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If he was happy, everyone was happy.
If he was angry, conversations remained muted.
No one dared smile.
Born in the rough, rundown streets of East Los Angeles, Sonny had bare-knuckled his way through life.
Now he was rich.
Filthy rich.
Determined not to become another El Chapo or Pablo Escobar, his early profits he’d invested in car washes. They were cash machines.
Then pinball and gaming clubs. More cash machines.
All the while he’d manipulated his way into celebrityville.
Actors, musicians, politicians, he didn’t discriminate.
He’d arrive at their huge homes with magic dust and a black pharmacy bag.
They treated him like a king.
He’d run into Beth at party after party.
A sparkling ray of sunshine.
He’d barely noticed her boyfriend.
Manny was always there, subdued, polite, unassuming.
Sonny had been attending an Oscar event when she’d taken him aside and asked if she could be one of his dealers.
She’d pleadingly explained she was a struggling actress, and Manny, a musician, struggled even harder.
He didn’t hesitate.
Though she’d been an anomaly in his male-dominated world, she had quickly become an admired fixture in his mansion.
She’d hosted his parties, and charmed important visitors.
Her quiet boyfriend spent his life hanging out with bands and in clubs.
He proved to be an excellent source of income.
But Dan Miller, a lowlife, but necessary LAPD cop, despised her.
She’d rejected the lanky detective.
Sonny wasn’t surprised.
With his ugly mustache, Dan was not an attractive man.
Tall and skinny, his clothes hung off him, and he did freakish things with his body.
The bizarre talent had earned him the nickname Twister.
If that wasn’t enough, he pinned back his long, kinky hair with bobby pins.
