by Bob Hamer
"I grew up in Sacramento."
"What brought you to L.A.?"
"I met Jesse in Lompoc. He got released before I did and told me about Boris so I settled here."
"How long you been out?"
"A little over a year now."
"Are you still on paper?"
"Yeah, I got a tail."
Stump paused and looked at Matt for a long five seconds. Matt may have overplayed his hand asking about parole. "You seem to know a lot about the system."
"I've never been in, but I've worked with guys who have. Bobby and I were friends. I've worked with others like him. You learn a lot just by listening. If I can help a guy, I will. Of course if he can help me, it's even better."
Stump seemed to relax as he resumed loading cases. Without saying a word, they worked out an arrangement where Stump grabbed the cases from the floor, handed them to Matt who stacked them in the truck.
"So what were you and Bobby into?" asked Stump.
"A little of this and a little of that. Mainly he needed some financial backing to get back on his feet."
"Bobby wasn't the best businessman. About the only thing he could do was cook. Most of that he used or at least Tiffany used. She was chronic. If you were financing his meth operation, I hope you weren't planning to make a profit."
"I was trying to help him with his painting business and make him look legit to his PO. I guess any profit I hoped to make with his sidelines went up in smoke. Bobby never mentioned Mickey to me." Matt took a long breath to make the inquiry seem so casual, "Was he involved? Was I splitting profits with silent partners?"
Stump slowed up long enough to get a better grip on the case of cigarettes. "I can't see Mickey involved with Bobby. Mickey may have bought off him, but they never got along very well. Especially once Bobby got to using so heavily. Mickey never thought Bobby could be trusted. He figured he was weak."
"Funny, Boris said the same thing about both Bobby and Mickey."
Stump continued grabbing boxes. "I hear these politicians on TV say torture doesn't work. They're wrong. It works. I've watched weak people fold with just a threat."
"So you agree they were weak?"
"Yep."
"Even Mickey?"
Stump nodded. "He was always trying to impress Boris. Boris never paid much attention to him because Mickey had little value, except show. He dogged it whenever he could snatch the opportunity. Mickey was too concerned with looking good for the camera. He wanted to be a movie star. Whenever he got some bit role, he'd invite Boris to the set, but Boris never went. He didn't care about Hollywood. He always said, 'What's so big about actors? They ever really kill anybody but their old ladies?' He didn't believe any of them were real tough guys. Mickey wasn't much of an earner and needed someone to do his heavy lifting. Unless you carry your weight, Boris has no use for you. The only thing Mickey ruled was women. He could party-on all night, and some women liked that; but as far as being a man, it was all beach muscles."
"Why do you think he was at Bobby's?"
"I can tell you it wasn't socializing," said Stump.
"Did Mickey and Tiffany have a thing?"
Stump laughed out loud. "Mickey got a lot of action, some of it pretty good. He didn't need some skank like Tiffany. You ever meet her?"
"No."
"Mickey brought one girl around a month or so ago, Dawn Platt. I think she was on work release over at the hospital. She was hot. I mean sizzling. He had her. He didn't need some filthy street walker carrying who knows what disease. This Dawn could have made some money at the Veil, but Boris only likes those Russian chicas at his place. There wasn't much Mickey had I wanted, but if he was to send me his female table scraps, you wouldn't hear me complaining."
Stump handed the last case to Matt who threw it on top of another case. Matt hopped out of the back and slammed the doors shut. Within a minute Stump was gone.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The Joint Terrorism Task Force off-site was in the west end of the San Fernando Valley. With the UC operation in full swing, Matt wasn't allowed to go to the main office in Westwood, a decision which was fine with him. The JTTF's location was secret and not even known to most FBI agents. Matt could handle all his official correspondence and paperwork from the off-site. The less time he spent in the Westwood office, the less opportunity he had to cross the Queen Mother and bring OPR onboard.
The Office of Professional Responsibility was the FBI's answer to Internal Affairs. Two months ago Matt finished paying off an OPR assessment for a Mercedes he crashed during an undercover assignment several years earlier. OPR opined Matt was "outside the parameters of normal work standards," and an allotment to the U.S. Treasury began. Every two weeks Matt and Caitlin saw a small chunk of every check remain in D.C. to pay for a car Matt didn't own and could never drive again. The ruling didn't really improve Matt's driving prowess or diminish his investigative initiative, but he tried to limit his liability and exposure. He would still keep the world safe for democracy but on his terms even if it meant fudging some Bureau-mandated reports.
Matt ran every morning before heading to the off-site or the warehouse. He had several different runs, but his favorite was a five-miler which took him past the high school. There he would pause long enough to do his twenty pull-ups and continue his run.
The sweat was dripping down his face as he entered the back door of the condominium. Caitlin was at the breakfast table, eating cereal and reading her Bible. He grabbed a carton of orange juice from the refrigerator and took a large gulp.
"Not from the carton, Cowboy. Get a glass."
"Why?"
"Because I might want to serve orange juice to our friends sometime."
"You mean your friends. I think all my friends are locked up."
"Maybe you should work on your interpersonal skills."
"I have interpersonal skills. I just have a basic mistrust of humanity."
"That's a tough way to go through life."
"Tell me about it," said Matt as he headed down the hallway. "But at least it keeps me alive on the street. Maybe once I retire I'll quit playing Judas and betraying everyone I meet."
Caitlin cocked her head and watched her hero retreat to the bedroom. She worried about the impact a lifetime of working undercover was having on the man she loved.
MATT QUICKLY DRESSED AND headed to the Valley. His first stop was Flip and Lydia Mitchell's home.
The Mitchell's home was a typical San Fernando Valley ranch home: stucco, shake roof, tiny yard, and huge house payments. They lived in the neighborhood called Northridge, made famous by the earthquake of 1994. Cracks in the retaining wall were the only evidence remaining of the massive quake.
They sat on the back patio where the California sunshine warmed the morning air. Lydia was recovering from her injuries. Most of the bruising was gone and all of the swelling subsided, but scars on her face from the cuts and gashes remained.
"The hardest part was telling the kids and seeing their reactions every morning. Maddie, our five-year-old, hasn't slept in her bed since that night. She's so afraid the men are going to come back. We kept her home from school the first few days, but she seems to be doing a little better."
"Have you heard anything from LAPD?" asked Matt.
"Nothing," said Flip, "How about you? Have you seen any reports?"
Matt shook his head. "I'm working on a special project and haven't had a chance to speak to anyone. I'm sure Dwayne has been in contact."
"You undercover?"
"Let's just say I'm working on a special project."
"Does it involve Lydia's attackers?"
Matt avoided answering and asked, "What can you tell me about that night?"
Flip understood the meaning behind Matt's avoidance of the question. With a sli
ght smile he nodded.
Lydia repeated the story she told the police, which wasn't much. "I do seem to be remembering a few more details. There were three of them. I recall the driver was short and powerful. He was built like a tank and fast. He was quick out of the truck. I'm pretty sure it was a Dodge Ram like Flip's surveillance vehicle. I'm not sure of the color. It was dark. The other two were bigger. One was muscular. The other was thin. The thin guy may have had a beard. They were all white. But that's about it. It all happened so quickly."
"Does that help?" asked Flip.
"Flip, it all helps. But make sure you tell LAPD. They need to know, and it needs to come from Lydia. And I would prefer you not tell anyone I was here or at least asking questions. Dwayne is insistent we not interfere with the investigation. We'll support them any way we can but not take a direct hand that might taint a prosecution with the appearance of overreaching."
"I understand. I'll call the detective. They've been good, just not quick with the results," said Flip as he took another sip of coffee.
"You know how that goes. They can only go where the evidence leads them." Matt paused then asked, "You back to work yet?"
"The office has been great about carrying me. I'll probably head back out to SOG next week sometime."
Matt got up to leave, "I better get going. I'll stop back in a few days. Let me know if you need anything."
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Los Angeles might be the ethnic-diversity capital of the world, and Caitlin's second-grade class reflected a cross section of the city's culture. Her students were black, white, brown, and yellow, represented seven nations and four world religions. It was early in the school year, and Caitlin had not met all the parents. The first parent-teacher conference was still two weeks away. So far she encountered few problems, and the year was shaping up nicely, at least as nicely as can be expected for any public school in the Los Angeles Unified School District.
One student made an immediate impression. Michael Hughes was tall for his age but maybe the most polite student she ever had. He was neat and unfailingly helpful. His desk was immaculate, and every response was studded with a "yes ma'am" or "no ma'am." Michael was also the self-appointed enforcer in the classroom. So far he never abused his role so Caitlin allowed him free rein when it came to chastising miscreants on the playground. Caitlin noticed even one of her glances to a student for inappropriate conduct resulted in a Michael Hughes tune-up during the next break. He wasn't a bully, just the class disciplinarian. Since slashes in the school budget resulted in cutbacks in classroom aides, Michael's assistance was welcome. Caitlin just kept a close eye to make sure he didn't exceed his implied authority.
The warm afternoon sun felt good, and Caitlin enjoyed the opportunity to stand in its radiant heat as she assumed her post and monitored recess. After teaching for nearly a decade, she had learned to almost tune out the noise as the children ran and screamed at fifteen minute intervals. She looked engaged but her mind was elsewhere. Suddenly her senses were on high alert. She heard something startling her out of her recess trance.
Someone used the word kike. She bristled at the epithet. As she surveyed the playground, she realized the words came from the mouth of Michael Hughes. Michael was sticking his finger into the chest of Isaiah Goldman. Isaiah, a third-grader in Mrs. Stanton's class, had been on the wrong end of several reprimands early in the school year. He enjoyed teasing the girls, but there was no call for this type of language. Caitlin was shocked a second-grader used the term and questioned whether he understood the meaning but knew she needed to intervene immediately.
She hustled over to where Michael had Isaiah cornered against the building, preventing an escape from the enforcer's wrath.
"Boys, what seems to be the problem?"
Isaiah was in tears.
"He was making fun of Angela. He called her fat and made her cry. I warned him yesterday, but he did it again today," said Michael.
"Isaiah, I'll talk with you later. For now go sit on the bench. I need to speak with Michael."
Isaiah was only too eager to escape the immediate scolding and raced over to the picnic table.
"Michael, I appreciate your sticking up for Angela, but I was very disappointed to hear you call Isaiah a name."
"You mean kike?"
"Yes, Michael that's not a nice word, and we shouldn't use it. It is not acceptable speech. Where did you ever hear it?"
Caitlin had never disciplined Michael, and he fought back the tears.
"J. D. says it. He calls our neighbor one."
"Who is J. D.?"
"My mom's husband."
"Do you know what the word means?"
He shook his head.
"It makes fun of someone because his parents are Jewish. It would be like me calling you a bad name because of the color of your skin or hair or eyes. Even though your stepfather may have used it, I'm sure your mother would be disappointed if she knew you were speaking like this on the playground."
The life drained from his brown eyes. A tear tracked his cheek. "Please don't tell my mom. She'll tell J. D. I'll get a beating if he knows I got in trouble at school."
"Let's make sure it never happens again."
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hogan. I'll never use that word again."
"I think you owe Isaiah an apology."
"But he called Angela a name."
"I know, and he's going to apologize to her as well."
Caitlin marched Michael over to the bench, and the apologies began.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Matt walked past Face, the 6'5" bouncer maintaining his post at the entrance to the Russian Veil. Being Jesse's friend at least saved the FBI the cover charge. It's not what you know; it's who you know. The place was crowded with blue-collar laborers and unemployed bikers, a typical Friday night crowd. Two women were dancing on stage, and each of the side tables was taken by a customer and his lap-dance companion. Matt knew he could avoid an issue with lap-dance expenditures this evening because Jesse invited him to the private room where a dozen or so would be watching an HBO boxing pay-for-view event.
Boris passed the word Matt was to be treated with utmost respect, not quite family but a close friend. The cigarettes brought Matt the credibility he hoped. Beers were on the house, and should Matt choose, he received "employee discount pricing" on all lap dances. Matt was never quite sure how much that was and so far had not taken advantage of this special benefit.
Matt entered the back room without knocking. It wasn't even close to the Playboy mansion or something out of Cribs but could best be described as biker chic. A huge flat-screen TV was on the far wall, and neon-lighted signs of every domestic beer adorned the side walls. Comfortable black leather seats were scattered throughout the room. The "No Smoking" sign could barely be seen through the haze of genuine Export A smoke compliments of Matt's contact at JTI.
As soon as Matt walked in, Boris approached with a cold beer. They touched glasses in a toast to nothing but Friday night and then talked about nothing of significance. Jesse soon joined in the drinking and the conversation. As the evening was taking shape, Matt pulled from inside his jacket four Gurkha Centurians.
Boris's eyes brightened, and his huge hand gripped the six-inch jewel. Holding it to his nose, he said, "They call these the Rolls Royce of cigars. You have exquisite tastes, my friend."
"If the fights fall my way tonight, I'll be able to afford my exquisite tastes."
The pay-for-view boxing card from Caesars began at 6:00 p.m. Three twelve-round bouts were on the card, the feature fight being the WBC Super Middleweight title. Matt's interest, however, was in the first fight of the evening. Fernando Perez, the Panamanian light heavyweight from Rock Gallo's gym was going up against Blain Wright, a powerful Aryan with a well-deserved prison record. Most boxing experts believed Wright
would be wearing the green WBC championship belt by the end of the year. He was the Great White Hope, even if that hope had a felony conviction. Tonight's fight was a foregone conclusion as far as the Russian Veil customers were concerned. Wright was blood, even if he wasn't related to the rabble in the back room. He was white and he would win. His undefeated twenty-win record, sixteen by knockout, made him the betting public's favorite as well.
Wright was skilled, there was no doubt, but promoters yearned for a white boxing champion in any weight class. Matt wasn't eager to climb into the ring with the Russian Veil's HBO favorite, but he knew some of the fights were milk runs. Fighters long past their prime took the bouts needing a payday just to cover everyday living expenses. The bouts were lopsided, and the public was cheated of a real fight. It certainly wasn't fixed, but anyone with boxing sense knew the outcome before the opening bell. Tonight might be Blain Wright's first true test in the ring.
No one sat once the TV came on. The excitement inside the back room was genuine. No one was even drunk . . . yet.
When Fernando Perez walked from his dressing room to the ring, Jesse's boys cursed and shouted racial slurs as if Perez could hear them through the big screen. Matt kept quiet but smiled, pumping his fist in the air as if championing the cause for racial superiority. Rock Gallo held the ropes as Fernando entered the ring. When Rock helped him with his robe, Fernando, a naturalized American citizen, was wearing red, white, and blue shorts, honoring his adopted country. That further infuriated the bikers, and more curses colored the smoke-filled room.
Blain Wright then entered the TV picture, and spontaneous cheers arose from the back room. Matt smiled, high-fived, and chest thumped the others. He hadn't seen this much excitement since the state basketball playoffs in his senior year of high school. With the inside scoop from Rock, Matt assumed the cheering would subside by the middle of the third round. Blain entered the ring and removed his robe. His back and left arm was a canvas of prison artwork. Anyone with street sense knew the ink was not the product of a local strip-mall tattoo parlor, nor was the boxer from the finest finishing schools of the Eastern establishment.