CHAPTER 28
CRUZ SPOKE INTO his phone to someone named Sammy as he headed the car toward the Hollenbeck area of East LA. When he hung up, he said to Del Rio, “I’ve known Sammy his whole life. I didn’t expect to know him this long. I thought by now he’d be just a memory in his grandmother’s mind.”
Cruz knew a lot of Sammys. He could have become a Sammy himself. He had grown up in Aliso Village, a notorious, crime-ridden housing project in the Flats. He became a boxer, went pro, was a middleweight on his way up until a bad concussion made him see double for a while. Maybe it cleared his mind enough for him to look for a way out.
He joined the LAPD for a year, then Bobby Petino—DA Petino—his second cousin twice removed, gave Cruz a job in the investigative branch of his office. A hard-ass ex-cop named Franco became his boss, and Cruz learned. He saw a lot of dead bodies, got to know people, learned what to look for to help the DA make a case. In three years, Franco was working for him.
Two years back, Jack Morgan told Bobby Petino he needed another investigator, and Petino gave Cruz another break of a lifetime. Sent him to meet Jack.
It was a good fit.
Working at Private, teaming up with Del Rio, a genuine war hero, was the greatest job Cruz ever had. The only thing better would be to head up Private, LA—if or when Jack promoted himself off the line.
Del Rio asked, “So, this Sammy. He’s on our payroll?”
“No. Strictly freelance.”
Whittier Boulevard was a four-lane strip through a broken neighborhood. In daylight, vendors stood outside their shops, hawking T-shirts and tube socks, and families shopped with their little kids. At night, drug dealers worked the dark places. Hookers worked their strolls.
But there was no time of day or night when a Mercedes looked right on Whittier. Right now, it was sticking out like patent leather shoes at a hoedown.
Cruz would have liked to be driving a Ford. A gray one. Like he had when he was working for the DA. But Jack had a weakness for good-looking cars.
Cruz said to Del Rio, “I want to park the showboat in the Kinney on South Soto. Two blocks up.”
After the car was stowed, Cruz and Del Rio walked past a minimall with run-down shops and barred windows. Crossing the street at Johnny’s Shrimp Boat, Cruz saw Sammy waiting outside La Mascota Bakery.
Sammy was thirty, white, shaggy black hair, goatee, turquoise boots with pointy toes, enough metal piercing his face to start a hardware store.
Sammy said, “Who’s this?” indicating Del Rio.
“This is Rick. He’s my partner. He’s cool,” Cruz said.
Sammy was high, eyes dilated, agitated, but ready to do a transaction.
Cruz said, “You hear anything about a big shipment of Oxy and shit, came into town last night?” He took a twenty out of his pocket, held it out with two fingers.
“A ’frigerated van?”
Cruz nodded. “What do you know about it?”
Sammy snatched the twenty, flashed a gappy smile, said, “I know that the van is locked up, off the street. There’s a lot of chatter ’bout how to get in on the score.”
Cruz said, “That tip wasn’t worth twenty cents, Sam.”
“I can’t tell you what I don’t know, man. Hey, you know Siggy O?”
Cruz said, “I know Sig. I haven’t seen him in a while.”
“Another twenty and I can text him for you,” said Sammy.