by Dave Daren
She was quivering as she made this last statement, and I thought for a moment that she would slam her fist onto the counter. When she said nothing for several heartbeats, I risked moving a step closer.
“It was never my intention to make you feel as if you were under attack,” I finally said. “If I have done that, I am truly sorry and you have every right to be angry with me. Everything I’ve done has been done to build the case we need to defeat the FBI.”
“I’m just so tired and frustrated,” she snapped. “How much longer will this take?”
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “We should have a date from the court soon.”
“And in the meantime, you’re going to continue with this investigation?” she demanded.
“Yes,” I stated. “I’ve even hired a private investigator to follow some leads in Mexico.”
“You… did what?” she asked in surprise.
“A friend recommended him,” I assured her. “He has a lot of contacts in Mexico so he should be able to follow whatever leads the FBI has been following.”
“But won’t he just end up with the same conclusion?” she demanded.
“Not necessarily,” I replied. “Not with the additional information we’ve been able to give him.”
“You mean like the condo and such?” she asked.
“Exactly that,” I said.
Gloria moved restlessly around the kitchen and I had a hard time reading her. She seemed relieved at the news, which made sense, but also angry.
“I wish you’d asked me first,” she finally sniped.
“Don’t worry about the cost,” I replied. “It won’t be charged to you.”
She did a few more circuits of the kitchen. This time she rearranged a few items as she passed by. The salt and pepper shakers were carefully centered on the table, the coffee maker was realigned with the edge of the counter, and a brown leaf was pinched from a plant on a shelf.
“I don’t know how I feel about this,” she said when she finally stopped again. “You hired this detective without consulting me.”
“I think it’s critical to the case,” I noted.
“Fine,” she sighed as she looked at everything in the kitchen except me. “But I insist you keep me updated on his findings.”
“I will,” I replied.
“I expect better communication from you from here on out,” she added as she gave me one of her piercing mom glares.
“Absolutely,” I agreed.
“All right, then,” she declared. “I guess you’re still my attorney. For now.”
“Thank you,” I replied.
“How soon until you hear from the detective?” she asked.
“I expect to have his first report in another day or two,” I hedged.
“I’ll be waiting to hear what he’s found,” she replied. “Until then, Mr. Creed, I expect you to be on your best behavior.”
Somehow I’d gone from the principal’s office to grandmother’s house, where old Nana Creed routinely scolded me about my rambunctious behavior as a child. Nana Creed’s warning to be on my best behavior often fell on deaf ears, and I had a feeling Gloria’s would as well. Still, I managed to smile appropriately and make vague promises about the case. Gloria told me to see myself out and I did so willingly.
The good news was that I still had a client. The bad news was that I wasn’t sure just how much I trusted my client. Her anger had been genuine, I had no doubt about that, but I wasn’t clear on what was driving that anger. If it was just the perceived lack of progress on the case I could understand, but there was something else at play as well. Her reaction to the news about the private detective seemed to confirm that.
I turned the Honda back towards Van Nuys as I pondered my client, her missing husband and a whole lot of cold, hard cash.
Chapter 9
It’s easy to get lost in your own world when you’re driving, especially when the streets you’re on are as familiar as the walk from your bedroom to the bathroom in the middle of the night. That’s really the only excuse I have for not noticing my tail sooner.
I realized that the dinged up white Impala had been right behind me since I’d pulled out of Gloria’s neighborhood. I tried to figure out where I’d picked it up and decided that the Impala had been parked near the stop sign at the bottom of the hill. That made sense, because the driver would know that I would have to come back down that way when I left the Burke house. What I couldn’t figure out was if the Impala had followed me from the office, though somebody must have. How else would they have known I was there?
This was clearly not a federal operation. The guy wasn’t savvy enough not to be noticed, however distracted I might have been earlier. It also didn’t take a genius to figure out that I was probably heading back to the office. The tail wasn’t there to learn any information but to try to intimidate me. I figured I had two ways I could play this: either continue on to the office and let the driver know I spotted him when I arrived, or I could see how far he was willing to go to deliver his message by losing him in the traffic.
I knew the Impala had decent power, but I didn’t think it could outmaneuver my little car when it came to working my way through traffic. When we approached the next stop light, I shot through the intersection just as the light changed from yellow to red, riding on the heels of a slow moving Hummer. I quickly passed the Hummer, using the turn lane, and then dodged back into my own lane.
I could hear horns blaring behind me and a quick glance in the rearview mirror showed the Impala trying to cut through the intersection while opposing traffic honked angrily. I made a quick right-hand turn into a narrow service road that semis used for making deliveries for businesses along the main street. It seemed like a good idea until one of those semis came barreling down the road. I wedged the Honda next to a loading dock to let the truck pass. The truck pulled up next to me, effectively blocking me in.
“This is a one-way street, asshole,” the truck driver yelled at me. I gave him a polite wave and pretended to be surprised by that information. I pointed helplessly at my phone and the truck driver gave me the finger before continuing on his way.
I drove down the street more carefully and eventually found myself in the parking lot of a strip mall. I checked traffic along the main road and was about to pull out when I saw the Impala working its way down the road. I let it pass me, then quickly cut across two lanes of traffic and started in the other direction.
Somehow, the Impala driver had spotted me, and I heard the screech of tires as he tried to turn and follow me. There was another round of honking horns and a quick peek revealed the Impala was trying less successfully to cut into traffic. The driver finally gathered his nerves and cut off a minivan that was actually traveling the speed limit.
The Impala was roaring towards me and trying to weave in and out of traffic. The driver was leaning on his horn and a few well-intentioned good Samaritans slowed down to try to stop him. The Impala jumped back into the opposite lane of traffic and moved around them, leaving a trail of angry drivers in his wake.
I tried to picture the streets that were coming up. We were nearing an area that was heavy on doctor’s offices, parking lots, and not a great deal of traffic, relatively speaking. On any given day, you could drive down the middle of the road without hitting anyone or anything.
When I found the street I wanted, I made a quick left, catching the tail end of another yellow light. The Impala missed the light, and I slowed down to look for a good place to pull in and hide. I spotted a medical office that had parking in back as well the lot in front. Shade trees cast a deep shadow over both lots, making it hard to pick out a specific car. I was about to turn in when the Impala reappeared.
I realized the driver must have made the next left and then circled back to the road I was on. I cursed myself for slowing down too soon and hit the gas. The Honda leapt forward, and I barreled down the road with the Impala just behind me.
That’s when I saw my chance. A st
reet cleaner lumbered along the road, a trail of fast food wrappers and plastic bags in its wake. The driver had just turned on his turn signal and the beast had slowed to make the awkward turn onto its next assignment. I sprinted around the machine, scraping the edge of the left-hand curb as I did so. I had just enough time to see the startled expression on the driver’s face as I yanked the Honda back into my lane.
The Impala tried to follow, but the driver hadn’t turned quickly enough. He clipped the edge of the street cleaner as it made its wide turn, and then the car was on the sidewalk and heading straight for a fire hydrant. A plume of water shot into the air, accompanied by the sound of the Impala’s horn. I caught a glimpse of the Impala’s driver trying to exit the car and spotted the street cleaner leaning out of his door while he talked on his phone. I did a quick dodge up the next street before anyone thought to look for my plate number and slowly made my way back to the office using as many back streets as I could.
I made it back to my own little strip mall without picking up any more tails and I was happy to see that the lot was filled with the usual cars. I did a quick recon of the street as I stepped out of the Honda, but nothing screamed gang surveillance. Or FBI surveillance, for that matter. I took the stairs two at a time, worried that someone might have decided to visit the office while I was gone.
I threw open the door, and Sofia nearly jumped out of her chair in surprise. She had one hand wrapped around a fresh cup of coffee and a black marker in the other. Her eyes were wide open and her lips formed a perfect ‘o’.
“Vince!” she exclaimed when she recognized me. “What on Earth are you doing?”
“Just checking for unexpected visitors,” I explained as I stepped inside and calmly closed the door.
“It was that exciting at Gloria’s?” she asked in surprise.
“Someone followed me when I left her house,” I replied. “They must have followed me out there as well, but somehow I missed it.”
“Merde,” Sofia grumbled, and the French expletive surprised me.
“You taking French lessons now?” I asked.
“I just like the way it sounds,” she said. “Did you get a look at the guy?”
“Not really,” I replied. “Someone’s trying to send a message, though.”
“Well, you can take it up with your first appointment,” she declared. “Jabba’s agreed to meet with you tonight.”
“That was fast,” I remarked.
“You just gotta know the right people,” Sofia replied.
“So where am I meeting him?” I asked.
“At his office at nine,” Sofia said as she handed me a slip of paper. “I was going to text it to you, but since you’re here.”
“Isn’t this out by the airport?” I queried as I studied the address.
“It is,” she agreed. “It’s those old warehouses they’re forever saying they’re going to tear down.”
“Lovely,” I sighed. “I guess it was too much to hope that I might get a nice dinner out of this.”
“There’s always Perez,” Sofia pointed out. “I’m sure the true King of Spain would be happy to serve you a delicious meal.”
“Any word from Perez or Aranda?” I asked.
“Not yet,” she said, “but I have a feeling they’ll want to set something up soon, once they find out you’ve talked to Jabba.”
“Is there anything else I should know about this guy?”
“He likes money and he likes food,” Sofia replied with a shrug. “That’s all you need to know.”
“Maybe I should bring some In-and-Out with me,” I laughed as I stepped into my own office.
“Vince,” Sofia called after me as she followed me into my office. Her voice had taken on a more serious tone, and I recognized the furrowed look of her brow as one of concern.
“I’ll be fine,” I assured her as I tried to head off the lecture I suspected she had been preparing.
“Theo’s offered to go with you,” she suggested.
“No,” I said firmly. “I can go alone. I don’t think Jabba will try anything while I’m there.”
“You’re walking into the lion’s den,” she declared. “Backup can’t hurt.”
“There’s no benefit to hurting me,” I pointed out.
“You think that will stop them?” she exclaimed.
“I think Jabba will keep his dogs on the leash,” I replied. “He didn’t stay alive this long by being stupid.”
“But someone was following you,” she huffed.
“To make a statement,” I explained. “Not to actually hurt me. Look, if I get there and I think there’s going to be trouble, I’ll call Theo. I won’t go inside until I’m sure it’s okay.”
“I’ll tell Theo to work in that neighborhood tonight,” she declared. “At least you’ll know he’s close by.”
“That will work,” I conceded.
“Good,” she said with a nod. She stepped in closer, gave me a kiss on the cheek, and then sauntered back to her own desk.
I flipped through some of the more tedious paperwork until Theo arrived to collect Sofia. He made the same offer to attend the meeting with me, and I gave him the same answer I’d given his sister. Sofia insisted that he would be working nearby until I texted him that I was safe and on my way home, a plan which seemed to mollify his concerns somewhat, though he still looked uneasy when they finally left.
I closed up the office twenty minutes later and stopped at a nearby chicken shack for dinner. It may not have been as healthy as the previous night’s ramen, but it was hot and juicy and buried under a mound of crispy fries that smelled like heaven. There’s something immensely satisfying about perfectly fried chicken and potatoes. Done well, it’s the perfect convergence of crunchy and tender, salty and juicy, and filling without making you feel bloated. I actually licked my fingers when I was done, something I noticed quite a few diners were doing.
I stopped at the apartment to put on something that seemed more appropriate for hanging around dingy warehouses at night. I settled on a dark gray hoodie and a pair of olive-green army pants, figuring they were dark but not suspiciously so. I found my old hiking boots and an Angels’ cap to complete my look. I was about as anonymous as I was going to be, though I doubted anyone I knew would be hanging around the backside of the airport in the middle of the night.
I left early, hoping I would have a chance to study the area before I actually approached Jabba’s office. The drive was fine despite the night-time construction on the 405. As we neared the airport, I slipped out of the line of cars heading towards the terminals and made my way to the local streets.
I found the warehouses easily enough, and it wasn’t hard to guess which one was Jabba’s base of operations. Most of the facilities were dark at this hour except for a few random security lights. One place, though, was brightly lit and I could see people hanging around outside. Music trickled on the air as I drove by and the smell of food frying drifted through the window. I circled the block, then found a spot near a fleet of FedEx vans to leave the Honda.
I walked towards the warehouse, scanning the area carefully for any signs of security. I spotted a couple of the Chucos Locos in doorways, and another pair stood on one of the street corners. I was sure I had been spotted, but no one made a move towards me.
I skirted the small group of people who stood outside, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer. The fried food I’d smelled came from a taco truck that had been parked around the corner of the building, and another crowd of people were gathered there, waiting for their orders.
I could hear cheering now, as well as laughter and cursing, sure signs that some sort of sporting event was taking place. There was a kid standing next to the door as I approached Jabba’s urban arena. He looked to be about twelve or thirteen, though he was clearly trying to look older. Someone had even given him a beer, which he took a swig from as I came to a stop in front of him.
“Jabba’s expecting me,” I told the kid.
The k
id scratched behind his ear and slowly looked me up and down.
“You don’t look like a lawyer,” he finally said.
“I left my suit at the dry cleaners,” I replied.
The kid grinned for a moment, then quickly buried it as he tried to resume his tough guy pose.
“Jabba’s in his office,” the kid said solemnly. “He said you could go on up.”
“Where’s his office?” I asked.
“Stairs at the far end,” the kid replied. “Alvo and T are on duty tonight. They’ll have to search you before you can go up.”
“Right,” I sighed.
The kid pulled the door open, and I stepped inside. The place was packed, with just enough room along the wall for someone to walk. I was too far away from the ring to see what was going on, but judging by the angry crowing sounds, it wasn’t hard to guess that tonight’s entertainment was cock fights. A cheer went up from the crowd and then I saw one of the handlers reach into the ring. He pulled a limp pile of feathers from the field of battle, while another handler held up the victor for the crowd’s admiration.
I found the promised stairs where Alvo and T stood guard. Both men were large, with square heads, dark sunglasses, and matching leather vests emblazoned with the image of a rabid dog. One of them sported a braided beard while the other proudly displayed a handlebar mustache.
“I’m meeting with Jabba,” I announced over the noise of the crowd. “I’m Vincent Creed.”
“Lift your arms,” bearded braid man ordered.
I did as I was told and mustache man performed a patdown that would have been the envy of TSA agents everywhere. When he was satisfied that I was unarmed and unwired, and that my cell phone wasn’t a secret gun and wasn’t recording, the two giants stepped apart, and I was allowed to walk up the creaking stairs.
Two more guards were on duty at the top of the stairs. They were smaller than their compadres below, but they both had an angry edge that would make them dangerous and unpredictable. It took me a moment, but I recognized one of them as the short guy who had attacked me outside Russo’s.
