Two guys rushed forward, pulled me to my feet and took the handcuffs off, freeing my hands. My knees were shaking. I could barely stand.
'You're no longer on probation,' Alonzo announced. 'You just became a full-fledged member of the Haven Park PD.'
The guys who were standing there all started to applaud.
'You okay?' Alonzo asked, grinning. 'A few guys have puked. Larry Miller shit his pants.'
I was still trying to absorb it.
'We had to know you were solid,' he explained. 'Loyalty test. We had to take you right to the edge to be sure.' Then he shook his head as he repeated my own words back to me. ' Tou can believe me, or you can stick it up your ass.' Beautiful. Best yet.'
All the cops gathered around and slapped my back, congratulating me.
Alonzo led me over to his Cadillac Escalade. The private cars of the rest of the day watch were parked in a large dirt clearing. There were no houses or lights visible in any direction. We seemed to be miles from civilization. Somebody opened a Styrofoam chest and started passing out ice-cold Coronas.
Horace Velario, Alonzos three-hundred-pound best friend from high school, nodded his shaved head and shoved a cold one in my hand. 'You could probably use this.'
I was staring dumbly at the semicircle of beaming police officers. I was beginning to realize that before you get to ride in the corrupt squad cars of Haven Park, everybody had to go through this same loyalty test.
'The final initiation,' Alonzo said. 'You're in the posse, man.' He opened the door of the Escalade and announced, 'Come on, we're going to a party.'
I didn't much feel like going to a party. I just wanted to go home, lie down and try to get my nerves to settle. But I did as I was told. The other cops got into their vehicles. I heard doors slamming all around me and then six or eight cars, driving with just their parking lights on, caravaned out of the field and transitioned onto a small paved road, which ran alongside acres of orange groves.
'Where are we?' I asked.
'In the appropriately named city of Orange,' Alonzo said with a grin. He got on the freeway and we were soon flying along, heading back toward downtown L. A.
For the first time since waking up I was beginning to accept the fact that I actually had some tomorrows.
'There's a party in Ladera Heights being thrown in your honor,' Alonzo said, grinning.
'You guys are pretty careful,' I said.
'There's a lot on the table down here, Shane, and nobody wants to see the inside of a prison cell, so you're damn right we're careful.'
It was the first time he'd called me Shane.
We drove right past the cities of Haven Park and Bell and were soon on a twisting road, climbing up to the better neighborhoods in the hills of Ladera Heights. The small, single-story houses in the flatland neighborhoods slowly gave way to million-dollar mansions that overlooked the city. Finally, Alonzo pulled up to a huge double gate that was framed by a mosaic Spanish-style arch. I could see maybe twenty cars in a large parking area behind the wrought iron. The rest of the day watch pulled in behind us. Alonzo leaned out of his driver's window and triggered the security speaker.
'Bell,' he said. 'I got Scully with me.' The gates opened and we pulled up the long drive and parked by a beautiful two-story house with lots of Spanish arches and a red tile roof.
'Whose place is this?' I asked, looking off to the right at a crowd of maybe forty men and women, who were drinking and chatting in clusters around the Olympic-sized pool and cabana.
'Cecil Bratano's,' Alonzo said proudly. 'He throws these bashes maybe twice a month.'
As I got out of the Escalade, Talbot Jones came out of the house and approached me.
'Good going, Scully.' He was dressed in slacks and a blue blazer. I think it was the first time I ever saw him smile.
I could hear music coming from the pool through gigantic speakers. Frank Sinatra was singing 'Leave It All to Me.'
Chapter 30
Sinatra sang about it being 'a very good year.'
Dancers from some strip club in town seconded that thought as they cavorted naked in the big Olympic-sized pool. I met a few politicians from Haven Park and Fleetwood. They all seemed like slimy assholes.
Sinatra sang 'The Fable of the Rose.'
Rick Ross was there. He didn't speak to me, but I saw him with three strippers in the cabana cutting up a line of coke. Great. Just what I wanted to see. Let's hear it for Ricky's rehab.
I spent ten minutes talking about police work with Harry Eastwood, who looked ridiculous in white pants and an iridescent blue shirt. His swayback and potbelly did nothing for the outfit.
I saw the mayors assistant, Carlos Real, whom Alonzo had pointed out to me at A Fuego. I'd asked around and found out he was really just a political bagman. I watched him talking to some seedy Hispanics in suits by the Jacuzzi. All of them needed haircuts. Carlos never stopped moving, shifting his weight, waving his hands around. A kinetic man. Mercury on glass.
I was congratulated by half a dozen Haven Park cops for not puking or browning my pants like shit-stain Larry Miller. They all said I had balls.
I walked around greeting guys. Two topless dancers wanted to take me into the changing room and give me a party, but I managed to escape that indignity.
Then someone introduced me to Oscar Juarez. He was a well-built, clean-cut guy, about twenty-three, with a baby face and chocolate-brown eyes.
'Somebody just told me this party is in your honor,' Oscar said, smiling. 'So whats the deal with that?'
As I was trying to figure out that remark, I wondered if he'd also passed the orange grove test. But if he had, shouldn't he know the reason I was being honored? He looked very young and innocent. It was hard for me to picture him mixed up in this.
'I guess you know what I just went through,' I said, watching his dark eyes carefully, looking for any sign.
'I'm sorry?' he said, perplexed.
'The orange grove?'
'I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about.'
I should have been relieved, but his answer presented me with a new dilemma. Was he really the only street cop in Haven Park who wasn't on the grind, or was he playing me, trying to get me to confide in him so I'd give myself up? Was I still under suspicion? Was my entire orange grove loyalty test just an elaborate head feint? When you're working undercover, you tend to overthink everything.
Rick Ross, who was currently twenty yards away inside the cabana doing a line of blow, had been the one who suggested Oscar might be okay. Did I really want to take his word for anything? I decided I'd better not trust Officer Juarez either. I moved on.
Cecil Bratano had a six-car garage and an hour later I was down there with five or so guests I didn't know, admiring the mayor s impressive car collection. All the garage doors were open and each space contained a beautifully maintained, sixties sports car. He had a Porsche 356B, two Austin Healys, and a classic MGB-GT in mint condition. But the star of his collection was a perfectly restored turquoise-and-white 196 °Cadillac El Dorado convertible. It sat on a pristine concrete floor, its chrome and big fins glittering impressively.
An elderly Hispanic man with silver hair who looked dapper in a dark suit informed me that he took care of the collection and that the Shelby was worth over two hundred thousand. He told me proudly that Cecil had paid cash for all of them. Not bad for an elementary school dropout.
At about eleven-thirty, Talbot Jones found me in the garage. 'Follow me,' he said. 'The man wants to see you now.'
