11

AS JACK AND OSCAR headed out the Hollywood Freeway south toward El Monte, Oscar looked up from the road for a second at the giant terminator pest control sign, which hovered over the traffic. The sign featured a man dressed in a top hat and pince-nez glasses. In his hand was a giant mallet and in front of him were a couple of very dead-looking cartoon rats.

“You see that man?” Oscar said. “The Pest-Control Hombre?” “What about him?” “When I came to this country from Salvador with my parents in the summer of 1966, we stayed at the motel right down there. The first thing I saw when I woke up that morning was that sign. Man, it was scary. That funny-looking dude and those rats. See, when I was a boy in Salvador, my papa always talked about America and especially Los Angeles as the land of movie stars, Rolls-Royces, and swimming pools in every backyard, but when I wake up and see that sign, I think to myself, ‘No, Papí must have it all wrong. There must be many rats here, and they need somebody to kill them all.’”

Jack smiled and looked across the seat at his partner.

“I have often thought maybe that was the day I decided to become a cop.

“I kept staring at that sign, and I felt like I was learning something I didn’t want to know. But I could never forget it. And then we stayed with my uncle Felipe, and he had rats in his basement. And no swimming pool . . . and he didn’t drive a Rolls- Royce, neither, but a Tijuana taxi . . . a broken-down old pickup that shot black smoke out of its pipes and fouled up the air.”

“So you were a force for good,” Jack said as they headed by the brightly lit downtown, the huge glass buildings where deals were made in which neither of them would ever be included.

“Yeah. That was me,” Oscar said. “Captain Pest Control. Funny, isn’t it, how a sign you see when you are ten can send you down a path for your whole life.”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “Funny as hell.”

They drove from the Hollywood Freeway to Indian Avenue, then crossed the park and turned left at Serrano Street.

Behind them the park was supernaturally bright with soccer players, shouting, laughing, running under the neon. Ahead of them there was a Salvadoran restaurant called Sylvia’s.

“Just a block down there,” Jack said. “Cienfuego Gardens.” “Yeah,” Oscar said. “Don’t you love how they always call the

projects ‘gardens’? The only thing that grows down here is marijuana.”

“Let’s park down here a block. Just in case . . . our boy is making a little guest appearance.”

Oscar pulled over to the side behind a rusted-out Taurus. They checked their weapons, got out, and shut the doors softly, then started down the street. They’d walked only about three feet when a huge rat ran across the street not ten feet from where they were.

“You bring your mallet, Pest Man?” Jack laughed.

“Got it right in my holster,” Oscar said.

The house was a run-down Tudor, with a sharp-edged roof that looked to Jack like an elf’s castle from a children’s book he’d used to read to Kevin. But any elves in this castle would all be crack-smoking fiends. They made it up to a side entrance and looked at the mailbox. It read Rollins, Edith.

“Upstairs,” Jack said.

They looked up and saw a light on in the window.

“Look like she’s home,” Jack said. “I’m going point.”

Oscar nodded as they headed up the steps.

On the small porch Jack rapped on the door. Oscar stood one step below him, revolver out.

Inside there was a woman’s voice.

“Who is it?”

“Edith Rollins?”

“Who wants to know?”

“FBI, ma’am. We need to talk to you. Please open the door.”

There was a frozen silence, and then the sound of feet scurrying away from the door.

Jack looked at Oscar, then nodded.

“I’ll ask you one more time, ma’am. Then we’re coming in.”

There was no reply.

But inside Jack heard something crash to the floor.

“Sounded like a lamp.”

“Yeah, somebody’s in a big hurry.”

“Kick the muther down!”

Jack nodded and yelled one last time.

“FBI! We’re coming in!”

He lifted his right leg and, with one powerful shot, kicked in the front door.

They ran into the small, crowded room, guns out, standing back to back as they 360’d the room. Then from the back of the apartment they heard the sound of scraping furniture.

“Back window,” Jack said.

They ran down the hallway toward the back bedroom, but were met halfway by a small, red-eyed woman wearing a ragged pink bathrobe and shoes with frog faces on the toes.

“There’s nobody here, officers,” she said, bracing herself in the hallway.

“Ma’am,” Jack said, “move out of the way. Now!”

She didn’t budge, but stood there with her two arms pushed against the walls.

“Are you going to shoot an unarmed old woman?” she said in an even, almost amused tone.

“No,” Jack said. “We’re not.”

He walked up to her and gave her a stiff arm to the right shoulder. She fell backward in a heap, screaming.

“Help, help! Police brutality!”

Jack and Oscar tried not to step on her as they jumped across her body and ran into the bedroom. The back window was open, and Jack jumped over a pile of dirty clothes on the floor and quickly looked out on the park and street.

At first Jack saw nothing but the soccer game down below played under the surreal neon lights. Then he turned and looked up at the roof above him. A pair of legs was scrambling up a drainpipe.

“On the roof,” Jack said.

They ran back out through the hallway. When they got into the living room, they saw Edith Rollins sitting on her couch. She screamed at them as they flew by and out the door.

“Both of you are going to fucking die!”

Jack gave Oscar a funny look.

“You’re gonna have to wait in line, bitch,” he said.

They hit the steps and flew up to the roof.

The stars shone above them, the cries of the soccer game were below. Jack pointed to the big air-conditioning unit in the middle of the roof.

Jack took the left way around, Oscar the right.

Jack hugged the wall and came around quickly. There was nobody.

Oscar slid around the edge of the unit, and as he did, Rollins appeared from behind a chimney to his right.

Oscar turned, but not quickly enough, and Rollins shot him in the chest. He fell backward, grunting as he hit the tar roof.

Jack came running around, but by the time he arrived, Rollins had turned and made a dead run for the rooftop edge. He soared in the air and landed on the nearby roof, tumbled, rolled to his feet, and disappeared down the steps.

Jack knelt down to help Oscar.

“Where’d he hit you?”

“It’s okay. I’m fine. Go.”

He ripped open his shirt and showed Jack his Kevlar vest. Smoke billowed out of two bullet holes.

“Go!” Oscar said. “I’m right behind you.”

Jack turned and ran down the steps by Rollins’s apartment, where Rollins’s sister stood by the door.

“You eat dog, you fuckface!”

The absurdity of her curse struck Jack funny, and as he ran, he began to laugh.

On the street, he looked across at the park, and in the middle of one of the games he saw a big black man running across the field. He heard the crowd scream, and as he took off after him, Jack saw Rollins head for the sidelines toward a crowd of mothers and fathers who were watching their kids play.

He heard screams, and as he got closer, he made out the words: “Mira! He’s got a gun!”

“Look out. Vámonos!”

Jack hit the edge of the park and watched as Rollins knocked people down and headed for the freeway.

The nighttime traffic was dense. He’d never get across the freeway. On the other hand, Jack couldn’t risk a shot if he somehow managed to get out there among the cars. He ran across the field, his own gun out, and headed for the sidelines.

As he came closer to the terrified crowd, he screamed: “Get down! FBI!”

The crowd on the sidelines dove for cover. Jack knelt, aimed, but there was still a group of people between himself and Rollins, who was now on the freeway curb.

Rollins turned now and saw him through the mob. He pushed a woman out of the way and fired at Jack. The bullet sizzled by his head.

On the ground near him, all hell broke loose, the parents terrified for their children. Some of them got up, ran out onto the soccer field, grabbed their kids, and started running in the opposite direction. Rollins fired again and hit a woman nearby. Jack saw her fall as if she had been hit by lightning. The crowd screamed again. There was no other choice. Jack had to take a shot of his own, before Rollins hit someone else.

He knelt by a picnic bench and then fired at Rollins’s right side.

The bullet hit him dead on and Jack saw a red spurt blow out of his ribs.

Jack fired again, and a red mist came from his left knee.

Rollins turned now and limped directly out into the freeway.

A huge moving van with the words starving students on it bore down on him. Rollins rolled out of the way, but was hit by a truck that said Ding Dong Ice Cream. His body flew up over its roof and was left out on the freeway.

Jack got up and began to run toward the freeway, his gun still out, ready to fire.

Standing on an adjacent corner, only a half block away, was a man with his digital video camera filming the whole sequence. A man with a beard and a scar under his eye. He had been following Jack and Oscar for three days, and now — spectacularly — he had his big payoff .

The film was going fine. Everyone was going to be very, very happy.

Even that worrywart Jim.

He knew that the other cops were going to come now, and that he was vulnerable standing here. So, time to book out. Time to get back and see how this great action sequence came out.

The cars drove slowly around Rollins, who lay in the passing lane. He was bleeding from his ribs. His leg and his right side looked smashed. Amazingly, though, he was conscious and seemed to be alert. His SIG Sauer was lying nearby on the ground and Jack kicked it away quickly.

Behind him he heard Oscar’s voice.

“I’ll take that.”

He put on plastic gloves and picked up the pistol.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I think.”

Jack got out his cell phone and punched in a code.

“Medic needed Serrano Park and the 110. Now. Several people shot. Hurry.”

As Oscar walked out and began to reroute the traffic, Jack walked over to the fallen Rollins.

“You’re hit bad, man,” he said.

Rollins looked dazed, obviously in shock.

“Think I’m gonna buy the farm?”

“I’ll tell you straight up, bro. It doesn’t look good. You got something to tell me — what you did at Wonderland Avenue the other night — get it off your chest?”

Rollins looked confused. He rubbed his broad blood-splattered forehead.

“Wonderland? How you know ’bout that?”

“Don’t matter how I know,” Jack said. “You ain’t got time to worry about that. Just tell me.”

“I didn’t do nothing,” Rollins said.

“Cut the shit, Rollins. I know you were up there.”

Rollins spit out a gob of blood. Part of it hit Jack’s shoes. In the distance Jack could hear sirens wail. Rubberneckers drifted by staring at the fallen man, and one creep took a picture of him.

“I was up there,” Rollins said. “’Cause a guy called me ’bout a car for sale.”

“Yeah, right. What happened then?”

“I couldn’t find the address.”

Jack reached down and grabbed Rollins by the collar.

“Listen, Edward. You’re on your last legs, man. You gonna die with a man’s murder on your immortal soul? That what you want?”

“Murder?” Rollins said. “No way, my friend. I looked up and down the streets up there, couldn’t find the address, and went home. End of story.”

Jack looked into his eyes and shook his head.

“You didn’t cut a guy’s brakes so when he started his car going down the hill, he couldn’t stop?”

Rollins shook his head.

“Man, you whack,” he said. “I din’t do nothing like that.”

Jack felt a rage boiling through him. He wanted to smash Rollins’s face in, see how he told it after that.

But suddenly there was a woman med tech standing next to him.

“Sir, this man is wounded.”

“No shit,” Jack said. “Jack Harper, FBI.”

“Get out of the way, Agent Harper. You know better than to interrogate a wounded man.”

She pushed past Jack and began to attend to Rollins.

“You lying fuck,” Jack said. “I know you did it.”

The tech looked at him and shook her head in disbelief.

“You get out of here, Harper, before I write you up,” she said.

“Yeah,” Rollins said. “I might jest get me a civil suit outta this. Breaking and entering into my sister’s pad, shooting up the ’hood. You a menace, Harper. One of them Mark Fuhrman mutherfuckers.”

He laughed and spat up another gob of blood and aimed it at Jack. It hit the cuff of Jack’s pants as he turned and walked away.