"How long ago?"
"It was, shit, two years back. Before they went down for croaking those spics." A glance to Guerrera. "No offense." Lash hoisted one knee to his chest, then the other, grimacing at the hamstring tug. "They're not bad guys, Den and Kaner. They showed up, we was all like, 'Let's get this motherfucker done.' They let me have a few shots of whiskey before they held me down. Didn't use the electric drill or nothin'." He broke wind once, decisively, and headed for the door. "I'm late for an appointment. Walk with me. Your cash is still good across the street."
Lash took the steps two at a time, his stentorian humming picking up the Teutonic Warner Bros. melody. They scrambled to keep pace. He crossed the dark street, a few of the guys laughing at him and calling out. "Hey, Great Mustaro, good luck."
Lash offered a warm, crooked grin and a celebrity's departing wave. "Thanks, lads." They approached the double doors of a decrepit gymnasium, Lash still humming.
Bear said, "Listen, we really just need a few more minutes to--"
Lash hit the swing panels, and the roar of the waiting crowd inside was so shocking it put Tim back on his heels. The ropes of the elevated boxing ring had been restrung with barbed wire. The wall-folding bleachers were packed with chanting fans, men and women holding up fistfuls of cash like cartoon gamblers. A menacing form clad in orange tights and a flickering cape waited in the boxing ring. A banner overhead announced EXTREME FIGHTING SEMIFINALS.
A voice thundered, "And his opponent, at six-six, three hundred and five pounds..."
"I haven't seen three-oh-five since the eighties," Lash muttered to Bear, giving his fellow scale-tipper an elbow jostle.
"...the Great Mustaro!"
The room erupted. Lash continued his Mike Tyson charge to the ring, with Bear, Tim, and Guerrera still pursuing, befuddled. "They say grapplers are tougher than strikers," Lash shouted to them above the clamor, "but I'll take on a grappler any day."
Lash waved off an anxious older man--the gym owner? "The badge boys are okay. They're with me."
The fighter in the ring who--unintentionally?--resembled one of the dreadlocked albinos from The Matrix, beckoned with both hands; the gesture was Bruce Lee by way of Chris Farley.
"All right, lads, gimme a sec." Lash fisted the barbed wire and hoisted himself into the ring, leaving the deputies standing in the front row.
The albino charged in a football tackle, and Lash caught him over the clutching arms and hurled him against the barbed-wire ropes. The guy hung for an instant, snagged, before hitting canvas. He staggered to his feet, and Lash caught him in a surprisingly fluid fireman's carry, flipping him. He slammed the canvas so hard Tim felt it through his boots. The albino rose, snapping his fingers, and his cornerman tossed him a wooden chair. He grabbed it by a leg, whipping it at Lash's head. Lash caught the chair, yanked it free, and set it down on all four legs. He head-butted his opponent, who staggered in a sloppy circle before collapsing into the chair. Lash straddled him stripper style, continuing to administer forehead smashes like a deranged woodpecker. The chair disintegrated, but Lash kept banging away, sitting on the guy's stomach like a kid playing Chinese torture, his face splattered with his opponent's blood.
Before the deputies could intervene, the whistle blew and Lash rose. His opponent gasped and coughed blood. Tim scrambled into the ring and rolled the albino on his side; he drooled out a crimson mouthful. Lash grabbed Tim's hand and raised his arms in victory, the crowd going wild, referees and cut men pouring into the ring. Lash fisted the barbed wire and tugged it down for Tim to step over. He blazed through the boisterous crowd, Tim, Bear, and Guerrera following in his wake and ducking high fives.
They finally arrived back in a small office, the closed door providing an abrupt and disorienting silence. Lash settled into a chair, gauging the cuts in his hands with a scientist's detachment. "Sorry, lads. Where was we?"
Perspiring heavily from the near confrontation, Bear looked unamused. "The Sinners."
"Oh, yeah, right. You got more dead presidents in that pocket of yours, chief?"
Bear withdrew another Jackson but kept the Franklin buckled down. Lash added the twenty to his take from the fight--fifty-five bucks in crumpled tens, fives, and ones.
Bear said, "You know about the transport-van break. And the Cholos massacre. Something big is going down. What?"
"I dunno. I'm out of that game. But Den and Kaner, those boys don't fuck around. From the aftermath, looks like they got their mitts into something tasty."
"Like what?"
"Two years out, pal. Can't help you there."
"You know anything about a Rich Mandrell? Goes by Richie Rich?"
"Must be a new addition."
"How about a Danny the Wand?"
"Course. Best sprayer you'll ever meet. An artist."
"You have a real name?"
"Nope. Just Danny the Wand."
"This Danny, he rides his rep pretty hard."
Lash's hearty laugh was part roar, part grumble. "You'd better not tell Danny that, man."
"Why not?"
"You'll see."
"Where can we find him?" Tim asked.
"Beats the hell outta me. Used to have a shop over on..." Lash snapped his fingers a few times. "I think it was by the Harley dealer in Glendale. But Danny closed up shop. Have spray gun, will travel. I think freelance spraying pays better dough anyway. We lost track."
Bear removed his money clip, tapped it against his palm. Lash's eyes tracked its movement; he reflexively fingered the bruises on his arm.
"We want to find the nomads," Bear said.
"Good luck, man. The Sinners got safe houses all over the state, no papers on 'em, nothing. They roll 'em over every six months."
"Do you have any addresses? Relatives, girlfriends, ex-wives? That's what we need here, Lash, an address."
Lash chewed his lips for a while, his beard bunching like a fist. "Intel officer's who you want. He's the keeper of the plans. The one with the files, the hard facts."
"Chief?"
Lash looked surprised that Bear had produced a name. "Yeah, that's right."
"Where's he lay his head?"
"No one knows. Not Uncle Pete. Not even the other nomads. And that's God's truth. The intel officer runs separate from the pack, never goes to the clubhouse. Keeps his own safe house, even. That's where all the dirt is."
Bear slid his fat money clip back into his pocket and angled toward the door. Tim and Guerrera shadowed his body language.
Lash half rose out of the chair. "He's got a deed, Chief, but you won't get shit from her. Not a damn thing. Don't even bother. The Cholos one time got ahold of her, kept her for three days. She didn't squeal. Not a sentence. Den and Kaner caught up to the spics six months later, took care of them. Chief showed up for that party. Yes, sir, Chief loves that cunt something fierce."
"You got a name?"
Lash took a long time thinking about that one, pinching the mouths of his hand wounds and watching the blood flow. "Hell," he said at last, "not like it's a big secret. Even the Cholos know about her. It's just a name."
"That's right," Bear said. "Just a name. Like, say, Benjie Franklin."
"Terry Goodwin." Lash's eyes darted around the room. "There. I said it." He scratched a scab at the base of his biceps, drawing a red smear. "Now, where's that hundo?"
Chapter 25
By 3:00 P.M. Tim's lower back ached every time he shifted, but he didn't complain, since Bear and Guerrera had been sitting the stakeout all the way through. At least Tim had been able to sneak away to drop fresh flowers off in Dray's room--irises to greet her awakening if he couldn't--and then spend the morning at the command post. Even so, he'd memorized every detail of the exterior of Terry Goodwin's house, a ranch style on a corner lot in Valencia.
Tannino had expedited their middle-of-the-night warrant request, personally waking up a federal judge. Tim, Bear, and Guerrera had stalked the property cautiously the night before, not wanting to blow the lead if
Chief wasn't present. Tim had beheld Terry's sleeping form--solo in the California king--through the bottom seam of the bedroom blinds, a pair of night-vision goggles helping him fill in the picture.
The RV trailer they'd hooked from the Asset Seizure warehouse at least permitted them better viewing comfort. Sunflower seeds overflowed two cups in the front holders. Tim leaned over, finger in one ear so he could hear Freed giving him a cell-phone breakdown on chop and spray shops that had closed in the past few years around the Glendale Harley store. He and Thomas hadn't stumbled across any paperwork with a "Danny," "Daniel," or "Dan" on it.
Guerrera was lying on the shag carpet in the back, staring up at the ceiling. "She still at the kitchen table?"
From his post at the tinted window, Bear said, "Yup."
"What's she doing now?"
"Reading the paper."
"Which section?"
"Front page."
Ten minutes later. "And now?"
"Sports."
"Finally. Who won the Citrus Bowl?"
Bear readjusted his binoculars. "Dunno...she's flipping back and forth.... Mia Hamm pulled a hamstring....Turning the page...Miami."
"Yes." Guerrera pumped his fist.
Tim finished with Freed and snapped the phone shut. The RV's smell--salsa and stale cigarettes--and his exhaustion, now verging on sleep deprivation, added to the burden of his frustration. "This is stupid."
"I said last night I didn't want to sit the house." Bear, hater of stake-outs, failed to keep the resentment from his voice. "We don't have time to wait and see if Chief's gonna swing by to play a little grab-ass."
"I agree," Guerrera weighed in. "Not the best use of our time, here, socio."
"So what is? This is our strongest lead."
"If Lash's information is good," Bear said.
"He's a junkie. He needs money, and he knows if he does us right, we'll be back with more. Beats ping-ponging around barbed wire for a few bucks."
Guerrera said, "It'll catch up with him. You don't tell tales out of school about the Sinners. He'll be killed. Sooner or later."
They sat in silence, the only sound the autozoom on Bear's binocs. Though he hadn't remarked on it, Tim had taken a shine to Lash, and he'd gleaned that Bear and Guerrera had, too.
Finally Bear said, "Let's hope later."
"Why don't we knock-and-notice her, search the house?" Guerrera said.
"Because if nothing turns up, then we lose the angle," Tim said.
"You think she has Chief's number to alert him?"
"If she does, I'm not betting our one solid lead on the notion that she's dumb enough to write it down." Tim took the binoculars from Bear and trained them on Terry, who'd moved on to Entertainment. A healed knife scar glittered on her right cheek, maybe a parting gift from her three-day stint with the Cholos. "That phone number's in her skull. It's just a matter of getting it out."
"How?" Bear asked.
But Tim was already dialing Pete Krindon.
Krindon unloaded his bag of gear and glanced around the tight camper interior. "Nice digs. I particularly like the neon sign on top flashing 'Stakeout.'"
"You take care of the junction box?" Tim asked.
"Yes. But we're gonna need backup. If this chick is as street-savvy as you say, she'll use a cell phone." Krindon withdrew a parabola mike from his bag, the receiver surrounded with a cone collar. He slid open the window, hiding the mike behind a rust-orange curtain, then tossed a cell phone to Guerrera. "Lay on the Mexican accent something fierce."
"I'm Cuban."
"I don't think," Krindon said, "our girl will discern the difference."
As Guerrera dialed, Tim kept the binoculars trained on Terry's kitchen window. She rose, picked up the phone. Guerrera hissed, "We got your hombre, puta. We gon' kill heem." He hung up.
Terry slowly replaced the phone's receiver. She stared at it, as if expecting it to ring again. She was surprisingly calm, a weathered deed. Tim had been betting on her to maintain her composure, to think matters through. She sat down at the kitchen table, set her elbows in the puddle of newspaper. She thought long and hard. Krindon's mike picked up some of her whispering with remarkable clarity. "...a scam. Just a fucking crank call." Her agitation grew. She paced a few times, her bare feet squeaking on the cheap linoleum. With his own spouse comatose on a hospital bed, Tim couldn't help but feel a jolt of empathy.
Terry picked up the phone, then hung it up abruptly as if it had shocked her.
"Go on," Krindon purred. "Go on."
She disappeared down the hall, popping back into view in her bedroom window. She pulled a cell phone from the pocket of her jacket, which was slung over the doorknob. Three beeps as she started to punch in the number, and then she hung up. She sat on the bed, phone in her lap, whispering a mantra. "God, let him be okay. Let him be okay."
She dialed. Krindon made a fist at his side.
Terry let out a deep exhale. "You all right?...No, course I'm not on a landline.... Weird call. From a Cholo, sounded like....Okay, baby. Me, too."
Terry clicked a button and flopped back on the bed, relieved.
Krindon pulled back from the window and replayed the eleven tones he'd captured as she'd dialed. He matched them slowly on his Nextel until he'd duplicated the tuneless melody. He jotted down the number, handed it to Tim, and vanished out the RV's narrow door.
Chapter 26
They materialized from behind parked cars and the narrow alleys between broken-down houses, crouching in makeshift formation, MP5s pointing up like the tips of a wrought-iron fence. Indistinct forms in one-piece olive drab flight suits. U.S. MARSHAL patches on the left arms, subdued gray U.S. flags on the rights. Black Hi-Tecs with quiet neoprene soles. Marshals' stars machine-embroidered over their hearts like targets. Wearing a thigh holster at crotch level, each deputy sported a .40 Glock.
Except one.
Tim thumbed free the cylinder on his .357, gave it a spin to watch the six brass dots whirl. With a jerk of his wrist, he snapped the wheel into place, then reholstered the revolver, letting it sling off his thigh. Chief's safe house was barely visible down the street, a block of darker shadow against the moonless sky. Husks of leaves littered the gutter and car windshields, glowing green, then red in the flashing Christmas lights.
Guerrera arrived at the staging point last, pulling into the curb between a battered VW van and a dilapidated hearse that provided further ambience. He emerged in a low crouch, document flapping, Judge Andrews's signature a fountain-pen smudge at the bottom of the page.
"Ready to light up this pendejo?" Guerrera whispered.
Miller folded the warrant into a cargo pocket and nodded at the abandoned hearse. "His ride's waiting."
Guerrera squatted and got a jingle. He emptied a few coins from his pocket onto the asphalt, then removed his watch and set it on the tire of the hearse beside him--no on-the-hour beep or night-glow dials across the dark threshold. The deputies extinguished the volume on their Motorola portables and pulled into a tight-stack formation, drifting silently across asphalt.
Miller halted, the explosive-detection canine and the column behind him freezing on the sidewalk. The house had been split into a duplex, both sides staking claims on the address Pacific Bell had relinquished.
They studied the matching doors, the dark, still windows.
"''Twas the night before Christmas...'" Jim intoned quietly.
A whispered conference. Tim drifted closer to the house. An Indian bike leaned against the side wall of the left duplex unit, unchained but secure behind a locked gate. Tim gestured Guerrera over for confirmation, and Guerrera nodded excitedly and whispered, "The kick starter's been cut in half and raised an inch or two. Only a little guy would need the extra leverage for leaning into the ignition."
They approached the row of tacked-up deputies, who'd pulled back to the neighboring house. "Left duplex," Tim said.
They hugged the wall to the front step, Maybeck pressing the top of his beloved batte
ring ram up against his cheek. Miller directed Chomper to sniff along the door, and Chomper hesitated but didn't sit--no booby trap.
Tim lined up in the number one, Bear behind him toting his cut-down twelve-gauge Remington. Jim started his nearly inaudible pre-entry hum. For good luck or as a private show of respect, Jim tapped the black band at his biceps--Frankie Palton remembered. It struck Tim that the loss of his partner, only three days old, was still fresh to Jim. To Tim it felt distant, dulled by the fresher horror of seeing his wife shot off her feet time and time again. Even now as he muscled toward her maybe killers, her body wavered, indifferent to his desires or hers, making up its own damn mind.
The men lowered their night-vision goggles into place, Maybeck drew back the battering ram, and Tim rode its momentum into an unfurnished living room.
Before the hazy green world pulled into focus, a blaze of fire erupted from the couch, throwing Tim's view into violent brightness. Four slugs pinged the wall at his head, and one hit the stock of his MP5, shattering it and spinning him in a half turn. He slammed against the wall and struck carpet, flinging the NVGs off his head. Bear and Guerrera dove for cover as the others stacked at the door, the lead deputies trying to push back against the inward rush so as not to be driven into the line of fire. The familiar gunfire cadence continued, the song of the converted AR-15.
Though Tim's vision was still bleached out, the gun-muzzle star-bursts from the couch gave him target acquisition. He slid the .357 from his thigh holster and fired sideways over his head. A cry of pain, masculine but surprisingly high-pitched. The automatic weapon clattered to the floor.
Tim's eyesight had recovered enough for him to make out a diminutive form scrambling across the room. Tim rose and charged after him, the other deputies just beginning to recover at the door. Chief ran in a furious limp and dove through the pass-through window into the kitchen. As Tim came around the jamb, a skillet took flight at his head. He ducked, and the aluminum dinged drywall, expelling a cloud of scrambled eggs. He dove and caught a leg, but Chief kicked free and bolted down the hall, Tim seconds after him as he slammed through a doorway. In a mad dash for his bed, Chief threw a rolling chair behind him; Tim got a foot on the bucket and leapt. He crashed down on top of Chief, pinning him to the mattress, his pistol to the back of his ear. Chief's hand froze half withdrawn from his nightstand drawer, gripping a Colt .45.
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