'None taken.' She cocked her head, thinking for a moment, then smiled. 'I think.'
'You saw what happened when we buried Tremaine. It'll be just like that. All the department ass-kissers who didn't even know Emo swarming like flies on garbage. All telling the brass what a great guy Emo was, how they were in the same foxholes with him, all spinning their dumb war stories. Most of the people making speeches this afternoon will be strangers. The ones who really loved him will get pushed to the back. We'll all be listening to guys like Salazar turn Emo's funeral into a campaign issue. Once they're done, down Emo goes into the hole, awash in crocodile tears and bullshit. Then everybody leaves, hoping the governor will remember they were there.'
'Then why are you going?'
'I don't want to go, but I have to. How do you not go to a good friend's funeral?'
'Why is Chooch going?' she said, hitting me with a blind shot that I hadn't seen coming. I looked away to buy time, gather my defenses.
'Huh?' Not much of a response, I admit, but I'm not too good at dodging her.
'He's in there finishing his homework so he'll be able to go.'
'Oh. I guess that could maybe be because I sorta told him he could go.'
'He didn't even know Emo.'
'Yes he did.' I heaved a sigh. Once again I was going to have to bust myself. I took a deep breath. 'He knew him because he went on an Iron Pigs ride with us two months ago.'
'Right. Sure he did. He doesn't even know how to ride a Harley.'
'Last July-the week you were in Chicago, I borrowed two bikes. We practiced every night for five days. Got him licensed Friday afternoon. I swore him to secrecy because I knew you wouldn't want him riding a hawg.'
'You're damn right I wouldn't.' She fell silent and let go of my hand. 'And he sure doesn't need to go to this funeral.'
'Let him go. He wants to. It's part of growing up. People you know and care about die. It's a bitch, but it happens. He liked Emo. They're both quarterbacks.'
'When cops die, you know he puts you in the coffin, Shane. Emotionally, he sees you in the box.'
'I suppose.'
'No suppose about it. It's true.' She was mad about the Harley ride but had the good sense not to bang me around about it now. Instead, her anger was coming out over Chooch and the funeral.
'Look, I'll talk to him, okay? I'll make him understand,' I said.
'Make me understand,' she challenged.
'You already do, sweetheart. It's why I love you.' I gave her a hopeful smile.
She looked at me and her eyes softened. 'Damn you, Shane. I'm really pissed off here. Acting goofy and sweet is no fair.' Then she got up and went in to get Chooch.
Chapter 6
Delfina would be at rehearsal until six. Chooch went to the funeral on crutches, because he had a broken foot.
Here's how that happened. About a week after the Iron Pigs ride in mid-July, during the first week of two-a- day football drills, he tried to escape a blitz, spun right, and rolled over on his right foot, cracking one of the small bones on the outside. Chooch was being recruited heavily by half a dozen big Division 1 universities and was afraid that the tiny bone break in his foot was going to cost him his entire multimillion-dollar pro-football career.
I gave him my 'Life Is a Journey' speech. Net effect, zero. I gave him my 'You Only Grow from Adversity' speech. Nothing. Finally, Alexa convinced him that his football career wasn't as important right now as his academic career, and he'd better make sure he kept his grades up; because, if he didn't get the athletic scholarship he'd need to get into college on pure academics. She reminded him he could always walk on if he didn't get the ride. This made sense to Chooch, and he had a 3.8 going into midterms. All of this is noteworthy only when you realize that, as usual, Alexa's pragmatic approach had carried the day.
It was a bright, cloudless Saturday afternoon as we drove to Forest Lawn. The San Gabriel Mountains were almost purple against the cobalt sky. A light Santa Ana wind had cleared the basin of smog for Emo's funeral. As we neared the off-ramp to Forest Lawn Drive, I could see this was going to be a mob scene. Traffic was already piling up on the 210 Freeway before we reached the L. A. River. You could tell it was for Emo, because even the people who weren't in squad cars were wearing uniforms with black ribbons pinned diagonally across their badges.
I wanted to drop Chooch off as close as possible. I've spent my share of time walking with birch under my arms, and I know that handling crutches on grass is a bitch. I managed to sneak up next to the chapel where the hearse and limos were parked. When I dropped Chooch and Alexa off there were already more than a thousand people milling in front of the church, most in tan deputies' uniforms. A smattering of LAPD blue punctuated the crowd. A sound system and some video screens had been set up for the overflow crowd that couldn't squeeze inside the church.
The LAPD white hat working traffic at this event turned me around and sent me back down toward the mortuary office. Forest Lawn was inside the city limits of Los Angeles, so, even though 80 percent of the attendees were county deputies, we were working the event. I found a parking place down by the office and wedged the Acura into a no-parking zone, putting two wheels up on the grass. I didn't think our traffic control officers would be handing out too many greenies at a cop's funeral.
As I was locking up I heard the loud, familiar rumble of straight pipes. I turned and saw almost a hundred Iron Pigs from different chapters all over the state making their way solemnly up Forest Lawn Drive, riding two-by- two. They had their uniforms on. Green from the Highway Patrol, tan and brown from the Sacramento P. D., tan and blue from the L. A. sheriffs and Orange County, blue and white from Los Angeles, Pacoima, Newhall, and San Diego.
The bikes were all custom Harleys, and both men and women alike wore their lightweight summer colors, most stitched on sleeveless jean or leather vests, worn over police uniforms. The club motto stitched on some of the jackets now seemed a dangerous threat: 'Cut One and We All Bleed.' They snaked up the drive as everyone stopped talking and turned to watch.
Darren Zook, the local chapter's ride captain, was out front leading them. He slowed to a stop in front of the church, then turned and backed his bike against a sixty-foot stretch of curb that had been coned off in preparation for their arrival. One by one the officers dismounted, kicked their stands down, leaned their bikes, and stepped away. The lacquered yellow, orange, and candy-apple red paint jobs dappled colored sunshine against polished chrome manifolds. Then the Iron Pigs moved silently toward the church.
I finished locking the Acura and followed. I was almost up to where Alexa and Chooch were standing when I heard a voice raised in anger. The tone made my adrenaline kick. An angry curse uttered with deadly sincerity. I moved closer.
'You fucking people don't belong here!' I heard Darren Zook say. He was near the concrete steps of the old church glaring at six guys in dark suits. At first I didn't recognize them, but as I approached I knew who they were. Men in Black-the ATF Situation Response Team from the Hidden Ranch shootout. They were standing in a group on the church steps, unsure how to handle this.
'We came to pay our respects,' one of them said. I'd seen most of their pictures in the newspaper for a week, and I think he was the one named Billy Greenridge.
'You paid your respects on Hidden Ranch Road. Now get the fuck out of here,' Zook said.
The feds started to look around for backup or support, or maybe just for a friendly face, but the Iron Pigs quickly closed ranks around them.
'Get out or get thrown out,' Darren Zook growled dangerously.
'Look, we feel-' Greenridge began.
But Darren cut him off. He and three other Iron Pigs grabbed Greenridge roughly by his arm, spun him around, and started to march him down the walk to the cars. Then a dozen more of the police bikers grabbed the remaining ATF agents and quickly hustled them out behind him.
