by Bob Hamer
Michael Buffer made the introductions and with his trademark call let the words roll from his tongue, "Let's get ready to rumble!" The crowd went wild, both in Vegas and at the Russian Veil.
The referee brought the two fighters to the center of the ring and gave the obligatory instructions neither heard. They touched gloves and returned to their respective corners. Within seconds the bell rang, and they got it on.
Both fighters came out throwing punches. Most light heavyweights size up an opponent, dance around the ring for a few rounds, and attempt to pace themselves for a twelve-rounder. Not these two. It was a slugfest from Jump Street.
Blain Wright took control early, throwing more punches than Fernando, landing some solid jabs. Matt always said the longest three minutes of your life are in the ring, and Matt agonized with every punch Fernando absorbed. It was difficult to tell how many of Blain's punches were effective. Fernando's quickness may have spared him a lot of damage. He slipped many of Blain's jabs, but a few managed to find the mark. The bell to end the first round came just as Fernando was starting to find a comfort level in the ring.
The cameras followed Fernando to his corner. Rock threw out the stool and began toweling off his young fighter. The cornerman treated a small cut above the right eye as Rock provided advice in Spanish. When the crowd at the Russian Veil heard the instructions in Spanish, more curses were hurled at the television. "This is America! Speak English!" Followed by laughter. The bell rang and the second round began.
Blain again took charge, proving he may deserve an undefeated record. He cut the ring in half and started pouring on a jab-cross combination. Fernando countered with some quick jabs, but Blain was winning the second round. With fifteen seconds left in the round, Fernando went down while backpedaling from a combination. The referee ruled it a slip, but as soon as Fernando went down, Matt, lost in the moment, hollered, "Get up!"
Twelve sets of eyes immediately turned to Matt. Focus. These weren't ordinary glares but pure hatred piercing him. The bell rang ending the second round.
Forgetting any newly formed friendship because of Bobby, Jesse was the first to pounce. "Who are you hollering for?"
Stump followed in rapid succession, "You cheering for some spic?"
Jesse yelled, "Go hang out in Boyle Heights with your greasy burrito buds! We don't need your kind in here."
The taunts came from all sides as everyone joined in but then jackals always attack when the victim is down. Matt was trapped in a goldfish bowl visible from all sides.
Before Boris could intervene, Matt responded convincingly, "I got five Benjamins that say this fight goes four rounds. I can't have this wetback from Panama take a dive before the fourth!"
Everybody laughed including Jesse and Stump. Maybe he staved off death one more time. Be the hunter, not the hunted. Focus!
"But I'll tell you one thing, this Great White Hope better protect his chin. He drops his left every time he goes to the body. This kid draped in the flag may be illegal, but he's got the fastest hands I've seen in awhile. He's gonna slip one in, and that undefeated record is going the way of the Pontiac."
The bell rang. The third round began. Blain stormed to the center of the ring, threw two jabs, and backed off. He then stepped forward, threw three quick left jabs, followed by a right cross, dropped his left hand to go to the body, and before he made the shot, Fernando nailed him. The Panamanian snapped a lightning fast right cross to the chin, and an undefeated Blain Wright folded like Sunday's paper. The referee could have counted for the rest of the evening, but the Great White Hope was headed for the recycle bin.
Those same twelve sets of eyes, three minutes ago shooting arrows at Matt, now looked to him in admiration. He called the shot for all to hear.
Matt threw down his beer in disgust, glass splattering on the floor. "It had to go to the fourth for me to collect! I'm outta here." He goose-stepped out the door; inside he was laughing hysterically.
WHEN MATT ARRIVED HOME, Caitlin was sitting in the dimly lit living room watching a movie on the Lifetime channel.
He easily recognized the network, kissed Caitlin, and headed to the kitchen to grab a soda from the refrigerator. "I always get worried when you watch these movies because it's usually some wife who manages to kill her husband and get away with it."
"I married you. I don't need Hollywood to teach me the techniques for the perfect crime. How was your night out with the boys?"
"I scored a few points. How was your day?"
Caitlin explained the situation with Michael Hughes.
Matt took a sip of his Pepsi then said, "You would think as a society we would have advanced beyond racial hatred and stereotyping."
Caitlin laughed.
"What?"
"This is coming from my husband who wants to charge people for DWA, driving while Asian."
"You know what I mean," said Matt. "When you instill that garbage in a child, it is so difficult to erase. People can change, but that type of lunacy is tough to combat. Look at those news clips on FOX when Palestinian kids are chanting death to America and playing out hatred like it's some parlor game. How are you going to handle this?"
"God's love can change any heart. I'm just going to have to watch Michael a little more closely. He's really a great little boy."
"Sounds like he's a next generation neo-Nazi."
"Matt, he's in the second grade."
"My point exactly."
CHAPTER FORTY
Matt arrived at the warehouse an hour before his scheduled appointment with Boris. He ensured the audio and video equipment were in working order and updated the trash to make it look as if he hung out daily at the undercover off-site. Nothing spells conflict for a UC op like a two-month-old newspaper sitting in the trash. Hard to explain why a viable business has cobwebs.
Matt watched Boris pull into the lot and was waiting at the door as Boris walked up the sidewalk. Matt held the door, and without even a greeting Boris marched to the restroom.
"Sortir," said Boris.
"And good afternoon to you as well. It's the door next to the file cabinet," said Matt as he returned to his office.
"I know where it is,"
Matt heard the toilet flush, and within seconds Boris entered the office. "Did you wash your hands?"
"Yes," said Boris.
"Liar, I'm out of soap and paper towels," said Matt with a smile.
"What are you, a government health official?"
"No, but I am secret agent sent to penetrate the criminal underworld of former Soviet Union," said Matt with a very poor Russian accent.
Boris laughed.
"What can I do for you, comrade Boris?"
"Is your warehouse empty?"
"It is right now."
"Are you expecting anything in the near future?"
"Not really. I have something coming later in the week, but right now it's clean."
"I may need to store some items in your warehouse for a couple of nights. Not too many questions."
Matt got up and walked over to the refrigerator. "Want a Pepsi or a beer?"
"Give me diet."
"Oh yeah, I forgot the Indian summer swimsuit season is upon us and you need to look strapping in your Speedo."
Matt handed the three-hundred-pound-plus bear a Diet Pepsi. "What do you need to store?"
"Give-ups."
"Give-ups?"
"The small garage behind the Veil can hold most of my swag, but I have a thriving car sales business, and in the next few days I may have an overflow problem."
"You sell cars?"
"I sell cars overseas."
"I didn't know that. But what does give-up mean?"
"I take the cars owners no longer want and can't afford. They bring me the car and pay a small d
isposal fee. I arrange to have the car shipped to Dubai or elsewhere overseas, and then as if a miracle occurs, the car turns out to be stolen. The owner collects on the insurance and is very happy to have money in his pocket and to be out from under the payments."
"But he still has to pay off the loan. Doesn't that hurt his credit when he goes to purchase a new car?"
Boris slouched in his chair as he took a long drink. "Not if the insurance and lease agreements are set up the right way. My people only buy from those dealers who understand the intricacies of auto financing."
"In other words the salespeople and insurance agents are in on it."
After taking another sip of the Diet Pepsi, Boris smiled, "You understand capitalism and the American way."
"How hot are the cars you want to put in my garage?"
"Cold as the beer I serve on Friday night."
"Last Friday I thought the beer was warm."
"You should have complained to the management."
"Not sure it would do any good. I don't think the owner is necessarily consumer friendly. I've seen how he treats customers who overstay their welcome so I'm afraid to say too much about his beer."
"Maybe so, but these cars are cool. The owners don't report them stolen until the vehicles are safely on their way to the Middle East and I give the okay to call the police."
"I don't see a problem. Just make sure it's only your boys who bring the cars over here. I'm not interested in advertising to the world I store give-ups for the Soviet Empire."
"Understood."
"You are a walking advertisement for the entrepreneurial spirit. Keep this up and maybe next year you can make Fortune 500's Top Crook edition."
"America has been very good to me."
"Yeah, I can tell. That's why every chance you get you rub our noses in it."
Boris let out one his deep belly laughs, "You are starting to catch on Comrade Matt."
Matt walked Boris to the door and slammed shut the double bolts as soon as Boris entered his Escalade and drove off. Matt raced back to the hallway, opened the recording room, and removed the tapes, replacing them with new ones. He prepared the evidence envelopes and started the chain of custody. Once he completed the administrative matters, Matt called Dwayne.
"Boris wants to store cars at the warehouse?"
"Cars?"
"Yep, this guy is into some type of insurance fraud where he ships cars the owners don't want to the Middle East. The owners report them stolen and collect on the insurance. This guy is into everything . . . murder, prostitution, guns, insurance fraud."
"There's probably nothing he won't touch as long as the price is right."
"I told him I'd store the cars."
"When is he bringing them over?"
"He didn't give me a date. I assume as soon as he has inventory, maybe tonight"
"Tonight?"
"Yes."
"Matt, why do you do this to me?"
"What?"
"This changes the scope of the undercover operation. I have to run all this past the Queen Mother, the ADIC, and then back to D.C."
"Why do you need to go home? You don't have a social life."
"I used to before I came to L.A. and met you."
"When you run this up the chain, remind them we aren't actually storing stolen cars. At this point all we are doing is providing overnight parking privileges to the target of our investigation," said Matt.
"I like that. We don't know for certain these morons are going to report the cars stolen or Boris is going to ship them overseas."
"Not at this point."
"Keeping that in mind, maybe I won't have to cancel my evening."
"See, as long as we keep the lines of communication open, we can work through our problems. Since I've got you on the phone and we're expanding our communication skills, where do we stand with getting a wiretap?"
There are two types of court-approved wiretaps at the FBI's disposal. One is under the auspices of the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act of 1978. The seven-member FISA Court meets twice a month to approve requests from the intelligence agencies, including the FBI. The purpose of the FISUR, as it is called in the Bureau, is solely to gather intelligence. The requirements for obtaining such an order are less restrictive than the criminal wiretaps issued under Title III authority granted under the Omnibus Crime Control and Safe Streets Act of 1968. Because Boris is not a known foreign intelligence officer, despite his impressive KGB resume and the fact this is a criminal investigation not an intelligence fact-finding mission, the Title III is the only permissible route. Wiretaps are manpower intensive and an administrative nightmare. They are never popular with the troops but loved by administrators who are often graded on the number of wiretaps they manage. One fact remains solid: a good wire gets the desired results . . . evidence resulting in convictions. If the FBI goes the Title III route, it means assigning an agent to write the affidavit and getting a prosecutor in the U. S. Attorney's office onboard.
"I'm not sure the PC is strong enough," said Dwayne.
"That's up to the lawyers to decide how much probable cause we have, but I sure wish we were on Boris's phones and had a bug in the office," said Matt.
"The trouble is this is a Title III not a FISUR."
"I understand. I just think we should be exploring the possibility."
"You're just saying this because you know you won't be working a monitoring shift," said Dwayne with a smile in his voice.
"I know how much headquarters values supervisors who churn out wires, and I'm trying to help you get ahead in the organization."
"So in other words, you've got my back."
"Exactly."
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
The next day Matt was in the automobile storage business. Boris called ahead, "We're about five out."
"I'll have the garage door open. Drive around back and pull in," said Matt.
Matt heard the engines racing as the cars pulled into the parking lot and raced down the side road before turning into the warehouse. Boris led the way in his black Escalade followed by four cars: three SUVs and a Ford F-250.
Boris was the first to exit the vehicles.
Matt greeted Boris with an extended hand. "Al Gore is going to love you for shipping a lot of carbon footprints overseas."
Boris smiled, "I am only too happy to assist the Yankee consumer in reducing his personal blight on the environment. Maybe I can be the next Green Czar?"
"I smell a spot in the administration for my comrade."
The four drivers exited their vehicles: Stump, Jesse, J. D., and Face. Matt lured the men to a table. He broke open a six-pack of beer and passed out the cold cans. Almost in unison the men popped the tops on the cans and began to drink. Matt situated the table near enough to the cameras to ensure everyone was caught on tape.
MATT WAS ABLE TO get home at a decent hour and was looking forward to spending a relaxing evening at home with his wife. When he arrived, Caitlin was walking out the door.
"Where are you going?"
"I've got parent-teacher conferences tonight and tomorrow night. I told you this morning."
"I don't think so."
"Cowboy, I told you, and you said your issues with management stem from the negative reports your parents always received during your parent-teacher conferences."
"Okay, now I remember. What about dinner?"
"I got takeout from Three Amigos. There's a Steak Burrito Supreme on the counter. Stick it in the microwave for thirty seconds, and you'll be fine."
She kissed her memory-deficient husband and headed to school.
Caitlin may have been one of the few teachers who enjoyed parent-teacher conferences. It was an opportunity to meet the parents and gain a better understanding of her
students. Like a wise street cop she could size up the parents pretty quickly and often from just one meeting gain valuable insights into how best to work with the student throughout the remaining school year. The conferences were fifteen minutes, which didn't provide much time to discuss problems in detail but did allow for establishing concerns and setting an appointment to map out appropriate strategies to deal with issues.
The school year had been relatively problem-free. In fact, Caitlin only wanted to discuss issues with three sets of parents. As was her style, she wouldn't immediately bring up the problems but praise the child, pointing out any positives and then bring up the concern. Matt used to tease her claiming she was like the real estate agent who pointed out how the walls of the run-down shack went all the way from the floor to the ceiling. Caitlin could find positives in everyone.
She didn't consider Michael Hughes to be a problem. On the contrary, he was one of her best students, and she appreciated him in her classroom. Yet she was debating whether she needed to address the racial comment he made on the playground two weeks earlier. She was hoping the discussion this evening would lend itself to an opening.
Michael was always clean, but it was obvious the family was not part of the economic aristocracy. His clothing was humble hand-me-downs. Caitlin wasn't quite sure what to expect, but it certainly was not what she encountered as J. D. and his wife Alicia entered the classroom.
A single mother was leaving just as J. D. walked in with his wife following a few steps behind. J. D. was a little over six feet and slender but with a Budweiser tumor occupying his midsection. His wife-beater T-shirt revealed tattoo artwork covering both arms, his shoulders, and even his neck. His long hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and like the jihadists, he didn't believe in trimming his beard. Alicia was plain but polite. Like her son, she dressed humbly, probably thrift-store bargains. There was a slight discoloration below her right eye, maybe cheap makeup or maybe an aging bruise.