On the Grind (2009) by Stephen - Scully 08 Cannell Page B
Authors: Stephen - Scully 08 Cannell
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the little lies we tell ourselves that help to get us through. Whatever the reason, I felt safer here, and it was a big trade-up physically from the Haven Park Inn.
I called Sammy Ochoa from a pay phone in the casino and while I explained what I wanted, and we argued over price, I watched tables full of stone-faced men playing blackjack, wearing ball caps and sunglasses, who reminded me of the walking dead in a George Romero movie. After some haggling, Sammy and I agreed on a price and arranged to meet an hour from now on Melrose.
I left the casino and drove across town in the MDX playing my rap station loud. I spotted Sam standing on the West Hollywood street corner we'd agreed upon, just half a block down from his porno movie theater, which was currently running a gay-biker double bill: Hot Chaps and Chrome Chain Cowboys. Probably gonna miss those two.
Sammy from Miami was a short, wiry Cuban with skin the color of a Starbucks latte. His teeth were yellow from years of smoking Cuban cigars. Tonight he was dressed in leather pants and a vest, looking like a South American gaucho. I thought Sammy would be good for what I needed because he also had a long yellow sheet. If somebody in Haven Park checked him out, he'd come back dirty as a public toilet.
I pulled up and let him into the car, then drove down the street with the rap music pounding.
"Jesus, Scully. What's with this music?" he said, reaching out and turning off the radio.
I pointed out the two hidden microphones as I drove. One under the glove compartment, one in the rearview mirror. He nodded. I'd warned him on the phone that the car was bugged and he understood we were only putting on a show.
"So, is it done?" he said, getting right to the heart of it.
"Yeah, wait a minute. I wanta find a place to park so we can talk."
I turned onto La Brea and drove until I found a strip mall on the corner of Santa Monica Boulevard. I pulled in and turned off the engine.
"Okay, Sam, yeah, it's done. The guest of honor's in harp class. Coroner booked the stiff in at two A . M . last night."
"I need proof of death," he said. "I ain't pay-in' till I know that scumbag is really breathin' dirt."
"I got pictures just like last time," I said. "Plus, I can give you the coroners tag number. After I pulled his drapes, I took his wallet. He's a Cuban illegal, and you were right, his prints aren't in the system yet. He's booked as Juan Doe Seventeen and is in the freezer at Mission Road. Just go in and tell them your cousin is missing or something. Describe this gu y and they'll show you the stiff."
"I'll send a guy down. After we see him on a tray, I'll pay for the hit."
"Since I got thrown off the LAPD I got no cash. My wife is divorcing me and her attorney is locking everything up. I'm working down in Haven Park now, but the pay sucks and I haven't even got my first check yet."
"None of this is my problem."
"We've done business before. You know I guarantee results."
"Show me the shots."
I loudly unzipped a bag I'd brought with me and Sammy did some good acting, laughing slightly as he pretended to look at digital photos on my nonexistent camera.
"Jesus. What did you hit him with? Back of his head is gone."
"Two hollow points behind the ear. That's what ten grand buys you. I want my money."
He waited a beat and then said, "Okay, tell you what. I'll give you half now and half when I have proof of death. That's the best I can do."
I sighed loudly. "Gimme it."
I had five hundred in fresh currency ready and counted the bills, snapping them loudly for the benefit of the mikes. I slipped the cash silently over to him--payment in full for a great performance.
"You can just let me out here," Sammy said as he opened the door. "I got some jokers working up on Sunset selling Madonna's underwear to tourists. Got her name embroidered on it and everything. Interested? Actual Madonna thongs, crotchless panties and tit-hole bras. I swear it's her gear."
"I look terrible in
I called Sammy Ochoa from a pay phone in the casino and while I explained what I wanted, and we argued over price, I watched tables full of stone-faced men playing blackjack, wearing ball caps and sunglasses, who reminded me of the walking dead in a George Romero movie. After some haggling, Sammy and I agreed on a price and arranged to meet an hour from now on Melrose.
I left the casino and drove across town in the MDX playing my rap station loud. I spotted Sam standing on the West Hollywood street corner we'd agreed upon, just half a block down from his porno movie theater, which was currently running a gay-biker double bill: Hot Chaps and Chrome Chain Cowboys. Probably gonna miss those two.
Sammy from Miami was a short, wiry Cuban with skin the color of a Starbucks latte. His teeth were yellow from years of smoking Cuban cigars. Tonight he was dressed in leather pants and a vest, looking like a South American gaucho. I thought Sammy would be good for what I needed because he also had a long yellow sheet. If somebody in Haven Park checked him out, he'd come back dirty as a public toilet.
I pulled up and let him into the car, then drove down the street with the rap music pounding.
"Jesus, Scully. What's with this music?" he said, reaching out and turning off the radio.
I pointed out the two hidden microphones as I drove. One under the glove compartment, one in the rearview mirror. He nodded. I'd warned him on the phone that the car was bugged and he understood we were only putting on a show.
"So, is it done?" he said, getting right to the heart of it.
"Yeah, wait a minute. I wanta find a place to park so we can talk."
I turned onto La Brea and drove until I found a strip mall on the corner of Santa Monica Boulevard. I pulled in and turned off the engine.
"Okay, Sam, yeah, it's done. The guest of honor's in harp class. Coroner booked the stiff in at two A . M . last night."
"I need proof of death," he said. "I ain't pay-in' till I know that scumbag is really breathin' dirt."
"I got pictures just like last time," I said. "Plus, I can give you the coroners tag number. After I pulled his drapes, I took his wallet. He's a Cuban illegal, and you were right, his prints aren't in the system yet. He's booked as Juan Doe Seventeen and is in the freezer at Mission Road. Just go in and tell them your cousin is missing or something. Describe this gu y and they'll show you the stiff."
"I'll send a guy down. After we see him on a tray, I'll pay for the hit."
"Since I got thrown off the LAPD I got no cash. My wife is divorcing me and her attorney is locking everything up. I'm working down in Haven Park now, but the pay sucks and I haven't even got my first check yet."
"None of this is my problem."
"We've done business before. You know I guarantee results."
"Show me the shots."
I loudly unzipped a bag I'd brought with me and Sammy did some good acting, laughing slightly as he pretended to look at digital photos on my nonexistent camera.
"Jesus. What did you hit him with? Back of his head is gone."
"Two hollow points behind the ear. That's what ten grand buys you. I want my money."
He waited a beat and then said, "Okay, tell you what. I'll give you half now and half when I have proof of death. That's the best I can do."
I sighed loudly. "Gimme it."
I had five hundred in fresh currency ready and counted the bills, snapping them loudly for the benefit of the mikes. I slipped the cash silently over to him--payment in full for a great performance.
"You can just let me out here," Sammy said as he opened the door. "I got some jokers working up on Sunset selling Madonna's underwear to tourists. Got her name embroidered on it and everything. Interested? Actual Madonna thongs, crotchless panties and tit-hole bras. I swear it's her gear."
"I look terrible in
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