Gods of Mischief by George Rowe Page B

Agent John Carr put it, it was time to make things “official.”
    In March of 2003 I drove out to the ATF’s field office in Van Nuys, California, gripping the steering wheel with my left hand because my right was in a plaster cast up to the elbow, busted on a trimming job. The process of becoming a confidential informant actually kicked off a few days before when I met Carr in a Burger King parking lot several blocks from his office.
    â€œHow’d you get that busted wing?” he asked as I climbed into his car.
    â€œFell out of a fuckin’ tree.”
    â€œThat’d be a bitch riding a bike like that. Thank God you don’t own one, huh?”
    â€œHey, bust my balls all you want,” I told him, “I can still brake with my foot . . . and you ain’t gettin’ out of your promise. I want that bike.”
    Carr took my photograph, rolled my prints, had me sign some papers, then sent me on my way. Now I was meeting up with him again in Van Nuys to make everything official. I was about to be signed, sealed and delivered to the federal government. We met in the building lobby and I trailed the special agent up the stairs to the main offices.
    â€œThere’s a sheriff down in Riverside who met with you not long ago, an associate of your pal Kevin Duffy,” said Carr. “Know who I’m talking about?”
    â€œYeah, I know who you mean,” I said. “That guy’s been pressuring me like a motherfucker.”
    â€œYeah? Well, he flew up here a few days ago in a helicopter to talk about you.”
    A helicopter! Holy shit. I had myself a stalker with a badge.
    â€œHe was pretty upset,” Carr continued. “He thinks I’m trying to steal you away from him.”
    â€œWhat the fuck am I? His girlfriend?”
    Carr half-smiled at this. “Something like that.”
    We entered a mostly empty office area. Only a few agents were at their desks talking on the phone or doing paperwork.
    â€œWhat’d you say to him?” I asked.
    â€œI said call George right now. If you’re going to be the guy on this case, knock yourself out. If George is good with that and he wants to work with you, I’ll walk away.” Carr motioned me into his office. “That’s when he offered to share you. Kind of like a joint custody arrangement.”
    The agent parked himself on the edge of his desk. “Listen, George, here’s the deal. I’m not about to get into a pissing contest with another agency over you. That’s not gonna happen. The biggest mistake we could make would be allowing two handlers. Only one guy controls an informant, and that’s just the way it works, understand?”
    â€œYeah, man. Absolutely.”
    â€œWell, then, you’ve got a decision to make. You’ve already been shopped to this guy in Riverside. And if that’s the direction you want to go, I won’t stand in your way.”
    â€œHell, no.”
    â€œYou sure about that? Because once you sign those papers, you’re with ATF.”
    â€œJust hand me the pen.”
    The agent smiled at this. “I’ll call the sheriff and tell him you’re not going through with it. That you got spooked. We’ll keep your pal Duffy in the loop but no one else. The fewer people know what we’re doing the better.”
    I shook my head and grinned. “A helicopter? No shit.”
    We left the office and walked down the hall to a conference room where I met Special Agent Jeff Ryan, the man who would serve as Carr’s right-hand man during my time undercover. Ryan had started with the Border Patrol down at the Brown Field Station in San Diego before transferring into ATF as a special agent at the Los Angeles Field Division. Next to him a folder was laid out on a polished conference table. I took a seat opposite John. He opened the folder, then glanced up at me.
    â€œYou ready for this?”
    â€œHell, yeah, man.