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.
CHAPTER 29
SIGGY O WAS a black kid, six-foot-plus, two hundred pounds, Rasta hair tied back with string. A third-generation druggie, the kid was hooked before he was born.
“Duuude,” Siggy called out to Cruz. “Been so long, man. How you shaking?”
They clasped hands, patted each other’s backs, Siggy going into boxing stance, doing some feints and jabs and footwork, Cruz catching the jabs with the flats of his hands. Siggy said, “I saw you on the TV, man. On Sports Classics, you know? The MGM Grand. You and Michael Alvarez. He put you down so hard in the eighth round.”
“I know,” said Cruz, laughing. “I was there.”
“You good now?”
“I’m good. How ’bout you?”
“I’ve been straight for thirty-eight days,” Siggy told Cruz. “I’m in a program. I don’t miss a meeting,” he said. “Very cute women there. They want to take care of me. But that’s cool. I want to be taken care of.”