Criminal Justice Read online

  Vince smiled slightly. “Don’t count on it. He’s DEA to the bone.”

  “Looks like a rocker to me.” Willy turned a dial and cut the volume. “I gather Rick hasn’t showed up yet.”

  “No. Maybe Arlo Pate told him I was here. Looks like Rick is avoiding me.”

  “Relax, Vince. What can you do? Either Salazar comes through or he doesn’t. It’s not up to you.”

  “Jesus, I hate waiting. I’d rather be shot at than have to wait around.” Vincent cracked his knuckles, a bad habit, but he’d broken so many bones in his hands over the years that it felt good loosening them up.

  The music suddenly stopped.

  The studio door had opened. The band’s drummer, Leon Davila, came in. He set down his can of MelloYello, peeled off his leather jacket, and motioned for Arlo Pate to get out of the way. Pate took his time, reaching down to pick up a long-neck beer in one big paw. He stood up slowly, towering over Davila by a foot or more, making him wait.

  “Move it, man.” Davila’s voice sounded distant on the open mikes. He jerked his head to get his shoulder-length hair out of his face. He wore an unbuttoned black vest, and his body, corded with muscle, had an emaciated, hungry look to it. Tattoos circled his biceps like armbands. His legs were sticks in black jeans, ending in filthy red high-tops.

  A month ago Leon Davila had been photographed coming out of a motel near the Miami airport dressed like a tourist, a travel bag over his shoulder. He got into the passenger seat of a waiting Grand Cherokee with tinted windows, which the DEA then tailed to a branch of the Banco Nacional de Quito on Brickell Avenue downtown. The car turned into the parking garage, and a security gate came rattling down. A confidential informant at the bank said that the bag had contained $275,000 in cash to be laundered by Miguel Salazar for the Guayaquil cartel. When the U.S. marshals served the arrest warrants, Davila’s name would be on the list.

  Willy said, “Check it out. See how he’s wiping his nose? He must’ve stopped in the men’s room for a bump. He keeps a little bag in his undies. By the time we quit tonight, he’s gonna be ripped.” Willy leaned back in his chair and put one foot on the edge of the console. “I don’t know how Rick Robbins is going to keep this group together. Kelly skipped out early last night. Now the bass player’s late—again. They all play this game—it’s a race to see who’s last.”

  The two women finally wandered in, Kelly Dorff and Martha Cruz. Kelly was a skinny blonde. Martha had some curves. Her black hair stood out in wild waves. Baggy jeans hung off her hips. She had three silver rings in her navel, and the chain looping through them ran up under a cropped T-shirt. If she had a bra on, Vincent couldn’t tell.

  “That is one sexy chick,” Willy said. “Come on, Vince, admit it.”

  Vince smiled and smoothed his mustache into his beard.

  Martha Cruz spoke into the studio mike. “Willy? You there? What about that chord change in ‘Last Man Out’? Did you get that on tape?”

  “Wait a minute!” Kelly looked up from plugging in her guitar. “Excuse me? I wrote that song.”

  “Yes, Kelly, but listen to the progression. It goes nowhere.” Martha’s hands came down on the keyboard. “See what I mean? Now listen while I do it the other way.”

  The chords were drowned out by the buzzing shriek of Kelly’s guitar.

  After a moment of complete silence, Kelly threw her hair back over her shoulder and said quietly, “We are not a techno band.”

  “It isn’t techno. Would you just use your ears? It’s totally new.”

  “What are you trying to do? Be different just to say you’re different?”

  Martha stared at her. “You really don’t get it. You don’t even hear it.”

  Leon was bouncing on his seat behind the drums, laughing at the girls. Martha Cruz yelled across the room, “Leon, shut your—” Her curses disappeared under a barrage of drum volleys. Bam, ka-bam, ching-ching, bam—More complex than Arlo Pate’s steady thuds but just as loud.

  In the control room Vincent asked Willy, “What do you think of this stuff?”

  Willy turned around to look at him. “The music?”

  “Yeah. What the hell is it?”

  “Man, you need to get out more. It’s brilliant. I’d say it’s … well, sort of a rave core, add some blues, like the bastard son of Thrill Kill Kult and John Lee Hooker. Love it or hate it, man. They’re great. Martha’s phenomenal. If I wasn’t working for you guys, I’d love to record this band.”

  Vince glanced at the studio door, which was opening again. Rick Robbins came in with another man close behind. About six-two, one-eighty. Brown hair and eyes, early thirties. Jeans, sneakers, blue pullover sweater.

  “What in hell—” Vince moved back from the window.

  “Who’s the guy with Rick?” Willy asked.

  “Long story.” Standing out of the light, Vincent watched Rick Robbins take Dan Galindo over to talk to the musicians. Leon Davila put down his drumsticks long enough to shake Galindo’s hand. Kelly Dorff stayed where she was, not speaking to him. She went through some fingering on her guitar with the volume turned off. Her glance moved for an instant to the control-room window. She made a tense, wide-eyed shrug. I don’t know what he’s doing here. Vincent didn’t believe that.

  He had last seen Dan Galindo two years ago in a gray pinstripe suit outside a federal courtroom. He might have beat the shit out of him if another agent hadn’t pulled him back. Now Vince was fifteen pounds heavier and wearing a beard, but this operation would be over if he were recognized.

  Second problem—Kelly Dorff. He wanted to shoot the idiot desk jockey who had picked her for a CI on this case. Kelly had been at a party last year when a DEA raid went down. Luis Barrios—now deceased—had been there as well. Kelly had promised not to mention this to Dan Galindo. She knew what would happen if she did. Ms. Dorff, I will personally escort you to the Atlanta federal pen. You will not jeopardize this operation. Do we understand each other? You will not mention the name Barrios to Mr. Galindo; nor will you allow him to attend your rehearsals.

  Now Galindo was here. He wouldn’t be able to see much more than Willy at the mixing board, the lights flickering on the recording equipment, and his own reflection thrown back at him. Even so, Vince stayed well away from the window.

  “Willy, there’s nothing I’d rather do than stick around and see what’s going on, but if I have to run out the back door, make my apologies.”

  Just then Rick Robbins stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled for Leon Davila to be quiet on the drums. He looked around at the musicians. “We’re short-handed tonight, people. Bill-E got an offer to play with a band in Atlanta. He says it’s starting to happen there, and he has to go. Don’t worry, we’ll find another bassist.”

  “Ay-yi-yi,” Willy said.

  “Is that bad?” Vincent asked.

  “Bad? If Robbins isn’t about to cry right now, he’s the biggest B.S. artist I know. It’s real bad.”

  The musicians stared at Robbins, who kept smiling. “Soon as we find a replacement, we’ll lay in the bass tracks. No problem. You guys are fantastic, okay? You can work around this. Come on. Do I hear a yes?”

  They all looked at each other. Martha Cruz said, “We can do it. We have to.”

  Leon Davila did a drum roll. “And when we get signed, Bill-E can kiss my ass.”

  Kelly Dorff said, “Rick, we can’t rehearse without a bass!”

  “Let’s try it with a click,” Martha said. “Where are the headphones?”

  Kelly swung around, glaring at her. “I know what you’re trying to do. You’re saying that my time sucks.”

  “Don’t be so insecure, Kelly.”

  “I’m not the insecure one.”

  “Let’s just get it done. We’ll worry about the bass later.”

  “Stop ordering everyone around! It’s not your fucking band!”

  Leon was banging on his drums, drowning the women out, playing his double-kick pedal, crashing the cymbals. Rick yelle
d at them all to shut up.

  In the control room, Vincent asked, “What’s a click?”

  “Essentially a metronome,” Willy said. “They all hear it through their headphones. It’s usually for the drummer, or if somebody doesn’t have a good sense of rhythm. For Martha to suggest it is an insult to Kelly. They’ve had a running argument on the subject.”

  Martha Cruz hit the keys, and the sound of a bass guitar came out of a speaker. “How’s that? We can use that for now.”

  “It’s inhuman,” Kelly said. “We can’t play with a damned machine.”

  “It could do lead guitar too.”

  “Martha!” Rick pointed at her. “I said be quiet. We don’t need this right now.” His finger, still extended, swept around the room and stopped. “You! Scott.”

  “Me?” Scott Irwin straightened up from where he had been leaning against the wall.

  “You jammed with Rage when they came through on tour. Right?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Get your guitar and come over here.” Everyone stared at Scott. Rick said, “He knows the tunes. He’s been listening to you play long enough. Let’s try him out for tonight.”

  Vincent could hear Scott’s incredulous laughter over the studio main.

  Martha crossed her arms, a hip cocked to one side. “I’m not playing with him,” she said. “He’s too Van Halen. This isn’t the eighties.”

  “So what? He’s got the rhythm,” Kelly said.

  “Rhythm? Is that all? But what do you know, you don’t even read music.”

  “I said, it’s okay for rehearsal! We can’t rehearse without a bass!”

  “Be honest, Kelly. You can’t.”

  “Shut up!” She threw the first thing she could grab, a beer bottle, which flew past Martha’s keyboard and hit Leon’s high-hat cymbal.

  “Hey!” That brought Leon out of his seat. “¿Qué haces? You gonna break my fuckin’ drums, bitch!”

  “That’s it!” Kelly took her guitar off and dropped it on the floor. It bounced and squealed.

  Willy looked around at Vincent. “Kelly’s freaking out tonight.”

  Rick Robbins rushed over and put his arm around her. “For the love of Christ, what is the matter with you people? Martha, keep your remarks to yourself, will you? The only thing that counts now is getting the demo tape done. Come on, you guys, please!” Even from the control room Vincent could see the sweat on his face.

  Scott said, “You want me in or not?”

  Martha shrugged. “Fine—for rehearsal.” Leon did a roll, going across the drums, ending with a bass thud.

  “And we don’t need a damned click track,” Kelly said.

  Looking through the window as if he were watching a movie, Willy whooped. “Scott’s in the band! I do not believe this!”

  Robbins held up his hands as if to a dog about to bite. “Okay? Everybody all right now? All taken care of?” They nodded. “Good. You’re terrific. Okay, guys, what do you want to do first?”

  Kelly picked up her guitar. “Let’s do ‘Miss the Point.’ Willy! Wait till we run through it with Scott a couple of times. Ready, Scott?”

  “Let’s do it.”

  Leon made four clicks with his drumsticks, and on the downbeat Kelly hit a foot pedal and slammed her right hand across the strings of her guitar. Scott came in, then Martha. Kelly leaned forward and screamed the lyrics into her microphone. Leon’s arms were a blur, and his hair danced on his shoulders. Scott focused on his fingers climbing up and down the frets. He shook his head as if he’d missed a few notes. Martha glared at him, but the band kept going.

  “Smokin’!” Willy said. “Vince, he’s gonna resign from the agency, what do you think?”

  Vince had his eyes on Dan Galindo, who had sat on one end of a broken-down sofa in the corner. So far he hadn’t moved.

  When the music ended, Rick Robbins sank to his knees, arms raised. “Yes! Yes! Thank you, Jesus.” He grabbed Scott Irwin’s head and kissed him on the cheek. “Not there yet, but it’s coming. You’re going to be brilliant. It’s going to happen. Go over it again while I speak to the engineer.”

  The musicians huddled for a talk, then started fooling around on their instruments, making a racket. When Robbins came inside the control room, Willy wheeled around. “Your new bass player kicks major butt.”

  “Think so?”

  “Yeah, no lie. You going to use him for the demo?” Behind Robbins’s back, Willy winked at Vince.

  “I might have to, if I can’t find anybody else. At least he’s got a steady beat. Kelly gets lost without one, and Leon can’t give it to her.” Robbins slit open a roll of antacids with his thumbnail. His hands were shaking slightly. He brought his eyes up to Vincent, who was leaning against the back wall out of the light. “Hey, Victor. I saw you through the window.”

  “It’s been awhile since we talked, Rick.”

  “What do you think of the band?”

  “Rock and roll—it’s not my thing, man.” Victor Ramirez, born in Puerto Rico, spoke with an accent. “You have an answer for me, Rick?”

  “Just about. I’m still working on it. But it looks good.”

  Vincent tilted his head toward the studio. “Who’s the guy that came in with you?”

  “Him?” Robbins looked through the window. “He’s my lawyer.”

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “Checking the place out.” Robbins spread his palms and made a small laugh. “Is there a problem?”

  Vince said, “Does he know about us?”

  “More or less. But he’s cool.”

  “I don’t want him in here. Out there, okay. But not here.”

  “Fine. Whatever.”

  There was an extra chair against the wall. Vince sat in it and crossed his legs. “Rick, I think you’re playing a game.”

  “Not at all.”

  “What’s the problem that you have no answer from Miguel? We’re waiting two weeks already. I got funds coming in. If Miguel wants to take care of it for me, okay. If not—” He shrugged. “You pay me for the work on the tape, find some other studio.”

  “Believe me, Vic, I’m not trying to jack you guys around. He’s cautious. He doesn’t know who you are.”

  “Who could we be?” Willy asked.

  “I don’t know, maybe he thinks you’re DEA.” Robbins laughed.

  Willy and Vince laughed too, then Vince looked up into Robbins’s face. “I’m going to ask you, are we doing business or no? I want you to be sure. If you’re not sure, Rick, you tell me, all right? Now. You don’t waste my time.”

  “I’m okay with the deal. It’s Miguel that’s not sure.”

  “What do you think, Willy? Maybe Rick wants to get the demo tape, then he says, fuck you guys.”

  “No. Absolutely not. I can’t make the man’s mind up for him, can I? But I’m telling you, it looks good.”

  Beyond the glass Vince saw Dan Galindo analyzing the routing of the cables from Martha’s computer to her keyboard, and Kelly’s effects pedals to the amp, then to the shoulder-high speakers behind them. Then his eyes went to the control room. He walked across the studio.

  “Your lawyer’s coming. I told you, I don’t want anyone in here.”

  Robbins went to the door as it opened. For an instant Galindo’s eyes focused on Vince. Then Willy stood up, casually blocking Vince from view. Robbins motioned for Galindo to step back; then they went out, closing the door. The noise from the band diminished.

  Willy glanced around at Vince. “Now what?”

  “I’m going to split. If Galindo asks any questions, handle it.”

  CHAPTER 9

  In a bar near the airport, a neighborhood tavern whose clientele consisted largely of baggage handlers and machinists, Vincent Hooper had a couple of drinks and waited for Scott Irwin. When Scott arrived, his blue-dyed hair was under a Marlins baseball cap and his skull earring was gone. It wasn’t a place a rock musician could walk into without arousing comment.

  Scott
sat next to Vincent at the bar and ordered a bourbon. The handful of patrons in the place were watching an NBA game on the television at the other end. Vince told the bartender to bring another vodka and soda as well, and put the drinks on his tab.

  He asked Scott what had happened at the studio after he’d left.

  “Not a lot. We took a break around eight-thirty, and Martha Cruz went outside to talk to Dan Galindo. I don’t know what they talked about.”

  Vince said, “According to Rick Robbins, Galindo’s in on this deal with Salazar.”

  “Willy told me. I haven’t seen Galindo around Coral Rock, though.”

  “Check it out for us,” Vince said. “You’re closer to the action now. Lucky break for us, the bassist taking off for Atlanta.”

  “Very. And completely unexpected. I spoke to him yesterday. He didn’t mention Atlanta. He was completely into the band. And then boom. Gone.” Scott looked around at Vince, studied him for a moment, then put down his drink. “Hooper, what did you do?”

  “Like you said, a lucky break.” Vince couldn’t keep his face straight. “All right. A guy I know on the Miami narcotics squad did me a favor. Willy was going to recommend you as a replacement, but Rick Robbins made it easy.”

  Scott shook his head. “Amazing.”

  “But I’m worried about you, Irwin. What if you like it? Fame and fortune could be too tempting.”

  “Uh-huh.” Scott picked up his bourbon.

  He was a good kid. Vince had to remember not to call him that—kid. His fake ID said he was twenty-five, but he only looked young. He was almost thirty. A good man. He’d go further than Vincent in the agency because Vincent despised the bureaucrats who ran it and had told them so. Scott had more sense. Already a G-11. It had taken Vince seven years to get there, even with a drawer full of commendations, and another ten to work up to G-13, and he doubted he’d go any higher. The next level was supervisory anyway, a desk job. A few more years he could take early retirement. Then what? Open a security business. Work for one of the South American intelligence agencies that had made offers. It pleased Vince to know that Scott paid attention, but he still had a lot to learn.