Earth Angels by Gerald Petievich

binoculars from the glove compartment, he focused them and scanned Eighteenth Street.
    Fordyce's motor home was parked directly across the street from Greenie's apartment. Stepanovich shifted the binoculars to the left. Black's police sedan was parked on a residential street one block north at the edge of a deserted industrial area. To the south, Arredondo sat in the driver's seat of a sedan hidden from the street behind a dumpster. Pleased with the configuration of the surveillance, Stepanovich set the binoculars down on the seat beside him.
    For the next hour he killed time thumbing through a day old copy of the L.A. Herald Examiner. The story about the church shooting was on page four. The article featured a photograph of the mother of the murdered child standing on the steps of the Our Lady Queen of Angels Church clutching a doll; a pose he assumed was the news grabbing idea of some enterprising Herald reporter. In the text of the article the director of the city's Community Gang Services Agency commented that the shooting was a result of the city not allocating enough money to hire ex gang members to counsel the gangs not to kill one another. A member of the city council, whom Stepanovich knew had once been arrested by vice detectives for exposing himself in a Hollywood porno theater, suggested that the mayor was totally insensitive to the gang problem. The mayor suggested that a blue ribbon panel be appointed to study the situation. It was the usual gang-murder newspaper story. Stepanovich turned to the sports page.
    Suddenly the radio crackled. "Fordyce to all units. We have an arrival."
    "Of who?" Black said irritably.
    Stepanovich grabbed the binoculars and focused on the street below as a Chevrolet pulled up in front of Greenie's apartment house. Three men climbed out of the car.
    "Greenie and three of his homeboys," Fordyce said over the radio. "They must have picked him up from jail. It's a Chevy. They're getting out. Greenie looks worried ... everybody up the stairs ... and into the apartment. One of 'em is carrying a case of beer."
    Stepanovich watched the arrival through binoculars, then, to kill some time, tuned the car radio to a Spanish language station. For the next few hours he listened to Latin music interspersed with commercials for beer and immigration lawyers. He switched stations and listened for a while to a shrieking, hoarse-voiced evangelist scold the world. Leaving the radio on, Stepanovich climbed out of the car and walked about to stretch his legs. He found himself almost marching in cadence to the exhortations of the preacher. "You won't find it in greed!" the evangelist rasped. Stepanovich took a few steps. "You won't find it in liquor!" A few more steps. "You won't find it in adultery!" Continue to march. "You won't find it in homosexuality!" Stepanovich lifted his arms above his head and stretched. "You'll find it in the message of Jesus Christ, King of kings, the one and-only son of God, who came to this earth to die on Calvary!"
    Stepanovich opened the car door and turned off the radio. For the next couple of hours he alternated between using the binoculars and rereading the newspaper. Finally he took out his wallet and gave it a thorough cleaning. He purged it of unneeded credit card and cash register receipts, and pulled out an Oasis cocktail bar matchbook cover with the inscription, "MARTI (FRIEND OF JUDY) 213/912 1573," an old lottery ticket, and from a crusty inside compartment, a worn photograph of Nancy looking tanned and sexy in her tennis outfit. He tore the items into small pieces and shoved them into the dashboard ashtray.
    Dusk came as a neon orange sun sank slowly into smog.
    Stepanovich moved to the trunk of the sedan, opened it, and fished among some empty ammunition boxes and roadway flares. He found the night viewing binoculars he always brought on surveillances and tested them by focusing on the apartment house. Because of the infrared lens, everything appeared illuminated