Payback (21 page)

“Yes, that would be fine. And I'm deeply sorry for the loss of your husband.”

“Thank you. The truck will be at the bunkhouse when you're ready.”

 

The trip back to San Diego was routine. Electrical power had been fully restored to the entire Western electrical grid, and slowly life returned to near normal. Except at the airports, which had planes and passengers stacked up so far that it might take a week to get things straightened out.

Murdock checked his watch as he kicked off the bus from North Island to the Coronado strand outside the NAVSPECWARGRUP-ONE Quarter Deck. It was just after 1500. He had promised the men they would be through for the day as soon as they cleaned their weapons and took care of their gear.

“Oh, yeah, gonna see my honey tonight,” Jaybird yelped. “Got me this hot little number down in Chula Vista . . .”

“Hey, no good woman ever came out of Chula Vista,” Bradford shot back. “Creepy, crawling things all over them.”

“Hooha yourself, big buddy. You ain't never seen this little gem. She's a keeper. Well, for a couple of months at least.”

Mahanani listened to the chatter as he cleaned his weapons, stashed them, and took care of the rest of his equipment, refilling his ammo pouches with the regular supply of rounds. Then he was across the Quarter Deck, in his Buick, and heading for his apartment. He had on his civvies, and a new jet-black driving cap with a short bill like they used to wear in the twenties. He'd heard they were coming back and he liked the way it fit on his head.

His palms were itching for some action, but then he remembered he had been cut off from playing at the casino. Damn them. Sure he owed them a few bucks. Maybe he should make enough drug runs to Tijuana for them to clear his IOU. That would take a lot of trips, like fifteen. He had only made two so far. A dozen more? Sounded good, but he
had a strong feeling that before he was through, he'd get nailed by the Border Patrol guys for sure.

He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he sat outside his apartment. Hell, it was early. He could do a run to TJ and be back in time to catch a good war movie on TV. He turned, headed across the high Coronado Bay Bridge, and drove to the east to where the Casa Grande Casino flaunted itself near the highway.

He parked in the big lot and thought about it. A risk, sure, everything was a risk. But he'd have a clean car and not overloaded, so no reason the inspectors would challenge him. He'd give it one more try. Maybe this time he'd figure out how to nail these bastards and get them put away. How was he going to work a trap?

He locked the Buick and walked in the front door. This time he turned into the hallway and went directly to the Hammer's office. He pushed inside and saw Harley talking to Martillo.

“Well, the hero comes home,” Harley said. “Heard about you SEALs rescuing the President up there in the Sierras.”

“Yeah, that's the job. Can I make a run to TJ today?”

“So, Mahanani, how many of the North Koreans did you kill?” Martillo, the Hammer, asked.

“I didn't keep track. You need any goods moved today or not?”

“He doesn't want to talk about it,” Harley said. “He's the sensitive type.”

“I should have called first. Maybe I can do some good next time,” Mahanani said. He turned to leave. Harley moved quickly in front of him.

“Hold it, man. We didn't say we didn't have no goods. Just curious about the big shoot-out.” Harley frisked him expertly, found no weapons, but it seemed to Mahanani that he searched for a wire and transmitter as well.

“Clean as a baby's bottom.”

“Yeah, you can pick up a load,” the Hammer said. “Get down to San Ysidro now and pick up a car and leave it at the TJ garage. Then have a couple of drinks and shop or some fucking thing, and don't go back over the border for
at least four hours. The pricks down there are getting leery of over-and-back trips that are too quick.”

Mahanani stared at the Hammer for a few seconds, then nodded. “Yeah, I can do that. Another four hundred off my bill, right?”

“Right,” Harley said. “I'm keeping track. Remember to be relaxed when you come back across. Don't act nervous or you'll end up in Chino Prison for five to ten. Now go.”

Mahanani left the room, marched down the hall, through the lobby, and outside. The fresh air felt good. He couldn't imagine what it would be like to be stuffed into a cell for twenty years. So he had to do everything right this time. Once more. Then he'd figure out how to turn in these bastards without getting both his legs broken and a pair of .22- caliber slugs in the back of his head.

Mahanani paced outside the garage. It seemed like it was taking a lot longer this time for them to get the car ready for him to drive. He sat in his Buick and waited. His Buick and the Indian gambling Casino's Buick. How had he ever got into this goddamned fucking gambling problem? It could wash him right out of the Navy if they went to his CO. Murdock would have to write a report and that would do it.

It was another half an hour before the door rolled up and they drove the six-year-old Chevy out of the garage.

“You be good to car,” the Mexican mechanic said. “She in good shape. You drive safe.”

Jack Mahanani growled a reply and slid into the car. It had the usual camouflage. A child's booster seat in back, a box of tissue, and a box of baby wipes. Scattered soft drink cups from Jack in the Box. Even half of the Sunday newspaper. A woman's blouse lay on the passenger's side.

Mahanani drove. It was a short trip to the border, then through Mexican customs with hardly a slowdown, and into the border city of almost a million people, all scratching to survive. He turned into the right street and saw the garage with the same door open. He'd used it before. Something didn't feel right this time, but he couldn't figure out what. He drove into the garage, walked out the back door, and came around the end of the alley to the street and then to a cantina he'd noticed on the last run. The Tecate beer wasn't bad if it was cold enough. It was.

He spent the next four hours over two beers, then some burritos at a good restaurant. He hoped that they didn't make
him sick this time. Then he walked around the tourist-trap areas, turning down fantastic offers of fake Rolex watches and good-looking diamonds. When he went back to the garage through the back door, the one Mexican who could speak any English shook his head.

“Not ready,” he said.

Mahanani had not seen where they hid the drugs in the car. He didn't want to know. But now he watched as two men fastened the rear seat back in place in the Chevy. Did they hide the drugs in the seat itself, or a compartment under the floor? He had no idea, and he still didn't want to know. Just knowing it was somewhere in the car was enough.

Chino. He shivered every time he thought of that state prison up by Los Angeles. Maybe he should dump the car this side of the border and walk across? Sure, and get sliced up by the Hammer while two of the big guys were holding him down. They would think he had ripped them off for the five hundred thousand dollars worth of coke. Not a chance he would try that.

“Okay,” the Mexican lead man said, and handed Mahanani the keys. The engine started on the first try, and somebody pushed the garage door up. Mahanani drove out of the garage, turned left, and headed for the border.

There was an hour wait to get across. Not unusual. He wished he had a book to read. It would make the time go faster. He inched ahead in line and chose inspection gate ten as his lucky number for the night. It was fully dark by then. Maybe they would be tired, or sleepy, or their drug-sniffing dog might be off his feed.

At last he came up to the inspector, who asked him where he was born.

“Hilo, Hawaii,” Mahanani said.

“Yeah? Hey, I've always wanted to get over there. Maybe next year. You have anything to declare?”

“Not a thing. Just a little cantina hopping.”

The inspector nodded. His phone rang and he picked it up. He listened for a moment and said something. When he looked back at Mahanani, he frowned.

“Sorry to bother you, but your car has been selected for a random inspection at the secondary lane. Would you pull
over there, please? Shouldn't take more than five minutes.”

“Randomly selected?” Mahanani's voice was strange, his blood had thinned out to nothing, and his heart hammered in his chest. Maybe he should cut and run? Ram through the barrier and slam down the freeway at 130 miles an hour. Maybe . . .

“Shouldn't take more than five minutes, sir. Now if you would please drive over to the secondary inspection lane. We're a little stacked up tonight.”

Mahanani nodded and touched the gas. He steered into a lane where a man motioned to him, and stopped when a second inspector signaled.

“Sir, would you step out of the car?”

Mahanani got out feeling pure terror grip him. Nothing in the SEALs had ever been so frightening. He wasn't sure that his legs would hold him up. To his surprise they did. He was busted. Shit, there was not a fucking thing he could do about it. He stood beside the hood and waited. A handler came up with a dog that sniffed around the sides of the car, then stopped at the back and barked twice.

“Could I have your car keys?” the inspector asked. Mahanani reached inside and took out the ignition key. He noticed there were five keys on the ring like most key rings had. The inspector thanked him and opened the trunk. The dog jumped in and sniffed around, then jumped out and continued on around the car.

“Sorry about that, sir. Queenie thought she smelled something in your trunk. Nothing there.”

Mahanani felt like he was going to wet his pants. He took the keys and held them, not sure he could get back in the car and find the ignition. The dog made another circle of the Chevy. Then he and the handler moved to the car behind them. A second inspector had been in the backseat, crawling around, checking under the carpet flaps, and behind the seat and under the cushions. At last he slid out of the car and closed the door.

“You're all set, sir. Just a routine random stop. Sorry for your inconvenience.”

Mahanani stepped into the Chevy, fumbled to get the ignition key in the slot, and started the car. An inspector waved
him out into the traffic lane, and he accelerated gradually.

He couldn't believe it. He was out and home free. They had checked the car, the dog had done his thing, and they hadn't discovered the drugs. How had the Mexicans done it? He was going to watch them tear this car down and dig out the drugs. He had to know where it was and how they hid it. Most of all, he wanted to know how they had fooled the usually reliable nose of the drug-sniffing dog.

The trip into San Ysidro lasted ten minutes, even in the traffic, and when he pulled up to the garage there, the door was open. He drove in and saw the door drop behind him.

Harley leaned against the Coke machine working on a reefer. He was high already.

“Well, I see our man made it across. No problem?”

“Secondary inspection, the dog and everything. How did it get through?”

Harley chuckled, took a long drag on the reefer, and held the smoke in his lungs until he nearly passed out. Then he exhaled it and grinned.

“Oh, damn, what a good hit. How did you get through? Because this Chevy was clean as a bishop's daughter. There were no drugs in it. You ran a decoy. Yeah, you still get paid. Our contact at the border told us they were checking six-year-old Chevies tonight. Almost every one that comes through gets the secondary inspection. So we sent them a virgin.”

Harley laughed. “Hey, Mahanani, you still look a little green around the gills there, boy. You have a real scare down in that secondary lane, I bet. How come you didn't try to make a run for it? We had a driver try that. Turned out he had a piece with him and shot at the guards, and they blew him away before he got twenty feet down the lane.”

“Why didn't you tell me it was a dry run. I almost shit my pants down there when that damn dog came up. Then he barked and I knew I was down and out.”

“Didn't tell you because it takes all the fun out of it. Hey, it cost me four hundred bucks. I'm entitled to a little fun for that kind of money. Now take your damn Buick and get out of here. If you're still in town in three days, give me a call
at the number I gave you before. We should have another load for you, a real one. Now take off.”

“Or you're gonna have me beat up again?”

“If I think it might help, damn right. Get out of here. And no gambling. Your water has been shut off.”

Mahanani kicked the tire of the Chevy and swore under his breath as he walked out to his faithful Buick. He jumped in and spun gravel and dirt from the rear tires as he slammed out of the small lot to the street and headed for the freeway on-ramp.

“Damn them. Goddamn their fucking eyes. I've got to get them good. Now how in hell do I do that?”

He stopped talking out loud, mindful that there could be a bug in his car. They just might do that. His thoughts raced from one diabolical plan to the next as he drove carefully on his way home. He didn't need a car crash.

Could he do something that would work, that would get him out of his debt, and let him stay in SEALs? Also, he didn't want the drug ring hit men to come after him with Ingrams spitting lead. What he had figured out before still seemed the best. Tip off the DEA about the operation, and let them know both locations, and then have them be there when he brought in a load. At the same time they would have to take down Harley and Martillo out at the Casa Grande Casino east of town. It could be done. The DEA had the troops. Then they would find out if the casino knew anything about the drug mule train. He bet none of the operators or management there knew of this side game that Martillo had. Now, how to contact the DEA?

The good old telephone book. The group would be listed. He'd look up the number and make a call at night when nobody would be in the office. They would have a readout on the calling number, so he would use a public phone far from his house. Pacific Beach, say. Yeah.

At home he looked up the Drug Enforcement Administration number in San Diego in the blue-tinged government-listing pages before the business section of the phone book. It showed four numbers: main, registration information, southwest laboratory, and the San Diego County Integrated Task Force. He picked the last one and wrote it down, then
checked it twice and put the slip of paper in his billfold.

Then Mahanani sat down at the kitchen table and wrote out exactly what he would say. He put it down, then made changes and wrote it again. The fourth time through he had it the way he wanted it. It went like this: “Hello, DEA, this is a concerned citizen. I know of a drug mule operation from Tijuana to San Ysidro. I got sucked into it. I can show you the whole operation if you grant me immunity and leave my name out of any report. It involves medium-sized shipments worth about a half-million but working on a regular basis. They are extremely hard to detect by border inspectors. If you're interested, leave a message for me at your number. My handle is the Reverend. I'll call back in two days and ask for the message.”

Mahanani read it again, made one small change, and folded the paper and put it in his shirt pocket. When to make the call? He snorted. The sooner the better. He grabbed his car keys, his black cap, and headed for his Buick.

In the Pacific Beach section of San Diego, ten or twelve miles from his apartment, Mahanani found a phone booth where there wasn't a lot of traffic noise and put his coins in the machine. He dialed the number. The phone rang twice and someone picked it up.

“Good evening, this is the DEA county task force.”

Mahanani hung up the phone and drove away from the phone. Not quite 2000. He'd try again later. Was the phone manned all night? He went to a movie, then at a different phone in downtown San Diego tried the DEA number again.

“Hello, this is the San Diego County Integrated Narcotic Task Force. No one is here right now, but your call is important to us. Please leave a message as long as you need to. We'll return your call as soon as possible. Leave your name and number after the tone.”

The phone buzzed three times, and he took a deep breath and read his statement just as he had written it. Then he wiped sweat from his forehead, hung up the receiver, and hurried to his car. He got in and drove away. The seed was planted. Now he would see what happened.

When he got home, Mahanani saw the red message light blinking on his phone. He pushed the buttons and listened.

“Jack, this is your mother. You're never home. I never can get you when I call. Why don't you have a nice safe nine-to-five job like your brothers so I can call you the way I do them?

“Never mind. I want you to put on your calendar the date of the twenty-fourth. That's a Saturday afternoon three weeks away and I want you to come to our family luau. You missed last year again. Said you were in Europe or Africa or somewhere. You travel so much I can't keep up with you.

“Never mind. The whole family will be there. With your three brothers and their wives and children, we now have fifteen in our extended family. Two more are in the oven but not quite done yet. Now listen, I really want you to come. I have to show these mainlanders just what a real luau is. Yes, we'll have the buried pig this year, a fifty-pounder if I can find one that size. Your brother Mark has contacts with a farmer and he should be able to help us. So call back anytime. Call and tell your old mother that you'll be there. You come on the twenty-third and sleep over in your old room, and you can help us dig the pit. Your father isn't as well as he was last year. The arthritis is the problem.

“Oh, by the way. I'm inviting a nice girl I want you to meet. I know her from church and she's lovely, single, and sings in the choir. Beautiful alto voice and so pretty. I keep hoping that you'll find a girl and settle down and stop all this running around. I know it's dangerous and I really think you've done your share.

“Well, I hoped that you'd come home while I was talking, but I guess not. I just pray that you're not out there somewhere and getting shot at.

“You be good and take care, and be sure to come on the twenty-third to help me dig the pig pit. Good-bye. Now call me, Jack.”

Mahanani started to call, then looked at the clock. The talk with his mom would take at least an hour. It was already almost 2300. They had an 0730 call in the morning. He felt drained. That secondary inspection lane at the border had almost wiped him out. He was sure that he had been busted big-time. He could imagine being led off in handcuffs, his mother notified, and him being in jail without bail for weeks.
It would have been the end of his Navy career and he'd be looking at seven to twenty in prison. He couldn't let that happen. The next run he took would be his last. And the end of the casino mule-skinning drug runs. He hoped. If something fouled up somewhere and the DEA didn't nab the whole operation, the ones left would kill him. He knew that.