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  An outdoor service was planned, and as Matt pulled slowly into the small cemetery, he observed about fifty people gathering near the hillside grave site. Matt had some comfort knowing Dwayne had his back if this thing went south and, if it did, it would all be on tape.

  Cameras, video, and stills inside the van were rolling and clicking.

  Matt exited his car and looked up to see soft white clouds, making it another perfect Southern California day. Another day in paradise. What a great day for a funeral. And I get to hang out with a bunch of smelly bikers and racists bemoaning society's loss of another Nobel laureate drug dealer.

  Matt cleaned up for the service. He wasn't quite formal, more like business casual mourning, but his black dress slacks, a black tee, and a black sports coat far exceeded the long-haired cretins in jeans and cutoffs. How about a little decorum for crying out loud? The guy is dead.

  He scanned the crowd and quickly spotted Bobby's cousin, Jesse. Matt wasn't armed. It was too dangerous under the circumstances, but if the time came, he had no desire to go toe-to-toe with any of Boris's crew. Just shoot 'em and let OPR sort it out!

  Matt didn't want to be obvious, but before he had a choice, Jesse, appropriately dressed in a dark suit and stoic in expression, saw him. The moment of truth was near.

  Jesse quickly made his way over to Matt, who took a deep breath. Seconds would determine the next phase of the investigation.

  Jesse grabbed Matt and gave him a bear hug. With tears streaming down his cheeks, Jesse said, "Thanks for coming dude. I know how much you meant to my cousin, and I appreciate you being here. He was a screwup, but he was like a brother to me, and I lost someone special when he died."

  The hug lasted longer than normal, and Matt kept expecting Jesse to run his hands up and down Matt's back, seeking to detect a recording device or weapon, but the lingering hug was apparently the gesture of a truly grieving man.

  Matt wasn't used to behemoths expressing such emotions so either he was not suspected of being an undercover agent or Jesse Himmler was an Academy Award-winning actor. Matt offered an appropriate response to Jesse's grief, and eventually Jesse relaxed his massive arms. Matt caught his breath and tried hard to hide his shock.

  Boris Gregorian and a dark-haired, attractive, twenty-something female were walking toward Jesse.

  Matt was hoping the surveillance cameras were clicking at NASCAR speed.

  "Jesse," said Boris.

  Jesse turned and gave another equally long and soulful hug to the former Russian intelligence agent, thanking him for coming to the funeral. The female awkwardly stood there chomping on her gum, looking around at those in attendance, and giving Matt a brief, forced smile.

  Jesse released his hug and grabbed Matt by the elbow. "Boris, I want you to meet Matt. He was a good friend of my cousin and tried to get Bobby straight. He's the one I was telling you about who helped finance Bobby's business."

  Matt and Boris shook hands, and Boris introduced his date as Sasha. Not being a devotee, Matt assumed Boris's escort may have a promising career in the world of adult entertainment.

  A hush fell upon the crowd when the minister began speaking.

  FOLLOWING THE SERVICE, MATT stood with Jesse, Boris, and Sasha on the blacktop drive and chatted as bikers and dopers left, offering condolences to Bobby's mother. As they passed, several said something to Jesse. Matt had no idea Jesse and Bobby were so close, but apparently everyone at the funeral knew of the tight relationship. At least a half-dozen who passed mentioned they would see Boris and Jesse at the club that evening.

  The FBI managed to bury the reports of the crime scene, and the only thing leaked to the press was that three people died in a fire in a Van Nuys home. Any media who cared speculated it may have been a methamphetamine laboratory explosion, but there was no follow up. The three victims may have had value to someone but certainly not many. There was no clamoring for the truth.

  "The paper said three died in the fire. Did you ever hear what happened?" asked Matt.

  "Matt, I don't want to hurt you . . ."

  Matt tensed. Was this the part where he was in for a beating?

  "I know how hard you worked to get him straight, but apparently Bobby was cooking and the lab exploded," said Jesse.

  "Oh, no," said Matt feigning surprise. "I thought he turned it around."

  "I'm not sure he was using. You may have helped him stay sober. I just think he was trying to make a buck. Bobby was good at chemistry. He could cook with the best of them. He just couldn't stay away from tasting his product. If he started cooking again, it was only a matter of time before he started dipping. He wasn't strong, Matt. That's why he needed someone like you."

  "And the other two, what about them?"

  "Tiffany was his girlfriend. She lived there. When I first met her, she was beautiful, but she fell fast once she got wired full time. Bobby used to be so proud to walk her around. He called her his 'arm candy.' But then they both started smoking and never climbed out of the pipe."

  "What about the other guy?"

  "That was Mickey Donovan. We all know him."

  Boris nodded.

  "Mickey may have been the customer, but if he was, he was more of a wholesaler than a retailer. I'm not even sure he used," said Jesse looking to Boris.

  "I never knew him to use, and if I found out he did, he would have never worked for me. I don't need those types around me. They can't be trusted—a businessman, yes, a user, no. They get caught, and they make up all kinds of stories to avoid the American gulags. It doesn't take much to break a user. They don't think straight once the supply is cut off."

  "Listen, Jesse, I'm really sorry about Bobby. I thought maybe I could keep him straight. Obviously I was wrong. I should have watched him more carefully. I almost feel at fault. I should have realized with the broken leg he would have too much time to think and start coming up with ways to supplement his income since the painting business was on hold. Maybe had I loaned him money to tide him over until the leg healed, it would have made a difference. He was a proud man. He never asked."

  Matt's eyes started to water; he could cry on cue when the director demanded.

  Jesse put his arm around Matt's shoulder. I hope they are getting pictures of this. Say "cheese."

  "This was not your fault bro. You tried to help. Bobby slipped. There is plenty of blame to go around, but most of it falls on him. He was weak. It cost him his life."

  Matt reached over to shake hands, "I better get going. It sounds as though you have lots to do this evening mourning the loss of your cousin. I will let you do that. It was nice meeting you. Sorry it didn't work out."

  Jesse grabbed Matt. "Hey, no, we want you to come to the club tonight. Bobby would want you there. This ain't over, bro. I told you the other day we might be able to do some business. I wasn't talking about painting. This isn't the time to talk about it, but in a few days I'd like to get together."

  "I'd love to honor Bobby. Where are you meeting?"

  "We're having a wake at my place, the Russian Veil," said Boris.

  "The Russian Veil?" Matt repeated the words slowly as if exploring his subconscious.

  "It's on Ventura Boulevard."

  "Yeah, I know the place. I've never been in but I've driven past."

  "We'll start gathering after nine in the back. Tell them at the door you're my guest," said Boris.

  Several more people exited shaking hands with Bobby's mother. Matt could see the disdain Boris had for the attendees. Both Boris and Sasha were dressed in Beverly Hills chic. Even though much of Matt's everyday wardrobe consisted of Costco warehouse bargains, Matt was semiformal compared to most. Boris shook his head as the Unwashed masses left the funeral. "These guys give the white race a bad name."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Matt headed straight to t
he kitchen, his nose following the smells of dinner.

  "Hey, babe."

  He kissed Caitlin who was bringing in the tri-tip she just removed from the grill. Showing him the meat, she asked, "Is this too rare?"

  "Baby, you know I always want my beef rare but never my sex."

  "Cowboy, sometimes you can almost be disgusting," said Caitlin as she leaned over and stole a second kiss.

  "At least you said 'almost.' I guess that means I haven't crossed the threshold of common decency yet."

  Matt began setting the table.

  "Speaking of decency, how was the funeral?"

  She put the broccoli on the table.

  "I have a feeling I will finally get this whole salvation issue figured out, and then when I get to heaven, God's going to stick me in the section housing dirty bikers."

  Caitlin opened the refrigerator and pulled out the salad she made earlier. "They'll be washed clean once they get to heaven."

  "I'm not sure these guys will bathe even when God calls. I think I spent the afternoon with a lot of prodigal sons who wasted their inheritances and still aren't ready to run home to Pops."

  Caitlin held up two bottles of salad dressing. Matt pointed to the Newman's Light Balsamic Vinaigrette.

  "Just remember the father welcomed his son with open arms not a closed fist."

  "It might be easier to welcome these guys with a loaded automatic."

  "Jesus ate with sinners."

  "Would he hang out at the Russian Veil?"

  "He's there. He may not be too happy, but he's there just asking for a relationship."

  "I'm glad to know he's there. Maybe I'll run into him tonight. I have to go back."

  Disappointment overtook her smile. "Matt, why?"

  "I've been invited to a wake for the departed."

  "There's a reason why sex is rare," Caitlin said sitting down at the table. "You pray."

  "That almost sounds like it's my punishment for working late again tonight."

  "I CAN'T TAKE A chance," said Matt talking on his cell phone with Dwayne. Matt was heading east on Ventura Boulevard toward the Russian Veil. "I have no idea what these guys are going to do. I've learned the hard way the experienced pros are tough to predict, and Boris is no amateur. I may have to strip just to walk into the place. As soon as I'm comfortable, I'll strap on a wire, but until then you'll have to trust me."

  "It's your call. I was just asking the question. But you were wired at the funeral. Will that cause a problem not being wired now?"

  "I understand your concern. I talked it over with Patti Weiss at the U.S. Attorney's office, and she didn't have a problem since this is the first meeting at the club. She just wanted me to document it in the 302 why I wasn't wired. I can cover it on paper."

  "Just hope we don't miss a smoking gun," said Dwayne.

  "If we do, I'll have to get them to shoot again."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Matt parked on the street and walked to the rear of the club as Boris instructed. Most patrons entered from the front, but a wake in Bobby's honor was being held in the back room. The invitation-only ceremony would be Matt's first opportunity to view Boris and Jesse on home turf.

  A man with a Budweiser tumor sat on a bar stool at the back door. Matt didn't recognize him from the funeral, but to Matt all trailer trash looked alike. "Yeah?"

  "I was a friend of Bobby's. Boris invited me tonight."

  "Down the hall and to the left."

  "Thanks."

  "To the left. Not the right. Make sure you go to the left."

  Matt kept walking, "Is that my military left or the other one?"

  "Huh?"

  He entered the darkened hallway, sizing up the environment quickly. It was second nature. Every time he entered a new venue, he sought the exits, the escapes, the covers, and the concealments. He had walked down too many "dark alleys" not to make the effort to ensure his safety.

  As he turned left, it was readily apparent he wasn't attending a sedated ceremony honoring the dead. A glance around the room confirmed his belief why first cousins should never marry. Those in attendance appeared to be short on brains and long on brawn. The chatter was rapid and fervent. Even before he began to hone in on specific conversations, he could pick up bits and pieces and realized the thirty or so in attendance were not happy-go-lucky members of a local humanitarian outreach organization. The room was an incubator for hate.

  Matt was outside the wire in the enemy's lair. For most it would be a pucker-factor moment; for Matt it was his element. He lived for these incursions beyond the comfort of a bureaucrat's desk, always ready with an alternative truth.

  Jesse spotted Matt and made his way to him. Extending his hand, Jesse greeted Matt like a close confidant. He gave Matt a quick handshake and then a hug. Matt hoped the others were watching this gesture of recognition because it might help solidify Matt's bona fides within the group.

  There was no subtle pat down or search, not a hint of suspicion. He could have worn a wire, but in this noise he wouldn't get much of a recording. It had never happened, but he feared the day when he's caught wearing a wire in some noisy venue where there was no evidentiary value to the meeting, just overcautious prosecutors and bureaucrats seeking to protect themselves from allegations of misconduct. Screw the undercover. We need to save our jobs. Focus.

  Jesse ushered Matt past a few people almost shoving them out of the way as the two headed for the bar. Jesse drew two cold ones from the tap and handed one to Matt.

  "To a new brother," said Jesse as the two touched glasses.

  "To an old brother who is no longer with us, God rest his soul," said Matt.

  Jesse started to talk but then saw someone across the room. "Excuse me a minute, Matt. I need to settle something. Not sure he should even be here." Jesse took off leaving Matt standing alone.

  Before Matt could take a drink, he was bumped from behind and fell forward spilling most of the beer on the floor. "What the . . ."

  "Sorry, man," said a 5'6", 250-pound, shaved-head, human fireplug who stumbled reaching for another drink.

  Matt eyed the poster child for white-trash week at federal lockup. His arms may have been bigger than Matt's thighs. Matt faced off against much bigger men but had no desire to challenge this sequoia tree stump standing before him.

  "Just trying to get another beer. You new here?" asked the stump.

  "Yeah, I'm a friend of Jesse's. This is my first time. Bobby and I were friends. I was helping him with his painting business and a few other things he had going."

  Stump, who was half in the bag, looked Matt up and down. "Are you with the Northern Virginia Human Relations Council?"

  "Huh?" said Matt.

  Stump's eyes were glazed over. "Where's your green armband?"

  Matt was still confused.

  Stump glared. "The name's Andrew."

  "Sorry Andy, not quite following you."

  "I said Andrew. Just call me Andrew MacDonald. You still don't have a clue, do you?"

  "Afraid you got me, pal," said Matt.

  "You ever do time?"

  "Nope," said Matt, "but I take it you didn't get those tats at Miami Ink."

  Andrew's look signaled contempt, and he walked away without saying another word.

  There was a commotion in the back of the room. Matt turned in time to see Jesse pick up a guy and literally throw him out of the room. Even over the noise of the crowd, you could hear the patron as he landed against the wall in the hallway. Matt leaned up against the bar and saw no one come to the aid of tonight's first contestant in the human log-toss competition.

  When Jesse returned, Matt sought an explanation.

  "I get off on pain, theirs not mine."

  Matt offered a confused look. />
  "He was Bobby's main supplier of ephedrine. He smuggles it up from Mexico. I know he was behind Bobby getting back in the business."

  "Does he have a name?"

  Jesse jumped on the question, "Why, you plan on going into business?"

  Focus. Matt asked a stupid question. Stupid questions get you killed. In his undercover role it made no sense for him to have any interest in Bobby's drug dealings. Even in this case it didn't matter. You're not investigating an ephedrine connection. He needed a quick recovery.

  "No, but Bobby said some guy who traveled back and forth to Mexico might be able to hook me up with Dianabol. I thought maybe this was the guy."

  "Did he give you a name?"

  "Yeah but I can't recall, maybe Dwayne something."

  "This guy's not named Dwayne. You're not into body building. Why are you asking about Dianabol?"

  "A buddy was asking me about it."

  "Well, you don't want to deal with this guy. The crap he slings is veterinary grade, and even that is underdosed. I can hook you up if you're interested."

  "Yeah, maybe later."

  Matt breathed a barely audible sigh of relief. Focus. He and Jesse said little but leaned against the bar and looked out across the room. Women marched in and out throughout the evening, their dress more suitable for beach volleyball, but no one complained. Most were beautiful or at least seemed to be in the dimly lit back room.

  A few people came up and offered words about the deceased. Soon a crowd gathered. To hear most tell it, Bobby sounded like multiple episodes on America's Dumbest Crooks.

  There was a speeding ticket late one night in Long Beach, a high-speed chase ending in a crash just as he was about to get on the freeway going the wrong direction. No one was hurt. When the cops dragged him out of the car, his explanation was straightforward. Some guy stole his hashish, and he was trying to catch him. Bobby's salvation on that one was a news copter recording the chase and a policeman being a bit too free with his nightstick as he coaxed Himmler from the car. The principals agreed to let bygones be bygones, and the incident went away. The bar crowd hoisted a beer to Bobby.