Never Say Die

Chapter 2

His name was Remo, and he was just killing time. The small city park in Compton, southeast of L.A., wasn’t Sarajevo or Beirut, of course, but it almost could have passed. Even though he was minding his own business, he stood a decent chance of meeting some demented moron who would challenge him, attempt to take his wallet, maybe stick a knife between his ribs.

Some asshole, who would make his day.

He wasn’t really hunting. Not in the normal sense. That is to say, he never had a target picked out in advance when he went out to prowl. He did not follow scent or tracks to find his prey, but rather let the animals find him. They always seemed to. Even on nights like this one when he was, by and large, minding his own business.

So even though he had not come looking for a fight—at least not consciously—he resigned himself to the inevitable.

There could be no mistake when one or more of them approached him with the swagger he had learned to pick out from a distance, with scowls or mocking smiles that were supposed to make the human predators look Bad. He almost had to laugh, sometimes, as they played out the cut-rate melodramas of their lives.

He didn’t have a world of time tonight, but if someone got in his way there would be enough. It was Saturday, a party night, and every creep in the greater Los Angeles area would be looking for an easy score. Not all of them would try this park, of course, but that was cool.

If push came to shove, he only needed one.

If he was riled to action, a group was better, but he wouldn’t quibble. Remo took what he could get in these impromptu situations, and he never looked a gift horse in the mouth.

Well, almost never.

In another life, before he “died” the first time, he had been a cop in Newark. That was an entire continent away, yet didn’t seem too far removed from the urban blight of Compton. Newark was another urban combat zone these days, but Remo seldom visited his old home town. His life had changed, and there was nothing for him there.

It was already dark at 7:20, and his meeting wasn’t scheduled until eight o’clock. It was a short drive up to Los Angeles and the hotel where Dr. Harold W. Smith would doubtless occupy the cheapest room available. The mission must be something, if it brought him clear across the country from his Folcroft Sanitarium in Rye, New York, but Remo didn’t speculate. There was no profit in imagining, without the proper tools to make a logical deduction.

Remo entered the small park above the children’s playground, the Alondra Boulevard entrance, moving southward, keeping to the smaller paths and off the drives where bikes and cars kept predators at bay. You didn’t hunt for weasels in a shopping mall, and Remo knew, his potential quarry would be hiding from the lights whenever possible, in search of joggers, helpless drunks or tourists crazy enough to venture down from the safer parts of L.A.

Stay out of any Compton park at night.

No signs had been, posted, of course. Given the city’s reputation the past three decades, no warning signs were necessary. Everybody was supposed to know that Compton was dangerous. The message came across on local news, Charles Bronson-type movies on the late show, romance novels, even stand-up comedy routines. The risks of going out at night in Los Angeles—much less in Compton— were legendary. They were also frequently exaggerated, Remo knew, but only to a point. It was a rare night when at least one rape or serious assault was not reported from the area, and homicides were far too common.

For the past two decades, the authorities had “closed” this particular park from midnight till sunrise, a futile effort at controlling the small patch of wooded acreage featuring a dozen public entrances, labyrinths of winding footpaths and thousands of places to hide. Policing the park had been a great success…if you considered Compton as a whole to be a safe and law-abiding place.

Which meant it was ideal for Remo’s purpose.

He wasn’t an urban vigilante, didn’t even like the Death Wish movies after they went overboard and cast Charlie Bronson as a one-man army, toting .30-caliber machine guns through the ghetto unopposed and mowing down a hundred punk-rock psychos at a time. The violence didn’t bother Remo, but he shied away from fairy tales that lost touch with reality.

If Bronson’s character had been a Master of Sinanju, perhaps…

The very notion made him smile as he approached the center of the park. It was easy to get lost in here by daylight, much less after dark, but Remo had a keen sense of direction. He could chart a course by starlight, if it came to that, but there was no need to play Daniel Boone this evening. Alondra lay due east of the park’s center, just an easy stroll. He still had half an hour left to kill.

His intentions had changed since coming in here. Now he wanted to be attacked. The desire increased as the time elapsed. There was an urgency now that had not been there before.

No luck so far in his attempt to make himself look easy. Two panhandlers had approached him near a rotted bench, but aside from cursing Remo when he failed to ante up, they let him be. It would require a more aggressive goon to offer him the workout he was suddenly craving. If he didn’t find a likely subject soon…

The sudden, high-pitched scream was music to his ears. He smiled and homed in on the sound a shadow merging with the darker shades of night.

“Somebody comin’,” Zero said, his pimply features broken by a crooked smile.

“Y’alls be ready,” Monster told his crew. The others mumbled back at him, a silly giggle out of Squealer, showing they were set.

The past four years he had been Baby Monster, but the world turns sometimes and his luck had changed two months ago on Gage Avenue with a drive-by shooting in Florence that took out Monster Cody and a couple of his homies, thereby elevating Baby Monster to the status of a full-fledged, grownup gangsta.

He was all of seventeen, and he was Bad. Eight felony arrests behind him, and the Man had never made one of them stick. No reason to believe he ever would.

Once a week, on average, Monster and his homies rode the bus from Florence into Compton, piled out in the middle of town, grabbed a bite to eat somewhere and then walked over to the park. That would be after dark, of course, when all the cops had gone home for the day, a little time for fun and games.

They used to call it “wilding,” back when he was still Baby Monster, till the press picked up the term and started using it like they knew shit about life on the streets. These days the homies called it “creeping,” and Monster liked it better that way. Had a better ring to it, more sinister, like he was pulling off some kind of slick guerrilla raid against the Man.

They didn’t hassle cops, of course. Not much. There was no profit in a game like that, and the risk of getting wasted for your trouble was extreme. The very least, some pig would go upside your head and drop you in the ER with your wrist cuffed to a bed rail—that’s if he was feeling sociable. More likely he would come out shooting, since no grand jury and no one in the D.A.’s office would be too upset about another teenage gangsta going down. It was like open season nowadays, even in the hood. Old people packing heat and scribbling on petitions like they figured it would do some good, clean up the streets.

Dream on.

“Looks like a bitch,” said Zero, putting on that crazy smile he always wore when he thought he was getting some.

With a man, they could have worked him over, stole his cash and plastic, maybe cut him up if he got lippy or resisted. With a bitch, though, you were talking entertainment of the finest kind.

A murmur rose from the homies, who were looking forward to a little action, and he pinned them with a glare. “Be cool,” said Monster, glowering. “Jus’ do your part and don’t be trippin’, unnerstan’?”

They nodded like a bunch of little monkeys, all except for Squealer, who was giggling like a bitch himself. The boy had problems, absolutely, but he still held up his end when they were banging, whether it was on a drive-by or a straight-up rumble in the street.

They heard the jogger now, her sneakers slapping on the pavement. Tip-tap, tip-tap, tip-tap. Getting closer all the time. A few more seconds. Monster told himself, and she would have herself a sweet surprise.

“Suppose she be a pig?” asked Jumbo, out of nowhere.

“Hush yo’ face, goddammit!”

It was something to consider, though. The pigs were not above impersonating joggers, lovers, old folks—anything at all, in fact, to try to sweep up riffraff in the park. They called it “stinging,” and they liked to brag about it in the papers, come the morning after. Only if they pulled it off, though. When they blew it, they would keep it to themselves.

Most of the crew had been arrested—all but Fly, who had some kind of lucky streak in progress, going on sixteen years old and never busted. Two or three of them had gone away on charges that would mean a lot more to adults, but none were scared of going back. It was a part of living in the city with a gangsta rep and taking care of business every day. The juvey courts were overcrowded, predisposed to leniency, and you could almost always cut a deal—agree to bullshit therapy, community work, just to skate and get back to the hood.

But Monster didn’t want to think about the Man right now. His mind was on the bitch and bumping uglies.

It was party-time.

They had it set up so the bitch would pass them by, proceed a few yards down the. path, before a whistle brought Godzilla out to intercept her. Probably she would try to turn and split, at which time she would find the path blocked off by Monster and his homies, closing in.

The one time it had failed, this Puerto Rican broad had come out with a .38 and started busting caps before they ever laid a hand on her. She got away, and Monster knew it was a miracle that no one stopped a slug.

You had to watch those fiery-tempered Latin types.

But this bitch was an Anglo, plain and simple, blond hair flying out behind her in a ponytail. She wore designer sweats, cut special so they wouldn’t hide the goodies altogether when she went out jogging, just in case she might bump into Mr. Right.

Tonight she had a date with Mr. Wrong, times seven, but she didn’t know it yet. Her own damn fault, if she had no more sense than running in Compton after nightfall. Probably some college type whose do-gooder liberal tendencies refused to let her. see the danger of the area.

Monster put two fingers in his mouth and whistled in the darkness, saw Godzilla jump out in the middle of the path and spread his arms like he was trying for a spot on big-time wrestling. He was six foot one, 220 pounds of malice on the hoof, and the very sight of him was enough to stop the bitch cold in her tracks and force a little squeak out of her throat.

“Le’s go!”

They piled out of the bushes, twenty feet behind her, Monster in the lead, and formed a skirmish line across the path. To dodge them now, the bitch would have to go off-road, and that was bound to slow her down so much she wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance. Instead of running, though, she stood there panting, looking scared, her titties jiggling up and down with every breath.

“What do you want?” she asked, her voice all quavery.

Dumb bitch.

“We’s gonna have a party, mama,” Monster said, “an’ you’s the en’ertainment.”

In a flash, she saw her future, understood that there was no use pleading with the likes of Monster and his homies. When she broke and ran, the thugs saw it coming, telegraphed beforehand by a nervous flicker of her eyes. Squealer got there first, a flying tackle from behind that sent her sprawling.

They mobbed the bitch, a rushing dog pile, pinning down her arms and legs before she had a chance to wriggle free of Squealer’s grip. They had to get her off the path and well away, back in the trees, before they could have any fun, find out what she was made of.

“Move it!” Monster snapped. And they were moving it, all seven hanging on, when she gave out a single piercing scream.

The jogger called herself Latoya. It was not her given name, of course—she wasn’t black or even world-famous yet and not even distantly related to a certain famous family—but it was stylish, like a stage name ought to be.

She was a would-be actress who had run the gamut of employment since she came to L.A., all the way from topless clubs to serving veggie burgers in a joint in North Hollywood. A little modeling from time to time, and silent walk-ons in a couple of commercials that were cut before they aired. She had a twenty-three-year-old’s inimitable faith in what tomorrow might bring. Her break was just around the corner, waiting for her—maybe in the two-line part she’d landed in a low-budget indie black comedy, with the rehearsal starting late next week.

A movie gig meant she had to stay in shape, in case there was somebody who saw it and liked her face and her personality. And with the waitress job from eight to five, no extra cash on-hand for health clubs or aerobics classes, staying fit meant running after dark.

She knew about the park, but the streets were hardly any safer in Latoya’s neighborhood these days, and she was still too young to jump at shadows, letting fear dictate the way she lived. The triple locks on her apartment door were one thing, but she would be damned if she was going to be driven off the streets by animals who ought to be in jail. Besides, no one was really safe these days—the President had bullets flying through his windows, airplanes crashing on the White House lawn—and there were some risks still worth taking for a sense of freedom in the world. Latoya knew she had a problem when she heard the whistle, though. It wasn’t like when the construction workers tried to get a rise out of her on the way to work. This was a signal, and she didn’t have to guess about its meaning when the human hulk jumped out to block her path.

Her first instinct was to cut and run. The walking hulk was big enough to smother her, but she was betting he couldn’t run that fast. If she could get a fair head start, Latoya reasoned, she could leave him in the dust.

About that whistle, though. The sound came from behind her, dammit, and she was expecting trouble even as she turned to run. Another would-be rapist, blocking her escape, but she would have to risk it.

What she got, instead, was six. That made it seven, with the hulk, and she could feel her stomach twist into a painful knot.

‘What do you want?” The tremor in her voice embarrassed her to tears.

“We’s gonna have a party, mama,” one of them replied, “an’ you’s the en’ertainment.”

That was all she had to hear. A swift glance toward the shadows on her right, and she took off, put everything she had into the sprint without a clear idea of where she meant to go or how she would get there.

Latoya made it halfway to the trees before one of them tackled her and brought her down. She skinned her palms on asphalt, had the wind knocked out of her, but she wasn’t about to take it lying down. The little pricks would have to kill her first, and while she guessed they wouldn’t mind, Latoya didn’t plan to make it easy for them, either.

Kicking back, she missed her captor’s genitals and connected with his thigh. The young man cursed her, wheezing, and his fist went home, between her shoulder blades.

The others mobbed her then, a rush that flattened her against the pavement, pinned her arms and legs at painful awkward angles. At least they couldn’t rape her this way, lying in the middle of the path, facedown, with seven bodies piled on top of her. Small favors.

“Move it!” someone snapped, and in another heartbeat they were climbing off of her, hands clutching at Latoya’s arms and legs, her waist, her breasts. They lifted her, propelled her toward the darkness as if they were off to storm a castle and her body had been chosen as a ram to smash the gates.

She saw one chance and took it, sucking in the cool night air and putting everything she had into the scream.

“Shut up, bitch!”

Someone clapped a hand across her mouth. She bit it, and a fist glanced off her skull, came back to strike a second time.

“No noise,” a harsh voice cautioned, almost in her ear. “You yell again, I cut yer tits off, hear me?”

They were cloaked in darkness now. Latoya felt herself flipped over in midair, dropped on her back, with grass beneath her. Hands were clawing at her sweats, undressing her. She fought as best she could, with fists and feet, but there was always someone pinning down her limbs, while others cut and tore her clothes.

She felt her bra go, and her panties, and she struggled as a pair of wet mouths found her nipples. Clumsy fingers tried to worm their way inside her, hurting. Someone kissed her, and she bit down on his lower lip, hung on when he began to squeal and punch her, tasting blood, uncertain whether it was his or hers or both together.

AIDS, she thought, and then dismissed the fear. They were bound to kill her, anyway; She had seen faces. They couldn’t afford to let her live.

Hands locked around her ankles, and her legs were wrenched apart.

Then one of the punks was kneeling in between her legs and fumbling with his belt, the pants so baggy that he seemed to have some difficulty with the snap and zipper.

She was winding up to scream once more, when a strange voice issued from the darkness, somewhere to her left, and froze her captors where they stood or knelt.

“Is this a private party,” asked the stranger, sounding casual, “or can anybody play?”

Just in time, thought Remo as he stepped into the clearing, counting heads. Aloud, he said, “Is this a private party, or can anybody play?”

Two minutes, maximum, since he had heard the scream and homed in on the sound. A glimpse of pale flesh told him that the punks weren’t wasting any time, but they were still on the preliminaries, maybe working up their nerve, or simply savoring the moment for themselves.

The last thing they expected was an uninvited audience.

The would-be rapists scrambled to their feet when Remo spoke, except for one who hung back, kneeling by the lady’s head and pinning down her arms.

That made it six-on-one to start, but Remo wasn’t bothered. He surveyed the teenagers, two or three of them with switchblade knives in hand. No guns among them, which at least might help their chosen victim, with no threat of ricochet.

“You be smart,” the leader of the rat pack told him, “you gwan run along now.”

Remo put on his most engaging smile. “Let’s try again,” he said. “Does anybody here speak English?”

“Man, you fuck wid us, we be gwan fuck y’alls up, know what ahm sayin’?”

“Let me guess,” said Remo. “You’re a UN delegation from a new, emerging Third World nation, and you’re looking for the embassy?”

“Yo, muddafuck, ah don’t be playin’ wid yo’ ass. How’s ’bout me an’ da homies get to slice an’ dice, digit?”

Two more strides, and Remo said, “If you’ll hang on a minute, I can send for an interpreter.”

“Y’alls hang on dis, smart muddafuck!”

The leader rushed him, leading with a wicked looking knife, two others circling left and right to cut off his expected flight. Remo stood his ground and let the pointman sacrifice himself. A sidestep to avoid the blade, and when his hand whipped up to crush the young man’s face, it moved too swiftly for the eye to follow. Out and back again, a flat slap that connected with a solid crunch and threw the boy back out cold, and out of circulation for a long time.

The flankers came at Remo then, from the sides. He hesitated for a crucial instant, then stepped backward, watched them both slam on the brakes to keep from meeting like a couple of defensive linemen on the football field. That was enough for Remo, giving him the chance to drop both of them together at his feet for a truly prolonged break, like an extended convalescence if they got lucky.

That left four, and the guy detailed to hold the woman was already scrambling to his feet, the job forgotten as he fished around inside his pocket for a folding knife. The naked woman could have bolted but she made no attempt to rise. It could have been the shock, some kind of injury, or maybe she simply wanted to see how it turned out. Whatever, Remo had no time to chat with her just now.

The four survivors had begun to circle him, as if he were the maypole in a children’s rite of spring. Three of them brandished knives or razors now, while number four had donned brass knuckles, trusting in his biceps and the moves he had picked up through brawling on-the street.

“Next up,” said Remo. “I don’t have all night.”

He heard the punk behind him gliding forward, trying to be subtle with the move, but making noise enough to wake the dead. A sharp blade whispered through the night, and Remo turned to meet it, gripped the young man’s wrist and twisted, using the laws of physics as the Masters of Sinanju had for centuries on end. Momentum, torque, resistance, pressure.

There was a wrenching sound, and someone started screaming. But the teenage gangster lapsed into mindless silence. Remo dodged and closed the gap between himself and yet another adversary, using a floating strike to drive stunning blows to the heart and lungs.

Five down, and two remaining.

Neither one of the survivors was really up for fighting anymore, but they had stayed too long to have a choice. They were lucky because Remo suspected they could be patched up, and he didn’t know if they deserved it. Experience told Remo that predators usually don’t learn from the mistakes of others. He wasn’t being careful, or pulling his punches, but something inside knew that for whatever reason, he was giving them a very narrow margin for survival.

The punks were backing off a little, toward the trees, and Remo followed. On his right, one of them tried to reach the woman, maybe use her as a hostage, but a straight-arm shot to the chest collapsed his lung and left him gasping on the grass like a stranded trout.

He wasn’t going anywhere, and Remo went for number seven, smiling at him as he closed the gap between them.

“Man, who is you?”

“Death,” he told the punk. “It’s your turn.”

“Y’alls leave me alone!”

“Too late.”

Too easy. Remo reached out to take the young man’s knife away and pin his hand to the tree behind him.

All done.

The woman’s clothes were a mess. Remo took a jacket off one of the punks and gave it to her, turned his back to offer her a modicum of privacy while she slipped into it. Her voice had come back, somewhere in the middle of the massacre, though it was strained from screaming, taut with fear.

“Who are you?”

“Just a Good Samaritan.”

“I mean…how did…are they…?”

“You need some help,” he said. “Let’s walk back to the street and find a cop, okay?”

“Yes, please.”

They walked in silence toward Alondra Boulevard. A squad car was idling just across the street. The lady turned to ask her savior something, and she found herself alone.

It was not that cool out so as Remo made his way south on Sunset Boulevard, no one paused to give the stranger dressed in a thin black T-shirt and chinos a second glance.

He was two minutes early, Remo saw as he stepped into the hotel and crossed the spacious lobby, headed for the bank of elevators opposite. His pulse was normal, respiration normal, nothing in his bearing to suggest that he had squared off against a gang of seven killers a half hour before.

Piece of cake, he thought.

A nice walk in the park.