O’Neil slowly turned his head, looked at the knife for a few seconds, and then shot a stern, questing look at me before returning his eyes back to the road. “Those are illegal, you know.”
“Yeah, I know … illegal …” I grinned. “Like breaking and entering,” I gave him a maddening grin to mess with him.
O’Neil rolled his eyes. “So what are you doing with it?”
“Your kid’s getting deployed, right? Afghanistan?”
“Yeah, in a couple of weeks.” There was a mixture of pride and worry in his voice. “She’s the best Apache pilot they have. Top of her class.”
I closed the blade. “Here,” I said and handed it to him. “This is for her. Tell her to tuck it away in a boot or something … you know … just in case.” He took the knife and slid it into his own boot. “Tell her I said good luck,” I added sincerely, “and to stay low and keep moving.”
“Thanks, Case. I know she’ll appreciate it.” He took another deep breath to ask the question, but I beat him to the punch again.
“So what’s cooking downtown these days?” I asked, leading O’Neil once again away from the topic that had brought him to my front door in the first place. I did my best to sound like a lovesick teenager and whined, “You never call me anymore.”
Shaking his head, he cast me a sidelong glance. “These days? Well, as you may have heard, that T-Rex thing has been gaining momentum for a couple of years, but lately it’s really been building up steam.”
I nodded. “I’ve heard a few things about it. Some new designer drug, right? Supposed to be turning the coke-world on its ear or something.”
O’Neil was all cop now. “Yeah. It’s wicked stuff. It’s a combination of coke, meth, and something else. I can’t remember the name of the third compound. The stuff tests clean like coke, hits hard like meth, and has a smoother letdown than anything else out there. Perfect for parties, you know? Our lab guys keep working on it, and we’re trying to track the source, but so far we haven’t been able to pin anything down. It’s double the price of coke, so the clientele is smarter, harder to stiff-arm, and has better lawyers. And the few we’ve questioned are scared … of something … or someone.”
“Can’t you put some under-covers on it?”
“We’re trying, but this stuff isn’t going through the normal dealers. Del Gato and the other Mexicans don’t seem to be involved, either. It’s weird. It’s like it comes from nowhere.” O’Neil looked at me again, the question hovering on the tip of his tongue, but he held back, thinking I would interrupt him again.
I couldn’t believe O’Neil had restrained himself as well as he had so far. I’d expected him to hammer me with the obvious question the moment we got in the car, and when he didn’t, I’d decided to take the opportunity to toy with him. What are friends for, after all?
O’Neil finally gave in. “I know it was you who demolished that pool, Case,” he blurted quickly when he couldn’t stand it any longer. The question had morphed into an accusation before he even started. What can I say? I have that effect on people.
“Pool? What pool? I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I smiled like the Cheshire Cat, minus the hookah—well that and a big, bushy tail. His face went crimson. After a few seconds I added, “And you can’t prove anything. That maid was way too far away for a positive ID.” I chuckled again.
He glared at me. “I knew it!” he almost shouted, and I couldn’t keep from laughing. “You mind telling me how you pulled that one off?” he asked with harsh bewilderment. “You should be a bloody smudge on the bottom of that swimming pool.
“Aw, hell, I don’t know. Blind luck mostly. I scooped some air with my coat on the way down and the pool was pretty deep. The water pressure must have cracked the concrete. Maybe there was a defect in the foundation when they first poured it. And we do have a lot of earthquakes around here. It’s a miracle I wasn’t killed … or worse.”
“Yeah, sure,” he said doubtfully.
“You tell me. I don’t how I managed it.”
“You’ve got nine lives, Case. And at last count, you used about forty of them.” I started doing math on my fingers, trying to subtract forty from nine, and then threw him a that-doesn’t-make-any-sense look. He didn’t comment on the arithmetic.
“By the way,” I changed the subject, “don’t go too hard on the bicycle cop. He did everything right.” I smiled as I pictured the poor guy popping into the air and hitting the water like a sack. “Well, except for not watching where he was stepping.” I couldn’t keep myself from grinning.
“Were you pushed, or did you jump out of the plane?” he asked quickly before I could lead him off track again.
“Is this O’Neil my friend asking or Captain O’Neil?” I queried carefully.
He sighed heavily, knowing immediately what the difference meant. “This is your friend asking.” He’d known me long enough to know that there wasn’t much room in my life for rules. I’d always given O’Neil the collars he needed, so he considered me a tool in his arsenal … Well, that and we’d been friends since shortly after he joined the Academy.
“Good!” I beamed. “Well, I actually jumped, but that was pride. I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of pushing me out. You know me.”
“Yes, I do,” he said tiredly. “So who was it?”
“You have to promise me something,” I looked a bit more serious.
Wary dread crossed his face. “Oh-oh,” he said suspiciously.
“Yeah, oh-oh,” I concurred, “I need you to promise to not even think about arresting anyone anywhere until I give you the go ahead, okay?”
“You’re pushing your luck, Justin,” he accused. “Seriously?”
My tone changed from my normal light-heartedness to deadly serious. “Very. You know I don’t normally ask, but a friend’s life is in the balance. When I do say go, though, I may need you to drop an anvil someplace, or a lot of places, get me? It’ll be worth your while.”
“You got it,” he agreed warily. “I’m trusting you, though. You’re gonna owe me a big one.”
“It’s a deal, and you know I’m good for it.”
“True enough,” he said sincerely. “So, what’s this all about?”
“DiMarco.”
“Bennie?” he asked as incredulously as Rachel had.
“No. The smart one … the dangerous one,” I shook my head, marveling at how so many other people could put the same data together and come up with the impossible.
O’Neil knew exactly who I was talking about now, but he got a confused look anyway. “I thought he was retired.”
“Déjà vu,” I said under my breath. I looked O’Neil square in the eyes, “Not anymore, and I’m pretty sure he never was.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah … shit.” I leaned back in my seat and looked out the window.
“I wonder …” O’Neil’s voice trailed off.
“What?” I stared at him.
“Oh, it’s nothing. I just had an idea, but I have to talk to some people first.”
“Fair enough,” I agreed easily. We’d been having these kinds of exchanges for two decades, and each of us shared and withheld what we needed to do our jobs. It was a nice arrangement.
O’Neil turned into Grady’s already full parking lot. He pulled into one of the five spots reserved for police vehicles, and we both got out. We could see a full house through the wraparound windows covering the front half of the building. There was also a six deep line at the counter.
“Tell me what you can,” O’Neil said, “and the meter’s running on this one. The longer I go without a bust, the more you owe me,” he added as he got out.
I winced at the thought of his meter. “I guess I better work quickly then, hunh?” I closed the car door.
O’Neil nodded like a dog eyeballing a steak. We walked into Grady’s past a dozen crowded tables and got in line. The owner Marsha Callahan looked like a delicate southern belle but was about as tough as a
Navy Seal. Like she always told people, her mamma taught her how to cook and be a lady; her papa taught her how to take care of herself. A series of hard-knocks hadn’t kept her from making Grady’s—her life’s dream—a reality. I had a world of respect for her and had even helped her make the dream come true, but only a little.
***
Cards as Meditation
“I can’t tell you much up front,” I told O’Neil as we got in line, “but I’ll tell you anything that won’t risk a friend’s life.” I stepped up to the counter and waited for Marsha to finish taking payment from the customer in front of us.
“I don’t like being kept in the dark, Case, you know that,” he said, “especially not when someone like DiMarco is up to something in my city. He’s a tough son-of-a-bitch … and smart, too.”
“I know. Pains me to do it, but I don’t really have much choice right now.” Marsha turned to us.
Flashing a warm smile, I asked, “Hey, Marsha. How’s the leg?”
“Stitches come out tomorrow,” she replied with a faint southern drawl that slid over the ear like water over glass. She stood five-foot-seven, had a crew cut of Irish-red hair, and a light sprinkling of strawberry freckles to match. She smiled at us both with jade green eyes that sucked customers in, and she had a physique to make any top-notch Vegas stripper envious. The common rumor had it that pole dancing was how Marsha had been able to buy Grady’s, but I knew the truth. I’d been there when it all came down.
“I guess the guy didn’t get you too bad, eh?” I asked.
She beamed with pride. “Hell, no! Ten stitches in the calf is all, and it barely touched the muscle, just a centimeter or two deep into the flesh. It was my own fault really,” she said, berating herself. “I didn’t get my leg up high enough out the gate. It clipped his knife as it went by when I kicked him in the jaw. Broke his jaw, though, so it was worth it,” she added with a wicked grin.
“Nice work!” I cheered, laughing. I’d been teaching her martial arts for a few years, and she was a hell of a good fighter.
“We’ll have to practice higher kicks in our next session,” she said, “but it’ll be a week or so before I can work the leg. That bastard and his two friends are a whole lot worse off, though. None of them are even out of the hospital yet, and the ringleader’s still in critical. Internal injuries. Apparently, I ruptured his spleen when I kicked him in the belly. I almost feel bad about that … almost,” she added with another grin. “Thanks for the training, Justin.” A look of sincere gratitude drifted across her face.
“It’s my pleasure. I like Grady’s way too much to see its owner get clobbered or worse by weekend punks.”
“Stupid kids picked the wrong bitch.” She smiled sweetly at us. “Now what can I get you boys?”
“Two apple fritters and two sicklys, please.”
Marsha raised an eyebrow. “You got stuff to work out, right?”
“You know me well, honey. The place is jammed this morning, so we’re heading to the back for some privacy, if that’s okay with you.”
“Go right ahead. I’ll bring your order back when it’s ready.”
O’Neil and I walked to the back of Grady’s past two dozen patrons cramming Marsha’s fantastic food down their necks while they drank her flawless coffee.
We walked past the restrooms to a door with a sign that read PRIVATE—DO NOT ENTER. I looked behind me to make sure no one could see inside, and then I opened the door. We both stepped in quickly, and I hit the lights as I walked by. The door automatically swung closed behind us.
The fluorescents came on, exposing a nice but used-looking gambling parlor. Technically, the place was unlicensed, but O’Neil was the sort of cop more worried about protecting and serving than upholding the letter of the law. He’d never gambled there, but he turned a blind eye to the place.
Straight ahead were four large poker tables, two blackjack tables and, set aside from the rest, a roulette wheel for the suckers. To the left stood a fully stocked bar, and Marsha had put in a burgundy sectional conversation pit on each side of the door. Both pits faced multiple flat-screen TVs that hung on the walls. In addition to the gaming, she ran a little off-track and sports betting. I walked behind the bar and pressed the play button on the stereo. “Blues for Salvador” by Santana came on.
“God she has good taste,” I muttered as I closed my eyes to enjoy the first few riffs. Finally, I turned back to O’Neil who stood there and smiled at me, waiting patiently. He knew all about my love of music. “Have a seat,” I offered. We both sat down and leaned back comfortably in the worn leather seats.
“DiMarco never stopped running drugs,” I said bluntly.
“I often suspected, but nobody could pin anything on him. How do you know?”
I pulled uncomfortably at my ear. “That’s one of the things I can’t tell you yet.”
“Shit,” O’Neil muttered as he shook his head.
The door to the parlor opened, and Kenny Schmidt, not Marsha, came in with a tray laden with two gigantic, hot apple fritters as well as two cappuccinos in the biggest cups Marsha used. At seventeen, Kenny had the skinny, emaciated frame of a habitual drug-user but the glowing face of a clean kid. He wore a Grady’s t-shirt, overly long, torn blue jeans rolled up at the ankles, and ratty, black Converse sneakers.
“Hey, Kenny, how are you?” I asked.
“Great, Case. Things are finally going pretty well.”
“Staying out of trouble, Schmidt?” O’Neil asked in his gentle but stern cop voice.
Kenny had been busted by LAPD the year prior on a minor drug offense and done sixty days. The target of the bust was a fairly well known street dealer. Most of the kids caught up in it rolled the dealer over, but Kenny refused to, not out of loyalty to the dealer, but because he wouldn’t make someone else pay for his mistakes.
That was the reason I liked him so much. He’d told the arresting officer he was willing to do his time. That’s what had caught O’Neil’s attention. Kenny was a decent kid who got caught up with the wrong people.
“Yes sir, Captain. I am … thanks to Case here … and Marsha.”
“Good,” O’Neil and I said in unison as I reached into my jacket.
“Glad to hear it,” O’Neil added.
Kenny set a fritter and mug in front of both of us. O’Neil reached for his and took a sip, wincing slightly at how sweet it was, and gave me a dirty look. I’d been waiting all morning for that wince … and that look.
“Here, Kenny.” I pulled out a thick wad of hundreds and peeled one out. I handed the crisp bill to him. “Keep the change. Go get some clothes, okay? And art supplies. Spend it on anything else and I’ll kick your ass.”
“Thanks!” Kenny blurted, shocked at the size of the tip. “Thanks a lot! I really appreciate it.”
“Just stay clean, okay?” I said in as close to a fatherly tone as I’m capable. “That’s the deal.”
“You got it Case,” he said a bit sheepishly. He turned around and walked out, closing the door behind him.
It was going on two months since Marsha and I had walked out of my martial arts studio and seen Kenny run into a dead-end alley nearby with four gang-bangers hot on his tail. Being who I am, I naturally went after them, with Marsha trailing. It wasn’t a contest, and the two of us came out of the alley with sore knuckles wrapped around the arms of a badly injured Kenny.
The gang-bangers were carried out of the alley in plastic bags a few days later.
O’Neil sat there grinning at me.
“You old … err … young softie.” He sipped his sickly-sweet cappuccino, and I saw a hint of familiar jealousy as he once again looked at my young face. Not in a bad way, merely the mild, friendly resentment between friends when one of them wins the lotto. It irked him that my appearance hadn’t changed in twenty years. I’d told him years ago that I suffered from an ultra-rare disorder called Lazarus Syndrome that prevented my features from changing much over time.
I blushed with youthful cheek
s and smiled a little while O’Neil ran fingers through a receding hairline, surely wondering how he could catch Lazarus Syndrome.
“Kenny needed a break,” I said quietly. “Marsha and I were there at the right place and time to lend a hand. He’s a good kid, and he’s got real talent. I didn’t want to see it get snuffed out by gutter-bound assholes before it had time to mature.” I pointed to a painting on the wall behind O’Neil.
He looked over his shoulder at a four by six painting of a blossoming L.A. sunset with the sun partially obscured by the Pacific. Full of deep yellows, reds, and purples, it brightened the wall to the left of the monitors.
“Kenny?” O’Neil asked.
“Kenny.”
“You’re right,” he said, impressed. “The kid’s got a gift.” He took another sip of cappuccino and added, “You’re okay. You know that?”
“Yep,” I replied in my cockiest tone.
He gave me a sullied look. It wasn’t dirty, per se, but it wasn’t clean either. “I still hate you,” he added.
“Anyway,” I continued, undaunted, “as I was saying, I can’t tell you everything I know, but I know he’s trafficking … no proof yet. What you do need to know is that it’s probably big, really big. More importantly,” and I paused for longer than necessary, looking apologetic, “you won’t get to arrest him.”
“WHAT?” O’Neil coughed, foam shooting up into his face and onto his pants. He continued coughing and wiping himself off as I suddenly got a deadly serious look, the old me peeking out from the back of my mind. It was the look my few friends had come to know meant there was no changing my mind and no alternative.
“I’m going to kill him, O’Neil. And I’m gonna make it hurt.”
Captain O’Neil stopped coughing and stared at me for long seconds. “Justin, sometimes I think you forget I’m a cop. You can’t tell me that shit, man.”
“I haven’t forgotten, but don’t pretend to be Gandhi. You’re a great cop, but you’re not squeaky clean. Besides, you know damn well you won’t be able to pin anything on me, and the fact is that it’ll be a public service. You guys have nabbed him, what, three times over the years? Four? And he always walks.” My voice sounded almost accusatory. “Am I wrong?”
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