Hollywood Tough (2002)

by Stephen - Scully 03 Cannell

  “Scully, que traes to?” Amac’s voice came over the phone after almost five minutes.

  “I’m fine, but I need to talk to you.”

  “I got my hands full, ese … got my sevens around me now, tellin’ me how I gotta do things.”

  “Sevens” were gangsters, G being the seventh letter of the alphabet.

  “I need to talk. I’ll do it any way you want. I’ll go stand on a street corner like last time. You can blindfold me … however you want to do it.”

  “Only way that’s gonna happen is if you got some fourone-one to sell.”

  “I’m not selling, I’m trading. It’s gotta go both ways,” Shane replied, angry because now he’d have to wake up Alexa and talk her out of some street intel he could trade with Amac. He knew the CRASH unit probably had picked up something Alexa could share with him.

  There was a pause, then American said, “Momentito,” and Shane was on hold again. He stood looking at the canal until Amac came back on. “Okay, go out of your house and stand on the corner of Largo and Abbott Kinney. I’ll pick you up.”

  “When?” Shane asked.

  “An hour.”

  “I’ll be there.” And then he was listening to a dial tone. Shane got his ankle gun out of the locked desk drawer in the living room and strapped it on. He was pretty sure it wouldn’t make it past the “cuete inspection,” but it was worth a try.

  He went into the kitchen and fixed something to eat, dreading having to wake Alexa and fill her in; knowing she would be pissed when she found out what he was planning to do. He finished off a piece of leftover steak, drained his beer, and was just putting the bottle into the trash when he became aware that someone else was in the kitchen. He spun around and caught Alexa standing in the doorway. She had put on her robe and had her arms wrapped tightly around her.

  “I woke up. You weren’t in bed,” she said.

  “Couldn’t sleep.”

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Gonna go see American. I just talked to him.” “Alone?” She seemed appalled. “You can’t go see him alone. What the hell’s going through your head, Shane?” “Hold it. Didn’t you just ask me to get in touch with him?”

  “Yes. In touch … call him … talk on the phone.”

  “Alexa, he’s the Inca. He’s not gonna have an important conversation with me on the phone. This guy is too careful. He’ll think he’s being bugged. Besides, he’ll want to be looking into my eyes when he talks, and I want to look into his. Eyes are the best lie detectors.”

  “He’s a killer, Shane. His yellow sheet is a bible of street violence.”

  “Jesus, be fair. You asked me to get in touch with him. I got in touch. This is the only way he’ll do it, and you damn well know it.”

  “How?” she asked.

  “How’m I meeting him?”

  She nodded.

  “I’m …” He started to say it, then stopped. “You don’t want to know.”

  “The hell I don’t. Spit it out, buddy.”

  “Okay. I’m going to the corner of Largo and Abbott Kinney. I’m gonna stand there alone, until they send a war wagon down to pick me up. Amac might be in the car or it might just be a buncha califas who’ll escort me to him.”

  “Over my dead body. You need a tail, some backup.”

  “Alexa, I have to go alone. He’ll spot a tail. I called him. I can’t back out. If I’m not on that street corner he’s gonna think I was setting him up. It’ll piss him off and he’ll never trust me again. This is the only way.”

  She changed her posture and was now standing defiantly in the kitchen doorway, her legs apart, hands on her hips, trying to figure a way to stop him.

  “Amac may be violent, but he’s a man of honor—a mara salvatrucha. Three Rs—womb to tomb.”

  “Don’t pitch that gang tripe at me. I ran the CRASH unit. I busted a kid once in a Catholic church. He’d just done a triple drive-by. We caught this vato on his knees, lighting candles, thanking God for assisting with the killings. They’re twisted. Amac especially.”

  “Amac is different. He’ll guarantee this one free trip. In and out. If he doesn’t like what I’ve got to tell him, that will end it.”

  “And what are you going to tell him?”

  “I was just about to wake you, because I need something to trade.”

  “Now we’re giving him inter she said. “It was supposed to work the other way.”

  “Honey, it’s a negotiation. He’s not gonna let it be a one-way street.”

  She sat down at the kitchen table and rubbed her right forearm. Shane knew it still went numb at times from the shot she took in the shoulder at Lake Arrowhead, when she’d saved his life at the end of the Molar case. “You’re nuts, you know that?”

  “I know. It’s why I’m seriously considering a posting at Internal Affairs. I should fit right in with that bowl of fruits and nuts.”

  Then, slowly, a smile twitched at the corner of her mouth and he knew he had her. “Okay. I don’t have much, but we did pick up one piece of interesting street info. There’s some new heroin that’s supposed to hit the street soon. It’s called White Dragon, and according to our source, there’s a huge shipment coming in from Mexico. I think the Crips are moving it. We don’t know who’s sending it in, but we’ve had the product line described to us. It’s snow-white heroin, probably China White, wrapped in cellophane with a white dragon outlined in red on the bag. Also, there may be some kind of Arizona connection. The Clip banger we got this from had a stolen credit card. For the last two months this guy, who’s never been outside South Central since he was born, has been making more trips to Arizona than the Monsanto regional sales rep. We’ve traced him through the card charges: motel rooms, gas, restaurants, like that. The Arizona cops also picked up a rumble that Arizona is the new point of entry for this White Dragon line, probably the general distribution site as well. But most of this is more gossip and guesswork than fact.”

  “It’ll have to do.”

  She followed him to the front door. “I really hate this,” she said. “I’m just supposed to wait here and pray for your safety?”

  “Honey, no prayers necessary. Amac is guaranteeing my safety. That’s the way it works.” He turned and smiled at her. “Didn’t you ever see that 1950s classic Western Broken Arrow? Cochise guarantees Tom Jeffords that he can ride safely into the Apache camp and trade wampum. The next thing you know, they’re best buds, and there’s peace in the Valley. Simple as that.”

  “Get the fuck out of my house,” she said in mock anger. But as he turned to leave, she grabbed him and hugged him. “Shane, you see? This is exactly what I meant about not being risk-averse.”

  “Yeah, maybe, but let’s not forget whose idea it was.”

  He left the house and walked toward Abbott Kinney. He knew without looking back that she was still on the porch, still had her eyes on him until he turned the corner at the end of the street.

  Chapter 9.

  PARADISE SQUARE

  The Impala low-rider with a yellow-and-green glitter paint job made one slow pass down Abbott Kinney Boulevard without stopping. It was a show car, a lowered ‘63. It finally came around again, then stopped half a block away. Two vatos got out dressed in baggy jeans and barrio coats buttoned at the top gang-style; a fashion that allowed easy access to belt-holstered weapons. They walked toward Shane, moving deliberately. As they drew closer, he could see they were both in their middle teens. One was dark-skinned, almost black; the other had Inca-Indio features, common to Central Mexico.

  “Hola,” Shane said as they approached.

  “Chupame, motherfucker,” the darker one replied. “Not unless I get a ring first,” Shane quipped.

  The Indio pushed Shane toward the building. “Turn around. Hands on the wall.”

  Shane did as instructed. They quickly found the ankle holster and stripped it off.

  “No cuetes, asshole.”

  “I’m a cop. We’re required to pack,” Shane sa
id, cursing the decision because he had just lost a four-hundred-dollar Beretta Mini with a custom grip and laser sight.

  They waved at the Impala, which made a U-turn, then came back. There were two more Mexicans in the low-rider, both heavily sleeved with interlocking M and 13 gang tatts. Amac was not in the car. Shane was pushed into the back and a black pillowcase was put over his head, then he was shoved down onto the floor between the seats.

  The next half hour was an uncomfortable ride across town. Then they were leaving the freeway, moving slower as they headed down bumpy-surface streets. He heard the distant wail of a siren and laughter from a passing bar. Then the car finally slowed and came to a stop.

  “Manolo, to ranfla adentro,” a new voice said through the window, instructing the driver to move the car inside. A ran, la was a cherried-out low-rider.

  The Impala started again, drove about twenty feet before the engine was shut off. Shane heard metal hinges squeaking and a heavy wooden gate close. Then he was yanked into a sitting position; the pillowcase was snapped off his head, and he was being pulled out of the low-rider, pushed up against the passenger door.

  “Stand there, gabacho,” one of the vatos ordered.

  He was in a Spanish-style courtyard reminiscent of a fortress that looked as if it took up the better part of a city block. There was an old three-tiered stone fountain dripping water in the center of a tiled patio. The building that surrounded the courtyard on all four sides was three stories high and constructed of tan California adobe. Tile roofs sloped down toward the patio. Shane could see several Ernes lying prone up there, armed, their muzzles pointing down into the street outside. Shane guessed by the architecture that he was in the heart of L. A., probably somewhere down by Alvarado Street, one of the few places where these two-hundred-yearold Mexican buildings still existed. He saw a brass plaque on the wall identifying this landmark as Plaza ParaIso—Paradise Square.

  A large wooden door opened behind Shane, and Amac stood on the threshold, flanked on two sides by Eme guards. He wore baggy jeans and a gang-tank jacket with “18th Street Suretios” on the back. As he walked across the tiled courtyard, his booted footsteps echoed against the adobe walls. Shane pushed away from the fancy low-rider and crossed to meet him at the fountain. Finally, they were face-to-face.

  “Que pasa, hombre?” Shane said softly.

  Amac shrugged. “Asi es, asi sera.” This is how it is and how it’s gonna be.

  “You got that right,” Shane answered.

  “Like I said on the phone, ese, I got my hands full right now. We’re down with this shit, so you got something to tell me? Let’s hear it.”

  “I need some insight, Amac.”

  ” ‘At’s why they got churches, Scully.”

  “Somebody killed Kevin Cordell; lured Stone into an avocado orchard and assassinated him. Now O. G.‘s from both the Crip and Blood sets are starting to get shot. At first we thought Stone’s death had created a power vacuum between those two sets, but yesterday somebody witnessed a drive-by. Two Crips went down. They said the shooters were La Eme. Alexa thinks this might be turning into some kinda intercity drug free-for-all. That’s not gonna be good, man. Innocent people start dying and the governor could call out the Guard. There could be some serious shit to pay. I want to stop it before that happens. To do that, we need to know what’s going on and why.”

  Amac looked at him for a long moment. “Que jodido!” he blurted. “So you come down, pull on my coat.” “Yeah, that was my plan.”

  “Maybe while I’m at it, I should grab the vatos who did that piece a work, turn them over to you?”

  “I got some useful stuff to trade.”

  “You got shit. You’re so far behind the curve, you ain’t approved to do business.”

  “Who shot Kevin Cordell? At least gimme the spill on that.”

  “Kevin Cordell …” He spit the name out like a fruit seed. “That transforming piece a shit sure deserved to die, but now I’m beginning to think we was all better off when he was alive. At least he kept them dedos locos a his from goin’ off the reservation. Now we got a fucking street war with mayates rollin’ around in work cars, shootin’ anything that moves.”

  Shane stood still and waited.

  “Okay, Scully, you wanna know who dropped Cordell? It was his own people—his own ‘big boy.’ Least ways that’s the way we hear it.”

  “His big boy his right-hand man?” Shane asked.

  “Yeah. An O. G. from the Front Street Crips. His name’s Russell Hayes they call him Hardcore way we heard it, him and his cousin, some crazy coffee-colored maldito with a trenza braid halfway down his back did the hit.”

  “Why would they kill Stone?”

  “They’re mayates, man. Fuckin’ jungle bunnies.” “You’re smarter than that. Help me, Amac.”

  American seemed to consider this, then nodded. “Stone was the one who kept the war between the Crips and Bloods hot. That was his thing. The way he kept control … and it was good for us, too, y’ know? With them always fighting, we took over half the city. His people finally wised up, but Stone had too many enemies. In order to unite the Crips and Bloods, he had to go.” Then Amac stopped. “I’m doin’ all the talking here, ese. You said you had something for me?”

  “You know about this new White Dragon?” Shane asked softly. “It’s Chinese heroin and it’s hitting the streets soon. Supposed to be a big supply coming up from Mexico.”

  “So what? Drugs is always comin’ up. Tell me somethin’ I can use.”

  “This stuff looks like it’s heading to Arizona. It’s a new distribution system that’s gonna be warehoused out there and then, most likely, moved from Arizona back to L. A.”

  Amac shrugged and glanced at his watch.

  “We’re pretty sure somebody’s setting up to make a big score,” Shane continued, trying to shine this one meager fact up so it would seem worth trading. “It looks now like the black gangs are the ones moving it. At first we thought Crips, but now with what you said, it could be both sets. This much I can tell you: It’ll have big value … lotta money on the street. It’s high quality; it’s gonna blow the market out.”

  Amac pulled a quarter out of his pocket and held it up for Shane to see. “You know what it says on this U S of A coin?” Shane waited. “It says ‘Liberty’ right there under George Washington’s double chin. ‘Cording to this U S of A quarter, money supposta buy us liberty. But you know something strange, Scully? Liberty ain’t freedom. Not even close. The dictionary says freedom is liberation from the power of another. I don’t have that. Yet. Money can’t never buy us freedom. We don’t have control over the way Anglos deal with us. In this country I can have liberty, which is the power to enjoy various social and economic rights. I can move around and buy stuff, but my nature and my heritage and my Indio skin prohibit my freedom, comprende?”

  Shane held his gaze but didn’t respond.

  “This country won’t accommodate us, so they criminalize us instead.”

  “Come on, the laws prosecute criminals, not ethnic groups,” Shane argued.

  “In school, they tell me, Hey, Amac, stop bitchin’. It’s about the USA, it’s not about U, ese. But that was all bullshit, man. When I was a boy, only ten or eleven, I once tried to sell lemonade on the street corner. The police saw me and la chota arrest me for selling without a peddler’s lict,nse. I wasn’t breakin’ no law. White kids do that in Beverly Hills with no hassle every day. But they was fuckin’ with me ‘cause I was a Mexican, and they don’t want me to have no freedom. People in this country can’t consume unless they can sell, ese. If they can’t start a legal business, then they’ll run an illegal one. Sell dope, stolen cars, radios—anything to feed their families. Some chavalas even sell their bodies. If a Chicano tries to challenge the power structure in America, he’ll get beaten or jailed for his trouble.”

  Finally Amac tossed the quarter into the fountain. “So I make a wish. My wish isn’t on that coin. I want freedom-freedom from
poverty, from my own ignorance and self-hatred, from Anglo prejudice. There is more at stake here than who gets rich or who dies. There is a small but dangerous fire burning, hombre … and nobody is even watching.”

  Shane looked down at the quarter wavering in the pool of water. “Amac . don’t start a race war.”

  Amac looked toward the car where his vatos stood. The young one with the black complexion had never stopped glaring at Shane.

  “You see that dark one?” Amac asked. “El prieto?” Shane nodded.

  “His street name is Midnight. He’s mostly black, maybe all black. Nobody knows. He don’t even know ‘cause he never met his parents. He was homeless. When he was five, I found this little flaquillo eating outta trash cans. I gave him a place to stay, gave him food. Now he’s not a mayate no more. Now he’s a vato—my carnal. So don’t talk to me about race wars. This ain’t about race, it’s about respect.”

  Amac walked away from the fountain, but then, halfway to the door, he turned and looked back. “Listen, Scully, you always treated me like a man. You gave me respect. You also got ganas. You came to the park two years ago, not knowing what would happen to you; you came here alone tonight. I respect that.”

  Shane waited.

  “But I ain’t in the same place no more. I got my people lookin’ to me. So we can’t be doin’ this. Next time you see me, figure I’ll be tryin’ to take you out.”

  “If we have respect for one another, we can work together … help each other.”

  “You got freedom, ese. I only got liberty.”

  Forty-five minutes later, Shane was standing back on Abbott Kinney Boulevard with his empty ankle holster in his hand. He walked the four blocks to his house. When he entered, he found Alexa sitting in the club chair in the living room, waiting.

  “Thank God.” She let her breath out and stood. “What’d he tell you?”

  “The Bloods and the Crips have united and are at war against the Emes.”

  “I was afraid of that. Does he know who killed Stone?” “He thinks it was Russ Hayes and some cousin of his with light skin and a braid.”