by John Lansing
Mando hiked up his oversize white T-shirt from his baggy jeans, pulled a cloth handkerchief out of his back pocket, and used it to wipe off the section of the green wooden bench that he now claimed as his own. A learned behavior, bred in the exercise pens of the state prison system. He scanned the horizon, carefully folded the handkerchief, and slid it back into his pocket.
“Understand one thing, Mando, this is a relationship bred out of mutual need and mistrust. We both move forward at great personal risk,” Delgado stated.
Mando’s body tightened to the point of snapping as Delgado reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a flask of Macallan instead of a gun, unscrewed the metal cap, and took a sip. His first of the day, and more for effect than desire. He didn’t offer the flask to Mando, who tried to cover his instinctive first reaction.
Delgado enjoyed Mando’s discomfort almost as much as the eighteen-year-old scotch. In another life, he would never have met in person with a fucking punk like Mando. But the business had changed, and one had to stay agile in order to succeed these days. The 18th Street Angels controlled a valuable piece of Southern California real estate, and Mando, who was also a member of the Mexican Mafia, controlled the Angels. Arturo needed them both to make his plans come to fruition.
“I offer you one opportunity to make the Angels great,” Delgado said as his attention was drawn to the billowing red, white, and blue spinnaker of a sailboat a quarter mile offshore.
“I’m . . . what does Obama call it?” Arturo asked, not expecting an answer. “Empire building.”
“We can get product on the other side of the border,” Mando said in a voice so low that if the man weren’t so deadly, Arturo would have laughed out loud. The affectation of the emotionally stunted, he thought.
“But you’ll always be under the thumb of Los Zetas. I offer you autonomy. Power. Control,” he went on, in case Mando didn’t know what autonomy meant. “But you only get more of my product, and your name in the history books, once you’ve proved yourself.”
Delgado could feel the heat radiating off Mando, but he knew the small man was motivated by greed. That was good, because Delgado was about to get a lot harsher.
“Did it ever occur to your men to get Alvarez’s financial statements from their target? Her iPad with his records, her passwords, any of that before they killed her?”
“The situation was handled as instructed.”
“Not to my satisfaction and not to Alvarez’s. Your people were inept,” Arturo snapped, gloves off. “And Bertolino spends only one night in prison? Why? Because your men chose not to plant the bloody murder weapon, as ordered.”
Mando winced at this remark, showing that he agreed. ”Hector is an effective killer. He will be brought to heel, though.”
“Get control of your men or I will find new partners.”
Arturo waited until a family of four pedaled their bicycles down the concrete path that curved in front of them. He turned, and his own dead eyes bored into Mando’s.
“Are we clear?”
The anger in the young man’s face was quivering as he weighed his options. Delgado could see his hand reach toward the cloth handkerchief in his back pocket. That must be some signal to the assassins Mando had planted nearby. Instead, Mando decided to bide his time. Another skill developed behind bars.
A simple nod of his head was his reply.
“There are people close to you on the payroll of the DEA.”
“Talk’s cheap. Give me a name and it will be handled,” Mando said, voice tight.
Delgado reached into his pocket again and pulled out a single Post-it with the name Ricky Hernandez and an address written on it. “No mistakes this time.”
Mando pocketed the information without looking at it or Delgado.
“Afterward, if there are no fuckups, and your people are ready to move forward, the first shipment will be in transit. The second shipment is of a magnitude that will change your lives,” Delgado said without the slightest trace of bravado.
“When?”
“When you have proved to me that the first batch of shirts made it to the cleaners without incident.”
Delgado turned back to face the ocean.
The meeting was over.
As Mando stood up, seething at the insult, he could see his two armed gang members in flanking positions, ready to give up their own lives protecting his. And then his gaze moved beyond his men to a second-story rooftop.
A sniper.
Dressed entirely in cammo gear, holding a high-powered rifle with a telescopic sight trained directly on Mando.
“With age comes wisdom,” Delgado said, sounding bored, not looking up as Mando walked heavily toward the safety of his men.
18
The drive from Ontario to Hollywood Boulevard took an hour on I-10 East, but Hector had a rare date and Johnny wanted to show Angelina a good time. So they cruised the boulevard until they got bored, stopped in front of Grauman’s Chinese and checked out the hand and footprints of famous movie actors, grabbed some slices of pizza and Cokes, and headed up Laurel Canyon Boulevard.
Hector loved the throaty sound his Chevy Impala’s exhaust system made as it echoed off the canyon walls. Izel, his date for the night, was duly impressed with the car, but she hadn’t made up her mind about Hector. He seemed angry, tight, distant, and although he had a reputation in the Angels for being a badass, Izel wasn’t convinced theirs was a match made in heaven.
She applied another layer of thick black liner to her perfect almond-shaped brown eyes, which was no mean feat on the winding canyon roads. Izel angled the vanity mirror and could now see Johnny and Angelina making out in the backseat, his hand moving under her blouse. She could almost feel their heat.
Izel could have done Johnny. It was a mistake not to have made a move on the pretty boy, but she was a pragmatist and didn’t dwell on the past. She knew a decision concerning Hector would have to be made before the end of the night, but if she was totally honest with herself, the decision had already been made. She wasn’t feeling him.
Hector made a left onto Mulholland and, after a tight hairpin turn that threw Johnny across the backseat of the car, out of Angelina’s embrace and into a fit of laughter, pulled off the road at a scenic overlook. A low wood fence kept tourists from falling off the edge, and a small dirt hillock afforded a spectacular view of the twinkling lights on the valley floor, spreading all the way to the San Bernardino Mountains.
Angelina pulled a chubby joint from her leather bag, took a huge hit, and blew the sweet smoke into Johnny’s mouth. Then she passed it up to Izel, who took a hit and did a quick handoff to Hector.
Hector sucked in a lungful and seemed to let go a bit on the exhale, filling the car with pot smoke. He gave his date a look that left no question as to what he’d like her to do for him.
“How did you find this place?” Izel asked, hoping Hector didn’t expect her to put out in the car.
“Doin’ some business. Speaking of . . .” Hector opened his door and signaled Johnny out of the car. The two gangbangers walked up the hill and shared another hit of the pungent weed. Hector hiked up his baggy shorts and glanced over at the car to make sure they were out of earshot before getting down to business.
“You think I was going to leave my tools behind because some pendejo ordered me to? He don’t own me. Hector don’t take no orders. Hector’s got the power.”
Johnny knew better than to interrupt when his partner was on a rant. They were in some deep shit with powerful men who could order them killed. Johnny had received the call from Mando. Mexican Mafia Mando—no one to fuck with—used his low-talk voice, which was as deadly as a rattlesnake. Scared the shit out of him. Johnny had reassured the OG that no more mistakes would be made, and the Original Gangsta had fired back that no other mistakes would be tolerated.
Message received a
nd delivered.
Johnny would let Hector vent now, but later, make sure orders were carried out.
“You know where the power comes from, homeboy?” Hector continued. “No fear. I been to hell and back. You just held the devil’s cape,” he added in a scornful aside. “So we’ll do his business when it suits us, with respect on both sides, and kill him if it goes wrong, strike first.” Hector’s glare left no doubt that he would. “Now, Johnny, I got a call from Mando this afternoon. He wasn’t happy, kept throwing that Delgado dude all up in my face, ese, but I talked him down.”
This bit of news didn’t make Johnny feel anything but dread and a stabbing pain in his gut.
“They found out who’s the rat. It was no Angel—it was a contract player. Mando wants him done so every brother, all twenty-seven, know that we’ve got their backs, and everyone else knows not to fuck the Angels.”
“Johnny,” Angelina called out the back window.
“What?” Johnny snapped back in a tone that shocked them both.
“Hey, don’t get crazy on my ass!”
Johnny looked at Hector, whose eyes were dark and vacant now, and nodded his head in assent. It was so ordered. There would be another body to haunt his dreams, destroy his sleep, and guarantee him a place in hell.
Hector took a last monster hit of the killer Mexican weed and then flicked the burning roach, sending it pinwheeling into the bone-dry brush below.
19
Jack was already seated at his favorite rear booth, which afforded him a view of the entire dining and bar area. He felt a smile form as Tommy walked through the door, spotted Jack, and tried to maneuver through the gauntlet of west siders waiting for a table. America might be suffering the greatest economic downturn since the Great Depression, but he was hard-pressed to tell from the eager crowd in Hal’s.
Tommy reached the booth at the same time Arsinio, their waiter—who was a Hal’s institution—arrived to take drink orders. Tommy was all over a twelve-year-old Dewar’s on the rocks and Jack ordered the house cabernet. Tommy, still standing, made a sweeping, grand gesture as he pulled a manila envelope from under his arm like a broadsword from a scabbard. He slid it across the table, where it spun and came to rest directly in front of Jack. The two men bumped fists as Tommy settled into the booth across from his friend.
“Nice joint. Very Tribeca,” Tommy said as he took in the art on the walls and the uptown women standing at the bar.
“I thought it would make you feel all warm and fuzzy.”
Jack picked up the manila envelope and tapped it on the table, preoccupied.
“Are you going to play with it or look at it?”
Jack folded back the metal tabs and opened the envelope, sliding the contents onto the table. Out spilled a stack of official-looking documents with notarized seals. Jack picked up one particular laminated card and studied it carefully before laying it back down on the table.
A private investigator’s license.
Jack’s picture, his thumbprint, and his name, typed on the front, sealed in plastic, and sanctioned by the state of California.
“You’ve been busy,” Jack said.
Tommy was pleased with himself and couldn’t hold back. “Mayor approved, chief expedited. And hand-delivered by DDA Leslie Sager, who, by the way, inquired about your marital status.”
“Why?”
“I asked myself the same question. Why you and not me?”
Jack stared Tommy down, amused, waiting.
“Because there’s a recession and Los Angeles doesn’t need any more bad news or, more to the point, major lawsuits. The mayor is trying to push through a billion-dollar subway system running underneath Wilshire Boulevard, and 90210 dilettantes are blocking him. The new police chief spoke very highly of you, and your record, and was ready to do anything it took to help out a retired inspector. I actually believed him.”
“What am I going to do with it?”
“Stay out of trouble? It could help. A civilian doesn’t stand a chance in your situation.”
“Who’s my client?”
“You’re buying him dinner.”
Jack wasn’t fond of private investigators, but thought they were a necessary evil. A few of his cop friends had hung out shingles—international security work, missing persons, hostage negotiations, industrial espionage—but it was certainly nothing he aspired to. Still, he knew the license would lend him a measure of legitimacy as he moved forward with his investigation.
He could always shred the card the minute he was finished.
“Thank you, Tommy. This couldn’t have been easy to pull off.”
“Happy to cash in a few chits. You’d do the same and not think twice.”
One of Tommy’s specialties as a white-collar criminal defense attorney was representing targets, subjects, and witnesses in criminal investigations. As usual, he had exceeded expectations.
Arsinio arrived at their table doing a precarious balancing act with a tray full of cocktails.
Jack sat back in the booth and looked at the colorful Saturday-night crowd walking in tight knots on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. Arsinio expertly moved a martini on the tray for balance and placed the dark amber scotch in front of Tommy.
As he reached for the red wine, Jack suddenly spied an older gentleman wearing a stylish large-brimmed hat. He walked past the front window, out of sight for a beat as he was obstructed by the wooden doorway, and then exposed again in the picture window on the right.
Jack’s pulse quickened. He was certain the man had a slight limp, and for a split second the man glanced in Jack’s direction and they locked eyes.
Jack launched himself up and out of the booth, knocking over the full glass of cabernet Arsinio had just set down.
Jack muttered, “Sorry,” as he raced up the length of the room, fighting his way through the thick throng of patrons blocking his exit as the man disappeared from view. He finally cleared the door, pushed his way through the crowd of pedestrians in his path, and took off running down Abbot Kinney. Yet he had already lost his quarry.
Jack scanned the area in all directions as he sped past pedestrians window-shopping. He ran up one block, and then another, ducked in and out of retail shops. He checked both sides of the street and then spun, looking behind him in case the man with the hat had doubled back. Nothing.
Jack juked dangerously across the street, thick with traffic. Horns blared and expletives were yelled, but he was oblivious to the vehicles as he tried to visualize exactly what the man he had seen looked like and what he was wearing. An expensive, well-tailored black suit and a black wide-brimmed hat—the style of the man who had been videotaped visiting Alvarez. Jack couldn’t be sure of the limp, but something about the man’s gait had hinted at forced control. And then the eyes. Those eyes, too familiar, filled with pure hatred. Jack couldn’t be sure, but he wouldn’t rule it out.
No, Jack Bertolino was ready to bet the farm it was someone from his past.
Arturo Delgado.
—
Tommy Aronsohn was standing by the curb in front of Hal’s when Jack crossed the street. Jack filled him in on Delgado disappearing like smoke as they returned to their booth. Jack apologized profusely to Arsinio, who wasn’t in the least bit fazed. He already had a fresh tablecloth laid for them. Tommy ordered a turkey burger with a Caesar salad, and Jack ordered the flank steak he hadn’t eaten two nights before. Arsinio left them to work on their drinks.
“Delgado wanted me to know he was here. That I was in his crosshairs,” Jack said angrily. “He’s got a huge fucking ego. It’s always been a game with him. One big chessboard.” He shook his head, thinking about the scumbag. “Man never touched the product, never got his hands dirty. He was one hell of a tactician, but he lost and he wants payback. Simple as that.”
“How long has it been?” Tommy as
ked.
“Six, seven years. I’m telling you, I’ve seen presidents age, first term in office—but if I’m right, Green Door cost him big-time. I mean this was one vital dude when I was hunting him. He was the best. He got away, but it looks like he paid for the loss.” As Jack was talking, he was thinking through the implications. “My first impulse about Mia is that it wasn’t a cartel hit. At least not directly. It was a personal vendetta. And somehow it was farmed out locally.”
Something about that link didn’t quite sit right. “Alvarez to Delgado—the puppet master? Maybe it was Delgado who hit paydirt and not Alvarez looking for a twofer. Mia might be dead because she contacted me. But if she was running, why? Did she rip off Alvarez? Makes sense. Did she rip off Delgado? Maybe. Someone’s supplying Alvarez in prison. Delgado looks good for it. The Mexican Mafia might be protection and the delivery organization, but someone else is supplying the cocaine.”
He was looking at too many questions, without enough answers. “I’ve gotta get my car checked out. I’m being followed and I drive with one eye on the rearview. He knows where I live; he may have been in my loft. Someone planted the utility knife. I’ve gotta get my loft, my computer, my phone swept for bugs and new locks put on the door.”
Tommy saw something in Jack’s eyes he hadn’t seen in a while, the look he saw when they were first starting out in law enforcement, Tommy as an ADA and Jack as a rookie narcotics detective. When Jack had the “disease.” When work, the rush, the pump transcended family, friends, and personal well-being.
“Gene McLennan was talking about a RICO bust down in Ontario,” Jack continued. “Entrenched street gang called the 18th Street Angels with a few crossover members in the Mexican Mafia. They picked up a litter of the scumbags and were surprised to find four keys of Dominican cocaine.”
He nodded as he expressed his thought process aloud. “Alvarez is starting to look good for the product. Could be payment for the contract on Mia. Anyway, I’m thinking another look at Vista Haven, then Ontario’s a place of interest. Check out their turf so I know what I’m dealing with.”