Tommy’s entire initiative was focused on criminal behavior. Had he applied his intellect and sales skills to legitimate commerce he might be a candidate for the Fortune 500 “Entrepreneurs to Watch” issue. But Tommy liked to party and most of his profits quickly evaporated once the music started.
Jake walked into the warehouse through the alley entrance.
“Tommy, I need to see you before you pull out,” hollered Jake above the noise of Rain, Korea’s answer to Justin Timberlake. The rock star’s music was blasting through a stolen sound system.
The Korean “fixer” pointed toward his office and Jake made his way there as the crew finished loading the SUV.
As Jake entered the office he grabbed a Hite from the refrigerator, plopped himself in a worn leather chair, and began drinking the Korean beer. As he was staring out the window contemplating his approach, Tommy walked in.
“You wanted to see me?” said the criminal entrepreneur, grabbing a beer for himself before sitting down at his oversized desk.
Tommy flashed a counterfeit Rolex at Jake. “You want one?”
Jake smiled and slid his sleeve halfway up his arm, displaying a Rolex Oyster for Tommy to see.
“Is that real?” asked Tommy as he popped the tab on the Hite.
“Is that one?” said Jake, referring to the watch Tommy was holding.
“Nope.”
“This one is,” said Jake, then matter-of-factly continued, “Took it off a dead guy. He should have sold it and paid off the debt he owed my client. Said he didn’t want to part with a family heirloom. He lost his life and the watch.”
“Dead men don’t pay very well.”
“I was hired to send a message and I sent one.”
Jake had gotten the watch from the undercover inventory, but he spun the tale to reinforce his credibility as a hired gun — and because he liked screwing with Tommy’s head.
The Korean street thug, apparently unimpressed with Jake’s watch-acquisition story, said, “I let those guys go on. They’re taking the watches to some camel jockey who hopes to sucker his Dearborn rug merchant brother-in-law. What did you need to talk about?”
There was a sense of urgency in his voice when Jake said, “I need to meet Mr. Park.”
“I’m not sure I can make that happen. Why would he sit down with any white guy, especially you?”
“We’ve been at this for two months and you’re still ticking like a cheap Timex. I need to see him and I need you to make it happen.”
“Why?”
Jake took a long sip. “The ‘why’ isn’t important. ‘What’ is important. If I don’t meet him and people get killed, I’ll make sure the word on the street lays it all on your skinny little backside.”
“And that threat is supposed to make me want to help you?”
Jake offered an evil grin. “It’s your memorial service if you don’t make the introduction. Look, it’s important I meet with him. Make it happen and I’ll give you a twenty-five percent discount on your next container.”
Tommy shook his head slowly and deliberately. “That’s not much incentive. Park isn’t the type of guy you mess with. If I make an introduction and any of this goes sideways I might just end up as man-sushi.”
Jake laughed. “Sushi’s Japanese.”
“We all look alike to you anyway, and I’m not interested in being displayed on the Food Network as an Asian three-course meal.”
Jake leaned forward to convey sincerity and lowered his voice just a bit for effect. “Think of the money you’ll pocket.”
“But why?”
Jake leaned back in his chair. “Look, all I’ll tell you is somebody wants to shaft Park.”
Tommy raised his eyebrows and threw open his hands. “So let him. Don’t tell me you’ve grown a conscience.”
“No, but I recognize if you do big favors for important people, the returns have an exponential effect.”
“For a white boy who makes his living with a gun, you’ve got a pretty big vocabulary.”
Jake smiled. “I read a lot.”
“I just don’t know. It seems pretty dangerous.”
“You’ll save money. My fees eat into your profits.”
Tommy paused, maybe more for effect as well. He looked out the window and while taking a long gaze into the parking lot said, “I’ll see what I can do.”
“You won’t regret it.”
Tommy turned to Jake and now it was his turn to lean forward in his chair. “If you screw this up I won’t have time to regret it. Just keep me out of it once I get it arranged.”
“You’ve got a deal.”
“And I want a fifty percent discount.”
“A third,” countered Jake.
Tommy nodded.
Jake threw his hand across the table and the two shook.
“I’ll set it up for tomorrow,” said Tommy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Following the Maghrib, or sunset prayers, Mohammed, Rostam, and Kareem retreated to the small office in the back of the strip mall mosque. The tiny place of worship certainly wouldn’t warrant inclusion in a book on the great cathedrals of North America, but it served the needs of a radical Islamist sleeper cell operating in metro Los Angeles. A single lamp, providing muted light, shrouded the room as if the demons of terrorism hovered overhead.
Rostam, Mohammed’s most trusted associate, had an air of superiority and, though several inches shorter than Kareem, still managed to look down his nose at the black American convert. The Hezbollah fighter’s beard was thick, his hair shoe-polish black, and he often questioned why Mohammed included the convicted felon in the terrorists’ mission. Mohammed and Rostam had discussed many times the threat jihadist wannabes posed to their objective. Rostam believed the homegrown terrorists had adversely impacted the cause by alerting law enforcement authorities to the Islamist hidden agenda.
Mohammed countered that, in fact, “Jihad Jims and Janes” springing up in America’s heartland helped the cause by instilling fear in a nation of sheep and distracted law enforcement authorities from the lethal work of Allah’s real warriors. “Let them waste their dollars erecting new security walls that will be breached by our brothers.”
Now, in the presence of their latest recruit, Rostam was silent about his concerns. The three men exchanged small talk about a new Islamic center being built in the Midwest before taking their seats at a scarred table that rocked whenever someone leaned on one side or the other. It annoyed Kareem, who was constantly shoving folded napkins under one leg or the other in an effort to stabilize the battered piece of furniture.
As Kareem engaged in his ritual repair, Mohammed engaged in a ritual of his own that had nothing to do with religion. He turned on the small transistor radio positioned on a nearby shelf. “All News KNX 1070” had become a constant part of every discussion in this room — not from any desire to keep up with current events, but because the IRGC had schooled Mohammed that such background noise made it more difficult for listening devices to pick up conversations.
Mohammed offered Kareem and Rostam tea and both accepted as Mohammed, acting as teacher, led the discussion about the new Islamic center. “The mega-mosques serve a purpose. There is great propaganda value in having moderate imams proclaim that jihad is simply a personal struggle against the sin and weakness in one’s soul. The peace-loving leaders in these places do us no harm. They will never rise at Friday prayers to condemn the actions of men like Nidal Hasan or the martyrs who blow themselves to pieces while killing infidels.”