The Devil's Necktie (25 page)

44

Mando rocked intently on an office chair in the beige double-wide trailer on the back lot of Royce Motors. He was talking on the phone with his feet up on the utilitarian desk where twelve hundred kilos of pure Colombian cocaine would be sitting in less than thirty-six hours.

Hector stood at the window, looking out through the dusty miniblinds.

A few of his gang members were working on their rides, but none had the class of his Impala. He had watched the late-night news, and he felt little to nothing when he saw what was left of his garage from moving pictures taken from the news choppers. Again on the morning news, no big story, just a fire, no mention of a body discovered in the debris. Maybe there was nothing left of Bertolino. Maybe he got cremated and blew away like dust in the dry San Bernardino wind.

Hector turned when Mando jumped up from the desk, voice raised. “He's dead,
ese
. Barbecued.”

Arturo Delgado sat in the front seat of the navy blue Bentley Continental Supersports he had parked outside Venice Exotic Rentals, holding a cell phone to his ear.

“Don't
ese
me, Mando. You're not that good,” Delgado said, enjoying the fact that he had gotten a rise out of the little man. “Bertolino is planting tomato plants on his balcony, for chrissakes. If the drugs weren't on their way, I would call off the deal entirely.”

Delgado was actually unimpressed with the Bentley's ride. It was well appointed, he thought, looking at the burled wood and hand-stitched leather, but for the $280,000 price tag, he thought it fell short.

“You don't call nothing off,
ese
. You need me as much as I need you. Show some respect,” Mando ordered.

“Your boy is turning into a weak sister,” Delgado taunted. “Can't take orders and then can't get the job done.”

“Words have power, Arturo.” Mando's voice got deathly quiet again. “Watch what you say. You're too old for regrets.”

Delgado clicked off. He didn't take threats from anyone. He had the power of the Colombian cartels behind him. It didn't matter on what side of the border you found yourself. Colombia was still king in the cocaine trade. He turned off the car's ignition, stepped out, and walked into the small showroom.

A clean-cut man with blond surfer hair and a Tommy Bahama shirt worn over khaki pants had jumped out of his black leather seat before the door had closed behind Delgado.

“How did you enjoy the ride, Mr. Franklin?”

“I'm leaning more toward the Maybach,” Delgado answered matter-of-factly. “It's more understated.”

“Well, you know I'm also a broker, Mr. Franklin. I can get you the best deal on the best cars.” He flashed a bright, big-toothed California smile.

A well-worn catchphrase, Delgado thought. “You've given me something to think about, Larry,” he said as he handed over the keys. “And I reward loyalty.”

Larry wasn't sure what that meant, but he went back to his desk and placed the contract for the rental and Delgado's fake passport on top of the leather-clad desktop. Delgado checked the numbers and paid with cash.

—

Jack washed the potting soil off his hands. He had stopped by Home Depot on his way back from the hospital. As tired as he was, he knew he couldn't sleep. He gave Nick the license plate number and description of the car provided by his “friends,” and then bought two healthy tomato plants, a second pot, and two small cages to support the plants as they grew heavy with fruit. No reason not to be optimistic.

It always amazed Jack what a brush with death could do to alter your outlook on life.

And it wasn't just working in the soil with his bare hands that brought him peace, but Leslie was going to stop by after work for an early dinner at Hal's.

The phone rang as he was drying off his hands. He finished up and grabbed the phone on the fourth ring, a second before it would have gone to voice mail.

“Bertolino here.”

“Hey, it's Gene,” McLennan said, as if the call was a regular occurrence. “How are you feeling?”

“Dead on my feet, but not dead.”

“I hear you had a hell of a time. Everyone's talking about it in the office. Talk about being hung out to dry. Sorry. That was in bad taste.”

It was, but it didn't bother Jack a bit. He did want Gene to get on with the reason for the call. “What's up, Gene?”

“Okay, it's highly irregular, but because of the extenuating circumstances, and the fact that you built the case at great personal risk, the powers that be—”

“Am I invited in?”

“Shit, yeah. But let a man have some fun with it. Christ, Bertolino, it's all business with you. But anyway, listen, don't take offense at this, but you are to be seen and not heard unless directly asked for your input. And most important, you check your weapon at the door. The federal government will not accept the liability for you getting your ass shot off.”

That would be easy, Jack thought. Hector had already obliged by taking his Glock. He wondered if Gene himself wanted his hands tied behind his back, but he was not going to rock the boat. He'd be a team player to get in.

“Did I lose you?” McLennan asked.

“No, I'm here. Good.”

“So we're on the same page?”

“We're good.”

“We meet at fourteen hundred hours downtown. Gives Ortega plenty of time to acclimate,” he said, as if Ortega was flying in from the Middle East. “If you come to my office ten minutes early, we can walk into the conference room together, and I can do the intros.”

“Thanks, Gene,” Jack said, greatly relieved that the bust wouldn't go down without him. But if he ID'd Hector Lopez, or Arturo Delgado, he thought, feeling a deep burn start at the back of his neck, all bets were off.

—

Delgado nursed a grande iced coffee in a Starbucks a block south, across Lincoln Boulevard from Venice Exotic Rentals. He watched the young, pierced, and tattooed baristas happily working, buzzed on their own product. He had always been careful never to fall into that trap. It had destroyed many strong men. He took a sip of his cold black brew, which provided as much stimulant as he required, and stood stiffly when his cab pulled up to the curb.

As he slid into the backseat, he could see a patrol car through the windshield roll up in front of Venice Exotic Rentals, lights flashing, and two uniformed officers all but run inside.

Delgado changed his destination in case the cops eventually located his driver. The Third Street Promenade to do a little shopping, he told the cabbie. It was a good spot for people watching. He could grab a late lunch and pick up another cab from there.

Arturo Delgado pulled the brim of his hat to one side as they drove past the patrol car and took a deep sip of his coffee, although he didn't need the caffeine pick-me-up anymore. He was already wired.

—

Angelina sat in her jail cell, waiting for the next round of interrogation to begin. Her court-appointed attorney had dropped by first thing in the morning to say the detectives had uncovered some new evidence and would get to her later on in the day. She had been advised to say nothing, and Angelina didn't have to be told twice. The cops would never be able to use her own words against her in a court of law. She had the support of the 18th Street Angels. She could hang tough.

She stirred restlessly. She sure could use a fat line of cocaine or some weed. This cold-turkey shit was for the birds.

A trustee delivered a sandwich and a carton of milk on a tray. At the sight of it she couldn't believe how hungry she was.

When Angelina picked up the Saran-wrapped bologna and American cheese, she discovered that a small clipped piece of newspaper had been placed under her sandwich.

It looked like random newsprint when she first picked it up, although it was cut to the exact size of her sandwich and left her a bit confused. But when Angelina turned it over, her hand started to tremble.

There was a cartoon figure of a mean rodent. The print ad was for an exterminating company located in Ontario.

The ad read:
WE KILL RATS DEAD. GUARANTEED SATISFACTION
.

Angelina's hand constricted into a fist and crumpled the warning. Stricken, she dropped her sandwich onto the tray. Lying down on the bunk, she pulled her knees up to her chest into the fetal position. She started rocking and she couldn't stop.

—

Leslie Sager walked into the loft, giving the place a brief glance, said, “Nice digs,” and stepped into Jack's arms. Their lips locked before their arms, and when she wrapped herself around him and squeezed his back, “Ugh,” Jack grunted through the kiss.

They continued, and she lowered her hands some.

“Oww,” he groaned with a little less subtlety.

She moved her hands to the safety of his lower back.

“Owww.”

Leslie disengaged. “Turn around,” she ordered.

Jack complied.

When she pulled up his T-shirt, she tried not to gasp. The bruises on his lower back were a yellow-tinged purple-black. The cuts, from the exploding glass, were dressed, but there were far too many of them, and they looked painful.

“I know you're the man, Mr. Bertolino,” she said gently, “and if you weren't so good at your job, I'd tell you that this might be the right time to start thinking about a new life choice.”

Jack smiled at the recurring theme. Turning around, he kissed her again. Leslie stood with her arms outstretched, not wanting to touch him, and finally settled for draping her arms on his shoulders and clasping her hands around the back of his head.

“Yeowww!”

Nervous laughter broke off the kiss. Breaking free, she pulled a bottle of cabernet out of her oversize bag and handed it to Jack. It was a bottle of Benziger.

“We're done,” she said and smiled. “For now.”

The choice of wine wasn't lost on Jack. He pulled two wineglasses out of the cupboard, the opener out of the drawer, and made short work of pulling the cork.

“Do you want to talk business?”

“Is Angelina talking?”

“She'll talk, all right, but she jumped up from the interrogation table, got in Gallina's face, and screamed that she wouldn't say word one until she got the same deal Bertolino promised Johnny. She had to be restrained.” Leslie added with a smile, “The good lieutenant went through the roof.”

Jack poured two glasses of wine and handed one to Leslie. He was starting to enjoy giving Gallina a heart attack.

“Who the ef is Jack Bertolino to be making deals with anyone, and what the ef did he promise?” She took a sip of the red and gave it a purr of approval. “He calmed down some when she couldn't be specific, because she didn't know.”

“I never got that far with Johnny,” Jack said. “I didn't think we'd get anything from Angelina. She looked to be made of stone.”

“We found a chip in her purse. A microSD card. I don't think she knew what it was, but it had a partial of her thumbprint on the front, and Johnny's print on the back.” She scowled and looked away. ”When we downloaded the video content, we were treated to one sick scene. I'll have nightmares for a month.”

“And?”

“It clearly showed Hector butchering Ricky Hernandez, the young gangster who was found hanging from the overpass. Johnny was in charge of documenting the brutality with a BlackBerry. The video had no sound, but a few jerky shots of the cameraman's shoes matched a pair found in his apartment. Plus, we got one very clear reflection of Johnny's face on the television screen. Ricky must have been playing a video game when he died, because when Johnny's face was reflected on the screen, I saw an RPG hit that looked like it exploded behind his head.”

“Movie magic. I wonder who the tape was made for?”

“I'll ask Angelina when she decides to talk. We put the home movie on ice. If it leaked to the public, we could have a panic until Hector's brought down. Very hard images to watch, Jack, less than human. It's the worst of us.”

Jack thought about Mia again and put down his wineglass.

“Ask her what happened to her ear. What kind of earring was she wearing?”

Leslie had a pretty good idea of where he was headed with the line of questioning.

“I'll mention it to Gallina. The broken fingernail you found in Johnny's apartment, and now the phone card, threw a wrench in Angelina's time line as far as her breakup with Johnny. It looks like she might have been complicit in her boyfriend's disappearance. Her attorney said that she'd deliver Johnny and Hector if we guaranteed her the witness protection program.”

“Sounds like it makes sense to deal. She's only good for accessory any way you cut it,” Jack pointed out.

“We don't need her for Hector at this point, but she might have answers to Johnny's whereabouts and the infrastructure of the 18th Street Angels. Speaking of which, the Angels reached out to her in county. A note threatened death if she talked.”

It was Jack's turn to frown. “Fucking perfect, pardon my French. We can lock them up, but we can't protect them. What a system.”

Leslie picked up her bag and her glass of wine, and started toward the bathroom.

“Why don't you relax for ten minutes or so while I freshen up, and we can hit the road.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

But finding the right position was easier said than done. Jack tried to lie on his back and it was a no-go. He rolled onto his stomach, but his face dive into the weeds had taken its toll. He rolled onto his side—no, that didn't hurt—and finally found some comfort.

“I'm starved. I know exactly what I'm going to order,” Leslie said from inside the bathroom. She opened the door and walked out looking fabulous.

Jack was passed out on the bed, dead to the world. Leslie smiled—lying down had been her idea—and sat in his leather chair. She swiveled it around and watched the rise and fall of his chest while she enjoyed her glass of cabernet.