04 Beverly Hills Fake Cop

In the explosive second part of the first Fake Cop Trilogy, Fake Cop goes to Beverly Hills to investigate the murder of a childhood friend. Froot Loops, fentanyl, bearer bonds, and a Fake Cop on the edge who absolutely hates traveling. This is Beverly Hills Fake Cop.

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:46

Yeah, this rock looks great. There must be a fucking fortune idiot. Yeah, yeah, I know, just not in front of him, okay? The two Muslims conferred with each other. I could tell they were planning to rip me off. I know a setup when I smell one, and this one smelled like a backyard barbecue. This was definitely a setup. We were both setting each other up. We were in the back of an 18-wheeler. It was filled with dozens of boxes of black market fruit loops. It was a fake undercover job, and the real cops didn't even know about it. And if they did, I mean I'd probably just get away with it. I get away with a lot of shit. But the risk was worth it. I've been after these two for a while. Now tell me something, fellas, I said. Shit, what's going on? I've been here too long. Talk to me. Yeah, yeah, give us a minute, okay? Nah, I got no more minutes. Check this out, I want you to see something. You can't get no cleaner. I stabbed one of the boxes with my knife, revealing a jumbo box of pure, uncut, unopened fruit loops. Turning back to the hoodlum, I said, Fruit loops. These are very popular with the children. This is a federal tax stamp. You can't get no cleaner. One of the hoodlums came up to the box. I slowly cut it open with my knife. He carefully dipped his little finger in the fruit loops, looked over at his partner, and said, Yeah, this is some good shit. Really good. Yeah, and then again, if it's so good, just keep them yourself if it's such a great deal. I ain't from Newmarket, I replied. I don't know nobody who can handle a job this big. Yeah, you're supposed to have the connections. Yeah, but it ain't easy getting rid of this. I know, but I'm a businessman. The hoodlum went into his pocket. Alright, here you go, you're a sharp guy. As he dismissively handed me a roll of cash, I could tell immediately it was light. He don't ever hand me a light roll. Cousin, my man, don't dash yet. This looks like two grand to me. Not five grand. The deal is for five thousand. I need five thousand dollars. Read my lips. Five thousand dollars is what I need. One of the hoodlums already left the back of the trailer and went around with a steering wheel. Yeah, I knew what he was up to. The other one looked back at me and said, Oh, you wanna be a fucking asshole? Take the whole load, eat them yourself, then. I don't eat fruit loops. I eat honey nocterios, I said, lying through my teeth. I love Fruit Loops. I planned on taking the entire load and ripping them off for the money. Just then, we heard the short pop of a police siren. The hoodlum and I looked over, and standing there were two of New Market's finest. Somehow they rolled up on us without anybody noticing. Alright, what are you doing here? As the first cop. Officer, you know what happened? You ain't gonna believe it. The truck just stopped. It just stopped. You got some cables, you know, give me a jump or something. I knew I was in trouble. One of the cops was the rookie I helped in the hospital. A while back, I was in the hospital with more kidney stones. A huge brawl broke out between two slowpitch teams in pot 18. There was a rookie cop sitting next to me in triage. We broke off the brawl together. Formed a bond, you know? Well, not really, I don't form bonds. At this moment I was wearing a fake mustache. But my aura is kinda hard to mistake, you know. Hey, don't I know you? Asked the rookie. Was the fake mustache not working? Nah, that ain't me, I'm from Hamilton. The rookie cop looked back suspiciously. Alright, both you guys break out some ID. The rookie said, That's when I grabbed some chains hanging from the roof of the truck, because I knew we were going for a ride. Just then the second hoodlum behind the wheel floored it. I didn't see what happened to his partner, but the next thing I knew, that truck was rumbling out of the alley and taking a hard Elmander onto Davis Drive. The chase was on. This wasn't my first high-speed chase. At this point, I found them boring, but this one was pretty cool. Once we hit Davis Drive, it was chaos. There were stale rubies at every intersection. But the hood of driving the truck didn't give a shit. He blew every red light on Davis Drive. Pretty soon every cop in the market were after us. Real and fake cops. We passed by the T and B convenience store in the rest of the airlights pleasant. It was even cooler than my psychedelic trip in the ambulance when I was in a morphine and Frankie and Lou, the paramedics were taking me in. There was an element of danger here. I get bored easy than this. It's fun. We got something in my brains called an amygdala. It's kind of like the emotional processing center. Handle stuff like anxiety, fear, and empathy, and you know, the stuff that makes me a human. My amygdala is completely disabled. But it's in a fucking wheelchair, isn't it? It's caused me a few problems. You know, relationships and such. But it sits the gym. I couldn't do this gym with a functioning amiddle of them. I can't know anybody to hang in at the back of that drum, swinging from those chains like tons of. And of course, all the boxes and boots were scrambling at the back of the drum. Everybody's grappling up their fortune is scrambling politics. All of a sudden, rich influences. Old people and children scrambled into the street to sweep up however many boxes they could. What if we got anyways? I was gonna steal all of the loose. So I'd have to keep the other for myself. Not much left in it for me now, you know. The trailer swinging back and forth, somehow holding itself together. I was still swinging for the back like ton's hand, even winked at a couple of ladies. Too bad they didn't see they were running for their lives. And just when I was beginning to have a really good time, the truck jumped a media near the corner of Davis Drive and Main Street, and then crashed into the train station. The hoodman behind the wheel jumped out and ran away. I was buried in the last few boxes of Fruit Loops when I heard a cop yell, All right, freeze, asshole. I looked back at him with a resigned expression. The cop looked back at me, paused, and lowered his weapon. Brad, we should have known it was you. I'd been out of the hospital for a couple of weeks. Kidney stones, then an operation to remove the kidney stones, then more fucking kidney stones. God. Then I got the pneumonia, got it even worse than Mendoza did, who literally died. Then I got mixed up with some dame named Angel Dubois, a gangster named Blackjack Blackadar, and a washed-up hockey player named Johnny Kelly. Whole thing was a goddamn nightmare, really. Check it out, previous episode number 49. I think you'll agree I went through a lot. And of course, the unauthorized sting operation with the truck and the fruit loops and the high-speed chase thing that damaged 70% of new market and caused $375 million in damages. I got off with a warning like usual. Captain McCluskey knew I was a danger to society, but that I was also pretty useful. Guys like me, we can come in pretty handy sometimes. That's why they keep us around, you know. I needed a vacation. The mean streets of New Market, Ontario, Canada were getting a little too mean. Even for me, I'd been working them as a fake cop since 2006, losing Johnny Kelly and Angel Dubois at the same time. That was a big blow. And I still hadn't gotten over Mendoza yet. And ever since Angel bumped off Blackjack Blackadar, the streets of Newmarket were running wild. Blackjack was the biggest gangster in Newmarket. And now, there was a power vacuum to fill. There were a lot of hoodlums trying to take Black Jack's place, and things were getting ugly out there. Dozens of different mobs all hitting the mattresses, all fighting for power, all driving with loads not properly tied down. Right my face, too. I mean they were flooding it. I was tired. I was too old for this shit? Was I too old for this shit? Yeah, I was too old for this shit. Just had a birthday recently. Fifty-two winters have besieged my back. I was on the back nine and felt myself slowing down. And being a fake cop, a fake rogue cop. That's a young man's game. I've been training my new fake partner Ramirez for the past few months. He used to work security doing patient watch at South Lake Regional Hospital in Newmarket. I took one look at him and knew he was partner material. Street smart, tough, gritty, just 23 years old, whole life ahead of him. Really fucked up hair though. We were coming back from Pizzaville in my 2023 Ford Explorer fake cop car. My first fake cop car was a retired 2003 Chevrolet Mpowa Ontario Provincial Police Pursuit Car, paid cash for it in 2006. That car got me in a lot of trouble. I mean a lot of trouble. I almost lost my fake pension after losing Mendoza in that warehouse down by the docks. Then I lost his son and his nephew in the same warehouse down by the docks. I mean that's a really unlucky family right there, who incidentally have placed a restraining order against me. I guess I had it common, I don't know. Anyway, they use a variety of cop vehicles now, including the Ford Explorer. That one's my favorite. I'm a tall drink of water, and I need the leg room. Ramirez does all the driving. You know I lost my license because of that fucking 2003 Impala. For driving with a load not properly tied down, ironically, I mean can you beat that shit? I've been busting dads and soccer moms and old ladies for years driving around with loads not properly tied down. Drummers too, and finally, it happened to me. Guess I should've put that saltwater crocodile in the trunk. But I mean how the hell you supposed to move those things? They're pretty fucking big. I was also pretending to be a cop, driving like I was in some kind of circus show, arresting innocent people all around me, extorting drug dealers and local businesses, running insurance scams, smuggling guns, controlling vice of all kinds. I also stole $50,000 from Footwalker in the Upper Canada Mall. And I was an accessory to three homicides. Maybe four. But I think it was driving around with a load not properly tied down that finally tipped the scales against me. Next thing I know, I couldn't drive anymore. That's when I got the call that Spadino was dead. Spadino and I grew up in the Upper East End, went to school together. He wasn't just dead, he was murdered. God damn it, Spadino. Whatever happened to him, and whatever he did, he probably had it coming. Spadino was a bit of a skell when we were kids. Came from the wrong side of the tracks, ran with the wrong crowd, but he was a good kid, hell of a ball player. We played together on spinning wheel, we won the T-Ball Championship together in 1980, and now he was gone. Dead. Murdered. Shot with a gun in the head 17 times. And adding insult to injury, they wrote, The Toronto Maple Leafs suck on his chest, which they also shot him in as well, in addition to the head. The Toronto Maple Leafs suck. That was low. I mean they weren't lying, but still pretty low. It was a statement. I knew Spadino was headed for trouble. He showed up at my place a few weeks back. He was in New Market for a few days. He moved out to Los Angeles after high school. Apparently had himself quite the operation out there. He kept going on about these people he was working for. And of course, he had bearer bonds. Fucking bearer bonds again. German barabonds this time. God, I hate those things. Conversion is impossible. Every time I try to fence them, nobody wants them. And it's always these assholes with diplomatic immunity. And I'm always dealing with people with diplomatic immunity. You know, after all these years, all these dealings, you know I still don't even know what a fucking barabond is. It's a bond that you bear. And I'm supposed to walk around what bearing this bond. To who exactly? And this makes me a fucking big man or something? Come on. Don't these fucking people carry cash or demo cards or something? Ah, to be fair, barabonds look pretty sweet. They're real fancy looking. Especially the German ones. A lot of nice colors in there. Spadino didn't have diplomatic immunity, to say the least. So I don't know why he had German Barabonds, but he was pretty proud of them. Wouldn't shut the fuck up, honestly. Turned out he's working security at a warehouse. Spadino was the last guy I'd hire to watch my stuff. It would be like hiring me to guard the world's last slice of pizza. He got the job through another old friend I had, Judy Black. It was Judy Black who called to tell me about Spadino. Judy also moved to LA after high school. Not long after Spadino. She owns an art gallery out there now, doing pretty well for herself. That's a sharp woman right there. With everything that was going on, this was the perfect time to go on vacation. Ramirez and I were gonna drive from Newmarket. I don't fly. I'm not allowed to, I'm on the no-fly list. There was an incident. A few of them. I laid a map out on the table, got a ruler, and began to figure out the exact distance from Newmarket, Ontario, Canada, to Beverly Hills, California, USA. Ramirez looked at me with the map and the ruler and the pencil like I was fucked in the head or something. He then pulled out his phone, did something with it, and within two seconds, told me it was 4,100 kilometers away. Or 2,547 miles. I don't know, I can't tell the difference. Metric, Imperial. It's all the same bullshit to me. It was supposed to be a 37-hour drive. We were gonna do it in 10. You know, just like the cannonball run. No sightseeing for us. No pit stops either. That was gonna be a problem, but whatever. I had a case to solve. And a friend to avenge. I think he was my friend, you know. I I have trouble with this stuff figuring it out sometimes. We hit the road first thing in the morning. According to Ramirez's Googler, it was 4,100 kilometers from Newmarket to Beverly Hills. It also said it would take 925 hours to walk. That would take way too long. If we rode bikes, it would take 239 hours. Again, way too fucking long. We couldn't fly because of my terrorism charges. We were definitely gonna have to drive. Apparently, that would take 37 hours, but even that was still too long. We were gonna have to do this trip, cannonball run style. We did have the 2023 Ford Explorer fake op car, so we would use every inch of that advantage. And I was gonna dress like Adrian Barbeau. You know that jumpsuit she wore that zipped down the front. We did have a load on the roof of the car, but I made sure it was properly tied down. Couldn't take any chances, you know. There are two rules to this game, and if you follow them, you get a shot. Don't drive with a load not properly tied down, and don't get high on your own supply. That second rule was gonna be tough. I mentioned before it was a 37-hour drive to Beverly Hills from Newmarket. We didn't have that kind of time. We had to be there in 10, which meant no sleeping, no eating, no drinking, no restrooms, no nothing, just straight driving as fast as we possibly could. We were gonna need more help than me dressing like Adrian Barbeau. That's when I turned to the shoe polish. I've been running a black market shoe polish operation since the early 1990s when I worked at Egg New Shoe Store in the mall. That's where I learned most of the skills that would keep me alive as a fake cop. That's where I learned about shoe polish. It's quite the utility player, it can do damn near anything. From shining your shoes to getting you really fucking high. I mean, really high, it's an awesome stimulant. One off of premium grade A shoe polish, and it's off to the races. We were somewhere near Aurora on the edge of Newmarket when the shoe polish began to take hold. Next thing I know, we're fucking Michigan, which was weird because I still thought we were in Newmarket. I saw mullets and hockey arenas everywhere. Malls, too, like a lot of them. Some of them just as good as the Upper Canada Mall, even better in some cases. I wanted to stay, but there was no time. We had to hustle for Spadino, for Judy Kelly, for Mendoza. Ah, for me. All this crazy shit I'm doing is strictly to satisfy my own personality disorder. But still, we kept moving. Doesn't anybody play hockey in this damn country? There are 376 hockey arenas in Newmarket, Ontario, Canada, and they have 57 more currently under construction. You can't open your eyes without seeing one. I hadn't seen one since Michigan. I thought I saw one in Nebraska, but it was just a flea market. God damn it. I did see a lot of mullets though. You know, so that made me feel more at home. The highways here, or the freeways, whatever the fuck they call them. And a turnpike, what the fuck is that? The M-14. That one sounded like a gun. All the highways or freeways or whatever the fuck. It's like they've all been named after guns or planes. The M14, the I-70, the I-80. I thought it was pretty cool actually. The I-15. That one was in Nevada. We got pulled over there, right in the middle of the desert, right before California. We made it to Nevada from Newmarket in seven and a half hours. Between huffing on that shoe polish, the 2023 Ford Explorer fake cop car, and me dressing like Adrian Barbeau, we made damn good time. Now, we were sitting on the side of some desert crossroad in Nevada, with some desert cops sitting right behind us. He opened his door and slowly crushed a scorpion with his boot heel. That was a statement. He was wearing a cowboy hat and mirrored sunglasses. He looked like Nolan Ryan, the baseball player. He walked like him too. Nolan Ryan was my favorite pitcher, so I figured I could handle this. You know, I figure I can handle pretty much anything, even when I can't. It's weird, it's part of my psychology. I wasn't worried to be honest, not at all. And after dealing with Newmarket cops for so long, American cops would be kitty cats. He slowly approached the driver's side like a gunslinger. I rolled down my window, put on my best smile, and said, Hey, how you doing, officer? Is there a problem? He said I was driving a little fast back there. I agreed. I said I was from Newmarket, Ontario, Canada. Maybe you heard of it. Connor McDavid? No? Okay. And that I'd never driven in the USA before. Well, I'd only seen people do it in the movies and TV shows and the fucking Indy 500. So this is not a reasonable speed to drive, officer, that's what you're saying, right? Then he looked into the backseat. Uh oh. And saw 12 boxes of raw, uncut shoe polish, and a bunch of other shoe apparel items. Made him suspicious. It was time to start talking. Officer, I said, you look like a man who keeps a shine in a boot. Am I right about that? I'm a cop myself. A fake cop. Check out these. I showed him my HIX Black Eagle tactical boots. You know the 2.1 GTX version, the good ones. I could see his eyes pop right through his sunglasses. Check these out, officer. They're like fucking mirrors. You can shave in that reflection. I take a look, you can see your face in them. Speaking of which, uh, you're a handsome bastard by the way, aren't you, officer? Look at them cheekbones. Saying from the extreme discomfort of my Adrian Barbo jumpsuit. The cop blushed a bit, and then gathered himself. I continued. I'll tell you what, officer. Looks like you've been out here in the dust for a while. If being a cop in Nevada is anything like being a fake cop in Newmarket, you probably don't get a lot of support out here, am I right? Plus, I saw you stepping on that scorpion back there. And that's definitely gonna leave a stain. Not much you can do about that right now. And quite possibly. Some permanent damage from the venom. I'll tell you what I'm gonna do. I'll set you up with two boxes of Primo shoe polish for those dusty boots you got right there. Ah, but that's not all, and I've got some tanna all-purpose weather spray that should take care of that scorpion venom for you. You spray that stuff in the bottom of your boots every day, and it'll create an actual physical barrier between your boot and the scorpion venom. Then you can crush all the scorpions you want out of here, man. And I'll tell you what, I'll even throw in a purse and a suede brush for the wife too. Now you got a lady? And I promise I'll slow down and start driving like a proper American. Turns out cops and people are the same everywhere you go, all susceptible to corruption and glib's superficial charm. He ripped up the ticket. I had Ramirez help him fill up his trunk with the polish and purses, and we were back on track. Beverly Hills, here I come. And there it was, the world-famous Rodeo Drive. Never could figure out why they called it that. I'd been to Rodeos. This place was a little classier. Did security at them. Had to watch the horses. Those cowboys get a little carried away sometimes, you know. But this didn't look like any rodeo I ever saw. The only cowboy I could see was on roller skates wearing hot pants. But he was wearing a cowboy hat, so that checked out. There was an astonishing lack of mullets. I mean, none. I mean, didn't anyone play hockey around here? The closest thing I saw were people roller skating. Most of them were cowboys, in hot pants. Everybody was beautiful. The women, the men, everybody looked amazing. I've never seen better-looking cowboys. Better looking than Ramirez and I. Now, better than Ramirez, maybe. He's actually a good-looking kid. Just got a really fucked-up haircut. Couldn't possibly describe it. There are two jobs in Los Angeles: actor or personal trainer. That's it, just two jobs. You are either an actor or a personal trainer, sometimes both. Or you got a job that is secondary to support your acting or personal training. This doesn't just include the service industry. This extends to cops, judges, politicians, athletes, uh receptionists, hotel managers, the guys who park your car. Need more of those in Newmarket, by the way. Uh hotel managers, fuck, even security guards. Why do you think Spadino moved out there after high school? To pursue his dream of becoming a personal trainer. You probably thought I was gonna say he wanted to be an actor, but Spadino didn't give a shit about acting. He hated actors. His dream was to be a personal trainer. The best personal trainer in all of Southern California. We talked about it all through school. Personal training. To train, personally. It sounded a little fucked up to me, but uh, he can't deny a man's dreams, you know? Spadino wanted to be the best personal trainer in all of Southern California. Instead, he was dead. Murdered. Shot 17 times in the head. They got him in the chest, too. Don't know how many times they shot him there, and then they wrote that stuff on him about the leaves sucking. I mean, the guy did have it coming, right? He was stealing German Barabons for Christ's sakes. I mean, come on. And those guys usually have diplomatic immunity. At that point, you're just asking for it. But still, he just wanted to be a personal trainer. Even actors and personal trainers were trying to be actors and personal trainers. They just wanted to be even more so. Really strange phenomenon. I dropped Ramirez off at a porn shoot in the valley. He wanted to sit in, he was into that shit. My license was permanently suspended in Newmarket, but now I was in LA. So the suspension didn't count. They had no jurisdiction on me over here. I could do whatever I wanted. And then again, I usually did anyway, no matter where I was. So I decided to take a drive and clear my mind. But I couldn't. My mind was busier than the ER at South Lake Regional Hospital. Busy with thoughts. Mostly of myself. Most of my thoughts are strictly about myself. But this time, I was thinking of Spadino. Oh, kind of, you know, just for a few seconds. To the extent that I am actually capable of thinking of other people. And I thought of Johnny Kelly, Angel Dubois, and of course, Mendoza. Then I started thinking about myself, that's what I usually end up doing. I drove down the Sunset Strip in my 2023 York Regional Police Ford Explorer fake cop car with Ontario license plates. I was nodding to local LAPD whenever I drive by one of their world-famous black and whites. The LAPD. I heard some stories about these fellas. Seen a lot of movies and TV shows. TJ Hooker was an LA cop. So that was pretty cool. There was this one episode I remember was awesome. He took a perp out by throwing his baton at his feet while he was attempting to flee. Tripped him right up, guy immediately went down. And TJ Hooker barely moved a hair on his toupee. You know, that was the best cop move I ever saw. Real or fake. Yeah, so these guys were okay in my book. They all look like personal trainers, too. The sun was setting over the Hollywood Hills. It was fucking beautiful. I think it was anyway. I have trouble recognizing stuff like that. You know, like beauty and stuff. I began driving faster, my Ford Explorer fake cop car rolling like a supersonic. The comedy room, the Viper Room, the Whiskey of Go-Go, the Sunset Tower. It was a lot like Davis Drive. Well, not at all, really. It didn't have the TB convenience store. The fuck was I gonna get a Coke and a Joe Louie? Couldn't see the appliance shack anywhere either. Strange town. My head started feeling weird again. Something was tugging at it that I didn't quite understand. Was I feeling conflict? Some form of cognitive dissonance or something? I don't know. I've never had enough psychological currency for emotional luxuries. It was time to get revenge for Spadino. Or maybe it wasn't for Spadino, I don't know. I just knew I needed revenge. Vengeance is pretty high in the list of psychological traits for a guy like me. It's probably right at the top, right next to cold callousness and glib's superficial charm. I would tell myself that I was getting vengeance for Spadino. Yeah, this was for Spadino. It had nothing to do with satisfying my own wants and projecting them onto other situations. Absolutely nothing at all. This is for you, Spadino. Oh, kind of, I'm still not sure. I knew what I had to do. I had to go see a lady. A particular lady. Her name is Judy. Judy Black. She used to front a band called the Judy Black Blues Explosion. They were pretty big in the 90s. Avant-garde stuff. She owned an art gallery just off of Rodeo Drive. I was just around the corner. Thought it'd be a nice surprise. Hadn't seen each other in a long time. Besides, Judy was the one who phoned me and told me about Spadino. Before I got revenge, I had to get details. Which is unusual for me because I normally don't care about those. I'm generally quite reactionary without fear of consequence. Like Spadino and I. Judy was from the Upper East Side. Went to school with her for the entire 12 grades. She did, I did 15 grades. Judy's cool for a lot of reasons, but there's one reason that got my attention pretty quickly. 1987. Becker's Convenience Store. 404 Plaza. Well, the one across from it with the Mary Browns. Anyway, she caught me stealing a porno mag. I was 12. I didn't see her there. Before that, I'd only seen her around the neighborhood, riding her skateboard. She looked cool, but you never know. I was too busy keeping my eye on the cashier and the security mirrors. Next thing I know, she sees me putting that swank in my jacket pocket. I stole a hustler too. She could have ratted me out, but she didn't. She looked at me like I was a goddamn weirdo, but she didn't rat me out. I've never forgotten that. I'm not a moral man, you know, but I I do have a code. And on that day, Judy Black was written into my code. I've said before that I don't really like people. Don't even think about them really. Unless you know I need something. Money, usually. I don't know if I can actually like someone, but I can get used to them. I guess that's my way of liking somebody, and I'd gotten used to Judy Black. For some reason she never pissed me off, and she'd make me laugh too. Fuck, on purpose. You know, without even falling down and getting hurt. That's normally when I laugh. You know, and somebody has some form of accident. This lady had me confused, kinda like Mendoza. I guess I got used to him too. And there it was. The Judy Black Arts Explosion. It was a new gallery she just opened up with the help of some fancy pants art dealer she knew. I pulled my 2023 Ford Explorer fake cop car into the disabled parking spot. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Even I know that's kinda wrong, but I uh I tweaked my back earlier on. Fucking killing me. And then I went inside to see Judy Black. I opened the door and saw exactly what I was expecting. Except for the little fella who talked funny and offered me some kind of drink I'd never heard of before in my life. He said something about lemons too. Seemed like a good opportunity for some comedy, but I didn't have time for that shit. So I told him to fuck off and get Judy for me. It didn't take long. There she was, on the upper level, looking down at me with that world-famous smile. Judy Black. Formerly of the Judy Black Blues Explosion, now owner of the Judy Black Arts Explosion. She descended the curved stairwell like water, with the fingertips of her left hand lightly tracing the railing. She was wearing a bold, stylish, short-sleeved leopard print lounge dress appropriate for various social and professional events. And she looked like a stick of dynamite. It was neon green. Or some fucking color, I don't know, but it had these really cool purple prints on it too. Levi's didn't design this thing, I mean it was fancy. You know, I bet she made it herself. Judy Black was a triple threat. The blues, art, and fashion. That's quite a lady right there. Judy, I said as I pushed the little funny talking guy out of my way. Good to see you, Jude. You haven't changed a bit. It's just too bad about Spadino. Her head dropped when I said that. I don't know, maybe an abrupt segue like that was a little insensitive. Like I said, I've got trouble with that stuff. Then she began to cry. Come on now, they're there, they're there, Judy. I don't know if I'd ever comforted anybody before. I believe this was my first time. I'd seen other people do it in real life. I'd seen it in the movies too. Always found it kind of confusing, but uh, eh, whatever. You know, it was actually pretty easy, mostly because I was so used to Judy. I hugged her, just like they did in the movies. Then I patted her back in a mechanical fashion with my left hand, as I said, That's right, Judy. That's right, let it all out. It's alright to cry. I must have done a damn good job, because she composed herself and a dime. The tears were replaced by something else. Anger, resolve, revenge. Now that's a look I understand. Now that's something I could work with. Whoever did this to Spadino, you find him, Brad. Do you understand me? You find him and you get him. She was normally a very gentle soul, but she had iron in her eyes now. Don't you worry, Judy. I'll hunt them down like the mangy dogs they are. I'll get them. I'll get them for Spadino, for Johnny Kelly, and of course, for Mendoza. She asked me who the fuck Johnny Kelly and Mendoza were. There was no time to explain that shit, so I asked her for more details about where Spadino had been working. Judy told me she got him a job doing security in a warehouse through an art dealer she was working with. She told me his name was Hector Hayland. That name stopped me cold. Not because I heard it before, but because it was just a really stupid fucking name. Just didn't like the sound of it, you know. I needed to know more about this Hector Haydland character. Judy said he was a really nice guy, ran multiple charities, had his name on multiple hospitals, was at every event and every ribbon cutting, and was the biggest philanthropist in Southern California. Sounded like an asshole to me. Everybody loved him, Judy said. And we'll see, because I don't love anybody. I don't love anybody. My parting words for Judy echoed in my head. Was it true? Did I not love anybody? I sure was used to a few people. But love? That thing they write and sing about so much? I don't know, that's kinda pushing it. Guys like me, uh, how do I say this? We don't process oxytocin like regular people do. Oxytocin, that's a chemical in your brain. Some people call it the cuddle chemical. Uh, whatever. Comforting someone, that's weird enough. But cuddling with them, yeah, I don't know. Oxytocin also plays a role in breastfeeding and urinary glands and other stuff like that, which was pretty fucking weird, so I immediately stopped researching about oxytocin. So everybody loved Hector Haitland. He was already off to a bad start with me. Whenever I see somebody's name all over a bunch of hospitals, I get suspicious. Philanthropy. Giving away money for no reason, just giving it away? Again, huge red flag. Plus that stupid fucking name. Cultural and community events, clubs, politics. Hector Haitland was there for it all. I was gonna pay him a visit. Check out this world-famous charm and charisma for myself. I had a feeling I could resist it. His office wasn't too far from Judy Black's gallery. I parked right out front, aggressively and diagonally across two parking spots. I looked in the backseat and saw the shoe polish, and I remembered its utility, so I decided to pose as a shoe polish salesman. These Beverly Hills types like to keep their shoes shinin'. I figured I could get in pretty easy. Hector didn't corner the market on charm and charisma. Next thing I know, I'm standing in front of the man himself, Hector Haitland, international art dealer, and the most respected philanthropist in California. But like I said, I knew better, and I had a feeling he was dealing more than art. Haitland was one of those stereotypical bad guys with some vague, nonspecific European accent. You know the kind of guy I mean. I couldn't tell if he was Spanish or Albanian, but I knew he was wrong. All wrong. He was my guy. He had Judy and the whole city fooled. Can't really blame them. This guy was pretty slick, but I've seen guys like him before. Let's just say I knew the type, and they knew me, and we knew each other. We locked eyes, and in that moment, I knew Hector Haitlin had killed Spadino. His eyes practically confessed it to me. No one else would have noticed, but I did. It's like he wanted me to know. He got his wish. He had a henchman that looked really familiar to me. Expressionless face, dead eyes. I'd seen him in a lot of movies from that time period, playing the same kind of character, you know. He ended up playing Mike on Breaking Bad. Same kind of character, just a little more depth. And he was pretty cool in Breaking Bad, too. But today, he was my enemy, and he was staring right at me. Haitlin tried to get me to leave by saying he was a personal trainer on the side, and that he had a client waiting for him. Now that I believed, the biggest art dealer in California. But his true passion was personal training. I don't know. Maybe there was something to this personal training shit. I'd have to look into it after. But first, I had to look into Hector Haitland. I told him Spadino had been killed, and I described how. Haitland pretended to be shocked, and then he said Newmarket was a very violent town. Or city, he wasn't quite sure either. Nobody was really. That's when six of his goons came out and grabbed me by the arms. I looked back at Haitlin and said, You're gonna need more than six goons, fella. Turns out six was the exact number he did need. They swept me off my feet and carried me right out of his office like a child. I didn't bother putting up too much of a fight. Even when I saw that window coming at me, but I'd never been thrown through a fucking window before? Come on. I got thrown through a window in Iowa on the way here. Big fucking deal. Happened to me in New Market at least once a month. I still ended up selling Haflin and his goons seven cans of shoe polish, though. I told you about them Beverly Hills types. The moment I landed on the ground, a Beverly Hills black and white pulled up and hauled me away. Next thing I know, I'm sitting in the Beverly Hills Police Department being interviewed by a detective and a sergeant. One was a little older and meaner than the other guy. Bit of a dick, actually. Apparently they'd been on the phone to Captain McCluskey back in Newmarket. The older cop asked me why I didn't identify myself as a fake cop when I was arrested. I laughed at him and said they should be arresting Haitlin for throwing me out the window. Then the dickhead cop said they had six witnesses that said I broke in, started tearing the place up, and jumped out the window. I said, Yeah, it sounds about right. Yeah, normally, sounds like something I'd do. But Sergeant, this time I swear it didn't go down like that. Then he said they're more likely to believe an important local businessman than a foul mouth fake cop from out of town. He did have a point about the mouth. It was pretty foul. But still, who the fuck was this guy? Foulmouth. Fuck you, you fucking c Then he hit me with a short shot to the solar plexus. Then something really fucked up happened. His lieutenant asked me if I wanted to press charges against him for drilling me. Or how did he put it? What did he say? Uh, for striking me. Striking me, give me a fucking break. I just looked back at him and said, Look, fella where I'm from, fake cops don't file charges against real cops. If we do, we just get fucking arrested. Never goes well. They asked me again what I was doing in Beverly Hills. Told him I was on vacation. Then he said he was on the phone with a Captain McCluskey back in Newmarket, and that if I was out here trying to get revenge for Spadino, well then I'd better bring him back an official Lakers jersey. You know, one of the good ones, not the shitty ones. McCluskey was a big LeBron James fan. They let me off with a warning, which is what usually happens to me. And then they had those same two cops keep an eye on me. They started tailing me wherever I went. They actually ended up being pretty good guys. Ended up doing a lot of great work with them for a lot of years after. Got to know the lieutenant's daughter a little bit too, but in the meantime, I couldn't have them following me around. So I grabbed another can of shoe polish from my car and put it up their tailpipe. That's right, the old shoe polish in the tailpipe. They fall for it every time. Now I had a little freedom. It was time to check out Hector Hagelin's warehouse. It was time to call Judy again. I needed Judy Black to drive me to Hector's warehouse. I didn't take the 2023 Ford Explorer fake cop car. Too much of a heat score. Plus, I just wanted to be dropped off so I could do my thing. I texted Judy, told her I was at the corner of Hollywood and Vine. She came screeching around the corner in her 2025 Mercedes-Benz G-Wagon. I hopped in, and we were off. Judy drives almost as fast as I do, and we got to that warehouse real quick. Judy wanted to come in with me, have my back. Of course she did. She was from the Upper East Side, and tougher than leather, but I couldn't have it. I already lost three generations of the Mendoza family, Johnny Kelly and Spadino. I couldn't take having another life in my soul like that. Well, actually I could pretty easily, as a matter of fact, but not Judy's. I was just too used to her. I told her to go home and work on one of her portraits. She protested, but I was firm. I had a warehouse to break into and do some shit inside of. Judy peeled away while I crawled through a window in the back. Immediately, there was some asshole with a flashlight right in front of me. Alright, hold it right there, fella. He said. It was a security guard. It should have been Spadino. God damn it, Spadino. I had to start talking, and it had to be fast. Didn't have to be smart though, just fast. This guy looked really stupid. Hey, how you doing? Can you come here a second, please? Is your supervisor here? The guard asked me if there was a problem. I pulled out my fake cop badge and said, You're the fucking problem, pal. Now go get your supervisor. Now. The old fake badge trick again. What a fucking idiot, I thought to myself. Spadino never would have fallen for that one. And then again he probably would have. I'm pretty persuasive. The guard returned with a supervisor. I'm Inspector Connor McDavid from New Market Customs Service. I flashed the fake badge again and used Connor McDavid's name. Nobody knew who he was out here anyway. Is all this stuff passed through customs yet? The supervisor said no, this was just a bonded area. And well I got a question for you, Hotshot. How can a guy dress like me? I said, motioning to my Adrian Barbo cannonball run jumpsuit, just sachet into the bonded area and start poking around without anybody asking any questions whatsoever. This guy gave me his phone number for Christ's sake. Listen, I do security checks all over the greater Newmarket area, and with the exception of Keswick, this place is the worst security I've ever seen. They didn't know what the fuck I was talking about. Connor McDavid? Newmarket? Fucking Keswick? It didn't matter, they were dumb and I kept talking. We're gonna check the background of each and every crate in this section, starting with this one right here. I said, as I smacked the side of a crate I was sitting on. The security guard cried the lid off the first crate. Just as I suspected. Fruit loops. More crates were opened. More Fruit Loops. Almost every single crate in the warehouse had Fruit Loops in it. Nobody thought it was a big deal. It was only Fruit Loops, who cares, they said. Oh the children love them, don't they? But they didn't know what I knew. Fruit Loops breakfast cereal isn't just packed with a delicious fruity taste, fruity aroma, and fun fruity colors, bursting with natural fruit flavors and no artificial colors. No, it was more than that. In Newmarket, it was considered currency, but it was also considered something else back home. Camouflage. The smartest drug dealers I ever saw used to pack their shipments underneath a layer of loose fruit loops. Now why would they do this? To throw off the scent of the drug dogs, that's why. It was fucking genius, and it worked perfectly. The cops would all come in with their drug-sniffin' dogs, looking for reefer or whatever, but the overwhelming scent of the Fruit Loops would confuse the dogs. And once the dogs got confused, uh so did the cops. Very similar brains. It worked every time. I've done it myself after stealing drug shipments. I plunged my hand as hard as I could through the Fruit Loops. I slowly pulled my hand back out. It was holding fentanyl. A lot of it. Hector Haitland was the biggest supplier of fentanyl in all of California. And he thought he could hide it from me under Fruit Loops of all things. Look, trying to hide something from me under Fruit Loops. I'm only gonna find it faster. I'm naturally drawn to them, it's a weird thing. Nothing to do with my personality disorders, nobody can figure it out. That's when I felt a gun being pressed into the back of my head, and I heard the unmistakable Spanish-Albanian accent of Hector Haitland, telling me I should have gone back to Newmarket. I slowly turned around, and there was the guy who would go on to play Mike from Breaking Bad with a gun to my face. I looked straight into his dead eyes and said, You killed Spadino. Then he said he was gonna kill me, which did kinda make me laugh a little. Now if he was playing Mike from Breaking Bad, he might have a shot. I guess pretty tough. But playing this character, nah. I had already fucked him up at a breakfast buffet earlier on. I just didn't have time to do that part. Another of Hector's goons was holding Judy black. She came back for me. Well of course she did. She was from the Upper East Side. We look out for each other. God damn it, Judy. I mean I was pretty impressed. But still, you're just too brave for your own good lady. Hector and two of his goons began taking Judy away. Before they did, she asked them what they were gonna do with me. I said to her, Don't you worry about me, Judy. Ah, we got fentanyl and fruit loops here. We're gonna have a good time. Then they took her away. Mike from Breaking Bad went with them. They left me with three goons. And I mean they might as well left me with three pylons. I was kind of insulted to be honest. I went right through them. It was like fighting three angry moths. I went back out the same window I came in. I knew exactly where to go. Hector Haitland's mansion. That's where I'd find him, Mike from Breaking Bad, and Judy Black. I called for an Uber and made my plan. It wasn't much of a plan, actually. There just wasn't enough time to come up with a proper plan. I was running out of time. Quite literally, I am running out of time to tell this story. He can totally tell I'm rushing, right? There was only one place Haitlin would feel safe. His mansion. Of course he would, he's rich. That's right, find him, Mike from Breaking Bad, and most importantly, Judy Black. I had to save Judy. I was just too goddamn used to her, and it was my fault she was in danger. I think it was anyway. I had the Uber driver drop me off down the block from Haven's mansion. It was broad daylight. I crept into the backyard. The place was crawling with mercenaries. Luckily, these were the kind who couldn't hit me at point-blank range with automatic weapons. Most mercenaries from that era seemed to be like that. I hit them off one by one with my 38 Derringer. I kept at my ankle, just like Elvis. That's when I saw Mike from Breaking Bad. That's what I'm calling him now. He was the one who bumped off Spadino. Shooting this fucker would be way too easy. I had to make him pay the new market way. I put the shirt over his head and just started feeding him right after cuts. I mean, I was feeding him like a baby. Don't worry, I don't hit babies. They have no idea how to fight like that out here. They really should start playing more, you know? He fell to the ground like a bag of pucks. That was for Spadino, I said. Well actually that was for me, but uh, you know what I mean. Then I shot him in the head. 17 times. In the head, if I didn't mention that. Then just like then just like he did to Spadino, I ripped open his shirt and wrote something on his dead chest. The Dodgers suck. Yeah, that's right, I wrote that. Right in his fucking chest. That one was for Spadino. Actually, no, that was also for me. I was still furious that Japanese superstar Shohei Otani signed with the LA fucking Dodgers instead of my beloved Toronto Blue Jays. I mean, fuck man, the media even said he was on a plane coming to Toronto that day. He was physically on his way to Toronto, in the air, in a plane, to sign. That's what they said. I couldn't believe it. Finally, another shot at the World Series. This guy's the Japanese babe Ruth. Next thing I know, he's in LA, signing with the fucking Dodgers. I was like, what the fuck, man? I'm not really capable of experiencing depression, but that day was the closest I ever came. I left Mike from breaking bad dead on the floor and went searching for Hector and Judy. As it turned out, they found me. I heard Hector say something to me in Spanish or Albanian or whatever the fuck. I turned around and he had Judy. And he had a gun, but so did I. He warned me not to shoot. He told me to be careful that I might hit him. It wasn't a half-bad line, so I kinda chuckled. Then I looked back at Judy. Hector had a gun to her head, but her seams were staying together. She was from the Upper East Side, after all. We were reading each other's mail. We were walking out, and he wasn't. Just then, I heard someone yell, freeze from behind me. It was Ramirez, at a boy, Ramirez. I had totally forgotten about him. I hadn't seen him since I dropped him off at that porn shoot in the valley. He said there was his big karate tournament there, too. That sounded pretty cool. I'd have to check that out later. That's when Judy took her shot. She nailed Hector with an elbow to the solar plexus, then immediately followed with a backfist to the bridge of the nose. Just like I showed her back in high school, if some skell ever tried to put his hands on her, she jumped out of the way. Ramirez and I started blasting. Hector danced like a marionette as the bullets pulled him this way and that way. Up and down, all around, side to side. It was pretty cool, actually. We were fucking him up pretty bad. He'd been dead for about 25 seconds, but our bullets were literally keeping him up in the air, dancing like some damn fool. Then we ran out of ammo at the same time, and Hector Haitland dropped to the floor. Just like Spadino and Johnny Kelly and fucking Mendoza and a few of his relatives. I guess Hector Haitland had it coming. Actually, you know, there was zero ambiguity in my mind about this one. This guy definitely had it comin'. I turned to Ramirez and flashed him a big toothy grin. At a boy, Ramirez. Just in time, I said. You know, I totally forgot you're even alive, man. I don't think about others much. But thank God you're here. Then I asked him where he got the gun. He said someplace called MacArthur Park. Sounded legit to me. I was proud of Ramirez. He acted just like Mendoza. Even looked like him, too. Seriously, I mean he looked like him. There was this angle from the side where he looked exactly like Mendoza, only from the one side at a certain angle, but he was a dead ringer. Never noticed it before. Resemblance was uncanny. I then checked on Judy. I didn't need to. She was from the Upper East Side. The two cops whose vehicle I disabled with a simple can of shoe polish showed up with a bunch of other cops to secure the scene. And of course, I was let off with a warning. It was pretty firm though. Little firmer than usual, but I didn't care. And now, well, I guess it's back to new market. Beverly Hills left quite the impression on us. Ramirez was talking about becoming an actor. He wanted to be in the pictures. Good for you, Ramirez, I said. What do you mean, like Bobby De Niro like that? Not quite, he said. More like Peter North. Peter North.

unknown 55:11

Hmm.

SPEAKER_00 55:13

Must be one of those new actors I sometimes don't hear about. Might have to check him out sometime. You know, for a young fellow, Ramirez sure did know a lot of different kinds of actors. I heard acting was a pretty tough gig, but Ramirez is a pretty tough kid. Yeah, he should do just fine. As long as he doesn't get wrapped up in any of that weird Hollywood stuff. Fuck, if he's not careful, he might end up making porno movies. You know, I remember at the start of this trip, I was thinking I was too old for this shit. Maybe I was. I thought I handled things pretty well back there in Beverly Hills. You know, kind of. Not bad for a 52-year-old with a personality disorder and a kidney stone problem on the back nine. Not bad at all. But still, I couldn't stop thinking about Spadino, or Johnny Kelly, or Mendoza, or one of the other ones. I mean, really, there's been a lot of them. And I can't possibly think about every single one of them, can I? God, it's enough just thinking about these two or three sometimes. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe this job was making me think too much. About other people, which is weird, and I don't like weird shit. That's why I stopped reading about oxytocin when it started talking about urinary glands and breastfeeding. My god. My whole life, I dreamed of becoming a fake cop. My dad was a fake cop. His dad was a fake cop. I followed in the family footsteps. I followed my personality disorder. But maybe I should have followed Spadino. Maybe I should follow a new dream now. A dream to design and implement individualized or group fitness programs to help clients achieve their health and fitness goals, to guide clients through exercises, ensuring proper form and technique to prevent injuries and maximize results. To provide advice on nutrition, lifestyle changes, and goal setting. I have a new dream now to become a personal trainer, a fake personal trainer, a fake rogue personal trainer.