The photo was of a man in his early thirties with bone-white hair that appeared to be pulled back in a ponytail. His skin was as white as a new lampshade and his eyes were the light blue of washed-out denim.
“Edgar Winters,” Harwick said.
“What?”
“Remember that guy? He was like an albino rock star in the seventies. Looked just like this guy. He had a brother, Johnny. Maybe he was the albino.”
“Missed it.”
“So, what’s Milky’s deal? If you’re on him, he must be Road Saints, right?”
“He’s on the bubble. He was cooking for them but never got his colors. Then he got popped and went to the Cork for a nickel. He’s got to crack an egg now if he wants in. And from what I hear, he wants in.”
“Meaning whack somebody?”
“Meaning whack somebody.”
Stilwell explained how the Gang Intelligence Unit kept contacts with intelligence officers at prisons all over California. One such contact provided information on Vachon. Milky had been protected by incarcerated members of the Road Saints during his five-year stay at Corcoran State Penitentiary.
As a form of repayment for that protection, as well as a tariff for his admittance to formal membership in the motorcycle gang turned prison and drug organization, Vachon would perform a contract hit upon his release.
Harwick nodded.
“You’re the resident expert on the Saints, so it goes to you. Got that. Who is the target?”
“That’s the mystery we’re going to solve. We’re going to follow Milky and see if we can find that out. He might not even know himself right now. This could be an in-house thing or a subcontract job the Saints took on. A trade-off with the blacks or the eMe. You never know. Milky might not have his orders yet. All we know is that he’s been tapped.”
“And we’re going to step in if we get the chance.”
“
“
Stilwell handed the whole stack of photos to Harwick.
“That’s the Saints’ active membership. By active I mean not incarcerated. Any one of them could be the target. They’re not above going after their own. The Saints are run by a guy named Sonny Mitchell who’s a lifer up at Ironwood. Anytime anybody on the outside acts up, talks about changing the leadership, maybe bringing it outside the walls, then Sonny has him cut down. Helps keep people in line.”
“How’s he get the word from Ironwood to Milky over at Corcoran?”
“The women. Sonny gets conjugals. He tells his wife, probably right in the middle of giving her a pop. She leaves, tells one of the wives visiting her man in the Cork. It goes like that.”
“You got it down, man. How long’ve you been working these guys?”
“Coming up on five years. Long time.”
“Why didn’t you ever rotate out?”
Stilwell straightened up behind the wheel and ignored the question.
“There’s the bus.”
Stilwell had been right. Milky Vachon’s first stop after getting off the bus was the McDonald’s. He ate two Quarter Pounders and went back to the counter twice for ketchup for his french fries.
Stilwell and Harwick went in a side door and slipped into a booth positioned behind Vachon’s back. Stilwell said he had never met Vachon but that he needed to take precautions because it was likely Vachon had seen his photo. The Saints had their own intelligence net and, after all, Stilwell had been assigned full-time to the gang for half a decade.
When Vachon went to the counter for ketchup the third time, Stilwell noticed that there was an envelope sticking out of the back pocket of his blue jeans. He told Harwick that he was curious about it.
“Most of the time these guys get out, they want no reminders of where they’ve been,” he whispered across the table. “They leave letters, photos, books, everything behind. That letter, that must mean something. I’m not talking sentimental. I mean it means something.”
He thought a moment and nodded to himself.
“I’m gonna go out, see if I can set up a shake. You stay here. When he starts wrapping up his trash, come on out. If I’m not back in time, I’ll find you. If I don’t, use the rover.”
Stilwell called sheriff’s dispatch and had them contact LAPD to send a car. He arranged to meet the car around the corner from the McDonald’s so their conference wouldn’t be seen by Vachon.
It took almost ten minutes for a black-and-white to show. The uniformed officer pulled the car up next to Stilwell’s Volvo, driver’s window to driver’s window.
“Stilwell?”
“That’s me.”
Stilwell pulled a badge out of his shirt. It was on a chain around his neck. Also hung on the chain was a gold 7 about the size of a thumbnail.
“Ortiz. What can I do for you?”
“Around the corner my partner’s keeping an eye on a guy just off the bus from Corcoran. I need to shake him. He’s got an envelope in his back pocket. I’d like to know everything there is to know about it.”
Ortiz nodded. He was about twenty-five, with the kind of haircut that left the sides of his head nearly shaved and a healthy inch of hair up top. He had one wrist on the wheel, and he drummed his fingertips on the dashboard.
“What was he up there for?”
“Cooking crystal meth for the Road Saints.”
Ortiz picked up the rhythm with his fingers.
“He going to go easy? I’m by myself, in case you didn’t notice.”
“At the moment, he should be easy. Like I said, he just got back on the ground. Just give him a kick in the pants, tell him you don’t want him on your beat. That ought to do it. My partner and I will have your back. You’ll be safe.”
“Okay. You going to point him out?”
“He’s an albino with a ponytail. Like that Edgar Winters guy.”
“Who?”
“Never mind. You can’t miss him.”
“All right. Meet back here after?”
“Yeah. And thanks.”
Ortiz pulled away first and Stilwell watched him go. He then followed and turned the corner. He saw Harwick standing on the curb outside the McDonald’s. Moving north on foot half a block away was Vachon.
Stilwell pulled to a stop next to Harwick, and his new partner got in the Volvo.
“I was wondering where you were.”
“Forgot to turn on my rover.”
“Is that the shake car just went by?”
“That’s it.”
They watched in silence as the black-and-white pulled to the curb next to Vachon and Ortiz stepped out. The patrolman signaled Vachon to the hood of the cruiser and the ex-convict assumed the position without protest.
Stilwell reached to the glove compartment and got out a small pair of field glasses and used them to watch the shakedown.
Ortiz leaned Vachon over the hood and patted him down. He held him in that position with a forearm on his back. After checking him for weapons and coming up empty, Ortiz pulled the white envelope out of Vachon’s back pocket.
With his body positioned over the hood, Vachon could not see what Ortiz was doing. With one hand Ortiz was able to open the envelope and look inside. He studied the contents for a long moment but did not remove them. He then returned the envelope to the man’s back pocket.
“Can you see what it is?” Harwick asked.
“No. Whatever it was, the cop looked at it in the envelope.”
