Part 13 (1/2)
”It tells me plenty. But what the h.e.l.l can I prove?”
Lyons shrugged. The Captain finished signing-out and they went on along the corridor toward the vehicle area.
A tall patrolman in an immaculate uniform, sporting a thinline mustache, swung in from a side corridor, nodded his head cordially at Lyons, and went on by.
The sergeant from L.A. grunted and asked the San Diego homicide chief, ”You allowing face hair down here now?”
”Had to,” Tatum said grumpily. ”They got a const.i.tutional right ... and they also got a d.a.m.n good union. What the h.e.l.l. So long as it's not too far out, what's the harm? You gotta sway with the times, I guess. We're not still running around in Toonerville Cop uniforms, are we.”
Lyons grinned. ”No, but the Toonervilles wore face hair.”
”So, change is sometimes a healthy thing ... even in a town like San Diego.”
”That's right,” Lyons agreed. He stepped outside and took a deep breath. ”You've got a sweet town here, Cap'n.”
”Thanks.”
They walked to the Captain's personal vehicle. Lyons slid in beside Tatum and told him, ”Maybe you shouldn't feel so bad about a Bolan visit. The guy has a way of clearing the air, making things even sweeter.”
”I'll pretend you didn't say that,” Tatum replied gruffly.
Lyons chuckled. ”I told you I owed the guy my life. I didn't tell you I owe him twice. twice. You heard about the deal on Charlie Rickert, I guess.” You heard about the deal on Charlie Rickert, I guess.”
”Rotten apple,” the Captain rasped.
”Sure, but we may have never known if it hadn't been for Bolan. He tipped us about the guy. I couldn't believe it at first. You know what they called Rickert ... the twenty-four-hour cop. He was a twelve-hour-cop and a twenty-four-hour Mafioso. Mafioso. This next bit never got in the book, so don't blow it. Rickert was all set to blast me into the next world. Bolan didn't have to make the save ... it could have turned sour on him real easy. But he did.” This next bit never got in the book, so don't blow it. Rickert was all set to blast me into the next world. Bolan didn't have to make the save ... it could have turned sour on him real easy. But he did.”
”And here you are,” Tatum remarked quietly.
”Then there was Las Vegas. I was up there on special a.s.signment with a federal strike force. Undercover job. I dummied it, and the boys tumbled to me. Beat the living s.h.i.+t out of me. They were hauling me to the desert to bury me alive when Bolan turned up. The guy challenged a motor convoy. Single handed. Blasted them to kingdom-come, right in the shadow of their fortress, then slipped me out of there with half of the Nevada mob on his a.s.s. And I couldn't even walk.” walk.”
Tatum sighed heavily and said, ”Hey, cut it out. I've heard all the songs about the guy. I still have a job to do.”
”Sure, that's the way I feel,” Lyons said. ”Bolan knows it, too. Any other way and I don't think he'd respect me. He's that kind of guy. Hard-nosed as h.e.l.l when it comes to duty and ethics. Ill tell you one thing, Cap'n. I'm sure glad he doesn't shoot at cops.”
”I've heard that one, too,” Tatum growled.
”Believe it.”
The Captain relented, grinning, and declared, ”Some cops I've seen, maybe he should should go after them.” go after them.”
Lyons sat bolt upright in the seat and smacked a hand against his forehead. ”That cop!” he yelled.
”What cop?” cop?”
”The dude with the mustache. h.e.l.l oh h.e.l.l, John, it was him!” him!”
”Him what? What's the matter with you?”
”It was Bolan! Bolan! Walking around your station in a Walking around your station in a uniform!” uniform!”
”Aw bulls.h.i.+t,” Tatum snarled. ”What would Bolan be doing ... ?”
He pulled the car to the curb with a screech of tires and lunged toward his radio microphone.
”I thought you knew the f.u.c.king guy so personally,” he yelled at Lyons.
”Aw h.e.l.l, you never get that much of a look at the clever b.a.s.t.a.r.d, John. He's a genius genius at this sort of thing, and I'm telling you at this sort of thing, and I'm telling you he's in your station house!” he's in your station house!”
”For what?” what?”
”What the h.e.l.l do you think for what? Where are all the boys tonight, John?”
Tatum's hand was frozen around the microphone. He squawked, ”Well Jesus Christ! Jesus Christ! Well be the laughing stock of ... !” Well be the laughing stock of ... !”
He flung the microphone down and doubled back in a screeching U-turn, burning rubber toward the possibly most disgraceful discovery in twenty-six years of hard-nosed police work.
The Executioner, for G.o.d's sake! Making a hit on the San Diego jail!
Bolan had been required to hang around the locker room for only about ten minutes before spotting the size and type of guy he was waiting for-a young patrolman going off duty and changing into civvies.
And it had been a simple task, after the cop departed, to pick the lock and borrow the uniform. It was a good fit. He even took the time to use the guy's brush to get rid of a bit of lint here and there. He wanted to look sharp.
He left a marksman's medal and three fifty-dollar bills on a shelf in the locker, quickly applied a false mustache to his upper lip, and went out of there.
He was only a few steps out of the locker room when he rounded a corner, practically colliding with Carl Lyons and another detective.
And that was a bad moment for the Executioner.
Of all the cops in the world he didn't need to b.u.mp into at a time like this, Lyons was first. He was one of the few men living who'd had intimate opportunities to get to know Bolan's new face.
The bogus cop smiled faintly at his old friend of past campaigns, tucked his chin down in what he hoped would pa.s.s as a friendly nod and brazened on past.
He kept expecting a cry of alarm-was mentally preparing himself for it and looking for a way out-but when he reached the duty desk and risked a glance over his shoulder, Lyons and the other cop were nowhere in view.
The building was crowded and confused, lots of in-and-out traffic, standing-around traffic, and just plain officious bustling-noise level about equal to a concert by the Rolling Stones.
Bolan stepped up to the desk and told the sergeant, ”Jail pa.s.s.”
The guy glanced at the badge on Bolan's chest and reached for a paper form. ”Courts?” he asked disinterestedly.
Bolan replied, ”Prosecutor's office.”
The cop grunted and shoved the pa.s.s at him.
Cold, yeah.