fat. But the transmitter had gone bad. The wire was not sending the action to the narc who sat on the bug in the panel truck just beyond the motel parking lot. The questions were very simple and to the point.
"Where's da money, bro?" a Samoan asked.
"I wanna talk to Sammy," the snitch said. "Where's Sammy?"
SMACK. "Where's da money, bro?"
"So this ain't no business deal!" the snitch bellowe d f or the benefit of the bug monitor. "This is a straight rip, huh?"
SMACK. "Where's da money, bro?"
"I shoulda knew this was a rip," the terrified junkie screamed for the wire. "A fuckin rip!"
SMACK. "Where's da money, bro?"
"Look, I can git the bread for ya!" the snitch shrieked. "Jist lemme take ya to it! Jist open the door and let's . . ."
SMACK. "You tell me," said the Samoan with the one-track mind. "I go get it."
By now, Otto Stringer, unarmed and helpless, was holding paws with the second Samoan. The third had him by the back of the neck with a longshoreman's hook that turned out to be his hand.
The blood from the snitch's mouth and nose was spattering the wall and Otto figured that the action was not being transmitted by the wire so he decided to take matters in hand and make an announcement. He said: "This's gone far enough! I'm a police officer! I order you to get away from that man and open the door!"
SMACK. Otto's skull bounced off the wall, leaving a crack in the plasterboard.
"Okay, then, I ain't a cop," said Otto.
SMACK. It didn't seem to matter either way to the Samoans.
"No more bullshit, bro. Where's da money?" the first Samoan said to Otto Stringer.
Just then the wire inside Otto's pants started to function. The cop monitoring the bug gave an emergency signal, but by the time six narcs smashed down the motel door, Otto had been spread - eagled across the kitchen table by all three Samoans who were only hitting him with open hands. Which had only dislodged one tooth and loosened two others and given him eyes by Picasso. They were taking turns. Before Otto passed out he thought of the ice-cream store. Pick a number! Next? Who's next?
Of course the rescuers played catch-up for Otto, in that all the Samoans "resisted handcuffing" and had to have buckets of water poured on them so they could wake up and resist some more. But it was small consolation to Otto Stringer. The thumping he got from the Samoans put him off duty for five days. And it wasn't even the last straw.
That occurred on "federal Friday," which was what the cops call Friday afternoon when the federal building looks like it received a bomb scare. All the civil servants and bureaucrats get an early start on the weekend rush-hour traffic, especially after getting their paychecks.
That afternoon the nares were waiting at L . A . International Airport for a Colombian coke connection, and because of a sudden starburst of romantic passion, Otto Stringer and several other cops almost lost their lives.
Officer Heidi was a narc. She was a sleek beautiful leggy athletic ninety-pounder, and, bitch or not, she was the most aggressive that Otto had ever seen. No one had ever known a Doberman as strong as Heidi. In fact, on one narcotics raid she had grabbed the handle of a locked dresser drawer and pulled the entire piece of furniture across the room. Heidi was very good at her job and she knew it. She would never miss an ounce of flake or crystal or pot when she was sniffing luggage, and she was in fine fettle that day at the airport. Heidi went at the Colombian's luggage with a will. Her handler was so proud. The other narcs were so proud. Officer Desmond was so aroused.
Desmond was a bomb dog. He had never seen Heidi before. He had never seen any narcotics dog. Desmond wasn't sleek or beautiful or athletic. Desmond was a seedy half-bloodhound with a bad case of dandruff, halitosis, and eyes like Walter Mondale. Desmond, like Otto Stringer, was a law-enforcement burnout.
The L . A . cops were working a routine bomb check that afternoon. Some
"Where's da money, bro?" a Samoan asked.
"I wanna talk to Sammy," the snitch said. "Where's Sammy?"
SMACK. "Where's da money, bro?"
"So this ain't no business deal!" the snitch bellowe d f or the benefit of the bug monitor. "This is a straight rip, huh?"
SMACK. "Where's da money, bro?"
"I shoulda knew this was a rip," the terrified junkie screamed for the wire. "A fuckin rip!"
SMACK. "Where's da money, bro?"
"Look, I can git the bread for ya!" the snitch shrieked. "Jist lemme take ya to it! Jist open the door and let's . . ."
SMACK. "You tell me," said the Samoan with the one-track mind. "I go get it."
By now, Otto Stringer, unarmed and helpless, was holding paws with the second Samoan. The third had him by the back of the neck with a longshoreman's hook that turned out to be his hand.
The blood from the snitch's mouth and nose was spattering the wall and Otto figured that the action was not being transmitted by the wire so he decided to take matters in hand and make an announcement. He said: "This's gone far enough! I'm a police officer! I order you to get away from that man and open the door!"
SMACK. Otto's skull bounced off the wall, leaving a crack in the plasterboard.
"Okay, then, I ain't a cop," said Otto.
SMACK. It didn't seem to matter either way to the Samoans.
"No more bullshit, bro. Where's da money?" the first Samoan said to Otto Stringer.
Just then the wire inside Otto's pants started to function. The cop monitoring the bug gave an emergency signal, but by the time six narcs smashed down the motel door, Otto had been spread - eagled across the kitchen table by all three Samoans who were only hitting him with open hands. Which had only dislodged one tooth and loosened two others and given him eyes by Picasso. They were taking turns. Before Otto passed out he thought of the ice-cream store. Pick a number! Next? Who's next?
Of course the rescuers played catch-up for Otto, in that all the Samoans "resisted handcuffing" and had to have buckets of water poured on them so they could wake up and resist some more. But it was small consolation to Otto Stringer. The thumping he got from the Samoans put him off duty for five days. And it wasn't even the last straw.
That occurred on "federal Friday," which was what the cops call Friday afternoon when the federal building looks like it received a bomb scare. All the civil servants and bureaucrats get an early start on the weekend rush-hour traffic, especially after getting their paychecks.
That afternoon the nares were waiting at L . A . International Airport for a Colombian coke connection, and because of a sudden starburst of romantic passion, Otto Stringer and several other cops almost lost their lives.
Officer Heidi was a narc. She was a sleek beautiful leggy athletic ninety-pounder, and, bitch or not, she was the most aggressive that Otto had ever seen. No one had ever known a Doberman as strong as Heidi. In fact, on one narcotics raid she had grabbed the handle of a locked dresser drawer and pulled the entire piece of furniture across the room. Heidi was very good at her job and she knew it. She would never miss an ounce of flake or crystal or pot when she was sniffing luggage, and she was in fine fettle that day at the airport. Heidi went at the Colombian's luggage with a will. Her handler was so proud. The other narcs were so proud. Officer Desmond was so aroused.
Desmond was a bomb dog. He had never seen Heidi before. He had never seen any narcotics dog. Desmond wasn't sleek or beautiful or athletic. Desmond was a seedy half-bloodhound with a bad case of dandruff, halitosis, and eyes like Walter Mondale. Desmond, like Otto Stringer, was a law-enforcement burnout.
The L . A . cops were working a routine bomb check that afternoon. Some
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