Scout’s Honor: Chapter 11

A Ride Downtown

Sergeant Rudy Schmidt drove into the Riviera Inn and parked his wife’s Chevy wagon within sight of Roy’s convertible. He settled himself in for the wait, squeezing his grip-strengthener as he listened to the Dodgers on the radio.

A law school dropout, Schmidt had made sergeant in five years and earned a medal of valor for pulling a child from a burning duplex in southeast San Diego. Balding and barrel-chested, the thirty-five-year-old seldom smiled at anyone other than his superiors, small children, or the rare woman who chose to flirt with him. Divorced and remarried, he had two young households to support and a grudge against the fates—police work was beneath him.

Roy Cross had found Schmidt by quizzing his father about corruption in the San Diego PD. A retired sergeant who’d spent his career in personnel, his alcoholic father had sworn the department was the cleanest in the country, but finally threw out some second-hand, unreliable gossip about Schmidt to rid himself of his annoying, good-for-nothing son. Motivated, Roy had wasted little time in finding Schmidt and offering him the bust of a lifetime. Roy said he knew a major dealer who brought truckloads of cocaine across the border. Schmidt could lie in wait and arrest him when he arrived at a transfer point, report a couple kilos, and deliver the rest to Roy in exchange for a small fortune. 

“How many kilos are you talking about?” Schmidt asked. 

“Big-time, man,” said Roy. “Twenty, thirty, maybe more. That’s why you could do the deal with me and still have this monster bust. Five or six kilos of blow—cocaine—and you’d be on the evening news… and you’d be rich.” 

 Schmidt had listened—listened hard—telling himself he would go along with the kid’s scheme, then arrest the dealer, report the whole load, and put the punk away for attempted bribery. Yet in the ensuing days, he’d entertained himself noodling out details for a workable scenario, shaking his head at the kid’s half-assed plan. A week later, the pair had met on the wide beach in front of the Del Coronado hotel, Roy insisting they go shirtless to eliminate the possibility of a wire. Still intent on a clean bust, Schmidt nevertheless took perverse pride in explaining a workable plan. One man couldn’t do it. An on-duty patrolman couldn’t hide out while making rounds and responding to calls from his dispatcher. Two officers could. One off-duty to force the dealer at gunpoint to a remote stretch within the on-duty’s beat. The perp would be forced to sit while the off-duty, using a street pistol, shot the patrol car full of holes. The on-duty officer would return the fire, killing the suspect, while his partner sped off in a getaway car with the bulk of the cocaine before backup could arrive. The crime scene investigators would buy a Wild West shootout.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Roy was shocked. “You talking about—about…?” He made a shooting gesture with his thumb and forefinger. “That’s way too heavy, man. No can do, muchacho.”

Schmidt turned hard. “Your perp would be looking at twenty years for that much weight. He wouldn’t stop talking till they slab him.”

“Like no way.” Roy had never connected murder with his scheme, supposing his fall guy would just do a couple years. 

“Good luck with your nickel-and-dime dealing, kid. See you at the lineup.” Schmidt put on his shirt and stalked off. Roy caught up him five minutes later in the public parking lot off Orange. 

“OK,” Roy said, his voice small, forlorn. He lit a joint as he watched Schmidt drive away. Because of Tommy’s desperation, Roy was out of time and Schmidt his only hope. He held his breath, holding the smoke deep, and was soon pleasing himself, imagining the conversation in which he’d talk Schmidt out of murder. 

Eddie chugged his van into the parking spot under the dusty Monterey pine, shut off the motor and gathered his clothes on the passenger seat. He was rolling up the window when it struck metal. He froze, facing a pistol barrel. 

Schmidt jammed the gun and his badge through the window. “Edward Kawadsky. You’re under arrest for transporting narcotics. Put your hands on the steering wheel and don’t make a goddamn sound.” 

Stunned, Eddie felt his heart stop, then pound as if exploding from his chest. He watched in horror—in slow motion—as the burly gun-wielding cop sidled around the front of the van, opened the passenger door, and climbed in. A lightning storm of wordless images—from handcuffs to prison to a weeping Jonnie—bolted through Eddie’s consciousness. Knowing his life was over, he made no effort to stem his tears. 

“Not a fucking sound.” Schmidt pressed his pistol against Eddie’s temple, the gun sight nicking him, drawing blood. He slapped the youth’s sides and ran a professional hand down his legs, squeezing his crotch, feeling for weapons. “We’re going for a ride. Back out slow.” Jamming the throwaway .38 against Eddie’s ribs, he reached back for the nearer duffel bag, unhooked the strap and fished out a kilo, another spilling onto the floor. “How many you got?” 

“Fifty, officer. But they’re not mi—”

“Shut up.” 

“I’ve never been arrested before,” Eddie pleaded, racking his brain, but coming up empty. With no bigger fish to give up, no one to help the police arrest, Eddie realized he was the end of the line—the only prize at the county fair. With the truth useless, all he could do was beg. “Honest. They’re not mine. I was just helping out a—”

“Shut the fuck up.” Schmidt looked away from the crying kid and swore over Roy’s lies; this kid was no criminal, no big-time dealer. 

“I’ve never done this before.”

“Don’t talk to me. Not a goddamn word. Keep your eyes on the road.” The cop eyed the trembling bill of the boy’s baseball cap. 

Eddie raised a hand to wipe his cheek.

“Your hand leaves that wheel again, you get a third eye.” Schmidt shook his head, dismissing Roy’s lies and ticked through the remaining steps of his plan. If he regretted the need to murder an innocent kid rather than a hardened dealer, his remorse was fleeting. Killing Kawadsky was only business, the cost of winning the criminal lottery. Schmidt was tough. He knew he could shoot the kid, go home, screw his wife, and then sleep sounder than his four-year-old. In fact, he half-wished he could do the shooting himself—that would be something—but the on-duty, Delagarza, had to do it. 

“Which way now?”

“We’re going downtown.” No one would miss the sniveling punk.

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