by Bob Hamer
Then there was Halloween a few years back. Dressed up like Superman, he burglarized bedrooms as the owners were passing out candy at the front door to the kids of his confederates. They hit the gated communities in northwest San Fernando Valley and made a killing: jewelry, coin collections, even a flat screen TV. At one point the parents made the kids change costumes and revisit a house so Bobby could go back for a second helping. Another beer for the deceased!
Or the time he carjacked a neighbor's Volkswagen because he was late for a court appearance in Van Nuys. What made it especially humorous to the now drunk crowd, Bobby couldn't drive a stick. He learned in route grinding gears across the Valley. Jesse laughed the loudest on that story because Jesse ended up replacing the transmission and paying off the lady not to file charges. Lift your glasses to Bobby Himmler!
Matt could add a colorful story that might be worth a laugh but decided not to contribute the truth behind a tweeked-out runner and the broken ankle. And of course there is always the one about the exploding meth lab. Yeah, Bobby Himmler was a million laughs. He'll be missed.
As Matt learned that evening, Himmler may have been good for a felony a day. Check next year's crime stats; if the numbers are down, thank Bobby Himmler.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Even though Dwayne had a desk at the new JTTF off-site in the Valley, he spent hours each week at the FBI's main office in Westwood, the upscale Los Angeles community UCLA calls home. Matt and Dwayne sat on the empty patio of a Westwood coffee shop just a few blocks from the Federal Building. Matt reasoned not many Russian Veil patrons would be traipsing around L.A.'s coveted Westside so the relatively open meeting with Dwayne was safe.
Both were drinking iced tea, and Matt had one leg up on a third chair at the table explaining his encounter the previous night with the 5'6" sequoia stump.
"Andrew MacDonald?" said Dwayne.
"Yes."
"Green armbands?"
"Yes."
"The Northern Virginia Human Relations Council, you don't have a clue, do you?" asked Dwayne.
"What are you talking about?"
"I'm black and I know about it."
"About what?"
"The Turner Diaries. It's a novel written by William Pierce, the leader of the National Alliance. He used the pen name Andrew MacDonald. The book is about the overthrow of the government and ultimately the extermination of all Jews and minorities. The Order was an organization in the early eighties named after the group in the book. They murdered Alan Berg, a radio talk show host in Denver. Timothy McVeigh had a copy of the book in his possession when he was arrested. I guess you could say it's required reading for all right-wing nut jobs," said Dwayne.
"Maybe I should have done my homework. Can I borrow your copy?" said Matt with a smile.
"You think it's fatal?"
"They didn't pounce, and I walked out of there in one piece. I'll talk to Jesse. See if he brings it up. Maybe I can rehabilitate myself through him. I'm a criminal businessman not some fringe-type lunatic. I'll play it off that way. But I'm guessing Andrew MacDonald isn't Stump's real name. I'm not sure he can read, let alone write."
THE NEXT DAY MATT followed up on Jesse's signal to call him, and Jesse seemed open on the phone. The two set up a meeting for a late lunch.
Matt pulled into the back parking lot of the Chinese Gardens, the restaurant where he first met Bobby Himmler's cousin.
Matt walked in, held up two fingers, and took a seat in the rear.
The waitress did a slight bow and in broken English asked Matt if he wanted a drink. He ordered iced tea, and she quickly responded with a tall, presumably clean glass of sweet, lemon iced tea.
Matt watched the front door as he sipped on the sweet tea. Jesse seemed friendly enough on the phone, and Matt assumed if his cover were blown Jesse would have picked a less public place for a confrontation. Still the fear of exposure permeates the thinking of every undercover agent. The feeling nags at your inner core and never completely dissipates no matter how experienced or how familiar you are with the respective targets. But Matt knew if that inner fear ever left it might be time to quit because without it you lose your edge. Fear brings focus. Careless confidence can mean death.
Within a few minutes Jesse showed up and spotted Matt. He said something to the waitress as he walked in and joined Matt in the back.
Jesse greeted Matt with a hug, but Matt could feel Jesse's hand run down his back. He was checking for a wire or maybe a weapon. Too many B-movies Jesse, I don't carry there anymore.
"So what's the deal with you and your cousin?" asked Matt laughing. "White racists and the only place you want to meet is some Chinese restaurant that occasionally gets clearance from the health department."
Jesse smiled as the waitress brought his drink. Jesse held up his glass, "Best sweet, lemon iced tea in the Valley."
"That's what Bobby told me too."
"So what do you think?" asked Jesse.
"About the tea?"
"No, about the other night."
"Some decent-looking women, that's for sure, but this is L.A.; beautiful women are everywhere."
"What about Boris and the guys?"
"Felt somewhat like an outcast. I think a few of your friends are sporting felony records."
Jesse laughed. "An indictment is not a conviction, and I'm sure everyone who spent time away has been rehabbed."
Matt laughed as well. "I'm not sure they were all rehabilitated."
Jesse then came around to Stump. "Just a warning. Andy is a cautious man. He fears infiltration and is suspicious of all strangers. I'm not exactly sure what happened, but you didn't pass the test."
Matt explained the encounter without explaining he now understood The Turner Diaries reference.
Jesse gave a hearty laugh. "Andy pulls that Andrew MacDonald crap on everyone. Some people read the Bible in prison. Andy memorized The Turner Diaries. He thinks everyone who isn't familiar with the book can't be trusted and must be a cop. Andy is a true believer and one man you want on your side. He was the weight- lifting champ of Lompoc when he did a nickel on a gun-running charge."
"I guess if I was a cop, they would have made me read the book before they sent me in," said Matt.
"Makes sense to me. I'll clear it up with Andy. Don't worry."
Jesse took another long gulp of his tea as the waitress waited to refill his glass. Matt wanted Jesse to take the lead and sipped on his drink as well.
Jesse started to rise, "You ready to eat?"
The two headed to the buffet line where Jesse far exceeded the owner's expectations of consumption per customer. Jesse piled it on. He took the "all you can eat" advertising as a challenge. Matt moved through the line rather quickly and was seated when Jesse approached. The biker placed his plate on the table and returned for a second plate, filling it with every entrée he missed on the first trip.
As Jesse sat down to begin, Matt asked, "Did your doctor say you aren't getting enough MSG and cholesterol?"
Jesse merely smiled as he stuffed his face with everything Chinese. They ate in silence. Every effort at conversation was ignored by Himmler.
After devouring the food, Jesse foraged on a third trip through the line. Then he announced he was ready to discuss business. Before he asked a question, he belched without apology, and the strong smell of garlic lingered through Matt's answer.
"Yes, you can rent out a piece of the warehouse, assuming I have room. I move a lot of stuff in and out depending on what becomes available. Call me when you need it, and we'll see where we stand."
That was the only question Jesse asked, and he left, leaving Matt with the check. It could have been handled with a phone call. On the positive side Matt had an undercover meeting, he didn't die, and the cost of the lunch was picked up by the government. Little victori
es make a winning strategy.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
After the meeting with Jesse, Matt went to the warehouse. He had some trash he wanted to deposit in the wastebaskets to make the place look lived-in and current. It was a delicate balance . . . trashy chic. Every couple of days he did a garbage run.
Just as he punched in the security code, disarming the alarm, his cell phone rang. Matt spied the caller ID.
"What's up?" said Matt as he headed to his office.
"Good news, I guess," said Dwayne.
Matt grabbed a Pepsi from the refrigerator and plopped down at his desk. "The Queen Mother got orders to the Czech Republic."
"No, but the fire marshal finished his investigation, and the coroner's report came back."
"That was quick."
"The ADIC made a couple of calls. He's got more juice than I do."
"So what's the verdict?"
"The three victims as we suspected: Robert Himmler, Michael Donovan, and Tiffany Adams. Himmler and Donovan died from the meth lab explosion. Adams COD, a 9 mm to the head courtesy of the PSM Makarov found at the scene."
"And the shooter?" asked Matt.
"Still not sure. They couldn't pull prints off the gun, and it wasn't registered. But since Tiffany was Bobby's live-in, it makes more sense she was killed by Mickey."
"Unless there was some sort of love triangle no one knew about."
"If that's the case, it doesn't impact our investigation."
Matt ran his fingers through his hair as he leaned back in the chair. There was a long pause.
"Matt, you still there?"
"Yeah, I'm just thinking. Why the gun? It doesn't look like a drug deal gone bad. No one walked away with their life let alone money or drugs. Could Mickey have confronted Bobby over the cooperation issue? But how could he have known?"
"You met with Jesse. Did he have issues with you?"
"Not really. We even discussed using the warehouse. If there are rumors floating around about Bobby's cooperation, they haven't reached Jesse."
"We will keep poking around from our end. I've got Steve Barnett doing a full background on Mickey. As long as you're comfortable, I vote we continue to march. You seem to be solid with Jesse."
"I'm still good to go. I'm glad we didn't avoid the funeral until after the report. Thanks for backing me at the warehouse."
Trying to do his best imitation of Dionne Warwick, Dwayne sang, "That's what friends are for."
"You are so talented. Maybe I can get you a spot on karaoke night at the Russian Veil."
"What's going on there?"
"I'm heading over tonight."
"You gonna wear a wire?"
"Yeah, we won't get much of a recording. It's pretty noisy, but maybe I can sneak off in the corner with somebody. Never can tell when those admissions will come."
"You need cover?"
"No, I'll call you before I go in and after I come out. I've found a cover surveillance team usually causes more concerns than protection. I've been burned a few times. I'm not worried, at least not yet."
"Okay, your call."
"I do have one issue."
"What's that?" asked Dwayne.
"How do I expense the lap dances?"
Dwayne let out a huge laugh.
"No, I'm serious. I'm not sure I can stay in there all night without getting a dance. Bobby said it would be expected. He said the girls will be coming up to me, and I can't put them off all evening. The Queen Mother's never going to approve a straight line item 'lap dance.' How do I handle it?"
"Did you reveal this part of the assignment to Caitlin?"
"She doesn't know and I have no plans of telling her."
"I guess just put it under 'meals and entertainment.' But don't go hog wild on the debauchery."
"I'll be reasonable. Heck, maybe the Queen Mother doesn't even know what a lap dance is?"
"She can't be that stupid!"
"That's a bet I'm willing to take. Maybe I'll try to slip one through on a voucher, and we'll find out," said Matt.
"Just focus your innovative thinking on the task at hand."
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Matt parked on the street and headed east to the Russian Veil. Even from a hundred feet away he could hear the pulsating music. So much for getting a quality recording.
A new face stood at the door collecting the cover charge. Matt didn't recognize him from the funeral or the wake and hesitated before reaching into his pocket.
"If you're coming in, it's ten dollars. Otherwise move out of the way," said the doorman with a distinct Eastern European accent and lacking the social skills of a carnival barker.
He was at least 6'5" and weighed somewhere this side of a ton. As if his size wasn't memorable enough, the single eyebrow running across the Cro-Magnon dome made this an unforgettable face. If Matt were choosing sides, Face would be a number one draft pick. Matt handed him the ten dollar cover charge and hoped he did nothing to offend this guy. Bouncers can be so temperamental.
A red curtain was the only thing separating the sidewalk from sin, that and Face. Few who entered would leave with their soul intact. Matt was determined not to join the majority.
A crowd greeted the undercover agent as he pushed aside the curtain. The bar was packed two deep. It was a mix of outlaw bikers, blue-collar workers, and Eastern European refugees, probably Russian Mafia wannabes. Two girls were on the stage dancing, still dressed, but the song had just begun. Give it time. Along the far wall Matt spotted a half-dozen girls performing for individual customers, gyrating to the sounds of the music. He was looking for a familiar face. He spied Stump but thought better of engaging him in witty conversation about such classical pieces of literature as The Turner Diaries. Eventually Matt saw Jesse at the far end of the bar and elbowed his way through the crowd.
"Yo, you made it," hollered Jesse in an effort to be heard above the noise.
"Is it always this crowded?"
"Once a week Boris has a lap dance happy hour. When he sounds the gong, for one hour all lap dances are ten bucks. It rang about fifteen minutes ago. Give it another forty-five minutes and the place will clear out. These cheap idiots will go home to their wives and girlfriends. You wanna dance?"
"You're not my type," responded Matt with an impish grin.
Jesse looked confused at first then got it. "No, idiot, you want me to set you up with a girl? Some are really talented."
"I can tell. I bet most are classically trained."
"You'd be surprised. You want a beer?"
"Yeah, that sounds better."
Jesse hollered above the noise and was able to command the bartender's attention. He ordered two drafts. Matt noticed Jesse never paid for the drinks.
Each grabbed the frosted handle of a stein and toasted. Following Jesse's lead, Matt turned to watch the on-stage entertainment.
"Boris has quite an operation."
"Nothing slows the cash flow," said Jesse.
"What's your role in all this?"
Jesse didn't hesitate. "I provide the security."
"You mean you're not a paying customer?"
"Rule number one. I never pay for beer."
"What's rule number two?" asked Matt.
"As long as you're my partner, you never pay for beer."
"So now I'm your partner?"
"You were Bobby's partner and that makes you mine. I loved him. He had a rough life, and not too many people could stomach him. You must be a special person to have put up with him . . . or a cop."
Matt smiled. "Yeah, I'm part of a new reality-based TV show Cops and Strippers. It's on the Family Channel."
Jesse let out a belly laugh and toasted Matt a second time.
A tall, thin whi
te guy whose bathing habits would rival a deployed combat Marine made his way over and whispered into Jesse's ear.
"Yeah, I'll handle it," said Jesse. "Matt, you meet J. D. Pinney?"
"No."
Jesse introduced the two and instructed them to follow him as he headed to the back of the club.
"Wait here," said Jesse.
Jesse walked into the room without knocking. Matt heard a loud crash and within seconds Jesse was dragging some half-dressed guy by his long hair. Jesse opened the back door and threw the guy ten feet into the parking lot.
"No refunds and I never want to see you back here again."
"Another disgruntled customer?" asked Matt as Matt, J. D., and Jesse stepped out into parking lot.
"We got time limits. He exceeded his."
"Remind me to wear a watch," said Matt cracking a smile.
Jesse and J. D. both lit up cigarettes. Jesse offered one to Matt, who shook his head and said, "That'll stunt your growth."
"Now you sound like my mother."
The area at their feet was littered with cigarette butts and condom wrappers.
"I take it the back room is for more than just casual conversation?" asked Matt.
Jesse and J. D. smiled but said nothing while blowing streams of smoke toward the sky.
The aroma from the cigarettes was more like dirty socks than fine North Carolina-grown tobacco. "What are you guys smoking?" asked Matt.
"They're free," said Jesse.
"Free of what. Smells like day-old horse crap at the county fair."
"They're counterfeit. Every once in awhile Boris picks up some cases and gets rid of them at a deep discount."
"Even on the cheap I think I'd go genuine."
The two finished their smokes, and Jesse invited Matt back into the club. "Let's go see Boris."
