Ricci glanced at the Private fleet car, then opened the door to his own car and got a sandwich out of a cooler. He called out to one of the other drivers, “Baxter. You got any Grey Poupon?”
Baxter laughed, said, “I’ll give you a little brown poop-on. How’s that?”
Watching this from inside the Mercedes, Cruz said to Del Rio, “That’s him. Ricci is the one in the cheap suit and the chauffeur’s hat.”
Del Rio put on his jacket, said to Cruz, “Can you see my gun under this?”
Cruz said, “You look like you’re packing even when you’re sleeping.”
Del Rio said, “That’s good, because I want Ricci to freeze in place. I don’t want to chase the guy. I kinda twisted my foot when I was rock climbing.”
Cruz said, “Aww. Face it, Rick, you’re getting old.”
Del Rio told Cruz that he wasn’t old and that he could still beat the crap outta anyone his size.
“You don’t have to do that, Rick. I’ll protect you,” said Cruz.
Del Rio gave Cruz an evil look.
Cruz laughed, tightened the band on his ponytail. When it was the way he liked it, he said, “Ready, pardner?”
Together, Cruz and Del Rio walked over to where the four men were standing under the D sign.
Two of them, including Paul Ricci, were limo drivers. The other two wore uniforms of “The Air Shuttle Guys.” The shuttle guys were fat, no problem. But the limo driver standing next to Ricci was ripped and young. Looked like he’d done some time.
Cruz said, “Paul Ricci?”
All conversation stopped.
Ricci puffed himself up. “I’m Ricci. Wha’chu want?”
Cruz said, “Don’t you remember me?”
He opened his jacket and showed the guy his gun, the one he’d had to give up outside the club.
Ricci looked at the gun, pivoted, and, his hat flying off his shaven head, took off toward the exit at a fast run.
Cruz shouted, “We just want to talk to you.”
The guy ran pretty fast.
“Shit,” said Del Rio.
CHAPTER 85
PAUL RICCI, LIMO driver by day, bouncer by night, weighed two hundred pounds, a lot of it muscle. He steamed past the small administration building at the entrance to the parking lot, took a hard left on the sidewalk, and got his speed up on the side street.
Cruz took off after him.
Cruz was smaller but faster and was closing in on Ricci, who was running alongside a high vine-covered fence, heading due north toward Sepulveda Boulevard.
Cruz did not want to end up on the boulevard. A foot chase through eight lanes of traffic was a pileup waiting to happen.
Cruz shouted, “Ricci. Stop,” but Ricci ran out into traffic, showing some good open-field moves as he wove between fast-moving cars.
Horns blared, first at Ricci, then because traffic had slowed. A moment later, Cruz had lost sight of him.
Cruz stood in place for a few seconds, taking in nice deep breaths of diesel fumes, trying to see everything at once. Vehicles of every size and shape obscured his view, and now he was getting mad.