Runner-up 4

Larry Greene donned his lucky Dodger cap, the one his father gave him. Whenever Greene remembered to wear it to a game, the Dodgers won. He needed some of that luck today. Greene had to get Lopez’s ear so the judge could tell his side of the story before Palmieri revealed Greene’s Vegas follies.

The pricey Stadium Club seats were a luxury on a judge’s salary, but they were worth the price, affording Green entrance to one of the most hallowed venues in sports -- a seat among Hollywood glitterati behind home plate.

Greene opened the glove compartment and took out the Smith & Wesson he always carried when out and about in the City of Angels. As a former federal prosecutor who now presided over the headline-making trials of some of the nation’s most dangerous criminals, Greene possessed one of the city’s few permits to carry a concealed weapon.

Greene patted the weapon and was comforted. Nobody got the jump on Laurence Greene, especially not that thug Palmieri. Palmieri tricked Greene once and Greene wasn’t going to let that happen again -- especially not in front of an L.A. Times reporter. He tucked the gun into a Dodger blue foam-rubber hand.

Then, sitting in his Mercedes in the Justice Center parking lot downtown, Greene dialed a familiar number.

“Steve? This is Larry Greene. I’ve got two tickets in the Stadium Club for tonight’s game against the Mets. Can you make it?”

“Funny you should ask,” Lopez said. “I was just thinking about heading there myself.”

Greene began driving toward what would surely be the game of his life, played out in front of 50,000 adoring fans. If he was going down, everyone was going down. Lopez was getting a little too close for Greene’s comfort. And Palmieri’s squeeze play threatened Greene’s career, community standing -- everything he held dear.

But the judge didn’t spend his life meting out justice to have some reporter or crime boss take him down. He’d show everyone how to hit a high hard one.

Greene especially wanted to exact some justice from Palmieri.

“Sure, your honor. I’m headed to Chavez Ravine right now. I’ll meet you at the club entrance.”

Tommy the ticket taker greeted loyal fan Greene with the usual.

“Evening, judge. You never come to a game without that foam Dodger hand.”

“Yeah, Tommy. It’s one of my good-luck charms. And the way the Dodgers have been hitting, they could use a little luck.”

Greene didn’t see the carload of DEA agents pulling up, driving Charlie Bonner to the stadium. But they saw him.

“Isn’t that the judge on the Palmieri case?” Bonner asked. “What the hell is he doing here?”

“No questions,” ordered the DEA agent. “Just do as you’re told.”

Bonner wondered if he was going to get out of this alive.

Wearing a wire in a meet with one of the biggest crime figures on the left coast was not Bonner’s idea. Undercover DEA agent Ernesto demanded that Bonner cooperate or spend the rest of his life bunking with Bubba.

Once inside the Stadium Club, Greene and Lopez ordered a couple of beers and Dodger dogs. Lopez spotted Palmieri escorting what must be that Carmen woman who had called him with a story so weird it had to be true.

Lopez noticed another familiar Hollywood face sidle up to Palmieri.

“The gang’s all here, judge,” Lopez said. “If only someone had a hand grenade, they could take care of some serious riffraff.”

Pointing the foam Dodger hand hiding his gun, the judge said, “I’ll go you one better.”

Former Florida fishing guide David Futch is a writer who swears he’s “met most of the characters in ‘Birds of Paradise.’ ”