Green Ice: A Deadly High Read online

  Trey glanced towards the passenger seat, trying to weigh up Mancini. He’d met a few of Oreilles’s guy before but this dude seemed kind of cold and detached. He spoke with the abruptness and had the attitude of a military guy but looked nothing like somebody serving in the forces. Mancini was tall and lean with prominent facial features but his long blond hair, slight goatee beard and cheap, baggy clothing generated a slightly disheveled appearance.

  Mancini studied the selection of CDs inside the compartment in front of his knees. He expected to see a stack of junk music he’d never heard of but was surprised when he saw a few Surf Rock albums in Trey’s collection. He selected a compilation album and slipped it into the stereo. Twanging guitars and heavy bass from the track ‘Crash’ by ‘The Apemen’ boomed from the front and rear speakers.

  “This is more like it,” Mancini said, pointing at the stereo.

  “Yeah, it’s the shit,” Trey yelled, turning up the volume and putting his foot harder on the gas pedal.

  Mancini turned the stereo down a few notches, shaking his head. “We still don’t want to draw too much attention to ourselves. We still have to ditch that firearm, remember?”

  The smile immediately dropped from Trey’s face. He scowled and slipped on his sunshades, staring straight ahead at the road. The route took them over the bridge across the L.A. River.

  “Pull over,” Mancini instructed.

  Trey complied, slowing the Thunderbird to a halt on the shoulder.

  “Okay, toss the weapon over the side into the river.”

  “Aw, that thing cost me five hundred bucks,” he protested.

  “It’ll cost you more than that if we get caught with it,” Mancini growled. “Now, hurry up and get rid of the damn thing, will you?”

  Trey reluctantly got out of the car and made his way to the trunk. He opened the cover and rummaged around inside the compartment. Mancini watched him take out a small, snub-nosed .38 revolver inside a leather holster.

  “Toss the holster as well,” Mancini instructed. “We don’t want any complications when and if we make it to the border.”

  Trey shook his head and hurled the revolver, still inside the holster, over the side of the bridge barrier. Mancini heard the younger man curse under his breath but he felt a little more relaxed now no illegal weapons were inside the vehicle. Trey stood with his back to Mancini, looking over the side of the barrier.

  “Hey, come on, let’s go.”

  Trey turned from the barrier, ducked his head in frustration continuing to mutter under his breath. He jumped into the driver’s seat and gunned the engine. The muffler roared into life and Trey pulled the T-Bird back onto the road.

  “Are you sure this crate will get us to Mexico?”

  Trey flashed Mancini a scornful glance. “Sure it will. This is a reconditioned, modified, second generation 1959 model, man. It cost a damn fortune to restore and get it up and running but it’s totally dope. It’ll get us there and back, no problem. Don’t worry about it.”

  The Thunderbird was the least of Mancini’s worries. He could always find or rent another vehicle from someplace. The fact he’d have to single handedly take on three armed, drug crazed bandits with no capable back-up was what fazed him.

  Chapter Three

  Trey and Mancini listened to the Surf Rock CD as they cruised down the I-5, passing by East Los Angeles on the Santa Ana Freeway. The route took them through Anaheim, Santa Ana, Irvine and Mission Viejo, before Interstate 5 also became the San Diego Freeway. The further south they headed, the closer the road took them towards the Pacific Ocean. The expanse of sea to their right glistened a shade of deep blue as the morning sun shone across the rippling surface. Mancini watched the tall palm trees sway in the sea breeze along the coastline, around a mile in distance. He smelled the saltiness of the sea and felt the warm sun beat down on his face from a clear blue sky. Life was good at times but ultimately, the flip side mercilessly waited around the corner.

  They had listened to all of Trey’s Surf Rock CDs by the time they reached San Diego so Mancini flicked the stereo onto the ‘Jack FM’ radio channel. The morning city traffic slowed their progress slightly as they had to wait for the lines of vehicles to subside. Mancini swapped cell phone numbers with Trey whilst they waited in the traffic and told him to delete the contact once the assignment was complete. He seriously doubted and hoped they’d never meet up again.

  The I-5 dog-legged back inland and Mancini felt slightly disappointed he could no longer see the ocean. The Interstates 5 and 805 merged together, slightly south of San Diego and overhead signs told them they were approaching the International Border with Mexico.

  “Okay, get your passport at the ready,” Mancini instructed. He glanced at his wristwatch. The time was nearly nine-thirty. They were a little behind schedule but Mancini didn’t want to hit the border too early and become snared up in morning traffic. He reached into his top left jacket pocket and took out his U.S. passport. Trey squirmed in his seat and retrieved his own passport from the ass pocket of his denims.

  “Don’t give the border cops any lip or smart-assed remarks,” Mancini said. “I want to get through this as smoothly as possible.”

  Trey flashed him an incredulous glance, while slowing the Thunderbird to join the line of traffic. He thought for a moment. “How did the guys we’re chasing manage to get the cash and the gear over the border in the first place?”

  “There’s always ways and means,” Mancini answered. “If you’re going to steal from Oreilles, you’re going to have to have a good escape plan. These guys made a big mistake flashing the cash around so close to the U.S. border. They should have disappeared and gone underground awhile.”

  The U.S./Mexican entry and exit point consisted of a large, beige colored canopy straddling the three lane road. A tall, black fence stood to the right of the highway, separating foot passengers from the line of vehicles. A steady procession of people headed in both directions. Trey slowly drove under the border canopy in one of the lanes marked ‘Nada que declarar’ on an overhead sign, with the English translation ‘Nothing to declare’ beneath. He slowed to a stop at the checkpoint.

  A jaded looking border patrolman briefly studied their passports, gave the Thunderbird a once over glance, more in admiration than suspicion and waved them onward. Trey and Mancini replaced their passports in their pockets and the Thunderbird rolled forward into Mexico. Several parked border patrol vehicles sat to the right, facing the road as Trey drove by.

  “I’ll bet you’re glad you tossed that piece now, huh?” Mancini said, studying the line of border cop’s white SUVs that looked ready to pounce on any suspicious vehicles.

  Trey shrugged one shoulder and glanced in his mirror.

  The line of waiting traffic on the opposite side of the road stretched back in an almost motionless gridlocked block.

  “Looks like it’s a whole lot easier to get into Mexico than to get out,” Mancini mused, gazing at the sweaty frustrated faces inside the stream of lingering vehicles.

  Several signs written in Spanish stood in lofty positions each side of the road, with some advertizing cheap beer and promising an exciting time at certain nightspots.

  “Woo-hoo!” Trey whooped. “Tijuana is party town.”

  “Well, unfortunately we’re not here to party,” Mancini bluntly said. “We have more important stuff to do.” He couldn’t remember the last occasion he’d had a serious night out on the town and felt a slight yearning for a crazy time.

  “Where we headed?”

  “Follow the signs for the coastal route to Ensenada. We’ve got to meet up with a guy who’s going to give us the address and supply us with some tools of the trade.”

  Trey nodded and mingled through the traffic, taking the exit to Highway One, which bypassed Tijuana city center. The Thunderbird attracted some interested and envious looks from other drivers and people milling on the sidewalks, as they drove through the northern city limits. Mancini felt uncomfortable and wis
hed they were traveling in a modern, less conspicuous vehicle. The old fashioned T-Bird wasn’t a vehicle regularly seen on the roads any longer. It was more of a collector’s piece, which might usually be parked up at specialist rallies or shows.

  Highway One eventually led them out of the town, alongside the graffiti splattered, corrugated metal fenced border with the U.S. to their right. Shabby one storey dwellings and crumbling apartment blocks stood on the opposite side of the road from the high fence line. Trey and Mancini glanced over the scenery in silence, both wondering how the people who lived in the vicinity managed to get by.

  As soon as they were clear of the city slums and stuffy exhaust fumes, the area either side of Highway One opened out into a vast, sparsely populated expanse. A rocky coastline sloped from left to right towards the sea, with the road sandwiched between. Mancini gazed out towards the ocean and saw several small islands, a mile or so from the shoreline. He wondered if anybody lived out there and decided those small blobs of land would make an ideal place to retire to, away from the grinding pressures of life.

  Trey stepped on the gas when the traffic became sparse on both lanes. The radio station became crackly while a newscaster talked about a violent crime spree along the Baja California Peninsula. Mancini shoved the Surf Rock compilation CD back into the stereo and flicked through the tracks. He settled for a tune titled ‘Ramcharger’ by the ‘Surfin’ Gorillas’ and slumped back in his seat.

  A collection of fresh looking, whitewashed buildings next to the sea, flashed by to their right and Mancini assumed the place was some kind of vacation complex. He felt slightly envious of those people moseying in and around those luxurious buildings, relaxing in the sunshine or taking a dip in the pools or in the sea. Mancini decided he was going to take a vacation himself after this job was completed. Fatigue and stress had gradually crept up on him over the last few months and he needed some downtime to unwind and chill out for a while.

  “Pull over when we get to the Real del Mar resort,” Mancini said. “I have to meet our guy there.”

  Trey nodded and kept his eyes on the road. “Are we going to stop at the resort for a while? I could do with a break.”

  “It all depends,” Mancini muttered. He didn’t want to spend too much time at the resort, especially if the exchange of firearms went ahead as planned.

  “On what?”

  “Huh?”

  “It depends on what?” Trey repeated in frustration. “I’m busting for a piss here and I could use some breakfast and something to drink, man. We’ve been driving for like, four hours solid and we need to gas up soon, anyhow.”

  Mancini sighed. His back ached slightly from the hard seat and he wanted to stretch his legs and take a pee himself. “Okay, we’ll stop at the resort for a short time. But we’re not hanging around while you go sightseeing.”

  “I just want to take a piss and grab some chow, yo,” Trey reiterated. “We have a job to do. I get that.”

  A few miles further on, they saw signposts on the grass verge beside the road, indicating they were close to the Real del Mar resort. Trey followed the route the way the arrow pointed on the signs. They drove across a small bridge that led to the resort entrance gates. A small, peach colored security hut stood between the entry and exit points. Each road was blocked by a security barrier. Trey drove up to the barrier and stopped the car, waiting for the security guard to let them through.

  A tall guy, wearing a light blue shirt and dark blue pants strolled from the security hut and approached the Thunderbird. He took his time advancing to the driver’s door, instead spending time admiring the vehicle.

  “Nice car,” he said, smiling. “What is your business at Real del Mar today, sir?”

  “We’ve come to see a Mr Rata,” Mancini explained. “I’m Mr Martin and this is Mr Lewis.” He gestured to Trey. Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis were Mr Rata’s favorite movie star comedy double act and insisted on the duo’s names used as a kind of code every time he was due for a meeting.

  “I will telephone his room and see if he is in residence.” The security man nodded slightly and returned to his hut. He emerged a few seconds later as the barrier raised upwards. “He is waiting for you in the café, which is located to the right of the main entrance.” He pointed the way to the parking lot and the resort’s reception area.

  Trey nodded slightly and pulled the vehicle forward into the parking lot. The resort was a little too busy for Mancini’s liking. He’d have preferred a meeting in some dingy little roadside bar rather than some luxurious resort but that was ‘La Rat’ for you. The guy was Oreilles’s eyes and ears in Mexico and took advantage of every situation and assignment he was brought into. No doubt he’d booked himself into the resort for a couple of days on Oreilles’s dollar, when a ten minute meeting on the roadside would have sufficed. In the past, Mancini had been tasked to collect La Rat from LAX and drive him to the Beverly Hilton for a couple of days stay. Mancini had later discovered La Rat was only in LA to deliver some sort of documents to Oreilles. A free weekend in the Beverly Hilton for five minutes work! Mancini didn’t even know La Rat’s real name and always felt slightly uneasy whenever he had any dealings with him. There was something about the guy that Mancini didn’t like. He didn’t trust him at all.

  Trey parked the Thunderbird in a vacant space a few yards from the smoked glass fronted main entrance. A strip of manicured lawn, surrounded by beds of colorful flowers sat to the left of the reception area.

  “You think the car will be okay here?” Trey glanced around the parking lot.

  “Take a look around you,” Mancini grunted. “People who stay here could afford to buy ten of your shitty cars every week.”

  Trey huffed and pulled off his yellow beanie hat, revealing a mop of tousled light brown hair. He tossed the hat on the back seat and climbed out of the car. Mancini rubbed his back after he hauled himself out of his seat and made his way to the resort’s main entrance. A chrome plated reception desk stood to the right and a small general store lined the left side of the lobby. They were greeted by a woman, wearing a smart dark blue blazer with a white shirt beneath, sitting at the reception desk. She smiled a greeting and Mancini thought she wore far too much lipstick and he could smell the overpowering scent of her perfume from a few yards away.

  “We’re here to see Mr Rata, who should be in the cafe.”

  The receptionist pointed the way to the café and Mancini and Trey shuffled through the doorway. Mancini recognized La Rat sitting at a table by the window, drinking a cup of coffee.

  “Look, you better give me a minute alone with this guy,” Mancini said in a hushed tone. “He gets nervous around people he doesn’t know.”

  Trey shrugged. “Okay, that’s cool. I gotta take a piss, anyhow. I’ll grab some chow at the store back by the reception. I’m damn sure that chick on the desk had the hots for me. I might go check her out.”

  Mancini groaned. “Don’t tell anybody your name and definitely do not give out any cell phone numbers. You got some cash?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do not pay by credit card,” Mancini instructed. “It’s bad enough we had to come to this damn resort. They’ve probably got close circuit cameras around here. If the assignment goes to rat shit, they’ll have our dumb assed faces and your car registration plate on camera.”

  “Got it,” Trey muttered and shuffled off in search of a bathroom.

  Mancini turned and headed towards La Rat’s table. The guy sat with his legs outstretched, wearing an expensive looking light gray suit, yellow shirt and pink tie. The sunlight shone through his thinning gray hair as he gazed out of the window and he turned his head when Mancini approached. His dark eyes narrowed, causing his forehead to crease as Mancini sat down opposite him. La Rat glanced over Mancini’s shoulder, checking out the café floor space.

  “You came alone?” he asked, in accented English.

  “Nah, I’ve got some guy driving me,” Mancini said.

  A waitress approache
d the table and poured Mancini a cup of coffee. He smiled and nodded in appreciation.

  “So, you got the address for our friends in Ensenada?”

  La Rat picked up a napkin and wiped his mouth. He reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out a piece of folded paper, then slid it across the table to Mancini.

  “What about the other items?”

  Mancini slipped the piece of paper in his top jacket pocket.

  “There is also a cell phone number and a name on that piece of paper. Call that number from a payphone when you reach Ensenada. Somebody will come and meet you in a safe place, where he will provide you with the tools you need to complete the job, okay?” La Rat spoke quietly but clearly, gazing around the café as he talked.

  “This guy is reliable?” Mancini asked.

  La Rat didn’t bother to reply. Mancini inwardly cursed himself at his dumb question. Of course the guy was dependable. If he wasn’t, he’d probably have no head before too long.

  “Call the same number when you have retrieved the merchandise and the stolen cash. Arrange another meet and they will take the said items from you. The money and the product will find their way back to their rightful owner.”

  Mancini nodded. He knew La Rat had devious methods of crossing the US/Mexican border with all kinds of dodgy commodities.

  “Anything else?” La Rat asked, gazing out of the bay window.

  “Nah,” Mancini said, shaking his head. “I have everything I need.” He downed the remainder of his coffee, stood up and nodded to La Rat.

  Mancini left the café and headed back to the reception area. He expected to be armed with some kind of shooter by now and thought it was typical of La Rat to leave him high and dry in bandit country, without a firearm of any kind.

  Chapter Four

  Mancini found Trey Coogan in the reception area, leaning forward on the desk and talking in hushed tones with the girl who wore too much lipstick. Trey clutched a big bag of potato chips and a bottle of soda.