hey I've been thinking. After I pick-up Angie, I'm
gonna get us a hotel room. I want you there with us.”
“At
a roach-infested motel, you mean? Hell no.” She glanced at
her wristwatch and said, “I got to be at work in an hour, so come
over later and I'll get you a decent room there.”
“That's
no good – A.J. knows where you work. Just call in sick tonight,
and I'll find us a good hotel, far away from here.”
“I
can't - not on a Friday night. The night manager can't
replacement me on such short notice, so one of the day clerks would
have to work a double shift. Anyway, I refuse to turn my life
upside-down for any muthafucka.” I rightfully assumed that
that included me.
“Okay,
we'll stay there tonight, but that's all. At least the place has
security guards on duty, in case he's dumb enough to show his face
there. I wonder if those creeps even know they shot a kid
yet.” Just before we departed, I suggested to one of the detectives
that they should stake-out the Airport Hilton, on the chance that the
Monte Carlo with wire wheels would make an appearance there. The
detective politely explained that every available patrol officer and
detective in south Prince County was already on the lookout for that
car - but he promised to pass along my suggestion to his superior.
I
closely followed Tina's Toyota on the freeway as she drove the 10
miles to work. Once she was safely inside the hotel, I drove a short
distance down International Boulevard to Angie's workplace, Denny's
Restaurant. Upon telling her I was going home to pick up some
personal items, she wanted to go with me but I insisted she go to the
Hilton as planned. I told her, “Just tell me what you need for the
night and I'll get it for you. We'll get the rest of our shit when
we move, which'll be any day now.” Among the things I wanted to
retrieve that night was my Remington pump-action shotgun.
It
was dark by the time I left the Hilton, which was located only a mile
from my mobile home. Within a few blocks of home I got the jitters
again, so I killed the engine and headlights, coasting to a stop one
block from home. Then I slipped around to the back of the trailer,
away from the street. After tip-toeing around to the front,
pinpricks of panic stung my face upon finding nearly every window
broken and a snaking string of bullet holes in the aluminum siding
and flimsy screen door. Several concerned neighbors were milling
around in the street, so I asked one of them, Bobby, if he knew when
this had happened. He replied, “I heard the shots about five
minutes ago. The police are on the way, I think.”
“Did
anybody see anything?” I loudly asked the small group of
bystanders, but received no coherent reply.
Going
inside, my shoes crunched shards of window glass. The living room
was a complete shambles, with the TV, VCR and brand-new $1,000 stereo
system ready for the electronic graveyard. I then called 9-1-1, and
the operator told me, “We've already dispatched a unit to your
address, sir. They should be there any minute.” While waiting for
the police, I loaded four shells into the Remington and then packed
it and small valuables and clothing into a large duffel bag.
After
smoking a Marlboro and downing two shots of brandy, I got impatient.
“Shit, it's been 20 minutes,” I grumbled to myself.
The hell with it - I'm outta here. For all I know, a COP shot-up
the place. So I grabbed the duffel and exited the trailer. To my
disbelief and disgust, Angie rolled up in her 1962 Cadillac Sedan
Deville. I yanked opened the passenger door and scolded, “I
thought I fuckin' told you - “
She
smiled apologetically. “I forgot to mention my tampons, Den. I
really need 'em.”
“Tampons!”
“Hey
what's goin' on? It looks like a block party!” Then she noticed
the damage. ”O my God! W-where's the police?”
“Good
question, but at this point I don't give a rat's ass. Now just stay
in the car and I'll get you your goddamn tampons.”
“Oh,
and a bottle of Midol, in the medicine cabinet.”
“Unbelievable,”
I said under my breath.
We
drove off a few minuted later, with Angie leading the way. The
shotgun was now tucked between the driver's-side door and my leg.
Although fretting that a cop might pull me over and see the weapon, I
was much more concerned about being a target in a shooting gallery
again.
We
automatically took the usual route: a left turn at 192nd
Street, and six blocks later a right turn at International Boulevard,
which would get us to the Airport Hilton within five minutes. The
traffic light at 192nd turned red scant seconds after
Angie turned left, so I lost sight of her car as heavy cross traffic
prevented me from running the light. I was so fixated on looking-out
for a Monte Carlo with wire wheels that I failed, at first, to
recognize A.J.'s emerald-green BMW on my right, which had slowed to
stop at the intersection, just as I got the green light. Impulsively
changing my mind, I drove straight ahead from the left-turn lane,
which incited the drivers on my right side to honk at me in anger.
Speeding up, I expected A.J. to turn right to follow me northbound,
but he had apparently continued west on 192nd . Relief
swept over me in the belief he hadn't recognized my car, although my
hand still shook as it lay on the stock of the shotgun. Then the
irresponsible, cowardly part of my brain nagged me with questions and
half-truths: See what happens when you try to play solid citizen?
Why don't you mind your own business, stupid? Since when did YOU
ever give a shit about society, anyway? Marta and those other two
chicks in the video are just a bunch of horny young sluts - if it
hadn't been A.J. exploiting them it would've been somebody else.
Face it, dude, the only reason you ratted on him was because you were
jealous that he was fucking Marta - you wanted her for yourself,
didn't you? You struck-out with girls in high school, so you had to
lust-after a 16-year old when you're almost 30 - HA! What a dumb
ass...
Shaking
off negative thoughts, I turned left on 188th,
as it was the only westbound through-street for the next mile. That
street was well-lit, so I had no difficulty in seeing the
emerald-green BMW coming at me from the opposite direction. Within a
block of each other, I saw what looked like the barrel of a gun
pointing at me from the driver's side window. A surreal
fight-or-flight sensation washed over me, with only one thought in
mind: “I AM GOING TO DIE!” So, as if possessed, I slid the
shotgun barrel out the window, tucked the stock under my armpit and
squeezed off a round of buckshot in the general direction of the
BMW’s rear fender, while two slugs from an automatic weapon blasted
through the top of the windshield, my left should nearly paralyzed
from the recoiling Remington, which had rocketed out of my awkward
grasp and onto the backseat. Blue smoke stung my eyes now, and a
chip of safety glass had neatly sliced my cheekbone.
The
inaccessible shotgun was useless to me now, as the BMW, evidently
undamaged, had pulled a screeching U-turn and was rapidly gaining on
me. Traffic got heavier approaching the intersection of 188th
and International Boulevard, and I was terrified of having to slow
down. With shots still zinging around my Camero, I drove like a
drunk trying to get to the bar before closing time. Unable to pass
while ascending a hill without risking a head-on collision, I weaved
around several cars in order to get to the right lane. With cars
backed-up at the light at International Boulevard, I forcibly lurched
the right side of my car over the curb and, to the shouts of
incredulous drivers, drove on the sidewalk. Seconds later, I saw why
traffic was so bad. There was a huge police presence at the
intersection, bringing tears of relief to my eyes. Somebody in the
car beside me yelled, “Hey you dumb motherfucker!” as I wedged my
car back into the creeping traffic in the right lane, but I didn't
care. A deputy at the intersection was directing traffic around the
line of police cars that surrounded a vehicle they had pulled over: a
late-70s purple Chevrolet Monte Carlo.
Copyright 2014 by K.D. Bishop