The Coital Charade: Book Two

By Dean DuPont

In Southern California in 1990, most people figured they'd get killed by the carcinogen. Lenny and Bekka are more concerned about lead poisoning....
The smog-soaked Southland is home to Hollywood stars, surfing, car culture, and year-round tans. It's also home to Lenny and Bekka, two employees at an adult film studio whose lives keep getting complicated. They just wanna snort dope and have fun. I mean, you'd think becoming an associate of the mafia would be just another job, right? Being friends with a career meth lab operator should be stress-free, too. Go figure.
This is the second book in the "Coital Charade" series, containing four new stories:
Ferrari: Frankie's beloved Testarossa gets torched, and the SoCal mafia sends Lenny to track down who did it. Then people he contacts keep turning up dead, and the Family suspects it's him.
Chrissie: The morning after a wild party, Vinny's wife Chrissie gets snatched from a grocery store... and Lenny and Bekka were the last ones to see her, so the Family says it's up to them to find her, or else. The two contend with dishonest friends, amphetamine psychosis, and an ugly side of the porn business while they track Chrissie down.
Powder: Lenny's childhood friend Mikey has absconded with a suitcase full of the mafia's cocaine, and Lenny has to find them both. But Bekka is in far, far greater danger....
Boss: Someone is trying to kill Boss, Lenny and Bekka's six foot seven, meth-cooking, outlaw biker friend. By helping protect Boss, our duo become targets too, and these boys don't play nice at all.
This is millennial pulp fiction, stories from the flip side of paradise. Don't come here looking for heroes, the nicest people here are drug-addicted pornographers who seem to thrive on smog and taqueria food. But if you hang around with Lenny and Bekka, you won't be bored.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dean DuPont
• Release date: Jun 15, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370396153

Dean DuPont

Warning: I have a Nietzsche trigger finger. A childhood in San Diego, the Bay area after that: Berkeley and Oakland were my stamping grounds. The only damn thing I've ever been good at is telling stories... so here I am. By nature contrary, I'm not suited to things like "team spirit" and "following the party line" and "legal employment." I've always been more comfortable around criminals and misfits and losers, they're the only ones capable of having an objective view of the world around them. They know they're not part of that world, so getting perspective is easy. I was married for a while, it took the woman a long time to come to her senses. Now I reside in the Sierra Nevada foothills, spinning tales about the uglier side of paradise I remember from my youth, and also petting the cat.

Book preview

The Coital Charade:

Ferrari

by Dean DuPont

The Coital Charade: Ferrari

Chapter One

Nationally, torches --- professional arsonists --- cost the insurance companies untold millions of dollars each year, and not by stealing calendars.  I will heave no great sobs of pity for the insurance companies, as I consider them to be burdensome pests.  Nonetheless, my friend and coworker Frankie was having a fun time of trying to collect on his burned-out Ferrari Testarossa.  Someone set fire to it in his driveway.

The fire and police reports both said arson was the cause.  Frankie didn't argue that.  His insurance company did want to argue that, claiming --- get this --- negligence on Frankie's part.  In what way Frankie was negligent went unsaid.  Because Frankie negligently bashed in a window, poured lighter fluid all over the interior, then lit a match.  All this while he was several miles away, having dinner with his wife and young daughter.  Insurance logic.

The main question with the Family was who ordered the job done.  Who actually did it was almost immaterial.  The assumption that a professional torch handled burning Frankie's car was treated as a given.  The Family had some ideas, though.

My boss, Angel, called me in a jovial mood.  It was the same good humor he had when he wanted me to pick up forty pounds of cocaine from the airport and deliver it to a sketchy neighborhood. Lenny, how are you?  I have a new assignment for you.  This may take a couple days, so Frankie will be down at Inana.

Shoot, I told him.

I have the names of three torches who operate out of the San Fernando area.  I want you to interview them to determine if any of them did the job on Frankie's Ferrari.  No real confrontation needed, just you asking that simple question of them.  Do you understand?

Yeah, I get it, but why me? This is private investigator stuff you want me to do.

Because you are a member of the Family, you're bright, and your appearance will throw them off.  They'll remember you, and we want that.  Seeing you coming down the street towards them should set off alarm bells.

You want me to get heavy with these clowns?  I thought you had professionals to handle that kind of action.

No, not at all.  Like I said, you simply ask them about burning a Ferrari.  They'll probably tell you to fuck off, so be persistent.  But no conflict.  No shoving people in your trunk and threatening them.  Capiche?

The longer I was a member of the Family, the more I remembered my capo, Angel, was a Los Angeles native.... The land where you tell people to fuck off by saying trust me to them.  If Angel said something was simple, shit would hit the fan five minutes in.  And there's not a damn thing I can do about it.  The Family, in the guise of Angel, gives me assignments, I carry them out.

It made me miss being a speed dealer on some days.  Tweakers are predictable.

The first name was Harry Franks, employed at a gaming shop in Northridge.  It was the sort of place that hosts marathon, 72 hour Dungeons and Dragons tournaments.  He was easy to find: he was the only one past puberty and in a clean shirt.

Harry!  Harry! I called to him, jogging up to him in an aisle.  Since he'd never seen me before, he  had a slightly suspicious smile on his face.

May I help you?

Yeah, listen, I need to know if you had anything to do with torching a Ferrari Testarossa up the hill in Encino.  Just a yes or no thing, really.  Did you?

His eyes hooded over.  Torching a Ferrari?  You lost me.

I kept my car salesman smile on.  Aw, c'mon Harry, I know you burn things for money, and I just am trying to find out if you did this particular job....  And who paid for it.

Come here.  He led me up to the front counter, away from the paying customers.

Look asshole, I don't know who you are, but I haven't had a job in six months.  That street trash from South-Central LA is getting all the work.  They'll do a building for $500 and make a mess of it. Fuck off, leave me alone.

I gave him a pitying glance as I put my hand on the door.  Six months?  You'll get rusty.  Try some freelance work.

Get out, smartass.

Just thought I'd ask.  Thank you for your time.  I headed back to the Acura.

I sought out my next interviewee at a paint store in Sherman Oaks.  His name was Richard Olson, and turned out to be my age.

I coaxed him out into the parking lot and offered him a cigarette.  I don't smoke, came the nervous reply.

No, but you do burn things, and that's what I'm concerned with.  See, a few weeks ago a Ferrari was torched in Encino, and I want to know if you're the one that did it.  Really, it's not too complicated of a question.

Are you a cop? he asked.

Do I look like a cop? I replied.

You look like one of our spray paint customers.

Just answer my question.  Did you torch a Ferrari?

He held out his hands.  I shouldn't be saying this, but.... I don't do cars.  That's kid stuff.  I will put down any building you point at, and leave no markers for the arson squad to find.  I'm a pro.  Screw burning cars.

It's nice you take pride in your work, I told him.

I'm good, he said with pride.

I'm sure he was.

Number three was a Mr. Ivan Stefanich, employed at a gay bar in Reseda called the Round Up.  He was their afternoon and happy hour bartender.  My main concern was how much I'd stick out.  The gay scene in the San Fernando Valley couldn't possibly be very big, so I'd be spotted as a stranger by the  regulars immediately.  This could either mean free drinks or too many people remembering that punk rock asshole who gave Ivan a hard time.

I walked in around 4:15, too early for happy hour, which was fine.  The place was mostly empty.  I ordered a Johnnie Walker on ice, like always, and said to the bartender, So, you're Ivan, right?

     Yeah, that's me.

Hey Ivan, I need to know if you set fire to a Ferrari Testarossa in Encino about three weeks ago.  No pressure, just a yes or no.  Oh, and if you did, who paid you to do it?

He stared at me coldly for several moments, then turned his back to me and began washing glasses that were already clean.  I stood there with my foot on the railing waiting for a response.  People wait for stupid things sometimes.

I called, Ivan, it's a simple question.  Yes or no?

He turned to me and said, Yes.  Okay, now we're getting somewhere.

Who paid for it, Ivan?

I don't know.

Oh please.  Even if you got cash you at least got a first name, and remember what they look like.  Help me out here.

He had a button under that sink.  It was a panic alarm that went off in some back room.  A solid object pressed itself into my ribs and a voice said in my ear, This is a gun.  You're going to turn around and head for the bathrooms.  I'll tell you where to turn.

Me and my unseen accoster marched down past the men's room and into a small office.  Once there, the man with the gun told me to lean forward against the desk.  Okay, I'm good at following directions.  Then the world went black with a thud.

I woke up in a parking lot, leaned against a dumpster.  My head throbbed.  The first thing I did was check my shoulder holster to make sure my highly illegal Beretta was still there.  It was.  I still had my wallet and keys.  The headache I had was just a souvenir.  I'd been brained with a bat or piece of 2x4.

Naturally, I went right back in the bar.

Ivan!  Ivan! I called.  I've really got a headache right now, and I'd like a Johnnie Walker please. Oh, and who paid you to torch that Ferrari?

He poured me my drink and said, You don't learn, do you?

I gave him a thousand-watt smile and said, "No, see, it's like this.  I'm the guy who is asking you in a polite and friendly manner.  You don't want to meet the people who will ask you in a hostile manner.  Trust me on this.  Please Ivan, for your own sake, come across with the fucking name."

He sighed and pulled out his wallet.  Dug through it briefly.  Pulled out a business card and dropped it in front of me.

The business card was for Heretic Productions, our old friend Todd's company.

I gulped my drink, thanked Ivan, and got the hell out of there.

I rolled down Sherman Way for a distance, and pulled into a gas station to use their pay phone.  Angel answered on the third ring.

I got good news, Angel.  I get to sleep in my own bed tonight.  I have some answers for you.

Wonderful Lenny.  Tell me.

The torch was the bartender, Ivan Stefanich.  And you'll love this: the man paying the bill was none other than our old friend Todd.

Angel paused.  Then he said, Lenny, this is not good.  You're telling me that fucking pest is back?  And we have to deal with him again?

All I know is what I've been told.  I asked Ivan who paid for the job, and he gave me a Heretic Productions business card with Todd's name on it.  If he's lying, he's doing a good job of it, since Todd doesn't like us.  Shit, I'm the one who crippled him in his right shoulder, I'm amazed he's never come after me.

I know, and it concerns me.  Look, you're still in the Valley, right?  Just swing by here.

Yes sir.  I'll see you in a few minutes.

I doubled back to De Soto Avenue, then ran along Ventura Boulevard and cut up the hill past the country clubs to Angel's house.  He greeted me in the driveway, a lit cigarette hanging from his mouth.  We did the usual Italian man-hug thing and went inside.

The good host that he is, there were two lines of cocaine sitting on the coffee table in the living room.  I ignored them for the time being.  Angel said, Can I get you a drink?  Johnnie Walker Red, right?

Sure, what the hell, I replied.  It'll be the third one of the day for me, and you know how unusual that is.  No big deal, I had a good lunch.

Angel went and retrieved two drinks.  Then he came and joined me on the sofa, pulling a gold-plated coke straw out of his jacket pocket as he sat down.  Please, enjoy.  I did one up when I set those out so I'm feeling fine.

I bent down and snorted up one of the lines.  The icicle rats ran into my sinuses, and down the back of my throat.  Thank you, Angel.  Hopefully it'll help with my headache.  I explained how I got brained at the bar.

Angel frowned.  This is not good, he said.  We should send a crew in to clear the place out.  Nobody does that to a member of the Family.

I pleaded, Don't worry about it.  I'm not.  It was strictly business for them.  That dude Ivan had me pegged as a pest and a troublemaker --- and I was --- so they disposed of me in a manner which indicated they'd done it before.  I guarantee there have been plenty of obnoxious drunks who ended up next to that dumpster too.  My feelings aren't hurt.

Angel smiled.  All right, Lenny.  Given that it's a gay bar, people might get the wrong idea if we trashed the place.  Speaking of trash, we must discuss Todd.

You start.

Okay.  Todd Agnew, age 34, native of the San Fernando Valley.  Enjoys cocaine just a little too much.  Runs --- more like walks --- a pornographic video studio called Heretic Productions, knocking out VHS tapes which are sold in liquor stores, not adult outlets.  Tends to carry multiple guns on his person.  Single.  Possibly crippled in his right shoulder due to an injury sustained at the hands of one Lenny Schneider.  Generally considered an unmitigated prick.  Those are the high spots.

You left out that he screams like a girl when hurt, I said.  So now what?  Send Paul up to wherever he lives and have him take care of things?  Sue him for the cost of the Ferrari?  Put flaming dog shit on his front porch?

We have to find him first.  He's probably still somewhere in the Chatsworth area, but he moved out of both his apartment and studio.  That's your current assignment, Lenny.  Find Todd.

And at this point I'll say that we're definitely into private investigator territory.  I don't know shit about tracking people down.  What am I supposed to do, spend my days cruising around the Valley looking for his Lexus?  And when I do find him, then what?  I have a hunch he'll remember me, and not be amused by my presence.

Angel smiled and stretched.  You're smart, you'll figure out some way of locating him.  And do not contact him.  You're right, he'll remember you, and probably pull one of his guns.  Speaking of which....

I held my jacket open and jerked a thumb at the butt of my Beretta.  Yeah, my little probation violation is still on my person.  Bekka hates that I carry it, and I'm none too happy about it myself.  I go straight to jail if a cop finds it on me, you know that, right?

And just like the last time you went to jail, I'd have you out in a few hours.  Do not worry about the details of carrying your gun, just remember your boss is happier knowing you have it on you.  Understood?

Yeah, I get it.  Heh, it freaks my parents right the hell out.

They do not understand the need to protect ones self?

Naw, they really don't get it.  Listen Angel, is Frankie going to take over Inana while I play gumshoe?  I want to show him a couple details on the Macintosh that I changed around if he is.

Angel reached for the coke straw, then knelt down on the floor to do up his line.  I will have him at the mansion at ten tomorrow morning.  You'll be able to get at least a half day's work in to finding Todd.

We stood and shook hands.  I said, I'll be back in the Valley tomorrow, and I'll keep you posted as to how things are going.  Fair enough?

That's fine, Lenny.  You have a good night.  I went out the door and got the Acura in motion.

The Coital Charade: Ferrari

Chapter Two

I arrived back at Olivehurst to find I couldn't park in my space.  It was already occupied by a Ford Taurus.  I pondered this, then recognized the Taurus as camera guy Calm Steve's car.  I still had no idea why Steve would be over, except to talk business, which would be strange.  Bekka hated it when work followed her home.

Leaving the Acura in a visitor's space, I stepped in my front door to find Bekka and Steve on the sofa with beers in their hands.  Steve had his shoes off, and Bekka was wearing nothing but her kimono robe.  They both looked very surprised at my presence.

Hey hon, I said, bending down to kiss her.  How you doing, Steve?

Steve smiled and said, Hey boss.

So what are you guys up to?

Bekka answered me.  Just a couple off-work beers and talking over how the shoot went today.  I'm glad you picked up that new girl, the one who goes by Mandy.  She's a good performer and also a decent actress.  I think we'll have another hot one on our hands when we're done, as good as 'Bad Babysitter' or 'Lust Instructor'.

I should probably get going.  Mika's making dinner tonight, said Steve, rising from the sofa and pulling on his shoes.  He went out the door without a goodbye.

Well, that was a cozy scene I walked in on, I said, going to  the kitchen for my own beer.

Do not start, Lenny.  You sound like a jealous husband.

Maybe I am one, I growled.

Over Calm Steve?  Please.  Dammit, I've known him longer than I've known you.  If I was gonna fuck him it would have happened a long time ago, okay?

But think about how it looks to me.  So far as I know, Steve's never been over here in his life, and the one night I'm supposed to be out of town he shows up.  If I was truly jealous, I'd be telling you this in a much higher volume, believe me.  I scratched my back against the door frame.

Bekka walked across the room and wrapped her arms around me.  You worry about nothing, she said.  She nuzzled against my neck.  Steve is just a friend.

You and I were just friends when we started off.  I wasn't feeling mollified.

That was different.  And don't ask me how, because I don't know how to explain how.  But do not worry about Steve, or any other man, being here when you're not around.  You are mine, and you're all I want.  Okay?

Okay, I'll let it drop.  On a simpler tick, what shall we do for dinner?

I'll whip  something up.  A chicken Alfredo sound good?

Sounds great.  Oh, I got hit with a bat today.

Bekka froze in the middle of the kitchen.  What happened?  Where were you?

I was in a gay bar in the Valley, making a pest of myself with the bartender.  Someone stuck a gun in my ribs, marched me into a back room, and whacked me in the head.  I came to by their dumpster.  I've still got the headache, even after two drinks and a line of coke.

You sure you're okay?

Yeah, I'm fine.  If I still feel the same in the morning I'll go to the ER.  Fair enough?

Good.  You can't just ride out a concussion.  You should probably go to the hospital tonight, you know....

Seriously, I'll be fine.  I wasn't out that long, and that's how you measure how bad a concussion is.  If I'd been unconscious for a half hour, then I'd be in trouble.  But I was out for maybe four minutes.  Really, it's nothing to worry about.

You're home, so I'm assuming you finished your assignment? Bekka asked.

Yeah.  And I picked up a new one, too.  I get to track down our old friend Todd, that chump from Chatsworth that shot Vinny.  I probably really will be gone tomorrow night.

Bekka dragged her fingers through her hair.  They are aware you're not a private eye, right?

They don't seem to care.  I'm in the Family and they think I'm smart.  That's good enough for them.  I have no idea where to start.  Unless....

What?

I pulled Todd's business card out of my pocket.  There was a number on it, [phone].  I gave Bekka my car salesman smile and said, Honey, would you make a call for me?

Early the next afternoon I was sitting a block away from an address in Canoga Park, a business park.  I had a new pair of binoculars sitting in my lap, which I would occasionally look through when I saw movement outside the address.  I'd located Todd's car, but had yet to see him, and had no idea whether the units had a back door to the parking lot.  I kept an eye on the front door of the suite and the driveway.

Getting Todd's new work address had been simplicity in itself.  I'd had Bekka call up and say she wanted to do some performance, and where should she show up?  Todd, or whoever answered the phone, was happy to provide the location.  Come by anytime, but afternoon would be best.

The waiting was dull.  I understood why investigators charged so much, it was to make up for the boredom.

After nearly three hours of waiting, a familiar Lexus zipped out of the lot and into the street.  I gave him a few seconds, then pulled into traffic behind him, keeping him within eyesight.  We had three cars between us, which was fine with me.  I didn't want to tip my hand.

On Roscoe Boulevard Todd pulled into a strip mall.  I followed and pulled into a space at the end, sliding down in my seat.  Todd went into a deli, returning several minutes later with two large bags.  He was buying lunch for his crew.  I didn't bother to follow him back to his  studio, knowing I'd just pick him up there.  Hopefully he'd simply be headed home the next time he moved around.

Four hours later....

The Lexus was in motion again.  This time Todd cruised along Saticoy Street to Fallbrook Avenue, then onto Vanowen Street, where he pulled into the driveway of a house.  I rolled past two blocks, making a u-turn in the middle of the block and reaching for my binoculars.  I wanted to be sure this was home, and not a friend's house.  I'd give him two hours and grab something to eat, then come back and watch some more.  If he didn't move in that time I'd take it for granted I'd found home and get the address.

An hour into my vigil I it was getting dark and I was interrupted by a homeowner.  What are you doing out here? I was asked.

I'm watching a guy named Todd, I said, holding up the binoculars.

What for?

"I work for the mafia, and I'm pretty sure we're going to kill him.  Why?  What do you do for a living?"

The neighbor seemed shocked at my response.Are you going to kill him at his house? he asked.

I smiled and said, I don't know.  It's not my decision to make.  I'm not even sure if I'm the one who gets to kill him or not.

He suddenly relaxed.  Aw, you're joking.  You don't work for the mafia, not lookin' like that.

Of course not, sir.  Besides, the mafia doesn't exist.  It was made up by Congress to help explain pockets of organized crime.  There is no mafia.

Yeah, I heard that somewhere.

Anyway, I nee to keep my eyes peeled to make sure I've got the right house for this dude Todd, I said, picking up the  binoculars again.

He got suspicious again.  So what are you doing out here?

I work for a repossession company.

Oh, okay.  He went back in his house without telling me what he did for a living.

Ninety minutes later my stomach burned from the taqueria food I'd  wolfed down and I was deathly bored of sitting in the same position.  Todd wasn't moving around.  I was sure I had the right place.  I  packed it in for the night.

I checked into my motel in Van Nuys around 9:30, then talked on the phone with Bekka for a while.  Nothing interesting had happened at Inana today.  Frankie had everything handled as near as she  knew.  I told her life as a private eye was really damn dull.  Much of the time you just sit there, waiting for anything to happen.  I'd rather be interviewing naked women like on a normal work day.

Frankie's been having a good time, she told me.  We said our good-nights and I went to bed.  I wanted to be up and around in the morning to see what time ol' Todd went to work.

Eight o'clock the next morning found me sitting a half block up from Todd's, on the opposite side of the  street.  The Lexus was still in the driveway, and I figured he was not a morning person.

8:30 had a Chevy Caprice pull up in front of Todd's place.  This was not expected.  I watched two Latinos, low-rider types, get out and go to the front door. Todd let them in immediately.

Five minutes later four loud pops came from the house.  The Latinos came out of the house, jumped in the Caprice, and screeched off.  This did not bode well.

I crossed the street and jogged up to Todd's front door.  It was standing wide open.  I walked in, calling, Hello, Todd?  You home, asshole?

Todd was home.  He wasn't about to go anywhere.  He'd achieved that special peace you get when half your head has been blown off.  Todd lay sideways on the sofa, staring up with the eye that was still there.  I learned that brains which have been subject to the trauma of a bullet look like cake batter.  I stood there like a moron and stared at the late Todd Agnew.

Only one thing for it.  I picked up the phone handset with the sleeve of my jacket and dialed 911.  When the operator answered I hung up again.  The computers would provide the address.  Then I calmly walked into Todd's bathroom and puked in the toilet, wiping my mouth on a towel afterwards.

Then I got the hell out of there, heading east on Vanowen.  A couple minutes along a cop car passed me in the opposite direction, lights on but siren off.  I'd have put money on where he was headed.

When I got to my motel I called Angel.  Angela told me he'd gone out for his inspection of the  studios.  I told her to have him call me at the motel as soon as possible, the Starlight Inn, room 221.  It was urgent.

The Coital Charade: Ferrari

Chapter Three

Angel called around 3:30, sounding peeved because I was delaying his lunch.  So what do you know, Lenny?  Found Todd yet?

I found him, and there won't be any more trouble from him.  He's dead.

I swear I heard Angel choke on his own spit.  Lenny, what do you mean?  Why is he dead?

He's dead because two Mexican homeboys blew his head off this morning.  I saw them arrive, I saw them leave, and I went in the house afterwards and found Todd.  It was bad, Angel, real bad.

And then what did you do?

I dialed 911 and set the phone down.  I didn't leave any prints.  Then I got the hell out of there.  I had no excuse to be in his house, so sticking around and talking to the cops sounded like a bad idea.  Especially while wearing a fucking gun I'm not supposed to have.

Angel cleared his throat.  It sounded like a Harley starting up.  He said, You and I are having dinner at the trattoria tonight.  I want you to debrief me on what the last thirty-six hours of your life have been like.  Be there at eight, okay?

I'll be there.  No problem.

Lenny, this is not good.

I was at the restaurant five minutes early, Angel running ten minutes late.  We were given our usual immediate patio seating, Angel demanding a scotch and soda as soon as possible.  I asked for my usual Johnnie Walker.  From across the table Angel scowled at me, opened his mouth to yell, then began giggling.

What's so funny?

You are, he said.  I swear Lenny, you're a goddamn magnet for bullets.

It would seem that way.  So you want to hear about the last two days?

Lay it on me.

"First of all, I had Bekka call Todd and pretend to be out of work.  He came across with his new studio address in a second.  I staked out the address, it's in Canoga Park, and waited for Todd to move around.  When he did I followed him.  He went to get lunch, and finally headed for home around seven. I followed him.  I wanted to make sure he was home and not at a girlfriend's house, so I sat a couple blocks up and watched for quite a while.  Some neighbor braced me, so I told him I was a repo man.

By ten last night it was obvious Todd was staying put, so I went to my motel.  I resumed my vigil at eight this morning.  The two Mexicans showed up around eight thirty, and were in the house for five minutes.  I heard the shots, I had parked a lot closer.  After they split, I went in the house and found Todd with his head blown off.  I made the 911 call and got out of there.  Then I went back to my motel and called your house.  Most of my day was spent watching TV.

And you had nothing to do with the killing, Angel said.

Not a thing.

You weren't trying to show off for the organization.

No sir.  I told you before I don't want to do any killing.

Angel sighed and said, All right, I believe you.  There are some people higher up than me that don't.  I'll tell them what you told me and we'll go from there.  I got my ass chewed off this afternoon when I relayed the news about Todd being killed.  Somebody did our job for us, and we don't like that. We want to know who it was.

I told Angel, Just find some Mexican homies with a late-model blue Caprice.  The work will be done.

Actually, I was thinking of having you do that.

What?  Aw, c'mon Angel, not more detective work....

Who else to  do it but you?  You should feel flattered that we hold your intelligence in such high regard.

I thought they assumed I killed Todd.

Angel chuckled and said, You wouldn't be the first associate to decide he'll move higher faster by taking matters into his own hands.  It's a bad idea, and it doesn't work.  However, the question had to be asked.  When I get pressure from above, some of that pressure will be exerted downwards from me.  Can't be helped.

I'm not that greedy.  I'm happy running Inana and doing deliveries for you guys.  I don't want to be the go-to guy for detective work for the Family.

Angel sighed.  "Lenny, you're too smart to be wasting your time delivering suitcases full of drugs. Just like you were too smart to be a speed dealer.  Why not be our go-to guy?  You won't be bored, you get to use