Stephen Cannell - On The Grind

"Nothing is closed when you know the right people," he said. "If you want, I can boot that up for you right now, no sweat."

I nodded, so he held up his hand for me to wait right where I was and headed across the nightclub, where he found Manny Avila in a booth by the kitchen. He shouted something into his ear and pointed at me. Manny smiled in my direction and waved. They exchanged a few more words, then both got up from the table and walked into the club's office through a door behind the bar.

Five minutes later Alonzo returned and handed me an envelope. "All set up. He's calling a guy right now to open the impound lot."

"What's this?" I asked, holding up the envelope.

"Your half of the eight tows we wrote today. Eighty bucks. Keep this up and in six months you'll be driving your own new Escalade."

I grinned and put the cash into my pocket without opening the envelope.

"We can go get your car back right now. Come on, I'll drive you over there. It's only a few blocks."

We headed out of the club and got back into Alonzo's SUV. He pulled out onto the street, and as he made the turn I again saw the tan Chevy following us.

"See that Chevy with the blackwalls?" I said.

"Yep."

"Third time I've spotted that thing. I know this is a small town, but it ain't quite that small."

"Let's see what they want. Better unstrap," Bell said. He pulled out his off-duty backup piece and wedged it under his thigh. I did the same. Then he floored the Escalade and swung a right, squealing rubber as he skidded into a side street. I turned in the seat and saw the tan Chevy fly past. Alonzo spun a smoking gunrunner s one-eighty and roared out again. We were now right behind the car, which was accelerating, trying to get away from us up the street.

"Oh, no, you don't. You're mine now," Alonzo said as he reached under the dash and hit a toggle switch. Red and blue police lights mounted in his grille flashed on the trunk of the Chevy. After half a block of chasing the car, Alonzo leaned on the horn, blasting it relentlessly until the Chevy finally pulled over.

Alonzo and I clutched our backup pieces and jumped out. As soon as our feet hit the pavement, a man and a woman were coming out of the Chevy, and both had guns in their hands.

"Police!" Alonzo shouted.

"FBI," Ophelia Love shouted back, holding up her FBI badge. "Holster those weapons!"

"I know this bitch," I said. "Federal heat."

"Yeah. Cunt is always up in our business down here."

There was no way any of us were about to initiate an interagency shoot-out, so we all put our guns away. An awkward moment followed. Then Alonzo pasted a big, insincere grin on his face.

The fed with Agent Love had a crew cut and an unsettled expression on his face. He looked implausibly young, just out of Quantico. Agent Love turned and glared at me.

"Is this dickhead on the job down here already?" She sounded amazed. Her voice was full of contempt and she never took those ice-blue eyes off me.

"You're talking about one of Haven Park's finest," Alonzo said. "And I should caution you against calling my probationer a dickhead, because it pisses me off."

"Didn't take him long, did it? But then, you flush a toilet anywhere in L. A. and the shit always comes out here in Haven Park."

"Why are you still following me around?" I growled. "My case in L. A. is closed. No charges filed. This constitutes harassment."

"I work down here," she shot back. "This is my beat. I'm on the federal gun squad, remember? All the illegal firearms in So Cal are coming into L. A. through this town. I'm here to shut that down."

"You need to go get straightened out with Mayor Bratano on that," Alonzo said. "We got a big jurisdictional overlap here. Our department is all over the Eighteenth Street gun-smuggling problem. We don't want federal help."

"You aren't doing anything, except cashing envelopes full of payoff money."

"You got some evidence to go with that, or are you just showing off for your crew cut over there?"

Love's lanky build was tense. She stood with her feet spread defiantly, facing us down under dull streetlamps.

"I'm now a duly sworn member of the Haven Park Police Department," I said hotly. "If I see you behind me again, I'm going to take appropriate action."

"Do whatever pleases you," she snapped back.

"Ophelia, let's go," her young partner said, shifting his weight uneasily.

She took her time as she turned and they both got back in the Chevy and pulled out.

"Little history between you two?" Alonzo asked.

"That bitch is the reason I got thrown out of L. A."

Alonzo Bell dropped me in front of the impound yard and waited as I got my car. There was a Hispanic man waiting just behind the fence. He opened the gate, handed me the key to the MDX and watched as I started it. I noticed one or two of the cars we'd towed this afternoon sitting under the halogen lights in the lot, all of them sporting CHACON FOR MAYOR stickers.

As I pulled out, Alonzo stepped over and leaned into my passenger window. "Coming back to A Fuego?"

"Think I'm gonna look for a new hotel and hit the sack," I replied. "See you in the morning."

"Good first day, partner," Alonzo said, holding up his envelope.

"Good first day," I agreed, holding up mine. Then I put the MDX in gear and pulled out, leaving him standing there.

It took me all of five minutes to get out of Haven Park. My head throbbed and my shoulders were tight with tension. I drove toward downtown L. A. and finally pulled into a garage on Sixth Street that housed a high-tech custom car stereo shop.

I'd called ahead and a guy I'd known since I busted him for illegal wiretaps ten years ago was waiting for me. He'd done six months in county, but he was an electronics genius, so after he got out I helped him get a job here. His name was Calvin Epps, but everybody called him Harpo because, except for his ebony skin color, he was a dead ringer for the late Harpo Marx. He was still the best wiretap guy I knew.

"How you been, Shane?" Harpo said as I pulled in and shut off my headlights.

"Okay, I guess."

"I heard what happened at Parker Center," he said. "Couple a blues walking a beat down here told me about it. You'll make it, man. Same as me. Everything looks better after some time passes."

"Thanks, Harpo." I'd already told him what I needed on the phone. "You straight on all this?" I asked, as I got out of the MDX.

He nodded. "Leave your car here. I'll loan you my extra van. I'll be done by eight tomorrow morning just like you wanted."

We swapped keys and after saying goodnight I got into his old, primer-painted '86 Chevy van and drove out.

It took me almost thirty minutes with the Dodgers baseball traffic to get on the 110 Freeway. I kept a wary eye on my rearview mirror to make sure I wasn't followed as I finally transitioned to the 105 and settled in for the long drive past LAX before exiting onto Sepulveda.

I drove past the endless stretches of oil fields, where huge pumps seesawed up and clown like giant metal insects drinking from an underground pond. Then I turned west toward the little city of Manhattan Beach. I finally found Ocean Way and looked for an address I'd already memorized. It was halfway down the Strand. I turned into the driveway of an expensive new three-story complex with a Century 21 real estate sign announcing new beachfront condos for sale and pulled up to the security gate. Then I punched in the access code I'd been given. The garage door opened and I drove Harpo's rusting, primered van down into the sterile, freshly painted parking structure, where I left it and took the elevator up to Penthouse 2.

The Otis box was mirrored and carpeted and, like everything else in this overpriced mecca, smelled brand new. The doors opened onto an attractive foyer. There were two penthouse condos on this floor that, from what I knew about Manhattan Beach real estate, I estimated had to be worth at least three million dollars apiece. I'd been told the key for number 2 would be hidden inside a carved figurine opposite the mirrored wall. I felt inside the figures open back until I found it, then unlatched the mahogany-paneled front door.