by Andy King
CeCe Dias adjusted her headset. She lifted a handful of wavy, golden tresses with her thumb, smoothed them back over the earpiece and tapped the blinking button for line two. Her voice was honeyed and warm.
“Vincente, old friend.”
“Carmelita, mi querida.”
“Here’s what we should do, tío. You make the final decision ‘cause you’re there, but if possible, let’s shoot for August.”
“Then August it will be.” CeCe paced, gazing down Wilshire Boulevard’s Miracle Mile district, traffic snarled as far as she could see.
“It would be best but it’s your decision,” she said. He began a lengthy response. She cut in.
“Just tell me if you need anything. We still have about four hundred thousand in the budget.” At the desk, she lifted a tiny Lenox cup and took a sip.
“This is good,” Vincente said. “My numbers match. Just to make sure, my share—”
“Of course. Your bonus is half of the remaining budget as we agreed. But do not skimp on nutrients, this crop has to be primo.”
“It will be so.”
She smiled sweetly. “Gracias, amigo.” She tapped the line off, removed the headset and slipped it into the charging holster.
CeCe closed her eyes, thankful for her father’s vision. Under cover of a licensed Colorado marijuana growing operation, Vincente was cultivating a richer crop, coca.
He was convinced that this year the ranch would yield a stock rivaling the finest Bolivian, Peruvian or Colombian product. Becoming a source instead of a distributor would be highly profitable and cut down on risk. She looked at a dark-haired man.
“Anything from the IRS attorney?”
“He doesn’t want to talk to me, just you,” he said. She stood tall at the penthouse window, commanding herself to be calm. Her mind followed her gaze over rooftops.
In a few short years, she’d built an empire. When her father and four other men—The Five—were assassinated, she seized power. Hesitation meant death. Their rivals would have wiped out the cartel had someone not taken control.
“Tomorrow, Ernie.”
“You sure?”
“Seven a.m., but yeah. Goin’ to mamacita’s, then back here. It’s all crap I gotta do, we’re done. Seven, OK?”
“You got it, Ceece.” His eyes lingered but she ignored him.
Business first, then family, then fun, in that order. It took a guy at least six four to handle her, anyway. Ernie Soto shut down his computer and left.
CeCe scrolled through messages. Jen, call her on the way to Mama’s. Who’s this? A Pasadena exchange, that IRS lawyer, Shapiro, again? She grabbed her briefcase and phone, punched the security code and slammed the door, late as usual and Mama would love her anyway, as usual.
In her Land Rover she tapped Recent Calls, ignoring the attorney. Touch base with Jen, call him later. She pressed a headset and picked up a disposable cell phone.
“Hi, babe.”
“You’re such a sultry bitch.” She smiled at Jen’s reply. The girl loved her, for sure.
“Heard you’re investigating something,” CeCe said.
“Checking up on me?”
“You know the game.”
“I’m nervous, Ceece.”
“It’s OK, nothing’s gonna go wrong. You’re the smart one, you’ll do fine.”
“No you, well maybe a little,” Jen said, a cat being stroked. “I’m writing up the murder.”
“Good, we gotta talk about the next one.”
“Ceece, it’s too soon!”
“Listen baby, he used to be a big-time dealer. Nobody’s gonna miss him, the cops won’t care.”
“You sure?”
“Trust me, honey. Look, I’m almost to Mama’s. It’s just you writing the reports?”
“Yeah, babe.”
“Do what you can. Long as McKuen and Reneaux are nervous about cops, they won’t be thinking about anything else. Gotta go, kisses.” She made a smooching sound, gave Jen a second to reply and ended the call.
Two years of planning and still on track. The subjects appeared to suspect nothing. Six months of surveillance, and their movements were still routine. She licked her lips. Just a couple more weeks, finesse the timing. It’ll come together.
_____
Mama loved it when the girls were both there for dinner. It was nice enough for BeBe until CeCe cornered her. Eyes full of sisterly love, Cee asked if they could talk privately.
BeBe’s jaw tightened. The voicemail. Cee wanted something. They climbed the stairs.
“Sorry I didn’t call you back the other day, Cee.”
“It’s OK.” They reached their old bedroom. “In person is better.” CeCe closed the door.
“I love you, Bee.” She put her arm through BeBe’s and nuzzled her cheek. Cherishing it, BeBe couldn’t pull away.
“I love you too, Cee, but you want something.” CeCe let her arm fall and moved to the window. She looked toward the cemetery, then at BeBe.
“It’s no big deal,” she said. “If you can help, great.” BeBe sat on the bed. She tried on a hopeful expression, a half-smile.
“I know you’re with LA County,” CeCe said. “You don’t have Federal connections, but maybe you know somebody.”
She pulled one side of her mouth down. “Maybe you know a guy who knows a guy, huh?”
BeBe couldn’t help it. She cracked a grin. “You’re talking about the IRS, right?”
CeCe sighed. “Yes, our lovely Internal Revenue Service.”
She grinned back, and twirled a pirouette, but the room was too small for the big woman’s ballet maneuver. She touched the ceiling for balance, and fell on the bed next to BeBe, laughing. Then she pushed herself up, stepped back to the window and struck a dramatic pose, arms folded, legs apart.
BeBe giggled. She loved her sister but hated her dilemma. How did it happen? She was only twenty-five, a young lawyer. Her twin, her alter ego, was twice as mature. No, fifty times.
“I’ll keep my eyes and ears open, it’s all I can do, Cee.” CeCe studied herself in the mirror, smoothed her hair then turned back.
“That’s all I want, Bee.” She held out her arms and they embraced.
They went downstairs and helped Mama. Cousins expected any minute, the house was enveloped with the smell of ceviche, chile rellenos and peach pie. BeBe cracked a window in back and one in front for a cross draft, the air warm, aromas tantalizing and love palpable. She wondered how she could reconcile her feelings with her duty.
Cee and she had a bond only twins knew. Their hearts may as well have been one, sharing tissue, muscle and blood.
The law was the highest order, to serve an honor. She hoped she never had to choose between them.
_____
Hair damp from a shower, CeCe was in the office at six a.m. She listened to a cryptic voicemail from Vincente. Would she please call him?
“Mi amigo viejo, how are you?” she said.
“Well, thank you, but we have a problem.”
“Really? Please explain.”
“There is a conflict over land. A corporation wants to start cultivating acreage adjoining ours. Several acres are shared between the deed for its land and ours.”
She suppressed her anger, reminding herself that good listening is eighty percent of communication.
“Last night these thugs threatened my men,” he said. “They showed some guns and said it is their land.”
The prudent approach would be to buy them out. Except she didn’t want to pay for the land twice.
“Have they threatened legal action as well?” she said.
“Sí, they say they will sue for it.”
“But they do not know of the coca, right?”
“No no, jefe. The land in dispute is the abutment zone, the buffer. I am calling you now, before this threatens our operation.”
“Why do you say they are thugs?”
“My sources tell me the main investors are from Chicago.”
“You mea
n the old mafia?”
“Sí, la mafia.”
Her father had said they were all legitimate now. They owned interests controlling gambling, utilities and sports teams. Some went into entertainment and were movie producers. The threat wasn’t that surprising, there was a lot of money in marijuana. No longer the majority of her operation, it was still a core asset.
It was important to make sure they didn’t get wind of the coca. If that happened, conflict might escalate.
CeCe had no fear of combat—she had killed thirteen men in three bloody days—but it was wasteful and very, very expensive in human capital. Minds were the most valuable asset of all.
“I will advise Tyler of this,” she said. “You remember him?”
“Julio’s son. He is forceful, uno hombre cruel.”
“Yes yes, but he can be diplomatic and discreet. He is a professional, he will only assess things.”
“If it is your wish, Carmelita. You are chief of chiefs.”
“Very good. Be safe, amigo, go with God.” She hung up.
Time to contact Pete Shapiro, the IRS attorney. Maybe he could help with the land deal. She tapped his number.
“It’s CeCe, sorry I didn’t get back to you.” She listened patiently. Lawyers like to hear themselves talk. She yawned.
“CeCe look, I appreciate what you’ve done for me, but I can’t continue,” he said. “It compromises me too much.”
What’s this?
“Pete, could you be a little clearer?”
“I’m saying I’m done, I’ve made a decision.”
Not good. He knew too much.
“Thank you, Pete, I appreciate your candor. Is there any way I can change your mind? Maybe adjust our terms?”
“No, I’m sorry, I’ve decided.”
Shapiro would be no help. Next!
“Always a pleasure, Pete. Please let me know if things change.” She pretended to have a thought. “Say, we should get together for a cocktail sometime.”
A lush, he loved to stare at her chest over drinks. She promised to get back to him and hung up.
She flipped to Recents and hit the number for Tyler Jimenez, her chief security officer. His intel squad had Steve McKuen under surveillance.
Time for the next move.
6
McKuen was thinking about the piece of paper from the necklace. Figure out who wants it and everything falls into place. Stewing over Amy’s detention and the murders, near the end of his rope, he kicked his chair away, grabbed a coat and took the back door out. Clouds had rolled in. Chilly, he snapped his coat shut. He started to walk and tapped his phone.
He turned right onto a side street and caught a glint. A man wearing mirrored sunglasses and a bomber jacket was a block behind him, ambling along, looking uninterested.
A tail? McKuen had pulled amateur surveillance stunts when he was younger. A professional once pointed out how poor he was at it. He hired the man but remembered the tips. The guy who wants the necklace? The police? He concentrated on his call.
“Yeah, I know I’m early but you’re the best. Let’s book it, and then I don’t have to think about it.”
He cut across to Lincoln to get a better angle on Bomber Jacket.
_____
Amy was finished with midterms. Her assistants graded the exams, then she’d meet with them about questions. A couple more days with students to cover problems, and she’d be done.
She chewed her lower lip while driving, the incident with the gunman on her mind. Her conversation with Steve that morning only raised more questions. She wanted to talk to him again. Her shoulders tightened as she threaded her way through gridlock.
_____
Friday afternoon, a good time to take a half day off. Traffic was choked trying to get out of the city. Eddie hoped it would be less tiresome driving the freeway against the flow.
He had to do something to pressure McKuen for the piece of paper. Thinking about his missed opportunity just pissed him off. He’d steered Christian’s girlfriend, Darlie Major, into killing Christian. Shoulda grabbed it then. He sighed.
The week before he floated a grand on the street and found out more about Dennis Reneaux’s investigator, Zolo. If something didn’t work out today, he would approach the guy.
His eye caught movement a couple of cars ahead. Somebody swerved. He heard the noise of the crash over the music and jammed his brakes to the floor.
Eyes flicking side to side, he gripped the wheel, hard. Rubber squealed. He pitched forward. The back end of his van broke loose. He heard a thump to his right. A hit?
Inches. He stared down at the trunk of the car in front of him, stopped. Perspiration dripped down his back. He looked around at the sea of vehicles. A man got out of a car, angry, waving his arms.
“Mothafucka,” Eddie groaned. The light was dim, but he didn’t see any damage inside the van. A toolbox had pitched forward, spilling some wrenches, but that was it. Got lucky.
He settled in and watched traffic slowly route itself around the wreck. His grip tightened again when he realized how long he might be stuck before he could start moving, too. He sighed again, and wished he could shoot somebody.
_____
McKuen stepped through the front door, Shake it Off booming from the sound system. He grinned at Lori the bartender, then saw Amy at the end of the bar.
“Nice surprise.” He hugged her. “Been here long?”
“Just having a chat with Lori.”
“Wanna come back to the office?”
He shut the door and they kissed for a couple of minutes. He took a seat and she stood, admiring the Courtney Perez vase on a bookcase. His gaze followed hers.
“You were so generous to give that to me. We hardly knew each other back then,” he said. A wise smile crossed her lips.
“But I knew. I’m trying to see that inscription.”
“The lighting has to be perfect. It’s too cloudy today.”
Her eyes went serious. “Steve, I’ve been thinking about that piece of paper in the locket. It’s like some big complication. We don’t need it, why don’t we just get rid of it? You know, burn it or something.” He held up a finger.
“To tell you the truth honey, I really think we should hang on to it. If the person who wants it manages to do something that compromises us,” he held up his hands to stop a protest, “I want to keep it for a bargaining chip.” He pointed at the floor.
”I’m glad you’re here, I need to show you how to get into the safe, in case, uh, you know.” Her mouth dropped open.
“In case something happens to you?”
“Mmm, can’t be too careful right now.”
“That’s another reason to get rid of it. We should just, I don’t know, put an ad on Craigslist or something. ‘Come and get it!’”
“Honey, in this case we need to do it my way.”
Lines etched her face. She looked like she wanted to argue but knew he was right. He bent over, rolled back the rug and showed her how to lift the floor panel. She leaned forward, interested. He told her the combination and asked her to give it a try.
She dialed the combo lock and swung the door open. An envelope with the necklace was on top. She caught a glimpse of stacks of hundred dollar bills and inhaled sharply.
“Rainy day money.” He smiled. “That’s why you need to know the combination.”
He opened the envelope and shook the necklace onto the desk. She peered at the silver locket with a ruby and three small diamonds.
“It really is a treasure,” she said softly. He pushed down the memories and retrieved the piece of paper. She flicked a finger at it.
“It’s like bad juju or something,” she said.
“We need leverage in case things go south.”
Shouting broke out in the bar. He pushed the paper under a corner of the desk blotter and was out the door in an instant.
He marched into the barroom, Amy a few steps behind. A couple of drunks squared off, fists bunched. McKuen sized
up the scene, leaned on the worse-looking one and backed him away with a forearm.
“Cops are two minutes away, I own the place, and they’ll take you in if I say so,” he said.
The drunk went back to his bar stool. McKuen walked to the phone and held it up with a threatening look. Was he being too subtle? Evidently the guy got the message.
“Oh man,” he said, slid off the stool, and banged out the front door. McKuen turned to the second wannabe contender.
“What?” he said. The man smirked, then saw McKuen’s look.
“Uh, gotta go,” the guy said. McKuen looked at Lori.
“Paid up?” She nodded.
“A month probation,” he said. The man stopped.
“I’m not eighty-sixed, am I?”
“Any problems in the next month and you are, it’s a promise.” He looked at Lori. She wrote it down. The man left. Satisfied, he turned to Amy.
“I’ll walk you to your car.” She smiled and took his arm.
_____
Eddie slipped in and saw McKuen dealing with some drunks. He took a seat and looked the other way.
Amy McKuen never saw his face when he pulled her into the van, but she did hear his voice. He sure hadn’t planned on her being there. Staring at his Bud, he played invisible.
When he saw them leave, he hoped like hell luck was with him.
The restroom doors shared a hallway across from McKuen’s office. He headed that way.
With his left hand, he swung open the Men’s room door as a diversion. It squeaked.
He stepped to his right, and twisted the knob. The office door was unlocked. Now or never. He opened it.
A quick glance around and his eyes popped out. Good Lord!
The necklace was centered on the desk.
Two seconds and it was in his pocket. Sweat broke out under his cap. He closed the door behind him.
He eased back to the bar and thought about leaving. That would attract attention. He parked himself behind his Bud, just chillin.’
Heart pounding like a staple gun, he knew McKuen didn’t know who he was, but if the wife came back and heard his voice, things wouldn’t go well. He finished his beer, left a large but not too large tip, and slid out the front door.
