by Bill Sage
“Yeah.”
“That’s good,” Al said.
“He’s a tough guy. And I don’t know if I told you, he loves the stories about Detroit.”
“Those were fun times.”
“Yeah. Okay…”
Before hanging up, Al said, “Again, Ben, for the nth time, I owe you.”
“No, Al. All the shit you’ve done for me.”
“I still owe you.”
“But you’ve been helping me all the way back to high school. Mrs. Barkley…remember that?”
“Yeah. The ‘Stork.’ The tall, skinny principal.”
“I think she had the hots for you.”
“I wish you’d told me that when we were still in high school. I could’ve gotten you out of trouble forever.”
8
Irvine, California
1983
THE LAST TIME ROTH had to draw up a plan for one of his “operations” was five years ago. It was the hit on attorney Arnold Goldman, who’d been blackmailing Roth.
A month after Goldman “committed suicide,” Roth threw a small dinner party at Franco’s ristorante in Irvine. He wanted to mark the success of the hit and honor Lou Ziegler for his help in setting part of it up.
Franco put them in the private dining room, leading off from the bar. Although he’d done everything he could to make it feel larger and more comfortable, it was still too cramped for Hack.
Although Hack had known Jake since high school, he always felt uneasy around him.
The tension between them was no secret. Al knew Hack was Jake’s least favorite guy. Over the years, Al had seen how Jake would overreact if Hack said something that pissed him off. But thankfully, it never got physical. The most Jake would do was get in Hack’s face, scaring the crap out of him.
When Al asked Hack about it, he told him that Jake had always managed to control his temper. “But you don’t wanna take any chances,” Hack had said. “I mean, what if he didn’t?”
Al loved the times he spent with his old Detroit friends. Jake did too, but he only felt truly comfortable when he was alone with Al. He’d always felt that way, but it became more intense after their three years in the army.
Although Jake and Al never talked about it, Al thought he understood how Jake felt. He believed that all the things he and Al had done together had forged a special brotherhood.
Since the other guys hadn’t been there with them, Jake felt they hadn’t been tested like he and Al had. And to him, that was everything.
“I love those guys,” Jake had once told Al. “But they never showed they could measure up. Sorry, but that’s the way I look at it.”
When all the guys were seated around the long table, Al reminded them why they were there. “Keep in mind we’re here to thank and honor Lou. He came through for Jake and me. And for that, we’re forever grateful.”
Hearing what Al said, Ben slapped Lou’s back, and Jake nodded at him.
Lou Ziegler had been one of the first guys to join the old 12th Street Gang. After high school, when Al and Jake had joined the army, he’d bounced around between doing honest jobs and criminal activity. But he finally turned his life around and started a career in hotel security. Advancing quickly, he eventually rose to become the head of security at the Desert Sky Hotel in Palm Springs.
In the operation to whack Goldman, he set up Goldman’s hotel room and slipped Jake a passkey.
“All of us were in on the operation,” Al went on. “Except for Hack, who was in San Diego. And I know he wanted to be there.”
Taking a breath, Jake glanced at Al for a second. Jake’s face said it all—he was glad Hack hadn’t been there.
Hack said, “I don’t think Al wanted me to be there, anyway. I think he thought I’d drink the juice cocktail when Jake and Ben weren’t looking.”
Everyone laughed, including Jake. But when the laughter died down, Jake said, “That might have been a blessing.”
They all laughed again, especially Hack.
“But we’re here to honor our friend, Lou,” Al said, wanting to get back to the main reason for the dinner. “We look forward to paying you back for what you did for us.”
Lou said, “That’s not why I did it. It’s the friendship all of us have shared over the years. That’s always been the main factor for all of us.”
Al and Jake didn’t respond; they just sat there listening.
“There doesn’t have to be any payback,” Lou went on. “You and Jake know that. We all feel that way.”
He paused a few moments, taking a breath.
Then, looking straight at Jake, he said, “But the more I think about it… There’s this guy…a guy at work. I was just wondering…”
Laughing, they all swung around and stared at Jake, who was flashing a big smile. He’d always liked Lou.
After they’d knocked off the appetizers, the waiter brought in prime porterhouse steaks. They’d been charred on the grill then finished in the pizza oven. Al had asked Franco to order them a week ago. Franco didn’t want any reimbursement, but Al insisted.
“These are fantastic,” Lou said after taking a drink of beer.
“Not as good as 1968,” Jake came in. “That’s when Al and I celebrated his passing the bar. We ate steaks in a place in Beverly Hills. Remember, Al?”
“Those steaks will always have a special place in our hearts,” Al said. “But these are prime. Franco got ’em special for us.”
“And I wanna thank Al for shelling out the dough to buy the steaks,” Jake said.
Ben lifted his glass in the air. “To Al. Our friend and the brains of the 12th Street Gang.” They all joined in on the toast.
After another hour of eating and celebrating, they started getting ready to leave. “Hey, everyone hang on for a second,” Al said, holding his hand out.
Hack, who had gotten up, sat down again.
“If any of you are thinking of buying a house in Newport Beach, Linda’s father Ash said he’d give us a good deal.”
“I may look into it,” Ben said.
“And just so you guys know,” Al said, “he’s not bullshitting. He’s a generous guy. Ask Jake, he knows.”
Al was referring to a time when Jake was at Al’s house and he and Asher had been talking about different single-malt Scotches. Jake mentioned that he’d always wanted to taste Lagavulin Distillers Edition single-malt.
Months later, when Asher had heard that Jake would be visiting Al and Linda, he brought over a bottle and gave it to him.
“He’s a good man,” Jake chimed in. “He genuinely enjoys doing things for other people.”
9
Newport Beach
1988
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Roth was back in his courtroom. After calling the calendar, he took a short recess before hearing a motion to suppress evidence.
The defense attorney was attacking the search warrant, contending it was overly broad.
“It specified locations in the house that couldn’t possibly contain the items they were searching for,” he explained to Roth.
During his cross-examination of the detective, Roth’s clerk, Judy, slid a phone message across the bench. “It’s from Carlos,” she said under her breath.
“After this witness,” Roth advised the attorney, “we’ll take a short recess.”
“Yes, Your Honor. I have just a few more questions to ask.”
“Take your time.” You’d better not.
Half-listening to the cross-examination, Roth was sweating it out. Had Lopez spotted a stakeout car near his house? Or would he have to start from scratch again?
“But that wasn’t in the affidavit, was it, detective?” the attorney demanded.
“Yes, that’s correct,” the detective replied. “But it was incorporated by reference in the first sentence of the warrant. Look at page two of the exhibit.”
After 10 more minutes, the defense attorney finally asked his last question. Then Roth called a recess, hurried back to his chambers, shu
t the door, and called Lopez.
“Looks like there’s a car out there,” Lopez said. “A green Toyota, maybe 10-years old. I’m sure it’s a stakeout vehicle.”
“Finally, some good news.”
“It’s the break you’ve been waiting for.”
“Where’s it parked?”
“Across the street from your house, on the right as you walk out.”
“No one who lives down that way has a car like that.”
“No, not in your neighborhood,” Lopez said with laugh.
“Yeah, the people living there would make him sell it.”
Lopez laughed. Then he said, “There’s a guy sitting in there. Slumped in the passenger seat. He’s wearing a red DeWalt cap.”
“Nice disguise,” Al said, tongue-in-cheek.
“Yeah, he fooled me,” Lopez said, laughing. “I went up to the car, tapped on the window. He rolled it down. I asked him if he was ‘Frank’ from West Coast Landscape Company. He said he wasn’t.”
“Latino?”
“A gringo. In his late forties. I asked him if he lived around there, because if he did, I could give him a good price for doing his landscaping. He laughed and said, ‘I just like it down here. Looking at the ocean.’”
“What time?” Al asked.
“I saw him at nine and a little after eleven.”
“This is good news. No one’s gonna sit in his car for two hours.”
“I ran the plate, but it came back to a Ford. So, we have a stolen plate on the Toyota.”
“And you can’t trace the Toyota without knowing the VIN. But it’s probably stolen too.”
“When we get control of the car, I’ll run it.”
“That can go on the back burner for now. We got something much better. The asshole wearing the DeWalt cap.”
After talking for a few more minutes, they both hung up.
Roth poured himself a cup of coffee. Then, he called Ben.
“It’s on. Do it now.”
“Good,” Ben said in an eager voice. “I was hoping we could get it going.”
“A green, older Toyota. On the ocean side of the street. A guy in the passenger seat wearing a red DeWalt cap.”
“We’re ready. Be there in about an hour and a half.”
“Good.”
“I’ll call you, let you know how it went.”
Roth returned to the courtroom.
“Come to order,” Roth’s bailiff barked. “Court is now in session.”
“You may call your next witness,” Roth said to the defense attorney.
10
BEN DROVE HIS Suburban SUV to Newport Beach. Phil him followed in a beat-up 1972 Chevy. It had Bondo on the left front fender and a dented quarter panel.
After driving for more than an hour, they merged onto the 55 Freeway and headed toward Costa Mesa. Ten minutes later, Ben turned left and parked on the service road behind Newport Boulevard. Phil pulled into the space next to him.
Leaving the engine running, Phil jumped out of the Chevy and ran around to the passenger side. Ben slid in behind the wheel.
“Ready to be a kamikaze?” Ben asked, lightening up a Camel.
“You gotta know this is weird,” Phil answered, closing his door.
Ben got onto Newport Boulevard again and headed to the beach area where Al and Linda lived. A short while later, they were on Al’s street.
“Jeez, for a Detroit boy, Al’s doing pretty good,” Phil said.
“Yeah, if he’d played his cards right, he could’ve been like us and live in the stifling hot San Fernando Valley,” Ben said with a chuckle.
After a few moments, Phil said, “There it is on the right.”
Looking at the Toyota, Ben said, “Shit, there’s an SUV parked behind it.”
“Drive past it.”
Ben kept driving and made a left at the corner. He circled back and parked four cars behind the Toyota.
“We’ll wait here. See if that SUV leaves that spot.”
“If it doesn’t open up,” Phil said, “we’ll be forced to go to plan B.”
“Yeah, but that’s gonna make it more difficult. You know, the rest of the plan. How are we supposed to—”
“Al said to use our initiative on the rest.”
“Easy for him to say.”
A half hour later of utter boredom, Phil said, “I’m gonna get out, stretch a little.”
“No. Stay here. If he sees you now, that’ll screw up the rest of the plan.”
Nodding, Phil said, “Yeah, okay.”
After another hour of sitting in the car, smoking and shooting the bull, Phil suddenly turned to Ben and said, “Look, he’s getting out.”
Ben glanced over at the Toyota and saw the stakeout guy shut the door and stroll over the grass to a stairway leading down to the beach.
Tapping Phil’s arm, Ben nodded at the guy’s red cap.
“Yeah, he’s our man,” Phil said, agreeing.
After reaching the head of the stairs, the guy stood there for a while, gazing out at the harbor. Then, he stepped over to a nearby bench and sat down.
Ben said, “Look at this guy! He’s supposed to be staking out Al’s house and he’s taking in the sights, the boats going in and out.”
“Maybe we oughta go out and get him a beer.”
“Don’t forget a pillow and binoculars.”
Phil laughed, then said, “I hope that spot behind the Toyota doesn’t open up now. We want him in the car.”
“It’ll work with him out of it, but not as well.”
About ten minutes later, the stakeout guy got up and started making his way over to the street. On his way back, though, he stopped to talk to an older guy wearing an army cap. Ben and Phil couldn’t hear what they were saying.
Ben said, “This guy really cracks me up.”
“Yeah, it’s just a nice day at the beach for him.”
After a few minutes, the guy returned to the Toyota.
Now Ben and Phil were back to waiting for the car behind the stakeout guy to leave.
“You wanna do plan B?” Phil asked.
“We may have to.”
After waiting patiently for another half hour, Ben and Phil prayers were finally answered. A couple and their two small sons walked over to the Ford SUV parked behind the Toyota. They threw all their junk into the back, then brushed the sand off their feet and bathing suits.
While the dad was walking around to the driver’s door, the boys tore across the street and started running around on one of the home’s manicured lawn.
“Look at those assholes,” Ben said.
“These kids nowadays…no respect.”
After rounding up his screaming sons, the father got into the SUV and drove off.
Ben immediately started the Chevy and pulled into the street.
“Seat belt on?”
“Yeah.”
“All I gotta say is I hope this guy’s not an undercover cop or something.”
Phil chuckled. “This could quickly turn into a pile of crap.”
Swerving from side to side down the middle of the street, Ben crashed into the left rear of the Toyota.
The furious stakeout guy swung his door open and came stomping over to the Chevy.
“Look at this asshole,” Ben said, gesturing at the stakeout guy.
Then he quickly backed the Chevy into the curb and parked two or three feet behind the Toyota. Keeping an eye on the guy, Ben slowly opened his door, leaving the key in the ignition.
“Good, you remembered,” Phil whispered.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” the stakeout guy yelled as Ben was getting out. “How the hell could you hit my car? It was legally parked and close to the curb.”
“I can’t figure out what happened,” Ben said. “I don’t think I blanked out. I was just looking for a space to…”
“What are you talking about?” the guy screamed.
Ben just stared at him.
Phil got out and came around to t
he driver’s side. “Everyone okay?” he asked.
Ignoring him, the stakeout guy kept boring into Ben. “You’re drunk,” he said, jabbing his finger in his face.
“No, no, I’m not. I think you…you’re the guy who’s drunk.”
“You’re a moron. Let me see your insurance card.”
“Yeah…yeah, okay.” Ben stumbled around, putting his hand in his back pocket.
As Ben was fumbling for his wallet, the stakeout guy stood in front of him, shaking his head.
“I don’t want to stand out here,” Ben said. “Let’s get out of the middle of the street. Some guy could run into us.”
Hiding his smile, Phil quickly looked away.
Ben staggered over to the front of the Toyota, the stakeout guy close on his heels. Standing on the curb, Ben finally pulled out his wallet. Then he rummaged through it, looking for his insurance card.
“What’s your goddamn problem?” the guy demanded.
“I don’t feel so good,” Ben said. Then he sat down on the curb. “I got it in here somewhere.”
The stakeout guy slid the brim of his cap down just above his eyes. Then with his hands on his hips, he shot Ben a vicious stare. “You sure you got insurance?”
“Yeah. Whaddaya think, I’d drive without it?”
Some people returning to their cars glanced at them as they walked by.
One man stopped. “You guys okay?”
The stakeout guy said, “Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine.”
“I can call the police if you want.”
Unable to restrain himself, Ben said, “Yeah, do that. We need to make a report.”
“No, no, we don’t need the cops right now,” the stakeout guy insisted. “I’ll take care of that later.”
Laughing to himself, Ben quickly glanced back at Phil to see if he was following their plan.
Good, he’s doing it.
11
CROUCHING BEHIND the Toyota, Phil was making it look like he was examining the damage to the car. After running his hand over the left quarter panel, he shouted out, “Not too much damage here.”
The stakeout guy peered over at Phil to see what he was up to then returned to confronting Ben. Still rummaging through his wallet, Ben said, “I know it’s in here somewhere.”
