On The Grind

Chapter 33

The next morning, I showered in the small hotel bathroom, then examined my swollen nose and black eves in the mirror. The shiners were turning saffron, making me look like a street troll overdosing on the eve shadow. I put on my civvies and wore my belt with the tracking device. Then I drove my bugged MDX to the elementary school parking lot, putting out more microwaves than General Klectric.

I felt a little better this morning despite the fitful sleep. Maybe it was extra adrenaline that came with this forty-eight-hour timeline and my new lock-and-load mentality.

As soon as I entered the locker room, it was obvious that my performance in the orange grove had elevated my status. Several of my new "friends" who had been standing in that field last night willing to watch me eat a bullet were now grinning, slapping me on the back and telling me what a stud I was.

Alonzo wasn't around. I was afraid with him out I'd be doing another eight-hour tour in the file room.

I trudged to roll call, carrying my war bag, and sat with the rest of the day watch on the basketball court's bleachers while Dirty Harry Eastwood stood splay-footed and swaybacked before us, going through his listless prewatch briefing.

"Green. You're way behind on your towing tickets," he began, looking over at Roulon. "Only ten so far this month. You all of a sudden independently wealthy or something?"

"Alonzo's had me on rollin' stolens," the black cop defended. "I been trolling for hot car tags in parking lots all up and down Pacific."

"Okay, but you're not on that now, so it's time to kick this towing thing into gear."

Then Eastwood pointed at linebacker-sized Horace Velario, the huge shaved head who, I'd been alarmed to learn, had failed the LAPD psych exam and had then gone down the street and joined Glendale PD. The story I got on that was after two months on the job in Glendale, he'd shot two unarmed liquor store bandits while on patrol. Both guys died and IA had deemed the shootings out of policy. With that ruling, Horace had barely escaped a felony prosecution by the Glendale city attorney. They threw him out, but like everyone else down here, he'd found a soft landing in Haven Park.

Eastwood said, "Congratulations to Horace on bagging our Riverbank Arsonist, who had the bad sense to pull a knife and left the scene in an oxygen tent." The cops on the bleachers gave him two Marine Corps-style hoorahs.

"Congratulations to Patrolman Scully for passing his probationer's final exam," Eastwood continued. "You're off the turkey list and assigned to an L-unit. You'll be Car Thirteen. Way to go."

The room applauded while I nodded and pumped a fist.

Finally Lieutenant Eastwood looked down and checked his cheat sheet. "Okay, the feds want you all to make sworn statements on the gang fight at the high school. I know its bullshit, but we gotta humor these clinks so I'm gonna cut one guy loose an hour early every night to go talk to the federal attorney in the Homeland building on Wilshire Boulevard. Well just rotate through the roster till everybody's been over there. We'll start with the FNG." The fucking new guy was me. "Scully, you're off at four to go do that." I nodded. "That's it. Anybody got anything else?"

Nothing.

"Okay. Get out there and cook the fish."

We saddled up and lugged our gear single-file through two residential blocks to the police station and our squad cars. I'd been assigned to Unit Thirteen, one of the old units that was parked in the back on reserve. It was a '96 Chrysler that had rust spots on the trunk, a hanging muffler and needed a wash. The car smelled like most old squad cars. Vomit and Lvsol.

I was getting it set up when Alonzo drove into the lot, parked his shop and walked over. "Gave you Thirteen?" He grinned. "Hope you don't have to push it."

"Thirteen's my lucky number."

"Listen, Shane. I need you for an hour or so this morning. It's already been squared away with Lieutenant Eastwood. Leave your shit locked in the trunk and come with me."

"Where we going?"

"You'll see. It's all good."

I nodded and slammed the trunk. I didn't have my covert device yet, so whatever was about to happen this morning wasn't going to be recorded. With undercover stings, you needed either a tape of the conspiracy or a corroborating witness. Most DAs wouldn't file on just a cop's word because defense lawyers could easily turn it into a he-said-he-said in court.

I got into Alonzo's shop and we went code seven as we cleared the station.

Two blocks farther on, we pulled into the parking lot at A Fuego. It was a little past eight A. M. SO the lot was completely empty.

"Whatta we doing here?"

Alonzo smiled. "You're about to get kissed into something big. Just stay cool."

The door was unlocked. As soon as we entered, I saw a cop in uniform standing just inside the entry. It was Alonzo's pal Horace Velario. The guy was huge. The size of a jukebox. Making it worse, I had started picking up a nasty vibe off him.

The work lights were on inside the club and in their bright glare I could now see how tacky and threadbare A Fuego really was. The dim atmosphere lighting hid a multitude of sins. Harsh ceiling lights exposed chipped paint and hundreds of scratches on the dance floor.

"Come on," Alonzo said.

I followed him into the bar area while Horace Velario lumbered along in my wake.

We went through a door marked OFFICE located behind the bar. Then we single-filed down a long white fuorescent-lit corridor. I spotted Manny Avila on the phone in his office, up early, getting a jump-start on his long list of profitable extortions.

We continued down the corridor into a small but well-equipped kitchen. Alonzo suddenly reached out and stopped me, then turned me gently around.

"Don't tell me I'm gonna get another cheap feel," I said.

"If I was going for this ride Horace over there would be going through me. It's the way its gotta be."

He ran a hand over my chest, under my armpits and down to my crotch. Then he went to my back, searching my shoulders down to the waist and clown each leg to my shoes. Very professional and thorough.

"Was it as good for you as it was for me?" I said as soon as he finished.

We walked clown the corridor and a few seconds later we were standing on the back clock.

Alonzo triggered his shoulder rover. "We're ten-twenty-three on the loading platform," he said.

"He's on his way," a voice crackled back.

Five minutes later the restored turquoise and white El Dorado convertible rounded the corner with its top up and all four windows down. As it approached I could hear Sinatra singing "I Believe I'm Gonna Love You."

Alonzo led nie down the loading clock steps and we waited as the car pulled up.

"Buenos diasy amigos," the mayor of Haven Park caroled over the music coming from his retro eight-track. He was wearing a turquoise guayabera shirt to match the Fldo's paint job and a large snap-brim Panama hat. It would have been very sport)' if we had been in Argentina or Cuba.

"Shane, let's you and me go for a ride," Hizzoner suggested.

I slid onto the matching leather seats and Alonzo slammed the door. A black-and-white squad ear with Horace at the wheel pulled up behind us. Alonzo got in the patrol car beside his best friend and for the next several seconds both cars sat parked behind A Fuego with their engines idling.

"I wanted to have a little talk and show you my city,"' Cecil said. "Sound like a plan?"

"Sounds good."

He smiled and put the column stick shift into drive. The straight pipes rumbled as we rolled out of the nightclub parking lot with a Haven Park patrol car right behind us, riding the El Dorado's bumper, staying up close in a chase position.