He walked into the dump of a diner the
regulars called "Aphids Place" and quickly surveyed the landscape. There
were only six tables with six more seats at a dirty counter. He was
there because an anonymous snitch said a major drug deal would be going
down. The undercover cop quickly saw the suspected perps sitting in a
booth tucked away in the back near the kitchen door.
It was a seedy hole in California's San
Joaquin Valley, the milk and meth capital of the world. The cop had been
in hundreds of such places, the kind frequented in early mornings by
truck drivers, farmers, ranchers, and heavy equipment operators. He must
admit, the druggies fit right in. Sitting on one side of the table was a
man in his twenties, wearing a dirty, sweat-stained straw hat, cheap
jeans he probably bought off the clearance rack at Target and a tee
shirt that was frayed at the collar and on the front showed a funny car
at the Famoso Drag strip with flames roaring from its fenders. Colorful
tattoos peaked from beneath his shirt.
On the opposite side of the table sat a
man and a woman who appeared to be married. Maybe, or maybe not, to each
other. He wore a ball cap, long sleeve shirt and boots that had never
felt a shoeshine. She was a fairly attractive woman who wore sunglasses
rimmed in rhinestones with gaudy turquoise surrounding her wrists.
Admittedly, not your typical looking crackhead but the deadly addiction
attracts all kinds. Now they were all three trapped in the tight grasp
of a worldwide cartel that sold premedicated murder.
The narco cop took a seat at the far end
of the counter with his back to the drug buyers. It was as close as he
could get without sitting in their laps. He placed an innocent looking
pen on the greasy counter, clicked the directional microphone on and
aimed it in their direction.
They spoke in hushed tones but he knew
he'd hit pay dirt when the talk turned to "how good the grass was" and
how they "sure had to have a lot more of it."
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