Chapter 10: One Short Phone Call

Monday July 28, 2008

The Mountains and Valleys Near Shadow Hills, Los Angeles County

The phone number from Tony had to be called, but I had to be careful since it could be a trap by cops, or crooked cops or another gang, or another dealer, or real criminals, etc. Most guys would put on a disguise, find a straw buyer and go buy an active burner phone at a mall someplace. But I already had stone cold phones sitting in a drawer. It was just a case of charging up the battery and making the call from a safe location.

I know a high spot in the hills and canyons, not too far from an airport, with three exit routes. The exits all lead into spots where cell coverage goes away. If anybody had tower access they would know roughly where I called from but that was all. (With only one tower in range and no GPS, that is all the info the phone company has.) After I hung up and pulled the battery the only way to track me would be by having a helicopter nearby, and from the top of the hill with an airport on one side I could see helicopters coming from a long ways away - plus most were banned from the airspace during the busy hours. My people could tap into the airport’s radar just to be sure. That is what happens when you sell state-of-the-art systems to nations where security can be compromised.

LA’s plague of cell phone dead spots had their uses.

I was torn between taking the super-fast Porsche or the blend-anywhere Chevy S-10 pickup truck. The thing is, these canyon roads attract a lot of Porsche’s while the truck might actually stand out, so I took the Porsche - with full NOZ bottles.

Irene rode shotgun with a full military silenced (and very illegal) P90 bullpup in the hidden compartment and her big Desert Eagle, loaded with AP rounds, in her shoulder holster.

I called on Monday, the second date listed, at 1:37 in the afternoon. Tony answered right away.

His first words, before I identified myself were, “I want to come in. We need to talk. It is big.”

I did not bother to ask if it was safe to talk, since he would give me the same answer no matter what. I also did not ask what this was about, since he could easily lie.

Instead I asked about his wheels, they said a lot about a person and his situation. Plus, any cop or fed or bad person listening to the talk would think it was some sort of code or trick question when, in fact, it was quite direct.

“What is your ride right now?” I asked.

“Ducati. A few years old, naked like a work-in-progress but mechanically 110%.”

“Snaps, Hombre.”

It was hard to think of a better choice for solo work, there are no slow Ducati’s. It would not be stolen if it looked kind of ratty with parts exposed and wires hanging out, and it looked a lot less valuable than a new sleek version with all the sleek shiny bits. If he was in canyon territory, which seemed possible, a Ducati had a LOT more passing zones available then even my Porsche, so he could get away from anybody except a helicopter. Also, dressing in full cycle gear, he could be sitting at a stop light next to his witch bitch wife and she would not have a clue.

The only issue was the the Ducati was a peg-scraper, well suited to make speed on LA’s pavement but compromised on any rough ground - which is where I needed to move him.