Stephen Cannell - Hollywood Tough

"Okay, Nicky, I've got most of it. I figure it was you who introduced Valentine to Champion. That's the only way it makes sense. But this thing keeps growing and I'm not sure I can see the edges anymore. So here's your choice. Start talking or start bleeding."

"Shane, I think I broke something here…"

"I'm gonna break everything 'less you open up." "I don't know what you're talking about."

Shane slapped him.

Actually, he didn't mean to hit him as hard as he did, but just as he swung, Nicky exploded upward, attempting a second escape, and he walked right into it. The sound was like a rifle crack. Nicky flew backwards into the faded upholstery, whining again.

"Nicky, I want to know exactly where this drug deal is going down. Arizona is a big state."

"I don't know, Shane. You think those two arrogant pricks would tell me anything?"

"How are you gonna dime 'em out if you don't know where they are?"

"Who said I'm gonna-"

"I did. You hate these two guys. You're setting them both up."

"Oh, that… Yeah," Nicky answered, rubbing the side of his face, which was red where Shane had smacked him. "Let's go. I'm out of patience here."

"I know a huge Mexican from the one short bit I did in County. Guy was an Eme named Julian Hernandez-Tortilla Fats-weighed over four hundred pounds. He's a veterano in the Eighteenth Street Surenos. I called him, told him what Farrell and Valentine were doing, how they were working with the black gangs to take over the drug trade in L. A."

"So that's why Amac tried to hit Dennis Valentine in front of Ciro's Pompadoro. Without Valentine, there'd be no White Dragon the Emes wouldn't have to compete on that new line of drugs."

Nicky slowly nodded.

"It was probably Amac who scooped Farrell out of the water in front of his Malibu house," Shane said, thinking aloud. "Amac will get Farrell to talk, then he'll be in Arizona when the black gangs and Valentine meet to close the deal. I need to know where that meeting is, Nicky."

"I told you: I don't have a clue. But believe me, Shane, everything those two pricks got coming, it ain't enough."

"Nicky, I'm caught up in this. My son got caught up in it. His girlfriend is in the hospital because of it."

"Much as I hate to say it, bunky, that's kinda your problem, not mine."

"Only I'm making it yours."

"I swear, Shane. You can beat me till my ears bleed. I got no more info. I told Tortilla Fats. He told his Eme brothers, end of story. I'm out of it."

"And you're just gonna hide out here till the shooting stops?"

"Yep. My sister went on a camping trip with Butch, so I'm just watching TV, waiting to hear those two gonifs are dead."

Shane pulled Nicky off the sofa, but the little grifter dug his heels in. "I ain't goin' nowhere, Shane, so don't try and make me."

Shane pushed him hard, driving him toward the door. "Okay, I'm goin' then. But I'm not very good at this. In fact, I'm a-"

"Coward… I know. I'll show ya how to get over that."

Shane dragged Nicky the Pooh out of his sister's house and took him for a long-overdue meeting with Chief Filosiani.

The Day-Glo Dago's office was full of men in suits wearing cheap cologne. The room was starting to smell like a flower shop. There were two suits from the DEA, narrow-faced, sallow-complected attitude cases dressed in identical offthe-rack black numbers. They said they had picked up on this White Dragon smuggle from a street source, and were claiming jurisdiction. Shane had their business cards in his pocket but had already forgotten their names. The only way he could tell them apart was that one of them was chewing on a toothpick. There was another suit from the local FBI field office, Burt Semus, the special agent in charge for L. A. For some unknown reason everyone called him Shavo. He didn't look like a Shavo. He looked like an underachieving Burt.

Although Shavo was round-faced and ruddy-cheeked, he had expressionless eyes that belonged in a taxidermy shop, dark and hard as marbles. Of course, he was claiming jurisdiction for the FBI. He had no legitimate criminal standing in the case, but that didn't seem to bother him. The Frisbees were notorious claim-jumpers.

Also present were a few Brooks Brothers jobs from WITSEC, most likely the entire L. A. office. Carl was the one in charge, but he looked like a sales rep from Gold's Gym, with wall-busting shoulders and the pissed-off expression of a steroid jockey. He couldn't admit Farrell was in the program, but WITSEC wanted to manage this case anyway.

The roomful of hungry feds kept circulating around the office, hunting for a place they liked, but since Filosiani had no chairs, they simply looked unsettled and frustrated.

Shane, Alexa, and the chief represented the LAPD.

After Nicky the Pooh reported what he knew, he backed up and stood off to the side, trying to blend into the wall-a difficult task while wearing a flowered Hawaiian shirt and tennis shoes. Shane brought them all up to date on what he suspected. Then Filosiani took control of the meeting-or at least tried to. Problem was, nobody had much use for anyone else in the room. The DEA hated the FBI, and vice versa. They all hated the Marshals, who hated them back. Information was proving to be a scarce commodity. Adding to the confusion, everybody's beeper kept going off. They would glance at their little screens, then step out into the hall to return their calls in private. With all the paging going on, it was no secret that everyone's office was on Red Alert.

"You guys over at WITSEC must have some kinda ongoing management of your assets," Filosiani said.

"What assets?" Carl, the wide-bodied head marshal, deadpanned. "We don't control anybody named Zelso or Champion. Furthermore, even if he was on our list, which he isn't, WITSEC is constitutionally exempt from cooperating with other investigations in regard to our clients."

"Then why is the guy in your fucking computer?" Shane asked hotly.

"That's enough a that, Sergeant," Filosiani reprimanded, then turned back to Carl. "Then why's the guy in your fucking computer?"

"You telling me the LAPD has been hacking into a secure WITSEC computer and lifting confidential information?" Carl was glaring at Tony; then his beeper went off. He glanced at it, then handed it to another marshal, who left the office to return the call.

"Why can't we share what we have?" Alexa said, somewhat naively. But she had lost control of her gang war and was getting desperate. "This is red-ball. If American Macado abducted Farrell Champion, and the dope coming into Arizona is being supplied by Valentine, we could be headed for a bloodbath. So let's cut all this interoffice bullshit and try to work together."

"Are you somebody's secretary or something?" Shavo asked, looking appalled at her suggestion.

"This is Lieutenant Scully, the head of my Detective Services Group," Filosiani said angrily.

"Obviously, Lieutenant Scully has not worked on many cross-jurisdictional cases," the DEA suit said around his toothpick. "We're tasked out of Treasury, the FBI is outta Justice, and the Marshals here report to some intergalactic war council in outer space. I have serious jurisdictional issues. I have people above me who ask hard questions when I give up jurisdiction." His beeper went off. "Excuse me." He stepped out, passing the deputy marshal, who was just coming back.

"Listen," Filosiani said, spreading his hands in supplication, still addressing Carl from the Marshal's office. "I know you guys watch your assets. You've got video surveillance or bugs-something. You can't tell me you don't have a clue what happened to Farrell, that you weren't watching him when he was put in that boat in front a his house, that you haven't got a tail working."