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Ventura Avenue
Wednesday afternoon
March 29, 2012
2:15 p.m.
Detective John Potenza had lots of friends and he had just as many enemies, well, maybe not so many for he was well liked. It was hard not to like the man. He was cordial, funny, slick, and fun to be with. The ladies loved his sense of humor as well as his good looks. Throw in a little bad boy for flavor and you had the guy every woman desired, and a few would sample. Some would ask for more, others had their fill the first time out, still others wanted the man for life. All but a few knew this was highly unlikely.
Still, he had his friends, and his friends ran the gamut. Some were just good guys; others were colleagues and others were just guys who respected him for what he did and how he did it. It didn’t matter who he was to these folks as much as how he conducted his business. One such man was Louie Sanchez.
Sanchez was a long-time friend from high school who grew up and still lived on Ventura Avenue. Commonly called just “The Avenue” everyone in the region knew what this area of Ventura was like. Low rent district, lots of Mexicans, most signs were in Spanish and a few too many card rooms to suit the locals.
It was the opinion of all; the best Mexican food was served along the Avenue mainly because it was really home-made. Mama Gomez really was out in the kitchen cooking up her favorite recipes. The best Tequila poured was on the Avenue as well.
The Avenue was a rough place. It wasn’t for the tourist; it wasn’t for the weak and it wasn’t for the uneducated in worldly affairs. It rivaled Algiers across from New Orleans, Harlem in New York, East L-A next to Los Angeles or any barrio in any major city. It was dangerous. Let’s put it this way; No self respecting, pot smoking, sandal wearing, surfboard riding white boy would ever be caught on the avenue at night. Not alive anyway.
Even Potenza didn’t like going in after dark. Cops would patrol the area with squad cars no more than four blocks apart. It was a team effort for the cops. Stay close and don’t get cut off if something went down. Once or twice a month it usually did.
Louie lived along the Avenue and if it happened in the area of Ventura Avenue chances are Louis Sanchez knew about it. He wasn’t a snitch, but he’d help where he could. He drew the respect of everyone on the Avenue. Some called him the Godfather of West Ventura, others called him Mister Sanchez. John just called him his friend.
Cruising down Ventura Avenue brought back lots of memories. He’d hang out over there under Louie’s protection when high school drinking got the best of them. The girls were plentiful and so was the sex back in those days. You had to be very careful though, Louie would warn his buddy.
“You don’t mess too much with the ladies over here, bro,” he’d warn his white friend. “You know Mexican girls pop out babies like puppies dude, before you know it, you’re married with three kids working the ranch somewhere. And besides if you mess around on them, they cut it off and feed it to a duck.”
Potenza always took Louie’s advice when it came to matters on the Avenue. What Louie would say may not always be politically correct, but it kept his white friend out of trouble. Potenza would get into enough of that on his own and didn’t need any outside help.
He pulled up in front of “Sanchez Cantina” at the end of the block. A corner restaurant and bar, it was a nice enough place to take a date and Louie made sure the rift-raft he did allow in, stayed in their place. He had to let them in or be shut off the information pipeline. Louie wasn’t a cop, but he knew he had to keep his eyes and ears open and he was good at it.
Louie Sanchez was sitting in front of the Cantina in a large plastic chair when Potenza drove up.
“Well look what the cat dragged in,” Louie said as the officer pulled alongside the curb quickly shutting off the engine. “Whatchu doin’ bro, slumming?”
“Nah just came down to see if the air down here had changed over the years, man,” was his sarcastic reply.
“Well has it bro?”
“Naw still stinks like shit,” the cop shot back.
“That’s alright bro, that smell is comin’ from across the street,” Louie said pointing a finger at a restaurant within spitting distance. “Koreans man, just opened up over there. Damn Kimchi or whatever the hell they call it, stinks like a mother fucker.”
“Got some competition there my man?”
“Hell no, no self-respecting Mexican would eat that shit,” Louie said indignantly. “Fisheyes and chicken parts all rolled into some hot chili, and it ain’t even Jalapeno!”
The two men laughed as the officer pulled up a chair next to his friend.
Louie was a big man. Not only in heart but in stature. He stood only 5’7” tall but weighed a good 375 pounds. They used to call him “8 XL” which stood for the size shirt he wore, and the name stuck for friends. Make no mistake about it Louie had his problems. A hard-core diabetic he watched his food but not his weight. He would say it was too much of momma’s good cooking. Lots of beans, lots of tortillas and lots of carnitas.
John came right to the point. Louie already knew why he was there.
“I need some help big man,” said the officer. “Things are coming together but things are missing.”
“Yeh, I know bro it’s all over the street and you are making enemies you don’t even know exist,” was the quick response. “You’re really stirring up shit bro, I mean this is some heavy stuff.”
“Louie, here are your French Fries,” said a waiter who came out the front door interrupting the conversation. “Oh, hello Officer John can I get you something?”
“Hello Antonio, yea sure, just my usual and I’ll share my good friend’s fries here. It’s not like he needs ALL of them.”
The three men laughed, and Antonio nodded as he turned to go back inside.
“Mr. Sanchez, he never knows what dinner is and what is lunch, I fear,” replied Antonio. “He just runs it all together. You’re Rum Martini is coming right up officer.”
Smiles crossed all their faces as food and drink always brought out the humor for these two. Potenza reached over and grabbed a handful of fries and was holding them getting ready to lift them to his mouth when he was abruptly bumped.
A kid on a skateboard came roaring by and grabbed what he could out of the startled officer’s hand as he kept his balance and rolled on up the street.
“What the fuck?!”
The kid just looked back and smiled waving a middle finger in the air defying the officer.
“You going to let him get away with that shit bro; are you not Detective John Potenza?” Louie challenged his friend.
“You’re mother fucking right!”
The officer bolted after the kid not so much for the stolen food right out of his mouth but for the flippant attitude and the flipping off. The officer gave chase and the startled look on the kids face told his entire life story.
“Oh shit,” he exclaimed as his left foot hit the ground quickly in a faint attempt to increase his speed and move the board faster up the slight grade. If it was downhill the 13-year-old might have gotten away but the slight grade meant he had to push the board and even the polyurethane wheels were no match for the officer driven by pride and anger.
The officer got close enough to grab the kid’s collar and pull. The skateboard kept on going finally resting underneath a parked pickup truck. The kid was on his back looking to struggle but stopping when Potenza pulled his gun and pointed in the direction of the youngster’s face.
“Don’t shoot please don’t shoot me!!” The kid rambled near tears.
He had not noticed Potenza had dropped the clip from his gun as he pulled it and placed it into his shirt pocket slyly. This was pride, this was not an arrest, and he was taking no chances he might accidently shoot the kid. He wanted to scare him more than anything.
“Don’t think I am not thinking about it you little punk,” fired back the cop.
Just then he noticed the liquid pouring out from underneath the kids baggy shorts. He’d pissed himself he was so scared. Potenza just gave him a smirk. Then he took a good look at the kid. This was no Mexican American kid with brown eyes. No, this was a young white punk, blond hair, and blue eyes.
“What are you doin’ over here on the Avenue, kid?”
“I live here, my mom and me just moved in,” the kid answered now starting to regain some composure. “We live right over there.”
The boy pointed to the end of the Avenue where some new apartments stood. Only a few years but already Section 8 housing with what the politicos liked to call “those from the lower socio-economic side of the fence.”
“What’s your name kid?”
“Paul, Paul Shiner.”
The detective reached into his pocket and pulled out a five-dollar bill.
“I’ll tell you what Paul Shiner, you take this fiver and you go across the street to that thrift store,” Potenza pointing across the street. “And you get yourself a new pair of pants and maybe some underwear, although you may just want the pants and throw your underwear away. It IS a thrift store.”
The kid nodded with a sigh of relief.
“Then you go back down there to the cantina named ‘Sanchez’ and I’ll have your board waiting for you and maybe, just maybe, we’ll talk to Mr. Sanchez about finding you some dishes to wash or something to pay for the five bucks and the fries.”
As he let the youngster go the kid got up and walked across the street knowing he’d dodged a bullet. The officer picked up the skateboard and promptly got on and coasted it back down the hill to the bar.
“Hey bro, I never seen you move so fast, man it was like playing Oxnard High again and that big black linebacker was chasing you,” laughed Louie out loud. “What’d you do steal the kids skateboard?”
Potenza rolled up in front of the cantina with a smile, popped the board up into the air and caught it coming down as if he’d been doing it for years.
“No, my man, it’s a present to you,” Potenza said handing over the board. “The kid is coming back for it and it’s up to you to decide how he gets it back.”
Louie looked disgusted at his old friend.
“Oh no man, don’t pull this shit on me, you busted the kid and now you going to stick me with him, fuck that shit esse!”
“Hey man, it’s a white kid movin’ into your neighborhood, you got to control the crime man, you don’t want some bad ass element taking over your turf now do you?”
Again, the men laughed and Louie agreed. He’d take the kid under his wing and put him to work doing something. Maybe he could do deliveries on his skateboard. He knew his friend had done a good thing. Then Louie got up and motioned for his friend to come inside.
“I don’t think it’s safe for us to be seen talking together out front though, bro,” said the Mexican.
If Louie was moving it inside, then Potenza knew something was terribly wrong. He didn’t have to be invited off the street twice. The sound of Santana was coming out of the speakers over the bar as Antonio approached with his drink.
“Here you are officer,” said Antonio handing Potenza a drink. “You Rum Martini with the local limona.”
The officer took it in his hand gladly and started drinking the ice-cold martini which refreshed him from the chase.
“It’s good senore?” asked Antonio.
“Perfect, just like I like it.”
Potenza had perfected his own little drink and while the words Rum and Martini don’t usually go together, every bar in Ventura knew the recipe. Potenza had once even been highlighted in a local business magazine with his drink. He didn’t like the publicity, as no cop ever wants his face plastered all over the paper, but he realized he had been a member of this community a long time and he did have friends.
The drink consisted of;
Tangelos were plentiful in Ventura and really all over California. They are a juicy combination of an orange and a tangerine but a bit tart. The limoncello was a local brand developed by friends of the Potenza family and made from an old Italian family recipe. It was made in Ventura and all the local bars made sure they stocked it just incase the detective dropped by.
Limoncello or Limona as many called it is an infusion of lemons and vodka and a well-known Italian liqueur. It may have begun as an alternative drink for women but by now men and women of all ages were enjoying the Italian sweet alcoholic drink usually considered an after-dinner beverage. This brand used a special type of local lemons and was just a touch different from anything else on the market. Since his friends James and Manuela were producing the drink, it was very cool. Their brand added just enough alcoholic content to make the drink sing and Potenza enjoyed it immensely.
The tequila was also a special brand. He’d gotten it once on a cruise to Puerto Vallarta, at a tequila factory. It was sort of a cross between Amaretto and tequila. It went down so smoothly.
The two men moved to a back corner of the bar where it was even darker than anywhere else in the restaurant. This was a deep place and Louie liked it this way. He could sit with his back in the corner and survey all around him. Nothing came into the bar, and nothing went out of the bar which he didn’t see. The massive mirrors made the place look much bigger than it was. Louie of course planned it all.
It was in this way he could pick up information the cops didn’t have and if need be, pass it on. Sanchez was fond of saying “it’s all about my people because if the bad dudes take over, my people will be slaves to drugs and guns, and I don’t want that.”
John Potenza just sat for a moment across from his lifelong friend and looked around, then looked up inquisitively.
“Say bro, how come every time I go into a Mexican bar, I hear ‘Black Magic Woman,’ I mean c’mon bro, don’t you vatos know anything else, I mean is it a requirement for your culture?” The officer asked reaching for his drink and showing a sarcastic smile.
“Hey dude, can I call you dude, bro, I mean I know you like to surf and everything but how come every time you come here you order that sweet tastin’ girly drink?” Louie said just as sarcastically. “I mean is there something I don’t know about you bro, I mean c’mon after all these years?”
“Okay, point taken,” as he took another drink and put the glass down. “Now what is so important you had to haul my ass inside to talk?”
Louie went on to tell the officer how he himself was having a difficult time finding out more information because the tensions were running very high. As far as he knew Mexican Mafia was not involved but there were rumblings, and they couldn’t be ruled out.
“See bro you got two rival biker gangs involved here, man,” Louie said. “The Bull Dogs who have contacts with the Mexican Mafia and the Stingrays who still have contracts through the Aryan Brotherhood. That shit don’t mix man, those are some bad motherfuckers and you don’t want to be in the middle.”
The officer sat for a moment and listened hearing what he already knew in the back of his mind. He didn’t like it but he knew it. He had forgotten about the ties the biker gangs had to the prison gangs. The prison gangs were more powerful in prison and controlled more drug trade from the inside than they did from the outside. It didn’t matter how many of their leaders the cops put behind bars they always seemed to continue a smooth operation of the drugs to the people. It was the most frustrating thing for law enforcement, and it wasn’t getting any better any time soon.
“What do you know about Billy Rodriguez, bro?” The cop asked his friend.
“Hot Rod Rodriguez?” Sanchez queried. “He was a mid level guy in the Bull Dogs for a couple of years. Spent some time in the army but couldn’t hang. A low life with a lot of anger. I know he was some sort of artist. Used to draw a lot of shit in the joint. I guess that’s where he learned to tattoo so good. He’s the stiff you found at the water, right?”
“The same,” Potenza nodded as he took another sip of his drink. “Finally, ID’d him yesterday. Why would he be working for George Grister?”
“The Stingray dude?” Louie replied. “I knew he was working at a shop up there for a short while and when I heard it was for Grister I was shocked too. I’m not sure why yet.”
The officer realized for once he and his friend were in step. They were both on the right trail but not sure where it was leading. He finished his drink and got up to leave when Sanchez looked up at him.
“He bro, you be careful, you understand?” The bar owner said with sincerity. “If you got Grister on one end and the Bull Dogs on the other, you are in a place you don’t want to be.”
“Yeh, I know,” said the officer sharing his friend’s concern. “Say, you put that kid to work you hear. And if his mom shows up, let me know what she looks like.”
Sanchez just smiled.
“Same old Johnny.”
Then the officer turned back and with a smile asked about Louie’s sister.
“Say where is Conchita these days? I don’t think I’ve seen her in years. She must be what all of 16 by now?”
A smooth deep voice from behind him sent a shiver up his spine and put a smile on his face.
“No detective, I’m 23 this month and I’m no longer the schoolgirl you remember,” a sensual woman’s voice reminded him.
He turned around to see Conchita in a waitress outfit which fit her real good. The gangly 16-year-old girl with the pigtails had grown up quite nice. At 5’2” tall, her breasts accentuated by the low-cut uniform top, her eyes black-as-coal-inviting and her long black hair weighted down to her well rounded posterior – she had become a beauty, no longer a cutie.
“Well, I guess you have,” said the detective with a smile as she was smiling back at him.
“Hey Bro, she’s my sister. Bro, bro, my sister esse.”
Louie was not being forceful because he knew his sister could certainly do worse than his friend, but he had to make a point.
Potenza just looked back at Louie and smiled.
“Ah man, too many women and just too freaking little time.”
The officer hugged both of his friends, sipped the last bit of the melted ice from his glass and headed for the door. The Stingrays and the Bull Dogs were about to spoil all thoughts he had over the last 60-seconds. He was leaving bliss behind, work loomed ahead.