'Look, Chooch, if he's changing his tune, don't hawk a lugie at him.'
'He's a prick.'
'Yeah, maybe. Or maybe he's had a change of heart. If he's trying to cut you some slack, take it.'
'And you believe him?'
'Yeah. Yeah, sure, I believe him. Hey, look, Thackery may be okay underneath all that Latin he quotes. Maybe he's just a guy who's scared, like us.'
'I ain't scared a' nothin'.'
'Then you're the only one on the planet, Chooch. Everybody is scared.'
'Were you scared when you shot that guy?'
Shane looked over. He had not discussed the incident with Chooch, and he didn't have a TV. He was foolishly hoping it would never come up.
'It's all over school,' Chooch said, reading his look of dismay. 'So tell me. When you offed him, were you scared?'
'Yeah. Yeah… I was scared to death. I was shitting bricks.'
Chooch sat there for a long moment thinking. 'Physical stuff doesn't scare me. I'm not afraid a' getting bombed on or fucked over that way. But' he hesitated for a moment, his eyes on the road ahead 'sometimes I'm afraid that what I believe in isn't true, that everything I think is true was just set up by somebody to fool me.'
Shane nodded. 'Yeah, I've been getting some of that myself lately.'
'And sometimes, just once in a while, I want to be the most important, instead of the least' He paused for a long time, his face in a wrinkled frown. 'Sometimes I'm scared I'll never have anybody who gives a shit.'
They rode in silence.
Finally they got back to East Channel Road. Shane pulled the car into the garage, and they went into the house. Shane closed the door and watched as Chooch dragged his book bag into his room, to sit there with desperate, lonely thoughts that probably matched his own.
Chapter 17
Shane sat in his living room listening to an occasional siren, which always seemed to come from the east, where the gangbangers held their nightly life-ending turf parties. It was six o'clock and the sun had just gone down. He put his mind back on his problem.
Any police detective worth his salt always started a case by arranging known or probable facts in chronological order. Shane took a piece of paper off the table and began making notations:
1. Late Feb. or early March, Ray Molar gets a job driving for Mayor Crispin.
2. March, R. M. begins not coming home.
3. April 2, Joe Church fails to respond to Hoover St. robbery (related?).
4. April 10, R. M. gets shirts done at Mountain Cleaners.
5. April 14, B. M. gets phone call from mystery woman/tape coming.
6. April 16, 1:30 A. M., R. M. gets home, beats B. M.
7. April 16, 2:35 A. M., R. M. shot (no tape found in house).
8. April 16, 5:17 A. M., T. Mayweather does DFAR (S. S. secure files in IAD possibly accessed).
9. April 16, 6:00 A. M., S. S. threatened by Kono and Drucker, police garage.
10. April 16, Joe Church escorts S. S. to C. O. P.
11. April 16, C. O. P. threatens S. S. with murder indictment. Wants case material returned.
12. April 18, Samansky, Ayers break in and search B. M.'s house (no tape found). Warrant signed by Hernandez, Crispin appointee.
13. April 18, Letter of Transmittal arrives. S. S. suspended. S. S. motive for murder mentioned.
14. April 18, T. Mayweather walks 1.61 appeal through department. S. S. back on duty.
15. April 19, S. S. reports to IAD (DA intends to audit BOR).
He stopped writing and looked at the list. It was his first chronological log. There were huge holes in his time line. Aside from the missing tape, there was Ray's increasingly violent behavior toward Barbara. Also, the list made it even more obvious that there was some kind of link between Ray and the top floor of the Glass House, and that it might have to do with Mayor Crispin. The list directed him to where he had to look next. He needed to find out why Molar had his shirts done ninety miles away. He looked at his watch seven o'clock. Shane turned on his desk lamp and picked up the phone. He got the number for the laundry on Pine Tree Lane in Arrowhead and dialed. After a few rings, a man's voice came on the line.
'Mountain Cleaners,' the voice chirped.
'Yes. Who am I speaking to?'
'This is Larry Wright.'
'Mr. Wright, I'm Sergeant Shane Scully, with the LAPD. I'm working a case and I have some dry-cleaned shirts that were done at your laundry. I'm trying to find out who dropped them off.'
'I see, well, without looking at the tags, I wouldn't know. They're bar-coded; I'd have to run them through our scanner.'
'This case is pretty important. If I got in my car, I could be up there in two hours. I know it's an imposition, but do you think we could make an appointment to meet about nine tonight?'
'No problem. I'm usually stuck here till nine-thirty.'
'Great. I'll bring the shirts with me.' He hung up and dialed Longboard Kelly.
'Yer tappin' the Source,' the surfboard shaper answered. Kelly believed 'the Source' was a magical place where great waves came from.
'It's Shane. You think you could come right over and keep an eye on Chooch for a couple of hours?'
'I'm busy crankin' off an eight-ball, dude. After I finish, I could make it.'
'You're doing what?' Shane asked.
'I'm on the throne, takin' a shit. Gimme five.'
'Great. I'll pay you.'
'What for, man? One day, if I get busted, you play the 'Get Brian out of jail' card.'
'Right. Only we took that card out of the deck. How 'bout I play the Tut in a good word for Brian' card instead?'
'Agreed, dude! I'll be right over.'
Shane hung up.
He went into the guest bedroom. Chooch was hunched over the desk, doing his homework. Shane had a momentary stab of 'parental' gratitude. 'It's great you're doing your studies,' Shane said proudly.
Chooch looked over at him, and Shane saw that he had a Game Boy on his lap.
Shane's expression of gratitude was replaced with exasperation. 'I'm gonna run out for a few hours. Kelly is coming over to be with you.'
'Cool. He's kickin'.'
'Right. When are you gonna get back to your studies?'
'I'm just takin' a break, man. You don't get breaks down at that duck farm where you work?'
'Yeah, I get breaks. I'll be back before midnight.'
'Solid.'
Shane left the room, got his coat, collected his badge, and grabbed one of the bagged dry-cleaned shirts, which he had hung in the closet. He headed out the back door.
As the garage door was going up, a car's headlights pulled in right behind him, blocking his exit. He put a hand on his belt holster and cautiously moved toward the driveway. As he rounded the back of his car, he could see Barbara Molar's red Mustang convertible. When she turned off her headlights, he saw her behind the wheel, a scarf tied around her hair.
'Shit, Barbara, whatta you doing here?'
