Crown's Law

by Wolf Wootan

  Sam looked up from the reports and said to Pearl, “This is hot stuff, girl! Completely useless legally, of course. I had figured that that Wellington bitch was running a scam, but I never thought it tied in with the Winston murder and Dynology. Small world, eh?”

  Pearl said, “You have to do something with this info. Especially about that exchange going down on the 10th. That sounds like treason! It could affect our national security!”

  “I need to figure out a way to get this info to the proper people. If it were just me, I’d go tell Pabst at CID and Fenster over at the FBI that I have some illegally obtained information that they need to know about. But Becky planted those bugs, and I don’t want her involved in this in any way whatsoever,” replied Sam, his brow furrowed. “See what you can find out about this ‘Door’ guy, and also Rosemary Wellington. That might give me a clue as how to proceed.”

  “You got it, Sam. I’ve still got a lot more tapes to do, too. I need a raise,” she laughed.

  “Most of the time, all you do is your nails.”

  Part 3

  Rainbow

  “My heart leaps up when I behold

  A rainbow in the sky.”

  William Wordsworth, My Heart Leaps Up, 1807

  Chapter 25

  Friday, June 1, 2001

  Westminster, CA

  Sam wanted to know more about the crooks at Dynology. He decided the best shot was to drop in on the chief crook in Orange County: Danny Nguyen, leader of the Green Dragons, the most notorious Asian gang in Southern California.

  Danny Nguyen and Sam had a history. Danny—now 39 years old—was only 11 in 1973 in Vietnam when Crazy Crown was screwing his older sister Di on his rare visits to Saigon. Their parents being dead, the 18-year-old Di was taking care of Danny and her 7-year-old sister Cara when Crown became involved with her.

  When Sam recovered from his wounds in 1974, back in the States, he had his CIA father track them down in the after-war turmoil in Saigon. Di was dead, but the two younger children were alive and scrounging in the streets. Sam’s father used his clout to get Danny and Cara into the U.S. and placed them with a Vietnamese family in Little Saigon in Westminster, California.

  As it turned out, Sam was not sure that he had done them any favors. Danny and his sister grew up in the gangs prevalent there, and now Danny was one of the kingpins of the Vietnamese gangs in Southern California. But if anyone knew what Dynology was up to it would be Danny Nguyen.

  Sam left the office, retrieved his Camaro, and sped north on the I-405 towards Westminster. He got off on Bolsa and cruised into the bowels of the area known as Little Saigon, perhaps the largest Asian community in the U.S. Cultures from such countries as Vietnam, Cambodia, Korea, China, and Thailand thrived in the area. It was like entering another country.

  Sam parked the Camaro in the parking lot in front of a large, three-story building and shut off the engine. He didn’t like coming here. He looked up at the third floor.

  The seat of power for the Green Dragons.

  He locked his Smith .40 in the glove compartment. Danny’s security people would never allow an armed man into the building—not even Sam Crown.

  In the small lobby of the building, Sam was confronted by two short Vietnamese men, both obviously armed. One was thin, one obese. The fat one—known as “Free Willy” because of his love of whale blubber—smiled when he saw Sam.

  “So . . . Mr. Crown! Long time no see. You come to see Danny?” he asked.

  Sam grinned and replied, “Yeah, if he’s available. I know I should have called, but I was in the neighborhood and . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah,” interrupted Free Willy. “I’ll call upstairs while Chop Chop here checks you out.”

  Free Willy went to a long counter, swung the phone around, and dialed while Chop Chop—so named because of his ability to use chop sticks for things for which they weren’t originally intended—ran a wand over Sam, then patted him down.

  “OK here, Willy,” said Chop Chop as Free Willy hung up the phone.

  “You’re in luck, Mr. Crown. You know, you’re the only one who can drop in like this. Danny will see you. I’ll take you up.”

  They rode a grumbling, slow elevator to the third floor, then went to a heavy door and Willy pushed a button on the wall next to it. There was a click and the door was pushed open by Free Willy.

  “There you go. See you when you leave.”

  Sam walked into the large room, which was decorated oriental style. Several jade dragon statues adorned the tables in the room. Danny sat behind a huge, ornate gold-leafed desk with a window behind him. He stood when Sam entered the room, then approached and hugged Sam.

  “Good to see you, big bro! Where has my favorite shamus been hiding? I haven’t seen you all over the news lately,” laughed Danny.

  “You know how it is, Danny. I get busy . . . don’t know where the time goes. And I’ve been flying under the radar lately,” replied Sam with a shrug.

  Danny went back behind the desk and Sam eased into one of the comfy guest chairs.

  Danny laughed, “Yeah, I know. It’s not good for your image to be seen coming here, is it? With your red Camaro out front, every cop in the county knows you’re here by now. If you’re here to lecture me again, save your breath. It’s way too late. I made my decision years ago.”

  “It’s never too late, Danny. They’ll catch you eventually if you keep it up.”

  “You never did.”

  “Maybe I wasn’t trying too hard. You know how I feel about the War on Drugs. Waste of money and time. Legalize drugs and you guys will disappear in a puff of smoke.”

  “Not really. There are other enterprises for really smart people. I remember rolling joints for you when I was eleven,” grinned Danny.

  “You must still be smoking it, Danny. Quit and go to college like Cara did. Become legit.”

  “Look. I let you send Cara to college—and I’ve kept her out of my businesses. Mainly to please you. If I want to be associated with a college, I’ll buy one!”

  At that point, Sam decided to get to the reason he came here.

  “What do you know about a company called Dynology in Irvine?”

  Danny spun his chair and looked out the window behind his desk. “Mostly, they run a smuggling conduit between here and Hong Kong. Container ships, cargo planes,” mused Danny.

  “What do they smuggle?” queried Sam.

  “Not drugs. I had a little pow-wow with them over that. Most anything else that pays.”

  The Green Dragons controlled the drug trade in the county and parts of L.A. Danny didn’t allow any competition.

  Danny continued, “They’ll transport most anything for a fee. Diamonds, emeralds, guns, cigarettes, cash, even people. Some hot electronic stuff. A real penny-ante outfit. What’s your interest?”

  “One of their guys whacked a man who had a Mickey Malone business card on him. That brought the cops to my doorstep—looking for Mickey,” replied Sam, shifting in his chair. “And the FBI.”

  Danny laughed. “Looking for Mickey, eh? I knew that would jump up and bite you in the ass one day! What’s the FBI’s interest?”

  “I’m not sure. I thought you might be able to enlighten me.”

  “Not a clue. The INS would be interested in the people smuggling, the ATF the weapons and cigarettes. Hmm. How do you know one of their guys whacked someone?”

  “I have it on audio tape. Don’t ask how. Do you know of a Bobby Door?”

  “Ah, Bobby D’Orr!” He spelled it for Sam. “A low level enforcer and hit man. He thinks he’s tougher than he is. Is he your killer?”

  “Yes. But I have no way of nailing him. All I have is a tape from an illegal bug. And info from a crime lord,” Sam chuckled.

  “I’ve seen you get inventive with evidence before,” smiled Danny. “Maybe D’Orr could just disappear. My treat.”

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. Have you heard any inkling that Dynology might be smuggling military secrets thr
ough their pipeline?”

  “No. But that would explain the FBI’s interest. What do you know about the guy D’Orr killed?”

  “Not much. The FBI swooped in and took over before the cops could get on top of it. What tidbits I have smell of espionage and the dead guy could have been an undercover Fed. Shit! I’ve got nothing solid! Nada!”

  “Sorry, bro, that I can’t help. I could run them out of the county, but I don’t think that solves anything for you. They’ll pop up somewhere else.”

  “Well, at least you’ve confirmed what I suspected. I have to figure out a way to give the Feds something they can use, so they can shut these guys down legally.”

  “Mr. Legal. If you strike out, call me. I’ll shut ’em down for you—way down,” smirked Danny.

  Sam stood.

  “Stay out of it, Danny. Thanks for your time.”

  ***

  Sam pointed his Camaro toward Santa Ana, more discouraged than ever. At least he knew it wasn’t about drugs. Danny would never allow that. Unless Danny had lied about the whole thing.

  Shit!

  Chapter 26

  Friday, June 1, 2001

  Santa Ana, CA

  Later that day, Sam glanced at his watch and noted that it was 4:38 P.M. He had intended to leave the office earlier so he could beat the Friday traffic heading south. It was always a bitch. He was going to stay the weekend at the beach house and spend some time with Becky—take her boating or something. A stationary high sitting along the coast had the temperature close to 80 degrees instead of the usual June gloom weather, and he thought a beach weekend was what he needed. Besides, he had promised Becky some time this weekend. He was sweating in spite of the air conditioning in the office. He made a mental note to check the thermostat. Pearl kept messing with it because she preferred the temperature warmer than he did.

  He was reviewing the background check that Pearl had put together for him on Mrs. Rosemary Wellington. There was a fairly detailed accounting of her life going back two years to the date she showed up in Orange County. Before that, nothing.

  Shit! I’ll deal with this next week!

  Before he could stand to leave, his intercom buzzed. He picked up the handset.

  “Mr. Crown. Visitor,” said Pearl.

  This was their code for “possible trouble.”

  “I’m ready to split, Pearl. Can’t this be put off till next week?” he said.

  “I think that’s not wise. The visitor is a lady from the FBI—looking for Mickey,” Pearl informed him.

  “FBI? Mickey? Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Why would the FBI be looking for Mickey? They, of all people, should know he doesn’t exist! Shit! I guess I have to deal with this! Maybe they’re laying another court order on me! Shit! Payback for squeezing them about releasing Winston’s body?

  “OK. Show her in,” he finally said.

  “Behave yourself,” she added as she hung up.

  He was wearing an Aloha shirt—a pattern in blues and browns with dancing wahines on it—so it would cover the gun on his left hip. It was way too hot to wear a jacket. He stood as Pearl ushered in a willowy woman who was at least 3 inches taller than Pearl. His brain did its usual instant female rating calculations: 5' 9"; short, curly, light brown hair; blue-green eyes; Julia Roberts lips; breasts somewhere between B- and C-cup—it was hard to tell with the shirt she was wearing; 130 to 135 pounds; somewhere over 30. She was dressed in a tan, linen pantsuit. Under her buttoned jacket she wore a man’s white dress shirt with a brown string tie. Her tan shoes had short heels. A small scar emanated out of the corner of her left eye.

  My God! She’s gorgeous! Who gives a shit why she’s here?

  Sam was convinced that her voice exuded sex when she said, “Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Crown.” She flicked her ID wallet at him with her left hand and he saw the distinctive gold badge. She extended her right hand to him. “I’m Special Agent Trout.”

  Sam shook her hand—holding it longer than necessary, exhilarated by its softness—then took her ID wallet before she could put it back in the brown, leather handbag slung over her left shoulder. He studied it carefully. It was either real, or a very good fake. Her name read “R. Amelia Trout.” No first name spelled out. That intrigued him, and gave him an opening to rattle her.

  He peered into her eyes and said, “R. Trout? What do I call you? R?”

  “You can call me Special Agent Trout,” she replied.

  No sense of humor, eh? he mused.

  “Well, Ms. . . . Special Agent Trout, have a seat. What can I do for you?” smiled Sam, deciding to melt her by ratcheting up the charm a notch or two. He handed her the wallet.

  She sat across from him and said, “Mr. Crown, I really came here to speak with Mr. Malone. Your secretary said that he was not here at the moment.”

  “Call me Sam . . . please. And I’ll call you . . . Rose? Ruby? Roxanne? I like to be on a first name basis with the women I sleep with!” he grinned.

  She straightened up in her chair, shock on her face. Then she slumped back and crossed her legs.

  She laughed, “You are a brash son-of-a-bitch, aren’t you?”

  “Not always! I just hate to waste a lot of time putting off the inevitable. So, what’s the ‘R’ stand for?” he smiled, his eyes still on hers. It took some effort to keep his eyes from flicking to her breasts, so he concentrated on the color of her eyes.

  She hesitated, looked down at her feet for a beat, then replied, “Rainbow.”

  He thought she blushed, but he couldn’t be sure.

  “Rainbow Trout? Your parents sure had a sense of humor, even if you don’t!” he chuckled. “I like it though. Different. I’ll call you ‘Bo.’”

  “That’s what my parents call me. Most people call me Rainy or some variation of Amelia. Like Meely . . . which I detest. Now, what do we do next? Show each other our guns?” She was grinning. Maybe his charm was starting to overwhelm her.

  “I can suggest something far better than that!” he leered, letting his eyes finally drop to her small, but adequate, breasts.

  “Knock it off, Crown! I’m trying to do an investigation here!” she said as she pulled her jacket over her breasts.

  “O . . . kay! Now, Bo, why do you need to talk to Mickey?” he asked, letting the deception play out a bit longer, wanting some information out of her before he told her about Mickey.

  “Can’t tell you. Ongoing investigation,” she countered.

  He smiled and said, “I thought the FBI was better at investigating than this. You didn’t do your homework very well! The closest thing to a Mickey Malone around here is that girl you called my secretary—Pearl Cooper. She is the Office Manager of Mickey Malone Investigations. That’s a d.b.a., Bo! Doing Business As! There is no Mickey Malone! Never has been!”

  “You’re shittin’ me, right? Why would Washington send me out here on a wild goose chase?” she snapped.

  “I don’t know. Are they always right? I don’t think so! Perhaps I could be of more help if I knew more about what you’re after,” he shrugged. “Didn’t your guys check with the local cops? Most of the old-timers know the truth about Mickey. So does Carl Fenster, your local resident agent.”

  Trout did not know what to believe. Sam’s flippant attitude had her confused. He definitely was not intimidated by her FBI status. If he was correct, she would look foolish when she reported this wild goose chase. That bothered her. She never messed up her investigations—well, almost never. Being a woman in a men’s club wasn’t easy!

  “I guess I need some proof, Sam,” she said as she pulled a notebook out of her purse and flipped it open. “I have interview notes here from one of the Orange County sheriff’s investigators who was here a few weeks ago. Several people described a Mickey Malone—all of them pretty much agreeing on what he looked like and what he does. It seems that he is a legend around here!”

  Sam smiled again, but groaned inside. “That’s the problem. He is only a legend
! Was that investigator named Woodward?”

  “Yes, how did you know?”

  He gave her a short rundown on the pro bono office, and the legend of Mickey Malone, and the joke played on Woodward.

  Then he said, “Look, let’s go down to Sparky’s Club and get a drink. I was trying to beat the traffic, but it’s too late now. Besides, we can work on our relationship!”

  “You’re crazy, Crown! We have no relationship! I’m on duty—trying to conduct an investigation!” she groaned, putting a hand to her forehead.

  “That’s why we’re going to Sparky’s. So you can investigate, and I can seduce you,” he laughed as he stood up. “Weren’t some of those interviews done at Sparky’s?”

  She glanced at her notebook, then nodded. “You’re right.”

  “Of course I am. Do you have a rental car?”

  “Yes. It’s a red Taurus. It’s in your lot. What’s at this Sparky’s?”

  “The legend. You’ll see. Come on, it’s only two blocks. You drive. I’ll navigate,” he said as he opened the door.

  As they walked past Pearl’s desk, Sam told her, “I’m gone for the weekend. Why don’t you close up and go home?”

  Pearl raised an eyebrow and remarked, “Are you under arrest?”

  “She’s handcuffed my heart!” he grinned as he put his hand over his heart. “The key is lost! I’ll never break free!”

  “Don’t mind him, Special Agent Trout. He’s crazy!” laughed Pearl.

  Trout smiled, “I’ve already detected that much!”

  Trout parked her rented Taurus a block from Sparky’s. That was as close as she could get. Several Harleys were backed against the curb in front of the club. She glanced around furtively as they approached the front door.