Mood Music: "You've Got Another Thing Coming", Judas Priest
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I sleep until after noon, recovering from the night with Mercedes, and stroll into Rosenberg’s sometime after lunch. “Well, I hope you’re having a good time, because I’m going OUTTA MY MIND with worry here!”
Why, thank you, Ken, I am. I’m having a very good time. But back to the Forelli business.
“What’d you learn?” he wants to know.
He thinks for a minute, then starts drumming the table out of excitement when he realizes he has a source but can’t remember the name. “PAUL! Kent Paul! Some music industry slime ball, a limey. If anybody knows the whereabouts of ten kilos of coke, it's him. Hangs around the Malibu all the time. Just look for the guy making an ass of himself.”
Hello, Kent Paul.
He takes some convincing -- a little throwing around here and there -- but tells me there’s a guy in town, a small-time dealer, who’s suddenly come into a lot of coke. Might have profited from a deal gone wrong like mine. I tell the guy thanks -- heh -- and then leave.
The hotel is a big one. From what I can tell, the coke trade on this part of town consists of hundreds of petty dealers. This guy must be one of them. I need to lure him out, and since he’s a dealer and I’m pretty sure I know a junkie, I make the call to Rosenberg and ask him to give the guy a ring. Rosenberg acts insulted when I imply he’s a user, but I’m not a man to be argued with. He makes the call, and like I hoped, the guy goes outside.
I peek around the corner of the building and see him chatting. I pull a handgun from my jacket, a handgun I lifted from a cop who was beaten up by the guy he was chasing. I breathe deeply. I haven’t aimed a gun at someone since Harwood -- but it’s time.
“Hey,” I say, stepping out from behind the building. The gun cocks. He stares at me, open-mouthed. He hangs up. “Your source. Talk.”
He suddenly gets cocky. “Make me, you prick!” Then I get it. He’s yelling, attracting attention from the sidewalk just a few feet away so I won’t shoot him. He wants to play that way, fine. I took that cop’s baton, too. I spent the last fifteen years in prison. If I know how to do one thing besides catcall the warden, it’s bust heads.
“TALK!” I yell, smacking him with the baton few minutes later. He says nothing. He’s in a coma, or dead. I can’t really tell. Damn it. When I get angry, I tend to forget what I’m doing. I don’t think. That’s why Harwood.
“Way to go, tough guy. Beat him to a pulp. That should make him real chatty.” I hear a voice say. I’m startled, to say the least, and jump up with the gun. “Take it easy,” he says.
“What do you want?” This guy sounds weird, like he’s trying to be a tough guy but isn’t. Maybe he’s one of those vice cops. I’ve got the gun, though. Not him.
“Same thing you want, brother,” he says.
“Oh yeah,” I say to myself. I remember this guy. He was flying the helicopter on the night of the deal. “And? I don’t particularly need the help,” I say, lying my ass off.
“My back’s just fine, ‘brother’,” I say. He snorts.
“You sure about that?” I turn around and there are three rough-looking guys in aprons -- holding knives. Surprised twice in one night? I’m losing my touch. Well, hell. I've been inside for fifteen years. But still...
We make a run for it and pile inside his car. He takes off. “The thing you gotta realize about this town is, you gotta pack some heat.” He takes me to the local gunshop, which I’ve somehow missed so far. Since he’s in a hospitable mood, I try to work him for a little information. He sees my angle right away, drives down the road a little bit. “See that place?” he says, pointing through the mist of the night -- to a mansion on an island in the middle of the water.
“Starfish Island,” he says, “Home of the dope king himself, Ricardo Diaz. Heard the name?” I nod. “Way I see it, he’s the man to look into. He’s got his little fingers in every coke pie he can find. Problem is, he’s untouchable. He owns the police, lives in a gated community, employs a private army of goons. Easier to hit the president than this guy.” We sit there for a few minutes, the mansion in sight.
“What about the South American guy, the colonel?” He shrugs.
“Don’t know too much about him. My brother’s the one who had contact with one of his men. He keeps to himself, though. I can’t see him ordering a hit on a deal, except maybe on Diaz’s behalf. They’re tight, so far as I know.”
I think of Diaz and the colonel on the boat. Business partners. “We need a way in,” I say, more to myself than to him. He laughs.
“Right on.” He shows me around town a little more, this time pointing out areas of interest in the coke trade. We’ll need to start keeping our eyes on these areas, find someone who will talk. On Prawn Island, he points out a couple of mansions.
“See those? Used to belong to Diaz’s competition.“
They’re ruins. Doors and windows are falling off, paint is peeling, walls are covered in bullet holes and burn marks. “Diaz had my- he had men take them out, then bought the land. Keeps `em this way to remind people what Diaz does to people who cross him.” Then the guy takes me back to the hotel after I tell him the location, and drives off after promising to contact me later. I don’t even know the guy’s name.
Looks like I’ve got someone else to run with for the moment, though.
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