two ASACs, each responsible for overseeing half of the groups of special agents. Next in line comes the SAC, or special agent in charge; in L.A. the SAC is responsible for all of Southern California, from the Mexican border to as far north as Paso Robles. Administrators above the rank of special agent seldom leave ATF offices to see action in the field.
I left Van Nuys after informing my RAC that I would be working that night. He ran his standard admin-babble by me. “Be in the office in the morning, and don’t forget your duty-agent assignment.” “Duty agent” was yet another genius boondoggle dreamed up by ATF administrators wherein they assigned senior investigators to do secretarial work—answering telephones and sorting messages. I doubt this was what Uncle Sam had in mind for his tax dollars when he trained me to be a federal law-enforcement officer.
At about 8:30 P.M. I jumped on my new hot-rod Harley and headed for the Rose Bowl, where I found Ciccone sitting in his black Pontiac Grand Am. John loved that car but drove it like he was going to turn it over to the junkyard tomorrow. I’m not a deeply religious person, but every time I rode anywhere with Ciccone, no matter how short a distance, I said a prayer for myself and any innocent bystanders in his path.
The Rose Bowl, focus of the sports-loving nation every January 1, is a huge venue that holds more than ninety thousand people during college football games. It’s located in a narrow pass that separates the San Fernando and San Gabriel valleys. The area is mostly residential, with an affluent, old-money feel. Even during periods with no special events, people come from all over to walk around the area. But on this night the Rose Bowl was dead calm and the parking lot dark. A thousand stars spread out across the clear California sky.
In his Pontiac, Ciccone and I mulled over the upcoming operation while waiting for our CI to show up. Ciccone hadn’t said too much to me about the CI. I knew that she’d contacted an LAPD detective and was willing to introduce someone into the Mongols. She claimed, according to this detective, that she was pissed off at the Mongols because of what she’d seen them do to a friend of hers. Not that the bikers had stolen everything he owned, or beaten him within an inch of his life, or some other god-awful thing. Nope, she was angry because she’d watched as the Mongols scooped up one of her friends and turned him from a good family man into a flaming Mongol asshole. The fact that he was an eager participant in the transformation (or that she herself continued to be a willing Mongol hanger-on) didn’t play into her twisted logic. Personally, I didn’t care why she was doing what she was doing; I was using her, albeit with her permission, to further our noble cause.
Within the law-enforcement community there is a saying about confidential informants: “You never know when they’re gonna piss backward on you.” I knew that an introduction into any undercover operation by way of a CI was risky, but I really had no clue how risky until I met Sue* 1 face-to-face.
Within a few minutes a pickup truck rolled into the parking lot. It was old, dirty, banged up, reflecting no pride of ownership. It pulled up under the sole streetlight where Ciccone and I were sitting in his Pontiac. Although I’d never really given it much thought, I suppose in my own wishful mind I’d envisioned the CI to be a cute little biker chick who’d been turned around by an attack of conscience.
But what rolled out of the truck was two hundred pounds of bleached-blond tweaker that could neither stand still nor shut up. “Tweaker” is cop vernacular for a methamphetamine addict; anyone who knows anything about meth can tell you that its physiological effects are brutal. It can take an attractive young woman and make her look like Medusa in no time. In Sue’s case, she had probably started from a disadvantaged position, and it had all gone
I left Van Nuys after informing my RAC that I would be working that night. He ran his standard admin-babble by me. “Be in the office in the morning, and don’t forget your duty-agent assignment.” “Duty agent” was yet another genius boondoggle dreamed up by ATF administrators wherein they assigned senior investigators to do secretarial work—answering telephones and sorting messages. I doubt this was what Uncle Sam had in mind for his tax dollars when he trained me to be a federal law-enforcement officer.
At about 8:30 P.M. I jumped on my new hot-rod Harley and headed for the Rose Bowl, where I found Ciccone sitting in his black Pontiac Grand Am. John loved that car but drove it like he was going to turn it over to the junkyard tomorrow. I’m not a deeply religious person, but every time I rode anywhere with Ciccone, no matter how short a distance, I said a prayer for myself and any innocent bystanders in his path.
The Rose Bowl, focus of the sports-loving nation every January 1, is a huge venue that holds more than ninety thousand people during college football games. It’s located in a narrow pass that separates the San Fernando and San Gabriel valleys. The area is mostly residential, with an affluent, old-money feel. Even during periods with no special events, people come from all over to walk around the area. But on this night the Rose Bowl was dead calm and the parking lot dark. A thousand stars spread out across the clear California sky.
In his Pontiac, Ciccone and I mulled over the upcoming operation while waiting for our CI to show up. Ciccone hadn’t said too much to me about the CI. I knew that she’d contacted an LAPD detective and was willing to introduce someone into the Mongols. She claimed, according to this detective, that she was pissed off at the Mongols because of what she’d seen them do to a friend of hers. Not that the bikers had stolen everything he owned, or beaten him within an inch of his life, or some other god-awful thing. Nope, she was angry because she’d watched as the Mongols scooped up one of her friends and turned him from a good family man into a flaming Mongol asshole. The fact that he was an eager participant in the transformation (or that she herself continued to be a willing Mongol hanger-on) didn’t play into her twisted logic. Personally, I didn’t care why she was doing what she was doing; I was using her, albeit with her permission, to further our noble cause.
Within the law-enforcement community there is a saying about confidential informants: “You never know when they’re gonna piss backward on you.” I knew that an introduction into any undercover operation by way of a CI was risky, but I really had no clue how risky until I met Sue* 1 face-to-face.
Within a few minutes a pickup truck rolled into the parking lot. It was old, dirty, banged up, reflecting no pride of ownership. It pulled up under the sole streetlight where Ciccone and I were sitting in his Pontiac. Although I’d never really given it much thought, I suppose in my own wishful mind I’d envisioned the CI to be a cute little biker chick who’d been turned around by an attack of conscience.
But what rolled out of the truck was two hundred pounds of bleached-blond tweaker that could neither stand still nor shut up. “Tweaker” is cop vernacular for a methamphetamine addict; anyone who knows anything about meth can tell you that its physiological effects are brutal. It can take an attractive young woman and make her look like Medusa in no time. In Sue’s case, she had probably started from a disadvantaged position, and it had all gone
Similar Books
Escape Velocity: The Anthology
Unknown
Black Opal
Catie Rhodes
Secrets
Lynn Crandall
Geek Mafia: Mile Zero
Dakan, Rick
The Seven Gifts
John Mellor
Under His Protection
Katie Reus
The Autistic Brain: Thinking Across the Spectrum
Temple Grandin, Richard Panek
Min's Vampire
Stella Blaze
The Inspector and Silence
Håkan Nesser