Green Ice: A Deadly High (2 page)

“You
packing?”

“Only a small piece, you?”

Mancini sighed. This wasn’t going well. “Of course I’m not,” he snapped. “We pick up anything we need on the other side of the border. I thought that was clear. How did you get this job anyhow?”

Trey sighed and looked out onto the street through the windshield. “Why are you busting my balls, man?”

Mancini gritted his teeth and refrained from raising his voice. “Because you turned up late for the meet in a car that looks like something a local pimp might drive around in. You’re obviously suffering the effects of too much booze and Christ knows what else, and you’re carrying a loaded weapon. If we’re stopped by the L.A.P.D right now, we’re both going to have to answer some awkward questions, let alone if we get stopped by the border cops. But I don’t even think we’d even make it that far.”

“Okay, so I had a few beers last night, what’s the big deal?”
Trey protested. “My dad can make any minor offenses go away, right.”

“What the hell has your dad got to do with this trip?” Mancini growled.

“He’s Peter Coogan, - Mr. Oreilles’s lawyer and one of the best defense attorneys in the city.”

Mancini nodded. It all made sense now. He’d met Peter
Coogan a few times at several social gatherings and parties at Oreilles’s palatial residence in Westwood. Peter Coogan was indeed a brilliant attorney and regarded as a kind of
Mr. Fix-it
in the complex world of regulation and law. How the excellent lawyer had managed to spawn such a misfit as Trey, Mancini couldn’t figure. No doubt, Oreilles had owed Old Man Coogan a favor and drafted his no good son into the organization at a high level, as a kind of repayment. That sort of shit enraged Mancini even more. He’d had to work his way up from the bottom, enduring dangerous and unpredictable situations and mixing with the lowest form of human life, who would have shot you in the face for the price of a teenth of crystal meth.

Trey
Coogan was obviously a spoiled little rich kid, who probably got everything he ever wanted and now thought he was going to play gangster alongside Mancini.

“Shall we go, man or hang here for the rest of the day?” Trey barked.

Mancini considered calling Oreilles and protesting about his chosen accomplice, demanding he be replaced by a more capable partner. But he knew Oreilles wouldn’t listen and insist Trey Coogan accompanied him on the job. Mancini just hoped this mission wouldn’t be his last and the kid wouldn’t fuck up any further, especially when the circumstances became a little precarious.

“Let’s go,” Mancini grunted, turning the stereo down so the rap music was barely audible. “Do you actually know the
route?”

“Yeah,” Trey groaned, pulling the Thunderbird away from the curb. “
The GPS is telling me to take the I-One-Ten to Carson then follow the San Diego Freeway all the way to the Mexican border.”

“U-ah, it’ll be quicker to take the I-10,
then we can take the I-5 all the way down. And no GPS.” He reached forward to the dash and turned off the device. “We use maps. A GPS route can be traced.”

Trey shrugged.
“Your call, man.” He put the GPS system into the glove box, slowed and U-turned the Thunderbird in the street, much to Mancini’s disgust. 

“
Don’t make any more silly-assed maneuvers like that,” he scolded. “Are you seriously trying to get us arrested?”

“There are no cops around, it’s early. There’s nobody around,” Trey protested.

“And you need to lose that piece as soon as you can,” Mancini instructed. “We’ll be in a world of shit if we get stopped by any kind of law enforcement. Not because of the firearm, because I expect your dad will get you off that charge. But we won’t be top of Oreilles’s Christmas card list if we end up in jail on a minor offense and fuck up the whole assignment before it’s even begun.”

“All right, I hear you, man,” Trey snapped, turning the stereo back up.

Mancini endured the
hip-hop sound until Trey pulled out onto the Santa Monica Freeway. He ejected the CD from the stereo and tossed the disc behind his shoulder and out the back of the car. The Interstate was pretty much deserted and the CD clattered onto the blacktop in the wake of the Thunderbird.

“Hey, man,” Trey whined. “What the hell did you just do?
That’s really doke, man. That was my rap compilation that took me like, a whole bunch of hours to put together.”

“I can’t listen to that crap all the way to Mexico,” Mancini snapped. “Put something better on or we’ll just listen to the radio.”

Trey huffed. “There are some more CDs in the glove box. Have a look and see if there’s anything that meets with your lordship’s approval. I don’t think I have any stuff by
Glenn Miller
or
Elvis,
or whatever dinosaur music you’re probably into.”

Trey glanced towards the passenger seat, trying to weigh up Mancini. He’d met a few of Oreilles’s guy before but this dude seemed kind of cold and detached. He spoke with the abruptness and
had the attitude of a military guy but looked nothing like somebody serving in the forces. Mancini was tall and lean with prominent facial features but his long blond hair, slight goatee beard and cheap, baggy clothing generated a slightly disheveled appearance.

Mancini studied the selection of CDs inside the
compartment in front of his knees. He expected to see a stack of junk music he’d never heard of but was surprised when he saw a few Surf Rock albums in Trey’s collection. He selected a compilation album and slipped it into the stereo. Twanging guitars and heavy bass from the track ‘
Crash
’ by ‘
The Apemen
’ boomed from the front and rear speakers.

“This is more like it,” Mancini said, pointing at the stereo.

“Yeah, it’s the shit,” Trey yelled, turning up the volume and putting his foot harder on the gas pedal.

Mancini turned the stereo down a few notches, shaking his head. “We still don’t want to draw too much attention to ourselves. We still have to ditch that firearm, remember?”

The smile immediately dropped from Trey’s face. He scowled and slipped on his sunshades, staring straight ahead at the road. The route took them over the bridge across the L.A. River.

“Pull over,” Mancini instructed.

Trey complied, slowing the Thunderbird to a halt on the shoulder.

“Okay, toss the weapon over the side into the river.”

“Aw, that thing cost me five hundred bucks,” he protested.

“It’ll cost you more than that if we get caught with it,” Mancini growled. “Now, hurry up and get rid of the damn thing, will you?”

Trey reluctantly got out of the car and made his way to the trunk. He opened the cover and rummaged around inside the compartment. Mancini watched him take out a small, snub-nosed .38 revolver inside a leather holster.

“Toss the holster as well,” Mancini instructed. “We don’t want any complications when and if we make it to the border.”

Trey shook his head and hurled the revolver, still inside the holster, over the side of the bridge barrier. Mancini heard the younger man curse under his breath but he felt a little more relaxed now no illegal weapons were inside the vehicle. Trey stood with his back to Mancini, looking over the side of the barrier.

“Hey, come on, let’s go.”

Trey turned from the barrier, ducked his head in frustration continuing to mutter under his breath. He jumped into the driver’s seat and gunned the engine. The muffler roared into life and Trey pulled the T-Bird back onto the road.

“Are you sure this crate will get us to Mexico?”

Trey flashed Mancini a scornful glance. “Sure it will. This is a reconditioned, modified, second generation 1959 model, man. It cost a damn fortune to restore and get it up and running but it’s totally dope. It’ll get us there and back, no problem. Don’t worry about it.”

The Thunderbird was the least of Mancini’s worries. He could always find or rent another vehicle from someplace. The fact he’d have to single handedly take on three armed
, drug crazed bandits with no capable back-up was what fazed him.

Chapter Three

Trey and Mancini listened to the Surf Rock CD as they cruised down the I-5, passing by East Los Angeles on the Santa Ana Freeway. The route took them through Anaheim, Santa Ana, Irvine and Mission Viejo, before Interstate 5 also became the San Diego Freeway. The further south they headed, the closer the road took them towards the Pacific Ocean. The expanse of sea to their right glistened a shade of deep blue as the morning sun shone across the rippling surface. Mancini watched the tall palm trees sway in the sea breeze along the coastline, around a mile in distance. He smelled the saltiness of the sea and felt the warm sun beat down on his face from a clear blue sky. Life was good at times but ultimately, the flip side mercilessly waited around the corner. 

They had listened to all of Trey’s Surf Rock CDs by the time they reached San Diego
so Mancini flicked the stereo onto the ‘
Jack FM
’ radio channel. The morning city traffic slowed their progress slightly as they had to wait for the lines of vehicles to subside. Mancini swapped cell phone numbers with Trey whilst they waited in the traffic and told him to delete the contact once the assignment was complete. He seriously doubted and hoped they’d never meet up again.

The I
-5 dog-legged back inland and Mancini felt slightly disappointed he could no longer see the ocean. The Interstates 5 and 805 merged together, slightly south of San Diego and overhead signs told them they were approaching the International Border with Mexico.

“Okay, get your passport at the ready,” Mancini instructed. He glanced at his wristwatch. The time was nearly nine-thirty. They were a little behind schedule but Mancini
didn’t want to hit the border too early and become snared up in morning traffic. He reached into his top left jacket pocket and took out his U.S. passport. Trey squirmed in his seat and retrieved his own passport from the ass pocket of his denims.

“Don’t give the border cops any lip or smart-assed remarks,” Mancini said. “I want to get through this as smoothly as possible.”

Trey flashed him an incredulous glance, while slowing the Thunderbird to join the line of traffic. He thought for a moment. “How did the guys we’re chasing manage to get the cash and the gear over the border in the first place?”

“There’s always ways and means,” Mancini answered. “If you’re going to steal from Oreilles, you’re going to have to have a
good escape plan. These guys made a big mistake flashing the cash around so close to the U.S. border. They should have disappeared and gone underground awhile.”

The U.S./Mexican entry
and exit point consisted of a large, beige colored canopy straddling the three lane road. A tall, black fence stood to the right of the highway, separating foot passengers from the line of vehicles. A steady procession of people headed in both directions. Trey slowly drove under the border canopy in one of the lanes marked ‘
Nada que declarar
’ on an overhead sign, with the English translation ‘
Nothing to declare
’ beneath. He slowed to a stop at the checkpoint.

A jaded looking border patrolman
briefly studied their passports, gave the Thunderbird a once over glance, more in admiration than suspicion and waved them onward. Trey and Mancini replaced their passports in their pockets and the Thunderbird rolled forward into Mexico. Several parked border patrol vehicles sat to the right, facing the road as Trey drove by.

“I’ll bet you’re glad you tossed that piece now, huh?” Mancini said
, studying the line of border cop’s white SUVs that looked ready to pounce on any suspicious vehicles. 

Trey shrugged one shoulder and glanced in his mirror.  

The line of waiting traffic on the opposite side of the road stretched back in an almost motionless gridlocked block.

“Looks like it’s a
whole lot easier to get into Mexico than to get out,” Mancini mused, gazing at the sweaty frustrated faces inside the stream of lingering vehicles.

Several signs written in Spanish stood in lofty positions each side of the road
, with some advertizing cheap beer and promising an exciting time at certain nightspots.

“Woo-
hoo!” Trey whooped. “Tijuana is party town.”

“Well, unfortunately we’re not here to party,” Mancini bluntly said. “We have more important stuff to do.”
He couldn’t remember the last occasion he’d had a serious night out on the town and felt a slight yearning for a crazy time. 

“Where we headed?”

“Follow the signs for the coastal route to Ensenada. We’ve got to meet up with a guy who’s going to give us the address and supply us with some tools of the trade.”

Trey nodded and mingled through the traffic, taking the exit to Highway One, which bypassed Tijuana city center.
The Thunderbird attracted some interested and envious looks from other drivers and people milling on the sidewalks, as they drove through the northern city limits. Mancini felt uncomfortable and wished they were traveling in a modern, less conspicuous vehicle. The old fashioned T-Bird wasn’t a vehicle regularly seen on the roads any longer. It was more of a collector’s piece, which might usually be parked up at specialist rallies or shows.