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“Yeah? What?” he said with a stunned look on his malevolent face.
Tomás shrugged as we showed our tin.
“And?” he said.
“Señor Neves,” Diaz said with a courtly little bow, “I know you’re a busy man, but do you think it might be possible to speak with you for five minutes about a stolen car? If now’s not good for you, we could always come back later with a search warrant and put you out of business.”
“Why don’t you come back to my office?” Tomás finally said.
“Señor Neves, I thought you’d never ask,” Diaz said.
We followed him up the stairs, into a room with a spotless desk and a phone on it. There was a window in one wall and the cracked door to a bathroom in another.
“OK, here we are. Happy? So what the hell is this about? A stolen car?” Neves demanded.
“Jeez, dog. What is it with you? Could you be ruder?” Diaz cried. “This ain’t the hood. This is Manhattan Beach. You’re supposed to say shit like, Would you like a seat, Officer? Can I get you a cold drink, Officer? I mean, if you want to be a businessman, you should watch an episode of Martha Stewart or something.”
“Fine. Would you like a seat?” Neves said.
“There you go. No seat, man, but do you mind if I use your facilities to freshen up a little?” Diaz said, holding up his palms like a magician about to do a trick.
“Whatever,” Neves said.
“Thanks,” Diaz said, heading into the can. “Cleanliness is next to godliness, you know.”
Diaz wasn’t two steps in when he stopped and turned. Emily and I had to suppress our laughter.
“What the—?” Diaz said loudly.
There was a loud scraping sound, and a moment later, Diaz came out with a stunned look on his face and something dripping in his hand. It was the bar of soap he had wrapped in red cellophane in the parking lot of the CVS. A small package that had a strong resemblance to a kilo of cocaine.
“What have we here, Tomás?” Diaz said, shaking his head in dismay. “Little advice, señor. When you hide something from the cops in a toilet tank, you should really remember to put the lid all the way back on.”
“Whoa,” Tomás said, stunned. He blinked a few times, then shook his lean face vigorously. “This ain’t happening. This is a joke, right? You’re putting me on, yo?”
“Yep,” said Diaz, throwing him up against the wall and ratcheting handcuffs around his wrists. “Wanna hear the punch line? You have the right to remain silent.”
“You planted that shit there! You planted that shit!”
“Yes, I did, Tomás,” Diaz whispered to him. “Want to know a little secret? Planting shit on scum like you is, like, my favorite hobby. Guess what? There ain’t no stolen car, and the gloves are off, bitch. Just got the word from up top, and I couldn’t be happier. CRASH times are here again!”
“You crazy, man. What the hell are you talking about?”
“Your buddy Manuel offed an FBI agent, and you think it’s not going to come on you? What did you think was going to happen?”
“But I don’t know any Manuel! What are you talking about? I want my lawyer. Yo, get Terrence! Go next door and get Terrence!” he started yelling.
Through the window, I saw the welder run out of the garage.
“John?” I said.
“It’s OK. I got this,” Diaz said.
Diaz grabbed the gangbanger and kicked out his legs as he body slammed him onto the desk.
“Listen to me, and listen to me good,” he said. “Your lawyer isn’t going to be able to help you when I toss you in MacArthur Park Lake with these cuffs on, maricón. Now start talking.”
Tomás said something in Spanish then. Diaz said something back.
