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

pair of thin leather driving gloves, swung the door open and flicked on the lights.
    The Panthers’ headquarters seemed to be a combination meetinghouse and warehouse.
    Covering the floor were rows of television sets, tape recorders, kitchen appliances, bicycles, typewriters, and other odd goods. It took Hawker a moment to realize the stuff had all been stolen.
    It was stored here, waiting to be fenced.
    In the middle of the room was a long folding-table. There were empty beer bottles on the table, and the ashtrays were stuffed full. The walls were covered with psychedelic posters proclaiming soul singers, or demanding black power.
    Hawker took two blue bugs from his pouch and tore off the adhesive strips on each. He hid one behind a Jimmy Hendrix poster and the other beside a wad of gum beneath the table.
    In the far corner of the room was a metal desk with drawers. Kneeling beside it, Hawker found the drawers locked. He wondered how big a business gang-theft was. Big enough to keep files?
    Hawker got down on the floor and rolled on his back so he could see the bottom of the desk. First he stuck another little blue bug on the base of the desk. Then he went to work on the steel rod that held the drawers locked. It took him a few minutes to slide it out.
    The files were surprisingly neat. But they weren’t labeled. Hawker began to riffle through the papers. A sheet of names caught his attention.
    It was a membership list, complete with ages, addresses, and a few phone numbers.
    A street gang with a membership list?
    Razor was beginning to impress him. He was not only a leader but an organizer as well.
    It was a dangerous combination.
    A deep voice startled him. It came from the doorway.
    â€œSomebody in here, I’ll guarantee you that, man.”
    Another voice agreed. “Shit—looka here. Burned the fucking lock right off.”
    â€œRazor ain’t gonna like this shit. He told us to keep an eye on things. We best do somethin’.”
    â€œYeah. An’ I’ll tell you just what we do, man. We go in there and kill any motherfucker we see.”
    Hawker pulled the big Colt Commander .45 out of its holster and hid behind the desk as the door swung open.
    Hawker didn’t like what he saw. The two men were older than the others. Early thirties. But each wore a blue bandanna around his neck.
    The lead man carried a sawed-off 12-gauge. A pump gun. The other held a feminine-looking automatic in his right hand.
    They moved slowly into the room, their eyes searching.
    â€œThese lights ain’t supposed to be on, man. There’s somebody in here just as sure as shit.”
    â€œShut up, man! Just keep your eyes open, fool.”
    â€œMaybe we ought to call the cops.”
    â€œCops? Are you nuts, man? Cops get in here and see all this shit, and all our asses will be in prison. Now just shut that stupid head of yours and look, man.”
    Hawker crouched lower as they came toward him. On the floor near the desk was a beer bottle. Hawker waited until they were both looking away. He tossed the bottle toward the far side of the room. When they whirled at the sound of the crash, Hawker stood.
    â€œFreeze, assholes! I’ll blow your heads off if you so much as blink. Now, toss those weapons away.”
    The two men stood like statues. They hesitated before dropping their guns. Hawker drew back the hammer of the Colt. The sound of the hammer was like a command. They tossed their weapons away.
    â€œNow turn toward me—slowly,” demanded Hawker.
    The man who had held the automatic was visibly nervous. His eyes darted from Hawker to the open door. Hawker wondered if he might be thinking of bolting toward freedom. He moved between the two men and the door.
    The man who had carried the shotgun had dark, fierce eyes and an ugly expression. He was the spokesman, and Hawker let him talk.
    â€œYou’re the dude who wasted Fat Albert and Spooky, and shot Cat Man,” he said. It