Jerry Langton Three-Book Biker Bundle (79 page)

“Where did you see him?” Weise asked.

“Downtown, he was going into one of those fast-food places, Gibby's—or it may have been Sweet Pete's,” she said. “They're all the same to me. I would never go into one those places; nothing but sodium, fructose-glucose, and saturated fats on their menus, I'll tell you that. No thanks, Mr. Fast-Food Man, I choose to live healthy.”

“It would really help if you could tell us which one.”

“I told you I don't know,” she snapped. “It was one or the other, but it was on North Campbell around where it hits East Prince.”

Tovar knew from experience that there was not only a Gibby's and a Sweet Pete's around that intersection, but several other similar barbeque outlets as well. “Was the man in question riding a motorcycle, like a Harley-Davidson?” he asked. “Did you see anything like that?”

She looked at him like he was crazy. “Oh, this man was definitely not a biker,” she said. “Short, tidy hair, no beard, no beer gut, dressed nicely—are you sure we're talking about the same guy?”

“Not everyone who rides a motorcycle looks like that, ma'am,” pointed out Weise—himself the proud owner of a Yamaha FZ6R. “Even Harley riders.”

She looked at him sternly. “Actually, officer,” she said. “I did notice that he came out of a nice car, Volvo I think. Something like that. Not a BMW, but that type. New or very close to it. Black, if it helps.”

“It sure does, thank you,” said Tovar, smiling. “You didn't happen to get the license plate, did you?”

“No, I was busy and I just looked at him for a second,” she said. “I didn't even put together that he was the man in the picture until I came home. I'm sorry I can't be more help.”

“No. No, Ms. Scholtz, you've been a great deal of help,” Tovar replied.

After they said their good-byes and got back in the car, the two feds started discussing their prospects excitedly. Weise could hardly contain his enthusiasm and his pride in getting the FBI to that part of Arizona in the first place. Tovar was also pretty pumped, but didn't want the kid to get cocky.

“Don't get your hopes up too high, kid, because all we have is a guy who looks like a guy that this woman saw for a second,” Tovar said. “But at least we have something on the ground now.”

“Yeah, all we have to do is hand out his photo at every fast-food joint on grease alley,” Weise said. “If it's him, someone will have seen him and will very likely step forward.” Then he paused and asked: “Do you really think it's him?”

Tovar smiled at the intern. “Hard to say. He's not a remarkable-looking guy, and the Volvo? That actually threw me for a loop,” he said. “It's not a cheap car by any means, and doesn't exactly scream drug dealer, let alone biker. There was nothing to indicate he had any real money when he left Delaware, so it makes me think it's just another unremarkable-looking guy minding his own business, driving his Volvo, and eating his barbecue.”

“But we're still gonna try, right?”

“Of course we will,” Tovar assured him. “It's all we have.”

* * *

While Frankie was up in Arizona telling Speedy the news about the changes at the top of the Jalisco Cartel, El Cubano (its new leader) was at the ranch house, assessing the organization's strengths and doing his best to boost his men's morale.

The meeting went smoothly. El Guason was acting as regional boss because Speedy was on assignment in Arizona, and he had a great rapport with El Cubano. They spoke about a wide variety of operations, and eventually came to the Cossacks. El Cubano—who had seen the numbers from the operation and was surprised at how quickly it had taken off—was particularly interested in that outfit because it was something the cartel owned and operated essentially on its own, rather than through other larger organizations in the United States. The Cossacks answered directly to them, while the other gangs they used as street-level distributors such as the Lawbreakers, the MS-13, and the Crips never would.

“This thing is becoming big,” El Cubano said to El Guason. “We need to repeat this success in other border cities, bigger ones.”

“I'd love to do that, too, but most of those cities already have strong networks through organizations like El Barrio Azteca and the White Fence. You even see a few old Mexican mafia members doing their thing.”

“And they will have to coexist with the Cossacks,” El Cubano answered. “Or get out of the way.”

“I like it, but I thought we were keeping as much of our operation on this side of the border as possible,” El Guason said, surprised at his new boss's aggressiveness. “We don't want to invite the DEA down here. Look what happened in Colombia.”

El Cubano gave him a stern look. “There are many important strategic differences between the two situations,” he said. “And it was that kind of head-to-the-ground thinking that kept us working for the Colombians for years. Then suddenly, a few forward-thinking Mexicans took matters into their own hands. That's what I'm doing here.”

“But the DEA . . .”

“. . . can arrest lots of people in the States, but can't come into Mexico,” El Cubano noted with an air of pride. “Here they still have to work with the same Federales and local police who can't stop us now, even with the help of the entire military.” He laughed. “What can the Americans do?” he asked “Give them more money, more helicopters and drones? It doesn't matter. We can still pay the people operating them more than they can. They will be ours.”

El Guason contemplated the validity and potential of the boss's idea, even though he knew that he was in no place to truly question him. “For this, I think, we will need more
gueros
like El Espagueti,” he said in a tone that made it sound like a question. “The thinking among many up there is that he's responsible for their success.”

“Really? Is that what he's saying?” El Cubano seemed truly offended. “Typical
guero
attitude, talking all the credit for other people's hard work. Makes me sick.”

El Guason just nodded. He had grown somewhat resentful of El Espagueti after the border incident. Like many other people who had actually been there, he interpreted Ned's actions as cowardice and was shocked and angered that he received what was essentially a promotion instead of a punishment from Poco Loco. “So you are telling me that the Cossacks would have succeeded without him?” he asked.

“Totally. Maybe his arrival sparked the others to work harder, but it was largely circumstantial,” he said. “People needed some time after the Hells Angels went down to find a new source for product and they eventually found the Cossacks. This will continue to happen if we get more boots on the ground in the U.S. More Cossacks means more money, it's as simple as that. We don't need any
gueros
, just their money.”

El Guason had an idea. “What about this particular
guero
, this Espagueti?” he asked.”Do we need him?”

“Not at all.”

“Then you would not mind if I put that to the test?”

El Cubano chuckled. “Get rid of him, you mean?”

“Yeah, if we don't need him up there,” El Guason said. “He's a liability, he knows a whole lot about what goes on down here . . . could be bad for us if the DEA gets their hands on him.”

“I'm not afraid of the DEA,” El Cubano said. “But I do agree that his continued existence does us no good. Do what you will.”

“I'll go up tomorrow.”

El Cubano looked shocked. “No you won't. After all the losses we've suffered we absolutely need you here,” he said. “Send someone expendable. Someone the organization wouldn't miss.”

* * *

Weise knew that canvassing the fast-food joints of Tucson's grease alley wouldn't be fun, but he did not think that he would run into any opposition. While Tovar took the other side of the street, Weise walked into the Gibby's on North Campbell and asked for the manager. “He's not here,” said the man behind the counter, who then asked for his order.

The young agent told him he wasn't there to eat, then introduced himself with his FBI identification. He saw the man become visibly disturbed. “Don't worry, this has nothing at all to do with immigration,” he assured him. “We just want to put up this poster. We're looking for a man who may be in the area.” He showed the man the poster. Again he flinched. Instinctively, Weise took that as an indication that the man knew something. “Can you tell me who's in charge here?”

The man said that he was in charge and that it was against store policy to put wanted posters up. Bad for business, he maintained. Made it look like it was a hangout for criminals.

Weise politely smiled, calmly told the man that he'd be back when the manager was in, and asked when that would be. The man hemmed and hawed then said he didn't know. Weise asked for the manager's name. After a pause, the man behind the counter told him that he did not know the manager's name and that if he wasn't going to order anything he was going to have to ask him to leave.

Shocked, Weise stepped aside and then left the building. An older woman, obese and riding a Rascal mobility scooter followed him out. “Son! Son! Over here!” she shouted. “Lemme see that picture. I spend a lot of time in Gibby's and I see lots of people and lots of things. I see everything.”

He handed her the poster. She didn't need to study it for long. “Yeah, that's him, I know that boy,” she said. “Comes in about once a week, just hangs out, reads the newspaper, doesn't eat much, just drinks coffee and hangs out. Talks to people occasionally, mostly young people. Lots of women.”

“Really? Do you actually know this man? Have you spoken with him?”

“Nah, he's not interested in me,” she said laughing. “But he is popular, makes me wonder what business he's in. How he can afford to sit around doing nothing all day. He must be on disability like me—though I don't see anything wrong with him.”

Weise was shocked and delighted. “Excuse me, Ms. . . . Ms. . . .”

“Heinz, like the ketchup,” she piped up brightly. “But there's only one variety of me.”

“Excuse me, Ms. Heinz,” he said warmly. “What you have here—what you have seen, what you know is very important to us. I'm going to have to call my associate, Agent Tovar, about this right away. Would you have time for a formal interview?”

“I've got nothing but time,” she smiled.

* * *

As he rounded the corner to get to Dave's, Ned was surprised to see Hector, the manager, outside. It was incredibly hot outside, and he could see that Hector was sweltering and truly uncomfortable. Ned waved at him and found a parking spot. Hector started to jog over to the Jaguar even before Ned came to a complete stop. Ned lowered the driver's side window.

“Don't come in,” Hector told him through the window. “Just keep driving.”

“Why? What's going on?”

“Two guys from the FBI—the fuckin' FBI, man—came here looking for you.”

“What? No way.”

“Yeah, man.” Hector's eyes were still very wide. “They left behind a poster with your picture on it, man. It says you are a very sick man and you need your medicine.”

“Shit, what name was on it.”

“Edward Nelson Aiken,” Hector told him. “But it also said you might be known by a bunch of other names; since one of them was ‘Crash,' I knew it had to be you.”

“Did you say anything? Did anyone?”

Hector scanned the area. “Of course not,” he said. “But you gotta get lost right away. I don't want to have to go back to Tamaulipas, man. I got some problems down there.”

“Yeah, yeah, I understand.” Ned thanked Hector, closed the window and drove north out of the city. He didn't stop until he got to a small coffee shop in Tortolita. In the parking lot behind the restaurant, he dialed Weasel's number.

“I've been waiting for you to call,” Weasel said instead of hello.

“So you know, then?”

“Of course I do,” Weasel said with obvious frustration. “Yours is the twelfth call about those fuckin' FBI agents already this morning.”

“So what do we do?”

“We?” Weasel laughed. “I'm fine, but I think you're about done here . . . gonna have to get scarce pretty soon.”

“Pretty soon? I'm leaving now.”

“No you aren't,” Weasel told him. “You still gotta make the big drop tomorrow.”

“What? No way!”

“No, man, this has to happen,” Weasel told him. “I just got off the phone with Frankie X—he's a new big man down there—and he knows of the situation and has told me that it absolutely, positively has to be you who makes the drop.”

“And if I don't?”

“It's one thing to have the FBI after you. They might put you behind bars,” Weasel said, the concern in his voice obvious. “But these guys in Mexico will not rest until they find you then torture you to death if you don't do what they say. Don't be an idiot. Just make the drop and then disappear. I've already talked about it with Frankie; he said everything would be fine.”

“I have to think about it.”

“No you don't. It's not just $18 million; it's your life now. My life. Everyone's. You absolutely have to do this,” Weasel said. “Especially since your friend got popped.”

“My friend?”

“Yeah, the Clown,” he said. “Federales filled him full of holes yesterday—or didn't your
New York Times
report that?” It had, but Ned hadn't read it yet. He had planned to over lunch in Dave's.

“Poco Loco is dead?” he asked. “Who's in charge now then?”

“Some guy they call ‘El Cubano,' I don't know anything about him,” he said. “But if he says you gotta go, you gotta go.”

“Yeah,” Ned said. He hung up and started driving aimlessly before he realized he was deep in the desert, and that if he ran out of gas, he was a goner.

* * *

Unlike most of his cousins south of the border, Speedy had never shot a man. He carried a gun with him most of the time, and had pulled it once at a face-off with some teenage Hells Angels supporters, who slunk away the second they saw the guns.