the Onion Field (1973) (22 page)

"Sure."

"How long have you been in town?" asked Ian, glancing at the license.

"We just got in today."

"Would you mind stepping out of the car?" asked Ian, handing back the license.

Greg placed the driver's license in the left front pocket of his leather jacket and lifted and loosened his gun.

"What's this all about?"

"It's just routine."

"Okay. Okay." Greg smiled, shaking his head and sighing, seeing Ian open the door and step back, seeing that Ian held only a flashlight in his hand. Greg turned to his right to back out, then wheeled to his feet.

Ian was looking at the Colt in Greg's hand and stepping backward slowly, unbelieving. Then Greg was behind him, holding him at the back by a handful of jacket, dizzily remembering the things he had learned in the prison yards about police disarming movements. So he clutched the big policeman by the jacket, and if he felt him turn he could push away and step back, and . . .

Karl had been watching Jimmy, who was licking his lips, cotton mouthed, stone still in the flashlight's glare, asking, "What's the trouble, officer?" And then Karl saw Ian coming around the car, with the suspect walking behind not in front, and that was wrong, all wrong. And then Greg peeked from behind Ian's back and said, "Take his piece," to Jimmy Smith and fluids jetted through Karl's body and he jerked the six-inch service revolver from the cross-draw holster and pointed it toward the man who was almost completely hidden behind Karl's much larger partner.

"He's got a gun on me," said Ian. "Give him your gun."

And then no one spoke and Karl pointed the gun toward the voice, but the voice had no body. It was like a dream. He was pointing his gun toward Ian, toward a glimpse of black cap and a patch of forehead showing around Ian's arm, and there was no sound but the car sounds, tires, cars humming past on Gower, and headlights bathing them in the beams every few seconds. But no cars stopped or even noticed and Karl found himself now pointing the gun at Jimmy Smith, who was like a statue, and then Karl aimed toward the voice again. It was so incredible! It couldn't happen like this. Back and forth went Karl's gun and he was crouched slightly as on the seven yard line at the police combat range. But this wasn't the combat range. There was no sound except from passing cars.

Ian spoke again: "He's got a gun in my back. Give him your gun."

Then Karl looked at Ian, hesitated, and let the gun butt slide until he was holding it only with the thumb and index finger, the custom wooden grips smooth and slippery between his cold wet fingers. Then he held it up and Jimmy, dark eyes shining, walked toward him and took Karl's Colt revolver.

Jimmy Smith held the gun clumsily in both hands at chest level and raised it toward the street light on Gower and squinted with astigmatized vision, like a primitive seeing a gun for the first time. And it did seem to him like the first time. This was a cop's gun! It was also unreal to him.

For another moment then they were inert. All four of them. Four brains fully accelerated, four bodies becalmed. Staggered. Inertia for a long moment. Four young men bathed in the purple glow of the street light. Detachment on the faces. Total bewilderment. Two policemen facing that which all policemen firmly believe can never happen to them. Two small-time robbers, fathoms deep, holding the Man at bay. Four minds racing. Tumbling incoherent thoughts.

Perhaps the first one to move was Karl Hettinger. Hands upraised, he began moving the big five-cell flashlight, ever so subtly, in a tiny circle, the beam flashing into the street, striking the windshields of the cars which passed unconcerned every few seconds. Then Ian noticed, and hands upraised, did the same with his little two-cell. Then Greg saw what they were doing and said, "Put those goddamn hands down."

Jimmy Smith stopped holding the gun to the light, stopped staring at it in wonder, and began trying to fit a Colt service revolver with a six-inch barrel into a four-inch pocket. He turned, staring from one to the other until he heard Greg's command, then he shoved the gun into his belt. Perhaps without a command he would have remained there forever.

"Get over there," Greg said, nodding toward the coupe, and hearing the voice, Jimmy wanted to obey. Then he realized Greg was talking to the cops, so he waited for his own orders.

Then it came. His chance. His final opportunity to order fate. Greg said, "Jim, go back to the police car and park it closer to the curb so we won't draw any more heat. And turn out the lights."

Jimmy nodded vacantly and Greg said to the policemen, "Get in the car."

"Where do you want me?" asked Ian, standing at the right side of the little maroon coupe.

"Behind the wheel," said Greg, who was thinking, watching, examining both men, sizing them up. At first it was merely Ian's physical presence which guided Greg. He was a big man. Put the big man behind the wheel where he can be watched more closely. The little man in the back.

"Where do you want me?" asked Karl.

"In the back."

Karl struggled with the seat trying to pull it forward not realizing it was a one-piece backrest and would not move.

"It's stuck," said Karl.

"Goddamnit, get in that car and I mean right now. Climb over the seat!"

Then Karl was inside behind the seat, sitting on the floor of the coupe, knees up to his chin. In the cramped space behind the only seat, on the metal floor of the car, flashlight in hand, pulse banging in his ears so that it was actually hard to hear for a moment.

Jimmy Smith was wrestling with the gears of the police car and with the emergency brake, but most of all with his courage.

"Won't move," he mumbled aloud to himself. "Got it in drive and it won't move!"

He fought with the Plymouth, stepping on the accelerator and killing the engine each time he was caught by the emergency brake. Jimmy Smith didn't know that emergency brakes on late model cars were no longer controlled by clumsy levers hanging down. He desperately yanked on the emergency foot brake but didn't know to tug the little chrome lever under the dash. He had been away too long.

"If I'd only knew about late model cars," he was to say later. "I coulda drove off in that police car. I coulda cut him loose right there. But I couldn't get that fuckin brake off."

"Hurry up," Greg yelled, and Jimmy gave up, got out of the car, looked toward Hollywood Boulevard, looked toward escape and made his last choice. He walked toward the Ford hopelessly.

"I couldn't get the brake off," Jimmy said to Greg who was seated in the passenger side of the coupe, Colt pointed at Ian's belly, hammer cocked.

"Leave the goddamn thing. Leave it," Greg said, sliding slowly close to Ian to make room for Jimmy in. the front.

At that moment a carload of teenagers drove by, talking loudly and laughing. One glanced at Jimmy for a moment and Jimmy became aware of the big revolver under his leather jacket and then the teenagers drove on. Jimmy got in the coupe.

"Did you check the police car for our license number?" asked Greg. "They probably wrote it down when they stopped, us."

"Yes," Jimmy lied, wanting to get away, to get away now, to have one more chance to cut Greg loose. If he just had one more chance.

"Where's the other gun?" Greg asked Jimmy, drilling Ian with his eyes, keeping the Colt at his belly, watching Ian's hands on the steering wheel. Already the little car was starting to reek from the smell of fear and sweat from the four of them.

"Where's the other gun?" Greg repeated.

"What other gun?" Jimmy asked, thinking of the automatic, hoping Greg would not notice that Jimmy had kicked it under Greg's side of the seat. And then Jimmy added further confusion to the moment by adding, "You mean the .45 automatic?"

And then Greg, not knowing that Jimmy was referring to the Spanish Star .32 automatic, felt panic, suddenly thinking there was still another cop's gun unaccounted for.

"Was this guy carrying a .45?"

"I dunno," said Jimmy, totally bewildered now, not knowing how many guns there were, or where they were.

"Well look around the floor for the goddamn .45 then," said Greg frantically.

"Gimme that flashlight," Jimmy said to Karl, and with the bright five-cell light he found the .32 automatic on the floor just under the edge of the seat where he'd kicked it. Now he had two guns in his lap: his own automatic, and Karl's Colt service revolver.

"This is all the guns there is," said Jimmy.

"Okay, all the guns are accounted for," Greg said in exasperation. "Now let's get outta here." And to Ian, "Do you know how to get on the freeway to Bakersfield? I want Highway 99."

"Yes," Ian answered. "We can go up the street here on Gower and get on the Hollywood Freeway."

"Well get going," said Greg. "Don't break any laws and don't go fast, because if you get us stopped you're both dead."

Jimmy switched his glance from Karl in the back to his partner Gregory Powell, and rode most of the trip in an uncomfortable twisted position where he could occasionally look at Karl.

Greg's voice had lost its rasp and was coming back normal and confident. "Son of a bitch, we couldn't be any hotter," said Greg, and Jimmy thought he detected a bit of elation in the voice. "I've already killed two people. I didn't wanna get in this business, but now that I'm in it, I gotta go all the way."

Oh Jesus, Jimmy thought. Greg was breathing regularly now and saying crazy things, and sounding like some punk Jimmy would expect to see in an old movie and, oh, Jesus.

"Why did you guys stop us?" Greg asked.

"Because you had no lights on your license plate," Ian said as he. drove onto the ramp of the Hollywood Freeway.

Greg's gun hit Ian's ribs. "Just a minute. Where're you taking us?"

"This is the way to the Hollywood Freeway. I'm going the right way," said Ian steadily.

"It's the right way," said Karl, peering up over the window ledge from his place on the metal floor, looking over the space back there -finding a hubcap, rags, a bumper jack and handle, cans-nothing that could be of much help against two men and four guns in a cramped and tiny car, with one man holding a cocked revolver in the driver's belly.

"We're going on the freeway to the Sepulveda off-ramp. And that'll take us to the Ridge Route," Ian explained.

"Jimmy," said Greg, "your job is to look to the rear and cover that guy. And also to look for a tail."

"Okay," Jimmy mumbled, thinking: Thanks for telling them my name, you dumb . . .

"How often you guys check in on the radio?" asked Greg.

"About every hour," Ian said.

"I figure that gives us a fifteen-minute head start," said Greg, who would occasionally glance back at Karl. He and Jimmy were sitting twisted to the left, toward the two policemen. Greg said to Karl, "Don't try anything funny back there, because I got it in your partner's ribs."

"I won't," said Karl. "We've both got families. We just want to go home to our families." And he pulled, the corduroy sport jacket up around his chin because he was suddenly very cold.

"Just keep that in mind," Greg said, and now Jimmy sensed that Greg was totally relaxed.

Jimmy hated him more than he ever had because he himself was breathing so hard he was hyperventilating, and his heart was hammering in his throat. From this time on, Jimmy could never think of his friend as Greg. It would be Powell from this moment, whenever he thought of him, whenever he would dream about him.

Ian said quietly, "Don't get excited, but there's a radio car up ahead." And everyone in the car went tense as Ian kept up the steady speed in the slower lane, approaching the police car which was stopped in front of them.

"It looks like a roadblock, Jimmy," said Greg, voice razor thin. "Get ready!"

"It looks like they're writing a ticket," said Ian. "That's all. I'm just going to drive by at an even speed."

"Okay," Greg whispered. "Remember. Remember. If we get stopped ..."

"Yes," Ian said, and they passed the police car at the Sepulveda off-ramp and then they were on Sepulveda Boulevard making good time in the nighttime traffic, catching most lights green, and each man was beginning to think about what all this meant, and to make and reject his own plans.

"Can I give you some advice?" asked Ian after several minutes during which time no one had spoken. The wind rushing through the window chilled them all because they were still sweating freely, but the car was filled with the smell of fear on all of them, so the window remained partly open.

"Go ahead," Greg said.

"You should take off those caps. Nobody around here wears them and we're liable to get stopped."

Greg immediately took off his cap, but Jimmy ignored the advice. Fuck it, he thought. I ain't showin them my hair. And I ain't takin no free advice from a cop. At night, in this dark little car, if I just keep my mouth shut or talk like a white man when I have to, they ain't even gonna know my race. And if Powell don't run off with his fat mouth and tell them all he knows about me, well shit, I might get out of this yet. I just might.

And after a few more blocks of driving, Greg reached down on the floor with his free hand and picked up the Schenley's and began drinking.