The Tin Collector

CARL CUMMINS PRESIDENT, LONG BEACH CITY COUNCIL

"Son of a bitch," Shane said.

Chooch looked at him. "What is it?"

Just then, some kind of disturbance seemed to be taking place in the back of the hall. A chant began: "AFL-CIO… Tony Spivack, you must go."

About thirty protesters had broken into the hall and were trying to march down the aisle, carrying placards. The agitated audience soon picked up the chant.

Carl Cummins started banging his gavel, trying to regain order. "We can't conduct this hearing under these conditions!" he said, screeching it into his mike, getting loud boos and electronic feedback. "The discussion period on City Resolution 397 is concluded. The board will retire to chambers to take its vote. We're adjourned." He angrily banged his gavel and rose.

The chorus of boos grew louder. Suddenly people in the front rows stood up and started throwing fruit at the stage; pulling oranges and plums out of carry-bags, brought in anticipation of this demonstration.

Carl Cummins and the nine other members of the city council bolted from their chairs as they were pelted with fruit, making a hurried exit from the stage.

The pushing and shoving was getting increasingly intense in the auditorium, threatening to turn into a riot.

"Let's go!" Shane said, grabbing Chooch. "Stay close to me. Hold on to my belt."

He felt Chooch grab hold of his belt in the back, and then Shane pushed through the melee to the fire exit on the same side of the room that Carl Cummins and the city council were using as a retreat. By now most of the frightened council members had left the stage.

Shane got to the fire exit, but it was guarded by another Long Beach cop. "Sorry. This is an alarmed fire door," the policeman said.

"Long Beach Fire Marshal," Shane bullshitted. "I'm authorized to open it under Regulation 1623. Excuse me."

He handed the startled cop his official LAPD business card and jostled him, hoping he couldn't read it in the commotion. In that moment of hesitation, Shane pushed down on the silver bar and opened the door. The alarm bell sounded. People were panicking as fruit continued to fly. Shane pushed past the Long Beach cop, dragging Chooch into the hot sunshine.

Up ahead, he could see a black limousine waiting with several chase cars. Then Shane spotted Anthony Spivack beside the limo. With him were several of the men Shane had photographed in Arrowhead. He assumed one of them must be Calvin Sheets. The people with Spivack started piling into cars. Carl Cummins arrived with one of the other council members and jumped into Spivack's limo. Like the last politicians leaving Saigon, they slammed car doors and squealed away from the angry mob pouring out of the doors behind them.

"Stay with me!" Shane said, trying to get an idea which direction the fleeing cars were headed while simultaneously sprinting for the Taurus, parked almost a block away.

He and Chooch finally reached the car. Both were out of breath as they jumped in. Shane put the car in gear and sped across the lot, cutting between parked cars. He bounced over the curb, shot out onto Front Street, and took off heading south, after the speeding limo and its four chase vehicles.

"What's going on?" Chooch asked.

"Some of these guys were in the house up in Arrowhead," he said, fearing he couldn't catch up with them.

Shane had lost sight of the cars but was now driving along a frontage road that bordered the Long Beach Airport. On a hunch, he turned into one of the executive terminals, past an open bar-arm at the end of a ramp, driving out onto the tarmac that bordered the runway. As he sped along past a row of FBOs (flight base operators) that lined the west side of the field, several ramp attendants and cargo loaders started screaming and waving their arms at the brown Taurus. Shane just ignored them, racing past parked Lears and Gulfstreams.

He thought he saw the black limo in the distance parked near a large Sikorsky helicopter, idling with the rotor turning slowly.

He drove around more executive jets transportation necessities of the megarich.

Finally he could see the helicopter more clearly. Spivack and Cummins were getting into the idling chopper with the rest of the men from the Arrowhead house. He was close enough to the helicopter to read SPIVACK DEVELOPMENT on the side door as the huge green-and-white nine-passenger Sikorsky lifted off.

Shane got there half a minute too late. He watched in frustration as the chopper hovered for a minute a few feet above the tarmac, then the rotor changed pitch, and the helicopter streaked away, climbing to the north. Soon it was just a speck in the bright blue cloudless sky.