Hard Exit, page 22
He nodded.
“Based on your half of this shipment, I’m guessing eight boats per vanload, two keys per boat. That’s about $320,000 per shipment, less expenses. Now that I hear myself say that, the money that needs to be washed simply gets run through the legitimate company, falsifying the books as needed.”
“That’s how I figure it.”
“When the cocaine’s been extracted, Mike picks it up and distributes it to you and another middleman, or at least one other, as he did last night. You sell it to da Uptown Posse, and the other guy sells it to the MLKs. The gangs step on it as hard as they can get away with and sling it on the street.”
He nodded. “I need a verbal response,” I said.
“Yeah, mostly. Ain’t always eight boats and ain’t no regular schedule. The gangs gotta sell their end, but it’s pretty regular, about once a week, maybe every other. Think there’s other couriers like me, but ain’t sure. You got how it works.”
“Good. Is film producer Marty Milford the kingpin, Mike’s boss?”
“Until I got the shit jacked, I didn’t know. Been doing this for almost two years now, and only deal with Mike. I wondered but wasn’t stupid enough to ask. But, yeah, he’s at the top.”
“How do you know?”
“Because after I got my shit stole, they gave me a choice, but not really.”
“They said you had to kill Chris Cerveris, or they’d kill you.”
He nodded and looked toward the front of the van, trying to hide his tears.
“Speak your answers.”
“Yes, they said they’d kill me. If I’m dead, my mom dies alone.”
“What’s that mean?”
“She got crap insurance, and she’s dying from carcinoid tumors, practically everywhere. You have any idea how much money it takes for one night in a hospital if you got crap insurance? Or chemo treatments? I’m not exaggerating. It’s more than most people make in a year. America, land of the free—free to go broke ’cause you get sick. That’s why I ain’t got shit to show for all this. Money goes to the hospitals and doctors all over the place. It’s bullshit. I was actually a good person before this. Not educated—but not a crook. Ran a handyman business. Never made jack, but I was honest. Now I’m a murderer.”
He cupped his bloody face in his hands and let his pain out. We listened to him cry for a minute. I looked at Jen. She was crying.
“People have done a lot of awful things for far worse reasons, Kenny,” I said. “When my mom was alive, I’d probably have made the same choice you did, so I’m not judging you. But you threatened my life, so there’s zero chance you’re getting out of this, no matter how much sympathy I have for you. And you killed my friends Chris and Big Bill. And Jason Gilson.”
“Yeah. I’m such a loser.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
“Your position is non-negotiable,” I said, “at least if you think you’ll walk away without consequences. You won’t. Now you determine whether you get put on death row, die of old age in general pop, or get killed soon by your organization. I don’t see a fourth option. No, wait, I do. Maybe if you cooperate fully, you’ll go into witness protection, but that’s a longshot. You’ll have to tie up Mike and Milford with a bow to have a shot at WITSEC.”
He looked at his old Asics running shoes. He shook his head slowly but didn’t speak. Sweat dripped down my back. I wiped my forehead with my sleeve and handed the gun to Jen, who hesitated before taking it. Her hands dropped from the unexpected weight of the gun, but then she leveled it at Kenny.
I stopped recording with my phone and called Game.
“Dawg, got an assignment for me?” he said instead of hello. “Summer boring as hell.”
“I do. Be ready in thirty minutes. Jen will pick you up.”
“Awwwight. Spy shit?”
“If driving qualifies.”
“The Porsche?”
“Ford Taurus.”
“For real? Okay, cool.”
I continued to sweat with Kenny while Jen picked up Game, drove to the car rental agency, and returned her Versa. She drove the Range Rover to the van and took my place covering Kenny while I drove the Range Rover to the car rental agency, with Game following in the Taurus. Our shuttle complete, I drove us back to the van. I wouldn’t have been surprised if Kenny had forced Jen to kill him by half-heartedly attacking her because death might seem to be his best option. But he had no fight left.
When we returned, Jen said he’d just sat there, resigned to his fate. Or maybe he was holding out hope he’d land in witness protection. For that to happen, he needed to behave, cooperate, and have his luck change dramatically.
Game was borderline giddy when he realized he was part of a citizens’ arrest. He called it kidnapping because that’s what it looked like and could legally have been. But Kenny seemed to understand we were saving his life, at least for now—until he was shanked in prison. I chose not to look at what we were doing as forcible abduction but as a life-lengthening, captive form of liberation. Of course, I’d shown Kenny my license, and I wouldn’t have minded if he’d been under the impression that what was transpiring was perfectly legal under the California Penal Code.
While Game drove the van cautiously to West Los Angeles, Jen stopped at Versailles on Venice Boulevard and bought seven orders of the Cuban restaurant’s unsurpassed Garlic Chicken. We were hungry, and we still had a lot to talk about. We’d likely be hungry again before we left the motel, so she purchased extra portions.
As Game drove, I didn’t need to point the gun at Kenny because I could’ve broken him like a matchstick if he tried to overpower me—and he was already broken. When we reached the Wilshire Motel, Game moved the BMW to the street, then parked the van where the BMW had been in front of room twelve.
Jen cleaned Kenny’s bloody face with the first-aid kit she kept in the Range Rover. If any of Milford’s crew had been watching the room, they’d long ago figured we’d left through the window because there’d been no sign of life for days. So, we didn’t have to sneak into the room because I didn’t think we were being watched.
We scarfed down our meals, which included chicken, black beans and rice, buttered rolls, and fried plantains. Jen had also purchased a carafe of Cuban coffee.
When we were finished, we sprawled around the room, with Game sitting on the floor in the corner, leaning against the wall, and Kenny sitting in the desk chair that I’d placed in the center of the room. Jen and I sat on the bed, leaning against the headboard. I started the recording app and asked Kenny, “How many of you were there when you killed them?”
“Four. Me, two Posse, and Titan, that moron.”
“Who’s Titan?”
“Skinhead moron works in the shop.”
“We had the misfortune to meet him,” I said. “That’s some team. A white supremacist, two Black gang members, and a white dude almost forced into being a criminal.”
“Funny what money can do,” he said.
“And funny what it can’t,” I said.
“Coulda used one more with the big guy. He was a real fighter. But we coulda did it with only two on the gay guy.”
I laughed. “Gay guy? Because he dressed well?”
“He was watching a musical when we grabbed him. Hid outside. Grabbed him walking his little lap dog. That moron Titan broke its neck, threw it in the trash. He didn’t have to do that. Someone woulda taken it, and it ain’t like it could I.D. us.”
“That’s horrible on many levels,” I said. “How’d you catch Chris unawares? He was neither old and distracted nor self-absorbed and clueless?”
“Milford said I had to kill him to work off the hijacked drugs. Then we’d be cool, but parta me knew he’s lying, because then I’d have something on him, and he’d have something on me. At least I knew that much.”
“How’d you do it?”
“Climbed over the security fence after dark. Thought he’d have motion detectors, maybe dogs. We moved around and waited, thinking we’d have to jump back over, find another way. But nothing happened. We snuck up to the house. Alphonse used his lighter on the trashcan full of leaves, made sure the fire took. We hid around the corner of the garage. He comes running out about ten minutes later when he smells smoke. Titan sticks the gun in his ear. Trash can melted, but the house was only scorched. Probably fire-resistant paint.”
“How’d you get Big Bill outside with you?”
“Planned to do what worked later with the gay guy: Wait outside ’til he come out, but I saw a light down by the deck. That old house didn’t have security. He was sitting in a beach chair next to a lantern, throwing sticks in a barrel. We snuck close in the sand, watched him. He got up, grabbed sticks, threw them again. We brung the rope, just like we done at the first one.
“When he got up the third time, we charged him from behind, threw the rope over his head, and hung on. That guy musta been something back in the day. Alphonse got an elbow in the eye, Deion broke a rib or two, Titan got knocked on his ass twice, and I took a kick to the balls. Dropped to the sand in agony, trying to catch my breath. That’s when I saw the red kayak hanging there. It didn’t make sense. Red Wave Skimmers only exist between the factory and the shop. The process makes them disappear, but there it was.
“The others don’t know the process, I don’t think, so I didn’t mention it to them. Don’t know how the big guy got it, but I guessed. Maybe he stopped by the factory late at night at the right time. He owned the place. I don’t know. But he probably kept it as insurance. He could use it against Milford, prove what he was doing. I saw an opportunity, so after he was dead, hanging there, I drove them back to town and did what every jackass knows not to do: Return to the scene of the crime. I approached from the public entrance, unhooked the kayak, and had it back over the fence and in the van in a flash. Didn’t take but seven minutes, tops.”
“Where is it?”
“My apartment. Supposed to be my ticket out. Buy my freedom from Milford.”
“It was leverage when Big Bill had it,” I said, “an ace in the hole, or so he thought. But it didn’t keep him alive, and now it’s just another reason for Milford to kill you. You cost them their share of the $160,000 with the first stolen shipment. I was surprised you weren’t killed for that, but he had other plans for you. Now that you’ve killed three men for him, you’re a liability and their next target, and that was before a second shipment went missing.” I patted the backpack. “No way anyone will believe you got a second shipment stolen without being involved.”
“Damn straight.” He stared at his shoes again. “Can’t the kayak buy us anything?”
“Maybe. I’ll have to figure out if we can make it work for us. You were surprised to see it that night, so Milford probably doesn’t know it was there, either. Big Bill wasn’t targeted because he had the kayak, at least not that we know of.”
“Don’t think so.”
“Milford was probably cleaning up loose ends. My guess is that Chris suspected Milford of smuggling drugs, or maybe he knew he was. They’d been partners for decades. Chris could’ve seen a dramatic difference in lifestyle, or—who knows?—stumbled upon a cash delivery. But what if Chris accused Milford while Gilson was present, at a party or while on set together? Milford had to get rid of the guy who just threatened to turn him in and the witness who heard the threat. Chris knew Big Bill. The three of us fished for halibut in Wave Skimmers a few times. Did Big Bill tip off Chris? Did Chris know that Big Bill had a red kayak filled with cocaine?
“It doesn’t matter because Milford got spooked enough to eliminate everyone he thought could bring him down, except for Alphonse, Deion, Titan, and you. And my guess is you’re all next. But Milford can’t keep bringing in third parties to do the killing for him, or there will always be people who can turn on him. If I were Milford, I’d start looking hard at Mike because Mike knows how the operation works and can bring down Milford. It has to be Mike’s job to oversee the lower-rung distributors.”
“Milford take Mike out?” Kenny asked. “I don’t know, man. They’re a team. Mike had Milford’s back this whole time.”
“You’re probably right, so I’m just speculating about what would happen if he weren’t Milford’s rock, if we made Mike appear to betray him or rip him off. That could be pointless because we already know they want you and me dead. Maybe pointing a finger at Mike is unnecessary. But if Milford doesn’t turn on Mike, then Mike will be the one he tells to take out the four killers.”
We eventually arrived at a plan that we thought had a chance to work. Jen suggested we turn over Kenny and the cocaine to law enforcement in the hope the D.A. would go easy on him for cooperating. But he was involved in three murders. He could turn over the red kayak to them, explain the process, and direct them to the shop where the cocaine was extracted. His story and eight kilos would be enough for a judge to issue a search warrant for the shop. But as she made the suggestion, I realized that Milford could dismantle the shop. If he did that and cleaned up any evidence of coke ever having been inside the San Felipe factory, the authorities would have nothing to charge him with. He’d protected himself by having Chris, Big Bill, and Gilson killed, and he could only be implicated in those murders if Kenny, Alphonse, Deion, or Titan testified against him. Or maybe Mike.
“With the best lawyers that money could buy, Milford could be painted as a grieving movie producer and the owner of forty-nine percent of Wave Skimmer whose luck had turned awful overnight. Losing two business partners—Chris Cerveris and Big Bill Watson—on consecutive days, then losing friend and fellow showbiz big-wig Jason Gilson immediately thereafter. It was all just so tragic. Poor Marty Milford. To anyone hearing the details, this story would look suspicious, but suspicion rarely sentences anyone to life in prison or to death row. Not when they have good lawyers.
We needed proof to guarantee Marty would be locked up forever.
I asked Kenny if he had any written or photographic proof of Milford’s cocaine-smuggling scheme. He’d traveled to San Felipe and back almost weekly for about two years but had no documents implicating Milford. Mike had approached Kenny with a fantastic business opportunity when Kenny was visiting his mother in Saint John’s Health Center in Santa Monica. After Kenny had made a few trips back and forth and marveled at how much money he’d made just for driving a van, Kenny asked Mike if he was the first driver to make these runs. Mike told him no. “What happened to the last guy?” Kenny had asked. Mike responded, “He got curious.”
Kenny continued to pay his mother’s exorbitant medical bills with the money he earned, never watching how the cocaine was infused into the kayaks and never watching how it was extracted. If he’d been audited, he would’ve been sunk because even a highly successful handyman/house painter wouldn’t be able to pay medical bills a tenth as large as his mother’s were. But he took that chance because doctors were keeping his mother alive.
I put the gun under my pillow and asked Game to keep watch over us while we slept for a few hours. It was only early evening, but I’d hardly slept in days, and I was exhausted. I didn’t think Kenny would try to leave, especially because I had the keys to the van and the BMW in my pocket, and Jen had the key to the Range Rover in hers.
Before I put my head down, I asked Game, “You let your mom know you’re with me, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Wake me in three hours, please, or if Kenny tries to leave.”
“Ain’t going nowhere,” Kenny said. “I’m a dead man for sure out there. At least here I can have more chicken, right?”
“Knock yourself out. But I suggest you try to sleep. The next two days could be wild, and if we’re really lucky, our biggest concern will be our lack of sleep.”
Jen wrapped her right arm around me and adjusted her pillow.
“And if we ain’t lucky?” Game asked.
“We’ll have no concerns at all.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The red Wave Skimmer sat to the left of Big Bill Watson’s walnut casket in the chapel at Holy Cross Cemetery. Nearly every pew was filled. A three-foot-by-four-foot poster of Big Bill paddling a yellow Wave Skimmer sat on an easel to the right of the lectern at which Father Gerard gave the sermon. Kenny sat to my left in the fifth pew from the front on the right side of the chapel, and Jen sat to my right. I’d set two coats down lengthwise on the pew about fifteen minutes before the service so we could enter after Marty Milford and after Frank led in his mother, Sadie, and Frank’s wife, Janet, and their two daughters. I didn’t want Milford to see us as he walked to the first pew, so I’d left the coats. Mike Sherwood sat at the end of the pew, next to Milford, who wore his long red hair in a ponytail. Game waited outside in the BMW.
After I woke up in the Wilshire Motel, I’d gone outside, crossed the courtyard to Wilshire Boulevard, and called Frank, even though it was after midnight. I didn’t want to wake Jen by talking in the room, and I didn’t want Kenny to overhear my plan, on the small chance that he still thought his best bet was to remain loyal to Milford. I’d already involved Game in ways I probably shouldn’t have, but when I figured out that Mike was instrumental in Milford’s crimes, I wondered if Mike would consider Game a liability. What did Mike think Game and the MLK members knew about the distribution scheme? Had the supplier who sold to the MLKs mentioned who delivered the coke to him? I suspected I was probably rationalizing, but, after I learned that Amanda was using again and Mike was involved in the smuggling and the murders, I trusted no one except Jen, Game, and Frank. And I was on the fence about Frank.
