jump all over Cardona’s business.”
“Do you give a rat’s ass?”
“I’m gonna find his daughter and then I’m out. Debt paid in full.”
“I know you’re loath to do it, but Gallina’s the card you should play. He’s on the case, not smart enough to disassemble the L.A. mob, but once you’re on record, the cops’ll back your action. Some of us are good at our jobs.”
“Hard to believe.”
“You were holding out on me, pard.”
“Waiting for the right time.”
“Story: I was pumping iron with a steroid-injecting Neanderthal out of vice. Izzy. From New Jersey. He was spotting me. He’s on muscle-enhancing drugs and I’m trusting him to keep two hundred and fifty pounds of weight from crushing my windpipe.”
“And?”
“My muscles were maxed. I told Izzy to pull off the barbell. And this jamoke, who held my life in his hands, said something that made total sense to me, in a moment of weakness.”
Jack gestured with his burrito for Nick to go on.
“No,” Nick said simply, and he took another bite of the burrito.
“That’s it? . . . ‘No’?”
Nick threw Jack a look that told him he was stepping on his story.
“ No. As in, You’re not done, Aprea .
“Izzy helped me push up the weight and then guided it down. I resisted with every last fuckin’ ounce of strength. I wanted to strangle the prick.
“Work the negative, he said. You’ll get stronger.”
Nick polished off the burrito and nodded his head, waiting for Jack’s response to his brilliance. Undaunted by the silence, he belched and soldiered on.
“You, my friend, are working the negative .”
“Explain.”
Nick’s wolf grin split his face as he wiped his mouth and continued. “The picture you sent me is the very likeness of one Raul Vargas. Busted in 2003 for the manufacture and distribution of cocaine. One of thirty arrested from here to Detroit. Daddy—now get this for irony—became a major political contributor, got letters extolling his son’s virtues from the governor, the mayor, the cardinal, assemblymen, and oh, what the hell, they all landed on the desk of the president of the United States. And miracle of L.A. archdiocese miracles, the kid was granted a pardon.”
“Christ,” Jack said.
“Already weighed in and got the prick released from prison. One man out of thirty indicted. Six years served of a fifteen-year sentence. His father called it a miracle. I call it dirty politics. Business as usual. So my guess is, if your old lady’s pissed off your client’s a mafioso, wait till you start sniffing up the Vargas family tree.”
The coffee turned sour in Jack’s gut.
“You’ll get stronger, even while they’re kicking the shit out of you. The effing president. They’ll be playing kick the can with your sorry ass, Bertolino. But you know what, my brother?”
Jack waited for Nick’s answer.
“They’ll have to go through me first.”
----
The elevator stopped on the thirty-eighth floor of the KPMG Tower at the Wells Fargo Center on Bunker Hill in downtown Los Angeles. Jack experienced vertigo as he looked over the receptionist’s tailored suit, past the jagged skyline, all the way to the Pacific Ocean, which shimmered like a slash of silver.
“Do you have an appointment?” the perfectly coiffed, officious young woman asked. She already knew the answer; Jack had asked to see the anointed son.
Before he could come up with something pithy, the elevator pinged behind him and the receptionist raised a warning eyebrow to whoever stepped silently off onto the thick pile carpet.
Jack spun, flashed a winning smile, thrust his hand forward. “Raul, how are you? Jack Bertolino.”
A wary Raul Vargas, who didn’t want to offend, accepted the handshake. “Do I know you?”
“I’m on a case and won’t take more than two minutes of your time.”
Raul forced a smile, thought about blowing off Jack, and decided to keep up some semblance of goodwill until he knew what the hell this intrusion
“Do you give a rat’s ass?”
“I’m gonna find his daughter and then I’m out. Debt paid in full.”
“I know you’re loath to do it, but Gallina’s the card you should play. He’s on the case, not smart enough to disassemble the L.A. mob, but once you’re on record, the cops’ll back your action. Some of us are good at our jobs.”
“Hard to believe.”
“You were holding out on me, pard.”
“Waiting for the right time.”
“Story: I was pumping iron with a steroid-injecting Neanderthal out of vice. Izzy. From New Jersey. He was spotting me. He’s on muscle-enhancing drugs and I’m trusting him to keep two hundred and fifty pounds of weight from crushing my windpipe.”
“And?”
“My muscles were maxed. I told Izzy to pull off the barbell. And this jamoke, who held my life in his hands, said something that made total sense to me, in a moment of weakness.”
Jack gestured with his burrito for Nick to go on.
“No,” Nick said simply, and he took another bite of the burrito.
“That’s it? . . . ‘No’?”
Nick threw Jack a look that told him he was stepping on his story.
“ No. As in, You’re not done, Aprea .
“Izzy helped me push up the weight and then guided it down. I resisted with every last fuckin’ ounce of strength. I wanted to strangle the prick.
“Work the negative, he said. You’ll get stronger.”
Nick polished off the burrito and nodded his head, waiting for Jack’s response to his brilliance. Undaunted by the silence, he belched and soldiered on.
“You, my friend, are working the negative .”
“Explain.”
Nick’s wolf grin split his face as he wiped his mouth and continued. “The picture you sent me is the very likeness of one Raul Vargas. Busted in 2003 for the manufacture and distribution of cocaine. One of thirty arrested from here to Detroit. Daddy—now get this for irony—became a major political contributor, got letters extolling his son’s virtues from the governor, the mayor, the cardinal, assemblymen, and oh, what the hell, they all landed on the desk of the president of the United States. And miracle of L.A. archdiocese miracles, the kid was granted a pardon.”
“Christ,” Jack said.
“Already weighed in and got the prick released from prison. One man out of thirty indicted. Six years served of a fifteen-year sentence. His father called it a miracle. I call it dirty politics. Business as usual. So my guess is, if your old lady’s pissed off your client’s a mafioso, wait till you start sniffing up the Vargas family tree.”
The coffee turned sour in Jack’s gut.
“You’ll get stronger, even while they’re kicking the shit out of you. The effing president. They’ll be playing kick the can with your sorry ass, Bertolino. But you know what, my brother?”
Jack waited for Nick’s answer.
“They’ll have to go through me first.”
----
The elevator stopped on the thirty-eighth floor of the KPMG Tower at the Wells Fargo Center on Bunker Hill in downtown Los Angeles. Jack experienced vertigo as he looked over the receptionist’s tailored suit, past the jagged skyline, all the way to the Pacific Ocean, which shimmered like a slash of silver.
“Do you have an appointment?” the perfectly coiffed, officious young woman asked. She already knew the answer; Jack had asked to see the anointed son.
Before he could come up with something pithy, the elevator pinged behind him and the receptionist raised a warning eyebrow to whoever stepped silently off onto the thick pile carpet.
Jack spun, flashed a winning smile, thrust his hand forward. “Raul, how are you? Jack Bertolino.”
A wary Raul Vargas, who didn’t want to offend, accepted the handshake. “Do I know you?”
“I’m on a case and won’t take more than two minutes of your time.”
Raul forced a smile, thought about blowing off Jack, and decided to keep up some semblance of goodwill until he knew what the hell this intrusion
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