California Roll

“No way! You gots the whole story wrong.”

Rudy Mendoza shook his head. He was a fortyish, prematurely graying and weary-looking Latino, but with a sharp, touched-up, black Fu Manchu. He sat at a cramped desk inside a shabby office trailer. Standing across from him were two uniformed Oakland PD officers—a young blonde man, Patrolman  LeFebvre, and a young Latina woman, Sergeant Reyes.

“Sowles is my main boy. That’s his rig. He didn’t stole no truck,” Rudy said to Reyes.

“What do you mean, ‘your main boy’?” Reyes asked. “According to DMV records, Sowles is about seventy years of age, isn’t he?”

Rudy saw that Reyes was all business. Cold as a witch’s tit, he thought. “Sowles be my main man, I mean, that’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout,” Rudy said. “I mean like, Sowles been here for a lotta years, man. He’s good peoples.”

“Then why are we here, Mr. Mendoza?”

“The dude was s’posed t’ get a load but he ain’t been in touch; that’s all,” Rudy said. “That ain’t like Sowles.”

“And you called in and suggested criminal activity?” Reyes asked.

“What criminal activity? No, man. I ain’t said that.”

“Our call records indicate grand theft auto.”

“What ‘grand theft auto’? I didn’t say my Subaru WRX was missin’,” Rudy said.

He leaned forward and put his head on his desk. “I tole you, that’s his rig…his rig, I said. I mean, his truck an’ trailer. I mean, the dude’s straight up.”

“Then it could be conversion of bank owned property, fraud, maybe,” she said looking at Lefebvre. “There are lenders involved and insurance companies.

“And the load contents,” Lefebvre said, nodding.

Reyes didn’t respond to Lefebvre. Instead, she focused her dark eyes on Rudy. “I think maybe you know something, Mr. Mendoza.”

“Why you cappin’ on me, hermana? I ain’t done nothin’. I’m just tryin to find Sowles, I’m saying, we real shorthanded,” he said.

“Relax, Mr. Mendoza.” LeFebvre said. “You ever been arrested, sir?” he asked.