Episode 3

"Who were the responding officers?"

"Marsh and Sanchez."

"Find anything on the ground?"

"No. Just gravel and candy wrappers."

Tate stepped back from the car and surveyed the scene. He took a camera from his jacket pocket and took several pictures from different angles and distances. The final picture was taken through the driver's side window showing the position of the body.

"I think, Sgt, Washington, that we'll need to have the dumpster gone through." Tate shined his flashlight into the dumpster. Most of the trash seemed to be made up of cardboard cartons, napkins, bar coasters and paper towels. "I'll let you choose the officer to do it."

"That'll be O' Connor. He's the rookie and he might as well learn that being a policeman can be dirty work."

"It's up to you. Just have him wait unit the crime scene team gets finished."

"No problem, Lieutenant."

Tate started toward the two officers standing with a pair of men near the building, then stopped and turned back to Sgt. Washington.

"How's your wife doing?"

"She's having a rough time with the chemo. Up days. Down days."

"I'll keep her in my prayers. She's a lovely woman. Too good for the likes of you."

"Thanks, Lieutenant."

"Will you be able to make it to the special meeting?"

"Lord willing."

"I'm looking forward to seeing you and Sarah."

Two officers, Marsh a stocky blonde with massive biceps straining the short sleeves of his uniform shirt, and Sanchez, olive skinned and turning paunchy, stood talking to two men next to the door of the bar. Sanchez was taking notes.

One of the men was a big man wearing a tank top revealing an assortment of tattoos on his shoulders and arms. His light brown hair was worn in a mullet, and he sported a thick Fu Manchu moustache. He kept smoothing his moustache as he spoke.

The second man was average height and of a thin build with a small pot belly. He wore a Hawaiian print shirt. He smoked a cigarette, inhaling deeply, while talking to Sanchez.

Just as Tate was about to approach the scene of the two officers talking to the men a black Ford 150 pick up truck bounced into the parking lot of the Rustlers' Roost. The door opened and a man wearing a light blue polo shirt, jeans and a pair of black frame glasses jumped out.

"What's up, Tate," he asked.

"There's a dead man in the Infinity by the dumpster. It looks like he was shot behind the ear. Go take a look, take notes of your impression and then join me here."

"Will do."

Sergeant Frank Garza went to the crime scene while Tate walked to the two officers and two civilians. He got to them just as the big man said, "This whole thing really sucks."

"I'm Lieutenant Detective Tate," Tate said to the uniformed men. "Who found the body?"

"He did," Marsh said nodding toward the big man. "His name's Randy Troutman."

Tate looked at the man. The man was stroking his moustache and when he wasn't stroking his moustache he was hiking up his pants. Then he stroked his moustache again.

"Tell me about it," Tate said.

"I came out to dump some empty cases while we were cleaning up. I saw the car and didn't think nothing about it. We get a few guys who leave so drunk they fall asleep in their cars. I figured he was drunk and passed out I went over to knock on the window to see how squashed he was and try to wake him up and maybe get him a cab to get him home. And when I looked harder in the car and saw his face I figured that there was more going on than a passed out drunk. Then I came into the bar and told John about it and he called you guys."

"Do you get very many people passed out in their cars?"

"Three or four a year. It doesn't pay to have guys driving out of here drunk. Drunk idiot drivers hire smart lawyers after they smash their cars."

"Are you the owner of this place?"

"Nah. I'm just the bouncer, bartender, sometimes DJ and clean up crew. John Malick's the owner. The guy in the aloha shirt."

"Have you ever seen the victim before?"

"Yeah. He wasn't what you'd call a regular, but he'd come in come in every month or two. He was easy to remember. We mostly serve floor apes wanting to blow off steam after a day's or week's work, or guy's about to get married. This guy's a Joe Businessman -- Dockers, Izod, dumpy, flashing green. A Shriner in Vegas type."

"Did he ever cause any trouble? Make any enemies?"

"No. He was pretty quiet. Liked the girls. Some of the girls liked him. He was a big tipper. Money makes friend in this gag."

"Any girl in particular?"

"Angel Grant, lately. Before her is was Desiree Booth and before her it was Marilyn Mendoza."

"Did you see him leave?"

"I didn't notice."

"Did you see Miss Grant leave?"

"Yeah. She left about 1:30. I walked her out to her car. It's something we do with all the girls. Some of the customers get a little aggressive about a girl they've 'fallen in love with.'"

Episode 2

He parked his car in the carport and went up to his apartment. His cat, Miss Bates, lay on the living room window sill and looked at him lazily before drifting back to sleep. Tate wrote the license plate number of the Navigator on a scratch pad next to the phone, and then lay down on the sofa. By ten minutes to two he and the cat were snoring in unison.

Twenty minutes later the telephone rang. The cat jumped out of the sill and ran into the bedroom while Tate's eyes snapped open and swivilled around the room in confusion for a few seconds before he reached over his head and lifted the receiver of the telephone sitting on the corner table.

"Tate," he croaked.

"Lieutenant Tate? This is Sergeant Paddison. We need a couple of detectives. There's been a body found in a car near the corner of Norwood and Petroleum."

"Who's there now?"

"A couple of patrol cars -- Marsh and O'Connor, Sergeant Washington and Sanchez."

"Have you called anyone else?"

"No, sir."

"Okay. Call Detective Sergeant Garza. Give him the address and tell him that I'll meet him there."

" Will do. Do you want the address?"

"I'll just follow the flashing lights."

Tate went into the bathroom and ran an electric shaver over his stubble, washed his face and rinsed his mouth out with Listerine. He changed into a pair of gray slacks, white shirt with black necktie and tan sports coat. Black socks and shined black Blucher shoes finished the ensemble. He loaded his pockets with his wallet, keys, notebooks, pen and pencil, pipe and tobacco pouch, matches, cell phone and digital camera. By the time he headed out the front door he half wondered why he didn't carry a briefcase or wear some sort of tool belt to carry all his stuff.

The corner of Norwood and Petroleum was in the north end of Sycamore Grove. Norwood ran roughly north and south, and all the way from the ocean at Horseshoe Beach to the foothill of the San Gabriel Mountains. The sycamore Grove city hall was on Norwood in an area made up of apartment buildings and small retailers. In the two mile distance from the city hall the apartment buildings gave way to post world war two housing tracts -- stucco sided, flat roofed houses -- to light industry and warehouses. Radiator and muffler shops, weld shops and machine shops lined the street with liquor stores, sandwich shops and mini-marts scattered among them. A small trailer park occupied the northwest corner of Norwood and Petroleum. Then a strip mall made up of a laundromat, a liquor store and a Mexican restaurant. The next business on Norwood was The Rustlers' Roost Gentlemen's Club. It was from there that the flashing lights of two patrol cars came.

Tate turned left into the parking lot of the Mexican restaurant, got out of his car and walked across a strip of dying grass to the parking lot were the patrol cars sat. A patrolman on foot approached him and shined a flashlight into his face.

"There's nothing here to see, " the patrolman said.

"I'm lieutenant Tate of Robbery/Homicide. Get that thing out of my face." Tate took out his wallet, opened it and showed the patrolman his badge and ID card.

"Sorry, sir. We've never met."

"No problem, Officer..."

"O'Connor, sir. Terence O'Connor."

"What's the story?"

"The story is over by the dumpster. Sergeant Washington is in charge of the scene."

O'Connor turned and led the way to a portion of the parking lot where a green dumpster was pushed up against a cinderblock wall. A sliver late model Infinity was parked next to the fence, the front bumper a few inches from the steel bin. An officer Tate recognized by his perfect posture as sergeant Charles Washington stood a couple of yards from the car slowly sweeping the ground with the beam of a flashlight.

"G'morning, Sergeant Washington, Tate said.

Washington looked up with a grim expression on his face. "Lieutenant."

"What do we have?"

"A dead body in a car." Washington turned and shone his flashlight through the driver's side window. A man slumped behind the steering wheel, his chin resting on his chest. A pair of eyeglasses sat crookedly on his nose. There was a bullet hole at the top of a patch of drying blood behind his left ear.

"Have you called the paramedics?"

Washington tilted his head toward the Rustlers' Roost. "They're over there. Drinking coffee," he said sourly.

Tate had known Washington a long time and he knew him well enough to know that the sergeant considered each and every crime a personal affront. Washington was one of the few cops Tate had known who had never developed a gallows sense of humor and that Washington thought little of cops who had. The same held true for paramedics. Death was not something to be taken lightly. The fact that the paramedic were laughing when he pointed them out to Tate did nothing to elevate them in Washington's opinion.

Let's Get This Wreck on the Road!

NOTE: ALL THIS NONSENSE IS COPYRIGHTED 2005.VIOLATIONS OF THIS COPYRIGHT WILL RESULT IN FUMING ANGER.

Now the story starts.

Raymond Tate sat in his parked car trying to keep his eyes open. The night's heat made it difficult to keep aware, and impossible to sleep. It seemed to drain everything out of him and yet make it difficult to relax. It was as if he had been made into a zombie; eyes open and unseeing. He took a sip of lukewarm coffee hoping that the caffeine would give him a jolt and knowing that it wouldn't.

The street was quiet except for the usual night sounds; a pair of cats facing off in a nearby ally, the occasional car driving down the street, a front door opening and closing releasing the sound of an inane late night television program. The dashboard clock of his car read 1:15 AM. Tate had been up since 6:00 AM the previous morning. Julie London's smoky voice came quietly from the speakers from the car singing "Cry Me A River." He turned up the volume of the radio slightly, enjoying the smoky voice and the visual memory of the singer.

Before the song ended he felt what he had been waiting for. He felt the sound waves pounding against his car before he heard them. Then the waves of bass slowly became audible, getting louder and louder.

Looking into his side view mirror he saw a pair of headlights, high off the ground, about 200 feet behind him. He started his car and waited as the subwoofers blasted out at anything that couldn't escape the sonic assault that, for Tate, had become all too common. Tate waited until the rolling boom box slowly processed along the street. We waited until it was within 30 feet of him. Then he turned on his headlights and pulled his car sharply from the curb to block the street, effectively closing the off the strip of asphalt. The other car, a Lincoln Navigator, black with spinner wheels and smoked windows, jerked to a stop and honked a horn that could barely be heard above the throbbing hip hop -- "F***in' b**ch! F***in' b**ch! You'll s**k my d**k and and love it. You f***in' b**ch!"

Tate jumped out of his car and pulled open the driver's side door of the Navigator before the driver could say anything that Tate could hear. He reached in and turned off the ignition. The engine died but the stereo continued its blasting.

"Turn it off! Now!" Tate shouted.

The driver, angry, confused and not a little frightened by the middle aged man, complied. Tate pulled a flashlight from his pocket and shined it on the driver. A young white man about 20 years old. His head was shaved and he wore, despite the heat of the night, a black hooded sweatshirt with the hood down, and a pair of baggy blue denim carpenter's pants.

"Out of the car!" Tate ordered.

"Who the fuck are you?" the driver demanded after recovering some of his courage now that he saw that his assailant's hair was more grey than black and that he was wearing an Angels tee-shirt, chinos and a pair of rubber sandals.

Tate pulled his wallet from his back hip pocket and opened it so the driver could see the detective's badge and photo identification card.

"Lieutenant Raymond Tate. Sycamore Grove P.D. The real question is, who are you?"

The driver, his face going suddenly from defiant to submissive, got out of the Navigator. He was several inches tallers than Tate. Perhaps 6'2' or 6'3', and gave the appearance of being well-fed and well-muscled. A white boy trying to look "down".

"Let's see your driving license," Tate demanded.

The driver handed the card to Tate. Joshua Zimmerman. Age 19. A resident of Sycamore Grove.

"Do you know why you're being stopped?" Tate asked.

"No." A studied casual shrug.

"Are you aware that there is an ordinance in this city that makes the playing of 'music' that can be heard more than fifty feet from a vehicle a fineable offense?"

"No." Another shrug.

"You should if you're who I think you are. You're Cheryl Zimmerman's boy, aren't you?"

" Yes, I am."

"Your mommy wrote the ordinance three or four years ago."

The young man shrugged as if Tate were explaining Saint Bartholomew's Massacre to him.

"I'm sure that Cheryl would be interested in this conversation. It won't look good if it comes out that her own dear son ignores the very law that she campaigned on to get elected to the city council."

Another shrug. The kid's lack of concern didn't surprise Tate. He'd heard about him; high school football hero recruited to play quarterback for USC. Sycamore Grove's contribution to the NCAA and perhaps the NFL. The kid probably felt that nothing could touch him. He was a football hero. He bedded cheer leaders. His coach told him that he was the Second Coming. He was golden.

"I want you to listen to me and listen good. If you want to play walking drum you're not going to do it in Sycamore Grove. Every patrol officer in the city will be looking out for your Navigator. And if they hear anything louder than a harpsichrod coming from this heap they'll ticket you. Each ticket carries a $250.00 fine and those tickets will build up fast even if your mommy is a councilman.

"I've been putting up with your noise every night for three weeks. I'm not going to bear it anymore. The people in this neighborhood aren't going to bear it anymore. Do you get it, Mr. Football Hero?"

"Yes sir." Yet another shrug.

"And if I see you or hear your rig again on this street or this neighborhood again I may suspect you're up to no good since you live on the other side of town and have no reason to come through here. I may have to search your vehicle. I may not find anything, but I don't think you'd like to see your sub-woofers and amplifiers smashed on the street."

"That would be harassment."

"No. Actually it would be thorough, pro-active police work. What you've been doing is harassment by blasting working people out of bed at one thirty in the morning.

"Now shove off. I don't want to ever see you again. And I don't want to ever have to listen to your crap again. Get it?"

"Your car's in my way." The boy seemed to revel in a momentary triumph.

"Do a turn about, boy. Go back the way you came."

Joshua Zimmerman got back into his SUV and managed to turn the beast around after a few tries. Tate watched and listened until the car turned left at the end of the block.

Let's re-tool again!

I've decided to re-tool this blog.

From this point forward this blog will actually be entries of my work in progress. My work in progress is a mystery/detective novel. To be technical, the work in progress is a police procedural of the Jules Maigret and Martin Beck type except with a Southern California flavor. There are people who think that novels of the Maigret/Beck type are not possible in a Southern California setting, but those people are the same people who think that all women in SoCal look like Barbie, all the men look like Brad Pitt and that a lot of sunshine negates depression. Those people have never read Ross MacDonald's Lew Archer books nor have read closely Raymond Chandler's Phillip Marlowe novels, nor read Nathaniel West.

A reading of many of the recent detective novels taking place in SoCal have been of the Kiss Kiss Bang Bang type. In other words, if the cop or PI wasn't half drunk he was either screwing a nineteen year old, his partner's wife, his ex-wife, the perp's old lady or his land lady, he was blowing a guy away with a shotgun, .44 magnum or bazooka. I find all that nonsense tiring. It's like James Bond on meth without the introspection.

My idea is to take a SoCal detective team and show them as people who, while often jerks, are just people doing their jobs and people who, for whatever reasons, have a thirst for justice and a paycheck. Some are introspective. Some aren't. Some want to re-make the world in their own image. Some want to enforce the law. Some are looking forward to their retirement benefits.

This work in progress will have a Christian point of view. I don't mean something like the protagonist is faced with the Glock of the bad guy, prays and all of a sudden the Glock jams, or that the hero, once he hits a wall in the investigation, prays and all of a sudden a stone tablet appears on his desk naming the perp. What I mean is that the hero/es realize that the world is a sinful place, the degeneracy of mankind knows no bounds, and that Satan (whether literally or metaphorically) ranges the world like a roaring lion devouring those who put themselves in his path. Let's call it Christian pessimism. i.e, the world stinks but there is a better world to come. And despite the fact that the world stinks and that there is a better world to come that doesn't mean that one should not try to make the stinking world a little less stinky.

The posts for the novel start tomorrow and will be updated on an irregular basis. There will be no chapters. Just the story.

And if you have any comments or criticisms please do not hesitate to post your opinions. I'm an uneducated bum and need all the help I can get.