On the Grind (2009) (19 page)

"Man, this gu
y
had some pipes, didn't he?" Bratano said, pointing at his eight-track. "Nobody sings like this anymore."

Me turned the volume down a little and Frank settled into a lower decibel level. Then Cecil glanced at me, widened his smile. I knew b
y
now that the smile didn't indicate much of anything, least of all humor. His too-white teeth flashed an alabaster warning.

"I'm often referred to in the press as Haven Park's Mexican mayor, but that's not what I am at all," he said. "My genealogy defines me as Hispanic, but I'm American. However, the Mexican in my blood understands how the people who live in Haven Park and Fleetwood think. I know what they need."

He put on his blinker and we turned onto a street that ra
n a
long the slimy banks of the L
. A
. River. The black-and-white tailed close behind.

"Our population in Haven Park is around thirty thousand;' the mayor continued. "Well over seventy percent of those are illegals.

"These are simple people with simple tastes. They like parades, so I give them parades. They like fiestas tradicionales, so this town officially celebrates all the major Mexican holidays. We have big, publicly sponsored parties with music and games in the park. On Cinco de Mayo the city puts on a fireworks display and I pass out candy to the children. On Dfa de los Muertos I wear the skull mask and light candles at the altar. Because I respect the traditions they love, I'm loved and respected in return."

I was thinking, This is priceless. You re the asshole who's hooting and towing their cars, ticketing and closing their businesses. But I didn't say anything. I waited for him to get to his point.

"But despite all this, these two towns are not easy places to govern," he continued.

I threw some bread on the water. "Anything I can do to help?"

"It's why we're riding together," he said, his smile again widening. Then he reached over and patted my hand. It was a strangely paternal gesture.

"Some interesting facts, which might help you help me. New immigrants pour across the borders and settle here every day. Because there are so many, they stick to themselves and have shown a surprising resistance to assimilation. They don't learn English, they don't intermarry with Anglos, and as a result their ties to Mexico remain very strong.

He was in the zone, spinning his tale. But it felt like he had said this too many times before and was doing it mostly by rote.

We were now entering Fleetwood and the mayor pointed at the little Spanish-style duplexes that were sliding by on his left. "Did you know that Fleetwood was founded by the meatpacking baron Michael Fleetwood way back in 1908?" Completely switching tacks on me. I was suddenly in for a history lesson.

"These properties on my left were originally called Fleetwood lots because they're a hundred feet wide and an amazing eight hundred feet deep. Mr. Fleetwoods idea was that the residents here would be able to have gardens and keep horses like in the old agrarian societies of Mexico. He designed this place to Old World standards. Now, a hundred years later, its been left for me to look over his dream."

The song ended and "The House I Live In" began to play.

"Our politicians at the state and federal levels don't understand that the millions of Hispanics who are living here and not assimilating will inevitably want to revert to a political system closer to the one they had in Mexico. Even though I know that system is often uneven, it's also, in its own way, very fair, because once you understand the rules, everyone can pla
y.
"

It was tortured logic to forgive the massive theft and political corruption south of the border, but I hung in there, nodded and tried to look enthralled.

"What we currently have in California is a concerted, if unintentional, effort by our federal and state governments for Third World communities like Haven Park and Fleetwood to flourish with no loyalty to the United States. In order to continue to govern, I must provide a system that resembles the one these people are accustomed to."

He glanced over at me to see if I was buying any of it. I tried to look like he was parting the Red Sea, driving his turquoise Cadillac through the divide, leading his flock out of a desert of racial misunderstanding.

"But there are those who see this as corruption" lie went on. "People like Rocky Chacon who want a system that can't possibly hold up under the pressures created by this huge tide of unchecked immigration."

With the mention of Rockys name, I knew we were finally getting to the point of my ride-along.

"I don't think it's likely that Rocky Chacon is going to win the election," I said.

"You're wrong," Cecil replied. "Unless something important happens, he's bound to win. Perhaps even in a landslide. Not because he's right, but because he's popular. These last months, Rocky Chacon has become a very big problem for me. I can't let him win. It will destroy everything I've been building here." Then he turned his head and glanced at me. "Any suggestions?"

"Eliminate the problem."

"But as I've just explained, the problem is complex and deals with many diverse social and economic factors."

"You're wrong," I said. "The problem is just one guy. One dirt
-
town Mexican with limited resources. I'm sure somebody could jack him up and talk some sense to him, or, if that fails, employ a more direct solution. Either way, once he's no longer in the political picture, your problem disappears."

"Interesting theory," he said solemnly, as if he were pondering this for the first time.

"Nothing theoretical about it," I replied. "It's your call, but somehow I think you already know what you want to do."

His face was now a mask that
I
couldn't read.

We finally arrived back at the police department lot, where my rusting squad car was parked alone in the back row. As Cecil Bratano turned in his seat to face me, Sinatra began to sing "My Way."

"If I had something for you to do, something important that would preserve what we have ereated here but needs to be done in the next several days, would you be willing to take on such a project?"

"I would very much like to help you preserve what you've built here, sir. I've already told you that." I held his solemn gaze.

"In that case, how would you feel about taking care of this problem for me?" he asked.

"Are you asking what I think you are?" I replied.

"I would rather leave this solution in your hands. You are a man of considerable talents."

Then Bratano reached across me and opened the passenger door. "Vaya con Dios, companero," he said.

I got out of the car realizing I had just been given the contract on Rocky Chacon's life.

He waved and smiled before turning up the volume on the eight-track. The lyrics hung in the air as the turquoise Cad disappeared around the corner. Frank Sinatra sang:

I did it my way.

Chapter
35

I was released from duty an hour early to go down to Wilshire Boulevard and give a statement to Homeland, but I decided to blow that off and get Ophelia to cover for me.

I dragged m
y
ass back to the hotel, went up to my room, and checked inside the top dresser drawer. One of Ophelias case agents must have visited my room, because hidden underneath my socks there was a small, innocent-looking ballpoint pen with a mike hole in the top.

I put the ballpoint in my pocket and checked my messages. There was a package for me at the desk. Nobody at the LAPD or the FBI would contact me here, so I was naturally curious who might be leaving me packages.

I went downstairs to the front desk. The clerk reached into a file and handed me a thin #10 envelope --no identifying marks, but my name was printed on the front in block letters. I found a secluded place in the back of the casino bar and opened it.

One sheet. Two lines.

Come alone. Five PM

Under the Pacific Blvd. bridge.

I was already pissed at Rick Ross for what I'd seen him doing at the party. Now I was even more pissed at him for leaving me a message that anyone could open at the concierge desk and read. But I knew Ross's police history and he'd never been on an undercover assignment, so I tried to cut him some slack because, quite obviously, he didn't know what the hell he was doing. Either that or he was actively trying to get me killed.

I didn't want to have a clandestine meeting with this asshole. But there was one overriding factor influencing my decision to go. He might know something that I needed to hear in order to stay
-
alive.

I
went back to my room, stripped off the belt with the tracking device, activated Ophelia's pen satellite transmitter, and headed back downstairs. If Ross was luring me out there to ambush me, at least the LAPD and the feds would have a good recording of my murder.

I took the scenic route through Vista, into the City of Commerce. It was 4:20 and I had forty minutes before my meeting. I felt the reassuring weight of my backup AirLight .38 riding comfortably on my hip.

As I drove, I looked across the river and saw the city of Haven Park just beginning to darken in L
. A
.'s smog-filled late afternoon sunlight. I made a right and took the bridge back to the Haven Park side of the river, then parked on a residential street two blocks from the meeting spot and locked the Acura.

There was a strip of dead grass about ten yards wide that ran along the riverbank. The rusting chain-link fence that protected the wash had been cut long ago by 18th Street tagger crews. I slipped through the rusted edge of the clipped opening and slid on my heels clown the forty-five-degree poured concrete bank to the river floor. When I reached the bottom I found myself standing in mud, looking at old juice cartons, moss and waterlogged garbage, thinking, some picturesque river we have here in L
. A
.

I picked my way through old tires and soggy junk, reading 18th Street Loco graffiti as I walked. It had been sprayed on every flat surface and concrete piling. I was heading back toward Pacific Boulevard, trying to keep the muck out of my shoes. The idea here was if I approached the meeting spot from the river, anybody waiting to ambush me would be looking the wrong way, with their back to my approach. At least that was the theory.

Finally I saw the Pacific Street bridge span up ahead and when I was near, I scrambled up out of the wash, climbing the steep concrete bank quietly on rubber-soled shoes until I reached the lip above. Then I started moving slowly along, staying close to a line of trees, trying not to make any noise as I approached. When I was less than fifty yards away from the bridge, I knelt in the shadows to check out the meeting site.

There was enough light for me to see up under the abutment. No one appeared to be there, but that was the reason I'd arrived thirty minutes early.

I crept closer and found a good hiding place in some browned
-
out shrubbery that was clinging in death to the concrete base of the bridge. I cleared a space behind the dead brush, then squatted down, concealing myself. I wasn't sure what was coming, so I pulled my gun and waited.

At seventeen minutes after five I heard a single set of footsteps crunching through dead leaves, carelessly kicking stones and gravel, making more noise than a stumbling drunk.

Finally Rick Ross came into view. He was alone and wearing his same stupid disguise -- windbreaker, tennies and a baseball cap pulled low. I watched as he worked his way down under the bridge and stood with his hands on his hips, looking around. Then he glanced at his watch.

"Hey, Scully," he whispered. "You down here yet?"

I didn't answer. I wanted to see what lie would do.

After a minute he pulled an abandoned shipping crate over, brushed it off with his hand and sat. He looked at his watch again and scuffed his feet. He let a few minutes pass, then he took out his phone and speed-dialed a number. I leaned forward.

"He's not here. He's late," I heard him say. "Look . . . I'll get there as soon as I can. Stop bitching at me about it."

He rang off, then got to his feet and started looking around again. "Hey, Scully. You down here? Shit."

It didn't look like an ambush, so I palmed the AirLight in my right hand, held it clown by my leg, parted the dry brush, and stood. Ricky spun around, a panicked look on his face.

Chapter
36

"What arc you doing back there?" he challenged angrily.

"I'm careful. Before we talk, you need to answer three questions."

"Look . . . You . . ."

"First question. Who did you just call?"

"MY new girlfriend."

"What's her name?"

"Chrissi
e
."

I
bolstered NIY AirLight, then reached over, took the cell phone from him, and hit redial. After two rings it was answered.

"That was quick," a woman's voice purred.

"Who's this?" I demanded.