Free The Devil's Necktie by John Lansing Page B

central clearinghouse the cartels used to set up and coordinate drug and money-laundering cells throughout the United States. If the cartels discovered a “sickness” in any one of the cells—if the cops or feds were on to them—the office was responsible for moving the players to a cell in another state, or if the cell was totally compromised, back to Colombia.
    â€œThis is under the auspices of professional courtesy,” Gene warned. “I could get hung out to dry if this goes public.”
    Jack was fighting for his life and Gene was worried about being politically correct. Jack kept his face blank and let the man talk.
    â€œIn April of this year the Organized Crime Drug Enforcement Task Force pulled a RICO on a Latino gang down in Ontario. We had fifty indicted and picked up twenty-seven. I wasn’t happy with the numbers. Anyway, what I thought was interesting was the gang. They call themselves the 18th Street Angels. Cute, huh? They specialize in meth and heroin smuggled up from Mexico. They’ve been in business and controlling Ontario for fifty years now.”
    â€œFifty years? Doesn’t seem right,” Jack said, pissed off.
    â€œThey’re ingrained, like the IRA. It’s multigenerational. They start recruiting kids in middle and high school. Nice guys who’d steal your skin before you knew you were standing there bleeding out.
    â€œNeedless to say, a lot of their brothers are enjoying life on the state’s tab. So these scumbags provide the drugs to their incarcerated members.”
    â€œRight,” Jack said, hoping he’d get to his point.
    â€œSo, when we rounded up the gangbangers, we not only got meth, weapons, vests, marijuana, and heroin—you know, the usual—we picked up four keys of Dominican cocaine.”
    That bit of information got Jack’s full attention.
    â€œNow, the Mexican cartels are creating a bloodbath south of the border,” Gene went on. “Los Zetas are fighting the Sinaloa cartel for control of the smuggling routes into the Southwest, creating a lot of heat and leaving a trail of bodies. These are violent pricks. The Zetas are ex-Mexican Special Forces—deserters—who used to provide security for the Gulf cartel and now want a bigger piece of the pie. No, let me amend that. They want the whole pie.”
    â€œSo, someone on the East Coast could be trying to fill the vacuum, circumnavigating Mexico’s reach and providing the drugs,” Jack said.
    â€œDangerous proposition,” Gene added.
    Jack thought about Alvarez doing business behind bars and wondered about a possible connection.
    â€œAnd then, I don’t know if it’s pertinent,” Gene went on, “but the guy who runs the 18th Street Angels is also a member of the Mexican Mafia. They have three or four crossover members.”
    That piqued Jack’s interest. “Alvarez is paying protection money to the Mexican Mafia. I don’t know. It could be something. Worth looking at.”
    Gene looked pleased.
    â€œI could eat another sandwich,” Jack said, picking at the macaroni salad.
    â€œLet’s give my Lipitor a run for its money. Same?” Jack nodded and Gene rose from the booth.
    Jack watched Gene make his way past patrons holding trays filled with food, looking for seating, busmen cleaning tables, moving with ease across the long wooden floor. The sound of clanking glasses, dishes, silverware, and loud voices enjoying the old-world ambience and comfort food filled the busy room.
    Gene had always been a natty dresser, and the navy pin-striped suit he wore must have set him back a few. He was starting to look his age, Jack thought. Good, but older. His fine brown hair was thinning on the top and dusted with gray on the sides. His blue eyes were still lively but never without his wire-rimmed bifocals. His six-foot frame was still lean, but a slight stoop was creeping in, as if he was carrying a weight