Troubleshooter

Chapter 9

Twenty motor units led the official funeral cortege, an ironic biker send-off, followed by fifty black-and-whites. Behind the caissons bearing the caskets and two riderless horses with reversed stirrups-a tradition holding on from Saxon days-came another police phalanx, trailed by a solemn convoy of unmarked cars. The procession slowed around Chinatown to accommodate a pipe-and-drum band. Local-affiliate TV crews formed up with crowds along the downtown streets, grabbing highlights for the six o'clock news. Evincing terrorist-age sensitivity, people waved flags, prayed silently, pressed their hands to their chests. Uniformed peace officers wore black ribbons across their badges. Grief was rampant but, no less, fear.

As the draped caskets rolled past, spectators gave in to emotion. The martial choreography was, after all, largely for them-the citizens on hand and the multitudes tuned in from home. The void opened up by the slaying of an officer could be compensated for only by symbolism, an overwhelming show of force and tradition to reassure citizens that they weren't under attack, that the bedrock wasn't fractured, that the moorings still held.

The procession filtered through surface streets and access roads, skirting the freeways with as much dignity as it could, to arrive at Forest Lawn.

Uncle Pete straddled the yellow dotted line that ran past the clubhouse, his legs like pillars. The sun glinted off the exaggerated blade of Den's bowie knife, lent to him with considerable pomp and circumstance for the occasion. Before him the bikers, in a half-mile formation, throttled and lurched on their marks like angry steeds. Sinners had descended from all the satellite chapters, their bottom rockers a sampling of West Coast and Southwest geography.

Behind the vanguard of Sinner officers' bikes, a flatbed funeral trailer hitched to a Harley Road King interrupted the two-by-two configuration. Every inch of the exposed glossy coffin bore club imagery-licks of fire, clusters of skulls, Nigger Steve's likeness astride a dragon. Vans bookended the bikes, war wagons piloted by deeds and holding ordnance in case of attack. Another defensive weapon, Dana Lake, was suited up on the back of Diamond Dog's bike, looking for once out of place, about as hip as Dukakis in the tank.

Uncle Pete raised both hands over his head and jabbed the tip of the bowie blade into his thumb. He extended his arm, working the thumb below the cut. A bead of blood formed, then dropped.

"May this be the only Sinner blood spilled on asphalt this year!" Uncle Pete roared.

The bikers exploded into whoops and applause. Pete saddled up, hammering his heel down on the kick start. The column of motorcycles moved as one, filling the air with the grease-spatter thunder of engines venting.

Motorcycles flowed down from the San Gabriels' summit as if poured from the horizon. The Cholos rode erect, knights at attention, floating like a mirage over Palmdale tarmac. They traveled slow, the heavy bikes purring calmly beneath them. A coffin was linked sidecar style between two bikes, a cross spray-painted above the name-CHOOCH MILLAN. El Viejo led the pack, his worn-leather face braving the wind, the feathers of his headdress rippling. Carefully cultivated legend had it that he was half Navajo, half Mexican, descended from the Aztecs. Most of the Cholos wore helmets, but a few, like El Viejo, refused, flouting the law to enhance funereal dignity.

Cholo war wagons held lead and rear positions, keeping a respectful distance from the bikes. The convoy turned onto a two-lane highway, following the predetermined route to the Catholic graveyard.

A bagpiper led the procession through Forest Lawn to the first dug grave, the inner circle shuffling along, press and spectators keeping their distance. Palton's girlfriend showed up and lingered red-faced in the back until Jim went over and unceremoniously suggested she grieve elsewhere. Four helicopters did a flyover, one peeling off in missing-man formation just above the neatly dug rectangle. As a bugler played taps, the honor guard stood at attention, white parade ascots dotting their open collars. After they performed the flag fold, Marshal Tannino stepped in, awarding the firm triangle of nylon to a stoically postured Janice Palton. One of the Palton girls collapsed, and every deputy in the vicinity, glad for an opportunity to be useful, surged toward her.

The nonuniformed onlookers dispersed, catharsis complete. The cops and deputies remained, trying for impassivity though a few trickles glittered on motionless cheeks. After the brass's obligatory remarks about sacrifice and unwavering resolve, Jim took the podium. He still hadn't recovered hearing in his right ear; he spoke with his head inadvertently tilted.

"I never understood what 'human resources' meant. I thought it was more of that corporatespeak I hate. 'Human resources.' I mean, what the hell?"

Some nervous shifting in the crowd.

"But now I think I get it. You know how long it takes to make a deputy of Frankie's caliber? An all-state fullback in high school. A B.A. in criminal justice from City. He went through the academy first, you know, before FLETC. Two years as a patrolman, two more as a D-1. Then the Service. SWAT school. Surveillance school. Gang training. Six-month stint with DEA."

Janice was crying for the first time.

"You think that matters to some prick biker with an AR-15?"

The front rows bristled. Miller started toward the podium but caught himself.

"I been thinking a lot lately about how easy it is to destroy. To ruin. It took us how many years to learn to fly? Building airplanes, I mean. And the Towers. The engineering and architecture that went into them. The materials. Scaffolding. Man-hours. A whole civilization building on itself, decade after decade, and what?" Jim's cheeks glistened, but his voice stayed steady, gathering rage. Miller was at his elbow now, contemplating a tactful break-in. "A bunch of jackasses with box cutters can take down the whole enterprise. That's the thing with it. It's so goddamned easy. And what do we do? We make pledges. Like we did today. Law and order. Righteousness. Justice." A noise of disgust escaped between his teeth. "Even if we do nail the guys who killed Frankie…" He caught himself, nodded at Tannino's wife. "Sorry. I'm sorry."

Miller slipped an arm around Jim's shoulders and, smiling at the crowd, directed him away. Jim leaned back toward the mike. "We won't replace you, Frankie. We can't."

The crowd took a moment to resettle. Janice caught Jim stepping off the dais and hugged him, crying into his shoulder. As the coffin began its descent into the grave, a seven-man detail fired a rifle salute, three volleys that rolled back off the foothills.

Tannino rang the brass bell, sending Frank Palton off duty for the last time.

You got 'em yet?" Guerrera's voice crackled through the Nextel.

Tim pressed his binoculars to the tinted glass and refocused at the top of the opposing hill. Beside him in the Chevy cargo van, Roger Frisk and another Electronic Surveillance Unit inspector resumed their discussion about virtual dragon building. "Nope. Nothing."

Tim, Bear, and Guerrera were positioned around the cemetery, each with a pair of ESU geeks. It would have been too obvious if they'd tailed the biker procession from the clubhouse. The Sinners' highly secretive route, designed to throw off both law enforcement and revenge-seeking rivals, had most likely been charted out yesterday. Rather than burning resources playing clairvoyant, Tim had decided to pitch camp at the finish line.

The ground vibrated, ever so slightly, and the ESU inspectors finally shut up and grabbed their long-range lenses. The sound rose to a rumble, then a roar, as a landslide of metal overtook the road.

Tim had to raise his voice, even at this distance, to be heard. "Cue the locals. Remember, they've got to sell it."

A sheriff's car pulled forward, blocking the street to halt the procession, and the two brave souls emerged. Already Dana Lake was off the bike, unfolding the municipal permission. The notion of her accompanying the mourners to protect their right to bare heads-all the while earning her hourly-brought a grin to Tim's lips.

An animated discussion ensued, the lead deputy glancing from the paper to the bikers, who looked on with menacing impatience. Tim hoped that Guerrera's team, holed up in the warehouse beside them, was getting all the shots they needed; capturing the Sinners in formation without helmets would provide a wealth of information on the club's pecking order.

Tim keyed the radio. "Who's the guy front right, next to Uncle Pete?"

Guerrera's whispered voice: "We'll match face to name later, but that's the road-captain position."

"What, in case Uncle Pete gets lost?"

"You guessed it. He's got a notoriously bad sense of direction. He once steered an entire run one state wide of the mark, went to the Black Hills by way of Montana.

Bear chimed in on the primary channel, "Never said you needed brains for the gig."

"No," Tim said. "But he's got 'em."

Finally the sheriff's deputy held up his hands in concession, and he and his partner climbed back into their car and took off. The Sinners continued down the hill and slant-parked, one after another. Within seconds both sides of the road below were filled.

"Okay," Tim said. "This is our best shot to capture their faces. Get as many close-ups as you can. Focus on mother chapter members and deeds. With the women make sure you get their property jackets, too."

As several Sinners hoisted the coffin and marched it into the grassy flats, the van filled with the click of high-tech cameras and the hum of autoadjusting lenses. No cemetery workers were on hand; no one threw dirt on a Sinner but a Sinner.

Toe-Tag, Whelp, and Diamond Dog stayed together, keeping close proximity to Uncle Pete, who seemed to be relishing his master-of-ceremonies role. A skinny biker with an eye patch hung at Pete's side, his posture indicating more-than-usual obeisance. Rather than originals, he wore an armband, Third Reich style, exhibiting the Sinners logo. A stone glinted on his pinkie ring. A woman with a masculine build stayed on his arm, seeming to negotiate his brief introductions to satellite-chapter members.

Tim clicked on again: "What's with Himmler at your nine o'clock?"

"The armband shows he's a striker," Guerrera said. "Means he's graduated from being a prospect, but he's not an official Sinner yet."

Bear's voice: "How'd he graduate?"

"He rolled bones."

"You gotta kill someone?"

"From their preselected list of club enemies. Proves you're not a cop."

"Yeah," Bear said. "That'd pretty much do it."

Tim caught a glimpse of an attractive brunette swaggering through the crowd. A few of the Sinners cleared out of her way, their deference drawing Tim's attention. Trying to keep her in sight, he came up off the stool until his head pressed against the roof of the van. Her bottom rocker-PROPERTY OF DEN-flashed into view before she disappeared behind a stand of trees.

He keyed the radio. "Bear. You spot Den's deed? Far side of the trees?"

"We have a worse angle than you. How 'bout you, Guerrera?"

"We lost our view to a moving van."

Tim grabbed a camera and slid out of the vehicle, easing the door closed. He jogged in a crouch a few feet along the wrought-iron fence and fell to a flat-bellied sniper's position. The brunette stepped back into the scope of his lens and he fired off a series of shots. The whir of his advancing film seemed to echo back at him. He pivoted with the camera, tracking the sound.

A short biker sat on an Indian about twenty yards upslope, a camera raised to his helmet. For a frozen instant, he and Tim regarded each other through their lenses. The biker flipped down his wind visor and took off up a cross street. Tim was on his feet, sprinting for the van, the information coalescing-Chief, the Sinners' intel officer, taking pictures of Tim taking pictures.

Tim leapt into the driver's seat and peeled away from the curb, the ESU guys going ass-up in the back. Barking for backup into the radio, he careened around the turn in time to see the bike cut down another street ahead. By the time the cul-de-sac flew into view, Chief was heading back directly at them, a game of chicken he was sure to lose. About twenty yards from a collision, he turned sharply, motoring up a walkway toward a house. He hopped the three steps onto the wide porch, a fusion of man and machine, and screeched left, leaving a wake of fire. The bike took flight off the porch and landed in a flower bed, throwing off a shower of dirt and petals. Chief reared up, his front wheel smashing down a rickety gate, and disappeared into the backyard.

Tim skidded to a halt, Frisk rolling to strike the cushioned front seats, and reversed hard. He raced around the block in time to see the bike drop down a sloped median-a ten-foot fall ending in concrete-and race off, heading the wrong way, cars and trucks honking and veering as Chief split the road down the middle.

A glance in the other direction showed Bear's van and Guerrera's G-ride boxed in by a cluster of strategically repositioned Harleys.

Suffused with frustration and no small measure of admiration, Tim had no choice but to turn and watch Chief disappear.

The Cholos rolled along, a river of flying colors. Aside from the war wagon twenty yards ahead, El Viejo led alone-no road captain to detract from his eminence. His face and bearing were classics, torn from pulp-western covers and second-rate cowboy etchings that tour-group participants hung in bathrooms. The narrow highway stretched flat and unforgiving through Antelope Valley, where the high Mojave grudgingly gives way to dusty civilization. The occasional car flashed by on the sole opposite lane, an anxious pale face or two pressed to a window.

The ride was windless and serene. Just the purr of the bikes, the flutter of synthetic rubber over blacktop, the whistle of air through helmets.

The front and rear war wagons exploded simultaneously, lifting off the ground and sending out a burst of heat and orange flame.

The Cholos went down in waves, only those in the middle of the convoy managing to stay upright. The trapped bikers wheeled and revved, wild horses corralled.

Two Harleys peeled out from behind an embankment shoring up a hillside ahead, Den and Kaner in the driver positions. Goat and Tom-Tom rode sidesaddle behind them, AR-15s at low-ready. They shot through the orb of fire engulfing the front war wagon, racing along the side of the convoy, AR-15s blazing. The Cholos absorbed the fusillade in tangles of metal and flesh, engines revving, tires biting through cloth and skin.

The Sinners screeched to a halt at the end of the run, guns smoking. The procession had been decimated. A few weak groans and coughs. Limbs rustling among the bodies and machinery. The smell of burned flesh.

The four Sinners dismounted, pulling handguns from their waist-bands. They walked calmly among the fallen, kids at a tidal pool, shooting the wounded in the head.

In the front El Viejo lay broken-limbed ten yards from his steaming bike, an ideal chalk-outline model. His headdress lay behind him, ablaze. The heat from the fiery van had baked his rich bronze skin auburn. His cheek was stuck to the asphalt.

Den strolled over and stared down at him, blotting out the midday sun. "Look at me."

With great effort El Viejo pulled his cheek free of the road. He met Den's eyes defiantly, his wrinkled face hardened into a grimace.

A single report.

Goat pulled a bike over, and Den slung himself onto the back. As they took off after Kaner and Tom-Tom, the heat ate deeper into the war wagons, setting off a crackling of ammo.