White Death Read Free

favorite girl. They were an item in the Zombies. Carol froze a little at my implied question, then recovered.
    “They got popped buying a little action.”
    I pushed, “Buck action caps, black beauties, greenies, or what?”
    Carol hesitated, looked at the wall behind me as though it would help her avoid the question.
    “Cocaine.”
    “Shit,” I replied. “This is a smack and speed town. Where did they score coke?”
    “I don’t know, Jake; you got the badge and gun. I hear talk that it’s starting to make the scene.”
    Although I was curious, I knew that Carol would not elaborate. After a few more minutes of socializing, Jansen and I took our beat.
    We settled into a “footman’s stride” – a little faster than a slow walk, but slower than a normal gait. The idea was to see and be seen. Storeowners loved cops on the beat and complained if they came too infrequently. Commanders had to balance this with the demand on resources and the volume of calls that cars could handle, in contrast to mostly uneventful foot patrols. We pulled the boxes, chatted with storeowners, and ate some greasy chicken along the way.
    “Mike, turn slowly to the left and look across the street. See the big, light-skinned black man with the reddish-orange hair?”
    “Yeah.”
    “He’s Big Red, a notorious police fighter. They’re rare, not really discussed much anywhere, not even among cops, but we need to know who they are. Until a few months ago, we had a woman police fighter with a well-known address. She was skinny as a rail, but fought like a wild animal each time wearrested her. When she overdosed, we breathed more easily. Big Red is meaner and much stronger. He has an uncontrolled, fanatical hatred for the police that respects no boundaries. Take a close look and stay away, if possible.”
    I asked Mike if he was up for a little fun. Mike had endured some of my fun in the Zombies and eyed his partner with suspicion.
    “What do you have in mind?”
    “There’s a really tough bar called McCombos Lounge at the edge of our beat. It’s a place with an attitude. The patrons are holdup men, thugs, a black motorcycle gang, Black Panthers, and other seedy characters. I like to walk in as a white cop and feel fifty eyes on me as all the conversation stops. I always order a Sprite and turn around for the stare down.”
    “Jake, you’re as crazy as me. Let’s do it.”
    At 6:00 p.m., as Mike and I entered, McCombos was filling up with the usual suspects. The bar was a male enclave, although a few brought their girlfriends. The smell of beer and cigarette smoke filled the air. Common interests dictated who clustered together. Bikers sat with bikers, Panthers with Panthers, and other characters seemed grouped by geography or criminal specialty. The bartender came over and asked the usual double-edged question: “What do you want?”
    We ordered two Sprites and turned around for the stare down. Soon, we heard a taunt from one Black Panther to another.
    “I guess the white pigs are here to show us how tough they are. Maybe we should treat them with the respect they deserve. You know, help them find the door.”
    A few chuckles and curses seemed to foreshadow a consensus for action. I turned to Mike and whispered in his ear, “See the biker covered with tattoos near the left corner?” Mike’s head nodded gently. “He’s wanted for a robbery homicide.”
    Meanwhile the Panther table seemed more agitated. We were running out of time. I turned to the bartender and said, “I needyour phone for about a one-minute call.”
    “Fuck you,” he replied.
    “Listen, asshole, I can get the Alcoholic Beverage Control Board to shut this place down because I know you don’t serve food. Now hand me the phone.”
    I called dispatch, telling them we needed at least two backup units at McCombos for an arrest in a hostile crowd. We would wait outside for help. I silently wondered how many guns were in the room.
    “Finish your drink, Mike. The