Detroit Deathwatch

Larson grimaced.

Papado sighed.

The watch went on. Both men rubbed their eyes and stretched their necks, repeatedly. Papado cracked his knuckles, cast an apologetic glance at his partner, separated his hands, shifted his position on the seat.

'Police work,' Larson muttered ten minutes later. 'The glamor of it all is damn near overpowering, isn't it? I'll end up with bifocals, barnacles on my ass, jock itch clear to my knees, and the ringing cry of 'Pig!' on my tombstone. Why, Pappy? Why the hell do we do it?'

Papado shrugged. 'It's a living.'

'So's playing tennis. Or golf. For God's sake, why this?'

His partner sighed. 'We have to get into that again?'

A moment later, Larson said, 'Sandy wants a divorce.'

'Smart girl,' Papado commented.

'I'm serious. She's at the ultimatum stage. I have to choose between her and the force.'

'Too bad. You're going to miss that girl, Chuck.'

'Get serious.'

'I'm always serious.'

'We're just not making it. Financially, I mean. Hell, we just worry through from one payday to the next, juggling bills, dodging them sometimes. Have you been grocery shopping lately? Hell ... I don't know, Pappy.'

'You don't know what?'

'We can't touch those bastards, anyway.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

Larson muttered, 'May as well take their envelopes.'

'Oh, boy,' Papado said heavily. 'I'm going to let you have one right in the mouth.'

'Shit,' Larson said.

'That's it exactly. Rub it all over you, why don't you? Eat some, too. That'll make you feel a lot better, won't it? Listen. I'd let my wife sell her ass first.'

'I don't know, Pappy. I just don't know.'

'Then take it from one that does. I grew up with that shit. You take their envelopes, buddy, then it's fair trade. They take your trembling immortal soul and use it for ass wipe. Look, I don't even want to talk about this. Now I just don't want to talk about it. You reading me?'

'I'm reading you.' A moment later: 'Pappy, I was just bellyaching.'

'I know it'

'Next time, go ahead. Do let me have one in the mouth.'

'I probably will.'

The partners lapsed into another silence.

Cops on stake-out duty had a lot of time to do nothing but think. It was perhaps their chief enemy.

A few minutes later their vehicle radio began making noises. 'Strike Cadillac. This is Strike Seven Honcho.'

Larson's eyes leapt along the communications bulletin. 'That's the roving detail leader,' he told his partner. 'Delta channel.'

Papado punched a button on the radio and grabbed the mike.

'Go ahead, Honcho Seven.'

'Activity report.'

Papado rolled eyes at his partner and replied, 'Negative. No come, no go.'

'Any contact with your surveillance subject?'

'Negative. Insider reports he is not logged in, repeat, not on premises.'

'Okay. The whole horseshoe is quiet. Spell each other for a break. But stay close.'

'Roger. Thanks.'

Papado returned the mike to its bracket and told Larson, 'I thought the roving detail didn't start 'til dark.'

The other officer shrugged. 'They change the game every five minutes. You want to eat first?'

'Too early. But I'd like to air my ass. Walk around the block, maybe.'

Larson chuckled. 'Okay. Go ahead. Don't pick up any stray envelopes.'

Papado took a playful swing at his partner's chin, stepped out of the vehicle, then leaned back in to say, 'Don't you pick up any stray Executioners. Save them 'til I get back.'

'Never worry,' Larson replied to that. 'I'd bet a tenner the guy isn't within fifty miles of here.'

The bored detective would have lost his bet.

'The guy' — most recently known as 'Strike Seven Honcho' — had just cruised them at a distance of fifty yards.

Some minutes and some miles farther along, another patiently bored officer on the quietest duty of all completed an activity check with 'Strike Nine Honcho' and turned to his partner with a sigh. 'You ever get the feeling,' he asked, 'that the watchers are always being watched? That was a strong signal. Ill bet he was looking at us all the time we were talking.'

The other man shrugged and fed in another stick of gum to sweeten the tension-relieving cud. 'Whole town's uptight,' he commented. 'You want to play the game, you take the cards they deal you.'

'I just don't like playing the game with a joker in the deck.'

'Roving Leader is no joker. We get a positive contact, you'll be damn glad that guy's out there somewhere to back you up.'

'I hear Bolan doesn't shoot at cops.'

'Maybe true. Maybe not. How's he going to know you're a cop? You got it tatooed across your forehead with neon ink?'

The patrolman chuckled nervously. 'Maybe you're right. The rovers weren't due on until night shift. I guess this really is a Mad Dog alert.'

'Right. A guy comes busting up, shooting and throwing explosives, he doesn't write any names on it. You just can't call shots in a game like that guy plays, jack. You can't call them. Right?'

'Yeah, right, I guess so. Right.'

Wrong.

The 'Strike Honcho' of the unofficial day watch was indeed writing names and calling shots.

It was the name of his game — the only game he cared to play.

16 Shivered

John Holzer was a cop who trusted his instincts. In the final analysis, according to Holzer, effective police work relied at least fifty percent on the intuitive process, with or without all the fancy technology that had been plugged into the war against crime. A cop who could not react to spinal shivers was only about half cop.

And Lieutenant Holzer had been fighting the shivers for a full twenty minutes. He finally gave it up and went into the tac room for a word with Joe Daley, an inspector with thirty years under his belt. Daley had been the long route with the Detroit force, from beat cop up through the ranks and now he was a candidate for promotion to district inspector. At the moment, he was the watch commander for the special strike force alert. He'd been a friend of Holzer's father, a good cop who'd died with his badge on some years back.

'You've got the look,' Daley intoned somberly, 'of a pup that went out to tree a bear and found himself up the tree and alone. Don't like your detail?'

'It's okay,' Holzer told the old family friend. 'Tell me something, Joe. What do your shivers tell you about this case?'