by Bob Hamer
Jesse knocked on the closed door to Boris's office. Then heard, "Come."
Boris's office was large and well decorated. In contrast to the bar, it was clean, almost compulsively clean and orderly. The chairs were black Corinthian leather, the desk solid cherry. Black and white photos of Russia expensively framed adorned the far wall. The near wall had six video monitors. There was coverage of the bar and the main floor. The hallway leading to the back rooms was also monitored. Matt's suspicions of prostitution being a viable part of the business plan were confirmed as he watched a man with one arm draped over a dancer walk into a back room. He was in a hurry and obviously didn't want to exceed his time limit.
"Jesse talked to you about using your warehouse," said Boris.
"That he did," said Matt eye-balling the hub of the operation.
"I'd like to come over and take a look someday soon."
"Anytime. As long as I have room you can rent space. It's secure and discreet. There are cars, trucks, and containers going through the complex all day so any traffic looks routine. It's pretty quiet at night so you have to take that into consideration. The best I can tell, LAPD patrols twice a night. I've stayed late many times waiting for deliveries. I'll see a black-and-white maybe once during the evening and maybe once between midnight and six."
"You've never had a problem?"
"Never. And just so we're clear, I'm not interested in moving drugs through there. Drugs bring too much heat, and those Feds start throwing around the forfeiture statutes. Even if they can't prove anything, they can break up a business in a hurry."
"You have my word. I'm not interested in drugs."
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Matt pulled up to the Westwood coffee shop. Dwayne was waiting on the patio drinking a cup of coffee. As Matt passed the waitress, he ordered and joined Dwayne at the table.
"How'd it go last night?"
"Not bad for the first time."
"Do I need to sign off on a few lap dances?"
"No, I got out of there with my virginity."
Matt explained what he observed inside the club, and both agreed the probable cause was too weak to even begin thinking of planting a microphone in Boris's office or tapping the phones. Then Matt mentioned the counterfeit cigarettes.
"That's interesting. Boris has counterfeits. I guess it makes sense. Based on all our intel, he is into just about everything," said Dwayne.
"We may be able to exploit the cigarette connection."
"How?"
Matt leaned in a little closer. "Last year after we finished up the investigation at World Angel Ministry, I briefed security personnel from Philip Morris, R. J. Reynolds, and JTI. They were interested in the counterfeit cigarette aspect of the case. Apparently they have sued a lot of retail outlets for selling the fakes. They have also cut off distribution of legit cigarettes to those outlets caught selling counterfeits. That seems to have a bigger impact on the illegal sales than enforcement efforts by ATF or the State Franchise Tax Board."
"Makes sense. A fine isn't much of an incentive when the profits are so great, but cutting off a legitimate source of supply might really impact business."
"The guys from JTI said they could give us a good price on cigarettes if we ever needed them as part of a sting."
"What do they distribute in the United States?"
"Their big three are Mild Seven, Export A, and Wave."
"I don't think your biker buddies would be caught dead lighting up a Mild Seven," said Dwayne.
"I know it's not Marlboros or Camels, but Export A is high end. Might class up the club. Besides as cheap as these guys are, I could probably pass off Virginia Slims with the right back story. If I could pick up fifty to a hundred master cases from JTI, I would tell Boris they're stolen, and it might give me an in."
"Sounds like a plan. Go ahead and reach out for them. Let me know if you need anything from me."
"I'll make the call," said Matt.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Matt sat on the wooden bench next to the wall. Gallo's Gym was like a second home. He worked out every morning but looked forward to the two or three times a week he could climb into the ring and test his amateur skills with professional boxers possessing world-class efficiency. The bumper-sticker slogans were wrong; violence sometimes is the answer. Although outside the ropes those who follow the rules often lose. The ring taught Matt the skills and discipline to survive the streets.
He still maintained an element of secrecy at the gym. Only the owner, Rock Gallo, a Marine veteran from Korea, knew Matt's real occupation. No one else asked or seemed to care. The gym wasn't a place to socialize. It was home to real boxers with real skills and a real determination to make it in the world inside the ring. It was survival of the fittest. No socialism, no equality, no affirmative action. If you won, you progressed. If you lost too often, you looked for other work. The only thing the other boxers knew about Matt was he was willing to climb into the ring with anyone, could take a beating, and often dish one out. He was respected, and in the gym only that mattered.
As he wrapped his hands, he was watching Fernando Perez, a light heavyweight from Panama. Perez was lighting up the boxing world. He was 15-0 with a half-dozen knockouts. His hands were lightning fast, and he had a powerful right cross capable of turning protruding chins into mush. Matt had been on the wrong end of a few of those right crosses so he understood firsthand the power behind the punch. The lesson was an easy one; keep the hands high and close to the face.
The sounds of the gym were unique: the whine of the ropes, the patter of feet as the boxers danced, the rhythm of speed bags, and the clang of a recently installed bell at three-minute intervals. Matt walked to an empty peanut bag and joined the symphonic overture. He really could make the bag sing, and it was one place his mind seemed to relax. Despite what most administrators and even many street agents believed, undercover work wasn't something gun-toting actors turned on only when the surveillance tapes were rolling. There were no tranquil seas, only crashing surf. Undercover work was a 24/7 mind-set, and it seemed as if every waking hour was spent trying to concoct that next scenario. When Matt was at Gallo's, the UC world was somewhere beyond the walls of a smelly, noisy gym.
Matt worked the speed bag, the heavy bag, skipped rope, did a zillion crunches but never climbed in the ring. Rock was working with Fernando for an upcoming HBO fight in Las Vegas, and all the attention was centered on the Panamanian's preparation. Even though Rock turned eighty earlier in the year, his mind was quick and alert. As far as Matt was concerned, Rock had the most analytical boxing eye of anyone he knew. He could spot an opponent's weakness better than anyone in the game.
Rock climbed out of the ring as Matt was finishing his workout.
"How you doin', kid?" said Rock.
"I'm doing great. How's he doing? You got him ready for next week?"
"He's money in the bank."
"You got the other guy sized up?"
"It won't go three. It amazes me why no one picked up on it yet."
"Oh, here it comes," said Matt. "You found the weakness."
"Yep, I found the weakness, and Fernando is going to exploit it right to a title shot. He may be an under card next week, but by the end of the year, he'll be battling for the belt and headlining an HBO special."
"You're that sure?"
"Matt, you've seen this kid work. You've taken a few standing eight-counts. He's got the fastest hands I've ever seen. Watch the fight next week. Everyone thinks this kid from New Jersey, they call him The Beast, is the next champ. He's already been crowned. Our fight is just supposed to be a warm-up for his title. Well, they're wrong. Atlantic City has the same pattern once he gets into a rhythm; three left jabs, a right cross, and then he drops his left to go to the body leaving the chin wide open. Every time. He starts it late in
the second round and always by the third. He's strong, and he gets away with it because no one has been willing to work within his wing span. Fernando's gonna play with him, and then by the third the Great White Hope will be joining the ranks of the once-weres."
"I better get my money down."
"It's safer than t-bills."
"Thanks, Rock," said a smiling Matt. Hollering up to Fernando, Matt said, "Feast on The Beast in Vegas!"
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
I'll bring you a carton, but I'm not hauling around a bunch of cases of hot cigarettes in my car," said Matt.
"What kind of salesman doesn't offer free delivery?" said Jesse.
"The kind that's moving stolen merchandise. Why don't you and Boris come over here and take a look at the product. I've got a hundred cases in my warehouse. I'll give you a good price, but I don't plan on keeping them around for long. I've got some Iraqi in San Diego who may be driving up tomorrow. He'll buy the whole lot so if you and your Russian sidekick are interested you better get over here today."
"Let me check with him, and I'll get back to you. Do they have tax stamps?"
"Of course, I'm full service."
"Sounds good."
Matt hung up the phone assuming the ruse worked and Jesse and Boris would be guests at the warehouse before the afternoon was up. The refrigerator was stocked and the snacks were fresh. He threw a day-old paper in the trash just to make it seem as though Matt frequented the place daily. He stirred up the dust but never wanted it to look too clean. It was a warehouse, not Martha Stewart's living room. Being the ever gracious host, Matt even put toilet paper in the john. At least initially he wanted to impress his visitors. He could screw with them later.
In the warehouse at the far wall, Matt stacked one hundred master cases of Export A. Each case had fifty cartons. Matt was trying to concoct a plausible story as to how he obtained the cigarettes. He probably would use the gastronomical approach; whatever gut feeling he had at the time he divulged his scenario would be the correct answer. As long as he kept the story straight, it wouldn't matter to Jesse or Boris. In fact they might not even ask. Besides, why would he even reveal his source? The cigarettes are genuine, the tax stamps real, and the price is well below wholesale. They are going to buy them regardless of the story he tells.
His cell phone rang and he answered, "When you coming over?"
"How'd you know we were coming?" asked Jesse.
"Because Boris strikes me as an extremely smart entrepreneur, and only an idiot or a moral man would pass up this bargain. Boris is neither. When are you coming over?"
"We're leaving now."
Matt walked into the hallway, flipped the middle light switch quickly three times, and the file cabinet slid to the left. He entered the small room, turned on the recording equipment, checked to make sure it was working, and left.
About ten minutes later as he was sitting in his office, sipping a Pepsi, he peered out the window. A black Cadillac Escalade with smoked-out side windows and chrome dubs pulled into the lot. Why don't you just stencil "mobster mobile" on the side panels?
Matt let Jesse knock a couple of times before he unlocked the front door.
"Sorry, I was on the phone with my guy in San Diego."
Boris and Jesse entered. The reception area was simple and uninviting. A worn couch and chair, poor lighting, and dust greeted the guests.
"Glad you guys could make it. Come on in my office."
Matt ushered them in and offered them a drink. Seeing Matt had a Pepsi on his desk, Jesse asked for a Pepsi. Boris wanted a Diet.
"So what do you have for me?" asked Boris.
"No small talk. No 'how about them Dodgers?' Come on Boris. We hardly know each other," said Matt smiling.
"You want me to explain the marginal propensity to consume?" said Boris.
"Matt, Boris is a busy man. I told him you had a great deal on cigarettes. He's interested. That's all you have to know," said Jesse.
Matt continued to smile, an almost wicked smile if you knew the undercover agent. He pulled a package of Export A from the desk drawer and tossed it to Boris. "Fair enough. I've got one hundred master cases, fifty cartons to a case sitting in my warehouse. I'm looking to move them quickly. Make me an offer."
Boris examined the pack and sniffed the outside.
"They're genuine, my friend. Made from the finest reconstituted sheet tobacco, not those dirty socks from North Korea Jesse was smoking the other night."
"You know a lot about cigarettes."
"I read."
"Does each pack have the tax stamp?"
"Like I said, these are genuine all the way. Tax stamps on every pack. I even threw in the Surgeon General's warning label just to impress you."
"How did you come across these?" asked Boris.
"Oh, now we are beyond the traditional price of the product. The name of my source will cost you extra. Just know you won't find a better product at a better price unless somehow your crew is working the same truck stop as my connection."
"Very well. Let's take a look."
The three walked into the warehouse.
"It seems empty. Not a good use of your resources," said Boris.
"It's available when I need it. Right now my suppliers are on hiatus. But that could change with a phone call."
As they walked over to the master cases, Boris asked questions about the warehouse setup. He examined the boxes and within seconds made up his mind. "I am satisfied. Besides, now we know where you live. I know there will be no problems with the transaction or the guarantee."
"As long as your money is green, we won't have a problem. As to a guarantee, the cigarettes are genuine and stolen. That much I can guarantee. Once you take delivery, I have no idea what you or anyone else is talking about, assuming I'm asked."
Now it was Boris's turn to smile. "Let's return to your office and negotiate a fair price."
"My thoughts exactly."
MATT WATCHED THE BLACK Escalade pull from the parking lot and punched in a familiar number on his cell phone. "Elvis has left the building."
"Are you clear?" asked Dwayne.
"Yep, they just left. I made a sale."
"Great. You make a profit?"
"What do you care? I get to pocket the excess, right? They're sending a truck over at five to pick up fifty cases."
"Why didn't you sell him everything?"
"I told him I promised some cases to a guy in San Diego who has helped me in the past. This just makes me more desirable. We bought some major credibility with this. He kept eyeing the warehouse and asked a lot of questions about capacity, security, and access."
"You want me to contact SOG and take them away tonight."
The Special Operations Group, or SOG as it is known in FBI parlance, consists of several six-man surveillance teams. They are professional, discreet, and well respected within the Bureau.
"No, not this time. I don't really care what they do with the cigarettes. I would hate to get burned our first time out."
"Okay, it's your call."
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Although Matt was hoping to get home at a reasonable hour for dinner, he agreed to wait at the warehouse until the truck arrived. He told Boris to have his men there by five, but it was already five thirty and still no truck. Matt picked up the phone and started to punch in Boris's number when he spied a U-Haul pull into the parking lot.
Matt ran outside and directed Stump to the warehouse entrance in the alley.
"Sorry, I'm late," said Stump from the cab of the truck after pulling into the warehouse. It sounded like a genuine apology.
"You're fine. I didn't have much going tonight anyway. Had the game on and was watching it when I saw you pull up. Where's your green armband?" asked Matt.
Stump said nothing but allowed a smile.
Matt pointed to the cases of cigarettes. "Just back the truck over there. We'll get 'em loaded pretty quickly."
Stump maneuvered the vehicle around the warehouse into position and stopped when Matt signaled. As Stump jumped from the cab, Matt opened the rear doors to the truck.
"I expected you to bring some help," said Matt.
"I guess the Bear figured it was only fifty cases and I could load them myself."
"The Bear. I assume that is a term of endearment for Boris."
Stump smiled, "You're using college words on me. Yeah, endearment, as long as that's not some gay thing. It's what I call Boris."
"To his face?"
"Sometimes. He doesn't mind. I just have to smile when I say it."
Stump removed his wife beater T-shirt, and Matt was faced with a human canvas displaying the work of some of California's most prominent prison artisans. Even to an accomplished undercover agent, prison tats were intimidating. Matt didn't view them as a badge of honor like a Silver Star or Purple Heart, more like an advanced degree in criminality, a red-flag warning.
"Who does your work?"
Stump smiled, "The AB."
"All of that done while you were away?"
"Who says I went anywhere?"
Matt laughed out loud. "I may not be up on the latest edition of The Turner Diaries, but I'm not stupid. I don't have a hundred cases of stolen cigarettes in my warehouse because the local Boy Scout troop was unable to sell them at their latest fund-raiser. Besides, someone mentioned the other night you were the weightlifting champ at Lompoc. I assume they weren't referring to the city's annual flower festival."
Stump nodded, "I was away for awhile."
Matt and Stump began to load the cases into the truck. They talked as they worked.
"You from Los Angeles originally?" asked Matt.
