L.A. Confidential

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  An abandoned auto court in the San Berdoo foothills; Buzz Meeks checked in with ninetyfour thousand dollars, eighteen pounds of high-grade heroin, a 10-gauge pump, a .38 special, a .45 automatic and a switchblade he'd bought off a pachuco at the border--right before he spotted the car parked across the line: Mickey Cohen goons in an LAPD unmarked, Tijuana cops standing by to bootjack a piece of his goodies, dump his body in the San Ysidro River.

  He'd been running a week; he'd spent fifty-six grand staying alive: cars, hideouts at four and five thousand a night--risk rates--the innkeepers knew Mickey C. was after him for heisting his dope summit and his woman, the L.A. Police wanted him for kiffing one of their own. The Cohen contract kiboshed an outright dope sale--nobody could move the shit for fear of reprisals; the best he could do was lay it off with Doc Englekling's sons--Doc would freeze it, package it, sell it later and get him his percentage. Doc used to work with Mickey and had the smarts to be afraid of the prick; the brothers, charging fifteen grand, sent him to the El Serrano Motel and were setting up his escape. Tonight at dusk, two men--wetback runners--would drive him to a beanfield, shoot him to Guatemala City via white powder airlines. He'd have twenty-odd pounds of Big H working for him stateside--if he could trust Doc's boys and they could trust the runners.

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