by Bill Bernico
Dean took another look at the business cards in his hand and then looked at me. “You do mighty fine work, Elliott,” he said. “Would it be a big job to print up a few fliers for us?”
I rolled my chair back from my desk, slid the middle drawer open and withdrew a handful of paper. “Way ahead of you there, Chucky,” I said, handing him the fliers I’d printed after I’d finished the business cards. “These should serve your purpose.” I handed Dean and Dad each half of the pile.
Dad silently read the flier, his lips moving as he read. Dean read the contents of his flier, too. When they’d both finished looking the fliers over, they looked up at me and as if on cue, they both touched their index finger to their thumb and gave me the OK sign. “Perfect,” Dad said.
“Yes,” Dean agreed. “Very nice. These will do quite nicely.” He turned to Dad and said, “I just had an idea. How about if we stop by and leave a couple of fliers and cards with Lieutenant Anderson down at the twelfth precinct? If anyone could drum up a little business for us, Eric could.”
“Gotta run,” Dad said, following Dean toward the door. “Thanks again, Elliott, really.”
“Go on,” I said, “you two kids go out and have a good time. Let me know how it goes.”
“Will do,” Dad said and closed the door behind him.
“Did you ever see those two so happy since they retired?” Gloria said. “This could be just what they both need to feel useful again, even if their cases don’t amount to anything. It’ll give ‘em both something important to do.”
Dean and Clay drove to the twelfth precinct and walked the hallway that had been so familiar to both of them over the past several decades. Lieutenant Eric Anderson now occupied the office that had once belonged to retired police lieutenant Dean Hollister. Dean had spent more than thirty years with the L.A.P.D., following in his father, Dan Hollister’s footsteps.
“Freeze,” a voice from over their shoulders said in a stern voice.
Dean and Clay stopped in their tracks.
“Let me see your hands, both of you,” the voice commanded.
Dean and Clay raised their hands over their heads.
“Now turn around, slowly,” the voice said.
The two men turned around and almost immediately lowered their hands. “You trying to give us both heart attacks?” Dean said to Lieutenant Eric Anderson. “Where’d you come from?”
Eric looked at Dean. “What’s the matter, Hollister,” he said. “Did you lose your cop’s instinct? You let someone get the drop on you from behind?”
Dean gestured toward Eric with his handful of papers. “Who knew I’d have to watch my back in a police station?”
Eric pointed to the papers in Dean’s hands. “What’s all this?” he said. “You looking to post a flier for your little lost doggie?”
“Close,” Clay said. “Dean and I have started a new business and we thought we’ve leave a couple of fliers and business cards with you, you know, just in case you come across someone needing the services of two seasoned professionals.”
“And who would that be?” Eric said, taking the flier from Dean.
“Funny,” Dean said. “You’re looking at the two seasoned pros, and we’re looking for work.”
Eric stopped reading the flier and looked up at Dean. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” he said, “but aren’t the two of you retired?”
“What’s your point?” Dean said.
“Aren’t there some hungry pigeons waiting for both of you in the park?” Eric said.
“Let ‘em get out there and work for their food, the little beggars,” Clay said. “This ain’t no charity program.”
Eric laid a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Why don’t you two junior G-Men come on in my office and take a load off?”
Eric pulled up two chairs across from his desk and gestured for his two guests to sit. He sat on the edge of his desk and laid the flier down behind him. “Now, what’s all this about you two wanting to work again?”
“Simple,” Dean said. “Retirement’s not working out the way we had planned. I don’t know about Clay here, but I’m bored out of my socks.”
“Me, too,” Clay said, “and I don’t even wear socks anymore. I need something stimulating to do or I’m going to go home and jump out the window.”
Eric sighed and looked at Clay. “But you live in a single-story ranch house,” he said.
“I could still skin my knee,” Clay said. “But seriously now, Eric, we just want to work. It doesn’t matter how much we make or how big a case it is, we just want to work, period.”
Dean gestured toward Clay and told Eric, “What he said.”
Eric picked up one of the business cards, looked it over and stuck it into his shirt pocket. “I just might have something for you in a day or two,” he said.
“Great,” Clay said. “What’s the case?”
Eric glanced at the floor. “Sorry, Clay,” he said, “but what I might have in the way of a case only requires one man.”
Clay’s brows furrowed. “And you automatically decided to give it to Dean?” he said. “Is this one of those cops-stick-together scenarios? What about me?”
Eric slid off the edge of his desk and walked around behind it, sitting in his chair. He swiveled the chair around, pulled open a file cabinet drawer and withdrew a photo, placing it face down on the desk. Eric turned to Clay and said, “The job involves posing as someone else in order to get some information that we need to make an arrest. The man I need has to have the experience.”
“I have that,” Clay said.
“He also has to be convincing,” Eric added.
“I can be very convincing,” Clay said.
Eric turned over the photo and slid it in front of Clay and said, “And he also has to look like this.”
Clay glanced down at the photo. The face in the picture was a dead ringer for Dean. “Oh,” Clay said, passing the photo over to Dean.
“Holy crap,” Dean said. “Even I think he looks like me. Who is this guy?”
“His name is Frankie Moscone from New Jersey,” Eric explained. “He came out here to meet with a west coast hit man in order to find someone to do a job for him back in Jersey.”
Dean studied the photo again. “Why don’t they just get someone from New Jersey to do the hit?” he said.
“I guess they don’t want any trails leading back to them,” Eric said.
“How’d you hear about this?” Clay said.
“There was some kind of rumble coming down,” Eric said. “I have a friend, Eddie Bellows on the Trenton Police Department who heard from one of his informers that there was something big happening. He didn’t know exactly what it was, but he did know that Moscone had just booked his flight for L.A. This informant needed a favor from my cop friend and decided to see if he could trade his information for the favor. Bellows called me and faxed over this photo. I nearly fell over when I got it. For a split second I thought maybe you had moved east and taken up a life of crime.”
Dean looked puzzled. “How are you going to find the hit man here in L.A.?” he said.
“We already know who the contact is,” Eric said. “Moscone didn’t have a name, but he gave us a detailed description and told us where and when he was supposed to meet with the guy. The hit man hasn’t done anything we can arrest him for so this seems to be our only option. You interested?”
“How’d you find out who the contact is?” Dean said.
“After I got off the phone with Bellows, I ordered Moscone picked up when he stepped off the plane,” Eric explained. “We sweated him for an hour or so and when he didn’t tell us what we wanted to know, I just told him that we’d let the Jersey boys know that he did. He caught the implications right away and after that he couldn’t talk fast enough. He’s getting immunity from us and we promised him a head start out of town once the contact is established and we find out what we need to know.”
“But won’t this hit man know Moscone?” Dean said.
Eric shook his head. “They’ve never met,” he said. “But you can bet Moscone has seen that photo.” He gestured toward the picture in Dean’s hand. “You just give our makeup guy an hour and he can tweak your hair and eyes and overall color to match the photo. As far as the hit man knows, he’ll be talking to Frankie Moscone and once he accepts half the payment up front we can nail him. So, are you interested in the job?”
Dean looked at Clay. “What do you think, Clay?” he said. “Should I do it?”
“What will Helen say?” Clay asked.
Dean bit his lip. “There is that,” he said, and then turned to Eric. “When and where is this meeting supposed to take place?”
Eric checked his watch. “In a little less than two hours,” he said. “If everything goes right, you can be back home in time for Matlock.”
Dean looked at Eric out of the corners of his eyes without turning his head toward him.
Eric held up two palms. “Sorry Dean,” he said. “So, what’ll it be? I kind of need to know now or I’ll have to get one of my men into the makeup chair, but no one on the force looks as much like Moscone as you do.”
Dean handed the photo back to Eric. “I’m in,” he said. “Let’s get started.”
“You going to need backup?” Clay said. “I could hang around and keep an eye on things.”
“No,” Eric said. “Too risky. We’ll have undercover men planted all around the meeting area, ready to move in after Dean hands the money over.”
“There must be something I can do to help,” Clay said.
Eric shook his head. “Sorry, Clay,” he said. “Maybe next time. I hope you understand how important it is that you not get involved.”
“Of course,” Clay said and then turned to Dean. “Don’t take any chances with this guy. Just get the name of the target, give him the money and back off. Let the undercover cops take it from there.”
Dean furrowed his brow at Clay. “Yes, ma,” he said sarcastically, and then thought better of it. “Sorry, Clay. I know you’re just worried about me.”
“You’re damned right I’m worried,” Clay said. “I already had these cards made up with both our names and numbers on them. I’d hate to waste them and crossing out one name looks so amateurish.”
Dean smiled and nodded. “That kind of concern really warms my heat, you know that?” he said. “Don’t worry about me. I’ve done this kind of work before, many times. It’s not something you forget how to do. If you want to help, you can drive my car back to your old office and wait there for me. This shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours.”
“All right,” Clay said. “Call me when you’re done and I’ll come pick you up right here.”
“Thanks, Clay,” Dean said.
Eric led both of the men out of his office. I turned left and took the hall that led back to the parking lot. Eric and Dean walked in the opposite direction toward the room where Dean’s features were going to be tweaked to look like the photo.
When Clay got back to the office he found Gloria sitting behind her desk but Elliott was gone. Gloria told Clay that Elliott had gone to meet with a potential client and probably wouldn’t be back for a couple more hours. “That’s all right,” Clay said. “I guess I can talk to you just as well.” Clay immediately realized how that sounded and corrected himself. “That is, I mean, oh hell, you know what I mean, Gloria.” Clay gave her the details of the case.
“Sounds like you two are off to one hell of an exciting start with this new business,” Gloria said. “What did Helen say about this first assignment?”
Clay looked at the floor and sighed.
“She doesn’t know, does she?” Gloria said.
“There was no time,” Clay explained. “Besides, the whole thing will be over in a couple of hours and Helen needn’t know anything about it unless Dean decides to tell her. If he does, it probably won’t be for quite some time.”
“I hope it all goes smoothly,” Gloria said.
When Dean got out of the chair and looked into the hand held mirror he nearly did a double-take. “Good job,” he said to the makeup technician who had spent three quarters of an hour getting Dean to look as much like the photo as possible. He turned to Eric, who had remained in the room during the session. “Think I’ll pass?”
“Easily,” Eric said, looking at his watch. “We still have an hour until the meet and it’s a forty minute drive so we’d better get moving. My men are already in place around the area. Even you won’t know they’re there. They’ll all look like regular people going about their lives, but they’ll spring into action when they get the signal.”
“And what’s that signal going to be?” Dean said.
“I told them that after you hand off the money and get the victim’s name that you’ll reach into your coat pocket, pull out a handkerchief and wipe your forehead with it,” Eric explained. “That’ll be their signal to surround the subject and take him down.” Eric looked Dean in the eyes. “You can still back out of this, you know.”
“Let’s go,” Dean said. “We’ve got a very bad man to take off the streets.” Before he followed Eric out of the room, Dean paused. “Will I be armed?”
“Moscone wouldn’t have been able to carry a gun with him on the plane,” Eric said, “so chances are he wouldn’t have been armed for the meeting. You’d better not be, either.”
“And how will I recognize this guy?” Dean said.
“You won’t,” Eric explained. “He’ll know you and he’ll approach you. Just park in the parking lot of the Wal-Mart on Crenshaw Avenue in Culver City. Get out and start walking toward their main entrance. Off to one side you’ll see a bench. Just sit there and wait for him. He’ll find you.”
“I wouldn’t have expected the meeting to be in such a public place,” Dean said.
“The guy’s a little quirky,” Eric said. “Moscone told us that the people who sent him out here told him that his contact didn’t feel safe isolated out in the middle of nowhere and that he felt sure no one would try anything in a public place like that. So I guess we just go along with him and see what happens.”
Out in the parking lot, Eric selected a plain looking Toyota sedan and handed Dean the keys. “We just picked this up at the rent-a-car place using Moscone’s identification. I showed the rental manager Moscone’s photo and told him that if anyone calls confirming a rental for Moscone or if they ask about a description, to go along with the request and describe Moscone, or in this case, you to the caller. The paperwork will pass any scrutiny if it comes to that.”
Dean took the keys from Eric. “Wish me luck,” he said, sliding behind the wheel and starting the car. “See you on the other side.”
Dean drove out of the police parking lot and headed south toward the pre-arranged rendezvous with the killer. Dean drove south on Western Avenue to Jefferson and then west to Crenshaw. From there it was just four or five blocks south to Wal-Mart. He found a parking spot a hundred feet or less from the main entrance and started walking toward the store. To the right of the entrance Dean could see a metal bench. It was empty. He sat there, glanced at his watch and found he was three minutes early.
Dean waited a few more minutes and then spotted a man coming toward him. Dean stood, ready to meet the man who appeared to be smiling at him. Dean was just about to extend his hand to the man when the man walked right past him and hugged a woman who was just coming out of the store. They walked back toward the parking lot hand in hand. Dean turned to sit on the bench again when he saw that there was another man already sitting there.
The man stood when he saw Dean. “Frankie?” the man said.
Dean nodded. “That’s right,” he said. “And you are?”
“Looking for a job,” the man said. “That’s all you need to know. Did you bring the money?”
Dean started to reach into his pocket.
“Not here,” the man said. “Just start walking back toward the parking lot.”
Dean did as he was told and the
man fell into step alongside him. He looked around nervously and determined that no one was watching or following them. “Over here,” the man said and led Dean to the side of a white panel van. He stopped and turned to face Dean and quickly patted him down, searching for a weapon or a wire. Satisfied that Dean had neither, he said, “Let’s have it.” He held his hand out and waited for the down payment.
Dean retrieved the bundle of marked bills that Eric had given him and passed them over to the man, who quickly counted the bills in the wrapped stack.
“All right,” the man said. “Who do I see to finish the job?”
“His name is Jack O’Malley,” Dean said and handed the man a slip of paper with a name and address on it. Folded inside was a small three-by-five photo of the intended victim.
The man took the paper and the photo, along with the wrapped bills, stuffing the whole works into his pocket. “You go on back to Jersey and tell your people it’s handled,” he said to Dean.
“That’ll be a relief,” Dean said, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out his handkerchief. He wiped his forehead with the handkerchief and then looked back at the man, whose face now sported one big question on it. Dean looked down at the handkerchief. There was a big smear of makeup across it.
“Hey,” the man said, “what is this, some kind of joke?” He looked around and saw a Wal-Mart employee in his blue vest coming their way. From the other direction a man in a blue suit was also walking fast toward them. A third and fourth man, both dressed as telephone linemen, began rushing toward them.
“You ain’t Frankie Moscone,” the man said, pulling a snub-nosed revolver from under his coat and firing twice at Dean from point blank range. Dean slumped to the blacktop, clutching his stomach. The man turned and ran but was immediately surrounded by four undercover cops. He started firing at the closest undercover cop but was cut down by bullets from at least three of the other cops. The man was dead before he hit the pavement.