Private: #1 Suspect

CHAPTER 84

At one-fifteen in the afternoon, Del Rio and Cruz were parked inside the big lot under the shadow of the 96th Street bridge. The lot was a mile and a half from LAX, bounded by the eight-lane Sepulveda Boulevard and a loop of the Sky Way. Limos, taxis, and other commercial transport continually streamed in and queued up under alphabetical signs, waiting to enter the airport.

They were watching one guy in particular, Paul Ricci, a bouncer from Havana, married to the tipster in the wheelchair. Ricci was shooting the bull with three other drivers.

Ricci glanced at the Private fleet car, then opened the door to his own car and got a sandwich out of a cooler. He called out to one of the other drivers, “Baxter. You got any Grey Poupon?”

Baxter laughed, said, “I’ll give you a little brown poop-on. How’s that?”

Watching this from inside the Mercedes, Cruz said to Del Rio, “That’s him. Ricci is the one in the cheap suit and the chauffeur’s hat.”

Del Rio put on his jacket, said to Cruz, “Can you see my gun under this?”

Cruz said, “You look like you’re packing even when you’re sleeping.”

Del Rio said, “That’s good, because I want Ricci to freeze in place. I don’t want to chase the guy. I kinda twisted my foot when I was rock climbing.”

Cruz said, “Aww. Face it, Rick, you’re getting old.”

Del Rio told Cruz that he wasn’t old and that he could still beat the crap outta anyone his size.

“You don’t have to do that, Rick. I’ll protect you,” said Cruz.

Del Rio gave Cruz an evil look.

Cruz laughed, tightened the band on his ponytail. When it was the way he liked it, he said, “Ready, pardner?”

Together, Cruz and Del Rio walked over to where the four men were standing under the D sign.

Two of them, including Paul Ricci, were limo drivers. The other two wore uniforms of “The Air Shuttle Guys.” The shuttle guys were fat, no problem. But the limo driver standing next to Ricci was ripped and young. Looked like he’d done some time.

Cruz said, “Paul Ricci?”

All conversation stopped.

Ricci puffed himself up. “I’m Ricci. Wha’chu want?”

Cruz said, “Don’t you remember me?”

He opened his jacket and showed the guy his gun, the one he’d had to give up outside the club.

Ricci looked at the gun, pivoted, and, his hat flying off his shaven head, took off toward the exit at a fast run.

Cruz shouted, “We just want to talk to you.”

The guy ran pretty fast.

“Shit,” said Del Rio.