CHAPTER 125
MY OLD FAIR-WEATHER friend, chief of police Mickey Fescoe, said, “Jack. Turn on the TV. Something you’re going to want to see.”
“I’ve got it on,” I told Fescoe. “Looks like the DEA took a lot of illegally obtained drugs off the street.”
“That’s right, buddy. I didn’t say anything about your role in this. That’s what you wanted, right?”
“Right. I don’t want any credit. Don’t say anything to anyone, ever.”
“I hear you, Jack. The DEA is elated. All that van needed was a red bow on top. Didn’t even need that. Noccia family fingerprints are all over this deal. Can we get Carmine? I don’t know, but this bust isn’t going to help him any. Maybe he’ll have a heart attack. Maybe someone will whack him. We can hope.”
We exchanged a few more words about the good outcome for America, and then Mickey said, “By the way, I’m glad you’re free of the Colleen Molloy murder rap. I kept my eye on Tandy and Ziegler throughout. I don’t want any credit either,” Fescoe said, “but I hope you feel that the LAPD treated you fairly.”
I said, “I have no complaints.”
There was a beep in my ear and I checked the caller ID.
Just when I thought there wasn’t a drop of adrenaline left in my body, I got a rush of panic as I saw that Carmine Noccia was on the line.
Noccia’s drugs were gone. His customers were going to go crazy, and the DEA had Noccia’s men in custody.
I told Fescoe I had incoming fire and congratulated him on his part in the DEA score.
Then I switched to the second line.
As I said hello to Carmine Noccia, I was hoping to heaven that he didn’t know I was behind the DEA bust. If he did, he was calling to tell me to put my affairs in order.
Noccia said to me, “You heard about our unfortunate run-in with the DEA.” His tone of voice told me nothing.
“I just saw it on CNN. That’s rough, Carmine.”
“You had nothing to do with that, right, Jack?”
“No. Of course not.”
“I had to ask.”
There was a long pause as I listened to my blood hum a very nervous tune. Then Noccia started speaking again.
“The Feds say they’ve been watching our transfer station. Shit, maybe someone said something and the Marzullos found out. Called in a tip.
“Either way, I’ve got no one to blame but myself. I should have arranged a transfer at another point, but we own that place, never dirtied it. We could get in and out fast, it being right on the highway like that. Hide the van until we could chop it up. Or so I thought.
“Anyway, it’s my problem, Jack. I’m calling to tell you to keep the fee.”
Was it safe to draw a breath?
I said, “You want me to keep the six-million-dollar fee?”
“You got the van out of the warehouse without incident, right? You handed it off to us. You gave us the names of the guys who took it. You executed the mission and so I’m paying you. That’s how it works between us.”
Crap.
Classic case of good news, bad news.
Noccia trusted me. He was saying we were like brothers. That there was honor among thieves—and US Marines. The six million dollars in Private’s bank account meant that Carmine and I were friends.
I never wanted to hear from Noccia again, but I didn’t think I was going to be that lucky.
He hung up the way he always did—suddenly.
He didn’t say good-bye.