An Incident Halfway to Hell
By Ian De Shils (Ernest Shields)

Chapter 9

Angelo Martinez lay under guard in hospital room in Glendale and Detective Robert Lafayette was getting nowhere with the guy, “All right, Martinez - one more time. What were you and Packard doing out there last night?”

“I told ya we were just boosting some stuff and this crazy guy comes at us with a sword. He stabbed me and then Turk, and Turk shot him in self-defense, 'course it was too late for Turk. The guy all ready run him through with that pig sticker”

“Now let me get this right. You two break in, your buddy gets snuffed and now you're claiming self-defense?”

“Damn straight! No one would a got hurt if the fucker hadn't pulled that chive.”

"You mean, no one but O'Brian, don't you? Maybe you can explain why you guys shot through the bedroom door? Come on Martinez, just tell me who's after the guy. Did he run out on a drug deal, a gambling debt maybe? You know your story doesn't hang together, according to your rap sheet you haven't boosted a T.V. since you were fifteen. Rumor has it you're an enforcer now. That was Packard's game, too. Who you working for, Martinez?”

“Go fuck yourself, I want a lawyer!”

“Just a final thought, Angelo. Right now you're charged with home invasion and burglary, but if O'Brian dies the charge jumps to murder one,--- the big one. Now you can either talk to me and maybe get that reduced, or you can practice breathing gas. It's up to you.”

Angelo said nothing, just turned his face to the wall.

In the hallway, Lafayette asked for an update on O'Brian, “How's he doing?”

"No change, he's barely hanging on.”

“And?”

The officer shrugged. “Just like before the surgery, the doctors don't think he'll make it. He's on life support and you know what means.”

“Look, let's put the fear of God in Martinez. The next time you go in there, tell him O'Brian died. Maybe that'll change his tune. Make sure he doesn't get any calls, either, I want that fucker to sweat it by himself. What about O'Brian's family?”

“They live in Minnesota. We've all ready notified them, but it's a toss up whether they'll make it here in time.”

Detective Lafayette headed down the hall looking for a coffee machine. He hated these death watches. It galled him someone had to die just to get scum like Martinez off the street. 'It never changes,' he thought. There's a hundred more just like him waiting in the wings; a few bucks and a guy gets his kneecaps broken, a few more and there's a body to bury. Anything you want, just shell out the loot,--- there's always a Martinez or a Packard ready to take care of it.

What bothered him about the O'Brian case was he couldn't find a connecting factor. As far as he could determine, the guy didn't gamble or deal drugs, or even use them. So why the hell were those two after him? If Martinez talks, I'll have the answer to that, he thought, and maybe a bigger fish to fry as well.

Hoot got home about five A.M. Dead tired and emotionally exhausted. He shed his clothes, crawled into bed and was asleep almost instantly. When Scotty got up at ten, he looked out the window and saw Hoot's car in the drive. When did he get home, he wondered, and how come he didn't stay with Casey? Quietly, he looked in on Hoot. The man was dead to the world, snoring softly. He was about to close the door when he noticed Hoot's pale yellow dress shirt waded up on the floor. It was stained with blood. Had Hoot been in a car accident or a fight? He moved closer and looked down at the man. There wasn't a mark on him he could see, but Hoot's fingers were stained brown and crusty looking,--- dried blood, Scotty realized. He reached out and shook the man, “Hoot, wake up!” Groggily the big man opened his eyes, then he snapped to full alert. “Did they call?” He asked.

“Who?”

“The hospital. Case was shot last night!”

“WHAT?”

“Two guys broke in. Case wounded one and killed the other, but they shot him.”

“Whoa, whoa, back up. You mean someone was killed?”

"Yeah, and Case is critical. Get the phone book and look up the Glendale Trauma center, find out how he's doing. I've got to get dressed.” Hoot jumped up and started grabbing clothes from the closet.

“Now slow down. I'll call, you take a shower and scrub up,--- look at you, you've got blood all over your hands!”

Hoot stopping dead in his tracks. He turned his palms upward and just stared at them for a moment, “I know.” he said, his voice so thin it was barely audible.

Scotty phoned the hospital, his call was transferred the critical wing and there a man quietly informed him that Casey O'Brian passed away at nine twenty-three that morning. Stunned, he hung up the phone. Hoot came bounding into the kitchen fully dressed and running a comb through his wet hair,

“Well,--- can he have visitors yet?”

Scotty stood in awkward silence for a moment, then said, “Maybe you better sit down.” Hoot saw the look in man's eyes and the color drained from his face.

“He's dead, isn't he?”

Scott nodded. It was like watching a balloon deflate, he thought,--- the life just seemed to go out of the man. Turning slowly, Hoot walked back to the bedroom closing the door behind him. It wasn't long after that, the phone started ringing and for the rest of morning Scott fielded questions from reporters. They even showed up in person wanting to talk to the owner of 'Halfway to Hell,' and a few seemed to think the name carried a deeper connotation than simple humor. Stupid questions began to pop up about Satanism and devil worship until Scotty, threatening to call the police, slammed the door in their faces.

* * * * * * *

Manny Wilson was worried. When Angelo didn't call by eight A.M., he realized something went wrong. The, always careful, Manny never allowed his guys to carry cell phones on the actual job. There was always the chance of losing one and having it lead directly back to him. Angelo should have called from a public phone and confirmed, only he didn't and Manny was getting extremely edgy. Maybe it was only car trouble, he hoped.

This particular contract bothered him from the start. Too many people involved and too many irons in the fire. It wasn't news to Manny. Ifanything went wrong, he was in deep shit from two directions and with that in mind, he put his backup plan in operation. By ten A.M. with still no word, he was on tenterhooks as he cleaning out his safe. His little black book, the only records he kept, was shredded, burned and flushed down the toilet, the cash from the safe was packed in a carryall and another contained his clothes. He all ready changed the plate on his car to match his alter ego and scoured the house making sure nothing was left behind with his name on it. At eleven A.M., reports of the debacle hit the news. Manny watched only long enough to get the details then loaded the car and left Anaheim in haste.

* * * * * * *

As detective Lafayette made the turn off Topanga Canyon, he saw a gauntlet of news trucks ahead that nearly blocking the narrow road. The police photos of a skewered Turk Packard had hit the airways at eleven that morning, and as he suspected, the media circus was now in full bloom. He grimaced as reporters came rushing toward him, shouting questions.

“Sorry, I have nothing new to offer,--- we're still investigating.”

“What about the rumor the place was used by cult members?”

“That's hogwash. It's just weekend retreat,” Lafayette replied. He couldn't believe these guys, here they had a front-page story as gory as any that had come along in years, and these jokers were trying to embellish it. “Look, stick to the facts. O'Brian was fighting for his life with the only thing he had at hand, an old sword. The fact that after he was fatally shot, he was still able to nail Packard shows me O'Brian was one gutsy fellow. You might want to point that out.”

“Supposedly, O'Brian just finished a film at Paramount. Do you know if that's true?”

“Well, that's my understanding, but I can't give you any details. You'll have to check with the studio. Now, gentlemen,--- and ladies, I've got work to do. I want all vehicles on the other side of the road and you're to stay off Mister Anders property. Is that clear?” There was a bit of grumbling, but they complied and Lafayette strode up the walk to knock on the door.

“Go away!” Answered a surly voice from behind the panel.

“Sorry, I can't. Detective Lafayette to see Mister Anders.” The door opened slightly, Lafayette flashed his badge and was allowed in. “Are you H. T. Anders?” He asked

“No, I'm just an old family acquaintance.”

“Is he here?”

“Yeah, in his room. He's having a hard time handling this. Casey was his best friend.”

“Well, I hate to intrude, but I do need to talk to him. A few more questions have come up.”

“I'll see if he's awake.” Steeping to the bedroom door, Scott rapped lightly on the frame, “Hoot, there's a policeman here to see you.”

Lafayette heard the sounds of creaking bedsprings, but it did nothing to prepare him for the size of the man who opened the door. He had to look up at him and as he did, he realized he had seen Anders somewhere before. The man's eyes were bloodshot and red,--- he'd been crying, obviously, but he seemed to be over it now and his voice was rock steady when he asked, “What can I do for you?”

“Just a few questions. According to their rap sheets, both Packard and Martinez were enforcers, not burglars. Do you have any idea why someone would be after O'Brian?”

Hoot hesitated barely a moment before answering, “No, I can't think of any reason.” Scotty standing behind the detective staring hard at Hoot, but the man refused to meet his gaze.

“How about you? Anyone who might want to see you hurt? You see, there's always the possibility they got the wrong man.”

Calmly, the big man answered the detective's question with out batting an eye or getting flustered when pressed. Lafayette was half convinced Anders was telling the truth, yet there remained a nagging sense not all was being said. There was, however no doubt in his mind Anders grieved deeply over the loss of his friend. Each time the big man spoke of him, a quaver shook his voice. He was near the end of the interview when Lafayette discovered where he had seen Anders before and he suddenly realized he had also seen O'Brian. They were immortalized in several Melva Birch videos.

It was an unproductive afternoon for detective Lafayette. The word that Martinez still refused to talk and Anders hadn't been much help either. He still felt Hoot Anders was hiding something so he posted an officer to keep the media back, but with instructions to let him know if Anders left the house, then he headed back to Glendale for another try at Martinez. When he walked onto the critical wing, Sgt. Mathews pulled him aside, “O'Brian's parents are here and they're raising hell about the news stories. I've got them in room 337, you'd better talk to them.”

'Oh, Great! Just what I need,' Lafayette thought as he headed down the hallway.

“Hi, I'm detective Lafayette.” He shook hands with a rugged balding man in his mid fifties and a somewhat younger looking woman, both of whom appeared tired and drawn. The man pointed at the muted T.V. On the screen was a picture of Packard with the sword driven through his chest and it was shown again from several different angles.

“Detective, what is this bullshit! The news woman said these are police photos, I thought you didn't let those things out?”

“Look folks, I know you're upset by all the gore,” he said quietly, “But we figured by releasing everything, it might help us find the person behind the shooting.”

“I thought you had the guy!” The old man growled.

“He's just the trigger man. Somebody paid him. What we're hoping to do is make Martinez feel so isolated he'll be willing to talk

“But, it's awful,” the woman cried, “They're saying Casey was in a devil cult. It's all lies!” Lafayette silently cursed the assholes that couldn't take a hint,

“Look, don't pay any attention to that garbage. There's no truth in it. The house belonged to a friend. Your son was just staying there for a few days while Mister Anders was away on business.”

“Anders? Hoot Anders?” The woman asked.

“Do you know him?”

“Well, we've never met, but Casey mentioned him all the time in his letters and Hoot sends us a Christmas card every year.” she looked at her husband, “We have go see him; he must feel awful.”

"I wish you wouldn't, at least for the time being. There’re a few questions about Mister Anders that needs sorting out.”

“Surely, you don't suspect Hoot, why he and Casey were best friends!”

“No, but there is the chance he was the intended target. That's just a guess, we don't know anything for sure; that's why Martinez's testimony is so important. Once he spills we'll have this all cleaned up in no time.”

“You ought a' let me talk to him,” the man said, “I'd get some answers!”

"I feel the same,” Lafayette replied, “But even if I did get that kind of confession, it wouldn't stand up in court. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is.” Glancing past the couple, he saw a suitcase and another small piece of luggage in the corner.

“Say, you folks don't have a place to stay, do you?”

The man shook his head, “No, we came directly from the airport. I suppose we'll be going to our son's place; there's so much to take of.“

“I'm sorry folks, it's being searched at the present time. Here, let me give you an address,” pulling out a card he flipped it over and wrote on the back. “Nothing fancy, but it's clean and fairly close. Just show the desk clerk this card, and if you need me, call either of those numbers. I'll let you know as soon the officers are finished searching.”

After a few consoling words, Lafayette took his leave and headed down the hall for another shot at Martinez. O'Brian's parents had a solid toughness about them that impressed him. He expected at least a weeping, wailing mother, but instead found a couple who were determined not to cry over that which couldn't be changed, yet who were more than ready to fight anyone who maligned their son. Detective Lafayette could almost smell the libel suits brewing.

When the Los Angeles Times came out, there was far more comprehensive coverage of the story than seen on T.V. No wild rumors in the Times and no speculation either. There was however a full page spread on Casey, including a series of photos. Many came directly from Paramount and were stills from “Love Stories”; others were taken from Melva's videos. Hoot sat looking at the layout unable to focus clearly on the pictures. His heart felt like stone, his mind still numb. The news trucks were finally gone and Scotty left to pick up some K.F.C., but not before he'd said his piece about lying to the detective,

“I don't understand it! You loved the guy like a brother and now you're letting Melva get away with his murder. Why the fuck didn't you speak up?”

“Would it have brought him back? Look, I need to talk to Melva myself. Maybe I'm wrong.”

“Yeah, and maybe you're the king of France! Jesus Christ, Hoot, use your head. The woman is nuts. You told me yourself those guys shot right through the bedroom door, they weren't there to whip his ass; they went there to kill him.”

Hoot shook his head, “I've got to talk to her first.” He could believe almost anything about Melva, except murder. She might be erratic, even crazy in her vindictiveness, but she wasn't a fool. She surely knew he would testify if he was convinced she'd done this. No, she was coming in tonight, he had to talk to her first, maybe then he could understand.

* * * * * * *

A car followed Manny Wilson as he left Anaheim, but not close enough to be seen. There wasn't a need. A small responder in Manny's car tracked him as he headed south. At the Tijuana crossing he presented identification showing the name Roberto Klien, and while he breathed a sigh of relief at being in Mexico, he didn't tarry in the border town. His destination was six hundred miles south, the city of Santa Rosalia where his wife and children lived. Even with the mess in L.A. and the fact he would have to start over, somewhere else, he was looking forward to seeing his family; it was almost three months since his last visit. Little Roberto must be growing like a weed, he thought. Manny never made it to Santa Rosalia, he was just thirty miles south of Ensenada when his car exploded, burning his remains beyond recognition.