As I stood there the Sinatra song changed. Now Frank was singing "From the Bottom to the Top."
Chapter 32
"I'm not wearing this thing." I threw the wire and recorder down on the wooden bench beside Ophelia Love. It was a little past one A. M., and we were back inside Little Swiss, in a shopping mall parking lot on the outskirts of Compton. Alexa had been replaced, but Ophelia had broken a strict FBI rule demanding interagency celibacy, and allowed my wife to attend this midnight meeting. I also thought she liked our departments cool little eight-wheel undercover truck.
"You've got to wear it. We need to get somebody to come up dirty on that wire so we can convince them to flip. Otherwise we'll never make the case. That's the reason I gave you the extra time."
"I'm still willing to do this, but I'm not gonna let a bunch of stiffs from Homeland run my play. It has to be people I know and trust. Alexa or Tony-nobody else. You can be part of it, but this gets run out of our shop or I'm done."
We sat for a moment, stewing in decades of interagency distrust. Then Agent Love said, T'm not sure that's your decision to make."
"Get real, lady. If I pull the pin it's over."
"Something happened tonight," Alexa said softly, looking closely at me. "You need to tell us." She knew me too well. She could see that I was close to the edge.
So I told them about my trip to the orange grove and the party that followed at the mayor's house where I witnessed Rick Ross chopping up a line in the gazebo with two strip club whores. I told them I'd finally gotten next to Bratano and what he'd said to me, but that despite passing the loyalty test, Talbot Jones was still going to shake me down for a wire every time before letting me meet with hizzoner.
"I'm finally on the inside. But it's weird. They've got all these security protocols, especially where Cecil is concerned. If I'd been wearing that thing tonight, I'd be dead!"
"Maybe I could get you a DCST," Agent Love said.
"What on earth is a DCST?" Alexa asked.
"Digital covert satellite transmitter. It's very new stuff. I haven't seen one, but I've read a briefing sheet. It's out of DIA covert ops in D. C."
"Never heard of it," Alexa said.
"They're satcom transmitters designed to look like ordinary pocket equipment. Pens or car keys, stuff like that. The unit has a miniature satellite transmitter inside that beams a signal up to one of our low-flying Iridium satellites, just six hundred miles up in space. The DCST is tiny because there's no tape or digital component. It's a direct transmission to a space platform that bounces back to a covert land base."
"Is this what you people do with our tax money?"
I was starting to feel trapped. I wanted out of Haven Park, but I also knew somebody was about to get the contract on Chacon's life. If I wanted to protect Rocky, then, strange as it sounded, I had to be the one picked to kill him.
"How long to get one of those things to me?" I finally asked.
"I don't know. I've got to get you on a Pentagon distribution list first." She hesitated. "Tomorrow. Day after at the latest."
"Shane, are you sure you're okay?" Alexa reached out and took my hand.
"I'm scared out of my skull," I told her.
"Then let's end this," she said.
"I can't. We'll never get this close to the center again. Cecil Bratano said I'd be hearing from him in the next day or two. At least keep me in until then."
"I'll get the covert device to you. It'll be in your room in the top dresser drawer by noon tomorrow."
I got up to leave. "Does Alexa run this? That's the only condition I'm asking for."
Agent Love sighed. "Look, Scully, it's not perfect, I admit. But as long as you two will agree to let me ride shotgun, Til tell my supervisors that Alexa has to run the show out of Parker Center. My guess is they'll go for it. What choice do they have?"
"Just get me that device," I said.
Then she did an unusual thing. She shook my hand. It was a strangely touching gesture.
"Thanks," she said. "I know how hard this is. I really appreciate what you're doing." She left Little Swiss and closed the door.
Alexa and I waited until we could see her car pulling away on the monitor inside the truck. After it was gone, we both stood and embraced.
"Are you sure you're okay?" she asked.
I held my wife, smelling her hair and perfume. "Ever since I took this damn job, I haven't been able to get my mind off of you and Chooch and how much I have with you guys," I told her. "It's making me play it safe. That's not the way to work one of these stings. I've been making some half-assed moves. I'm afraid I'm on the verge of screwing this up."
"I'm so sorry we took it on," she said, laying her head on my shoulder. "To hell with Ophelia and the feds. I'll call Tony. I'll get you out of there tonight."
After a moment I said, "Rocky Chacon can't be more than five-foot-seven, a hundred and sixty pounds with his shoes on. Along with his mother and a few campaign workers, he's taking on Cecil Bratano and that whole corrupt Haven Park machine.
"I'm the only one standing between him and a body bag. If I pull out now, if I cut and run, he's history. If that happens I won't be able to face myself. Then what am I really worth to you or Chooch?" Alexa didn't say anything. She knew I was right. "I wish I hadn't decided to take this damn assignment, but now that I'm here, there's no way I can leave. Not if I want to be the same guy I was before."
"I love you so much," she said softly. "You really are the best there is."
I stood there for several more minutes not feeling like the best. I was sore and scared. Alexa rubbed my back. She held me close and comforted me.
Chapter 33
The next morning, I showered in the small hotel bathroom, then examined my swollen nose and black eves in the mirror. The shiners were turning saffron, making me look like a street troll overdosing on the eve shadow. I put on my civvies and wore my belt with the tracking device. Then I drove my bugged MDX to the elementary school parking lot, putting out more microwaves than General Klectric.
I felt a little better this morning despite the fitful sleep. Maybe it was extra adrenaline that came with this forty-eight-hour timeline and my new lock-and-load mentality.
As soon as I entered the locker room, it was obvious that my performance in the orange grove had elevated my status. Several of my new "friends" who had been standing in that field last night willing to watch me eat a bullet were now grinning, slapping me on the back and telling me what a stud I was.
Alonzo wasn't around. I was afraid with him out I'd be doing another eight-hour tour in the file room.
I trudged to roll call, carrying my war bag, and sat with the rest of the day watch on the basketball court's bleachers while Dirty Harry Eastwood stood splay-footed and swaybacked before us, going through his listless prewatch briefing.
"Green. You're way behind on your towing tickets," he began, looking over at Roulon. "Only ten so far this month. You all of a sudden independently wealthy or something?"
"Alonzo's had me on rollin' stolens," the black cop defended. "I been trolling for hot car tags in parking lots all up and down Pacific."
"Okay, but you're not on that now, so it's time to kick this towing thing into gear."
Then Eastwood pointed at linebacker-sized Horace Velario, the huge shaved head who, I'd been alarmed to learn, had failed the LAPD psych exam and had then gone down the street and joined Glendale PD. The story I got on that was after two months on the job in Glendale, he'd shot two unarmed liquor store bandits while on patrol. Both guys died and IA had deemed the shootings out of policy. With that ruling, Horace had barely escaped a felony prosecution by the Glendale city attorney. They threw him out, but like everyone else down here, he'd found a soft landing in Haven Park.
Eastwood said, "Congratulations to Horace on bagging our Riverbank Arsonist, who had the bad sense to pull a knife and left the scene in an oxygen tent." The cops on the bleachers gave him two Marine Corps-style hoorahs.
; "Congratulations to Patrolman Scully for passing his probationer's final exam," Eastwood continued. "You're off the turkey list and assigned to an L-unit. You'll be Car Thirteen. Way to go."
The room applauded while I nodded and pumped a fist.
Finally Lieutenant Eastwood looked down and checked his cheat sheet. "Okay, the feds want you all to make sworn statements on the gang fight at the high school. I know its bullshit, but we gotta humor these clinks so I'm gonna cut one guy loose an hour early every night to go talk to the federal attorney in the Homeland building on Wilshire Boulevard. Well just rotate through the roster till everybody's been over there. We'll start with the FNG." The fucking new guy was me. "Scully, you're off at four to go do that." I nodded. "That's it. Anybody got anything else?"
Nothing.
"Okay. Get out there and cook the fish."
We saddled up and lugged our gear single-file through two residential blocks to the police station and our squad cars. I'd been assigned to Unit Thirteen, one of the old units that was parked in the back on reserve. It was a '96 Chrysler that had rust spots on the trunk, a hanging muffler and needed a wash. The car smelled like most old squad cars. Vomit and Lvsol.
I was getting it set up when Alonzo drove into the lot, parked his shop and walked over. "Gave you Thirteen?" He grinned. "Hope you don't have to push it."
"Thirteen's my lucky number."
"Listen, Shane. I need you for an hour or so this morning. It's already been squared away with Lieutenant Eastwood. Leave your shit locked in the trunk and come with me."
"Where we going?"
"You'll see. It's all good."
I nodded and slammed the trunk. I didn't have my covert device yet, so whatever was about to happen this morning wasn't going to be recorded. With undercover stings, you needed either a tape of the conspiracy or a corroborating witness. Most DAs wouldn't file on just a cop's word because defense lawyers could easily turn it into a he-said-he-said in court.
I got into Alonzo's shop and we went code seven as we cleared the station.
Two blocks farther on, we pulled into the parking lot at A Fuego. It was a little past eight A. M. SO the lot was completely empty.
"Whatta we doing here?"
Alonzo smiled. "You're about to get kissed into something big. Just stay cool."
The door was unlocked. As soon as we entered, I saw a cop in uniform standing just inside the entry. It was Alonzo's pal Horace Velario. The guy was huge. The size of a jukebox. Making it worse, I had started picking up a nasty vibe off him.
The work lights were on inside the club and in their bright glare I could now see how tacky and threadbare A Fuego really was. The dim atmosphere lighting hid a multitude of sins. Harsh ceiling lights exposed chipped paint and hundreds of scratches on the dance floor.
"Come on," Alonzo said.
I followed him into the bar area while Horace Velario lumbered along in my wake.
We went through a door marked OFFICE located behind the bar. Then we single-filed down a long white fuorescent-lit corridor. I spotted Manny Avila on the phone in his office, up early, getting a jump-start on his long list of profitable extortions.
We continued down the corridor into a small but well-equipped kitchen. Alonzo suddenly reached out and stopped me, then turned me gently around.
"Don't tell me I'm gonna get another cheap feel," I said.
"If I was going for this ride Horace over there would be going through me. It's the way its gotta be."
He ran a hand over my chest, under my armpits and down to my crotch. Then he went to my back, searching my shoulders down to the waist and clown each leg to my shoes. Very professional and thorough.
"Was it as good for you as it was for me?" I said as soon as he finished.
We walked clown the corridor and a few seconds later we were standing on the back clock.
Alonzo triggered his shoulder rover. "We're ten-twenty-three on the loading platform," he said.
"He's on his way," a voice crackled back.
Five minutes later the restored turquoise and white El Dorado convertible rounded the corner with its top up and all four windows down. As it approached I could hear Sinatra singing "I Believe I'm Gonna Love You."
Alonzo led nie down the loading clock steps and we waited as the car pulled up.
"Buenos diasy amigos," the mayor of Haven Park caroled over the music coming from his retro eight-track. He was wearing a turquoise guayabera shirt to match the Fldo's paint job and a large snap-brim Panama hat. It would have been very sport)' if we had been in Argentina or Cuba.
"Shane, let's you and me go for a ride," Hizzoner suggested.
I slid onto the matching leather seats and Alonzo slammed the door. A black-and-white squad ear with Horace at the wheel pulled up behind us. Alonzo got in the patrol car beside his best friend and for the next several seconds both cars sat parked behind A Fuego with their engines idling.
"I wanted to have a little talk and show you my city,"' Cecil said. "Sound like a plan?"
"Sounds good."
He smiled and put the column stick shift into drive. The straight pipes rumbled as we rolled out of the nightclub parking lot with a Haven Park patrol car right behind us, riding the El Dorado's bumper, staying up close in a chase position.
Chapter 34
Cecil Bratano turned the heavy turquoise Cad onto the street. Me was smiling, tapping his left hand on his thigh, keeping time to Sinatra's music as he drove.
"Man, this guy had some pipes, didn't he?" Bratano said, pointing at his eight-track. "Nobody sings like this anymore."
Me turned the volume down a little and Frank settled into a lower decibel level. Then Cecil glanced at me, widened his smile. I knew by now that the smile didn't indicate much of anything, least of all humor. His too-white teeth flashed an alabaster warning.
"I'm often referred to in the press as Haven Park's Mexican mayor, but that's not what I am at all," he said. "My genealogy defines me as Hispanic, but I'm American. However, the Mexican in my blood understands how the people who live in Haven Park and Fleetwood think. I know what they need."
He put on his blinker and we turned onto a street that ran along the slimy banks of the L. A. River. The black-and-white tailed close behind.
"Our population in Haven Park is around thirty thousand;' the mayor continued. "Well over seventy percent of those are illegals.
"These are simple people with simple tastes. They like parades, so I give them parades. They like fiestas tradicionales, so this town officially celebrates all the major Mexican holidays. We have big, publicly sponsored parties with music and games in the park. On Cinco de Mayo the city puts on a fireworks display and I pass out candy to the children. On Dfa de los Muertos I wear the skull mask and light candles at the altar. Because I respect the traditions they love, I'm loved and respected in return."
I was thinking, This is priceless. You re the asshole who's hooting and towing their cars, ticketing and closing their businesses. But I didn't say anything. I waited for him to get to his point.
"But despite all this, these two towns are not easy places to govern," he continued.
I threw some bread on the water. "Anything I can do to help?"
"It's why we're riding together," he said, his smile again widening. Then he reached over and patted my hand. It was a strangely paternal gesture.
"Some interesting facts, which might help you help me. New immigrants pour across the borders and settle here every day. Because there are so many, they stick to themselves and have shown a surprising resistance to assimilation. They don't learn English, they don't intermarry with Anglos, and as a result their ties to Mexico remain very strong.
He was in the zone, spinning his tale. But it felt like he had said this too many times before and was doing it mostly by rote.
We were now entering Fleetwood and the mayor pointed at the little Spanish-style duplexes that were sliding by on his left. "Did you know that Fleetwood was founded by the meatpacking baron
Michael Fleetwood way back in 1908?" Completely switching tacks on me. I was suddenly in for a history lesson.
"These properties on my left were originally called Fleetwood lots because they're a hundred feet wide and an amazing eight hundred feet deep. Mr. Fleetwoods idea was that the residents here would be able to have gardens and keep horses like in the old agrarian societies of Mexico. He designed this place to Old World standards. Now, a hundred years later, its been left for me to look over his dream."
The song ended and "The House I Live In" began to play.
"Our politicians at the state and federal levels don't understand that the millions of Hispanics who are living here and not assimilating will inevitably want to revert to a political system closer to the one they had in Mexico. Even though I know that system is often uneven, it's also, in its own way, very fair, because once you understand the rules, everyone can play."
It was tortured logic to forgive the massive theft and political corruption south of the border, but I hung in there, nodded and tried to look enthralled.
"What we currently have in California is a concerted, if unintentional, effort by our federal and state governments for Third World communities like Haven Park and Fleetwood to flourish with no loyalty to the United States. In order to continue to govern, I must provide a system that resembles the one these people are accustomed to."
He glanced over at me to see if I was buying any of it. I tried to look like he was parting the Red Sea, driving his turquoise Cadillac through the divide, leading his flock out of a desert of racial misunderstanding.
"But there are those who see this as corruption" lie went on. "People like Rocky Chacon who want a system that can't possibly hold up under the pressures created by this huge tide of unchecked immigration."
With the mention of Rockys name, I knew we were finally getting to the point of my ride-along.
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