by Ward, Robert
“Good work, baby.”
“Okay. I gotta go man.”
Jack hung up and looked around nervously. There were five hookers on the street in front of him. They wore pastel jumpsuits, mini-skirts with white plastic go-go boots, and looked like they were competing in a Charo look-alike contest. They were laughing at some sailors who were yelling at them from a battered white Cadillac.
He gave out a long sigh of relief. He’d done it. The worst was over….
But his satisfaction was short-lived. On the opposite corner, the sailors and the hookers had moved on. His view of the bar was no longer obstructed, and now he could see them coming toward him. Escondero, Altierez, Marbella, and Wingate.
Jack moved away from the phone. It took all his discipline not to cut and run. What was Wingate doing here? Had he simply finished his work early and stopped by to join the boys for a little drink?
Silently, Jack prayed that this last explanation was the truth, but as the four men came closer, he could see on their faces that it wasn’t so.
“Making a little phone call, son?” Wingate said.
“That’s right,” Jack said. “Calling my father. He’s got a problem with his heart and I wanted to make sure he’s all right.”
“And how is he?” Wingate said.
“He’s fine,” Jack said.
“I find that hard to believe,” Wingate said. “Since we know your dad has been dead for quite a few years now, Agent Walker.”
Marbella’s smile was like a knife blade, glinting, as Escondero moved in. Jack kicked him in the groin, spun quickly, and bashed the onrushing Marbella in the nose with his elbow, then turned and ran.
He fled across the traffic-filled street, narrowly avoiding getting run down by a tourist bus, then turned and ran up the street. The others took up the chase, Wingate and Altierez coming directly behind him, not fifteen feet away. Jack ran by a boot-maker’s and a butcher shop. A man was walking into the store with cages of birds—chickens, turkeys—and Jack ran into him, sending the squawking birds flying.
Jack turned, looked. Altierez was gaining on him. Jack picked up a cage with a rooster in it and threw it in his path. A perfect shot. Altierez tripped over it and fell into the street. Jack turned and started to run back across the street, but Escondero and Marbella were waiting on the other side. He had no choice but to keep going straight ahead. In front of him was some kind of tour group. Maybe if he could mix in with them for a second, he could lose his pursuers. He ran toward the group … mostly middle-age people with guide books in their hands. They stood in front of a small chapel and stared at a stained-glass window. Jack heard a teenage kid say to his mother, “Oh, man, virgins and bullfighters. I wanta go watch TV.”
Jack tried to enter the little band of travelers, but suddenly a knife flashed from the crowd. Jack saw it coming, almost as though it were in slow motion, but he found himself unable to dodge, and the blade sliced into his right shoulder. The pain was intense. The tourists screamed as Jack headed down a back alley, tripping over trash cans, nearly falling, then righting himself, turning, and looking back at them as they piled in on top of him, all arms, legs, and he thought that Wingate had a baseball bat … and as he fell onto the trash-littered street, he wondered how he’d gotten hold of it. Son of a bitch is no country boy, Jack thought, as he fell on the ground and the blows rained down on him until he passed into darkness.
Chapter 21
Brandau stood at the podium and looked out at the auditorium of Gardena High School. Every seat was filled, the students were sitting quietly, and for the first ten minutes of his antidrug speech, he began to have the faint hope that this time was going to be different. This time maybe they were going to listen.
He started to tell the story of Paco Huerta, a former football star at Crenshaw High who had died the previous year at the team homecoming party when he freebased cocaine right in his parent’s backyard … died in hideous spasms while all his teammates and school pals stood helplessly by. Brandau had gotten to Paco’s funeral in the rain when the first shout came from the audience.
“Fuck Paco Huerta, homes, he was a fucking maricón.”
There was nervous laughter from a couple of other students. A teacher ran toward the voice.
“You shut right up, mister,” the teacher said, pointing at a bandana-wearing student in the fifth or sixth row.
Brandau felt the sweat break out on his upper lip. Shit, he hated this. He had to keep control, show them that they were not going to get to him.
He started in again:
“Then there was the case of the famous Hollywood actor Terry Darnay. You all remember him?”
“Yeah, and he was a faggot too,” someone else yelled.
That got a much bigger and much longer laugh.
Brandau tried for an I’m-with-it-you-guys grin, but it didn’t turn out that way. No, instead, he realized instantly that he looked like a big square, a goof, up there. To these kids, many of whom had automatic weapons in their knapsacks, he was just a white fucking stooge.
“Hey, Mr. Brandau,” said a voice in the back now, “You know why people take drugs man? Let me tell you, Mr. D-E-Fucking-A, asshole. They take drugs ‘cause they feel fucking good, you see, man? And there ain’t nothing else in their whole fucking life, Mr. White Narco Man, that makes them feel good. So why don’t you go back to Hancock Park or wherever it is you hang, faggot?”
That was all they needed. Many of the students were screaming now, screaming obscenities and throwing things. Suddenly a projectile hit Brandau in the head, and he felt a wave of nausea sweep through him. Shit, maybe it was a knife. He looked down at the floor and, in shock, picked it up.
But, it wasn’t a knife at all. No, it was a banana. In front of him there were ten girls sitting together in the front row, screaming with laughter. Here was the big DEA guy, the guy who was supposed to set them all straight, standing there looking as if he’d just crapped in his pants, holding a banana in his hand.
The auditorium was bedlam. Brandau dropped the banana, turned, and walked slowly toward the exit door.
He sat in his car, his hands shaking, his head throbbing. A couple of the teachers and the principal herself had come out to assure him it wasn’t his fault, to thank him for coming, and to beg him to reschedule. Fat fucking chance.
* * *
Now he took deep breaths, practiced his new Zazen breathing techniques that Suzie Chow had taught him. They helped a little, but he still felt furious.
He looked down at his watch. It was twelve-thirty. Christ, he was almost late for his lunch with Suzie at Citrus. He started his car, then noticed the black Mazda parked on the other side of the street. He thought he’d seen it two days ago. Was it possible he was being followed?
If so, by whom?
He took off, keeping the guy in his rearview, but as he turned at the light, the Mazda turned left.
So far so good, but still he wondered. Was somebody watching him? And if so why?
He’d have to keep watch, be careful. Maybe something hinky was going down.
“I love it here,” Suzie Chow said, as she and Brandau took seats under one of the chic brown canvas awnings at Citrus. “They have such great food. And it’s not that expensive.”
Brandau managed a pained smile, but couldn’t resist speaking out.
“The hell, it’s not,” he said. “I should be eating a chili dog down at Pink’s, saving some money.”
Suzie smiled and looked at the colorful bistro paintings on the wall.
“We’ve been through all this before, Richard. I’m making good money now. I’m going to get that TV-movie deal soon, and we’re going to be fine. You’ll pick up a lot of extra money by consulting when you retire. But to do that, you need to be seen in places like this. This is where you meet the right people.”
Suzie put her slender hand on Brandau’s, and he felt a surge of lust. God, she was one exciting woman. Then he looked across the room at the back table.
“Well,�
�� he said, “looks like there are at least three people here you definitely don’t want to meet.”
“What are you talking about” Suzie said.
“Back there in the corner,” Brandau said. “See the tan, slick-looking guy with the black ponytail? Sitting with two other guys?”
“Yes,” Suzie said. “I noticed him when I came in. He’s an actor, I think, but I can’t place his name.”
“He’s a bad actor, is what he is,” Brandau said. “That’s Pedro Salazar. Major dope dealer. That’s the asshole who came after Jack Walker up in Tahoe. Nearly killed him. I’ve had a couple of run-ins with him myself.”
Brandau’s voice was rising now, and several people at nearby tables had turned to look at him.
“I hate eating at the same place with a germ like that.”
“Calm down, Richard,” Suzie said, “You’re drawing attention to yourself.”
She reached out to take his sleeve, but Brandau pulled away.
“I just had a rotten experience talking to high school students. And it’s flashy assholes like him that are the cause of it. The kids worship scum like Salazar.”
Perspiration broke out on Brandau’s forehead.
And now, from the corner of the room, Salazar pushed away his chair and started walking toward Brandau.
“He’s coming over here,” Brandau said.
“Richard,” Suzie Chow said. “He’s only going to the bathroom. Don’t make a scene.”
Brandau said nothing but stared holes at the tall, muscular Salazar, who walked with an arrogant, theatrical sway of his shoulders and hips.
As he came near Brandau’s table, Salazar turned and smiled at Suzie Chow. It was a lewd and leering smile, filled with mockery and, by implication, contempt for her lunch partner.
“What the fuck are you laughing at, asshole?” Brandau said, standing at his table.
“Richard!” Suzie Chow said. “It’s nothing. Let it go.”
She blushed and rubbed her forehead as if she were trying to erase herself.
“I don’t think so,” Brandau said. “I don’t think they should let known drug dealers eat at a decent place like this. They oughta’ slide their food in to them under the bars of their cages!”
The surrounding tables suddenly became deathly quiet. Brandau moved toward Salazar, who stood stock-still and looked him straight in the eye.
“I don’t know what you are talking about, my friend,” Salazar said, flashing his capped teeth. “I am a legitimate businessman. In the import and exporting business.”
“Bullshit,” Brandau said, moving his head so close to Salazar that he could smell the garlic on his breath. “You sell dope to kids. That’s what you do, maricón.”
Salazar smiled, as if this insult meant less than nothing to him.
“It’s true, I do work with kids,” he said. “I recently opened a mission in my home state of Texas. We’ve taken in a lot of homeless kids, give them food, shelter, keep them out of trouble. Fact is, they are giving me a humanitarian award down there soon. They ever give you any awards, Agent Brandau?”
Brandau grabbed Salazar by his collar and pulled it tight around his neck.
“Fuck you, you slimebag.”
Suddenly from behind Brandau, one of Salazar’s two bodyguards grabbed the agent from behind and quickly and expertly bent his left arm behind him. Brandau groaned.
“Let him go,” Salazar said. “He’s just another frustrated little cop.”
The short powerful man let go of Brandau’s arm. Salazar laughed.
“We’ll get you yet, asshole,” Brandau said, but his voice was weak.
Suzie Chow was on her feet, her bag in hand.
“I think we should go at once, Richard,” she said.
“Bullshit,” Brandau said. “He should go. Not us!”
But she was furious, clutching her bag and heading for the front door. Brandau quickly followed her, Salazar and his men’s laughter ringing in his ears.
Chapter 22
In stark contrast to everyone else in the room, Michaels paced the floor in Zampas’s comfortable office, perspiration dripping off his face, even though the room was maximally air-conditioned. When he talked, he nearly spat out the words.
“I can’t believe he went to Mexico against orders. I want to recommend that upon his return, if he makes it back, Agent Walker be put on probation and formal charges be brought against him.”
Sitting with his feet up on the couch, Calvin Jefferson laughed.
“Hey, man, way I see it, the day Jack Walker gets back, he’s probably going to get a medal of valor.”
“Or maybe a fucking presidential citation,” Valle kicked in.
Brandau sucked on his pipe and tried not to join in the others’ derisive tone. But he nodded his head in agreement.
“Look, Ted, I understand your concern,” Brandau said. “Jack … has gone against regulations. And I don’t think it should be encouraged. But just the same, it sounds as though he’s about to succeed, and, frankly, we could use a little success. Appropriations in Congress are coming up, and it’s going to look very nice to see our director here, standing in a drug tunnel which we just busted.”
“We’ve made plenty of arrests in the past year,” Michaels said.
“That’s true,” Brandau said. “But this is a timely arrest. And though I don’t always agree with you about publicity, I think this one’s big. If Bob’s information is right, it could lead us directly back to Eduardo Morales.”
Valle cracked his knuckles. “Hey, my information is right, count on it. So why don’t you just give us a break, Michaels?”
Michaels stopped pacing and looked through Valle.
“Here’s the truth: Everybody in this room knows that Eduardo Morales isn’t going to be anywhere near this shipment of drugs.”
“Hey, nobody said he was gonna pop up and ask us to snap the cuffs on him,” Calvin Jefferson said. “But we get some of his men, we are gonna be able to do some righteous infiltration of his little empire down there. And ain’t that what’s it’s all about?”
Michaels said nothing. He was aware that he looked and sounded ridiculous.
Zampas sipped a Diet Coke and took a large bite off his three-pound deli sandwich.
“Ted, we have no choice but to play this out and give Jack every bit of backup he needs. We’ll see about disciplining him later. But so far this looks clean.”
Michaels said nothing else. He sat through the rest of the meeting in a kind of fog. The DEA was ready for the biggest catch of the last five years and the dramatic capture of a tunnel that would garner them praise from Washington. There was nothing else he could say—not yet anyway.
But if the information he was seeking came through from his snitch, there would be plenty to say, and then they would all have to listen.
He nodded and shook his head as the others cheerfully planned the bust, but in his own mind, he saw something else happening, a side benefit that he hadn’t really hoped for.
The truth was, if he got the right information, if he got it in time … he might just end up inheriting Zampas’s job. To hell with them all … that was the way to look at it. He’d tried to warn them, now he had to look out for himself.
At ten o’clock that same night an exhausted Michaels sat staring at his fax machine. Where was the goddamned stuff he’d sent for from his snitch in Mexico City, Vargas? Vargas had assured him he could get what Michaels needed, but snitches, even the best of them, were often unreliable. Still, this wasn’t some ordinary bust. Michaels shook his head. No use going into that again. The stuff probably wasn’t coming tonight.
He stared moodily out the window at the twinkling lights of downtown Los Angeles. The place looked magical, inviting, from up here. Nearby was a newly built hotel where wealthy Japanese businessmen drank sake, danced to jazz with hookers, and dialed a special number to get heroin sent to their rooms. And a few blocks down the street was some kind of artists’ loft scene. Probably every
person in there was high on some kind of illegal drug.
Ted Michaels sighed and felt intensely lonely.
What none of them knew about him, what he couldn’t get across because of his stiff-assed, pain-in-the-neck personality, was that he actually gave a shit. His problem was he didn’t sound as though he did. He sounded, he knew, like an ambitious prig, but that wasn’t really who he was. Not at all.
He cared about the integrity of the Agency, cared deeply.
And he feared for their safety.
Yes, he was ambitious, but so were they all. He just couldn’t disguise it as well with congenial patter. Small talk didn’t come easily to him.
The truth was, he thought, that no one really liked him. It had been true all of his life. If someone else, someone like Walker, were in his position, he would be able to make people listen, simply because they all liked him. But Michaels would have to lay it all out on a platter before anyone would take notice.
Well, by God, he would have it all laid out soon. If he was right, then they would have to listen to him. And maybe they wouldn’t like him any better, but they’d respect him.
Where the hell was Vargas? Out getting high himself or getting laid? Did he have the stuff or didn’t he? Did he even give a shit? Or was it going to be mañana?
Time was running out.
He thought of Walker then. Walker was a lousy cop, by his lights, but in a weird way, he was the only one Michaels trusted. He was too impulsive, too immature, too hung up on himself and his own youthful rebellion, but he was kind, smart, and insanely brave.
But was he honest? Michaels was almost certain he was, but he wasn’t a hundred percent sure. With someone as impulsive as Jack, there was always the chance he could be bought, swayed by money or a pretty girl—a girl who looked like Charlotte Rae Wingate.
He’d bet money that Jack was screwing her and justifying it to himself by saying he was getting information. Michaels sighed. Maybe Jack was right. But Jack didn’t know the whole story. That was the problem.
Suddenly, Michaels heard the door to the hallway open behind him. He opened the desk drawer, picked up his Glock, and turned.
