by Fante, Dan
When he opened the front door I saw that he was well over six feet and in his late fifties with a belly that might easily contain a fifty-pound sandbag. He wore the Southern California regional uniform: a Lakers T-shirt, a red baseball cap, and khaki shorts above his Nikes.
“Carr sent me,” I said, after he eyed me up and down.
“Yeah. Who’s Carr?”
I produced my cell phone with the printout of Carr’s private phone number. It was the signal Carr had told me to use with Mendoza. “This is Carr.”
“You Fiorella?”
“I’m here to do some business.”
Mendoza smiled. “Follow me. Business is what I do.”
INSIDE, THE FLOOR was bare wood and uncarpeted. His living room walls were picture-less except for a tall framed print of two-gun Bat Masterson over the fireplace. The old photo had a brass nametag below it. Old Bat was apparently not having a good day when this photo portrait was made.
The only furniture in the place was a widescreen TV and a large L-shaped velour brown couch.
On the coffee table were beer cans and two empty pizza boxes.
Mendoza glanced at me and sensed that I was checking his place out. He sneered. “Wife packed up and took the kids six months ago. I’m a bachelor now. It’s all good, friend.”
“If you say so,” I said.
But I didn’t like the setup. I didn’t like this fat, smiling, ex-cop fuck. I didn’t like a nearly vacant house in a neighborhood full of foreclosed homes and the lack of concern for his sideline. I didn’t trust what I was seeing. But I did trust Carr, who had never steered me wrong in the past. I decided it was best just to go along and then get my ass down the road.
Mendoza led me to the door to the garage and we stepped down and inside.
It was wall-to-wall guns. Easily 500K worth of weaponry. The room was spotlessly clean and everything was displayed and in neat order. The line of windows on the far wall were covered by thick black curtains, as were the garage door windows. The A/C kept the room temperature to under seventy degrees.
I began to feel better. Maybe this guy’s slob act was for the folks at the supermarket, the Little League field, and the barbecue pit. Apparently Mendoza was a pro. For sure the place was vulnerable, but he knew his stuff. I had to assume that vulnerable worked okay in Canyon Country.
He motioned me to a large, wide stainless steel center table that contained handguns. It was covered by clear plastic sheeting. There were at least a hundred handguns, all in rows. Three Ruger LCPs, two S&W Airweight J-Frames, an S&W Bodyguard .380, a KelTec .380/.32, half a dozen Glocks, the 26/27s, and at least that many SIGs, and several 3-inch 1911s of various brands, a Beretta PX4, and a 93R with a 20-round magazine, a Springfield XD, and an array of Taurus small-frame revolvers, a Desert Eagle, and a Ruger MKIII, among others.
On the side table was a Tch 9, a Russian Stechkin APS, a Steyr TMP, an HK VP70, a 1908 Colt .25, a stainless S&W .357 (new in the box), a Taurus .25, a Hellcat .380, and some older-model Glocks.
I could feel myself reacting against the temperature difference from outside the garage. Mendoza smiled and picked up a SIG, then ejected the magazine. He handed the piece to me. “I like to keep it cool in here,” he said.
I checked the action on the gun. It was a righteous piece.
“Clean,” he said, repeating my thought. “One hundred percent. That one was originally sold in South America, then shipped to Mexico. Completely untraceable in the U.S. It belonged to a newspaper guy from the Netherlands. Over the last ten years, six hundred newspaper guys have been capped in Mexico by the cartel. My guy got it secondhand after the newsie guy got iced in a Mexico City hotel lobby. Broad daylight. The newsie guy never even fired the piece. He took two in the face. My guy picked it up later from the detective who worked the scene.”
“How much?” I said.
“I’ll make you a good deal. Carr pays wholesale and we do a decent amount of business together. He told me that you are definitely old-school and someone I should get to know.”
As Mendoza was talking my eyes drifted to the other table. I stepped over and picked up the Beretta 93R hooked up with the twenty-round magazine. “Look, I’m thinking firepower,” I said. “What’s my price on this?”
Mendoza smiled. “That’s my last one. I sold his brother a week ago. Nice gun. Originally obtained in a home-invasion situation in the Carson City, Nevada, area. Totally clean, of course. Just touch the trigger and you get three-, four-, or five-round bursts.”
“I know the gun,” I said. “I’m not much of a shot and I don’t like to miss. I’ll take the 93R. And I want two boxes of hollow points too.”
“For the man who doesn’t want any mistakes.”
“That’s me,” I said, fingering the action, “no mistakes.”
“Whatever you hit with this will go down and not get up.”
“That’s the idea. So, how much?”
“Thirty-five hundred. No haggling. That’s Carr’s price. He asked me to take good care of you so that’s what I’m doing. Final price. Cash, of course. Take it or leave it.”
“Deal,” I said, “I’ll take it.” I dug in my pocket and counted out the money, then handed it across to him.
Mendoza spread the bills out in stacks on a metal work-room table behind him, then made a big deal out of recounting the bills, then picking them up and restacking them, reminding me of a slow-witted bank teller.
“Signed, sealed, and delivered,” he said finally.
He deftly disassembled the Beretta, then placed the sections in a thick brown chamois bag with leather thong tie ends. He then slid the bag and the ammo boxes into a neatly folded and doubled supermarket shopping bag. “You’ve got my number,” he said. “If you need anything else, I’m here.”
“I’ll remember that,” I said.
I began heading toward the door to the house with my shopping bag in my hand, pausing to wait for Mendoza. “Look,” he said from behind me, “Carr tells me you’re good. He says you’re very good, but that you work alone.”
“He’s right. I do work alone.”
“Well, here’s something to remember: If you need anything else—anything else at all—keep my number. And bear in mind that I’ve got a roster of trained guys who all qualify, mostly ex-lawmen, with one or two retired feds. All solid guys. All ready to move with one phone call from me. You can have one man or a team.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
Now Mendoza was smiling. His big body filled the door frame. “You know, you don’t look like such a hard guy. I’ve met ’em all over the years. You’re not what Carr described. You don’t seem like such a—a badass. You seem pretty low key, but you’re edgy too. I can feel your edge.”
I smiled back at the gun dealer. “I’ve been told that more than once,” I said.
“So how do you keep that edge?”
“You don’t want to know, Mendoza. Just leave it there, okay?”
“Whatever you say.”
EIGHTEEN
Later that afternoon, back in Santa Monica, I stopped at the Goodwill thrift store on Santa Monica Boulevard and bought two used pairs of pants and four shirts, underwear, and a rainproof black hooded jacket. The total cost was thirty-eight dollars.
At the Walgreens on Wilshire and Fourteenth Street, I picked up some disposable razors and a toothbrush. My new residence, from today on, was Woody’s car.
THE NEXT MORNING, after parking the Honda nearby in the big parking lot adjacent to the boat slips in Marina del Rey, with three one-dollar bills in my hand I joined the line of guys outside the shower facilities at the Marina Yacht Club. These guys, half of them in bathrobes and carrying shaving kits, all owned or lived on boats moored in rented slips at the marina—boats without bathing facilities on board. An AA guy I knew who’d lived on his boat illegally for severa
l years had put me on to the idea months before.
After I’d showered and dressed, I stopped at Starbucks for coffee and a sugar fix, then drove the Honda to Sherman Toyota on Santa Monica Boulevard. I parked a block away, using my Handicapped placard at the one-hour meter, then walked back to the dealership’s showroom.
Fernando saw me come in and walked up to me. “¿Que paso, hombre?” he whispered out of earshot of the other salespeople.
“I’m here to get paid.”
“Majn, tso sorree to hejr abou Woodee. He was a goo guy. I deen know hijm real goo but I liked hijm.”
“Thanks. Yeah, tough break,” I said.
Fernando handed me his Sherman Toyota business card that had his cell number written on the back. “Jou call me, meester badass. We go to ga drunk, ho-kay?”
“I’ll call you,” I said.
Vikki was next, sitting in her cubicle wearing heels, a tight maroon sweater and skirt. The perfect L.A. used-car sales associate. Sheeba Perry, in her civil-service-looking dark suit, was sitting on the corner of Vikki’s desk, a coffee cup in her hand.
I walked over and said hi to them both.
Sheeba took the hint, got up, rolled her eyes at us, then walked away with her coffee cup.
Looking down at Vikki, I whispered, “Sooo, did you miss me? I’ve been thinking a lot about our little auto adventure.”
“Keep it up, mister poet-detective. You’ll get yours.”
“Again? Sooner than later, I hope.”
“I’d like that. I’d like that very much.”
I wrote my new cell number without my name on the back of one of her business cards from the holder on her desk, then pushed it to her across the desktop. It was a test. A way to find out who Vikki really might be. The risk was worth it. “That’s a new number,” I said. “Make sure no one sees it or uses it but you. Okay?”
“Your privacy is safe with me, Fiorella,” Vikki cooed.
I was on my way to Max’s office when Sheeba Perry stepped in front of me, holding a Sienna brochure. She was smiling slyly. She nodded in the direction of Vikki’s cubicle. “So, Fiorella, you been tappin’ that ass, right? Vikki’s a class act, right?”
I winked at Sheeba. “Are you moonlighting in the Sherman Toyota gossip booth, lady?”
“Nah, just making observations—separating the players from the chumps.”
From twenty feet away, the door to Max’s office swung opened and he stuck his head out. “Step in here, please, Mr. Fiorella.”
I nodded good-bye to Sheeba and walked to Max’s office. Inside, with the door closed, Max reached into his desk drawer, then handed me an envelope. I tore it open and looked first at the amount of the check, then at the sales summary paper clipped to it.
“Four hundred and sixteen bucks!” I hissed. “What’s the deal here, Max? This check should be at least several hundred more, and you know it.”
“Two of your deals are pending finance. We had to go to an outside lender. You’ll get yours when we get ours,” he sneered. “So long, Fiorella.”
I turned to go, then changed my mind. I walked back to the side of his desk and faced Max, two feet away in his swivel chair. “Do you have something on your mind that you’d like to let me in on, Max? If you do, I’m standing right here.”
Max got up and folded his arms. He was a head taller than me and his Super Bowl ring and gold watchband glistened under the fluorescent lights. “I don’t like you,” he said. “You’re a loose cannon and a shit magnet. You brought stink into this dealership. Hiring you was my mistake. The Santa Monica detectives have been here twice asking about you.”
Then he rolled his eyes. “Know what, on second thought, I don’t want to see you back here again. I’ll have your next check, when it’s ready, mailed to you.”
I looked at Max for a long moment, the way I like to look at people I’m about to hurt. “I’m standing in front of you. I’m right here, Skippy,” I said. “If you’d like to try me, go right ahead. Do it now. But here’s a promise: if you do, you’ll be picking up your next check in the ICU. I’d actually enjoy busting you up. I enjoy hurting assholes.”
“Now you’re making threats! Get out, Fiorella, before I call the cops!”
“Hey, Max,” I said without moving, “maybe we’ll meet up sometime away from the dealership. Just sort of bump into each other somewhere. A surprise when you least expect it. I’m looking forward to that. I’ll keep that in mind.”
OUTSIDE, LEAVING THE dealership, walking to Woody’s Honda, I knew immediately that I was being watched. Picking up my paycheck and seeing Vikki again had been a calculated risk—a dumb-shit move. I should have enlisted Fernando to do it for me.
I walked quickly past the car and continued down the block, turning right when I got to Broadway. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted the beige Crown Vic behind me.
Just as I made the turn, a few feet away—off the corner—was a new building under construction. The lot was surrounded by a six-foot-high chain-link fence.
I scrambled up and over the fence quickly, then crossed to a stack of covered lumber and ducked behind it.
A second or two later, from behind the plastic tarp, I saw the beige Crown Vic roll through the intersection and turn right. Archer was behind the wheel and Taboo was sitting shotgun. They were looking in the direction of Bay Cities Deli across the street, not in my direction.
Instead of turning left at Lincoln, Archer hit his light, gave a brief blast from his honking siren, then cut off traffic and made a right.
I had to act fast. They’d be back soon enough.
I decided to take the chance on going back to get Woody’s car, hoping Taboo and Archer didn’t have a second unmarked as backup.
I was over the fence again and around the corner in less than ten seconds, with Woody’s car keys out and in my hand.
Getting into the Honda and turning my head ninety degrees, I saw nothing to worry about.
I fired the engine, then tapped the gas pedal, rolling slowly the half block toward Broadway.
In my rearview mirror I again saw the Crown Vic making the turn off Santa Monica Boulevard by the dealership.
I turned left on Broadway, then turned left again on Santa Monica, hoping that circling the block was the best way to evade them.
I got lucky. It worked. Seeing Vikki again and picking up my check had been clumsy. I wouldn’t make that mistake again.
NINETEEN
When the phone call came in from Carr, I was on the 405 Freeway headed toward Malibu, going the long way—on two freeways instead of the Coast Highway. It was a circuitous route but less obvious.
Carr’s news was a dead end. “I got the results back from your sock and the sample,” he said flatly. Prelim, of course.”
“Yeah, and . . . ”
“Male. Same person. No second party. I’ll have my guy hit the database next.”
I knew it had to have been Woody. “No,” I said. “Tell ’em to stop there.”
“Whatever. It’s your nickel, pal.”
“What about the other thing?” I asked. “The computer trace. I need to know who’s on me.”
“Not much to report. Whoever did the work was up on their shit. Dummy IPs and a spiderweb of dead ends. Whoever the dude is, my guy says it did not originate at any federal or local law-enforcement source. So it’s definitely a hacker. My guy feels like he was outsmarted and he doesn’t like it. He says he’s not giving up. He thinks he’s a better hacker than whoever’s on you. He told me he won’t quit until he has something solid.”
“Good,” I said. “I’m thinking there may be a direct connection between what I’m working on and that hacker. Tell your guy I said thanks, and to keep at it.”
“Will do,” Carr said. Then he barked, “Hey you owe me now! I did you a solid with Mendoza. I need five hundred more today.”
“I’ll wire you the money,” I said. “You’re covered.”
Then I hung up.
IT WAS FIFTEEN minutes before the start of the Point Dume AA meeting when I made it through the nine miles of Malibu Canyon to the Coast Highway. As a teenager two of my friends, under the influence of booze or drugs or both, had met their end on this road. Halfway through the canyon the turns become treacherous and it is almost three hundred feet to the bottom and a rocky grave.
Turning right at the Coast Highway I punched the Honda’s gas pedal.
I arrived a few minutes late to the meeting because the parking lot, that had spaces for about seventy-five cars, was uncharacteristically full. Driving up and down the rows of cars took additional time. Finally, at the very end of the lot—at the entrance/exit—I found a spot.
As I was getting out of the Honda, my cell buzzed. I didn’t recognize the number so I clicked the red Off button. Only two people had this number and the number on my phone’s printout was neither of those.
I was about to enter the room when I saw a guy everyone called Boxcar, a regular at the meeting. Boxcar was a big dude with long, dirty hair and dirty clothes that he changed once a month whether they needed washing or not. He’d grown up in Malibu as a surfer kid and now lived in a trailer at the rear of his parents’ property somewhere near Trancas Beach. Boxcar had done two tours in Vietnam at eighteen and had been trained as some kind of killing machine/explosives expert, but had lost his mind in the process behind heroin and alcohol and what he’d experienced in Southeast Asia. He’d been unemployable for years and was now a casualty of an uncaring VA system, collecting a grand a month for sacrificing his life and sanity for his country. The guy had been in and out of recovery homes and nut wards for over twenty-five years.
