by John Lansing
Johnny sauntered over to the Impala, slapped palms with Frankie, and got into the car. He stared straight ahead.
Hector gave Frankie a final nod, slid behind the wheel, and backed out of the custom shop.
The sound of the rain banging on the white hardtop almost drowned out the voices wreaking havoc in Johnny’s head.
Frankie watched the blue Impala disappear into the stormy night before he pulled out his cell phone and punched in a number.
34
“What else did she fucking say?” Hector demanded as he drove the Impala dangerously fast on the rain-slicked road. The wipers had given up the fight, and Johnny wasn’t sure how Hector could see, let alone navigate through the pelting rain.
“That’s it. That your father hired a private investigator because he was worried about you.”
“That would be one fucking great trick, wouldn’t it?” Hector spoke with raw menace. “Be very careful now. What did she say about me?”
“First of all, don’t tell me to fucking be careful. Second, she doesn’t know shit about you, because nobody knows shit about you. There’s nothing she could have said. He wanted to know where you lived. She doesn’t have that answer. She doesn’t even know where I fucking live.”
“What was this cop’s name?”
“He wasn’t a cop,” Johnny said, with a level of sarcasm he regretted. Johnny always tried to keep in mind who he was dealing with.
“What the fuck was his name?”
“He didn’t give a name, he just asked a few questions and left.”
“Could it have been that guy we fucked with?”
“What guy?”
“Don’t mess with me, Johnny. That place in the marina. The guy that braced Higueras.”
Johnny was still reacting to the terrifying news that someone had tracked down his mother’s house. “I don’t know.”
“Why is it you’re always so smart, the expert in all things, and now you sound dim? Why is that, ese?”
Johnny didn’t take the bait.
“If it was the marina guy, we’ll have to kill him,” Hector went on matter-of-factly. “Mando has no say in it. When I told Mando we probably scared him off with the arrest, he said—oh . . . fuckin’ Bertolino’s the prick’s name—Mando said he don’t scare. He gets even.”
“If you had left the knife we used on the girl,” Johnny said, “he’d still be in jail.”
Hector’s silence was chilling. Johnny’s hand slid down to his gun, though it gave him no comfort.
Johnny wasn’t about to give up any more information than was needed to keep Hector in line. This Bertolino guy knew where he grew up and his association with Hector. He was on their trail. It was only a matter of time before it all came slamming down on their heads. The man had also told his sister that he would help if help was needed.
Johnny had been doing some serious thinking. He had researched immunity and the FBI’s Witness Protection Program. Nothing was off the table at this point. Hector was spinning out of control, and Johnny wasn’t going down the drain with him. He hadn’t lost all his common sense.
Hector pulled out his phone and hit the speed dial as he roared through a yellow light, sending thick plumes of water cascading onto opposing traffic.
—
Jack Bertolino decided to do a drive-by of the Lopez residence on his way back to the I-10. When he pulled up in front of the house, he decided that it gave the term “residence” a bad name. There was something bankrupt at the core of the California ranch. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but it looked dry and neglected even in the wet storm.
It also looked deserted. He depressed the parking brake and stepped out of his Mustang into a hidden pothole full of muddy rainwater. He cursed as he ran up onto the stoop with an overhang so small, rain still slanted in on his back, drenching him. He knocked three times, hard, and was surprised when the front door swung open.
He could hear a phone ringing in the background and had to look down into the face of a slight woman with thinning home-permed hair, who he guessed was Hector Lopez’s mother.
Being the king of improv, Jack came up with a snappy gambit. “Are you Mrs. Lopez?”
The woman nodded her head. Her intense brown, owlish eyes were unblinking. She didn’t seem surprised by the intrusion.
“No habla ingles,” she said, and Jack half-believed her.
“Hector Lopez, tu hijo, your son, does he live here?”
“No. Hector no lives here.”
Jack made a mental note to learn how to speak Spanish. His mental notepad was so full, he couldn’t read his mental writing anymore.
But he could smell a hot dinner cooking on the stove. His stomach churned, he was drenched to the bone, and he was really pissed off. Jack wanted his life back, pre-Mia.
“Do you want to get the phone, and then we’ll talk?”
He mimed the telephone with a hand-to-his-ear bit, and raised his eyebrows. Marcel Marceau was rolling over in his French grave, Jack thought.
“Hector no lives here,” she repeated.
Mrs. Lopez started to slowly close the door. Jack hated to do it, but he wedged his foot into the doorjamb, like a traveling salesman, before the door was shut entirely.
“Do you know where I can find him?” he said through the five-inch opening.
“Hector no lives here.”
Jack pulled his foot out, feeling slightly embarrassed as the woman slammed it shut. He heard the bolt being thrown.
He understood the honest fear of cops felt by the immigrant population. He just wasn’t sure if that’s what was motivating this woman.
As long as Jack was here and already wet to the bone, he decided to do a little snooping. He walked a ways up the driveway on the side of the house and could see an unattached ramshackle garage that looked derelict. Off to the left was a large overgrown backyard that was separated from open county property by a barren fruit tree situated next to a rusted chain-link fence. Nice piece of land, he thought, if it wasn’t for the high-tension electrical towers that loomed overhead.
A light in the house snapped on, and he caught a glimpse of Mrs. Lopez staring out of the kitchen window with those crazy eyes. That woman needed to get some sleep, Jack thought as he waved in a friendly way and jogged back to his car before she called the police. He’d pick up a quarter-pounder and a hot cup of coffee on the road, and pay his dues on the I-10.
—
“Answer the phone, you dried-out old bitch,” Hector shouted, his voice filled with so much hatred for his mother it made Johnny want to puke.
Hector disconnected, hit Redial, and again pressed the cell phone to his ear. Then he checked the printout to make sure there was a connection, one hand on the steering wheel, not concentrating on the road. Johnny could see that the yellow light they were approaching was about to turn red. There was no way they were going to make it.
“We’re gonna miss the light,” he said in measured tones.
“Answer the phone, bitch.”
Hector accelerated.
“Light’s turning red, Hector. Slow down,” he said, sharper now.
“Shut the fuck up, Johnny.”
“It’s a red fucking light!”
“Let them stop for me.”
Hector slammed his foot down, pedal to metal; the 315-horsepower V8 engine kicked in and rocketed toward the intersection.
Johnny tensed his body, prepared to die.
The pictures turned to slow motion. The hapless man in a Toyota Camry to Johnny’s right realized he was about to T-bone Hector’s car. His eyes went wide; his mouth contorted into a silent scream as he slammed on his brakes and went into a hydroplaning spin.
The sound of wrenching steel, breaking glass, and horns blasting was frightening and then receded into the background as the Impala sped safely t
hrough the intersection, leaving a three-car collision behind it.
The rain drummed onto the hardtop, keeping time with Johnny’s beating heart.
“Answer the phone, putana!” Hector raged, red faced.
—
Hector and Johnny circled around the back of Royce Motors and blinked the Impala’s lights at the entrance to the fenced-in lot. The chain-link fence was eight feet high with a green canvas liner to keep out prying eyes.
The large double gates swung open, and a pair of 180-pound brindle English mastiffs bared their teeth, drool flying as they swung their black-masked faces back and forth and glared at the new intruders with their devilish green eyes.
The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but the large puddles throughout the vast dirt lot reflected the overhead amber security lights and gave the entire scene the look of a science fiction movie.
Roman Ortiz snapped his fingers, and the two massive guard dogs were stilled.
Hector motored in, being careful to avoid the muddy puddles. The doors swung shut behind him and were locked by a pair of Lil’ Angels with AK-47s strung over their chests like bandoliers. He pulled up to a double-wide tan aluminum trailer, like one you might see at a construction site, and parked next to a row of tricked-out cars and gray primer specials.
Hector and Johnny exited the Impala and were greeted by Roman, who walked up and clapped them both on the back. He was in good spirits.
“What’s up, boss?” Johnny asked Roman. “Looks like we’re going to war.”
There were more Angels than normal, everyone was armed to the teeth, and the tension in the air was palpable.
“Just protecting what is ours and guaranteeing our future,” Roman said, exuding an aura of calm. And then as a subtle warning, “Arturo Delgado is here. Overseeing his investment.”
Their conversation was cut short as the door to the office swung open and Mando walked out of the trailer, his dead eyes probing, his palms raised skyward, demanding to see his team’s results.
Hector just nodded his head. He knew the little man was putting on an act for Delgado. All was good.
Johnny wasn’t thrilled to see Mexican Mafia Mando but nodded deferentially. He now understood the tension. It wasn’t the stormy weather; it was the disruption in the energy field created by Arturo Delgado.
The half-acre lot was filled with the carcasses of rusting buses, cars, mobile homes, and trucks, all in different stages of disrepair, all cannibalized as needed for parts.
In one corner Johnny could see the police car that he had driven to kill the woman up on the hill in Sherman Oaks. A young man worked under a canvas tarp as he stripped off the last of the white 3M Controltac. The plastic wrap had been applied to make the car look like an authentic black-and-white. The Ford was almost entirely black now, and once the light bar was removed, it would never be identified and tied to the crime, a small favor.
At the far end of the lot were four extra-large orange roll-up steel doors that provided entrance to the rear of the Royce Motors building and two heavy-duty metal ramps to accommodate the buses.
Hector knew the drill; he walked back to the Impala and engaged the trap. He pulled out his bags of cash and followed Mando, Roman, and Johnny into the office.
Arturo Delgado was seated comfortably behind the wooden desk. It was the first time he had made a physical appearance at Royce Motors. There could be no mistakes now.
Hector nodded to the alpha male in a room filled with alphas before he dumped thirty-two thousand dollars onto the top of the desk, next to another neatly stacked group of banded bills, and moved away. He knew better than to speak unless he was spoken to.
The extra munitions now made sense to Johnny.
The bundles of hundreds never disappointed.
Johnny’s friend David Reyes was manning the industrial vacuum sealer. He gave them a nervous glance but kept an eye on the task at hand. His face was still a mass of small red welts from when Jack Bertolino had shot out his windshield at seventy miles an hour.
Roman set up three shot glasses next to the money, like a poker dealer, and poured shots of Patrón. Arturo Delgado, Mando, and Roman clinked glasses while their soldiers looked away, not wanting to interfere with their leaders’ ritual.
“To continued success,” Roman said, and then deferred to Delgado, a move not lost on Mando.
“The future is ours,” Delgado proclaimed.
The men slammed back their tequila.
The money disappeared as quickly as the liquor. It was vacuum-sealed and weighed on digital scales. A pound of hundreds, forty-eight thousand dollars. Two hundred seventy-five keys of coke equaled 4.4 million dollars.
A quarter million would go to the Angels; two hundred thousand would go into Manuel Alvarez’s new account; Delgado would dip his beak, amount unspecified; and the rest would make its way, after being laundered, to the Dominican Republic and then back to Colombia.
The plastic-wrapped bags of money were loaded into military rucksacks. The 18th Street Angels each grabbed two apiece, and with Delgado and Mando leading the way, the men filed out of the office and made their way to the Royce Motors rear entrance.
The large dogs came up to Roman’s waist and loped along, shadowing Roman and the new stranger step for step. They heeled dutifully, occasionally nuzzling Roman’s hand, a silent warning to anyone foolish enough to challenge their master.
David Reyes leaned toward Johnny. “Raymond got fucked up good, man.”
“I heard.”
“His leg, it’s bad, man. We gotta kill the fucker that done him. I think it was that dude from the car. I’m gonna personally make him pay for my face, bro. I used to be pretty. Now I’m all fucked up.”
It always amused Johnny when David started talking street. He had graduated from John Burroughs with a 3.5 grade average and did all of the Angels’ accounting. College had been in both of their futures until they met up with Hector.
“Right.”
“That pendejo’s gonna pay. That’s all I’m sayin’. ”
Roman used a key and one of the orange metal doors rolled up and open. He and Delgado were the first men up the ramp.
Mando waved Hector forward, and the two gangsters conferred in hushed tones as they walked through the cavernous structure down a long passageway created by new million-dollar buses waiting to be sold. The painted beauties were parked at angles, their custom artwork spotlit like runway models to entice rock groups, corporations, movie companies, and sports teams to pull out their checkbooks. Anyone who spent time on the road and could afford a luxury ride.
“They’re layin’ out Ricky on Sunday. Should I make an appearance, you think?” Hector asked Mando, deferentially.
“No, man, didn’t you ever see The Godfather, ese? Marlon Brando at the wedding, man? There were feds crawling up their asses taking pictures of all the gangsters’ cars. Nobody knows you exist. That’s some scary shit we’ve got goin’ on. Understand?”
“Yeah, I do,” Hector said and liked the concept.
Welding sparks fountained like a supernova in the distance as the men reached the service bay and stared with admiration.
The bus that had been used to transport the hip-hop group Gold Nickel, and the drugs from Miami, was elevated onto one of the lifts near the front of the shop. Large metal panels on either side of the exhaust system had been removed, and men were strapping the rucksacks of cash already weighed and installing them like insulation. One side of the bus was fully packed.
All eyes in the shop turned to Arturo Delgado, who gave a slight nod of approval.
The team of men wearing protective headgear stepped back under the bus, sparks flying as they seamlessly welded the metal panel back into place.
Whatever else was happening, Johnny thought, business was expanding. He’d have a big payday. And then his gaze drifted to the dead eyes of
his partner and he decided then and there that he was not going to follow Hector into hell.
35
Jack felt like he had squeezed two days into one as he merged from the I-10 onto the San Diego Freeway. The rain had stopped, and he was only fifteen minutes from home. He was still wet to the core and looking forward to a hot shower and bed. He thought about giving Leslie Sager a call, but if he remembered correctly, they had agreed to talk on Friday for a Saturday-night date. He could sorely use the company of a woman, though, just to change his mental state if for nothing else.
Being married had its advantages. When his marriage was good, it was very good, and Jeannine had a way of bringing Jack out of his immersion in a case. She helped him compartmentalize so he could enjoy some semblance of a home life.
Sometimes just the scent of a woman could do the trick. Oh yeah, Jack Bertolino was definitely ready for a date.
Jack pulled his Mustang into the driveway of his building, hit the remote, and drove through as the gate swung open. He parked, reached over to close his laptop, and stopped. He decided, on second thought, that he should check out Cruz’s handiwork.
Jack clicked the loft icon on his desktop, and when the picture pixelized and became clear, Jack felt a pounding erupt in his temples and the pit of his stomach drop. Someone in a dark hoodie was in his loft, walking past the first hidden surveillance camera toward the bedroom area.
Jack jumped out of the car, pulled his Glock out of his shoulder holster, and ran for the door. He banged into the building, keyed the stairwell door, and started running up the flights of stairs.
When he got to the fourth floor, he stopped for a moment to catch his breath. He loaded his nine millimeter and silently slipped out of the stairwell, being careful not to let the heavy door slam shut behind him.
Jack crept along the open walkway and saw that the blinds were still drawn in his unit. He was mindful of shadows as he crouched down and moved past his front window.
Jack did a silent three count to still his breathing. His hand depressed the door handle, and he pushed the metal door open.