Runner-up 2

The honorable Larry Greene knew the quartet at the bar didn’t see him.

Years of presiding over life and death court cases had developed in him the sensitivity to know when he was being watched. And when he wasn’t.

Now it looked as though he were the one headed for jail if he didn’t do something to stop Palmieri from forcing his hand. He also had to stop the stripper from blowing the whistle on his Vegas follies.

He could feel his anxiety rising, his throat closing, the urge to scream growing. Greene had to break up this gang of four. With L.A. Times columnist Lopez involved, it wouldn’t be long before printed word got out that the good judge had succumbed to temptation of a weird kind.

A distinguished career down in flames, his standing in the community gone. The shame was too great.

For comfort, he caressed the Smith & Wesson hidden in his Dodger blue foam hand, convinced the barflies were plotting against him.

Across the room, Palmieri stared at his table mates. “Who’s this guy?” Palmieri asked no one in particular. “You look familiar. I’ve seen your picture before somewhere.”

“The name’s Steve. I’m Carmen’s friend. She thought she might need some protection since she was coming to see the head of a drug cartel.”

“That’s a reach,” Palmieri said. “You’re going to protect her from me. Do you know who I am?”

The bartender -- a DEA agent -- watched intently for any funny stuff, his gun sitting on a shelf out of sight. One little problem, the agent thought. There were too many important people in here to start shooting. We’re going to have to take these guys out some other way, he whispered to the agent posing as a cocktail waitress as she garnished the drinks he loaded onto her tray.

Greene sauntered to where Palmieri and company were standing.

“What’s with the stupid foam hand, judge?” Palmieri asked with a sneer.

“There’s a gun pointed at you, Palmieri. I know what this little meeting is about, and I want the flash drive, and I want the package this little lady here is holding and I’m going to leave alone with both.”

“Oh, judge,” Palmieri offered with a grin. “You’re going to deny the world a chance to see you dressed as Liza Minelli, especially surrounded by naked Vegas showgirls.”

Lopez chimed in, “Judge. Don’t be stupid. I know the whole story. People in compromising positions. You in particular. The Times is going to be all over this. The jig is up.”

Greene snatched the package out of Carmen’s hands and glared at Charlie Bonner. With a sigh, Bonner reached into his jacket pocket and gave up a flash drive. Greene backed away from the bar, and relief washed over him as he exited the Stadium Club and blended in with the crowd of baseball fans.

The victory was momentary. Ernesto’s squad of waiters, bartenders and cocktail waitresses swarmed the judge. Before he knew it, he was cuffed, Mirandized and herded out of the stadium and into a waiting van.

As agents tackled Judge Greene, Palmieri used the momentary confusion to his advantage.

The drug lord squeezed past the gawks taking pictures of the scene with their cellphones and broke into a run down the stadium concourse.

Ernesto caught a quick glimpse of Palmieri as an American Idol wannabe started his rendition of the national anthem. The crowd of patriots rose to the occasion and blocked Ernesto’s view of the Stadium Club entrance.

And Vincent Palmieri was gone.

David Futch, a former fishing guide and sometime writer, says since moving to L.A. last year he has already met most of the characters in “Birds of Paradise.”