The Devil's Necktie

by John Lansing

  Hector Lopez closed his eyes and tried to calculate a way out. Nothing.

  Jack was breathing hard, and his finger was itching on the trigger.

  Nick Aprea stepped up next to his friend and calmly said, “The building’s gonna blow. Here.” And threw down a pair of handcuffs.

  Bertolino uncocked his weapon, but before he could slap on the cuffs, Hector’s head exploded, sending clots of blood and gray matter spraying Jack’s shirt.

  Jack looked toward the rear entrance and saw the wide brim of a black hat, then a muzzle flash as a series of bullets struck wide of their intended mark.

  Arturo Delgado.

  Jack took off running at him. He power-loaded his backup weapon, ran a zigzag pattern, and returned fire as he forced Delgado into the building in search of cover. Then Jack sprinted up the ramp and disappeared into the inner recesses of Royce Motors.

  Nick Aprea said a silent prayer for his friend as he dragged Hector’s lifeless body clear. In another few seconds the double-wide and Hector’s 1960 blue Impala sports sedan with the white roof and white side scoops were enveloped in flames and black acrid smoke.

  —

  Pools of lights alternated with areas of total darkness in the cavernous hangar that housed the rows of million-dollar buses. Jack heard movement deeper inside the warehouse and followed his ears, trusting his senses as he stalked Arturo Delgado.

  Delgado was dressed in black and with his black hat all but disappeared in the dark shadows.

  Bertolino moved closer as he dodged from the safety of one bus to the next. When he thought he was close, he stood stone still, trying to get a bead on his prey. He wanted to take Arturo alive but would be happy to put a bullet into his forehead.

  —

  Delgado moved through the pitch black as he neared the center aisle and muted shadows that separated the two long rows of buses. He had already spent half of his AK rounds. Still, he had enough left to destroy his quarry. He decided he would start with Bertolino’s knees and move north from there.

  He felt Jack more than he saw him, but knew he was a heartbeat away. Jack took a step into a shallow pool of light to get his bearings. Delgado stilled his breath and slowly turned to fire.

  From out of nowhere, a bloody hand snaked up and grabbed Arturo Delgado by the metal brace on his leg and started to drag him down. Delgado roared. He lowered his AK and fired wildly. One-handed, the weapon arced up, spraying bullets in a crazy pattern of death. Delgado kicked and struggled to stay on his feet, finally planting two hands on the weapon and firing a head shot that killed the Los Zetas commando who had been mauled by the English mastiffs and left for dead.

  Silence.

  Delgado fought to control his panicked breath and ascertain Jack’s position. He hoped Bertolino couldn’t hear the pounding of his heart.

  Jack’s fist exploded out of the darkness, knocking Arturo’s head into the side of the bus. His hat went flying as he spun into the center of the aisle. He tried to fire again, but Jack punched him hard, snapping the cartilage in his nose, and blinding him for a second. The AK-47 went sliding across the concrete floor, under a bus, and out of Delgado’s frantic reach.

  The man who had faced the cartel’s tribunal took off running into darkness while Jack pursued.

  “Why’d you come back?” Jack shouted, hoping his words would slow the man down.

  “I could ask the same question, but we both know the answer,” Delgado said as he spit blood from his mouth. Bending down, he yanked a nine-millimeter pistol from one of the dead Angels’ hands. He let four rounds fly toward Jack’s voice.

  —

  Jack could have shot him dead, but they’d been down too many roads for such an easy end. Delgado was going to pay.

  “You can’t get out,” Jack said in calm, measured tones.

  “How well do you know me?”

  “I know things about you that would shame your mother.”

  “She’d tell me to pull out the white flag.”

  “Better than being carried out.”

  “Not if you’ve been where I have.”

  “You’re breaking my heart, Delgado.”

  “I got close.”

  Jack started having second thoughts about not shooting Delgado in the head when he had the chance, as he moved silently toward the sound of Arturo’s voice. He stopped, and then turned ninety degrees. He looked upward and noticed a catwalk running around the circumference of the great room.

  The sound of metal tapping metal caught Jack’s attention. Delgado was climbing the metal ladder to the catwalk, fifty feet above the showroom floor, used to service the air-conditioning units. A faint red light at the far end of the narrow walkway signified an emergency exit. The man’s metal brace had given him away.

  Jack ran toward the sound and started up the ladder, taking two rungs at a time.

  Delgado sighted and shot the nine millimeter twice. Jack jerked his body out of the line of fire. One of his hands slipped and he swung sideways. He dangled thirty feet above the floor before he managed to regain his footing and continue his pursuit.

  Delgado dry-fired twice and in frustration threw the empty pistol down at Jack, grazing his shoulder before it clattered to the floor below.

  Jack kept climbing. He reached Delgado a few rungs before the top and grabbed for his leg. Delgado mule-kicked and connected with the side of Jack’s head. The blow blinded him in a flash of pain, then fueled his rage. Nothing was going to stop him from taking down the man who’d tried to murder his son. Jack shook it off and grabbed again and again as Delgado tried to smash his hands. Fighting, kicking, and scrabbling.

  Delgado was one step away from the floor of the catwalk and dove up onto the metal surface as Jack reached for the brace on his leg and missed. Delgado scrambled to his knees and then got to his feet as Jack pulled himself up.

  Both men fought to fill their lungs with air, and they came to the same realization. The exit door was behind Jack, and Delgado would have to go through him to get there.

  Delgado charged and swung a roundhouse fist that connected with the side of Jack’s face. Jack parried and snapped Delgado’s head back with a solid shot to the jaw. The desperate man would not go down.

  Delgado charged again and bellowed like a wounded bull engaged in a primal fight for his life.

  Jack leaned to the left, and using Delgado’s momentum grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him forward.

  Delgado stumbled past Jack. He tried to regain his footing. He overcompensated. Arturo Delgado’s arms flailed as he slid over the side of the catwalk. His hands fought for a grip on the slick metal railing and held for an instant. His manic eyes found Jack’s and pleaded for help. His hands slipped and his fingers betrayed him.

  Time froze.

  Delgado swan-dived backward, arms and legs spread wide. His body smashed onto the roof of a spotlit bus. The force shattered the side windows. The sound of his skull being impaled by the GPS antenna sticking out of the custom paint job made Jack’s stomach roil. He stared over the side of the catwalk at the scene below.

  Arturo Delgado, with his long silver hair, patrician face, black suit, and broken body looked like a demon making a snow angel on the crushed metal. A large pool of blood began to halo around his head. The impact engaged the bus’s security system. The shrill pulsing alarm was a perfect match for the harsh tableau.

  Overhead lights snapped on in the huge room and armed men deployed from both directions.

  Jack remembered that he wasn’t fond of dizzying heights as he held on tight and climbed cautiously down the metal ladder. Nick Aprea was standing at the bottom, ready to run interference with the other cops if needed.

  “Where’s Delgado?” he asked.

  Jack pointed to the roof of the bus.

  “Hitching a ride?” Nick asked.

  “His last.�
��

  —

  Outside, news choppers were circling the late-afternoon sky like buzzards, filming the aftermath with long-lens cameras. Emergency vehicles rolled up and exited the scene. Sirens wailed as the body count and cleanup began. Local media vans with their dishes pointed skyward were being kept at bay until the task force had completed processing the arrests. The local Ontario hospitals had been notified, and triage units were set up to handle the wounded. The order was to bandage them up and ship them to jail.

  The drivers of the eighteen-wheelers had been handcuffed and taken into custody without incident. They pled ignorance.

  ICE and the ATF had been called in to process the Zetas soldiers, the narco tanks, and the semi-rigs, all part of the Zetas cartel’s criminal enterprise.

  The police were doing a thorough search of the remaining buses, and rooms, and crawl spaces in and around Royce Motors to make sure no one had escaped law enforcement’s net.

  —

  The fire department was on-site, throwing thick bands of water onto the flames shooting out of the double-wide. They wanted to make sure the fire didn’t spread to the rusted piles of junked cars and buses and tires that littered the back lot. Hector’s Impala had melted down to its frame.

  Jack and Nick drove the Plymouth to the front of Royce Motors and caught up with Kenny Ortega. The men stood side by side and surveyed the carnage.

  “He only had a month left,” Kenny said with the distant eyes of a combat soldier as the silent EMT ambulance drove away with Gene McLennan’s body.

  “He went out in the saddle,” Nick said. “Semper fi.”

  Jack couldn’t talk. He wiped some blood off his face from one of the grazing punches Delgado had landed, and surveyed the battlefield with the eye that hadn’t swollen shut. He’d have to endure hours of debriefing and depositions before he made it home. He was in shock, but knew his back pain had a long memory and would return with a vengeance.

  Still, right at this moment, he was satisfied. It was over.

  48

  Kenny Ortega immediately boarded a plane to Washington, D.C., to be debriefed by the head of the DEA. The chairman wanted a full report regarding the 18th Street Angels and the Zetas cartel’s incursion onto American soil. Then he’d head off to a Senate subcommittee hearing, where he had been called upon to testify about the war on drugs.

  Nick was going to take a few personal days. Spend some quality time with his young wife and little girl.

  The loss of life in the line of duty had that effect on the men and women in law enforcement. It hit hard.

  Jack Bertolino spent an hour on Skype with his son, who was healing nicely. He made plans to drive up over the weekend.

  Then he started prepping a sauce and invited Leslie over for a meatball dinner. Somewhere between the cutting of the garlic, sweet onion, and fresh oregano, Jack found some peace.

  He answered the knock on his door and stood aside as Leslie Sager walked in, looking terrific. She put down a bottle of wine on the center island and did a slow turn back.

  “Why are you standing sideways?” she asked.

  A reasonable question, he thought.

  “I look like shit,” Jack said as he exposed his swollen eye, which had turned the color of an eggplant. “Thought I’d be the one to deliver the news.”

  Leslie didn’t blink, didn’t laugh, but her eyes narrowed and crinkled at the corners, threatening to turn into a smile.

  “Go ahead,” Jack said, “say it.”

  Leslie pursed her lips, nodded her head a few times, and then, “Well, Mr. Bertolino, you most definitely look like shit today.”

  Then she turned to face the stove. “Smells great.” She picked up a spoon and tasted the sauce. “Fantastic.”

  “Thank you.” He spun her around and planted a kiss on her perfect lips.

  “Were your ears ringing today?” she asked.

  “They were, but it’s still from the Impala blowing up.”

  “The governor talked to the mayor, who talked to the chief of police, who talked to the DA.”

  “Lotta talking.”

  “And this talk’s not cheap. There might be a job offer in your future. Keep it on the Q.T., but it’s something to think about. I didn’t want you caught by surprise.”

  It was too late for that, Jack thought. “How and why?”

  “As it turns out, Gene McLennan had given you full credit for the operation in all of his preliminary reports. Then Kenny Ortega corroborated, and Nick Aprea sang your praises to the LAPD brass. They’ve decided you’re a wasted resource.”

  “What do you think?”

  She kept a lawyer’s neutral face. “It’s your life. I’m good however you play it.”

  Leslie handed Jack the bottle of Benziger to open and continued. “Good work, Jack. They said to take a few days, a few weeks, whatever’s comfortable, and then they’d like to have a sit-down.”

  Jack popped the cork, poured, and raised his glass. “To Gene McLennan.” They clinked, shared a drink, and took a moment for a fallen comrade.

  “What’s the word on Angelina?”

  “The DA said he’d deal.”

  “What’s she offering?”

  “She set up Johnny. He wanted to run, but she made sure he didn’t get very far. She doesn’t know where Hector buried him, but she’s sure that he’s dead.”

  “So?”

  “She’s offering Hector for the murder, the entire command structure of the Angels, their ties to the Mexican Mafia, and Felix’s money-laundering operation.”

  Jack was impressed. “That’s worth a trade. She’d be dead if she stayed in Ontario.” He stirred the sauce and carefully moved the meatballs around in the pot. “They float,” he said with a burst of youthful pride.

  Leslie moved over and made the requisite oohs and aahs, but Jack didn’t mind. It was one of his aunt’s secret recipes and still impressed the hell out of him.

  “What are the suits thinking about?” he asked, moving the conversation back in his direction.

  “Maybe a paid consultancy. You get the power of the badge without having to wear a uniform.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Sleep on it.”

  “I’d rather sleep with you.”

  “That’s nonnegotiable. Let’s eat.”

  Jack poured the rigatoni into the colander and the steam stung his bad eye. It was well worth the sacrifice, he thought.

  —

  It was high noon before Jack put in a call to Cruz Feinberg from his Mustang, but he wasn’t surprised when he heard that the talented young man had come up empty. There were thousands of P.O. boxes in L.A., and Cruz had a full-time job.

  Jack drove past Vista Haven and slowed to a stop. Mayor wasn’t out front watering his ivy. Michael Kingman had returned from his vacation, but was presently at his real estate office, getting caught up on paperwork. He had nothing to add to the case, but he expressed his heartfelt regrets.

  The house sat silent, empty and austere.

  Jack thought about Mia and her last few hours on earth. He wished her peace, put the car in gear, and headed down to the valley.

  He had forgotten to eat breakfast and decided to stop at a little place called the Pita Kitchen on Van Nuys Boulevard near Ventura. The place made falafels, gyros, souvlakis, and Greek salads. The neighborhood newsstand was situated next door.

  Bertolino picked up a New York Times and dug into his gyros on pita, a classic New York City taste treat. Jack used to grab one, wrapped in foil, in the Village before heading down to the Staten Island ferry.

  He always made a mental promise to wait and eat when he got home, but the smell prevailed. Jack was weak willed but happy. There were worse sins.

  Jack wiped some tzaziki sauce off his fingers before he picked up the sports section and glanced acr
oss Van Nuys Boulevard.

  Michael Kingman’s face was plastered across a bus bench. The sign read: MICHAEL KINGMAN, PLATINUM SALES AND PLATINUM SERVICE. NUMBER ONE REAL ESTATE AGENT IN THE VALLEY.

  Suddenly, Jack got a feeling that startled him. He belted down the rest of the sandwich, cleaned off his area, and jaywalked across Van Nuys Boulevard dodging traffic. He sat down on the bench and looked back at the row of small retail establishments across the street.

  And there it was. In bold, painted letters.

  DICKENS BOX.

  The storefront could’ve been anything. But then in very small print it read, POSTAL SHIPPING CENTER. And then, almost as an afterthought, 24-HOUR MAILBOX RENTALS.

  Dickens Box was located on the corner, next to Lou’s Shoe Repair, and down from the Pita Kitchen and the Sherman Oaks Newstand.

  Jack thought about Mia’s state of mind when she’d arrived in Los Angeles. About Mia’s passports and the way she hid them close at hand for a quick escape. This was it. He felt it in his bones.

  When he walked through the doors of Dickens Box he saw two walls of brass P.O. boxes. Two middle-aged Asians who had the comfortable feel of husband and wife were servicing the counter beyond. The woman looked up, smiled, and told Jack she’d be right with him.

  Jack moved to the front, pulled out Mia’s key, and without too much effort, located the corresponding box.

  The gentleman was busy fingerprinting a young woman who needed a document notarized. His wife had her back turned and was filling a box with green plastic popcorn, readying it for shipping.

  Jack inserted the key, opened the box, and pulled out two thick manila envelopes. He slid them under his arm, quickly closed up, and waved to the shop owners, who smiled and waved back as he left. Not entirely legal, Jack thought, but Mia would have approved.

  —

  If Jack had still been in the police department, he could have used their resources to track down the offshore accounts he’d discovered in Mia’s paperwork.