Ebb Tide

[No-spleen Gene]

Southern California money-laundering ring broken up

By Gus Quisenberry,
Updated Oct 5, 2015, 1:03 p.m.

Thirteen individuals have been arrested in Los Santos and San Diego in a series of raids targeting a money-laundering network associated with members of the Valenti crime family and Chaldean organized crime. Among those arrested were Bashir Aziz, 43, a community leader based in El Cajon, San Diego and Valenti enforcers Michael Marinelli a/k/a "Marinara", 35, and Carmine Gennaro a/k/a "Flat Foot", 46. The three stand accused of operating as ring leaders to the conspiracy. 

 

The majority of the suspects, detained last month, are owners of or otherwise associated to cash-heavy businesses dotted across Southern California. 33 business premises were raided in a state-wide operation that combined the efforts of federal and local authorities which resulted in $89,500 in cash being recovered, as well as 6kgs cannabis and 34,045 illicit packets of cigarettes being seized. In one premises, a large concealment was discovered behind a hydraulic wall filled with illicit cigarettes and bundles of cash.

 

Federal authorties have announced the three ringleaders remain in custody and that more arrests may follow.
 

Edited November 14, 2025 by No-spleen Gene

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Edited November 27, 2025 by No-spleen Gene

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Edited December 18, 2025 by No-spleen Gene

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ONE

 

Los Angeles never rained, least that's not the way he rememered it. He had only been in California for little over a year before he was pinched, and on that particular day, Los Angeles had been a postcard. He was stopped on Atilla Avenue by two patrol units and the same Crown Vic that had been following him for most of his adult life. He had cherished the memory of sun tan lotion in his nostrils, sunny silhouettes of palm trees waving him away, and the gaggle of unmistakable Californians that gawped and gazed and gasped and gossiped. Medigans, he scoffed at the sight of them, and thrusted his groin toward them as the copper turned him around to put on the bracelets. Presented with this display of Italian machismo, a blonde woman who looked to be in her fifties recoiled in horror while her chihuahua sat and watched, frozen in time, tethered to an inappropiately large lead. The chihuahua was alert and keenly tuned into the action, ears pointed up, looking directly at the man in cuffs until it was yanked away by its offended owner. The noise of the cops and their drill were distant and muted, lapped up in the waves of the ocean crashing ashore a couple of yards to his left; he could almost taste the salt of the sea on the tip of his tongue. He licked his lips clean of the feeling as the cops ushered him into the back of the unit and he sat there, his world behind a window pane, now a million miles away. Every morning Marinara would rise from his bunk in his two-by-four cell and sit with that vision, and no amount of smuggled prosciutto or capicola could satitate his appetite for what he figured was waiting for him outside of that unit window. 
It rained hard the day Marinara returned to that city of angels. The palm trees looked sad and limp as the rain hammered down. Strolling up Atilla Avenue he searched for his once-adoring public, rooting the heels of his boots into the tarmac he searched for any shred of evidence that the vision he clung so tightly to still existed, somewhere. He watched the fountain of rain water spill from the impotent tree and onto the street and he sucked his teeth and looked to the west, to the shore, as a last ditch effort. There, a stray shaggy dog confidently traversed the horizon, behind it a stormy sea dense with foreboding. The elements wrestled with one another before Marinara and the stray dog, but before the gods could impart their message, Marinara had already made his way to a payphone etched with scribblings of the past. Picking up the phone and wedging it between his ear and his shoulder, his stubby fingers went to dial, but stopped short once he realised there was no dial tone. He pressed his ear tighter against the phone. Nothing. He stood there, wet, staring at the lifeless object in his hand and thought to himself. The phone slipped from his grip and he turned and he left it there, swinging in the rain, disconnected, severed from the world.

The rain pelted against the tempered glass of the J line bus. A bump in the road. The slight tremor rattled the infastructure and the passengers inside of it, except one: Marinara, his head bowed between his wide shoulders, reading a dime novel gifted to him from an old lifer he had met inside the joint. The novel was about a man who fancied himself a prince of thieves, and the San Francisco detective who risked it all to nab him. The old man had given it to him a week before he'd got out. He'd invited him into his homely cell, a warm shoebox decorated with so many personal polaroids and photos on the walls you could ignore the dull cement. Most of the photos, Marinara had figured, were of family: nephews and neices and grandchildren he would likely never meet, while the others were faded black-and-white images of another world entirely. He sat him down on the edge of his bed with custom dressing and rifled through a stack of tatty dime novels at the foot of it before unearthing what he told Mike was his very favourite, the Prince of Thieves, which it announced in bold red letters. That night Marinara returned to his own fluorescently lit cell, which wasn't nearly as inviting as the old man's, and was curiously amused by the book, covering a chapter before dozing off. He thought nothing of it the morning after, and the days that followed were coloured with old rivals, prison guards and prisoners alike, trying adamantly to jeopardize his release. Now the book was something of a comfort, reminding him that even though he were hundreds of miles away, sat high in his cement tower with the rats scuttling below, there was another prince of thieves who too was being punished for his ability to cheat the system, to be above the sucker. That's what Marinara told himself as he looked above, briefly distracted by a familiar fluorescent light and the lethargic flys that buzzed around it.
The rain had settled a little once Marinara had reached his destination, a small cafe that was only ever open during the afternoon, for local longshoremen and other orange vests to congegrate and discuss the means of production over cheesesteak sandwiches. A light drizzle blanketed the area and the sky was baby blue again. Swaths of rain water and shallow puddles shimmered on the wide road, which was flanked mostly by warehouses. He secured the shoulder of his backpack that sat tiny and ridiculous on his big frame and confidently strode inside. The cafe would be claustrophobic to anybody but Marinara. The strangers' eyes all darted to scrutinise him and he puffed his chest out to speak, but his moment was stolen by one of the labourers.
"Dip me in shit! Is that you? Ain't no fuckin way!"
A sturdy man with a salt-and-pepper beard squeezed his beer belly out from a crowded booth and hurriedly shouldered anyone that stood between him and Marinara out of the way, shouting in his baritone voice.
"Is that you? You got some fuckin nerve huh, showin up now, like you is?"
He stood before Marinara, work-strong, his belly the only consequence of his hard living. His words hung in the air, and the all the labourers eyes danced to and fro. He looked like he meant business, his shoulders square and his legs seperated and rooted into the floor, his eyes daggered directly into Marinara's. The top of his head was a lighter shade of brown compared to the rest of his sunburnt skin. The tonsure of hair circling his otherwise bald dome stood on end, reacting to the electricity in the room. Both men balled their fists, and time in the cramped cafe froze. There was no noise, save for a stifled cough, and somebody's teaspoon clinking against a saucer. A crack in the textured rock that was the labourer's face. A glint in the old dog's eye. Marinara's teeth bared like a hyena's to laugh and he flattened his palm on his balding forehead to wipe the anxious beads of sweat glimmering on it, which pulsed as red as his sunburnt forearms. The pair embraced and laughed at one another and traded mock blows, reminiscent of a reunion between two old heavyweights fated to share the same ring for an eternity. 
This was Byron Blythe -- Bo, to his nearest and dearest. Bo was an old work horse that had been digging the same patch of dirt for most of his life, whether he was searching for treasure or digging his own grave was still up for speculation. Marinara and Bo had traversed many lives together, as labourers, as thiefs, or pimps, anything that made them a nut. Eleven years ago, Marinara had convinced Bo to travel with him from Florida to the end of the world, and after Marinara flew too close to the California sun, Bo was washed ashore, on the docks of San Pedro. He was as close as he had to a confidant, but it wasn't that he trusted Bo, just that he trusted the rest of the world a hell of a lot less.
It wasn't long before Bo made up some half-assed excuse to the foreman about his sister taking ill and was out chugging on the Harbor Freeway with Mikey Marinara. Just like old times. They smoked and caught one another up on their new lives, while ahead traffic had become a grid lock of industrial and low economy vehicles, one or two of them thickening the air with viscous smoke from their burnt out clutches.
"Dog shit as that car may be" Mike remarked as he wagged his hand Cagney-style at Bo, chin addressing a 1990 Buick Regal, which stood out as the oldest, saddest car in the line-up, "you have to admit, they doh make em like that anymore. What do you think? My eldest brother, half brother right?, he drove one of those."
"Any shit past uh, what, O-Two? Motha. Fuckin. Trash buckets, dog. Whole world gone Chinese, or something. You make it quick, sling it quick, and you best believe! that shit gon break down quick."
The two nodded in silence. The sun was setting.

 

 

TWO

 

Dusk. Los Angeles was lit everywhere by a constant of dull orange. Street lights flickered on, some flickered off. Bo's pick-up cruised down Bloomwell Boulevard, coughing and spluttering. Eventally, unable to keep its composure, it found a quiet lot to park in. The lot was adjacent to a nondescript brick building, the only identifiable thing about it was a rickety sign that hung above some steps leading to double doors: Gigi's.
"You remember these people?" Mike Marinara asked, watching what he presumed was a bouncer lighting a cigarette and idling on the wide stoop.
"Like you guinea wop assholes let anybody forget. Remember these people... shit, I done work for these people a few times now."
"What? You have? For what? Who?"
"Boosting radios."
"Boostin' radios."
"That's what I said int it? Shit, now you're judgin me from up in that tower you been in, past ten years? I had a date, the bill weren't gonna pay itself."
"Fuck you you had a date."
"Last week before payday man, I din't have a nugget, and shit, I weren't about let somethin that fine fly in the wind."
"Bombshell I bet, right?"
"Right."
"Tits out to here and...?"
"Mmm."
"And her cooze was ta die fuh."
"Mmm!"
"Fuck you! Lying motherfucker! Next you're gonna tell me she was Pam Grier. What you do, bathe in the harbor fore you went and you met this chick? You smell like fuckin tuna fish."
"Shiiiit, that's pussy man."
The continued ruckus of the pick-up in the lot had caught the bouncer's attention, a fit young man wearing a tight black tee to flex his impressive physique. He had a thin mustache above his lip that he routinely attended to with a thin comb. Setting eyes on the pick-up, the aura of the vehicle immediately made him feel uncomfortable. He wasn't physically threatened, not much could intimidate this guy and he certainly wasn't impressed, but something irked him -- whatever this was, it wasn't from his world. He fidgeted with his Gucci belt and secured it higher on his torso, before taking a few small curious steps forward.
The muffled voices grew louder.
"You too much of a man ta admit it? Admit it! I heard you! You wailed like my sister!"
"Hey now... and what about..."
"Mary, Mudda of God, help me, please! Haaa!"
"Wouldn't a happened now if you weren't such a fuckin amateur! You went and let the boy get the drop on you!"
"Fuck you!"
"Fat fuck, couldn't see..."
Knuckles rapped against the truck's window. Both men, eyes lit like they were omnivores caught in the dead of the woods, snapped to look at what had disturbed them. The young man stood with a deadpan expression an inch away from the driver side window and he spun his finger, gesturing to Bo to roll it down. Bo complied, cranking the lever until the window was open just enough for them to communicate.
"Sup, young buck?"
Mike cleared his throat.
"You got business here? If you not got business here, then I'm sorry but you's gotsa leave. Parkin here's reserved, this is a private venue."
"Every damn lot in this city feels like it's fuckin reserved... shit..."
Mike's hand reached Bo's forearm, and once he'd reigned him in, he leaned a little closer to the bouncer. "Ey, if I may? I'm here to see Nate. If you's as big a deal as you're makin out, then I know you know who I'm talkin about. He's in there, right? Since we're not allowed in, tell him Mike's here to see him? Mike Marinara."
He let the name hang in the air like bait. You know who I am. This whole town knows who I am. Come on. Take the bait, you motherfucker. Don't embarass me in front of this washed up asshole.
"Marinara?" the young man couldn't contain his amusement, but recognized enough of himself in Mike to take him seriously. "Sure. You wait right there, Marinara" he said, taking note of Mike's weight before lackadaisically heading to the entrance.
Mike pushed out his lower lip, satisfied, and turned to Bo, half-expecting praise. Bo looked him up and down, wondered why he ever paired up with a dago, and watched the man enter Gigi's as he blew smoke against the windshield.
"He drinks virgin marys, this guy."
"Who?" Bo asked, "Nate? The lawyer? Shit... it would take some special type o maniac to bust your ass out the pen."
The two waited. Mike glanced at his vintage Casio. Half an hour had passed. This was business as usual, he figured the message had to pass through at least two channels before it reached Nate. Still, Mike wasn't happy about his lack of agency. He mulled over what he'd said to the guy, wondered if he'd been assertive enough. He sat grumpily in the passenger, impatiently fiddling with the radio, which Bo addressed with grunts and sighs. You Won't Dance with Me by April Wine hummed quietly over the radio and eventally played in the arrival of a jet black Mercedes-Benz W112 that parked two parking spaces away from them; it announced its presence like a hearse. The model itself blended in with the rest of the city's enthusiasm for old rods, but this one in particular came with something insidious. Mike and Bo paid close attention to it, realising immediately that whoever it was wasn't a member of Gigi's.
"That ain't no guinea's car."
"Nope."
They watched on, waiting for the engine to stop. It hummed on. The passenger door opened and a sharply-dressed man exited, he was pale with high cheekbones and Slavic looks and he had an unbothered look in his eye, like this visit was just another thing to cross off the list. He played with his necklace, the Star of David, while he turned to address the skinny man in the driver's seat. He was young and dark, Mike figured him for some kind of Middle Eastern. He wore a pastel suit too big for him, and spoke animatedly with his passenger in a foreign tongue. He was the driver, but this wasn't his car. The passenger's neck turned a couple inches to inspect the pick-up truck that was behind him. He made a quick note of it, rubbed the tip of his nose and got back to giving the driver his orders.
Mike and Bo looked at one another knowingly.
A stocky middle-aged man left the backseat. He was acne scarred and he had harsh features. He had been watching the pick-up the entire time, and his sharp eyes didn't waver once as he left the Mercedes. The suit he wore, while pressed and tidy, looked decades old, while the man himself felt centuries older. Both the men harmonised the closing of their respective doors, leaving the young driver alone with the engine running. Slowly, they approached the stoop of the social club and waited there. Within minutes of their arrival, a chorus of men burst out of the doors, with the two leading the charge holding a man flushed of colour and scared shitless, like he was about to be fed to a pair of vampires. Warmly, the centuries-old man opened his arms and encouraged his victim to come along. A familiar face appeared in the crowd, and made a bee-line for the pick-up Mike and Bo sat shrunk in. It was the young bouncer.
"You's gonna have to go."
"Ey, what did I..."
"No, no, you're gonna have to go. Now. Go. If you's don't leave... look, I'm licenced to carry a firearm. So if you's don't get the hell out of here, then we're gonna have a real problem. I don't got time for this. Get out of here before my friends don't give me a choice."
Bo didn't give Mike time to come up with a reply. He backed up and got the hell out of there. Once Mike was done chastising Bo, his eyes didn't leave the rear mirror until the sight of Gigi's was little more than a speck. Once they were in the clear, they found themselves in front of a wall of red taillights. It was dark now. It was dark everywhere.
 

Edited 10 minutes ago by No-spleen Gene

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Santino, who?

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