“I’ll admit that he’s a grifter, but I’ve been with him a lot this past week, and one thing he’s not is stupid.”
“If somebody snatched him, then he’s probably dust,” Tony reasoned. “We should move on. He can’t be the focal point of something this complex.”
“I don’t think he got snatched. I searched his place and his suitcase was gone, along with his cosmetics, his hair dye, and toothbrush. Also, since his prints were on the shoe box, I figure it was Nicky who took the nine outta the closet. I think he packed up and split.”
“Who wrecked his place?”
“I think Nicky did. Busted up everything, kicked his silk-screen Japanese art to pieces, turned over the furniture and left.”
“Why?” The chief was frustrated, exhausted, and on a short fuse.
“Because that way it looks like he’s been kidnapped or murdered. He wants everyone to think he’s out of the mix, at least for a few days. I think you may be wrong about Nicky not planning something this complex. I think he might have rigged this whole drug deal, even put Dennis and Farrell together. Now he’s sitting back and waiting for his two worst enemies to hit the wall together.”
“I don’t get it.”
“It took me some time to ‘duce it out, but here’s the way I see it now. At first I thought Nicky the Pooh idolized Dennis Valentine, but back in Jersey I learned I was completely wrong about that. According to a capo who knew them all back in high school, Nicky hated him so much he used to vibrate when Dennis was nearby. The capo thought Nicky would do anything to give Dennis payback. But Dennis Valente is a goomba prince, heir to the DeCesare family throne. Nicky can’t just step up and give him flying lessons. He’d never survive. So instead he sets up a situation where somebody else does it for him.”
“Who?”
“I’m not sure yet—La Eme, the Arizona State Police, the feds, us … lotta good candidates. I thought Nicky and Champion were in the movie business together, but I was wrong about that, too. Turns out Nicky’s got a shitty personal history with Farrell Champion, too, including a four fifty-seven complaint against him for stealing jewelry out of Farrell’s house six months ago.”
The chief frowned. “What does any of this have to do with anything?”
“Please be patient, Chief, it’s essential background. The rest is guesswork, but it kinda fits. I think Nicky found out who Farrell really was. He used to drive Farrell’s limo, which means he was probably sitting in the front seat listening to his phone calls. He musta been able to figure out what was going on. Marshals in dark suits with crew cuts checking on Farrell every few days. How hard would it be to figure he was in WITSEC, then pay someone to run that down? Nicky has connections at LAPD; he was always kicking down street info to cops like me. I found out who Farrell was; Nicky could have made that same connection—discovered that Farrell Champion was Danny Zelso. Knowing Nicky, he then sold that info to the highest bidder.”
“Who would that be?”
“It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”
“I’m tired, so why don’t you just tell me?”
“The highest bidder is always the guy with the biggest bankroll and the most to lose. Farrell Champion.”
“So Nicky Marcella’s blackmailing Farrell Champion.”
“You got it. I checked on the way over here, and Farrell dropped the grand-theft jewelry beef against Nicky two weeks ago. Farrell lied to me about that, and I think he also lied about not knowing Nicky was at his engagement party. That never made any sense to me. If Nicky knew Farrell’s real identity, he could force Farrell to invite him. Nicky’s a grifter. Grifters love hanging around in expensive crowds. It makes a lot more sense that way. I’m guessing that Nicky talked Farrell into lining up the Mexican heroin, using this missing Panamanian general and all his old drug connections. Then Nicky introduces Farrell to Dennis Valentine, who is setting up shop in L. A. Valentine would want to control the drug trade, so he pays for the product and gets rid of Stone, which allows him to organize the Crips and Bloods to distribute it for him. I think Nicky put the two guys he despised most in the world into the same doomed drug deal and intends to push the whole burning mess over a cliff.” Shane asked the chief if the two undercover cops he’d left at Valentine’s were still following the Mexican in the white Caddy.
“No,” Filosiani said sourly. “I was frustrated with all the money we were spending. The prints hadn’t come back yet, so I pulled the surveillance.”
The chief was angry at himself and biting his lip, so Shane pushed past that and continued: “Nicky’s got all these people heading to the same place in Arizona. Crips, Bloods, La Eme, and mobsters. He times it and dimes it. Everybody arrives out in the desert at the same time, loaded with rage, testosterone, and automatic weapons. When they get there they run into a wall of cops instead. It’s a recipe for a bloodbath.”
The chief rubbed his forehead. He looked like he was actually in pain. “That’s a lot of ifs, buts, and maybes,” Filosiani finally said.
“I know. But it sorta fits all the facts. I might have one or two pieces out of place, but if I were you, I’d get in touch with your friend at the FBI … see if any of the local feds knows what happened to Farrell. If he’s one of WIT-SEC’s assets, they probably have some kind of ongoing surveillance on him. Nora says he’s missing. I’m not so sure. Whatever happened to him, I’ll bet he turns up in the Arizona desert.”
Tony sat quietly in the metal chair, rolling the cold can of beer across his forehead. “Shit. I’m so tired I could fall asleep getting a blow job.”
“I’m not too interested in watching that,” Shane moaned.
Twenty minutes later Alexa showed up with Nora. Her former baby-sitter’s face was streaked with tears. Nora told them that Farrell had been doing his evening swim out in the ocean and that she watched through binoculars as a boatful of young Hispanic-looking men motored up, then forced him to get inside.
“You’re sure he was forced?” Shane asked.
“He had to be,” Nora said, breaking into tears again. “He isn’t capable of leaving without telling me. He knows how terrified I’d be.”
Alexa squeezed Nora’s hand, but Shane wondered if Nora had any idea what Farrell Champion was really capable of.
Chapter 43.
WHERE’S NICKY?
Chooch called to say he was on his way home, so Tony took Nora back to Malibu while Shane and Alexa waited.
An hour later his son walked into the kitchen through the back door, looking tired and dispirited as he slumped down in a chair at the kitchen table and shoved his hands deep into his pants pockets.
“Dad, she doesn’t even know I’m there,” he said. “She looks right through me. The doctors say it’s part of the PTSD, but I’m worried. She’s not getting any better.”
“Honey, you can’t hope for too much, too soon,” Alexa counseled.
“I don’t know what else to do.” Chooch’s voice was so low, Shane had to lean forward to hear him.
“You want me to call and talk to the psychiatrist?” Shane offered.
“No. Dr. Sloan’s been great. She said exactly what Mom just said … that it’s going to take time. But I can’t stand to see Delfina that way. It’s killing me.” Chooch told them he was going to spend the night at home, then go back first thing in the morning. He got up and headed toward his room to take a shower.
Shane and Alexa remained in the kitchen, looking after him.
“Hard lessons,” Alexa finally said.
Shane nodded. “Life can be a bitch.”
“I’ve got to get back to the office. I’m running a briefing at nine A. M. SO I’ll probably sleep down there.”
Shane reached out and took her hand. “No, you will not,” he said. “You’re going to leave it alone for eight hours and sleep right here, in our bed, with me.”
She looked at him for a long moment. “God, wouldn’t that be great for a change?”
“You’re not leaving. You can’t be much hel
p down there, half-conscious like you are. I’ll set the alarm for six.”
So they had a scotch in the backyard and watched the moonlight ripple on the still canal. Then they got up and went inside to their bedroom.
Shane watched from the bed as she undressed, marveling again at how blessed he’d been to win her. His early life as a child had been so filled with disappointment and darkness, maybe the Grand Pooh-Bah of Karma had decided he was finally due for a psychic paycheck. God knows, Alexa and Chooch had more than balanced the scale.
She turned and caught him looking at her. “Whatta you leering at, buddy?” She smiled.
“Just checkin’ out your booty,” Shane admitted, then he reached out and she came to him.
They made love for almost an hour. Afterward they lay in each other’s arms. He kissed her and felt her heart beating against his chest. Finally they both found comfort in sleep.
When he awoke the next morning, it was eight A. M. He had not heard the alarm ring, and after he checked, he discovered that Alexa and Chooch had already left the house. He showered, dressed, then drove down to Parker Center. Alexa’s Crown Vic was in her assigned space. The hood was already cold, so she’d been there for hours.
By nine-thirty he was standing with Lee Fineburg in the Records Services Division, watching the wiry geek make notes while he talked.
“My target’s name is Nicholas Marcella. He has an apartment at the Hollywood Towers, but he’s gone. I think he may be with his married sister, but I don’t have a clue what her first or last name is. They were both originally from Teaneck, New Jersey.”
Lee finished writing all of this down, then, without speaking, spun toward his computer and went to work.
First he tried the New Jersey DMV. There were twenty Marcellas listed in Teaneck, ten more in the burbs. Twelve were women, so he wrote their names down.
Next he searched the L. A. County Marriage Records database looking for women with one of those maiden names. He found one match: Elizabeth Marcella.
Fineburg studied the information on the screen. He found that Elizabeth Marcella had been wed on June 12, 1998, to Lawrence “Butch” Finta.
“I think I found her,” the computer geek said. “Her married name is Elizabeth Finta.” Then he went to the Unified Phone Listings, punched in the name Lawrence Finta, and presto … out came the address: 2358 Coast Highway, Torrance, California.
The guy was a magician.
The house was on the corner of PCH and Higuera, two blocks from the ocean. Shane parked a short distance up the street and took stock of the place. Butch and Elizabeth Finta weren’t spending much time or money on maintenance. The yard was overgrown, the house needed paint, and there was an old, slant-nose silver van parked in the driveway, which looked like a giant rusting suppository.
Shane decided that the best and quickest way was the most direct. Since he could probably run little Nicky down in a footrace, he got out of the car and walked to the front door. Shane tried to peek in a window, but the shades were drawn. He knocked, and after a minute heard Nicky calling through the door, “Go away!”
Shane pitched his voice an octave higher. “UPS, I need a signature!”
The door opened and, for a moment, Nicky Marcella was standing there, looking ridiculous in tennis shorts and a green Hawaiian shirt with huge red and yellow flowers. But this riotous vision was only temporary because Nicky immediately spun and bolted through the house.
Shane shot after him and almost caught him in the first five steps—reached out and missed by inches, coming up with a fistful of air.
Like a slippery rat, Nicky was out the back door, zigzagging across a yard strewn with old auto parts and rusting junk. He hit and jackknifed over the six-foot grape stake, agile as a spider monkey, landing on the other side.
Unfortunately, Shane hit the fence like a walrus, oofing loudly, dragging himself up, getting splinters in his palms, finally lurching over, landing in a heap next door.
What happened next was sort of embarrassing. Nicky the Pooh left Shane in the dust.
Maybe it was all that barking like a dog, or running away from bullies in high school that had made him so fast. Nicky flew down a space between the adjoining houses, using his diminutive size to slip through an opening in the neighbor’s fence.
Shane hit the same hole like a linebacker, knocking the shit out of himself in the process. By then Nicky was down the street, around the corner.
Nicky was widening the lead, while Shane was beginning to wheeze and growl. The sounds coming out of his throat sounded like a low chord on an accordion. His lungs were heaving, his footsteps slowing.
Salvation finally arrived in the form of a little Yamaha crotch-rocket. The yellow-and-white motorcycle buzzed around the corner going too fast. Nicky was running in the middle of the street, looking back over his shoulder at Shane, when the Yamaha sideswiped him and knocked the little grifter into the gutter.
Shane hoofed up to him, bent down with his hands on his knees, sucking air, while he tried to catch his breath. Nicky the Pooh was still conscious, but lying on his side moaning. Miraculously, he wasn’t bleeding. Shane put a hand down on Nicky’s shoulder. “Gotcha,” he finally wheezed.
The motorcyclist was a geeky teenager with a pubescent goatee, growing in unevenly like wispy plugs of sage. “Hey, dude, like, I didn’t see ya.”
“I’m suing,” Nicky managed between groans.
“Asshole, you were in the middle of the fucking street,” Shane angrily exclaimed.
“You willing t’ be my witness?” the boy asked Shane. “Not gonna be any lawsuit.” Shane flashed his badge. “You can take off.”
The kid was gone before Shane finished the sentence. Nicky pulled himself up. “Jesus, whatta you doin’ here?” he whined.
“Selling life insurance. You gotta lot of explaining to do.” Shane took the little grifter by his shirt collar, dragged him back to his sister’s house, and shoved him down on the sofa in a cluttered living room that smelled of air freshener.
“Okay, Nicky, I’ve got most of it. I figure it was you who introduced Valentine to Champion. That’s the only way it makes sense. But this thing keeps growing and I’m not sure I can see the edges anymore. So here’s your choice. Start talking or start bleeding.”
“Shane, I think I broke something here… .”
“I’m gonna break everything ‘less you open up.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Shane slapped him.
Actually, he didn’t mean to hit him as hard as he did, but just as he swung, Nicky exploded upward, attempting a second escape, and he walked right into it. The sound was like a rifle crack. Nicky flew backwards into the faded upholstery, whining again.
“Nicky, I want to know exactly where this drug deal is going down. Arizona is a big state.”
“I don’t know, Shane. You think those two arrogant pricks would tell me anything?”
“How are you gonna dime ‘em out if you don’t know where they are?”
“Who said I’m gonna—”
“I did. You hate these two guys. You’re setting them both up.”
“Oh, that … Yeah,” Nicky answered, rubbing the side of his face, which was red where Shane had smacked him. “Let’s go. I’m out of patience here.”
“I know a huge Mexican from the one short bit I did in County. Guy was an Eme named Julian Hernandez—Tortilla Fats—weighed over four hundred pounds. He’s a veterano in the Eighteenth Street Surenos. I called him, told him what Farrell and Valentine were doing, how they were working with the black gangs to take over the drug trade in L. A.”
“So that’s why Amac tried to hit Dennis Valentine in front of Ciro’s Pompadoro. Without Valentine, there’d be no White Dragon the Emes wouldn’t have to compete on that new line of drugs.”
Nicky slowly nodded.
“It was probably Amac who scooped Farrell out of the water in front of his Malibu house,” Shane said, thinking aloud. “Amac will get Farrell
to talk, then he’ll be in Arizona when the black gangs and Valentine meet to close the deal. I need to know where that meeting is, Nicky.”
“I told you: I don’t have a clue. But believe me, Shane, everything those two pricks got coming, it ain’t enough.”
“Nicky, I’m caught up in this. My son got caught up in it. His girlfriend is in the hospital because of it.”
“Much as I hate to say it, bunky, that’s kinda your problem, not mine.”
“Only I’m making it yours.”
“I swear, Shane. You can beat me till my ears bleed. I got no more info. I told Tortilla Fats. He told his Eme brothers, end of story. I’m out of it.”
“And you’re just gonna hide out here till the shooting stops?”
“Yep. My sister went on a camping trip with Butch, so I’m just watching TV, waiting to hear those two gonifs are dead.”
Shane pulled Nicky off the sofa, but the little grifter dug his heels in. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere, Shane, so don’t try and make me.”
Shane pushed him hard, driving him toward the door. “Okay, I’m goin’ then. But I’m not very good at this. In fact, I’m a—”
“Coward … I know. I’ll show ya how to get over that.”
Shane dragged Nicky the Pooh out of his sister’s house and took him for a long-overdue meeting with Chief Filosiani.
Chapter 44.
JURISDICTIONAL WARFARE
The Day-Glo Dago’s office was full of men in suits wearing cheap cologne. The room was starting to smell like a flower shop. There were two suits from the DEA, narrow-faced, sallow-complected attitude cases dressed in identical offthe-rack black numbers. They said they had picked up on this White Dragon smuggle from a street source, and were claiming jurisdiction. Shane had their business cards in his pocket but had already forgotten their names. The only way he could tell them apart was that one of them was chewing on a toothpick. There was another suit from the local FBI field office, Burt Semus, the special agent in charge for L. A. For some unknown reason everyone called him Shavo. He didn’t look like a Shavo. He looked like an underachieving Burt.
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