Hollywood Tough (2002) (9 page)

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 for 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.

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.

"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 hi
m a
lone. What the hell's going through your head, Shane?" "Hold it. Didn't you just ask me to get in touch wit
h h
im?"

"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 jus
t d
one 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 u
p 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.

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 said, 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 gan
g t
atts. 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-year-old Mexican buildings still existed. He saw a brass plaque on the wall identifying this landmark as Plaza ParaIso--Paradise Square.