Dad also makes my night by telling me they are replacing Matt by promoting a first officer to captain, and it's not me. The man he names is a friend, and an excellent pilot, but I was sure I'd win the bet. They are also hiring new captains from outside, which I take as an attempt to piss me off.
I explain to Perez that I was working extra flights, as were many of us, because the airline was short handed, but we can't do that forever because the FAA limits us to 1,000 hours a year flying time. So they needed more captains, and they could have promoted me but didn't. At least I will have every other Friday free now, the extra flights to Denver being passed to some newbie.
We say our good nights to mom and dad about nine, and I go change and search again for the MMM boys. No luck. I manage to find two shootings, a couple robberies, and a bad car accident, all after the fact, nothing for me to do.
Comic book superheroes always have super villains to deal with, or somehow manage to find the action by patrolling around the city. When I see something bad, I know it is, but I don't have a bad thing finder. I'm wasting time, time I don't have, while I try to figure out what I should be doing. What can I do that will still have an impact ten years from now?
The MMM boys hit four times in the next five days, all in different parts of the LA basin, all in gang controlled neighborhoods though not the same gangs, always after dark, but never twice at the same time. Always come blasting down the road, jump off their bikes, pound a couple fools into piles of jelly then hop back on their bikes and zoom off at 100 mph plus.
I am always somewhere else, and all we learn from the witnesses is that they have $16,000 Japanese 1200cc bikes and are both over six feet tall. No license plates on the bikes, so no way to trace that, but Perez's quick search of the database during our shift together on Thursday says there are fewer than 200 bikes of that size in that color from that manufacturer in all of southern California.
Saturday I go in for my third day of advanced training, a short pistol and baton refresher, then the rest of the day playing with shot guns and rifles that shoot non-lethal ammunition.
I meet Perez for dinner, who conveniently brings a printout of the motorcycle list, and the driver's licenses of the owners, so we start looking for young tall men who live near each other. While the MMM's have not so mysteriously assaulted a dozen people they haven't done it in Los Angeles proper, but in six other nearby cities, so LAPD has no on-going investigation.
The issue, of course, isn't that they are guilty of assault, it's that they are going to get themselves killed.
From the lists, we identify six possible targets: men under 30, over six feet tall, who live within two miles of another owner of the same bike. Before we can figure out who to go after, and how, Perez's
tia
boots us out so she can go home and get some sleep.
I let Perez go home and get some sleep herself, while I head to Upland, change, and head out, list of possible idiots in hand. First three houses are dark, cycles parked either in the driveway or the garage. The fourth one is more interesting, motorcycle no where to be seen. Fifth and sixth also out.
Taking a gamble, I float outside house number four, until I hear the sound of the engine. Which turns into man and girlfriend. Red helmet. Not in the kind of shape my targets are in. Fly over to number five who is already back home, lights out. Number six never appears. I head for home, disappointed.
Sunday is the final day of advanced training, and we start with another quick run through of everything else, then they test us on a variety of weapons and divide us by the results. Turns out I would have made a fine sniper. I'm better with the long range rifle than I am with the pistol, with a lot less practice.
Meet Perez at mom and dad's for dinner afterwards, who lets me know the MMM boys hit again, but after I was back home, so it doesn't help me narrow the field any. So it's back out to see what I can do, though it's another miserable night with winds, rain, and no luck.
Running Monday morning, it occurs to me that we haven't found any drugs recently, so I head out to the airport early, spend some extra time with Taylor, and then make the world's longest walk around inspection before my flight. Doesn't help, I get no hits. On board, we are once again making the 7 right takeoff, which forces us to transverse half the airport to get to the runway, but all seems quiet.
Captain Amos takes me for every dime I have on me at the Waikaloa golf course, my balls and the water spending most of the afternoon together, and not in a fun way. I pass on dinner with the crew, something I never do, to go for a second run of the day until finally the sun goes down and I can hit the molecules and begin the search again.
House number one is dark, so is number two, and both motorcycles are parked in their respective garages. I get lucky at three. About fucking time. There's some activity in the garage, followed by the door opening, and a black motorcycle with a black clad rider exiting. High above and behind, I follow him out onto the 60 freeway, heading east. He circles north on the 15, then back west on the 10 to where he started, then continues west. Probably making sure he wasn't followed. That's an oops on his part. He should have looked up.
Another 10 minutes and another motorcycle joins from the 71 freeway and the three of us accelerate toward some very bad neighborhoods. We cross into downtown, a quick jog south, onto the the 605 freeway then the 105, 20 minutes east of the airport.
They hit the surface streets, I assume in telephone or radio contact since they did all of this without taking their hands off the controls. It's not hard to find the drugs around here, one of the streets is famous for them. They make a sweeping left turn at 60 mph through a red light and head straight for three kids standing on the next corner.
Maybe they are super (or fog) powered, since they obviously knew the kids were there before they could see them.
The riders jump their bikes onto the sidewalk, one west and one east of the kids, blocking them from escaping. Two seconds later, they are pounding the three of them, blood on the concrete, screams, sounds that might indicate broken bones.
I have seen enough. A couple spare molecules part from their particles, and I am 10 feet above the sidewalk, directly over the completely one sided fight.
"That's enough." I say it as loud and commandingly as I can. It must have been loud enough, or commandingly enough, or just coming from a strange enough angle because they obey.
I look at the kids. "Get the hell out of here, and find another line of work." They run, or wobble, away.
"What the Hell," I look at the two, not in the eyes because their helmets don't allow it, "are you two thinking? What would you have done if they were armed?"
The visors go up. One white guy I recognize from the driver's license search we did. Joshua Barnes. Two tours in Iraq. The other guy a black man I have never seen before, but I bet we won't have too much trouble figuring out who he is.
"You need help, man." It's the second guy, I don't know which one is the sidekick, and whose the leader of the pack. "We're here to provide it."
"You're here to die. You are going to end up on the pavement." I keep floating, maybe my height will convince them they need something other than leather and cool bikes.
"We're careful. We know what we're doing. More people need to stand up. We're going public soon, gonna recruit for you." He's a believer. Good cause, bad choice.
I shake my head at them. "Good sentiment, but it's not going to keep you alive. You have to stop."
It's Joshua who replies this time. "Marcus' kid sister was shot while we were gone. She was 11. We aren't gonna sit on our asses. We can fight back, just like you. Make them pay."
"Fuck. I'm sorry." I say it and I mean it. A crowd is gathering, small, but big enough to worry me. "We'll finish this some other time. Get out of here. And stay alive."
The visors go down, and they are quickly on their bikes and on their way. No one seems to follow, more interested apparently in staying with me. I wait a couple minutes to let the MMM's clear, then I push for altitude and back to the freeway entrance. I find them, heading west, then making another big circle up to the 210 before splitting up. I follow the one I think is Marcus until he gets home, data for Perez.
Then it's back to Kona, swim with the rays for a while, shower and off to Keahole for the trip home. More clouds, rain, and wind tonight as we descend toward 24-left, hopefully that will keep the MMM's safe for another night.
I brave the bad weather in search of them (OK, it's not really too brave of me to be out here), battered by the wind gusts, soaked, but not really cold, and not going to catch one. No one but me seems to be stupid enough to be out tonight, no MMM's, no drug dealers, no bad guys or good guys anywhere I look.
I visit the MMM's homes, their motorcycles seem to be parked in the garages, but I don't take too close a look, and I resist the urge to knock on their doors. I sniff around LAX looking for drugs, find none, and decide it's time to go home.
Halloween and I party til dawn, then I go running, followed by a morning catching up on some reading and house cleaning. There are never bugs in my place, Halloween loves meat on the hoof, or whatever bugs have, but dust does seem to accumulate just the same.
Taylor Mankat joins me for lunch at a little bistro on the beach, then we go play a par 3 golf course. Takes only a couple hours, and she encourages me to help straighten out her stroke more than once, which means me completely draped across her back, adjusting her legs, and her arms. When we're finished, my stroke is anything but straight. Or it is really straight. Or. OK, she's totally got me turned on, she's totally gorgeous, she's totally smart, and she totally implies it might be time to learn to snorkel in Kahalu`u Bay.
I drop her back at her car near the beach, she gives me a full on kiss on the mouth, and then runs off without saying a word. Fuck me. And she just might.
Not wanting to go home, the mall beckons and I make it home just as the sun is going down, proud owner of several new pairs of magic underwear, a new golf outfit, a new duffel bag, and a stomach too full of tacos.
Then it's off to resume my nightly hunt for MMM's. I drive out to Upland, change, then fly off the Mr. Barnes place, only to find he is already gone. Flash as quick as I can over to where I think Marcus lives, and he is gone as well. Fuck me, I should have passed on the free taco refill.
I try the stupid ever expanding circle search pattern crap, which locates nothing of interest, but does make me slightly nauseous. There is just too much territory and too many spots they could be. My own stupidity plays a part too. I could have brought my scanner and phone, and maybe picked up a hint of where they are from the police or from the net. But no, I am my usual dumbass self.
Finally I just go back to Joshua's house and wait, floating high enough that no one will see me. It's a beautiful night, no wind or rain, and the lights are at least enough to keep me from getting too bored. Planning some too, I make a mental list of my future observation strategy.
About 1 am, the motorcycle roars into view, one MMM seemingly fine, and I watch him walk into his house before zooming over to his partner's, who also seems to be home and breathing. Now I can too.
I go harass some drug dealers on my own in my favorite neighborhood, then back home to polish my shoes, shine my leather, and clean my gun before tomorrow's (actually it's today now) LAPD adventure.
Perez and I spend the morning biking through the airport parking lots, opening car doors, chasing down one purse snatcher, and otherwise keeping an eye on things. Lunch time we park under the skyway at gate 75, and head into the terminal to buy a California cuisine pizza, and then back into aircraft to eat it and talk about the hydraulic systems in a 757.
Then we go into the office in the terminal to investigate our newest friend, Marcus, who turns into Marcus James, former member of the same Marine unit as Mr. Barnes, whose sister was in fact killed by a stray bullet while walking home from school. He doesn't own a black motorcycle, is a registered Harley owner, but I didn't see that at his place.
Perez looks up from the computer screen. "Do we rat them out?"
I already know the answer she wants, otherwise she wouldn't have used the word "rat."
"No. They deserve the same respect from us that I would want. They may be stupid, but I'm not going to help the assholes in narcotics run them down." I haven't liked the narcs since they beat my butt in training just for the fun of it.
"I agree," she's nodding her head, "but that won't save their lives. The Guerrero won't show them any respect."
My turn to nod. "I have to keep working on them. Maybe I can get them to join the LAPD." She laughs at me, and we go collect our bikes and pedal out to the parking lots. An uneventful afternoon, mostly taken up with conversations about why we haven't found any heroin for almost a month.
We have dinner at her
tia's
, whose actual name is Ariela, but neither Perez or I call her that. Between tacos and flan, we put together a little plan. Then I'm off to look for the motorcycle morons, and Perez is headed home.
