“Stop!” Laney screamed. “They need help! You can’t just leave them.”
The car finally skidded onto the pavement. Laney saw that the driver’s side window was gone— shattered — and the car door crushed. Inside, a swarthy man in a white T-shirt with dirty brown stains sat behind the wheel, sunglasses covering his eyes. The tires smoked as the man gunned the engine, trying to speed away. Finally the wheels gained some traction and the swarthy man raced away without a backward glance.
Though she was shaken to the core of her being by the tragedy she’d just witnessed, Laney had the presence of mind to pull the cell phone out of her purse and call the police. She reported the accident, its location, and the license plate of the vehicle that had fled the scene.
It took the LAPD only thirty seconds to positively identify the vehicle involved in the hit and run accident — a cherry-red 1998 Jaguar registered to Mr. Hugh Vetri, film producer, vanity plate number FYLMBOY. The automobile had been reported stolen from a crime scene in Beverly Hills earlier that day. Within two minutes, an all-points bulletin had been issued, and a statewide manhunt for the fugitive driver had begun.
A single rap on the door launched Tony off the rickety bed. On bare feet, he moved silently across the floor and pressed his ear to the scarred wood. Across the room, Fay sat up in the second bed, tense with worry.
Tony caught her eye, placed his index finger to his lips.
“Who’s there?” he called.
“Hey, Navarro…It’s me. Ray Dobyns.”
Only then did Tony peer through the peephole. He recognized Dobyns at once and cursed silently.
Ray Dobyns was a transplant from Wichita, Kansas. His grifts in his home state, and in Arkansas, Texas, and California, finally caught up with Dobyns a decade ago and he fled south to extradition-free Mexico. Since then, Ray had made a marginal living by pulling off similar grifts to the ones Tony’s cover “Navarro” was supposedly running right now— credit card fraud, Internet fraud, passing bad checks.
As Navarro, Tony Almeida had had some dealings with Dobyns two years ago in Ensenada when he’d been working another case. Now Tony tried to recall if he’d given the man any reason to suspect he was more than a petty con man.
“Come on, let me in, man,” Dobyns called from the other side of the thin, battered wood.
“Give me a second,” Tony called. Then he faced Fay Hubley, “Get dressed,” he whispered, “and when I introduce you, talk as little as possible.”
Fay crossed to the bathroom, closed the door. Tony stripped off his shirt, tossed it on the bed and rumpled it among the sheets, Clad only in his chinos, he unbolted the door and flung it open.
Dobyns was nearly a head shorter than Tony— around Fay Hubley’s height. But his girth more than made up for his lack of stature. If anything, Dobyns had only gotten fatter since the last time Tony had seen him. At five-six, Dobyns had to be tipping the scale at three hundred pounds.
“Hey, Ray, come on in,” said Tony, stepping aside.
Dobyn’s face was round, florid, and freckled. Sweaty strands of short-cropped red hair protruded from under the brim of a white Panama hat. He was probably forty, but his baby fat made him appear ten years younger. Pudgy arms dangled from the sleeves of a long Hawaiian shirt, and thick, hairy legs stuck out of white linen shorts. On his wide-splayed feet, dirty, ragged toenails thrust out of the tips of his worn leather sandals.
“Did I
“Ah, I see you’re up to your old tricks, Navarro.”
Tony closed the door. “The usual thing. I’m using the Internet to fill a warehouse in Pasadena, only the stuff’s going in one door and out the other, if you get my drift. In another week I’ll disappear with two-hundred thousand dollars’ worth of merchandise.”
Dobyns nodded, impressed.
“What about you, Ray? What have you been up to?”
Dobyns removed his hat, tossed it on the bed. “A little of this, a little of that. Lately I’ve been moving Prada knockoffs north — some of the top boutiques in Beverly Hills are my best customers, too. Can’t trust anybody these days.”
“How did you know I was in town?”
“A little birdy told me. One of those
Tony remembered the Mexican policeman watching him unload.
The bathroom door opened and Fay Hubley emerged. She’d dressed in a short denim skirt and skimpy purple tank top.
“I
“This is Fay, my new partner,” said Tony.
Fay crossed the room, entwined her arm in Tony’s. “I’m his girlfriend, too, but he’s too afraid of commitment to admit it,” she said. Fay nuzzled Tony’s neck, gently bit his earlobe.
Dobyns’s smirk widened. “I’d say get a room but you already
Tony gently pushed Fay away. “Get back to work.”
Fay tossed her long, curly blond hair and strolled over to the desk, Dobyns’s eyes following her every move. “Lucky man,” he said.
“Want to go get a drink?” Dobyns asked.
Tony shook his head. “Anything you have to say to me you can say in front of Fay,” he told the man.
“Fair enough,” said Dobyns. “Last week I lost a shipment. Prada handbags. Fourteen thousand units — fuckin’ Feds snapped them up on the border. The goddamn line wasn’t moving anyway—”
Tony cut the conversation short. “What’s this to me?”
Dobyns’s eyes moved from Tony to Fay, then back again. “I was wondering if you’ve got room on your score for a third party. Things are getting tough down here. The gangs are muscling in on all the action— MS-13,
Tony sighed and rubbed his neck. Fay pretended to study the monitor in front of her.
“This grift is marginal, not much left to go around,” said Tony. The man’s face fell. Tony figured it was time to throw him a bone. He placed his arm around Dobyns’s shoulder. When he spoke again, it was in a conspiratorial whisper. “Hey, listen Ray. Maybe I can cut you in on one piece of action.”
Dobyns grinned. “Speak, kemosabe.”
“There’s a guy down here, showed up in the last two or three days. He’s another con man who uses computers, just like me. His name’s Richard Lesser and he owes me a lot of money. If you can steer me in Lesser’s direction, I can promise you a piece of action.”
Dobyns stared at Tony through watery green eyes. “How much cash are we talking here?”
Tony pretended to consider the question. “I guess it’s worth a grand up front. Ten more if you lead me to Lesser.”
Dobyns blinked. “This guy must be into you big time. You got a deal, Navarro.”
Tony reached into his chinos, pulled out a thick wallet. He peeled off ten crisp one-hundred-dollar bills, stuffed them into the man’s sweaty hands. Then he pushed Ray Dobyns toward the door.
“I’ll be right here, waiting,” said Tony. “But only for a couple more days. Locate Richard Lesser and tell me where he’s hiding, and there’s more bills just like those coming your way.”
Lonnie snapped up the receiver on the first ring. “This is Nobunaga. Speak.”
“Up and at ’em, samurai. I can’t believe you’re still at home. You’re burning daylight, dude. This is your big day, and opportunity only knocks once.”
Lon greeted his editor by name. Even if hadn’t recognized Jake Gollob’s voice, he’d have recognize the man’s style of discourse. Gollob spoke fluent cliche.
“Been up for hours, Jake,” Lon replied. “Getting ready to go now.” He pulled another delivery uniform out of the closet — this one from Peter’s Pizza — and tossed it, hanger and all, on top of a pile of shirts and overalls already on the bed.
He caught sight of his own reflection in the full-length mirror. At five-eleven he was tall for a Japanese-
