You couldn’t just walk into the Street Front’s hideout and ask to see Covarra. He didn’t run a medical clinic where walk-ins were allowed. Those who went to see him often required healthcare services, however.
I’ll have to find a way to get him out of that house, Cutter mused as he sat at his screen and logged into Werner. His search led him to his first stop.
Isaiah ‘Issa’ Limon was lounging against his ride at the far end of the LAX-it lot, from where travelers picked up their cabs or app services rides. It was next to Terminal One of Los Angeles International Airport, a new development to reduce traffic congestion at the airport.
‘Off duty,’ the driver said, waving Cutter away as he approached.
That’s a joint he’s hiding between his fingers.
‘I don’t want a ride,’ he told the tall African-American. ‘You want to make some easy money?’
Limon snorted. ‘No such thing, dude.’
‘This one is. It pays thirty grand. Ten, up front, balance on completion.’
The figure got his attention. He stuffed his phone away and straightened against his vehicle as he studied the speaker, who was in a new disguise.
Brown wig, long sideburns, crooked teeth, a scar on his forehead. A look could either be forgettable or memorable. Cutter had gone for the latter. Middle-aged spread at his belly, nothing special about his clothing, shades that concealed the dark contacts in his eyes.
‘For doing what?’
‘Driving a car.’
‘I do that already. This babe,’ Limon patted his ride, which had seen better days. ‘Don’t need your money or the sweat. I bet there’s some criminal activity involved.’
‘Yeah. You’ll need to crash into a car.’
‘Nope. Not—’
‘You’re a convicted felon. You did time for possession and dealing. You got your driver’s license and signed up for this ride share outfit using a fake address and Social Security number.’ There were no secrets from Werner. ‘You’re still dealing. You sell weed to your passengers. On top of that, you’re behind on your alimony payments. I can make one call to the cops and get you back in prison. Thirty grand for doing what you do every day or … you know the alternative.’
‘Who are you, dude?’ Limon scowled at him. ‘How do you know that? Are you a cop? A Fed? Is this a setup?’
‘How I know is not important. Search me.’ Cutter spread his hands wide. ‘No wire on me. You’ll find a driver’s license in my wallet. That’s fake, as false as yours. You’ll find one grand in my pocket, which is yours. You can keep it as a sign of good faith on my part. But I need to know right now. Are you in or do you want to be a guest of the state?’
‘Just what’s this about?’ Limon asked suspiciously. ‘No killing, kidnapping, drugs, nothing of that sort. I’m trying to stay clean.’
‘By dealing on the side.’
‘I’ve got costs!’
‘Are you in or out? I can find someone else while you spend time with the LAPD.’
‘What’s this about?’
‘You don’t need to know. Your crash will not kill anyone.’
‘You can’t guarantee that.’
‘Nope. But if you’re wearing a disguise, your car’s untraceable, there’ll be no blowback on you.’
‘I can’t use this ride.’
‘I’ll get you one.’
‘Just who are you, dude?’ Limon repeated. ‘Are you from some gang?’
Cutter peeled off a bunch of bills and counted them. ‘One grand.’ He handed them to the driver, who took them readily. ‘Nine grand, right here, right now, if you agree.’
‘Tell me what I gotta do.’ The driver slipped the cash into his pocket.
Gotcha!
The second driver was hanging out on Hollywood Boulevard, discreetly dealing to tourists from his ride-hailing vehicle.
‘You could go to prison for that.’ Cutter climbed into the backseat after the ‘customer’ had left. ‘What was that? Coke? Oxy?’
‘HEY!’ Ruben Garrido whirled on him in anger. ‘ARE YOU A COP?’
‘If I was, you’d already be cuffed.’
‘THEN, GET OUT.’
‘You want to make thirty grand?’
The driver took less time to be persuaded than Limon.
Cutter took both of them, separately, to car dealers and bought them used rides of their choice. He paid with a credit card that had a dummy address on it, linked to an account that had sufficient funds in it.
He gave them two earpieces and taught them how to operate them and then gave them wigs, cheek pads, false noses and gloves.
‘Hang around East Hubbard Street,’ he told them. ‘I’ll tell you which vehicle to smash.’
‘You sure this will work?’ Limon asked him doubtfully.
‘All you gotta do is ram your car and run away.’
They could do that. Besides, thirty thousand dollars was a very persuasive amount.
Cutter removed his disguise and returned to Chuck’s. The bodyshop also sold customized bikes to enthusiasts, and one half of the dealership was a glass-enclosed showroom.
‘I didn’t know you were a rider.’ Chuck came out and joined him as he surveyed a Ducati Panigale. ‘That’s one heck of a machine.’
‘Yeah,’ he agreed. But I don’t want a memorable ride. He wanted something more familiar and moved to a Kawasaki Ninja H2R.
‘That’s fast and powerful. Three hundred and ten horses in that engine. That’s standard. I modded it to three-fifty.’
I want a quick getaway.
There were other bikes at Chuck’s. Hondas, Triumphs, Suzukis; he checked all of them out but kept returning to the Ninja. I’ve ridden those. I know how they handle.
‘Off the books sale?’ he asked his friend.
‘Always.’
‘You still do those gun rack mods? For an HK?’
‘Yeah. Side of the tank. You planning on something?’
‘Buying this bike.’