On the Grind (2009) (12 page)

Sammy from Miami was a short, wiry Cuban with skin the color of a Starbucks latte. His teeth were yellow from years of smoking Cuban cigars. Tonight he was dressed in leather pants and a vest, looking like a South American gaucho. I thought Sammy would be good for what I needed because he also had a long yellow sheet. If somebody in Haven Park checked him out, he'd come back dirty as a public toilet.

I pulled up and let him into the car, then drove down the street with the rap music pounding.

"Jesus, Scully. What's with this music?" he said, reaching out and turning off the radio.

I pointed out the two hidden microphones as I drove. One under the glove compartment, one in the rearview mirror. He nodded. I'd warned him on the phone that the car was bugged and he understood we were only putting on a show.

"So, is it done?" he said, getting right to the heart of it.

"Yeah, wait a minute. I wanta find a place to park so we can talk."

I turned onto La Brea and drove until I found a strip mall on the corner of Santa Monica Boulevard. I pulled in and turned off the engine.

"Okay, Sam, yeah, it's done. The guest of honor's in harp class. Coroner booked the stiff in at two A
. M
. last night."

"I need proof of death," he said. "I ain't pay-in' till I know that scumbag is really breathin' dirt."

"I got pictures just like last time," I said. "Plus, I can give you the coroners tag number. After I pulled his drapes, I took his wallet. He's a Cuban illegal, and you were right, his prints aren't in the system yet. He's booked as Juan Doe Seventeen and is in the freezer at Mission Road. Just go in and tell them your cousin is missing or something. Describe this gu
y
and they'll show you the stiff."

"I'll send a guy down. After we see him on a tray, I'll pay for the hit."

"Since I got thrown off the LAPD I got no cash. My wife is divorcing me and her attorney is locking everything up. I'm working down in Haven Park now, but the pay sucks and I haven't even got my first check yet."

"None of this is my problem."

"We've done business before. You know I guarantee results."

"Show me the shots."

I loudly unzipped a bag I'd brought with me and Sammy did some good acting, laughing slightly as he pretended to look at digital photos on my nonexistent camera.

"Jesus. What did you hit him with? Back of his head is gone."

"Two hollow points behind the ear. That's what ten grand buys you. I want my money."

He waited a beat and then said, "Okay, tell you what. I'll give you half now and half when I have proof of death. That's the best I can do."

I sighed loudly. "Gimme it."

I had five hundred in fresh currency ready and counted the bills, snapping them loudly for the benefit of the mikes. I slipped the cash silently over to him--payment in full for a great performance.

"You can just let me out here," Sammy said as he opened the door. "I got some jokers working up on Sunset selling Madonna's underwear to tourists. Got her name embroidered on it and everything. Interested? Actual Madonna thongs, crotchless panties and tit-hole bras. I swear it's her gear."

"I look terrible in crotchless panties."

"Suit yourself. But this shit will kill on eBay." He closed the door. "Talk to you in a day or so." Then he walked away.

I stopped at an all-night drugstore and bought a cheap pre-paid cell phone. When I got back to my room in the hotel, it was around ten o'clock.

I called the Haven Park PD and gave them the new cell number, then got something to eat in the casino restaurant. I looked around at the zombies gambling away their futures in a joint that clearly favored the house. As I watched the rows of dead-end players, it suddenly hit me that their odds were a whole lot better than mine.

Chapter
20

The next clay I didn't see Alonzo Bell. I reported to roll call and harnessed up, but was told that m
y
training officer had taken a sick day for personal business. I was still a probationer and Harry Eastwood didn't want me out in the field, so I was sent over to the Haven Park police building, for an eight-hour shift answering phones and filing paper.

I spent a frustrating clay riding a desk wondering what Alonzo was doing. The longer I sat there, the more I wondered if my performance at Manias Casita and in the jail had forced some kind of dangerous revaluation.

The mayoral election was in eight days and there was a frontpage story in this mornings Courier written by Anita Juarez, detailing Rocky s arrest and calling for new leadership in Haven Park. The editorial page had a slew of angry letters protesting his treatment at the hands of the Haven Park PD. I knew the Avilas and Cecil Bratano weren't about to sit back and watch this election g
o s
our. Rocky Chacon had a much better chance of winding up in Haven Parks morgue than its city hall.

At the end of the day shift I walked back to the elementary school, changed in the locker room, clocked out and drove back to the Bicycle Club. Kven though it was only five o'clock, the parking lot was already full of cars belonging to dedicated gamblers. I went up to my sand
-
and peach-orange-colored room, kicked off my shoes, flopped down on the bed and spent half an hour trying to think what my next move should be.

One of the biggest problems working undercover was managing stress. Most uniforms, if they want to, get a chance at working a stint in Vice while still in the Patrol Division. Since Vice is a plainclothes gig, it's thought to be a good stepping-stone to the Detective Bureau.

When patrol cops got this opportunity they were generally excited about it. But it quickly became obvious that some of them didn't have the temperament. It was emotionally devastating to be sitting across from a dangerous drug dealer in a dark shooting gallery full of murderous characters, wearing a wire, knowing that at any moment you could be discovered and killed.

A lot of officers who had been eagerly looking forward to UC assignments ended up asking the watch commander to let them work support instead. Living a lie under the constant threat of exposure and death could become unbearable. It's why most law enforcement agencies limit UC work to only a few weeks.

For the past several days I'd been feeling the pressure. Not sure who was watching me, not able to trust anyone, including the guy who'd asked me to take the assignment in the first place. I missed my wife and had temporarily lost the respect of my son. Why the hell was I doing this?

At a little past seven I was so fatigued that I fell asleep sprawled across my peach-orange bedspread.

Suddenly I was jangled out of a troubled dream by my new cell phone. I sat up and looked at my watch: 7:40 P
. M
. I'd only been out for half an hour. I stumbled over and fumbled the cell open.

"Yeah?" I mumbled.

"Scully?" a voice I vaguely recognized asked.

"Yes."

"Lieutenant Eastwood. You've got a call-up."

"What's up, Loo?" My nerves instantly on edge.

"You'll be briefed when you get here. We've got an 'all hands' situation. Get to the training facility on Pine Street and get in harness. Roll call is in the gym in twenty minutes."

"On my way, sir."

I hung up and wondered, was this finally it? Had I just been called in to be kidnapped, killed, then dumped in the L
. A
. River?

Chapter
21

Most of the Haven Park poliee foree was already crowded into the elementary school locker room when I got there. Judging by the tight expressions, something major was going down. As I stripped off my street clothes, I heard two guys at the next locker discussing an upcoming gang fight at Haven Park High tonight--a perfect setting for me to take an accidental bullet in the back.

I needed to give Agent Love a quick heads-up, so I grabbed m
y
brand-new cell, stuffed it into my Jockey shorts and hurried into the bathroom. I found a vacant stall, locked the door, sat on the toilet and sent her a text message using the number I'd memorized at the Manhattan Beach condo. I typed out:

911-SSCC-18L-MWHS-415-MA 415-M was LAPD code for a major disturbance. Just as I hit send I heard Alonzo Bell enter the bathroom.

"Scully, where the fuck are you?"

"In here," I yelled through the stall door.

"Get your ass out here. Roll calls in five minutes." "Coming."

I couldn't walk out carrying my damn cell with a 911 message to the F BI in its memory chip, so I looked for a place to ditch it. The high school was a fifties building and the toilets in the locker room had old-style surge tanks. I lifted the lid and dropped my new cell into the water, replacing the porcelain top. When I came out of the stall, Bell was standing there, frowning impatiently. "Let's go," he said. "Move your bowels on your own time."

I dressed quickly and followed my partner into the gymnasium. As soon as we got inside, Alonzo moved up to the podium and stood with the other shift sergeants and our command staff officers.

Dirty Harry Eastwood was strapped up in black Second Chance riot gear. Despite the Kevlar, I had a feeling if any trouble went down, he'd stay safely inside his tricked-out mobile command center. Standing next to him was Deputy Chief Talbot Jones.

I spotted Hector and Manny Avila in expensive sport coats to one side of the podium, looking worried. I had no idea what they were doing at our roll call.

The entire Haven Park patrol force assembled expectantly in the bleachers and the room quieted immediately as Harry Eastwood stepped to the podium.

"Deputy Chief Jones is going to take the first part of this briefing. Tal?" The lieutenant moved aside to allow Talbot Jones to come forward.

"Okay. You guys all know this has been coming for a while," Jones began in his rich baritone. "According to sources the Avilas have on the street, this rumble is going down tonight." He paused and looked at Bell. "Al, pull that blackboard out here."

Alonzo went to the big double doors of the gymnasium and rolled in a large blackboard, placing it in the center of the basketball court. Taped to one side of the board were blown-up mug shots of eight Hispanic males in their twenties, all with names and numbers printed underneath. On the other side of the board were ten same-sized mugs of African-American Crip G-sters.

"Okay. For the past few weeks Manny and Hector Avila have been working under contract with the city of Haven Park as gang violence consultants," Jones said, explaining their presence at our briefing. "As most of you know, they have very good Eighteenth Street connections. A few hours ago, they picked up a rumor that a rumble is planned during halftime at tonights home football game between Haven Park and South Compton High. Ten or twelve armed Crips are heading our way right now. These shots on the left side of the board have been identified as the probable Crip shooters by our Inner-City Gang Intelligence Division."

He tapped the blackboard with his knuckle. "The shot-caller is this guy." He pointed to a picture of a scowling black banger in his late twenties with close-cut hair. "His name is Harris Karris, street handle K-Knife. The guy is bad news, with a long list of agg assaults and unfiled murder allegations, so if you see him, cut this asshole no slack."

Ballpoints clicked as cops wrote down Harris Karris s name, street handle and identifying characteristics.

"The Locos know this is going down and have agreed to lay
-
back and work with us." Jones tapped the side of the board with the pictures of eight Locos. "We have a shared objective wit
h in t
hese guys, so lets make sure we're focusing on the right people tonight."

I couldn't believe he was telling us to give the Locos a pass and only go after Crip shooters. But it got even worse as the briefing continued.

He motioned to Hector and Manny Avila. "As you know, the Avilas have been very helpful trying to diffuse Eighteenth Street gang violence. Their participation in the youth center has helped to contain what was once a very dangerous citywide problem." He turned toward the Avilas. "I'm going to turn the briefing over to Manny Avila, so he can give you his take."

"Thank you, Captain Jones," Manny said as he stepped behind the podium.

"To begin with, let's get something straight. The Eighteenth Street gang is not a bunch of innocents. I'm not going to stand up here and tell you they're choirboys. But we need to remember they're from our neighborhood. These South Side Compton Crips are outsiders who come into our city and incite violence.

"Tonight can be a defining moment for Haven Park. Of the officers gathered here, my brother Hector and I have been privileged to know and work with most of you."

He pointed to the side of the blackboard that displayed the eight scowling eses. "We're making progress with this bunch. Veterano shot-callers like Ovieto Ortiz are finally seeing things our way." He tapped 007's picture.

"Using our influence, we're convincing them to forgo violence and walk a new path."

I had seen the LAPD crash reports on 18th Street arrests outside of Haven Park and the gang was growing and becoming more violent, not less. But I kept my mouth shut and my expression blank.