The Renegades: A Charlie Hood Novel Page 5

  “Insanity.”

  Her smile was thrifty and brief. “Caseload.”

  “Okay, then.”

  She gave him another flat gaze. “Deputy Hood, what I want from you in court is two things. One is the straight story of what you saw in the Long Beach warehouse. I’ve got your reports here and they’re very clear and detailed. I’ll let you describe the stolen property. I’ll also want a little emotion to show through. Sometimes it’s hard to get a jury to care about merchandise. This L.A. sheriff’s deputy had eight hundred thousand dollars’ worth of stolen goods. I want our jury to know what that looked like. What it felt like to see it.”

  Hood remembered exactly what it felt like to see it and he described it to her. He remembered standing in the warehouse the day IA made the arrest. It was a large, high-ceilinged room full of shelves of pallets containing new electronics, computers and peripherals, building materials, liquor, soft drinks, furniture, tools, toys, clothing—just about anything Hood could imagine. It was all new stuff, most still in the shrink-wrap, and it was stacked almost to the ceiling. It was barely organized. There were rolling platforms and electric forklifts to move it all.

  “It looked like a madman’s fantasy Christmas,” Hood said. “It was impressive, the sheer volume.”

  She was nodding. “Good.”

  She looked at her monitor, then back at Hood. “Now, the defense will introduce into evidence the letter written to you by Allison Murrieta, telling you where to find the warehouse. I need to know why she wrote you that letter.”

  “We knew each other from a related case,” said Hood. “She thought she was doing me a favor by handing me a dirty cop.”

  “The defense will try to link you to her.”

  “That won’t be hard.”

  “In order to impugn your character, suggest that you were a dirty cop, too—consorting with a criminal.”

  “I’ll tell the truth.”

  Reed paused and looked at Hood. “Then you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  He could feel her gaze as he looked around her office. Her workstation was more than unusual. The walls were painted a pale gold. She had a very handsome desk of bird’s-eye maple, not county-issue. The file cabinets behind her were finished in flame red enamel. On a sidewall were three framed photographs, staggered on a diagonal from high to low. They weren’t easy to see from where Hood sat, but he could make out the general images. The top one was of a dragster doing a wheel stand off the start line. Below it was a photograph of a dragster with flames blasting from the exhaust pipes. Below that was another photograph of a red-and-gold dragster waiting at the Christmas tree. The top photo was in black-and-white. Three generations of dragsters, he thought. But he couldn’t keep his mind on dragsters.

  “I wish you could get him on murder-for-hire.”

  Reed looked at him sharply. “I can’t prove murder-for-hire. Allison is dead. The guy who was supposed to kill her is dead. It’s Shakespearean. What can I do with a cast like that, Deputy?”

  “Okay.”

  She smiled. “I’m going to throw him in the slammer for a decade. Is that good enough for you?”

  “I’ll help.”

  “Tell me about the letter from Murrieta. I need to understand why she wrote it, and why she gave it to you.”

  Hood steered through the rough seas of memory, but he told her.

  A FEW MINUTES LATER Ariel walked him outside. The day was cool and bright and the palm fronds shimmered in the sunlight. She put on dark glasses.

  At First Street they stopped and faced each other. “A Blood with a machine gun on full auto? Close range?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re a walking miracle.”

  “I’m not sure what I am.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The gun either jammed or the shooter let me live. Either option makes me kind of nervous.”

  “Do you miss the city?” she asked.

  “I still live here.”

  “Thanks for making the long drive down.”

  She offered her hand. It was smooth and cool in Hood’s own.

  “If I can ever return the favor, let me know,” she said. “I helped on Shay Eichrodt’s preliminary hearing, so I got to know Terry Laws a little. Maybe there’s something I can contribute. Anyway, I’ve got the Eichrodt file if you think it might help.”

  “It would.”

  “I know you’re working it for IA. Jim Warren is a good and trusted friend of mine. Don’t worry. He has me under an oath of secrecy.”

  She took off her sunglasses and gave Hood the same forthright hazel stare she’d given him in her office. At twenty-nine, Hood was inexpert at reading the unspoken language of women. Ariel put the shades back on and joined the flow of humanity on First Street.

  7

  “So we pull up to the U.S. Customs booth in TJ. It’s the Friday after we arrested Eichrodt. Laws and I look out the window to where U.S. soil ends and the concept of guilty until proven innocent begins. We’re making the leap. We’ve got 347 grand packed into two suitcases in the trunk and Laws is scared shitless. I tell him to relax, exhale dude, we’re going to be okay.

  “Homeland Security stops us, little black guy, looks like Sammy Davis, Jr. He looks at our LASD ID cards and our badges, wants to know why we’re going to Mexico and I tell him to fish in Baja. A two-day trip, I say. He looks at our beat-up faces, wants to know where we’re staying, and I tell them the Rosarito Beach Hotel. We’ve got three clear plastic tubs of fishing gear in the backseat, and six short, thick big-game rods in the storage space the Beemer has for golf clubs or skis. One of the tubs has some very expensive new saltwater reels. Sammy pokes at it and moves it around but he doesn’t open it. Then he wishes us good luck.

  “Next, the Mexicans ask us the same lame questions. I answer them in Spanish. There are three young Federales leaning against the booth, guys not much older than you, and they stare through us like we’re not there—”

  “Did you badge them, too?”

  “One hundred percent not, my man. Cops mean guns and nothing terrifies Mexican officials more than guns. Guns can end up in the hands of unhappy citizens, and Mexico has plenty of those. Guns are the only thing that scares Mexican officials. Illegal drugs? Hell, bring them in, move them north. Drug cash? Sure, everyone wants American dollars. But guns in Mexico are another story.

  “They wave us through. TJ’s a pit but I love that toll road and all the little cities on the coast—Rosarito, Puerto Nuevo, Cantamar, El Descanso, La Fonda, Bajamar. Burning trash and tires, smells like heaven to me. At El Sauzal we turn east on Highway 3. Three miles from the turnoff we spot the dirt road with the pipe-rail gate across it. It’s exactly where Herredia’s L.A. lieutenant told us it would be—”

  “Hector Avalos.”

  “Don’t interrupt. So we both get out of the car and stand in the hot dust and wait. A few minutes later I hear a vehicle up the road. Two men materialize from the darkness. They simply appear. They’re in camo fatigues and they’ve got machine guns. They unlock and open the gate and signal us through. Once on the other side I see an armored Humvee like the ones in Iraq, and we follow it—five miles of washboard trying to jar our fillings out of our teeth, and ruts that must lead all the way to the gates of hell. I don’t know how the M5 handled it, but it did.

  —I don’t like this, says Terry.

  —Keep your cool and a hand on your gun, I tell him.

  —This was all supposed to go smoothly.

  —For Mexico this is smoothly.

  “Two men on the road direct us, waving like an airport crew to get the M5 across a wooden bridge, down a steep sandy hill, then back up to a wide turnout where the road ends. Past the turnout is a ten-foot-high concrete-block wall. There’s rebar poking up through the top and a gun tower behind it.

  —Amazing, says Laws, the fucking criminals have protection like this.

  —I think you’ll be more impressed later, I tell him.

  �
��If they don’t kill us.

  —They won’t kill us, I say. We’re American cops. Herredia will recognize a good deal when he sees one.

  “In the dash lights I see Terry’s face, still puffy and bruised from the arrest scuffle with Shay Eichrodt. He looks deeply uneasy. Then the wall itself opens. A whole section of it swings open to let us through. Laws cranes his neck around for a look at it as we drive in.

  —It just opens, like a magic castle or something, Terry says. Like in a movie.

  “Then four more machine-gunners appear on the road, one with his hand up, and suddenly this blinding beam of white light scorches into my car. I hear rapping on my window and get out. I tell Terry to get out. I’m half-blinded by the tower light and I feel hands on me, down and up, front and back, son of a bitch is muttering in Spanish to his friends but I can’t quite hear him. My ribs are killing me from Eichrodt but I won’t flinch, it’s a matter of honor. The guy takes the nine from my hip holster and the thirty-eight derringer from my boot. He takes the twenty-two-caliber eight-shot Smith from the pocket of my Abboud blazer, and the thumb-action folding knife from the pocket of my jeans. He takes my goddamned car keys.

  “They pop the trunk and scuttle up to it with their weapons aimed into it, like they expect something to escape. Terry’s standing staunch against the pat-down while they strip his weapons away. I start whistling because it helps me think. I understand one thing at this point: we are absolutely at the mercy of Herredia now. There is no accountability here; all it will take is a mere nod and Terry and I will be tortured and executed and never found. Ever. But I’ve seen these kind of people and this kind of lawless power before in Jacumba, when I was a boy, and I find it comforting. I can’t say why. I understand it. It’s simple, physical, predictable. I remind myself that there’s life and there’s death and you must choose life at all cost.

  “Then we’re back in the Beemer, following the Humvee down a much better dirt road; it’s graded and graveled, with the lights of what must be Herredia’s compound way back in the hills. I see an irrigated pasture with cattle, what looks like a driving range, and an airstrip. How’s your beer, son?”

  “I’m ready for another.”

  I get the woman’s attention and she comes over and we order two more drinks. I call an excellent sushi bar down the boulevard and order a large plate of sashimi delivered. The traffic down on Sunset is getting heavier now, more of the republic cruising for sex, drugs and rock and roll. I light my cigar again, roll it in the heavy butane flame and draw the smoke into my mouth, send some down into my lungs, then exhale a blue-gray cloud into the L.A. night.

  I see the boy studying me. I pass him the lighter and he proceeds with the same ritual. When he starts to say something I cut him off.

  “The wall around Herredia’s compound was eight feet high, stone and concrete. I drive through a varnished wooden gate, still following the Humvee. Two more machine guns wait inside. I see the words El Dorado built onto the gate in wrought iron, the letters raised and connected like the letters of a cattle brand. I remember reading the poem as a kid.

  “The home is a plaster-and-beam Spanish-style hacienda, hunkered low and flat beneath a canopy of palms. I see a bunch of smaller outbuildings up on the hillside to the west. Near the east side of the house there’s a grove of thatched palapas that glow, lit from below. Pale blue reflections of water move on the undersides of the roofs. And I think: swimming pool and hacienda and driving range and airstrip and a hundred head of cattle and a small army—Herredia is doing all right in his rustic little office here in Baja.

  “Then the Hummer driver points to a parking place outlined by jagged desert boulders. I park and we get out and face another goddamned gunman, this one an old man dressed in peasant clothes, with a head of wild white hair and a black eye patch. He’s got a combat-shortened automatic shotgun on a strap over one shoulder and it’s pointed at me. I lean into my car and pull out the plastic tub of new saltwater fishing reels. I tell him that we have brought gifts for Mister Herredia. He looks across at Laws, standing on the other side of the car, and tells him to get the luggage from the trunk. Terry does what he’s told. Then the old man jabs the gun toward the outbuildings and I lead the way up a gravel path. At each of the first two buildings the old man barks Ándale and I don’t break stride. I note the moon in the northwest now and I can smell the pasture and the cattle. The third building we come to is squat and square, with faint light coming through bright blankets hung over the windows. The door is cracked open. I look back at the old man and he motions me forward. I crunch up the path, nudge the door open with my foot and step inside. Pavers on the floor. Bare white walls. A black chandelier. The smell of cigars. A big iron desk, looks like something salvaged from a shipyard or railroad scrap, set on caissons made of tree trunks. I hear Terry and the old man come in behind me.”

  “Is it really Herr—”

  “Herredia sits behind the desk with a fifty-caliber Desert Eagle in his hands and his eyes locked on my face. I bow and set the plastic tub down on the floor beside me. Then I take each of Terry’s suitcases by their handles and roll them over next to the box. I’m winging this by now, son. Believe me. But I’ve got a beginning.

  —I have journeyed long, I say to Herredia, whistling a song, in search of El Dorado.

  —In the poem he sings the song.

  —I forget words but I never forget a tune.

  —I forget nothing. Explain this spectacle.

  —My name is Coleman Draper. This man is Terry Laws. We came to offer our respect and ask your favor. We brought gifts.

  “Herredia’s gaze goes to the plastic box. He’s a big man, thick and wide, with curly black hair and a round, clean-shaven face. His eyebrows are bushy and slant upward toward each other, which gives him a soulful, suffering look. His nickname is “El Tigre,” and there’s some truth in it—he looks like a big lazy cat but you know he can turn it on when he wants to. He’s wearing a white guayabera and a gold watch. Forty-six years old, I know. What else do I know? That he runs the North Baja Cartel to the tune of an estimated half million dollars a week profit. And murders his enemies often and theatrically. And donates millions of dollars to Mexican politicians, law enforcement and military personnel, at all levels. That he’s influenced state elections in Nayarit and Sinaloa and Baja California for more than a decade. And lost two brothers, a wife and two children to the drug wars. That he loves deep-sea fishing and American fast food. The fishing and fast food I learned from Avalos in L.A. Herredia stares at me and then, in a soft voice, asks me to show him the gifts. So I kneel and pry the plastic lid from the tub and set it aside. I pull out a box and open it.

  —I say: This is the new Accurate Platinum Twin-Drag. The ball bearings are impregnated with Teflon, it’s got anti-reverse dogs and a removable spool stud. You can’t overheat these things, no matter how fast they’re screaming out line. And they’re beautiful. This one is the ATD-130, rigged with a thousand yards of one-hundred-thirty-pound monofilament. For large tuna and marlin.

  “I look into Herredia’s deep-set black eyes. I hold the open reel box in both hands, place it on the iron desk near the patrón, then step back to the plastic tub and lift out another box.

  —We also brought you Daiwa’s new Tanacom Bull TB100 power-assist reel, I say. It’s sleek and powerful, nothing like commercial winches or those add-on contraptions. It’s powerful. It comes with a power cord and a battery clip. It will save your strength, believe me. I thought at first that these power-assist reels were for fags but I’m telling you, if you’re looking to drop a thousand feet of line and get it back up again, you might like the electric help. Let me know what you think.

  “Herredia’s eyebrows lower into a glower. His face goes from pensive to implosive. I step forward and set the Daiwa next to the Accurate, then return to my box of goodies.

  —You’ll recognize this, I tell him—the Penn International V 80VSW, rigged with fifteen hundred yards of two-hundred-pound test. It
’s considered a classic because it really is a classic. I’m partial to these reels, I say.

  “Then I set it on his desk and go back to the tub.”

  “What’s he thinking?” asks the boy. He blows a plume of smoke into the air.

  “How can I know? Where to shoot me with the Eagle? Where to fish the Penn? Reading Herredia is like trying to read an Olmec head. So I continue.

  —Mr. Herredia, I say, we also brought this Shimano Stella FA rigged up with one hundred and seventy yards of fourteen-pound test. Just a little goof-off reel, but the slow oscillation lays down line straight and fast, and the magnesium frame weighs hardly anything. Waterproof gasket, natural wool washers for low start-up inertia. Plus, I like the name, Stella. I knew a Stella once and she was tons of fun.

  “I smile and set the box on the desk beside the others. Herredia trades hands with the Desert Eagle and picks up the Accurate, and starts turning its platinum-hued solid-block aluminum frame in the light of the chandelier. There’s seven thousand dollars’ worth of stuff on the desk in front of him. Then Herredia sets down the Accurate and picks up the Daiwa. He has sportsman’s hands, dark and weathered on the tops and pale on the bottoms. I wait.

  —I own all of these things, he says. All of them, except this electric reel.

  —Then give them to your friends, I say. Or to your church. They’re tokens of respect.

  —But what else do you have for me?

  “I reach into my shirt pocket. The Desert Eagle finds my center. So I show both my hands, then very slowly deploy two fingers into my shirt pocket. I bring out the small envelope. Inside is a card. The envelope has a cartoon hamburger with a smiling face on it.

  —I know you like these restaurants, Mr. Herredia. There are plenty of them here in Mexico. You can load these cards in different currencies now—it’s a new thing. So this one is loaded with fifty thousand pesos. The new third-pound Angus Thunder is good, if you haven’t tried it yet.

  “I step forward and waggle the gift card and set it on top of one of the reel boxes.