Free L.A. Wars by Randy Wayne White Page A

earring in his right ear.
    When Razor, Amin, and Blade appeared, the other Panthers crowded around. Razor snapped his fingers and they were immediately silent.
    â€œThe lieutenants and me have worked this thing over in our heads,” Razor began, surveying his troops. “I’m the one who talked to Cat Man in the hospital. I’m the one who heard his story. Dig? Cat Man says some Casper came to our turf and busted heads. Killed some of our own blood. Did worse to Cat Man.”
    The gang members muttered among themselves. Hawker listened intently, wondering where Razor was going.
    â€œWhat I’m sayin’, brothers, is that I’m not going to be doubting one of our own. Cat Man says it was this white dude—this Casper that drawed the big bird on the alley wall—then I ain’t going to say he’s lying. Dig? When the word comes from one of our own blood, then it’s gospel. We don’t lie to our own kind.”
    There were nods of approval from the others.
    â€œBut I will say this,” Razor continued, now speaking louder. “Cat Man wasn’t in too good a shape that night. He’d been doin’ some shit—you all know what I’m saying. He’d been dusting his brains out, and I think the PCP finally done got to him. I think maybe one of them bad Satanás cats come to our turf and got down on our blood—that’s what I think. This Sataná dude probably looked white, probably wasn’t wearing his colors.…”
    The Panthers were hooting their approval now.
    â€œBut just in case,” Razor commanded above the other voices, “these are your orders: You find any Gasper on our turf’ after dark, you kill him, dig? No talk, no questions—just do it. Cat Man says the dude had red hair. That’s what you look for. Understand? If there really is some jive Casper cruising on our turf, we want to stop him and stop him quick. And I won’t be happy until I got both his ears to add to my collection.”
    The Panthers laughed at that, nodding knowingly. There was something in their laughter which told Hawker that Razor really did have a collection of ears.
    Razor continued: “But in the meantime—listen to me!—in the meantime I think we ought to jump into the war wagons and take a little cruise into Satanás turf!” Razor reached into his back pocket and produced a wicked-looking straight razor. He flicked open the blade and made a slashing motion. “Who’s with me, blood? Who’s got the balls to revenge our own?”
    Amid yells and war cries the entire gang crammed into three broken-down station wagons and rattled off.
    Amin drove the lead car, with Razor and Blade riding shotgun.

eight
    When they were gone, Hawker found a fire-escape ladder at the back of the building. He climbed down and moved through the shadows to the street.
    A few drunks were out, carrying their bottles in paper sacks. Traffic was light. Women sat on front steps, fanning themselves in the night heat.
    Someone was bound to see him break into the Panthers’ headquarters. And that was just what Hawker wanted—so long as they didn’t try to stop him.
    Hawker had no desire to injure the innocent. By the looks of things the residents of Starnsdale’s black slums had already suffered enough.
    The windows of the basement floor headquarters were barred and painted black—so no one could break in, or see in.
    Hawker swung down the stairs. The door was metal—as he’d suspected. They had snapped an industrial-weight padlock on it before they left.
    From the small pack he carried Hawker took a thumb-sized chunk of plastic incendiary explosive. Hawker molded it around the lock and inserted the pyrotechnic blasting fuse.
    Hawker lit the fuse and hugged the wall.
    There was the crack of a rifle shot, and then the white-hot hissing of thermate. The lock glowed bright orange, then melted away.
    Hawker, wearing a