Two Down at the Belvedere

Crime Fiction by Robert Jakucs

The staccato voice of the communications operator cut through the static of the police radio shortly after midnight.

“Twelve-A-Fifteen, shots fired, two down at the Belvedere, 5212 Western Avenue. Handle code three.”

“We better role on that,” I said to Jim Hampton, my 77^th Street Division homicide partner.

“I have a feeling it’s going to be a One-Eighty-Seven.”                                                  

A chain of glowing red flares lined across Western Avenue created a foggy haze when we arrived. Three patrol cars were parked outside, their rear amber lights casting a glow on the officers setting up crime scene tape.                                                                                          

The club was located on one of the main thoroughfares that cuts like a knife through the heart of South-Central Los Angeles. It was squeezed between some storefront businesses and an evangelical church; its large neon sign lit up the sidewalk entrance. Standing in its fluorescent glow was Sergeant Jack Crouch, the tall, white haired, mustachioed PM Watch Commander. A long-time fixture in the division, his unflappable presence brought order to even the most chaotic situation.

“There’s two down inside and there both dead,” he said. “The cocktail waitress is your best witness. She’s with Carrasquel and Lucas.” 

The smell of cigarette smoke and stale beer hung heavy in the air as we entered the large room. There was a long, mahogany bar on the right, a stage along the back wall, and a narrow hallway next to the club’s office. Aged, yellowing posters lined the interior walls, advertising famous rhythm and blues singers like T-Bone Walker, Johnny Otis, Etta James and Sam Cooke. 

Twenty tables were spread throughout the room, their darkened tops holding a variety of glasses. Lying on the floor near an overturned table were the lifeless bodies of two middle-aged black men.

The first man was lying on his back, his cloudy, sightless eyes staring up at the ceiling. He was wearing a pressed white shirt, dark pants, and an expensive gold chain around his neck. A large bloodstain had spread across his chest. The second man lay face down on the floor a short distance away. He was dressed in a black leather jacket, blue-collared shirt, and gray pants. Shell casings littered the floor nearby.                                                                          
Standing near the overturned table was Officer Louie Carrasquel, a stocky man in his mid-thirties, with jet black hair combed straight back, a pencil-thin mustache, and hooded eyes that missed nothing. A long-time, PM watch veteran, he was a former boxer who knew his way around the ring and the street.

“This one didn’t get a chance to clear leather,” he said, pointing to a holstered gun on the second man’s right hip. “Looks like a .38 police special. I wonder if he’s a cop?”

“We’ll know when the coroner’s investigator goes through his pockets,” I said.

Carrasquel handed me a field interview card. “That’s an FI on the waitress,” he said.

“Her name’s Fana Abebe. She lives in Wilshire Division in Little Ethiopia. Said she had a good look at the shooter.”

Fana Abebe was a twenty-five-year-old woman who’d fled Ethiopia after her parents were murdered by the communist Derg regime in the early 1980’s. Determined to have a better life; she’d immigrated to the United States for her chance at the American Dream. After settling in Los Angeles, she attended college during the day while working part-time at the Belvedere at night.

I walked over to the table where she was sitting alone, a very attractive, mocha-colored woman with chiseled features, shoulder-length black hair, an aquiline nose, and striking green eyes that she’d inherited from her Italian grandfather, who’d served in Ethiopia under Mussolini’s occupation. She was wearing a sleek, beaded navy top, tight-fitting, gold stretch pants, and a thin gold chain with a few small letters in the Amharic alphabet around her neck. When I introduced myself, she stood up and offered me her hand.

“Miss Abebe, my name is Detective Pilsudski. My partner, Detective Hampton, and I are the homicide detectives investigating this shooting. I know this has been a traumatic experience, but can you tell me what happened?”

“I will do whatever I can to assist you, Detective,” she said with a trace of an Ethiopian accent. “Those two men were regular customers. The older one always ordered scotch and soda and left a generous tip. He asked me out once, but I told him that I didn’t date customers. He was very nice, didn’t take offense, and was always a gentleman around me.

“The other one always seemed watchful and on edge. They hadn’t been here long when the shooting started. I’d just served another table and was walking towards the front when I saw a man enter the club. He was very dark, with a jheri curl hairdo and a big mustache. He was wearing a dark overcoat, and his hands were in the pockets. He walked up to where the two men were sitting, pulled a gun from inside his coat, and started shooting.

“The older man fell over, then the other one stood up and collapsed onto the table. People were screaming and I ducked down. When I looked up, the gunman was gone and people were running towards the exits.”

“How tall was the shooter?” I said.

“He was average height.”

“Was he thin, medium or heavy?”

“He was medium and looked muscular,” she said.

“Do you think you’d recognize him if you saw him again?”

“Yes. He was smiling when he shot them. I won’t forget that face.”

“Thanks, Miss Abebe,” I said. “Here’s my business card. If you think of anything else, please call me. If we have any more questions, we’ll contact you.”

All eyes in the room were on her as she turned and walked towards the exit with all the poise and grace of a fashion model on a Paris catwalk.

The coroner’s investigator arrived shortly afterwards. She was a tall, thin woman in her late twenties, with plain features, light brown hair, and no makeup. Her hair was tied in a ponytail and she wore a plain, white medical coat. She examined both bodies and went through their pockets.

“Your first victim has ID in the name of Alonzo Hawkins,” she said.

“Did you say Alonzo Hawkins?” asked Jim. “Let me see his ID.” He glanced at it, his eyes wide in recognition, and passed it to me. Once I saw the name and the photograph, I knew our case had just gotten very big.

“I’ll have Jack Crouch notify the captain right away,” said Jim. “This one here is ‘Lucky Lonzo’ Hawkins, the biggest cocaine dealer in the city. I bet the other guy is his bodyguard. This has all the earmarks of a contract hit.” 

Once the bodies were removed from the club, we wrapped up our investigation and drove to the station. As we finished our paperwork, the Homicide unit’s commanding officer, Lieutenant Vito Battaglia, poked his head into the squad room. A former homicide detective himself, he was a tough, old-school copper with a thick, black mustache and olive complexion inherited from his Sicilian forefathers.

“Ski, Hampton, in my office now,” he said. He shut the door as soon as we entered.

“You two had a long night. Once you’re finished, go home and get a couple hours sleep. I’ll have another team make the death notification to Hawkins’s widow. Any leads on who did it?”

“Nothing yet,” I said. “We have a good eyewitness, but nothing else. I wouldn’t be shocked if it turns out to be a drug hit.”

Driving home, I had to fend off the sleep monster as the rising sun’s golden rays relaxed my exhausted body. When I took the 10 Freeway exit onto the 405, the cool ocean breeze revived me. I took the scenic route home along Vista del Mar, looking out at the Santa Monica Bay stretching from Point Magu to the Palos Verdes Peninsula. The gentle offshore breeze blew misty spray of the tops of the curling waves, and surfers in black wetsuits walked up and down their longboards just ahead of the frothy, white wake.

Once inside the peaceful quiet of my home, away from the violence of my chosen profession, I collapsed onto my bed and fell instantly asleep.

***

After a few hours’ slumber revived me, I returned to work and entered our dingy homicide office. The room had a distinct smell of stale cigarette smoke mixed with the metallic odor of dried blood on the hanging clothing of last night’s victims. Spread throughout the room, they resembled stained naval pennants flying from the rigging of a macabre pirate ship.  As I took a seat, Jim walked into the office with bloodshot eyes and a tired, sagging face.

“Rough night,” he said. “Didn’t get any sleep.”

“Were you in the rice paddy again?”

“Yeah. It was bad.”

Jim Hampton was as tough as hard bark. He’d humped an M-60 machine gun with the First Cavalry Division during the Tet offensive in 1968. When his company walked into a battalion-sized North Vietnamese Army ambush in a putrid rice paddy in the Au Shau Valley, he was wounded in the first volley and lay in the broiling sun for hours until he passed out. When he awoke, it was quiet. Dead and wounded Americans lay all around him, and a North Vietnamese officer was walking slowly down the line, shooting anyone who stirred.

When he walked up to Jim, the officer smiled, raised a finger to his lips, and then continued down the line. On the rare occasion Jim would ever talk about it, he’d say the man had the face of the Grim Reaper.

The moment passed when Lieutenant Battaglia shouted from his office, “Ski, Hampton, in here now!”

As soon as we entered, he shut the door and spun around towards us.

“Captain Clauson wants to give your case to Robbery-Homicide Division,” he said, barely able to control his anger.

“You’re kidding me,” said Jim. “Those prima donnas are out of their element down here in the south end. They call our cases misdemeanor homicides because we don’t get the headline ones like they do.

“When they get one of ours, they drive around for a week, make a couple of entries in the murder book, and spend most of their time in their favorite gin mill.”

“We’re going to the captain’s office,” said Battaglia, “and convince him to keep it. We don’t give our cases away to anyone.”

He grabbed his desk phone, dialed an extension, and spoke to Sergeant Clement Rogers, the Captain’s adjutant.

“Clem, it’s Vito. Is the Skipper available? We need to talk to him.”

There was a momentary pause, then the Lieutenant said, “OK. We’ll be right down.” Turning to us, he said, “I’ll do the talking. If he asks you any questions, go ahead and answer them, but keep your cool and don’t lose your temper. Got it?”

We nodded our heads and followed him down a narrow, linoleum hallway that smelled of polished floor wax.  On both sides of the faded green walls hung framed black-and-white photographs that were snapshots in time of the station’s sixty-five-year history. When we reached the captain’s office, Sergeant Rogers, a short, bald, heavyset black man, motioned us inside. He was wearing a gray suit, dark blue tie, and a white shirt, along with shined, winged- tipped black shoes.

He gave us a wink, pointed to the captain’s inner door, and said, “Figured you’d be down here, Vito. Go on in.”

The 77^th Street commanding officer was Captain Bert Clauson, a tall, soft-looking man with stooped shoulders and a weak chin. Like most of the department brass, he’d made rank by avoiding field assignments for inside administrative posts. He could quote the department manual chapter and verse but seemed uncomfortable the few times he addressed roll call or appeared at a crime scene.

He was seated at his desk reviewing some paperwork when we walked in.

“Hello Vito. What can I do for you?”

“Well, Captain, we think we’re better prepared to handle this case then Robbery- Homicide,” said Battaglia.

“Vito, I appreciate your loyalty, and I know your detectives do excellent work. But one of the victims is a well-known figure in the city who happens to be the biggest drug dealer in South-Central Los Angeles.

“This shooting is getting lots of press coverage. The mayor and the chief are worried about a war breaking out between rival drug gangs. I think Robbery-Homicide has the expertise and resources to handle a case like this.”

“Look, Captain,” said Battaglia, putting both his hands on Clauson’s desk and leaning forward, “whether your murder victim is someone with big name notoriety or a nameless John Doe found dead in an alley, it doesn’t change how you work the case. You do it by-the-numbers with good old-fashioned detective work, and you put out so much heat you want the killer to hear you coming.

“As for those Robbery-Homicide dicks, they don’t know the area, the people or the coppers in 77th, and they sure don’t have any snitches here.”

“All good points, Vito,” said Clauson, “but we’re already closing in on one hundred murders in the division this year, and its only September. We’re still above water with a seventy-two percent clearance rate, but how can Pilsudski and Hampton handle a case of this magnitude and still pick up new murders in your rotation?”

“I’ll pull them out of the rotation so they can handle it,” said Battaglia. “When they solve this case, and I know they will, you’re going to get tired of all the TV and print media attention you’ll be getting.”

There was silence in the room except for the slow tapping of Clauson’s pen on his blotter as he mulled over Battaglia’s words. After an intermediate pause, he said, “OK, Vito. I’ll call downtown and tell them we’re keeping the case. I’ll give you ten days. If it’s not solved by then, it goes to Robbery-Homicide.”

Outside the Captain’s office, the Lieutenant stopped us and said, “I meant every word I said in there. I don’t think there’s a better homicide team in the city then you two. There’s no limit on overtime for this one, and if you need help, you have it. Now get out there and find the bastard that did this.”

***

 We made it to the County Coroner’s office just as Doctor Emil Kopcek, the assistant medical examiner, was starting the autopsy on our two murder victims. He confirmed, in his almost indecipherable eastern European accent, that both victims died as the result of their gunshot wounds. He also recovered 9mm bullets from both bodies.

I did a computer workup on the two victims at the station. Hawkins had done state time years ago for possession of narcotics, but since then he hadn’t had so much as a traffic ticket. The other victim, Carter McGirt, had done time for robbery. The gun he was carrying wasn’t registered, and it wasn’t listed as stolen.  

I made a call to South Bureau Narcotics and spoke with Detective John Donaldson. Unlike most narcotic detectives who had the usual grunge look of long hair and a beard, John was clean-shaven, had short dark hair, schoolboy looks and the smooth finesse of a safecracker. He also had some of the best informants in the city. 

“Hey John, it’s Ski over at 77th Homicide.” 

“Heard you and Hampton have the shooting at the Belvedere. Whoever did it had some big balls walking in there and dumping Lucky Lonzo and his bodyguard.” 

“That’s why I’m calling,” I said. “Any word on who did it?” 

“I haven’t heard anything, but the guy who’d gain most by Lonzo’s death is Fred Thurmond,” he said. “He was Hawkins number two man, but they had a falling out some years ago, and he went out on his own. He’s Hawkins main competition now, and there’s no love lost between them. I heard rumblings that Thurmond was planning a move on Hawkins, but up until the other day, it was just rumor. Wouldn’t surprise me if he was behind the shooting. 

“Regarding Hawkins, besides being the number one guy for cocaine in Los Angeles, he was very connected. He knew all the local politicians, athletes and Hollywood celebrities. Other than that old conviction, nobody’s been able to touch him, including the feds. He had several carwashes in the city, and even though he probably laundered his money through them, no one could put a case on him.”    

“Who’s going to take over for him?” I said.   

“The likely candidate is his son, Elijah. He’s a smooth operator, went to Harvard, dresses nice and talks like a college professor. On the inside, though, he’s a ruthless son of a bitch who’s as cold as a hooker’s heart. My bet is he’ll be gunning for Thurmond.”

“That’s all we need,” I said, “a drug war between rival factions. Where can we find Elijah?”

“He’s usually in the back office of the poolroom he owns on Vermont Avenue. If he’s there, his powder blue Mercedes is parked out front. Be careful when you go there. He has some local gangsters providing muscle for him.”

***

Jim did a record search on Fred Thurmond while I investigated Hawkins’s business fronts. When he was done, he sat down alongside me and spread out some IBM printouts.

“Here’s what I found on Thurmond,” he said. “He’s in his early forties, has a home in Southwest Division on Welland Avenue, did time for dealing narcotics, but hasn’t been popped since his release. I contacted a guy I know in the DEA. He has a good source that said Thurmond made a move on Lonzo to take over the entire south end drug trade.”

“How about Elijah Hawkins?”

“There’s nothing on him other than some lightweight juvenile stuff. The FBI said Elijah was involved in the Black Power movement at Harvard in the late 60s. He also ran in some radical left-wing circles there, like Students for a Democratic Society and other anti-Vietnam War groups. Since he left school and came back to LA, they lost interest in him.”

“Let’s take a ride to Elijah’s pool room and shake his tree,” I said.

It was early afternoon, but traffic was already building for rush hour as we drove northbound on the Harbor Freeway. It was a warm, sunny day, with just a hint of white puffy clouds off in the distance, as we headed to the poolroom. Here and there, elderly people sat on their front porches soaking up the sun’s balmy rays, and a small crowd had gathered to watch some young girls skipping rope to a toe tapping beat on a boom box.

As we drove past the poolroom, a highly polished, powder-blue Mercedes sedan was parked out front. A couple of black men in their mid-twenties, in tight T-shirts, jheri curled hairdos, and baggy work pants, were hanging out front, their eyes homing in on us like radar as we went by. I swung a slow U-turn and parked north of our destination. As soon as we got out, the two men gave us a hard look and walked into the business.

“Keep your powder dry, partner,” said Jim as we walked towards the entrance. Through the plate glass windows, I saw a few middle-aged, black men and a sprinkling of teenagers playing pool at the eight tables spread throughout the room. The sound of clinking pool balls was mixed with the murmur of small talk and the smell of cigars. A thin, light-skinned youth was sitting at a desk in the back next to a door that said ‘Office.’ Above the door was a large sign that read, ‘No Gambling Allowed.’ 

There was a two-seated shoeshine stand in the corner where an old, gray-haired black man was hunched over the footwear of a young dandy wearing a snap brim black fedora. The bootblack’s hands flew over the shoes, while his buffing rag made popping sounds as he worked them to a mirror gloss.

As we moved into the vestibule, the games and talk stopped and there was silence, the kind that hangs in the air just before the first clap of thunder when a big storm breaks. Barring our way was a large, mid-thirties black man with the build of an NFL lineman and the dull eyes of a shark. He was wearing a tight, black T-shirt, black warmup bottoms and a black do-rag on his head. His buffed arms rippled with muscles and jailhouse tattoos as he looked at us through narrow eyelids.

“What you’ want?” he said.

“We’re homicide detectives here to see Elijah Hawkins,” Jim said in a casual tone.

“I don’t give a fuck who you are. You white mutha fuckers don’t get to see Mr. Hawkins without an appointment,” he said, striking Jim with an open palm in the left shoulder.

Jim spun on his left heel, his right hand shot out like a cobra, and he griped his adversary’s throat in a tight C-clamp. The big man’s eyes bulged, he gasped for air, and his arms flailed in a frantic attempt to pull Jim’s hand from his throat. Jim lowered the giant to his knees and whispered, “Listen, tough guy. You ever try to pull that jailhouse shit on me again, I’ll rip your throat out.”

When he released his grip, the man toppled forward onto the floor like a massive sequoia. The office door flew open, and a tall, well-dressed man in his late thirties walked towards us. He was wearing a three-piece, black-pinstriped suit with a pale blue, long-sleeve shirt, a bright silk, yellow tie with matching handkerchief, and gold cufflinks.

“Gentlemen, there’s no need for violence here,” he said.

Turning to the two lookouts, he pointed to the gasping man on the floor and said, “Get him out of here. I’ll deal with him later.” Turning back to us, he said, “I’m sorry for this misunderstanding. If it’s all right with you, I’ll handle the matter internally. Could we talk in my office?”

Once inside, he closed the office door and gestured to two expensive, maroon leather chairs located in front of a polished, antique mahogany desk. After we were seated, he said, “I’d offer you a drink, but I know you can’t imbibe while on duty. How may I help you?”

“I’m Detective Pilsudski, and this is Detective Hampton,” I said. “We’re the detectives investigating the murders at the Belvedere. We’d like to know if you have any information that would assist us in finding your father’s killer.”

“I thank you for stopping by, but unfortunately, I don’t know anything that would help you.”

“Do you think it had anything to do with his business affairs?” I said.

“I assisted my father in his enterprises,” he said, “and I don’t see how his car washes and this pool room had anything to do with his death.”

“Well, for starters,” I said, “we don’t think it’s about either of those. Let me be blunt. I don’t care what your father did for business. Somebody murdered him on our watch and we’re going to find who did it. Anything you can do to help us would be appreciated.

“It’s common knowledge that your father was the biggest cocaine dealer in the city, and his rival in trade was Fred Thurmond. I don’t expect you to admit it, so spare us the denials. Is there any reason for you to think that Thurmond might be involved?”

Hawkins eyes narrowed and he said, “Detective, I’m a businessman and an entrepreneur, and my attorney would frown at such scurrilous accusations about my late father.  Like him, I’m out here to make money. We run legitimate enterprises. Although he once employed Mr. Thurmond, they did have a falling out. Mr. Thurmond is now our chief competitor in the car wash business here in Los Angeles. I have no independent knowledge of his companies, his intentions, or who may have killed my father.”

“All right. If you hear anything let us know,” I said. “We’re going to keep digging until we find the killer. The other reason we’re talking to you is we don’t want an intramural shooting war between competing businesses. Right now, all it needs is a match, and the whole south end could blow up.”

“My father was a much-loved figure in this community,” he said. “We all have taken his death very hard. I abhor violence, but someone might take it upon themselves to wreak vengeance and follow the Bible’s dictate of extracting an eye for an eye.”

After a pause, he turned to Jim. “Detective Hampton, you haven’t spoken yet. Do you have anything to add?”

“Only that we’ll make sure there’s no drug war,” Jim said, staring into Hawkins’ eyes, “and if there’s another shooting linked to this, we’ll button up the south end so tight it’ll squeak. We’ll put so much heat out there that a customer trying to score even a nickel bag of weed will be hard pressed to find it on the street.”

“I’ve been warned about you, Detective Hampton, and I must say I was suitably impressed by your actions today,” Hawkins said. “You are a dangerous man, and I could use a man with your particular skill sets, but alas, you’re the wrong color for my business.”

“Thanks for the left-handed compliment, but I prefer to stay on this side of the law.”

Hawkins shrugged, stood up, and said, “Gentlemen, it’s a violent world out there, and unfortunately, anything can happen, even to our city’s finest. I hope you stay safe in these dangerous times, and I wish you luck in your investigation. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to work.

As we left the pool hall, Jim and I discussed our encounter with Hawkins.

“Sounds like he was telling us to back off his business,” I said.

“He can wear those expensive suits and talk that flowery bullshit all he wants,” Jim said. “He’s as oily as a used car salesman, but down deep, he’s just another hood rat.

“So far, it’s your typical 77^th murder case. We have no prints, no suspects, and no clues. How about I talk to the vice cops, and you talk to PM watch roll call. Prostitutes hear lots of things, and patrol might bring in a guy who wants to work his case off.”

***

We continued to work the phones and beat the pavement for the next few days, but we were no further along than when we started. Late one night while I was finishing some paperwork, Officer Andy Judkins approached me in the office. He was a sharp-eyed, towheaded young officer in his mid-twenties with the muscular build of a middle linebacker.

“Detective Ski, there’s a guy on the bench that we popped for cocaine possession on Westley. He’s just out of county on a gun pinch, and he’s bitching and moaning, saying he can’t go back to jail. Says he knows something about the Belvedere shooting and wants to talk to the detectives handling it. Here’s his rap sheet.”

“Thanks, Andy. Put him in an interview room and I’ll go talk to him.”

The prisoner was a thirty-two years old, sometime plumber’s apprentice, with priors for misdemeanor petty theft and carrying a concealed handgun. He’d been released last month from County Jail after doing sixty days on the gun pinch and was still on active probation.

The stark interview room where the current nervous occupant sat was devoid of any color or hope and had the stale odor of motionless air mixed with the scent of human fear. He was a medium-colored black man with a short Afro and beard. I took a seat across from him and sat there without speaking as the seconds ticked off.

He started shifting his body, first hugging himself with his arms, then crossing one leg over the other, like an anxious grammar school student waiting in the principal’s office. I let the tension build, then said, “I’m Detective Pilsudski, the detective handling the Belvedere shooting. Officer Judkins said you wanted to talk to me.”

“Look, I’m no snitch, but I can’t go back to jail,” he said, his eyes wide with fear. “What I have is big, but you have to promise me up front, before I say anything, that I’m going to walk on this beef.”

“Let’s get something straight,” I said, leaning forward towards him. “I’m the last chance you have. I’m a busy man, and I don’t have time to waste on you.”

I stood up to leave and said, “I’m going home to sleep in my own bed tonight. You, my friend, are going back to your cell to think about how you just blew it, and how you’re going to spend the next few years in the joint trying to keep someone from shanking you or becoming somebody’s boy toy.” 

As I moved towards the door, he said, “Hold on. Please don’t leave. Look, man, I’m scared to death. I’m looking at state prison, and I can’t do any more time. I know who did the club shooting, but I don’t want to be hung out to dry.”

I retraced my steps and sat down.

“I talk to guys like you every day,” I said, “some who are in an even bigger jam than you are. Let me explain how the system works. First, I need to know what you have. The bigger the fish, the more I’m interested. Officer Judkins said you know something about the Belvedere shooting, so that gets my attention.

“Second, you may have good information, but I need enough probable cause to arrest someone and get the DA to file it. I’m telling you this because I don’t lie to people, especially someone in your predicament.

“I can promise you this: If you didn’t take part in the crime, I won’t give you up in court. They can cut me into little pieces,” I said, holding up my hand, then lowering each finger for dramatic effect, “but I won’t give you up.”

“You say that now, and it sounds good,” he said, licking his dry lips. “I want to believe you, but how do I know you won’t lay me out.”

“Two reasons. The first is I want to have a clear conscience when I meet my God at the final judgment. The second is if I ever went back on my word, it would get out on the street, and no one would trust me.”

He stared at me for a long moment, gave a deep sigh, and said, “OK. What do you want to know?”

“Let’s start at the beginning. How did you come by this information?”

“There’s this guy I know from the neighborhood. He’s an OG gangster, runs with the Eight-Trays. He lives with a Creole woman from Louisiana who is easy on the eyes, and he’s the jealous type. She works as a greeter at a club on Crenshaw.

“She met Lucky Lonzo there, things went to things, and she was doing him behind homeboy’s back. He found out and beat her till she squealed. A friend told him that Lonzo likes to go to the Belvedere. He drove there that night, went inside, and shot the place up.”

“What’s his name?” I said.

“Tristan Lowan, but he goes by Tris.”

“How do you know all this?”

“My cousin Raymond runs with him. He told me the day after it happened.”

“What’s Tris look like?”

“He’s real dark,” he said, “with a jheri curl and a big, droopy mustache. He likes to push iron, too.”

“Where’s he stay?”

“I don’t know the exact address, but it’s a yellow house on Budlong by the park. His old lady lives with him.”

“What’s he been popped for?” I said.

“He did camp time as a juvie for GTA and joint time at Chino for robbery. He’s still on parole.”

“Does he have a piece?”

“Raymond says he keeps a 9mm in the house somewhere.”

“Did he say where?”  

“No. He didn’t say.”

“What kind of a ride does he have?” I asked.

“It’s a clean looking, green Camry,” he said.

“Where’s he park it?”

“He always parks it in his driveway.” A concerned look appeared on his face. “Say, is this going to help me?”

“I have to check out the information and identify the guy,” I said. “If it turns out good, I’ll go to bat for you with the DA.”

“How do I know he’ll do anything for me?” he said.

“Listen, you have to trust me. I’ve never hummed anybody in, I never lied to an informant, and I don’t lead people on. If it’s good information, and I can make the case, I’ll get it done.

“As to the DA, who does he want to put in jail, a guy like you who got caught with a couple of rocks, or somebody who killed two people?”

***

That night I lay in bed, tossing and turning, my mind still racing as I went over the case. Everything seemed to point to a drug connection, but the informant claimed it was a jealous lover tiff. Unable to sleep, I took a quick shower, wolfed down a bowl of Cheerios and a banana, and headed to work.

As I was telling Jim about the informant, a detective came in and said, “The lieutenant wants you in his office, and he’s pissed. I think he’s feeling the heat from above on your case.”

We entered the Lieutenant’s office as he was hanging up the phone. He sighed, shook his head, and said, “That was the chief. He just finished taking a bite out of my ass. They had drive-by shootings at street dealing locations last night in Newton and Southwest. Narcotics thinks the first was payback for Hawkins’s murder and the second was retaliation by Thurmond.

“The chief’s hopping mad because we haven’t made any progress and he wants to take the case away from us. Thomas Morton, our local councilman, is raising a stink about you pissing off Elijah Hawkins while his father’s body was still warm in the grave. Other than that, do you have any cheery news for me today?”

“This should brighten your day,” I said. “Last night an arrestee told me he knows the shooter, and it was all over Hawkins tapping the guy’s old lady.”

“You’re kidding me, right? The biggest dope dealer in the city and his bodyguard get whacked. Everyone from the politicians, the department brass and narcotics think it’s a contract hit, and you think it’s a jealous boyfriend?”

“Our snitch is looking at a doing time for a couple of rocks. He’s desperate to stay out of jail. He sounded legit, but we need to verify his information.”

“Keep this close to the vest,” he said. “I don’t want this getting out to the brass or the press.”

Jim and I walked over to the records section and did a check on Tristan Lowan. He’d done time for robbery and was an active parolee out of the Inglewood office. His driver’s license listed a home address on Budlong Avenue.

“So far, the snitch’s information is looking good,” I said. “I’ll get a rush done on Lowan’s latest booking photo and put it in a six pack to show the witness. If he’s our shooter, I have a feeling she’ll pick him out.”

I drove downtown and picked up copies of Lowan’s latest mug shot. When I opened the package, staring back at me was an unsmiling, dark-skinned black man with a shoulder length, jheri curl hairdo and thick mustache. He looked just like the shooter described by Fana Abebe. At that moment, I started to get that familiar feeling that the pieces of the puzzle were coming together, and the case was going to break wide open. 

***

 I made an appointment to meet Fana Abebe later that day to show her the photo lineup. She lived in the bottom half of an old style, mid-forties, two story duplex on a quiet residential street in the Little Ethiopia section of town. She met Jim and I at the door and invited us into a living room filled with photographs and artifacts of Ethiopia. She was wearing a loose fitting, white cotton, sleeveless top and jeans along with a pastel green, traditional Ethiopian shawl wrapped loosely around her neck. I took a seat on a beige cushion alongside her while Jim sat across from us in a matching-colored chair.

After reading her the Photographic Admonition, I laid the lineup down on the glass coffee table. She picked it up, stared at it for a moment, and then her eyes focused on one of the photos. She pointed to Tristan Lowan’s picture and said, “That’s him, Number four. He’s the one who did the shooting.”

As we stood up to leave, Jim seemed to hesitate and linger there, as if he wanted to say something to her. She looked closely at him, then reached out and touched his hand.

“I see the pain in your eyes, Detective Hampton,” she said. “I saw the same look in many of my people who suffered so much during the Ethiopian civil war. You are a good man. When this case is finished, please call me.”

As we walked back to the car, I turned to Jim and said, “What was that all about?”

“I don’t know, Ski, but there’s something about that woman.”

“Partner, that is one fine-looking, classy woman. I’d keep her number if I were you.”

“You got that right, but let’s keep our minds on the case. Now that we have Lowan identified, I’ll write up a search warrant for his pad and car.”

***

We drove by Lowan’s address after leaving Fana Abebe’s apartment. It was a neat looking, yellow colored, wood frame house that sat mid-block on Budlong Avenue in a working-class neighborhood. A dark green, two door Camry was parked in the driveway. I made a quick sketch of the residence and jotted down the license number. I did a quick check on the plate over the police radio, and it came back registered to our suspect.

Back at the station we went into Lieutenant Battaglia’s office.

“We have the shooter identified,” I said. “He’s an Eight-Tray Gangster named Tristan Lowan. Our witness went right to him in the photo lineup.”

“Outstanding. You going to paper him up?”

“Yeah. Jim’s writing the search warrant right now, and once he’s finished, we’ll take it to Judge Green. We’ll roll call early tomorrow morning and serve it.”

We drove downtown through the surprisingly light afternoon traffic. At the Los Angeles County Criminal Courts building we went to Judge Sandra Green’s courtroom on the seventh floor. She was a long time, Los Angeles County court jurist known for her even temper and sly sense of humor. Without her robes, she could pass for a middle-aged college professor. She reviewed the warrant, signed it with a flourish, and wished us luck in our endeavors.

***

I spent a restless night in bed going over the warrant service in my head, gave up on sleep, and drove to the beach. I parked in the deserted lot and sat there listening in the quiet darkness to the calming sound of the surf breaking onto the sand. After a short interlude, I drove through the silent streets to the station.

Four homicide teams, dressed in street clothes and raid jackets, were assembled in the roll call room along with two patrol officers. I handed out Lowan’s photograph and provided the particulars on the tactical service. Once everyone was briefed on their roles, we caravanned through the darkened streets and took up our assigned positions around the suspect’s quiet block. Jim and I made a pass by the house and saw Lowan’s green Camry parked in the driveway.

Time seemed to pass at a glacial pace as the early morning sky showed a glimmer of light in the east before morphing into a bright, orange hue just above the horizon. After about an hour, the front door opened and Lowan stepped out.

“Suspect just walked out the front door and is moving towards the Camry,” I broadcast. “He’s wearing a blue, short sleeve shirt and jeans. Let’s take him down.”

As he was unlocking the driver side door, four plainclothes cars and a black and white roared up in front of the house, with an array of officers pointing revolvers and shotguns at the stunned suspect.  Once handcuffed, he was put in the back seat of the patrol car.

“I’m not saying shit without my lawyer present,” he yelled as he sat in the car.

“That’s your call, Tristan,” Jim said. “You’re under arrest for murder. I have a search warrant for your car and your house,” he said, stuffing a copy of the warrant inside Lowan’s shirt pocket. “We’re going to search them right now. I don’t want anyone hurt, so I need to know if your girlfriend or anyone else is inside your crib.”

“Nah, no one’s there. She’s at her mom’s house in Long Beach.”

“OK, you can either give us the key to your front door or we’ll break it down.”

“It’s the big one on my key chain,” he said with a resigned look on his face.

We found nothing of value inside the car, but I had it impounded so forensics could examine it. Two detectives took Lowan to the station while the rest of us deployed on the house. Jim knocked on the door several times and said, “Police Officers. We have a search warrant. Open up.” With no answer forthcoming, I used Lowan’s key to gain entry.

Guns drawn, we searched the small, two-bedroom house room by room, but the only living thing inside was a small gray cat that hid under the dresser. The house was sparsely furnished with a large TV, a low slung, faux wood, coffee table and a tan-colored couch in the living room. The kitchen had a small table with four, unmatched chairs and a sink full of unwashed dishes. One of the bedrooms had a box spring, mattress, bureau and nightstand, while the other was empty except for some wrinkled clothing piled up on the floor.

We went through the house with a fine-toothed comb, turning over the mattress, box spring and couch cushions, looking under and through furniture, emptying out drawers and closets, but we came up empty. Frustrated, I turned to Jim and said, “Partner, we’ve turned this place inside out. Maybe he ditched it after the shooting.”

“It’s here, Ski, I know it’s here,” he said with an intense look on his face. “I can feel it in my bones. Let’s go back through the house again.”

After we searched the kitchen and living room again with the same negative results, we moved into the small bathroom. Jim’s eyes scanned the room, then came to rest on the toilet.

“That’s the one place we didn’t look, Ski, the toilet tank,” he said. “I knew a dope dealer in Southwest that used to hide his stash in there. Go ahead and lift the lid off.”

I leaned forward and lifted the porcelain lid off the tank while Jim stuck his hand inside. A moment later, he pulled out a tightly bound, waterproof bag. His arm still dripping with water, he used his Swiss Army knife to cut through the wrappings. There before us was a blue-steel, semi-automatic 9mm Beretta. 

“There it is,” he said. “I’ll bet a dollar o a donut that’s the gun used to kill Lonzo. Your snitch was spot on.”

When we finished, I put some cat food in a bowl in the kitchen, locked up the apartment, and drove back to the station.

***

A jubilant Lieutenant Battaglia greeted us in the squad room when we returned.

“Great work. You got your man and the gun. Did he say anything, Ski?”

“Said he wanted his lawyer. He knows his shits weak. We’ll book him for One-Eighty-Seven and have the gun printed and test fired to see if it’s a match.”

Just then, Captain Clauson walked in with a big grin on his face.

“I’ll call the chief’s office right away and let him know,” he said. “I’m sure he’ll want to contact Councilman McCloud and give him the good news. I’ve scheduled a press conference later today to announce the arrest.

“I’d like you to be there, Vito. Every major news station will be covering it. Oh, and nice work on your part, men. I had every confidence you’d make this case.”

Jim looked at him with a hard stare and said, “Thanks, Captain. Your unwavering support is what carried us through this investigation.”

The captain’s face turned the color of a tomato. After an embarrassing pause, he said, “Well …Ah … again, good police work.” With that he turned and left the room as if his hair was on fire.

After booking Lowan, we drove to Elijah Hawkins pool room on Vermont.  The same large man was standing in the doorway; he stared at us, then took two steps back. As we passed by, Jim said, “Go tell your boss Detectives Hampton and Pilsudski are here to see him.”

He went inside the office and returned a few minutes later. “Mr. Hawkins will see you now,” he said in a low, raspy voice.

When we entered, Elijah Hawkins was ensconced behind his desk. This time he was wearing a light-gray suit, starched white shirt, pale-blue tie, and matching handkerchief in his left breast pocket.

“Please have a seat, gentlemen. How may I assist you?”

“Actually, it’s we who can assist you,” I said. “Earlier this morning we arrested the man who killed your father.” Hawkins stared at us, his face a mask of stunned disbelief. 

“There’s more. I’m telling you about this information for two reasons. The first is to avoid a city-wide drug war, while the second is so you can prepare your family for some possible embarrassment.

“On the first issue, the arrestee had no connection to Fred Thurmond or any other drug gang. On the second issue, your father was shot over a love triangle. He was having an affair with the suspect’s girlfriend, and he found out about it.”

It was so quiet in the room, you could have heard a flea walk on cotton. Hawkins shook his head and said, “Are you sure about this?”

“As sure as God made apples,” I said. “Regarding the first issue, we want an end to the retaliation shootings between you and Thurmond’s people. We’ll contact Thurmond and tell him it’s over. Do I have your word on it?”

He nodded his head and said, “Yes. What about my mother? What will you tell her?

“We’ll see her as soon as we leave here. We’re going to tell her the man who killed her husband is in custody and leave it at that. We’d like to spare her any additional pain. She’s already suffered enough.

Now, regarding the second issue, we won’t discuss the killer’s motive with anyone other than the District Attorney. If it leaks out to the press, it won’t be from our end.

“If the shooter cops a plea, it won’t come out. If he goes to trial, then that’s a whole other story, so you might want to have a game plan ready if that happens.”

“I’d like to thank you, gentlemen,” he said, “for your hard work, and for your, shall we say, discretion in this matter. I’m indebted to you. If someday I may be of assistance, you know how to reach me.”

“That’s a marker I intend to call in someday,” Jim said as he stood up to leave. “Money talks and bullshit walks, so we’ll see if you’re all air or the real deal.”  

***

The District Attorney filed two counts of first-degree murder with special circumstances against Lowan. A peace was arranged between Thurmond and Hawkins. I put in a good word to the DA’s office on behalf of my informant, and they copped him out to a misdemeanor possession of a controlled substance with continued probation and no time served.

Six months later, Lowan accepted a plea of two, twenty-five to life sentences to run concurrently. The Hawkins family pressed the District Attorney to make the deal, rather than have a trial, so the defendant’s true motive was never revealed.

***

That night, Jim Hampton tossed and turned, unable to sleep, as thoughts of putrid rice paddies, the smell of cordite, and the screams of dying men raced through his mind. Bathed in sweat, he sat up, turned on the small reading light, and stared at the 4-inch, .38 caliber revolver and the worn jungle knife on the nightstand. After what seemed like an eternity, he summoned the courage and dialed the phone number he had memorized.

The phone rang four times; he was about to hang up when an exotic female voice answered, “Hello.”

“Fana?”

“Yes.”

“Fana, this is Detective…Ah… I mean, this is Jim Hampton.”

“Ah, my knight errant with the haunted eyes. I’ve prayed every night that you would call. I’m so happy to hear your voice.”

“Me too, Fana. Me too.”

Time stood still as they talked long into the night. A feeling of warmth spread over Jim, and the dark shadows that had encased his soul lifted. For the first time since he returned from the war, he was able to fall back to sleep, and the Grim Reaper didn’t return in his dreams.

---

Bio: Robert Jakucs is a retired LAPD homicide detective and a Marine Corps veteran. His crime stories focus on the underbelly of Los Angeles, featuring down-on-their-luck people trying to survive in South Central LA and East Hollywood, worlds away from the glitz of Tinseltown. His stories, published in Thriller Magazine, The Yard: Crime Blog, and Merion West, highlight the humor and inherent danger of police work. 

Cover Photo by: Pexels

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