Hollywood Tough (2002)

by Stephen - Scully 03 Cannell

  Shane arrived at the aunt’s house uninvited, and was met at the door by a beautiful teenage girl who introduced herself as Delfina. She had long coal-black hair and warm eyes that seemed to look right through you. She was around Chooch’s age, or maybe a year younger, perhaps fourteen.

  “Mi tio is out back,” she said, and led Shane to a precarious, broken-down structure that was once a garage. American Macado was working on his cut-down ‘78 Charger low-rider, which was painted blue, the gang color of the 18th Street Eme. Delfina left and Shane began a tense negotiation. He tried to convince American that Chooch had a chance for a better life. Slowly, Shane was able to see past Amac’s street-hardened exterior. What he saw was a huge personal charisma. American Macado was an exceptional youth caught in a violent world he had adapted to and was learning to master. There was no doubt in Shane’s mind that if he lived, Amac would become a force in the ‘hood.

  After two meetings at the house in Las Lomas, Shane had finally convinced the battle-hardened street soldier to let him present Chooch’s case to the gang council. This meet was held once a week in a park off Francis Street in East L. A., where the 18th Street Surefios got together and “kicked down” their street taxes to veteranos.

  Shane had been told to stand alone and unarmed on a street corner in the Valley, two blocks from the police station. He did as Amac had instructed. At ten P. M. he was picked up by four Suretios, including American Macado, in a low-rider. The muscular teenager said nothing as Shane was shaken down for guns and a wire, then blindfolded and taken to the sit-down.

  When he arrived, he found four veteranos seated at a park picnic table. Veteranos were the Latin-American equivalent of a Crip or Blood Original Gangster. Over thirty, they had survived against the odds to become set leaders. Shane could see carloads of young vatos in trademark blue headbands patrolling the park’s perimeter streets in slow-cruising low-riders.

  At the meeting, Shane made the case that Chooch should be allowed out of the gang without a penalty due to his youth and because he now had a father to look after him. He explained that his son lived in two worlds. He was not a full-blooded Mexican, because half his heritage was Anglo, from Shane. He talked about Chooch’s chance for an education and one day, even the dream of college. The set leaders listened as Shane made his pitch. Then an 18th Street veterano named Raul Cantaras asked, “Dis P. G. took de pledge, es verdad?”

  “But he was very young… . He didn’t realize that he was signing up for life,” Shane said.

  “He is a man now, he is ready to wear the thirteen,” Cantaras persisted. The thirteen was a tattoo that stood for the thirteenth letter of the alphabet, M—Eme. You only got to wear the thirteen after you were jumped in.

  “If he is ready for ‘courting in,’ then it is too late,” another veterano said.

  Then the oldest veterano spoke. Shane knew him from the gang briefings. Carlos Martinez was an East Valley Inca. Incas were supreme leaders.

  “In this situation, the vatito cannot go unless you could make an agreement,” the man said. He looked right at Shane and added, “You are chow. What promises can la policia make to us? What favors do you offer?”

  “I can make no promises and grant no favors. I am a man of honor,” Shane said softly.

  The veteranos all frowned. Then American, who had said nothing up to this point, stood. He was only nineteen, but these older men were prepared to listen respectfully. He was already known on the street as one hundred proof, having earned the three R tattoo: Respect, Reputation, and Revenge. They all paid close attention as Amac spoke. He told them Chooch was his carnalito, his little brother… that Amac had promised the peewee he would hold his back, look out for his best interests. He said he wanted this chance for Chooch … that the feeling was de corazon, from his heart. He promised the veteranos that in return for letting Chooch out, he would kick down double his normal street taxes for the next year.

  An hour later the meeting was over and Chooch had been released from the 18th Street . Suretios without condition. It had been Amac who made it happen.

  On the slow drive back to where Shane had been picked up, the Emes in the low-rider said nothing, but as Shane got out of the car American Macado stopped him. “Hey, gabacho, promise me you’ll make this chance count.”

  In that instant, Shane saw in Amac’s face a desperate longing, as if he were looking over a fence as his little brother Chooch achieved something he would never have freedom from the gang life. But there was no turning back for Amac, and they both knew it.

  “I promise,” Shane said. Then he walked away. He and Chooch had seen American a year and a half later at Magic Mountain amusement park. Shane looked over and saw the twenty-year-old Eme with half a dozen G’sters standing in the Batman roller-coaster line. Amac walked away from his vatos and approached Shane and Chooch. He had shaved his head since that night in the park, and was heavily sleeved with new tattoos. Shane saw a new T4L inked on Amac’s right shoulder, which meant “Thug for Life.” By now, it was certainly true.

  “Que pasa, camalito?” Amac asked Chooch.

  “I’m good. I was hopin’ you’d come to one of my football games. I was starting as quarterback at Harvard Westlake this year.”

  Amac smiled. “A quarterback is just change on a candy bar, dude.”

  Chooch smiled but didn’t say anything, so Amac continued.

  “Glad to see you takin’ good care of yourself since droppin’ the flag. I’m countin’ on you to not get off the gate. Ta no quieres mi vida loca.”

  Chooch nodded.

  “Que viva la raza,” Amac said. Long live the race. Then he turned and walked away to rejoin his group.

  Shane had heard during various LAPD gang briefings that Amac had been bumped up to “big boy,” which was a set leader. Now, at the unheard-of age of twenty-one, he had replaced Martinez as the Inca for the East Valley. Shane was not surprised because he’d seen Amac’s power and leadership that night two years ago when four thirtyyear-old veterans had listened respectfully while the thennineteen-year-old helped Shane.

  Shane turned off the water in the sink and folded the dishrag over the gooseneck spout. “I’m not sure it’s good for me to be talking to him,” he told Alexa softly. “He’s not just a street soldier anymore; he’s the Valley Inca.”

  “I know what he is. I read CRASH briefings. But we’ve had two more assassinations. This time both were Blood O. G.‘s. I think this city is about to erupt in interracial gang war. At first I just thought it would be Crips and Bloods, but the kicker here is that the wit who saw the last two killings says that the shooters were Mexicans, not blacks.”

  “You said there was going to be a power vacuum. Maybe with Stone down, the Mexican Mafia is going for their share of this,” Shane said.

  “We need to pick up some street intel. I’ve got a feeling there’s a big piece missing. We don’t have the whole picture and right now we’re getting zip from our regular snitches.”

  “And you think I can just go to the head of the local Emes and get him to tell me?”

  “I thought he was your friend. It was just a thought.”

  “Well, it’s a shitty thought,” Shane said angrily, and walked out of the kitchen into the living room. Although he felt a strong sense of gratitude toward American Macado, Shane was also afraid of him. Not in the way men on opposite sides of the law usually fear one another, but in a more personal way. He’d always suspected that there was still a deep bond between Chooch and Amac, which was stronger than Chooch had let on. Shane feared that if Amac ever called out to Chooch for help, his son would drop everything and respond, that his son, out of some sense of brotherhood or Hispanic loyalty, might be drawn back into that dangerous world. Even with Chooch on the verge of going to college, Shane still feared it.

  But at Magic Mountain, Amac had looked at Chooch and warned him, Don’t get off the gate. Don’t come back into this. Then he had said, “Tti no quieres mi vida loca.” You don’t want my crazy life.
So maybe Shane could kick a sleeping dog, just this once, and get away with it. He was a cop; people were dying. He had a duty to try to find out what was going on.

  Shane turned and walked slowly to Chooch’s room. He hesitated for a moment before he knocked.

  “Yeah,” he heard his son call out.

  “Got a minute?” Shane asked as he pushed the door open. This had once been a guest room; now it was Chooch’s territory: floor-to-ceiling pictures of him playing football, school artwork—freehand sketches of huge, Doom-like monsters, dragons with bat wings—good drawings but a little off-putting. Over his dresser were the required posters of Shakira and Jennifer Lopez along with a collection of Harvard Westlake prom night photos.

  As Shane crossed the room and sat on the bed, Chooch quickly turned over his essay and laid it facedown on the desk. Shane experienced another moment of annoyance, but pushed past it.

  “What is it, Dad?”

  “Do you ever hear from Amac?” Shane asked. “American?” Chooch’s eyes went a little shady and he glanced away.

  “Yeah, American. You ever hear from him? He ever call you or anything?”

  “Gee … uh … I don’t think so …”

  “Gee, uh, you don’t think so?” The males in this family are shitty liars, he thought. “Here’s the reason, okay?” “Sure.”

  “You know your mom’s handling all this gang violence that just started, the killings they’re talking about on TV.” Chooch nodded.

  “At first she thought it was going to be a shootout between the Bloods and Crips, but now it looks like La Eme is in the mix.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. And I was thinking if you had Amac’s number or some way to contact him, maybe I could try and get in touch. I need to talk to him. He might be getting into something dangerous.”

  “You told me not to have anything more to do with Amac.”

  “Yeah, I know. I just thought—”

  “That I’d disobey you?”

  “Well, not disobey, exactly … I thought on his birthday, or yours, maybe you guys still got in touch.”

  There was a long silence. This time Chooch held Shane’s eyes, but said nothing.

  “Okay … How’s that essay coming?”

  “It’s … I’m still working on it.”

  “Am I ever gonna get a chance to read it?”

  “Well, thing is, I I…” and he stopped.

  “Forget it … talk to you later.”

  Shane left the room. Whether it was the conversation about Amac, or because his feelings were hurt over that damned essay, Shane was definitely off balance. He almost turned around and went back in to talk with his son again, but then at the last moment decided not to. He pulled himself away from Chooch’s door and moved down the hall and out into the backyard.

  Alexa was sitting there, looking at the canal. She had two beers and gave Shane an Amstel Light as he sat down next to her.

  Shane reached into his pocket, took out his shield, and handed it to her. “Forgot to tell you, Captain Haley returned this to me today.”

  She took it, rubbed her thumb over the badge, and smiled. “Y’know, I never would have thought I was going to marry a cop. On balance, cops are such cynics. But you taught me it doesn’t have to be that way. You taught me that cops can even be great lovers. I don’t know if I ever thanked you for that.”

  Shane thought she was really trying to tell him she was sorry about asking him to invite a dangerous gang leader back into their lives. He smiled and squeezed her hand, but didn’t answer.

  The phone started ringing, so Shane got up and walked into the living room, where he picked it up. “Yeah.”

  “Shane, it’s Lee Fineburg. I got something on this Farrell character you asked me to run.”

  “Really?” With a sudden pang of guilt, Shane looked over his shoulder at Alexa, who was still sitting on the back lawn out of earshot. “What is it?”

  “When I first started, it was more what it’s not, if you know what I mean.” He paused, then continued. “There was nothing anywhere on this guy. It’s like three years ago he parachuted in here from Pluto. My brother’s looked everywhere: the Justice Department computer, the IRS, even ViCAP. You’ll never guess where he finally turned up.”

  “Where?”

  “WITSEC over in the U. S. Marshal’s office. He’s in their computer, and nowhere else. The marshals must have erased everything.”

  “Witness Protection?”

  “Only now they call it Witness Security. My brother couldn’t break the nine-digit spaghetti code to get the actual file, but Farrell Champion is definitely on an asset list in their mainframe.”

  “Wait a minute … hold on. That doesn’t make sense. WITSEC isn’t going to give a new identity and protection to a high-profile guy like Farrell Champion. Everybody knows who he is. He’s in half of last year’s People magazines, for Chrissake.”

  “Shane, if you wanna argue with me about it, help yourself. I’m just telling you what my brother found. This guy looks like he’s a protected witness. That’s gotta be why there’re no IRS or LAPD records. Because the Justice Department keeps him scrubbed clean—no back story, no records, nothing that can be used to trace him.”

  “Then why would WITSEC let him be so high profile?”

  “I don’t know, I agree it’s weird. But unless we got two Farrell Champions, which seems highly unlikely given the unusual name and the circumstances, your boy is in the program.”

  Shane knew that a lot of the clients of WITSEC were violent criminals who turned state’s evidence to keep from going to jail. Sammy “The Bull” Gravano, who’d killed nineteen people for John Gotti, was the poster boy for that fact.

  “How do we find out for sure?” Shane asked.

  “My brother Doug said if you can get a set of his prints, he can keep going, try to find out his real name. To make it quick, he needs a thumb, index, and at least one digit.

  Doug says that somewhere there’s a record. Those prints are gonna go back to some original piece of I. D., like an old state driver’s registration or hospital birth records—something sitting in somebody’s computer. You can’t erase everything. Get me those prints and we’ll give it a go.”

  “Okay … okay, I’ll try.” Shane looked over again at Alexa, who still had her back to him, sitting in the metal chair, staring out at the still canal. “Thanks, Lee. I owe ya. Talk to ya tomorrow.”

  He walked back outside and sat down again.

  “Who was that?”

  “Captain Haley. He left something out of my package. I gotta swing by tomorrow and pick it up.” A little lie, but a lie nonetheless, and Shane felt shitty about it.

  “Honey, Nora called today,” Alexa suddenly said. “Farrell’s having a bachelor party and he wonders if you’d like to come. It’s this Friday night at the Jonathan Club, on the beach.”

  “Sounds like fun …” Another alarm bell went off in his head. Shane wondered why Farrell Champion, a man he’d only met once, would want him at his bachelor party?

  “Should I tell her yes?”

  “Uh, well, maybe we should wait and see what happens when I get back on duty. See what my hours are, what kinda caseload I’ve got.”

  “Oh, sure, if you think.” She fell silent. “I also told Nora I’m giving her a bridal shower. I’ll have to throw it together quick, because we’re running out of time. The wedding is in less than two weeks.”

  “Gee … yeah.” He glanced over at her, hoping she wasn’t going to bust him for that bullshit sentence. But she was still looking out at the calm waters of the canal. “Anyway, I was thinking of doing it this Thursday at our house. These streets are so damned narrow out front, parking will be a bitch, but maybe if it’s in the afternoon while they’re all at work, the neighbors won’t complain.”

  “You want, I’ll go door to door and tell them,” Shane offered, still feeling guilty.

  “Would you?” She reached out and took his hand. “I’m so happy f
or Nora. She’s finally found someone who can take care of her, someone special who won’t break her heart.”

  “Mummmmph,” Shane replied softly.

  Later, that evening, when they were going to bed, Shane found a slip of paper on his pillow with a phone number, and a note written in Chooch’s hand that read:

  Amac says you can reach him at this number first thing tomorrow.

  Chapter 8.

  AMERICAN MACADO

  Shane couldn’t sleep. After almost an hour of tossing and turning, and one or two warnings from Alexa to stop moving, he got out of bed, grabbed his jeans, sweatshirt, and Chooch’s note, then got another beer and went outside to sit again on one of the metal chairs in his tiny backyard. A half-moon shone through his large eucalyptus tree and lunar shadows from the fingerlike leaves danced in fan-shaped patterns on the grass around him. He inhaled the tree’s pleasant, peppery scent. He couldn’t do anything about Farrell until tomorrow, so he walked inside, picked up his cell phone in the living room, and dialed Amac, reading the number from Chooch’s note. After two rings, a Hispanic voice was in his ear.

  “Quien habla?”

  “Is Amac around?” Shane asked.

  “Who d’ fuck is dis?”

  “Tell him it’s Shane Scully and I need to talk to him.”

  “Momento,” the man said, then put him on hold while Shane went into the kitchen, took another Amstel out of the fridge, opened it, then walked back outside and stood in his yard looking at the canal.