Finnegan's Week by Joseph Wambaugh Page A

cops like a ‘reward’ for finding hot cars. By the way, Angel’s is four miles away. Did you boys walk clear down here or what?”
    â€œTaxi,” Shelby said. “Caught a cab.”
    â€œYou coulda just phoned for a patrol unit,” Sam Zahn grumbled. “They woulda come to you and took the report.”
    Shelby Pate said, “Oh yeah, I almost forgot. There was money in the glove box that we picked up on our last job. Five hunnerd bucks. Sure hope the thief don’t look in there, but he prob’ly will.”
    â€œFive hundred bucks?” Fin said. “Why cash?”
    â€œDon’t ask us,” Shelby said. “The guy at Southbay Agricultural Supply jist handed us an envelope with five big ones in it.”
    â€œDid you count it?”
    â€œYeah, we counted it. Fer our own protection in case it wasn’t the right amount.”
    â€œYou went in for a taco and left five hundred bucks of company money in the glove compartment?” Sam Zahn asked doubtfully, figuring correctly that they intended to scam the boss. He’d like to have strip-searched them both. “Hope you boys got another job to go to. Leaving cash in the truck? Your boss might not believe you.”
    Abel was the better actor and just smiled placidly. The ox started to twitch. He felt like turning his Mötley Crüe cap around backwards to show he wasn’t worried. Suddenly, the remaining cash, still in the leather jacket with the manifests, felt heavy. He needed some methamphetamine.
    â€œAnything else?” Fin asked. “Like maybe you left a fellow trucker sleeping in the van when you went to eat?”
    â€œNo, but there was somethin in there that we oughtta call to your attention,” the ox said.
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œHazardous waste. Five drums altogether. Four from North Island and one from Southbay Agricultural Supply.”
    â€œHow hazardous?”
    Abel shrugged, and Shelby said, “We ain’t got no idea. We jist haul that shit. We don’t know paint thinner from Agent Orange. We was supposed to bring it to our storage yard. The boss, Mister Temple, he handles it after that. He sends the real bad stuff outta state somewheres. To Texas or Arkansas, I think.”
    Now Fin was really glad that it would go downtown. He didn’t want a case involving the Environmental Protection Agency or any other bureaucracy. “Will your boss know if the stuff is particularly dangerous?”
    â€œSure,” Shelby said. “The description’s there on the two manifests from the waste generators.”
    â€œWhere’re the manifests?” Fin asked. “In the truck, I suppose?”
    â€œEen glove box,” Abel said sadly. “Weeth five hundred dollar.”
    â€œThe generators of the waste got their copies of the manifest,” Shelby explained. “The navy at North Island and South-bay Agricultural Supply. Now we’d like to borrow your phone to call our dispatcher and have somebody pick us up, okay?”
    â€œThe thief musta only wanted your truck,” Fin said. “He sure wasn’t after your load.”
    â€œHe get lucky,” Abel said. “Get our boss money.”
    â€œSure,” Sam Zahn said. “Sure he did.”
    When Fin got off duty and was trudging toward the parking lot, he saw a truck with GREEN EARTH HAULING AND DISPOSAL painted on its doors pulling into the parking lot to collect the haulers. Then Fin almost panicked when he spotted something on his Vette until he realized that what appeared to be a ding in the left front fender was only a shadow made by the streetlight.
    His 1985 Corvette was white with red leather, the second year of the major body-style change. His little beauty had a 240 h.p. fuel-injected engine with only 27,000 miles on it. It was the one thing of value that none of his three ex-wives had managed to confiscate.
    When people asked Fin why the hell he’d got