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AUTHOR'S PREFACE: One of the ingredients for success in this series was adherence to the adage, "Always leave 'em wantin' more." It's been said the episodes tended to stop on a dime, with little or no tag to wrap things up in "a nice, neat package" for the inattentive. But sometimes we really needed more. This is a sort of lingering sequel to one of the most popular episodes--a "get" story in its own right. Without fundamentally changing the end scene, I did have to write around it. Here is a chance to see many of Joe's friends up close and together, to know him better through their eyes, and--finally--for Joe to get a little recognition from the LAPD! THE GANG IS ALL HERE: FOR JOE MANNIX Part One: "Trial By Fire" M. Jacquelyn Patterson Lieutenant Art Malcolm was out of the unmarked car before Officer Trent could brake completely to a halt. Sirens were screaming in from all angles, and through the dense smoke he could see Joe Mannix kneeling near the front of the old dancehall. The debris-strewn interior behind him was brightly ablaze. A black and white unit had just skidded up, and the officers were calling for two fleeing gang members to raise their hands. One fire truck maneuvered to hook up hoses while another discharged a squad of men. Art felt the blast of heat as he ran to his friend. He scooped an arm beneath his shoulders and half-walked, half-carried him to a safer distance from the inferno. A shot was fired in the air as the two youths made a split-second break for freedom. Shouts heard above the roar of the flames came from patrolmen in hotfooted pursuit. Joe was coughing violently. Trent helped lower him to the pavement and then ran back to move the car. Joe tried to talk. "Arlie... Get the kid, Art," he gasped. "The others are looking after him. Let's see how bad you're hurt…" He tried to coax Joe to lie back, but he was doubled up in pain. His coughs were deep and convulsive and he leaned heavily against Art. "Easy, Joe, hold still." Art pulled Joe's sport coat open and was taken aback. Mindful of Joe's eyes upon his face, he tried not to react. But that familiar grimace which involved even his ears gave him away. Joe's clothes were darkly soaked with old blood, and bright red streamers leaked through the fingers clutching his side. His shirtfront glistened with it. He shivered and began coughing again. The detective quickly stripped off his own jacket and folded it under Joe's head. "Trent, get a blanket! See if there are some towels in the trunk." Joe was gulping for air, "Arlie…" Art was alarmed. "Joe, an ambulance is on the way. Coolidge and Massey are over there with him now." Trent came running up with an Army blanket, the first-aid kit and some clean rags. Art lifted Joe's hand away and gingerly pulled up his shirt. He winced as he eased sodden paper towels from the two holes in his side. "Looks like you took one from behind," he noted sternly, determined to keep worry from his voice at least. "Yeah, well…" Joe worked at clearing his lungs. "I was trying real hard to outrun that bullet!" Grumbling about the inadequacy of the department first aid kits, Art grabbed some of the sterile dressings Trent was ripping from paper packages and pressed them against the wounds. They turned crimson with frightening speed, and he applied a handful of rags on top. He yelled over his shoulder, "Dammit, where is that ambulance? Trent, put in another call!" ******* Detective Dan Ives had enjoyed his day off. His daughter was old enough now to ride horseback with him at Griffith Park, and when he returned her to her mother he was invited for dinner. A vague uneasiness led him to cut the evening short and go home to putter in his garage, however. As was customary, the police scanner murmured quietly in the background. Something his ex-wife could never understand. The hour grew late, and a shower of rain pattered on the roof. He was adjusting the timing on his prized Mustang when he thought he heard something about Mannix filter from the crackling box. He straightened, then killed the engine. As nearly as he could decipher from the static and codes, Joe Mannix had been wounded and was hiding out in the Halpern Street area. A run-down, gang-infested section of the city. When did this…? The wall phone rang shrilly. He snatched the receiver, wiping grease from his hands. "Ives." The lady dispatcher was calling with an urgent message from Art Malcolm's secretary. Joe Mannix was down and needed help. But the police couldn't find him. His blue eyes grew intense. "Mildred, what else do you know?" He learned that Joe had been involved in a fatal shooting earlier that day of Red Deetz, a lowlife felon the police had long tried to put away. Later in the evening Joe was reported missing by his secretary, and a young informant had spoken the name Mannix into a pay phone just before being stabbed to death. When Sgt. Packer's men questioned a liquor store owner, he admitted seeing Joe, who was bleeding from a gunshot wound in his side. "I'm on my way." He hesitated a moment. "Call Lieutenant Tobias, will you?" "Next on the list, Lieutenant." Dan scrubbed swiftly and swapped his oil-stained Hawaiian shirt for a snug black turtleneck. He pushed up the sleeves and tightened his shoulder holster strap. There was a neatness and economy about this compactly built, athletic ex-Marine. He tucked his gold detective shield into his belt while running to the unmarked black Dodge Coronet parked at the curb. Smoke roiled from the wheel wells as he jammed a flashing red light on the dash and roared out of the suburban Valley sanctuary, waiting until Sepulveda to hit the siren. The radio was alive with chatter. The Gang Squad was out in full force, but slowly news of the wounded private detective, whom most members of the LAPD had come to respect and admire--however grudgingly--trickled out. Unofficially, units not busy elsewhere began to converge upon the area. He was patched through to Sgt. Packer's car. They spoke in terse cryptic bursts that seemed to punch holes in the night. The veteran sergeant confirmed Joe was shot by and now hiding from a gang of street punks who had most likely kidnapped him--perhaps in retribution for the Deetz shooting. No one knew for certain. Officers were fanning out in pairs to search. Before they signed off, Packer mentioned the blood found on the floor of the liquor store's back room. The owner had been trying to mop it up. A hard queasy knot in Dan's stomach told him this was no minor episode. Joe had been his friend for many years, but he had a damnable habit of wading right into the worst of trouble without waiting for help. And a knack for stopping bullets. One day his luck would…he pressed the pedal harder and the car picked up speed, weaving past the slow-moving night traffic. Glittering droplets of rain danced over the windshield. Five more long minutes passed before he was thundering into the grimy inner-city precinct. Dan geared down and the black Dodge nosed its way, panther-like and rumbling, through one back alley after another, splashing through puddles left from the rain. Steam rose from the concrete. He had turned off the flashing light and siren. The panel lights glowed green on his grim face as he searched the shadows, spotlight playing along the fronts and trashy rears of decayed buildings. This hadn't been his beat in a long time, but he knew its recesses and ugly secrets well enough. Only the graffiti seemed to change. The windows were rolled down, so he heard the fire alarm without the aid of the radio. Tires bit into the wet pavement as he gunned the Magnum engine all four blocks to the abandoned dancehall. Two youths pelted across his path and he was out the door and after them in a flash. Plumes of smoke stung his eyes, but he summoned every ounce of speed he could recall from his days as a college quarterback. Just as he was closing on the slowest, he saw the kid half turn, and a bluish yellow streak of muzzle flame blasted by him. The shot echoed through the alley as he pulled the trigger again. Dan made a diving tackle. The teen-aged weasel twisted and yelled as they crashed to the ground. He kicked and began screaming as if in agony, even though Dan had not really hurt him. The feisty detective got a good hold in his sandy hair and hauled the punk to his feet, one arm bent expertly behind him. Again the kid howled. Dan's voice at his ear was very quiet--and very dangerous, "Joe Mannix, where is he?" Bert squealed louder, and Dan pushed the arm harder. He cackled wildly, pale eyes full of hatred and glee. "Uh, in there, officer," pointing at the fire. Dan swept up the Artillery Luger that was uselessly jammed, stuffed the long-barreled weapon in his belt, and began dragging the sniggering kid toward the conflagration. As soon as he had enough light, nearly abreast of the blazing ballroom, Dan forced the boy face down and started to cuff him. Suddenly flames blew out a nearby window with a loud sizzling crack; glass and splintered wood showered them. Thick black smoke billowed 'round. In one swift motion Bert spun over and slashed viciously at his left arm with a small gray object. Dan reacted with a right uppercut to his jaw. The hoodlum went slack and Dan got the cuffs on. A box cutter shook loose from his fingers. Two uniformed officers, guns drawn, were running to his aid as he rose and clutched his bleeding arm. Nearly out of breath and losing his temper, he snarled, "Take this little…whelp...and drown him somewhere! Don't turn your back on him. The other one made a run toward--" He coughed and jerked his head back over his shoulder, "--the warehouses." One of the officers noted the gold shield and spattering blood. "Lieutenant, you're hurt. Sit down here and let us get some help." Dan shook his head, glaring up at the fire, only dimly aware of the hot rush of wetness down his side. "My friend may be trapped in there!" He darted for the firemen, but turned in flight to shout, "Just make sure he's charged with firing a weapon at a police officer. And find his partner!" The ex-street cop saw with sickening horror the fire was going out of control. Flames were leaping through the roof. Behind the concrete facades was just an old wooden tinderbox. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of one hand and peered desperately through the smoky haze…wasn't that Art Malcolm across the street, kneeling beside a man lying on the sidewalk? He worked his way over ropes of fire hoses and between squad cars, dodging the firefighters with painful grace. Smoke and steam clogged the air and black water soaked the streets. Diesel engines chugged and rattled. Sirens and flashing lights filled the night. It looked--and felt--like Hell. ******* |