My only shot was to bluff. "Go fuck yourself," I said angrily.
"Not the response I'm looking for, Scully."
"I'm not your rat. I don't know who's been selling you out, but after you kill me, your problem isn't gonna go away, because you got the wrong guy."
"And that apartment you went to didn't belong to Chief Arnett?"
"I told you. I was with Tiffany Roberts in the furnished model. You can believe me, or you can stick it up your ass. I'm fuckin' done arguing with you about this."
He pointed his gun at me and fired. I think he was just trying to scare me, but the bullet came very close and nicked my left ear. I could feel blood running down the side of my face.
Then he pointed his nine-millimeter at my heart. I could see his trigger finger turn white as he added pressure.
Here I come, Jesus, I thought as I knelt in the moist soil. I took my last breath and got ready to die. He pulled the trigger and I watched the hammer fall.
Chapter 29
CLICK.
Nothing happened.
I looked into the muzzle of Alonzo's handgun, right into the black eye.
I could smell the oranges and feel the beat of my heart.
A misfire?
Alonzo slowly lowered the gun and just stood there. I didn't know what was happening, didn't know what to expect.
Then a huge smile spread across his round face and he said, "Somebody uncuff him."
Two guys rushed forward, pulled me to my feet and took the handcuffs off, freeing my hands. My knees were shaking. I could barely stand.
"You're no longer on probation," Alonzo announced. "You just became a full-fledged member of the Haven Park PD."
The guys who were standing there all started to applaud.
"You okay?" Alonzo asked, grinning. "A few guys have puked. Larry Miller shit his pants."
I was still trying to absorb it.
"We had to know you were solid," he explained. "Loyalty test. We had to take you right to the edge to be sure." Then he shook his head as he repeated my own words back to me. " Tou can believe me, or you can stick it up your ass.' Beautiful. Best yet."
All the cops gathered around and slapped my back, congratulating me.
Alonzo led me over to his Cadillac Escalade. The private cars of the rest of the day watch were parked in a large dirt clearing. There were no houses or lights visible in any direction. We seemed to be miles from civilization. Somebody opened a Styrofoam chest and started passing out ice-cold Coronas.
Horace Velario, Alonzos three-hundred-pound best friend from high school, nodded his shaved head and shoved a cold one in my hand. "You could probably use this."
I was staring dumbly at the semicircle of beaming police officers. I was beginning to realize that before you get to ride in the corrupt squad cars of Haven Park, everybody had to go through this same loyalty test.
"The final initiation," Alonzo said. "You're in the posse, man." He opened the door of the Escalade and announced, "Come on, we're going to a party."
I didn't much feel like going to a party. I just wanted to go home, lie down and try to get my nerves to settle. But I did as I was told. The other cops got into their vehicles. I heard doors slamming all around me and then six or eight cars, driving with just their parking lights on, caravaned out of the field and transitioned onto a small paved road, which ran alongside acres of orange groves.
"Where are we?" I asked.
"In the appropriately named city of Orange," Alonzo said with a grin. He got on the freeway and we were soon flying along, heading back toward downtown L. A.
For the first time since waking up I was beginning to accept the fact that I actually had some tomorrows.
"There's a party in Ladera Heights being thrown in your honor," Alonzo said, grinning.
"You guys are pretty careful," I said.
"There's a lot on the table down here, Shane, and nobody wants to see the inside of a prison cell, so you're damn right we're careful."
It was the first time he'd called me Shane.
We drove right past the cities of Haven Park and Bell and were soon on a twisting road, climbing up to the better neighborhoods in the hills of Ladera Heights. The small, single-story houses in the flatland neighborhoods slowly gave way to million-dollar mansions that overlooked the city. Finally, Alonzo pulled up to a huge double gate that was framed by a mosaic Spanish-style arch. I could see maybe twenty cars in a large parking area behind the wrought iron. The rest of the day watch pulled in behind us. Alonzo leaned out of his driver's window and triggered the security speaker.
"Bell," he said. "I got Scully with me." The gates opened and we pulled up the long drive and parked by a beautiful two-story house with lots of Spanish arches and a red tile roof.
"Whose place is this?" I asked, looking off to the right at a crowd of maybe forty men and women, who were drinking and chatting in clusters around the Olympic-sized pool and cabana.
"Cecil Bratano's," Alonzo said proudly. "He throws these bashes maybe twice a month."
As I got out of the Escalade, Talbot Jones came out of the house and approached me.
"Good going, Scully." He was dressed in slacks and a blue blazer. I think it was the first time I ever saw him smile.
I could hear music coming from the pool through gigantic speakers. Frank Sinatra was singing "Leave It All to Me."
Chapter 30
Sinatra sang about it being "a very good year."
Dancers from some strip club in town seconded that thought as they cavorted naked in the big Olympic-sized pool. I met a few politicians from Haven Park and Fleetwood. They all seemed like slimy assholes.
Sinatra sang "The Fable of the Rose."
Rick Ross was there. He didn't speak to me, but I saw him with three strippers in the cabana cutting up a line of coke. Great. Just what I wanted to see. Let's hear it for Ricky's rehab.
I spent ten minutes talking about police work with Harry Eastwood, who looked ridiculous in white pants and an iridescent blue shirt. His swayback and potbelly did nothing for the outfit.
I saw the mayors assistant, Carlos Real, whom Alonzo had pointed out to me at A Fuego. I'd asked around and found out he was really just a political bagman. I watched him talking to some seedy Hispanics in suits by the Jacuzzi. All of them needed haircuts. Carlos never stopped moving, shifting his weight, waving his hands around. A kinetic man. Mercury on glass.
I was congratulated by half a dozen Haven Park cops for not puking or browning my pants like shit-stain Larry Miller. They all said I had balls.
I walked around greeting guys. Two topless dancers wanted to take me into the changing room and give me a party, but I managed to escape that indignity.
Then someone introduced me to Oscar Juarez. He was a well-built, clean-cut guy, about twenty-three, with a baby face and chocolate-brown eyes.
"Somebody just told me this party is in your honor," Oscar said, smiling. "So whats the deal with that?"
As I was trying to figure out that remark, I wondered if he'd also passed the orange grove test. But if he had, shouldn't he know the reason I was being honored? He looked very young and innocent. It was hard for me to picture him mixed up in this.
"I guess you know what I just went through," I said, watching his dark eyes carefully, looking for any sign.
"I'm sorry?" he said, perplexed.
"The orange grove?"
"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."
I should have been relieved, but his answer presented me with a new dilemma. Was he really the only street cop in Haven Park who wasn't on the grind, or was he playing me, trying to get me to confide in him so I'd give myself up? Was I still under suspicion? Was my entire orange grove loyalty test just an elaborate head feint? When you're working undercover, you tend to overthink everything.
Rick Ross, who was currently twenty yards away inside the cabana doing a line of blow, had been the one who suggested Oscar might be okay. Did I really want to take his
word for anything? I decided I'd better not trust Officer Juarez either. I moved on.
Cecil Bratano had a six-car garage and an hour later I was down there with five or so guests I didn't know, admiring the mayor s impressive car collection. All the garage doors were open and each space contained a beautifully maintained, sixties sports car. He had a Porsche 356B, two Austin Healys, and a classic MGB-GT in mint condition. But the star of his collection was a perfectly restored turquoise-and-white 1960 Cadillac El Dorado convertible. It sat on a pristine concrete floor, its chrome and big fins glittering impressively.
An elderly Hispanic man with silver hair who looked dapper in a dark suit informed me that he took care of the collection and that the Shelby was worth over two hundred thousand. He told me proudly that Cecil had paid cash for all of them. Not bad for an elementary school dropout.
At about eleven-thirty, Talbot Jones found me in the garage. "Follow me," he said. "The man wants to see you now."
Chapter 31
Captain Jones led the way through the erowd of milling party guests into the mayor s magnificent mansion.
Like lots of guys who made their money late in life, Cecil Bratano needed to show it off. He had crammed way too much expensive stuff into his house. The downstairs looked like a decorators showroom --priceless Louis XV antiques and turn-of-the-century carved wooden tables crowded each other for space on the main floor. There were oversized original paintings in gilded frames and swag lamps with fringed shades. The house reminded me of a Louisiana whorehouse with its dark velvet draperies and nude bronzed statues that seemed to stand everywhere in unabashed poses.
I followed Talbot Jones up the red-carpeted circular staircase and once we got to the top landing, he led me straight across the hall, opened a door and pulled me into a large linen closet stacked with folded sheets.
'This is different" I said, trying to keep it friendly. Even though I was grinning, I had my feet spread for balance, ready for anything.
"I gotta go through you, Shane. Sorry. Nobody talks to the mayor unless we check for a wire first."
"I thought I just made the team. Member of the posse."
"Don't argue. Turn around and hold out your arms."
It worried me that I kept getting all these body searches. Fortunately, the wire Agent Love had given we was still on my dresser at the hotel.
"Don't be a problem, Scully. This isn't about you; it's about protocol. We're very careful when it comes to Cecil, so just do it."
I patiently endured another frisk, but was beginning to suspect I would never get a murder solicitation on tape if this continued.
After he was finished Jones said, "Follow me."
We found Cecil Bratano holding court with about ten people, half of them beautiful women, in a large, wood-paneled game room that was also crammed with expensive stuff. Music equipment was jammed into every available open space. There was a full-sized Wurlitzer organ, an electronic keyboard, a drum set and at least twenty celebrity guitars on chrome stands, all signed in Magic Marker by music legends like Elvis, Johnny Cash and, of course, Frankie Valli.
An entire wall was devoted to a flat screen for video gaming. An ornately carved antique pool table dominated the center of the room. It all shone impressively, but there was so much, it only managed to seem like clutter.
Mayor Cecil Bratano was on the far side of the room. He was a man of Hispanic descent in his mid-to late fifties. I'd read numerous briefing reports on him that made him out to be a corrupt thug. In person, he was nothing like I'd expected. The mayor was a short, merry man with twinkling eyes, a trimmed mustache, and an infectious smile that was disarming even from twenty feet away. He wore a white Mexican guayabera shirt with tan linen pants and designer shoes that had to have set him back at least a grand. He also wore too many heavy diamond and gold accessories. His watch band could have balanced the national debt of Honduras. Thinning gray hair was slicked back and laid flat against a perfectly formed skull.
Talbot Jones led me up to him and introduced us. After we shook hands, the mayor smiled and said, "So you're my new patrolman." He had absolutely no trace of an accent. Behind his dark eyes, fierce intelligence burned.
"That's me," I said, my own smile widening to match his.
"Congratulations, Shane. It's damn hard to get on this department."
A week earlier I would have thought he was joking, but after kneeling in that orange grove with my own socks in my mouth, I knew he wasn't.
"This is some house," I said. Meaningless chitchat but I wanted him to make the first move.
"Yes. Yes, it is. Come here, let me show you something."
He stood, took my arm, and led me away from his admiring crowd. We stepped out onto a large balcony that overlooked his property and the twinkling city lights of Ladera Heights and Haven Park beyond. He stood almost a head shorter than I, gazing at the city below, momentarily overcome by the view. It was almost as if he were seeing it for the first time.
"When I was a boy growing up in that city down there, I only had a view of an alley wall," he said pensively. "Now I have this."
I nodded.
"It's funny how a man gets to his correct station in life," lie continued. "I'm certainly not a philosopher and even though I know what I had to go through to acquire my wealth, there are still times when I stop and wonder."
"I understand that," I said, searching for some common ground. "I was also born poor. Living as a child in poverty can make you wary of good fortune." Exposing a limited grasp of philosophy with that sentence.
"Then you know what it feels like to climb from a low place. Some part of you is always looking down, afraid of the fall."
"I used to think of that all the time," I told him. "And then, two weeks ago, it actually happened. I lost everything."
He didn't comment. He seemed far back in his head somewhere. Some dark recollection had dimmed his smile, the remnants now hidden under his meticulously trimmed mustache.
"Did you know that I dropped out of school when I was only twelve?" he finally said, suddenly coming out of his reverie. "I had to get a job to feed my family. I hated having to quit my education, because I loved school, loved learning. All I wanted to do was go back there. And eventually, that's what I did."
"I read a story on you that said you quit school in the sixth grade," I said. "It didn't mention that you went back later."
"I didn't return as a student. I was hired as the school's crossing guard.
"I used to look at the children in that school, many who didn't want to be there, and wonder how they could take their education for granted. None of them seemed to understand how lucky they were, what a great opportunity they were wasting."
"School didn't seem important to me at that age either," I said. "It's a mistake you only discover later."
He nodded, thought for a minute, then said, "From my low position wearing my silly uniform, I decided to do something about it. Two years later, I ran for the Haven Park School Board. Won in a landslide. Six years after that, head of Haven Park's Public Works Department, then I ran Public Housing. Now I run the whole shebang." He focused his powerful personality at me. "So you see it's important to stay in school, even if you have to be the crossing guard."
"That's a good story." We both looked down at his amazing property and the twinkling lights of the city he controlled.
"Now that you've been here for a little while, what do you think of all this?" he asked, gesturing out at the distant towns below.
"Of Haven Park?" I asked, and he nodded. "I like it here. I'm also extremely grateful to you and to the police department for giving me a second chance. After my problems in L. A., you were the only one who reached out your hand, sir. I'll never forget you for it."
"I've observed that men often say they are grateful, but when an opportunity presents itself to return an important favor they develop short memories."
"Won't be a problem with me."
He appraised me carefully. "I know somethi
ng of you. I've been told you have some unique skills."
That remark certainly made it sound as if somebody had already listened to my Sammy from Miami tape. I was hoping he'd pursue this, but his mood suddenly changed again. The relentless smile temporarily disappeared as he laid a large hand that glittered with diamonds and gold on my shoulder.
"People say I'm a throwback. That I live forty years behind the times. They laugh at my preference for old music, at my love of sixties sports cars and the way I dress. What they don't understand is a man must paint a life much as he would a picture, choosing the colors carefully. I have chosen colors from a simpler time."
He retrieved his diamond-studded hand and continued. "Back then it was much easier to see the path. Today, there are conditions. We call it political correctness, but if you want my opinion, it's really just social guilt over having so much.
"In your own field of law enforcement, there is the confusing Police Discretionary Rule, which favors the criminal and causes many valid arrests to be thrown out in court. Or thcres the lunatic Miranda ruling. You must tell a criminal not to talk before you question him. In real estate its rent control and equal housing. Education has minority quotas. There's a ton of civil litigation crowding the courts that should be covered by common sense. It goes on and on. Forty years ago, none of this existed. This attempt to be all things to all people is destroying our great country. In Haven Park I'm setting the clock back to a simpler time."
I was thinking this guy was somewhere to the right of the Mississippi Klan, but what I said was, "It's gotten so a police officer has a better chance of going to jail than the criminals he's chasing."
He nodded and suddenly the smile flashed back on. We stood listening as another old song began to play. Cecil finally turned away from the view. "I might have a way for you to pay me back for this sense of gratitude you say you feel. If you agree to help me I would be willing to compensate you nicely. If you can accomplish what I want, you will become a respected part of my inner circle. If you fail, you will fall much further than you did two weeks ago in L. A. This favor includes some inherent but I think manageable risksInterested?"
On the Grind (2009) Page 12
