Crystal Meth Cowboys (11 page)

Rodriguez gave his head a little shake, fanning out his bangs. They were trimmed very precisely and lined up evenly on his forehead. He looked as tough and defiant as he could in a hospital gown, an oxygen mask on his face. Wes searched for a way to establish a commonality of interest (this influx of meth is bad for the community) without insulting the man's pride (look at what it did to you). Esteban's head started to wobble, as if a bolt had been loosened in his neck. He was losing him. Say something!

"Esteban, all this speed is bad for everyone. We've had fatal overdoses, bar fights…all kinds of trouble. Now I'm not saying you're a user, but if you
are
you could tell me the name of your supplier and it could help you in your assault case and no one would have to know it was you. Who fingered him. At least until he goes to trial." Wes shrugged his shirt back into place. "And that's the best offer you're gonna hear all night." Rodriguez pulled the oxygen mask down to his chin and licked his lips. He raised his head and croaked out three words. "Chinga tu madre."

Wes didn't know the exact translation of this remark. But the tone was unmistakable.

Chapter 11

The half moon hung on the night like a broken pearl button on a blue velvet blouse as the LTD Crown Victoria plowed into a headwind blowing peaty air from the ag fields. They were westbound on Playa Road. Bell switched the police band to the chat frequency and said, "If the Big Bad Wolf can come out and play he should 11-98 at Grandma's House."

Bell and Lyedecker drove a block in silence before a deep soft voice said "Roger."

Bell turned right at M Street and backed into a spot in the rear of the parking lot of Miss Muffet's Air-Cooled Cafe. The lot was almost empty at 8:39 PM. Wes wondered what Bell was up to. He had hardly spoken since they left the hospital.

"Just this year," said Bell, unhitching his seat belt. "Down in Smell-A somewhere, the DEA concluded a
two year
investigation into a big cocaine smuggling operation. They had
el jefe's
compound all staked out. They had dope dogs, they had armored vehicles, they had swat teams on hot standby,
but
…they were waiting for the launch command from some bullshit brass back in Washington D-Sneeze. So, ol'
El Jefe
himself sashays out and jumps in his short. They know from phone taps that he's got important shitbag dinner guests incoming so they figure he's just goin' down to the store for some last minute dinner rolls. They figure he'll be back in ten. So they let him go and wait for his return."

Bell narrowed his eyes and crimped up the corners of his mouth. Wes took this to mean that they were still waiting.

"I know that proper procedure is to obtain a warrant and tell the defectives
and
Shitamoko
and
PsychoSarge, and since I'm your training officer I should be training you in the proper procedure and I feel bad about that, I really do." Bell nodded solemnly at the steering wheel. "But meth dealers never land anywhere for long, ex-pecially if they're cooking, and we'll be lucky if he's still there."

Wes stretched his spine till his skull bumped against the head rest. Things were moving way too fast. Bell's tall shadow had stretched across Esteban's bedside shortly after Wes Lyedecker's unsuccessful negotiation. Wes had felt guilty pleasure at Esteban's sudden loss of bravado. When Bell pinched off the feeder tube to Esteban's oxygen mask, Wes did nothing. He figured Esteban could still breathe through the vents in the side of the mask. Esteban was apparently too stoned to reach the same conclusion because ten seconds after Bell said 'Where'd you score the shit Rodriguez?', Rodriguez provided a name, address and phone number.

Officer Cyril Reese's patrol car swept into the parking lot and slid soundlessly into the slot next to Bell, head in. His driver's side window withdrew itself, releasing a blast of heated air. Wes could tell that Reese smelled combat because he looked even more cool and disengaged than usual.

"What up?" said Reese.

"Quality lead, I have got a quality lead on a gentlemen in the pharmaceutical redistribution business," said Bell. "Specifically yer crystal meth-am-phet-amine, youknowhuta'hm sayin'?"

"I know what you're sayin'," said Reese.

"So now lemme
splain
whut we gonna do heah…"

Nice, thought Wes. His senior training officer was giving instructions for a probably unlawful and potentially life-threatening narcotics raid to an African-American officer in an accent borrowed from
Amos 'n' Andy
. Reese kept
his eyelids firmly at half-mast. When Bell concluded with "You got it?" Reese said "Let's roll" and threw his LTD into reverse.

Bell fired up the unit, bucked down the driveway and squealed left on M Street. He ran the stop sign, turned west on Playa and flicked on the blinking amber running lights. He goosed the siren at a lumbering panel truck in the number one lane. When the truck slowed even further Bell whipped around on the right, Reese locked on his bumper like a Jap Zero.

Was Bell going to notify dispatch? An on-duty officer was required to give his status and location when either one of those changed. Wes didn't think Bell would. There wasn't a ten code designation for 'en route to a forcible entry of a private home without a warrant using illegally obtained information.' The Academy trained cadets in transactional techniques for calming combative suspects and in negotiating techniques for eliciting the co-operation of reluctant witnesses. However, they received absolutely no instruction on how to restrain a senior officer who was hellbent on mayhem.

The radio squelched. A microphone had just keyed on. Wes could hear the hissy mutterings of the SO and CHP frequencies in the backround. The dispatcher was about to break her long silence and rescue Wes from a career-ending nightmare call.

"12 Frank - Control."

Bell grabbed the mike and said, "…rol, this is…ank 12."

"12 Frank, doorbell ditching in progress, six-seven-nine T-Temperance Drive. Request a roll-by."

"Door bell ditching," snorted Bell.

"…eck…ah..ouble hearing you…rol," he said to the mike. "…eaking up…eck..ah…oh." Bell concluded his transmission by pressing the mike to his lips and imitating
radio static. He keyed off. "We're way off the reservation now, peachfuzz. Find me a pay phone."

Wes told himself to voice his objections. And he would, at the first opportunity. "I think there's one up here, by the library."

"
Is
there or isn't there?"

"Ummm, yes. Yes, turn here."

Bell bootlegged into the front lot of a small stucco branch of the Wislow Library and screeched to a halt. Reese pulled to the curb. Several elderly women looked out the windows of a conference room.

"Now here's the deal," said Bell to Lyedecker. "I want you to tweak the siren when I give you the high sign. You got it?"

"Yes, but I'm really not…" said Wes as Bell slammed the door and quick stepped toward the pay phone. He stopped, turned around and scurried back.

Bell tapped the tips of his fingers together and grinned sheepishly. "I need a quarter."

Wes dug in his pants pocket. "Here," he said. "But maybe we should…."

Bell pinched Wes Lyedecker's cheek, then raced to the pay phone. An Asian schoolboy dressed like a 50's teen in a plaid shirt and beltless slacks fiddled with his bike lock as he leaned forward to eavesdrop. Wes did likewise, wondering why in the world Bell would want to call the man.

"Ra
mon
," exclaimed Bell to the phone. "Is me, mang… Estebang. Estebang Rodriguez! Chu gotta book, mang!…
Por que? Tracion. Muy malo tracion
. They beat me.
Los puercos
they beat me and I gave chu up, mang." Bell pointed at Lyedecker. Wes goosed the siren.

"Oh chit, oh chit, I gotta go!" shouted Bell and slammed down the receiver. He scooted back to the unit, giggling like a schoolgirl. Bell geared the LTD and peeled out, ambers on, no siren. Reese followed. The elderly women and the Asian schoolboy watched them go.

-----

Cherrywood Drive ran north-south in the far north corner of Wislow nearest the ocean. It was an older tract than Bell's development, bordered by fallow ag fields. The houses were wood, not stucco, and some featured a Danish touch, crosshatched flower boxes and scalloped eaves painted in bright blues and yellows. Weeping willow branches draped the sidewalk.

The house at 1702 Cherrywood was dark, save for a yellow bug light in a frosted glass fixture crisscrossed with strips of greenish brass. An engraved wooden shingle on a weathered white signpost read 'The Vernes'. Bell drove by at a crawl. From deep in the house he saw the pulsing blue nebula of a TV. Bell wrinkled his nose at the decor. No crystal meth cowboy of his acquaintance would be caught dead in this Hansel and Gretel house. And it wasn't isolated enough for cooking. It
could
be a supply depot hidden in a quiet out of the way neighborhood. If true, if Rodriguez had given them the right address, it meant they were dealing with a sophisticated operation. Which meant Ramon the drug dealer had point-kill weapons.

A GMC sport van sat parked in the driveway. Bell rolled to a stop in back of it. Reese parked behind him. It had taken less than four minutes to reach Cherrywood Lane. Bell figured that Ramon would take at least five minutes to gather up his goodies before he split.

The cops climbed out and conferred behind their LTD's. "See any sign of him?" asked Bell.

"Nothing."

"No."

"OK. Here's the deal. I saw a spiked fence in the back yard. So we can do up a three man perimeter if Reese takes the driveway, Lyedecker the right side of the house and I go knock on the door. Questions, questions?"

"Let's do it," said Reese, starting forward.

Bell and Lyedecker hustled to catch up. "And no flashlights," said Bell under his breath. "He's prolly got an autoload. And he may not be alone."

Wes snicked the leather strap off his holster. This didn't seem like a good time to voice his objections. He veered down the street as Reese and Lyedecker crossed the sidewalk. He placed his stiff black oxfords flat on the pavement to keep his heels from clicking. He felt like a gunslinger in
High Noon
.

Bell moved up the poured concrete walkway, ducking under a downcast willow. He didn't know why he was bothering with the front door. An informant's tip didn't qualify as one of the 'exigent circumstances' required for forcible entry without a warrant. Without a warrant he was permitted to enter a private residence only if he were invited in or if he witnessed a crime. Which is why he called in the first place, hoping to smoke Ramon out. The best he could hope for now was that Ramon would bolt out the side door, drugs in hand, when he, Bell, hammered on the front. Bell drew his .357. By the light of the bug lamp he saw an overstuffed sofa with croqueted arm protectors in the living room. If they really did live here The Vernes were in for a big surprise.

Cyril Reese crept up the driveway on the balls of his feet. He ignored Bell's command and swept the interior of the GMC van with his Kel light. He moved toward the side door to the house, his shit in his hand. He stopped, eased back into the moonshadow of a tall tree and waited for Bell's knock and notice.

Wes took up a position on the front lawn twenty feet to Bell's right and several feet behind. He faced a bottomless pit of dark to the right of the house where a ten foot hedge shadowed a narrow strip of grass. Wes willed his eyes to decipher a low square shape hard by the house. It looked like a coal bin but that was stupid. People
didn't use coal out here. Maybe a storage bin for fireplace logs. He grasped the butt of his gun and recalled Academy statistics. Once an officer's gun was unholstered the odds were roughly two in ten that it would be fired, not always by the officer. Tactical Jack said that once it comes out 'you either use it or lose it.' Wes decided to keep his gun in his holster.

Bell hammered on the front door so hard that he cracked a piece of pebbled glass in its cross-hatched frame. "Police Officers! Open up!"

Wes slid his thumb down into his holster, groping for the safety.

Cyril Reese widened his stance, crouched, braced his left wrist with his right hand and pointed his chrome .45 at the side door.

Bell stood to the right of the front door, back flattened against the wall, the barrel of his .357 pointed south. The TV threw faint, strobing starbursts out a back bedroom, down the hall and into the darkened living room. Wes Lydecker listened with all his might but heard only the ocean wind soughing through willow branches.

"Police! Open the damn door!"

Bell waited several pulse-pounding seconds before he said, "OK men. Light your torches."

Wes emptied his lungs of air. Maybe he wasn't going to set a new Olympic record for the most rapid dismissal of a rookie officer. It looked like Esteban had given them a false lead.

"And watch yourself," called Bell. When no old fart in a bathrobe and nylon booties scuffled up to answer the door - late on a weekday, vehicle in the driveway, TV on - Bell knew Rodriguez had given them the correct address.

Bell larruped back to the sidewalk to triangulate the perimeter. Odds were that Ramon was already down the road. If he was inside the house he now knew that
los puercos
didn't have a warrant. If he laid low like a good felon there was nothing they could do.

Cyril Reese removed his right hand from his left wrist and pulled out his Kel light, his piece poised for action.

Wes Lyedecker retrieved his right hand from his holster and reached around for his Kel light. He clicked the button and shone it into the pitch black pit. Once, when he was young, no more than eight, his parents rented a summer cabin in the Green Mountains of Vermont. In exploring his environs Wes came across a brown metal box bolted to the back of the cabin. He pried it open with his pocket knife to find a twirling electric meter and a spitting brown wood rat the size of an alley cat. He clearly recalled the raw jolt of fear that had roared down his brain stem and welded his feet to the pine needles as his Kel beam revealed a male Hispanic - 5'6", 140 pounds, 25 to 30 - standing behind the storage bin, a pistol-grip MAC-10 machine gun in his hand.