Chump Change.
3rd book in "Fish" Fishbein's Adventures in La-La Land series
Chapter 4
Flying off the Pasadena Freeway at the Avenue 26 exit, Carlos Santana was less than a happy man.
It was three thirty in the morning; this was his first night off in almost two weeks, and when Fish called about the ventilated stiff perched on somebody’s back porch up in Lincoln Heights, he’d only been asleep for a couple of hours.
He and his wife had spent the evening celebrating his niece Juliana’s quinceañera, so he was a little hung over. And wondering why the hell the girl and her parents couldn’t have waited another year and thrown her a perfectly respectable sweet sixteen party.
Hell, millions of gringos do it every damn week.
Then, he wouldn’t be stuck in this stupid unmarked patrol unit, on a Code three scramble with a damn siren driving red hot needles through his hangover.
While his partner’s on vacation and fishing for trout in freakin’ Montana.
Santana had been working Robbery-Homicide out of LAPD’s Venice division for almost fifteen years. Normally, a call about a vic found a couple of hundred clicks the other side of Dodger Stadium would have gone to some other investigator in a different division.
But the call didn’t come through channels; it came straight from Fish’s cell phone.
Which made sense in a way. Most times, you couldn’t combine the words Moe Fishbein and normal in the same sentence, and be telling the truth.
Not that Fish was dirty or played fast and loose with the law; he was one of the most honest, ethical and helpful citizens Santana had ever worked a case around.
For sure, more than any other attorney he’d ever seen in action.
And with that wise-ass attitude, perpetual chuckle and caca-eating grin of his, Fish could even make a homicide a little fun to work on. Toss in Einstein and Kenny, that ex-space vaquero with the chopped Harley and arms sleeved in cartoon character tatts, and somehow, Fish’s little hog-riding three-ring circus almost always managed to get the job done.
Without any collateral damage.
Or too many fractured statutes.
So, Santana had to respect the guy.
And kind of like him as well.
Most of what greeted detective Santana as he pulled up to the house on Mira Vista was what he expected to see: a crowd of neighbors, gang bangers, children and dogs roaming around the front yard.
It sort of felt like a middle-of-the-night neighborhood block party, right down to the boom box belonging to one of the partiers, blaring out Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs, War, Tierra and ancient doo-wop tunes. The only thing missing was a couple of refreshment stands hawking fresh hot churros and a beat-up pickup truck, horse trailer and grizzled old coot selling pony rides to the parents of all the little kids in the crowd.
“What the hell ..?”
But the three video trucks, the multimillion candlepower searchlights and scurrying cameramen took him by surprise.
Four black and whites pulled in right behind Santana’s unmarked Crown Vic and he busied their occupants with cordoning off the entire yard in crime scene tape and herding the crowd off the property. Then he went around the back of the house, looking for Fish and his homicide victim.
“Hey, Fish …”
Fish, Einstein, Kenny and Arnie Babe quickly stood up from where they’d been sitting at the end of the porch farthest from the corpse in the kitchen chair. Santana shook hands with the three and made a little small talk, ignoring the hyperactive “suit” in the wrinkled, expensive tie.
“So,” he turned to take a good look at the body seated in the chair. “What do we got here?”
Fish shrugged. “Don’t know, Carlos. Kenny found him when we showed up to take four failures to appear into custody.”
He handed his copies of the Coca Cola Crew’s warrants to the detective.
“Any idea who our guest of honor over there might be?” Santana asked while he read through the court’s paperwork.
Fish looked to Kenny and Einstein and just shrugged.
“Ooh, ooh! I do! I do!” Arnie Babe was bouncing up and down on his toes, as pumped as a third grader who knew the answer to a question that had the rest of the class flummoxed.
“His name’s Demetrius Saunders. See?”
The ex-attorney and talent agent turned producer dug a ratty looking wallet out of his pocket and handed it to Santana.
The detective pulled a driver’s license out of the wallet and spent a moment comparing it to the victim.
“Looks like he’s right, Fish. It’s Saunders.”
Then he took a long look at Arnie.
“Where did you get this?”
“His back pocket,” he answered proudly. “Where else?”
Santana stared at Arnie for a moment, then down at the wallet in his hand, then back at Arnie for a second time.
“Pretty good police work, huh?” Arnie offered.
“You took personal property off a homicide victim?” The detective couldn’t believe either the stupidity or the sheer gall of the man standing in front of him.
“Guilty as charged,” Arnie held up his right hand with his palm facing the detective, like he was being sworn in.
Santana turned to Fish. “This clown with you?”
Fish answered with a shrug.
“I want to know who the hell you are,” Santana barked at Arnie Babe.
“Then I want you to explain why I shouldn’t haul you in for interfering with a crime scene, obstruction, petty theft, possession of stolen property and tampering with evidence.”
Arnie Babe’s face went white and he quickly dug his business card case out of his jacket pocket.
“Arnold Kaufman, Officer,” he stammered while trying to open the case. Then the card holder slipped out of his hands and spilled its contents all over the ground. He quickly fished one of his cards out of the dirt and handed it to Santana.
“C’mon, Carlos.” Fish chuckled and his face widened into its customary Buddha-licious grin. “You know this guy. Remember? Bryana St. Cloud? Wanna-be starlet who got smoked over a handful of stolen diamonds? Had an ex-attorney for an agent, who wouldn’t come down to ID her body because she wasn’t a living, breathing, earning client anymore?”
“Oh yeah,” the detective answered, dividing his stare between Arnie Babe and his business card. “Now I remember. No help whatsoever.”
He pocketed the business card. “Nice to meet you, counselor.”
Arnie was too embarrassed and flustered to say much. He just stood there, looking at the detective while his jaw moved up and down and his mouth produced the same sound Ralph Kramden used to make on the old Honeymooners show, when his wife had him backed into a corner.
“Humma, humma, humma, humma …”
“Now get the hell out of my crime scene.”
Arnie Babe nodded quickly and scampered around the side of the house.
The detective silently counted to three, winked at Fish and loudly added, “NOW, Mr. Kaufman!” just as Arnie’s Face reappeared around the corner of the building.
The radio on Santana’s belt suddenly crackled into life and he held it up to his ear.
“They want me inside,” he said to Fish. ”There’s something I just gotta see.”
Fish shrugged and the three bail enforcement agents fell into step with the detective.
“Pssst.” The noise came at them from behind a large bush next to the house.
“Pssssst!”
It was Arnie Babe, motioning to detective Santana.
“Kaufman, what the hell are you still doing here? Do I have to read you your rights?”
“Look, Detective,” Arnie smiled sheepishly and held out his hand to shake as he climbed out of the bush. “I just wanted to apologize. I’m sorry we kind of got off on the wrong foot back there.”
Santana relaxed. “No harm, no foul, Mr. Kaufman. But I can’t have you running around here and maybe contaminating my crime scene.”
“No problem. I was just leaving. But before I go, can I take just a minute of your time? It’s something that could be important to the both of us.”
“Shoot …”
“OK … you watch much TV, Detective? I mean reality shows. You watch them?”
“Sometimes, I guess. Why?”
“Because you can make a ton of money with one. And I’ve got an idea for the perfect one for you.”
“I don’t know …”
“A hot reality show could make you a multi-millionaire, Detective.”
“OK, I’ll bite. What’s this hot reality show you want me for?”
“Picture this,” Arnie held up his hands, framing his thought the same way he did for Fish.
“America’s … Wackiest … Crime Scenes!”
Santana looked at Arnie Babe like he’d sprouted a second head.
“Hey, you present the videos and I’ll exec produce. We’ll make a fortune. What do you think?”
“I think if you aren’t off my crime scene in ten seconds, I’m gonna add DUI to the charges.”
“I’m going, I’m going. But do yourself a favor, Detective. Just think about it. OK?”
Santana was the first to hit the front door, where he stopped for a second to speak with the uniform who was posted in front of it.
“You’re not going to believe this, Detective.”
“Whatcha got?”
“It’s in the living room. You can’t miss it. Just watch where you step.”
Santana nodded his thanks and walked inside, followed by Fish, Kenny and Einstein.
And then silently trailed by Arnie Babe.
The living room looked pretty normal.
Except for the huge hole in the center of the room, where it looked like that section of floor must have caved in under a ton of weight.
All five men peered over the edge and into the basement, where a couple of canvas sacks had burst, spreading a good-sized puddle of quarters across the old dirt floor.
3rd book in "Fish" Fishbein's Adventures in La-La Land series
Chapter 4
Flying off the Pasadena Freeway at the Avenue 26 exit, Carlos Santana was less than a happy man.
It was three thirty in the morning; this was his first night off in almost two weeks, and when Fish called about the ventilated stiff perched on somebody’s back porch up in Lincoln Heights, he’d only been asleep for a couple of hours.
He and his wife had spent the evening celebrating his niece Juliana’s quinceañera, so he was a little hung over. And wondering why the hell the girl and her parents couldn’t have waited another year and thrown her a perfectly respectable sweet sixteen party.
Hell, millions of gringos do it every damn week.
Then, he wouldn’t be stuck in this stupid unmarked patrol unit, on a Code three scramble with a damn siren driving red hot needles through his hangover.
While his partner’s on vacation and fishing for trout in freakin’ Montana.
Santana had been working Robbery-Homicide out of LAPD’s Venice division for almost fifteen years. Normally, a call about a vic found a couple of hundred clicks the other side of Dodger Stadium would have gone to some other investigator in a different division.
But the call didn’t come through channels; it came straight from Fish’s cell phone.
Which made sense in a way. Most times, you couldn’t combine the words Moe Fishbein and normal in the same sentence, and be telling the truth.
Not that Fish was dirty or played fast and loose with the law; he was one of the most honest, ethical and helpful citizens Santana had ever worked a case around.
For sure, more than any other attorney he’d ever seen in action.
And with that wise-ass attitude, perpetual chuckle and caca-eating grin of his, Fish could even make a homicide a little fun to work on. Toss in Einstein and Kenny, that ex-space vaquero with the chopped Harley and arms sleeved in cartoon character tatts, and somehow, Fish’s little hog-riding three-ring circus almost always managed to get the job done.
Without any collateral damage.
Or too many fractured statutes.
So, Santana had to respect the guy.
And kind of like him as well.
Most of what greeted detective Santana as he pulled up to the house on Mira Vista was what he expected to see: a crowd of neighbors, gang bangers, children and dogs roaming around the front yard.
It sort of felt like a middle-of-the-night neighborhood block party, right down to the boom box belonging to one of the partiers, blaring out Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs, War, Tierra and ancient doo-wop tunes. The only thing missing was a couple of refreshment stands hawking fresh hot churros and a beat-up pickup truck, horse trailer and grizzled old coot selling pony rides to the parents of all the little kids in the crowd.
“What the hell ..?”
But the three video trucks, the multimillion candlepower searchlights and scurrying cameramen took him by surprise.
Four black and whites pulled in right behind Santana’s unmarked Crown Vic and he busied their occupants with cordoning off the entire yard in crime scene tape and herding the crowd off the property. Then he went around the back of the house, looking for Fish and his homicide victim.
“Hey, Fish …”
Fish, Einstein, Kenny and Arnie Babe quickly stood up from where they’d been sitting at the end of the porch farthest from the corpse in the kitchen chair. Santana shook hands with the three and made a little small talk, ignoring the hyperactive “suit” in the wrinkled, expensive tie.
“So,” he turned to take a good look at the body seated in the chair. “What do we got here?”
Fish shrugged. “Don’t know, Carlos. Kenny found him when we showed up to take four failures to appear into custody.”
He handed his copies of the Coca Cola Crew’s warrants to the detective.
“Any idea who our guest of honor over there might be?” Santana asked while he read through the court’s paperwork.
Fish looked to Kenny and Einstein and just shrugged.
“Ooh, ooh! I do! I do!” Arnie Babe was bouncing up and down on his toes, as pumped as a third grader who knew the answer to a question that had the rest of the class flummoxed.
“His name’s Demetrius Saunders. See?”
The ex-attorney and talent agent turned producer dug a ratty looking wallet out of his pocket and handed it to Santana.
The detective pulled a driver’s license out of the wallet and spent a moment comparing it to the victim.
“Looks like he’s right, Fish. It’s Saunders.”
Then he took a long look at Arnie.
“Where did you get this?”
“His back pocket,” he answered proudly. “Where else?”
Santana stared at Arnie for a moment, then down at the wallet in his hand, then back at Arnie for a second time.
“Pretty good police work, huh?” Arnie offered.
“You took personal property off a homicide victim?” The detective couldn’t believe either the stupidity or the sheer gall of the man standing in front of him.
“Guilty as charged,” Arnie held up his right hand with his palm facing the detective, like he was being sworn in.
Santana turned to Fish. “This clown with you?”
Fish answered with a shrug.
“I want to know who the hell you are,” Santana barked at Arnie Babe.
“Then I want you to explain why I shouldn’t haul you in for interfering with a crime scene, obstruction, petty theft, possession of stolen property and tampering with evidence.”
Arnie Babe’s face went white and he quickly dug his business card case out of his jacket pocket.
“Arnold Kaufman, Officer,” he stammered while trying to open the case. Then the card holder slipped out of his hands and spilled its contents all over the ground. He quickly fished one of his cards out of the dirt and handed it to Santana.
“C’mon, Carlos.” Fish chuckled and his face widened into its customary Buddha-licious grin. “You know this guy. Remember? Bryana St. Cloud? Wanna-be starlet who got smoked over a handful of stolen diamonds? Had an ex-attorney for an agent, who wouldn’t come down to ID her body because she wasn’t a living, breathing, earning client anymore?”
“Oh yeah,” the detective answered, dividing his stare between Arnie Babe and his business card. “Now I remember. No help whatsoever.”
He pocketed the business card. “Nice to meet you, counselor.”
Arnie was too embarrassed and flustered to say much. He just stood there, looking at the detective while his jaw moved up and down and his mouth produced the same sound Ralph Kramden used to make on the old Honeymooners show, when his wife had him backed into a corner.
“Humma, humma, humma, humma …”
“Now get the hell out of my crime scene.”
Arnie Babe nodded quickly and scampered around the side of the house.
The detective silently counted to three, winked at Fish and loudly added, “NOW, Mr. Kaufman!” just as Arnie’s Face reappeared around the corner of the building.
The radio on Santana’s belt suddenly crackled into life and he held it up to his ear.
“They want me inside,” he said to Fish. ”There’s something I just gotta see.”
Fish shrugged and the three bail enforcement agents fell into step with the detective.
“Pssst.” The noise came at them from behind a large bush next to the house.
“Pssssst!”
It was Arnie Babe, motioning to detective Santana.
“Kaufman, what the hell are you still doing here? Do I have to read you your rights?”
“Look, Detective,” Arnie smiled sheepishly and held out his hand to shake as he climbed out of the bush. “I just wanted to apologize. I’m sorry we kind of got off on the wrong foot back there.”
Santana relaxed. “No harm, no foul, Mr. Kaufman. But I can’t have you running around here and maybe contaminating my crime scene.”
“No problem. I was just leaving. But before I go, can I take just a minute of your time? It’s something that could be important to the both of us.”
“Shoot …”
“OK … you watch much TV, Detective? I mean reality shows. You watch them?”
“Sometimes, I guess. Why?”
“Because you can make a ton of money with one. And I’ve got an idea for the perfect one for you.”
“I don’t know …”
“A hot reality show could make you a multi-millionaire, Detective.”
“OK, I’ll bite. What’s this hot reality show you want me for?”
“Picture this,” Arnie held up his hands, framing his thought the same way he did for Fish.
“America’s … Wackiest … Crime Scenes!”
Santana looked at Arnie Babe like he’d sprouted a second head.
“Hey, you present the videos and I’ll exec produce. We’ll make a fortune. What do you think?”
“I think if you aren’t off my crime scene in ten seconds, I’m gonna add DUI to the charges.”
“I’m going, I’m going. But do yourself a favor, Detective. Just think about it. OK?”
Santana was the first to hit the front door, where he stopped for a second to speak with the uniform who was posted in front of it.
“You’re not going to believe this, Detective.”
“Whatcha got?”
“It’s in the living room. You can’t miss it. Just watch where you step.”
Santana nodded his thanks and walked inside, followed by Fish, Kenny and Einstein.
And then silently trailed by Arnie Babe.
The living room looked pretty normal.
Except for the huge hole in the center of the room, where it looked like that section of floor must have caved in under a ton of weight.
All five men peered over the edge and into the basement, where a couple of canvas sacks had burst, spreading a good-sized puddle of quarters across the old dirt floor.