Maltobano soaked in the chaos and looked at the Task Force Detective and thought about Pincher from his past and noticed the similarities.
I woke up freezing. My teeth were chattering and my naked back was scraping the inside of the boulder. I crawled into a sitting position and hurriedly dug through the backpack. I put on the prison uniform for two reasons. The green color would blend in with the hillside and I didn’t want to dirty the Laguna Police Uniform. I rolled a Buglar smoke and pondered while enjoying the Turkish flavor.
The helicopters were gone. It was only 5 AM and just starting to get light. I’d have to hurry and cross the Canyon Road and climb the other hillside to find the best vantage point to see the building next to the Laguna Canyon A.A Club that had to be the Ashland Angel House Annette had referred to.
I ran in pain. Not from my tore up skin. My feet and calves were burning from at least 7 miles of hill traversing the night before, much of that in sprints. My stomach muscles and hip flexors were taxed. I’d trained like a navy seal all of my life and even harder in California’s prisons but nothing prepared me for this kind of hill climbing and bunkering. I needed water bad. I needed food bad.
Up the other side of the Canyon I found the perfect vantage point and the sun gave just enough light above the ocean. It was 6 AM. I found a window that I assumed was a bathroom because unlike the other windows this one was steamed up. I studied the other windows and couldn’t see through them. Not enough light. I scanned back to the bathroom window and couldn’t believe what I saw. A finger was writing a phone number. I punched it into my other phone and put the binoculars back to my eyes. The steam was starting to run and was erasing the numbers. I thought about calling the number but hesitated. What if I gave our new numbers away? Shouldn’t I protect these unknown numbers for emergencies…? The window steamed up again and I saw the finger writing. I could make out—DRUG RUN…Then—DO...IT -I couldn’t see the letters on the steamed window clearly enough but I thought I understood her telling me to do it! Maybe not because the next group of words said—I LO YO…I couldn’t make out words any more from the streams of condensation running down the window.
I sat on my butt eating a power bar listening to the birds. I whistled back through a parched mouth and my spirit lightened. I only had to wait another hour to see Annette. She was wearing my favorite heels on perfectly arched tiny feet. They were brown bottomed sandal heels with black straps up exquisite ankles. She was wearing a black dress just above her knees and I finally made it to her face. She was looking right at me smiling like she had caught me again. I laughed that there was no way she could see I was looking at her legs through my binoculars from 400 yards away but she knew me too well. I watched her walk with another woman a little bigger and less flexible but still attractive. They walked next door to the Laguna Canyon AA Club. They were inside. I scanned through my binoculars at others who hadn’t made it in yet. People of all ages hurriedly smoked cigarettes on their way in. Then I saw Damon. He didn’t know I was perched watching. He went in. I panned the binoculars to the entrance and read a meeting schedule. Morning meditation 7:30…
Almost an hour later I watched Maltobano get out of the white Mercedes. A white Range Rover pulled in and parked next to him. I studied the other detective’s face and tried to read his lips. I couldn’t so I read expressions. He looked like he was Maltobano’s superior. He looked open minded but resolute. He looked caring and fair…
Annette and the woman she walked into the meeting with were the first out. The woman with Annette ran to Maltobano and hugged him deeply. I looked at Annette worried she would front me off with two high powered observant investigators nearby. She must have known they were going to be there because she didn’t look my way. I watched her standing next to the woman who had hugged Maltobano and wondered how she knew him and why was my beautiful road dogging it with her? I said goodbye for a while and climbed down the backside of the hill out of view back toward Laguna.
Maltobano stared at his superior waiting to hear more about Pincher. Bonafino looked confused. Like articulating what he had seen was extremely difficult, like he was having trouble digesting it…
“Pincher’s life is it out of control and unmanageable…He is under investigation by his department, and now 3 other agencies, and is on paid leave with a law suit against the county, and he goes and gets into a shoot-out at crack alley. His attorney, Mr. Berrara, has issued a statement, ‘Pincher is suffering post-traumatic stress disorder from the attempt on his life by the CRIP gang members during his authorized by the county job working the GANG DETAIL linking the gangs to the crack epidemic at crack alley and now his own department is turning on him’”
Maltobano watched his boss recollecting his own view of Pincher’s shoot out with the gangsters. It looked like he was coming to terms with it.
“When I gave my report to the head DA, they issued a warrant for Pincher’s arrest.”
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CHAPTER—40
Domitian sat on a replica Louis the 14th antique arm chair at his command station flipping tarot cards and chanting evil. He meditated this way every morning after studying Roman history during the years after Jesus's death. Not believing in the resurrection, he gloried in the persecution of Christians and tailored his lifestyle after his heroes, the emperors who ruled with an evil hand.
He flipped another card and thought about Nero--How much pleasure he must have had to watch Christians cower in fear as the lions were released and then fed on their flesh. Domitian closed his eyes so he could meditate only on what their fear must have been like. They must have shit their pants and soaked themselves as their faith disappeared and flesh was lacerated and swallowed by starving massive lions. Oh what it must have been like for Nero to see the blood dripping from a male lion finished with his meal with broken bones and a corpse spread out underneath and the roar of victory echoing throughout the coliseum.
He flipped anther card and smiled. It was his card; Domitian the Dominator. He was the second ruler of Rome after Nero. Domitian continued the tradition of treachery and licentious incest as do I with my youngest sister to pave the road to my destiny. Continue persecuting Christians to take their souls and break their faith.
Domitian stopped flipping cards as he always did when his card appeared. He closed his eyes and gloried in the last year of his reign. How he had measured other drug dealers and found them lacking in the evil it took to rule the trade. How he had removed each and every one of them by compiling evidential data. Then, sending that data to every law enforcement agency. Then watching, wondering how long it would take, then seeing the police, the current lions, to show up in force and capture the overwhelmed and confused drug dealer.
Domitian wondered what it must be like to be a peasant drug dealer in prison. Maybe, just maybe, there they would learn to become a ruler like myself. Unassailable by being a master manipulator who anticipates treachery and is one step ahead by creating chaos. No, there is only room for one Domitian. There is only room for one ruler at a time.
Domitian pulled out his box of souls and studied them. In the last year he had compiled sobriety chips by the dozens. He loved how he gave free dope in exchange for sobriety chips gained at those stupid alcoholic and narcotic anonymous clubs. He cherished the 2 year chip in which he gave Rebecca two eight balls of speed. After being sober for 2 years Rebecca got so high she blabbed her mouth about how she had got her two daughters back from child protective services, how she had got a great job as a waitress, got a car, a place to rent and blab blah blah. The fun part of taking her 2 year chip was watching her soul suffer the consequences of the two eight balls of speed. Within a week, Rebecca lost her children. This time due to the police and all the messages they received from me that she was forcing them into sexual acts with animals. Boy did they show up fast from those anonymous emails!
Domitian looked at his Rolex watch and realized his newes
t cartel dealer was due. Bat was bringing the Diablo I’ve been hearing about recently and is going to provide enough drugs to furnish free amounts to those willing to trade sobriety chips for their souls. Bat said all I have to do is tell Diablo, “I will not only work only for you, I will bring you souls.”
Bat drove to Domitian’s house in Irvine and thought about the pipsqueak. At 5’2, 140 lbs and 49 years old, the little rat still lived at his mother’s house. Sequestered to the garage, the little rat face, with yellow small bent everywhere teeth, would always complain about his mom, and then when money or a payment in jewelry or some other electronic device came up, he always ran to her. Other times she would just walk around like a zombie looking for a never found cat and beg for free dope to smoke.
Bat knew better than to announce his rare visits. He knew better than to sell drugs like that. In fact he didn’t consider himself a drug dealer at all, more of a regulator, or people connector, or mercenary, whatever he could respect at the time. He respected pride because he lived by it and he respected money because you needed it to live.
Bat was one of those rare people who made it from a childhood that resembled hell, to the streets where that hell was conquered through violence and cunning and by anyone’s standards in the underground, he had conquered. A trail of cold cases with police tape and chalk lay in his wake up and down California, Arizona, Texas, and into Mexico. His services were contracted out to the Mexican Mafia who had raised him, and then on his own, for taxes he decided on. He figured the streets were owned by the politicians, but he was getting his cut. He loved visits to Orange County because it was like a vacation to relax from the real warfare outside of it. He knew of Domitian’s snitch history but used him like the weasel he was. Domitian was a computer nerd. He hacked into government websites. He lived next to the IT guy who built the Orange County Sheriff Department’s website. He had never-ending angles and information and was easy to bribe.
Bat didn’t look at life through an evil or good glass. He abhorred evil for one reason; it was a cowardly way of life to live passive aggressively. If you couldn’t assert yourself and handle business who could respect that way of life? He respected God and good people but never felt the connection. He knew Christians were persecuted and respected them for their faith, but couldn’t understand forgiveness. He thought about how vengeance on Diablo and Domitian should feel good for just the act but it didn’t stir anything inside. The reason he wanted Diablo out of the picture was for the control it would give him in Mexico, nothing more, nothing less.
The first sign of Diablo was parked at the corner. A Burgundy SUV. Bat passed the vehicle keeping watch and could barely see the occupants beyond the almost blacked out tint. Circling the residence as he always did, Bat noted the other vehicles connected to Diablo. As usual, Diablo would be alone during the meeting; he never trusted his protection to know any details, making him such an easy target. Bat circled the residence a second time to make sure he didn’t miss anything and thought about his career as a killer. The 80’s and some of the 90’s were pure gun fire. Erupting shells came from every kind of hand gun and the occasional machine gun. The late 90’s were a time of refining. A true gladiator used hand to hand utensils to avoid the innocent victims that drive by shootings often included. Too many children, mothers and mistaken identities made gangs look like idiots. To have to use an ice pick meant a lot of homework and left the right person dead every time. Currently with all the new technology, living like a gladiator was a thing of the past, too much DNA, too much mapping ability through phones, computers and cameras, too much law to get away with things. Now the methods were changing and you either evolved or became a prison statistic. Bat wasn’t going to be a statistic and he promised to go out like the warrior in the movie Gladiator.
Bat parked behind the house and walked. He always used a back yard fence to escape if necessary. It had always worked and a potential watched house could identify a vehicle out front. In front of the house, the garage was partially open and Diablo’s short dark frame was the first visible. Domitian was sitting kitty- corner to Diablo and was the second visible. Both were at a table eating and drinking wine. Good, Domitian followed my instructions.
As usual, Bat didn’t waste time. “Domitian, go get the tarot cards I hate. I want to see what our future holds…”
The skinny Domitian got up in baggy punk rock clothing familiar to the area and did as he was told. Bat and Diablo watched the door close on him. Bat pounced on Diablo. He grabbed the shorter older man by the throat and forced him and the chair he was in backward. The 65 year old Diablo gave little resistance. He stared up in terror from the ground choking against the pressure.
“Don’t worry Diablo I am about the give you the keys to East LA. You are going to own more territory but first I have to make sure you know who you are dealing with. I’m a killer the likes of none you have encountered before. You fuckin burn me and the devil himself won’t be able to stop me from feeding you your own balls.”
With his left hand above the table bat squirted an eye drop vial full of phenol barbital into Diablo’s wine. He let Diablo get up and smiled at him. “You ready to own East LA with me?”
Diablo nodded his head and didn’t say anything. His hands touched his neck in shock. He watched Bat turn his back on him in a not give a fuck attitude and Diablo’s eyes followed his back until the door into the house closed behind him. He calmed his breathing and looked at the glass of wine. He drank from the cup.
Inside, Bat found Domitian on his way out of his room. Without even flinching he fired his right hand from the hip. His hardened calcified knuckles cracked Domitian’s chin and the punch didn’t stop. The momentum had just started and caught Domitian so unaware he dropped like a sack of potatoes. Bat dragged Domitian into his own closet and pulled out what used to be a small metal container for lighter fluid but now held muriatic acid. The powerful acid was used for cleaning pools and oil stains from concrete. It would only take a couple of drops inside an ear to kill. Bat squirted until it overflowed on his hand and felt the intense burn. He looked at the skin on his three fingers and two layers had already disappeared. He gritted his teeth and stuck that hand in his pocket. Walking out the room he said over his shoulder, “Did your tarot cards predict that?”
Back in the garage, Diablo was leaning against the table mumbling, “I shouldn’t have drunk the wine…”
Bat walked calmly to the table and pulled out the powerful acid and said, “You don’t get pure acid like Domitian. That would kill you too quickly and I know you have a lot to tell me.”
Another bottle of water materialized from a pocket and Bat dropped a few drops of the acid into it and looked at Diablo’s ear.
“No you get only a few drops to the brain. This acid will slowly eat all the way to the other side.”
He squeezed the death fluids into Diablo’s ear and patted it. Then he walked out the garage and to the backyard gate. A couple minutes later he pulled up in his vehicle and walked a groggy-and-stumbling-mumbling Diablo into the passenger seat. He sped toward Mexico.
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CHAPTER—41
I sat on the edge of the cliff overlooking the Police station and watched the city’s pulse beating beneath me through the binoculars. I found the Festiva Damon had parked next to the Chamber of Commerce and thought about the drug run. I imagined what could happen and ran the tape. Would I really get a million dollars? What if I was just a fall guy? They could be setting me up to get busted to help the cartel keep a juice card. Probably not, Veto seemed hungry to start getting paid. So even though it’s legit would they pay me in cash? That cash would save my life. I could spend some to rent a house in the L.A Mountains so Annette and I could be together. Then I could find an investor to fund my movie script with me so I could hold on to a level of creative control. I would have just enough money to call shots somewhat. What other choice did I have? Sit on this hill and
wish I could be with Annette and not be. I’m already starving and need a shower and a cool place to rest and it’s only been 24 hours. I stared at the Festiva and realized how easy this could be…Annette did say to do it. She hated the separation as much as me.
Lost in the daydream I noticed something. A man walking below with a brief case in one hand and a bank suitcase in the other was walking to the bank. I studied the bank suit case. It had the insignia of an art gallery, 7th FLOOR ART GALLERY. I followed his path and found the bank. I wonder how much cash is in that bank suitcase. Then, another man walked toward the bank. This one also had a bank suit case. This one represented a big jeweler. Did his brief case in the other hand have precious stones and diamonds in it? Did his bank suit case have a lot of cash? Maybe I didn’t have to do the drug run. What if I did a double swoop on those two business men bam-bam? That could be a half a million or more. There wouldn’t be the guilt of spreading a drug disease throughout a community. I pictured Annette standing under her JESUS SAVES AND LOVES YOU sign with her stomach barely showing pregnancy…Wasn’t their money down their insured? A victimless crime…
I watched the rep for the 7th FLOOR ART GALLERY walk out first. He walked to the gallery and I studied it. A beautiful set of high glass double doors opened to a cornucopia of color and contrast. The room I could see into clearly had Rembrandts and then Picasso held the eye. I imagined swooping in and snatching and sending…To Europe for a fleecing at maybe 25% of the sticker price here in Laguna. No, that wouldn’t work. There were way too many cameras, way too much security and what was I going to do, ship from cave? I looked into the part of the next room I could see and saw Peruvian calcified rocks that were opened in half showing gleaming levels of gems. God had again made the best art and far outdid Rembrandt and Picasso. I tried to shake the God thought away and again think of the possible double swoop on walking reps headed to the bank for a massive deposit. How would I do it? I looked at the time and day and noted they probably made this deposit like clockwork. Could I borrow or rent a speed bike without the owner’s consent for the hour necessary to capture 2 briefcases and 2 bank suitcases for a double-double? I’d be unstoppable on a speed bike up these narrow street hills full of twist and turns and I knew how to use these hills already like no other. The hill our rock is on and that whole side of the Canyon offered obscure trails to Corona Del Mar and Newport Beach. They also allowed brief access to the 73 toll road where another vehicle like the Festiva or trusty Buick could make a pick up. But what if the best laid plans fall apart as they so often do. What if I did pull off a double-double as unlikely as catching both at the same time would be, and I made it all the way to a pick up on the 73 toll road and from the passenger seat opened the first briefcase and only found paperwork and then found the bank suitcase only had checks and credit card transactions. Wouldn’t that be much more likely and most certainly the case? I smoked another hand rolled and realized my Buglar tobacco had dried and gotten stale and now it was falling into my mouth every time I took a drag. I couldn’t even spit it out. My mouth was too dry. I felt bile rising in my stomach and choked to hold it in.
Upon Release From Prison Page 18