Broken Angel
Copyright© 2011 by wordytom
Introduction
Wednesday:
Carefully the almost naked, slender man/boy looking figure ran through the empty night streets of Hollywood, evading and surely, slowly being herded by three police vehicles cruising steadily, seeming almost leisurely, a few blocks behind, carefully looking for signs of the fugitive. Driving with no headlights, they used their spots sparingly. Even though they looked legitimate, just one call into the precinct and all three cars of cops would have some heavy explaining to do to the watch commander. All any of them wanted to do was to catch the faggy little bastard and get on with their lives.
Gus Kroch, a fifty-year-old patrolman was driving car 309. His pig like face was screwed up in intense concentration as he both watched where he was driving and kept scanning both sides of the street and the alleys as they passed on. "Shit." he exclaimed, "I know the little bastard hasn't doubled back behind us. If he had, one of the others would have spotted him. He has to keep on going this way. If he makes it past this area, and gets to the cliffs, we got him. Not even a goat can make it down to the beach from the west end of Sunset. All of the houses around there are wired to the hilt with security. We'll get him."
Jorge Dominguez, a patrolman who was a ten-year veteran of graft and drug sales had his Colt Model 1910 forty-five caliber automatic pistol held at the ready in both hands. "Just let me see him for just a second and he's history." he said matter-of-factly.
At the ripe old age of thirty-four he had the dubious distinction of setting the record for the most one on one shootouts in the history of the Los Angeles Police Department. In every case, there was a twenty-two revolver, a cheap "Saturday night special" lying next to the corpse to attest to the "fact" the shooting was indeed righteous. The dead person would also have two perfectly spaced holes in his chest, one on the right and one on the left. One of Jorge's partners in crime, a fellow officer and fellow member of the twelve cops who made up the "Dirty Dozen" as they referred to themselves to each other, claimed Jorge was the coldest killer he had ever seen. "The man has no feelings at all when he's on the hunt," he confided once after a profitable assassination.
All twelve were wealthy from prostitution, drugs, extortion, blackmail and contract killings. When each of the members of the Dirty Dozen had five million dollars socked away they were all going to retire within a year of each other and disappear. They were all now in the last half of the fifth million and looking forward to becoming residents of another country.
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