Friday, 30 June 2017


[Media prompt] San Francisco to pay $190,000 to undocumented immigrant over sanctuary law violation, lawyer says.

Danny Stone sat in his car on Shotwell Street, watching the entrance to a three-storey blue Queen Anne through heavy summer rain. He had his window rolled down an inch or two to prevent fogging, and because of it his shoulder and seat back were wet. The car was starting to smell like a swamp. He lit another cigarette, then butted it out after a single drag. His six-year-old was now openly pleading with him to give up. He thought it would be a breeze, but like stopping illegals from south of the border it was easier said than done.

Danny looked at his watch. If Velazquez failed to show in the next half hour, he would call it a night. El Salvadoran illegals with a promise of half-a-million in the bank were not noted for absconding. Besides, there were court papers to sign, and his Syrian lawyer would need her cut of the action. Danny would get another chance at him tomorrow, or the next day at worst. There was no gain in getting soaked for the sake of a wetback grifter.

As he slapped at his wet sleeve, Danny saw the downstairs windows go dark. He became fully alert, rolling the window half way down. The front door opened shortly after, and a short, solidly built man wearing a baseball cap and t-shirt a size too small stepped out into the rain. He ran down the path, opened the gate and crossed the street to a battered truck parked twenty yards away. It was Velazquez, and Danny started his car.

Velazquez’s current claim to fame was a half million windfall from San Francisco taxpayers after police turned him over to immigration authorities in violation of the city’s sanctuary law. Danny knew the greasy little dirt bag had been in the news before; three years ago Pedro Velazquez had been deported for the rape and murder of a thirteen-year-old white girl he snatched off the street.

Danny put the car in gear, but before he could take his foot off the clutch a gangbanger with a tattooed face and a sawn-off shotgun ripped open the passenger side door and signalled for him to cut the engine.

“Not so fast there, white boy,” he said, easing into the seat.

Danny cut the engine. His uninvited guest smelled worse than the hold of a refugee barge from Africa, but he guessed the barrel pointed at this face was a 20 bore so he kept his opinions to himself.

“How about you and me go for a little drive,” said the man. 

He pulled the door shut, prodding Danny in the neck with the barrel. Danny started the car, pulling out onto the empty road. Velazquez was long gone, and he knew without asking that his newly acquired friend had no intention of letting him see the sun come up tomorrow.

Danny followed directions, turning left at the end of the street, humming a tune quietly to himself as he turned right towards the Bay. At the first set of lights, he turned to look at the man. His eyes were drooping and the shotgun rested impotently across his knees. Danny turned into the parking lot of a small strip mall, easing the car into an alley leading to loading bays. When he stopped, the man was unconscious, and Danny opened the door and pushed him out. Brushing scopalamine onto the seat before he left had been a wise precautionary measure. He quickly trussed the man laying on the ground, stowed him in the trunk, and lay the shotgun on the back seat.

Opening his phone, Dany identified the location of the tracking device he had earlier taped under the front fender of Velazquez’s truck. The predictability of illegals never ceased to surprise him, and as drove through lightly falling rain he called Ed Bane, ensuring the container was ready. By morning, Velazquez and his ugly compañero would be en route to El Salvador, no one the wiser as to why wetbacks scamming the city’s sanctuary law were routinely failing to claim their lottery prize. 

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