On the Grind (2009) (16 page)

I'd only driven four blocks when two black Navigators with tinted windows hedged me in at the curb. Four FBI guys in dark clothes swarmed the Mustang. I was pulled out of my vehicle at gunpoint, handcuffed and then pushed into the back of the lead Navigator. As soon as I was inside, it roared away. Seated beside me was Ophelia Love.

"Sorry, but this bust was the best idea I could come up with on short notice."

She reached over and uncuffed me. "Those weapons we took off the Locos last night are new Russian guns. Some of them were minted less than two months ago. My bosses think the Locos are moving this stuff for Russian mobsters who have ties with local Al-Qaeda cells. Homeland wants this pipeline shut down now."

"I need more time."

"Your wife wants you out of here. I told my local supervisor that I agree that you might be compromised. But he still wants us to try for a result. As point agent, it's my call, but everybody is breathing hard."

"Today was a complete waste," I said. "Alonzo was in court."

Ophelia sat for a long moment before she said, "I like your wife. Td like to do what she wants. Every day you stay under, your jeopardy increases.'

"I'm up for it if you are," I told her.

We need to wrap this up fast. I need you to wear a wire. You have to lure these crooks into conversations. Try to implicate somebody like Talbot Jones or Sergeant Bell. Somebody who, once we bust him, will roll over to save his ass. If you agree to the wire, I'll let you stay for one more twenty-four-hour period. Otherwise I'm pulling you now."

Wearing a wire is an invitation to disaster because there's absolutely no excuse that works if you get busted. For that reason, I shoot my head no.

"Then I'm pulling you."

"You're not gonna pull me. This is a career case for you."

"Then you're clone," she said.

"Wear the wire or clear out? That's my choice?"

She nodded, her mouth set in determination.

"Gimme it," I said, holding out my hand.

She opened her purse and pulled out a digital recorder and a mike. It was just a little larger than a Bic lighter.

"You want me to send somebody from Tech Support over to wire you up?" she said.

"No," I said, putting the recorder into my jacket pocket. "The last thing I need is another meeting with the feds. I'll figure it out."

They dropped me at my rental car on Pacific. I got inside and, watching the mirrors for a tail, drove into Vista, parking again on the side street two blocks from the Bicycle Club. Then I hoofed i
t b
ack to the hotel.

I probably should have called Alexa from the lobby pay phone, but I didn't want another argument and I knew Ophelia would tell her what was happening, so I just went back up to my room and flopped on my bed. I was out in minutes. I slept like a dead man --which was what I almost became.

Chapter
28

When I woke up there were four sets of hands holding me down. I was looking up into Alonzo Bells brown frying-pan-shaped face.

As soon as I opened my mouth to speak, he shoved a pair of socks between my teeth. I fought, but was rolled over onto my face. Handcuffs were snapped onto my wrists.

Someone pulled a pillowcase over my head and my world went peach-orange. I had recognized two guys in the room from the day watch. One was a mid-watch officer named Gary Singleton, a Pasadena PD reject. Another was a black cop from the day watch, Roulon Green. Over by the door was a huge, overbuilt, linebacker
-
sized guy I'd seen once or twice during shift changes. I think his name was Horace Velario. I'd heard he was Alonzo's best friend from high school.

Then Bell leaned down and whispered into my ear. "Here's the drill, m'ijo. You walk where we lead you. Trouble buys pain."

I was pushed blindly out of the room, led across the carpete
d h
all and down some concrete fire stairs. I had no idea where we were or what time it was. Once we were out of the stairwell, our footsteps echoed loudly on hard concrete. I figured from the sound that we were leaving the casino through some kind of basement corridor.

Then I was being pushed up into the backseat of either an SUV or a high van. I was sandwiched in with a man on each side. The engine started and we were in motion. I kept trying to talk through the sock jammed in my mouth, but every time I did, I caught a sharp blow to my rib cage.

"Stay quiet," Alonzp growled.

Maybe an hour later, the car turned off the paved street and we were driving on some kind of a rough dirt surface. My mind was racing, trying to figure this out. Had they found my cell phone in the elementary school bathroom and despite its waterlogged condition managed to retrieve the text message? Had they seen Agent Love's wire recorder that I'd carelessly left on the dresser, or had they missed it in their hurry to get me out of there? I was starting to panic.

The car finally stopped and I was pulled out and forced to walk across uneven ground. I smelled the rich odor of moist soil mixed with the pungent, sweet smell of orange blossoms.

I was pushed to my knees. The pillowcase was suddenly ripped off. My eyes adjusted quickly to the dark. I saw by the faint light of the quarter-moon that we were out in the middle of an orange grove someplace. I was surrounded by the entire Haven Park day watch as well as a few other cops from other shifts. All were dressed in street clothes. The sock was pulled out of my mouth, but my hands remained cuffed.

Alonzo Bell took a position about ten feet away facing me. "We know you're the one who's been ratting us out," he said.

I didn't respond. Same rule. Let the other guy go first. Learn as much as you can before saying anything.

"We know you blew us in to the feds on the Crip ambush
,"
he continued. "We know you met in that deputy chiefs condo in Manhattan Beach and were debriefed. We know almost all of it. If you want an easy death, you're gonna tell us everything else."

My mind was racing through this problem, looking for an exit. Had Ophelia Love failed to lay down my condo cover story in time? Had Ricky Ross finally made good on his threat to kill me? Was there anything that would get me out of this?

Whatever I said next, it needed to be convincing. They weren't going to make stupid mistakes.

"You tell me everything," Bell said. "If it matches exactly what I already know, then you get a nice clean head shot and you're gone. You fuck around with me and I will blow off little pieces of you until you're begging me to finish it."

My only shot was to bluff. "Go fuck yourself," I said angrily.

"Not the response I'm looking for, Scully."

"I'm not your rat. I don't know who's been selling you out, but after you kill me, your problem isn't gonna go away, because you got the wrong guy."

"And that apartment you went to didn't belong to Chief Arnett?"

"I told you. I was with Tiffany Roberts in the furnished model. You can believe me, or you can stick it up your ass. I'm fuckin' done arguing with you about this."

He pointed his gun at me and fired. I think he was just trying to scare me, but the bullet came very close and nicked my left ear. I could feel blood running down the side of my face.

Then he pointed his nine-millimeter at my heart. I could see his trigger finger turn white as he added pressure.

Here I come, Jesus, I thought as I knelt in the moist soil. I took my last breath and got ready to die. He pulled the trigger and
I
watched the hammer fall.

Chapter
29

CLICK.

Nothing happened.

I looked into the muzzle of Alonzo's handgun, right into the black eye.

I could smell the oranges and feel the beat of m
y
heart.

A misfire?

Alonzo slowly lowered the gun and just stood there. I didn't know what was happening, didn't know what to expect.

Then a huge smile spread across his round face and he said, "Somebody uncuff him."

Two guys rushed forward, pulled me to my feet and took the handcuffs off, freeing my hands. My knees were shaking. I could barely stand.

"You're no longer on probation," Alonzo announced. "You just became a full-fledged member of the Haven Park PD."

The guys who were standing there all started to applaud.

"You okay?" Alonzo asked, grinning. "A few guys have puked. Larry Miller shit his pants."

I was still trying to absorb it.

"We had to know you were solid," he explained. "Loyalty test. We had to take you right to the edge to be sure." Then he shook his head as he repeated my own words back to me. " Tou can believe me, or you can stick it up your ass.' Beautiful. Best yet."

All the cops gathered around and slapped my back, congratulating me.

Alonzo led me over to his Cadillac Escalade. The private cars of the rest of the day watch were parked in a large dirt clearing. There were no houses or lights visible in any direction. We seemed to be miles from civilization. Somebody opened a Styrofoam chest and started passing out ice-cold Coronas.

Horace Velario, Alonzos three-hundred-pound best friend from high school, nodded his shaved head and shoved a cold one in my hand. "You could probably use this."

I was staring dumbly at the semicircle of beaming police officers. I was beginning to realize that before you get to ride in the corrupt squad cars of Haven Park, everybody had to go through this same loyalty test.

"The final initiation," Alonzo said. "You're in the posse, man." He opened the door of the Escalade and announced, "Come on, we're going to a party."

I didn't much feel like going to a party. I just wanted to go home, lie down and try to get my nerves to settle. But I did as I was told. The other cops got into their vehicles. I heard doors slamming all around me and then six or eight cars, driving with just their parking lights on, caravaned out of the field and transitioned onto a small paved road, which ran alongside acres of orange groves.

"Where are we?" I asked.

"In the appropriately named city of Orange," Alonzo said with a grin. He got on the freeway and we were soon flying along, heading back toward downtown L
. A
.

For the first time since waking up I was beginning to accept the fact that I actually had some tomorrows.

"There's a party in Ladera Heights being thrown in your honor," Alonzo said, grinning.

"You guys are pretty careful," I said.

"There's a lot on the table down here, Shane, and nobody wants to see the inside of a prison cell, so you're damn right we're careful."

It was the first time he'd called me Shane.

We drove right past the cities of Haven Park and Bell and were soon on a twisting road, climbing up to the better neighborhoods in the hills of Ladera Heights. The small, single-story houses in the flatland neighborhoods slowly gave way to million-dollar mansions that overlooked the city. Finally, Alonzo pulled up to a huge double gate that was framed by a mosaic Spanish-style arch. I could see maybe twenty cars in a large parking area behind the wrought iron. The rest of the day watch pulled in behind us. Alonzo leaned out of his driver's window and triggered the security speaker.

"Bell," he said. "I got Scully with me." The gates opened and we pulled up the long drive and parked by a beautiful two-story house with lots of Spanish arches and a red tile roof.

"Whose place is this?" I asked, looking off to the right at a crowd of maybe forty men and women, who were drinking and chatting in clusters around the Olympic-sized pool and cabana.

"Cecil Bratano's," Alonzo said proudly. "He throws these bashes maybe twice a month."

As I got out of the Escalade, Talbot Jones came out of the house and approached me.

"Good going, Scully." He was dressed in slacks and a blue blazer.
I
think it was the first time I ever saw him smile.

I could hear music coming from the pool through gigantic speakers. Frank Sinatra was singing "Leave It All to Me."

Chapter
30

Sinatra sang about it being "a very good year."

Dancers from some strip club in town seconded that thought as they cavorted naked in the big Olympic-sized pool. I met a few politicians from Haven Park and Fleetwood. They all seemed like slimy assholes.

Sinatra sang "The Fable of the Rose."

Rick Ross was there. He didn't speak to me, but I saw him with three strippers in the cabana cutting up a line of coke. Great. Just what I wanted to see. Let's hear it for Ricky's rehab.

I spent ten minutes talking about police work with Harry Eastwood, who looked ridiculous in white pants and an iridescent blue shirt. His swayback and potbelly did nothing for the outfit.

I saw the mayors assistant, Carlos Real, whom Alonzo had pointed out to me at A Fuego. I'd asked around and found out he was really just a political bagman. I watched him talking to som
e s
eedy Hispanics in suits by the Jacuzzi. All of them needed haircuts. Carlos never stopped moving, shifting his weight, waving his hands around. A kinetic man. Mercury on glass.