The Parker Trilogy Page 2

  Parker had noticed her but was barely back on active duty and still trying to get his wheels under him when he found out who she was, what case she was talking about and whose desk it had last sat on. Then she’d come in one day with a plate of fresh tamales, and that’s what broke Parker’s heart the most. She was reduced now to trying to feed and care for the very people that she was sure didn’t care about her.

  “Anything stand out?” a voice said from behind him. It was Campos, Parker’s new partner. A detective for twelve years, Campos had a voice tinged with skepticism at almost all times, but a laid-back demeanor that made him easy to work with.

  “Nothing yet. Sorta cut and dried. You see the file?” Parker replied.

  Campos shook his head.

  “Kid goes in the store, says ‘give me all your money.’ Eighty-seven-year-old owner produces a .357 Magnum—”

  “Damn.”

  “Yep. More gun than most men half his age could ever shoot at all, much less accurately.”

  “And?”

  “He starts shooting, missing the kid entirely. Wings one customer in the leg, blows a bag of chips outta another customer’s hands—miracle of God there—and pretty much gets off one more shot that goes into the beef jerky stand before the kid rushes forwards, and from almost point-blank range, returns fire and blows the old man’s heart right out of his back.”

  “He ran towards him?”

  “Exactly. Not your usual response to a .357 Magnum.”

  “Most people are on the retreat just from the sight of it, if not the sound of it going off.”

  “Yeah. So why—”

  “The kid’s probably heard guns going off his whole life, Parker. Probably fell asleep to the sound of them like some warped-ass lullaby when he was a child.”

  “Yeah? Okay then. Still. Witnesses say he just sneered and charged.”

  “Big, brave homie. Easy to charge a frail old dude that has already shown he can’t shoot to save his life . . . literally and figuratively. What next?”

  “The customer holding the bag of chips—Soh Lee—goes ape shit and starts screaming at the kid.”

  “Balls.”

  “I’m guessing that and pure grief. She’s in her early forties. Has known the old man since she was in grade school. The liquor store used to sponsor her soccer team.”

  Campos was back to being speechless.

  “So, the kid waves the gun at her, takes a few steps back, turns and shoves Gabriel Torres—the customer who has the gun wound—into the candy aisle, then bolts outside . . . where he finds two members of the Asian Soldiers, who just happened to be across the street changing the tire on a car they just stole.”

  Campos was visibly stunned. “Son-na-nitch.” It was his favorite catch phrase. Having been brought to the US at the age of thirteen, Campos still carried with him some of his native accent, mostly for swear words and the occasional use of the word “pigg-za” whenever they ordered pizza.

  “I know. The odds, right?”

  “So, they’re the ones that left him like that?” Campos said, nodding at the crime scene photo of Hymie in his eternal nap pose.

  “Yep.”

  “Anybody get a good look at them?”

  Now it was Parker’s turn to shake his head.

  “So, you want to go find the two Asian Soldiers, in their gang neighborhood, that nobody saw or can identify, four months after the fact?”

  Parker nodded.

  An awkward silence filled the little space around Parker’s desk. Outside, a flock of pigeons was darting back and forth between a building ledge across the street and a cable wire that ran from the station to a nearby pole. The sky was a deep, almost foggy gray that made the city look more like Seattle than Los Angeles. After a moment, Campos crossed his arms and said, “You don’t have to do this, ya know.”

  “I know. And we both know that you’re the senior officer on deck, so if you don’t green light it, then that’s that.”

  “This case can be handled by anyone else here, Parker. You know that. Murillo and Klink. O’Brien and Keith.”

  “No. I want it.”

  Campos moved a stapler out of the way and sat on the corner of the desk. Folding his arms, he said, “You’re just digging at the corners of a fresh scab, Parker.”

  “It ain’t so fresh no more. It’s been months,” Parker replied glumly.

  “Man. It’s gonna be fresh for a long time. Years, even. Forget this ‘months’ shit.”

  “Yeah. That’s what my department shrink says too.”

  Campos smiled. “How’s that going, by the way?”

  “She says I’m depressed but functional.”

  “Your girlfriend agree with that? You know, the ‘functional’ part?”

  Parker laughed. “Take it eaaasy, man.”

  At six foot two, Campos was mostly lean and once athletic, but now had a bit of a paunch, which was where his mischievous laugh—which reminded Parker of Muttley the Dog from those old Hanna-Barbara cartoons—originated from. It was one of those laughs that was instantly contagious.

  They chuckled together and let the ghost of Napoleon Villa, the thought of Parker’s ongoing therapy and the deaths of Yoon Sun Kim and Hymie the Stump abate for a moment.

  When Campos’ old partner of five years was transferred to Rampart Station, their new captain, Brian Holland, assigned Campos to Parker. Time was of the essence now, yes, but Parker knew, so was this. He had to learn how to bond with a new partner and his new partner had to learn how to trust that Parker wouldn’t have a PTSD-type meltdown out in the field.

  “My first day with a head case,” Campos had said the first time they’d left Central Station together to investigate a bank hold up. He’d been kidding, but not entirely.

  That was Parker’s world now: proving he wasn’t loony to his coworkers and even his friends. None of them understood most of what he told them, which was never all there was to tell anyway. Only Murillo had an inkling of the forces that had been in play during the Fasano case—forces that were way beyond anyone’s badge or jurisdiction—and even he didn’t want to talk about it anymore.

  Parker leaned back in his chair and stretched, then looked at Campos. “Look. Nap would’ve wanted me to do this, man. So whadya say?”

  Unfolding his arms and tucking his hands into the pockets of his slacks, Campos looked down at his polished dress shoes—always the dapper dresser—then looked back to Parker and nodded. “Yeah. Okay. You got your green light. I’ll tell the cap. You one crazy son-na-nitch, Parker, but we’ll get ’em.”

  Parker sighed with relief. Somewhere out there in the universe, he felt Napoleon smiling.

  Meanwhile, outside it appeared as if the sun had given up on trying to break through the clouds.

  Chapter Two

  Father Bernardino Soltera sat opposite the girl before him in his office and waited. It was always like this when they came to him. All the girls in the neighborhood around St. Francis Church seemed to arrive at the same conclusion at around the same age, fifteen or sixteen, namely that love wasn’t what they hoped it was, and maybe never would be. The boys around them who wanted to act like men lived life in a vacuum of fear—of each other, of rival gangs, of prison, of the law . . . And where there was fear, there was hardly any room for love.

  He told the girls this and yet still, even when they put on a brave face, he could see their expressions, pained and distant, confused and sliding swiftly into hopelessness, even in the house of God.

  Twenty-eight years of seeing the faces of so many sins. Because that was what sin was, he was sure of it now; something you wore, like an old wool jacket, wet with pain. The worst part was their eyes, which, drained of color, reflected that they either couldn’t see through the temptation or past the mistake. Either way, their gaze would become more and more wild and desperate until they seemed almost blind to the rest of life around them. Then they grew older that way. Had children that way. Tried to hold the line every day that way.


  “Father?” the girl whispered, her voice tinged with concern.

  His thoughts had wandered again. It was happening more and more lately. He cleared his throat. “Yes, child.”

  “But I’m pregnant now. What then?”

  The words bounced to the floor, rolled around awhile like marbles and then came to rest in a hole of momentary silence. It was a good question and he knew the answer she wanted, but he couldn’t, wouldn’t, give it to her. “Then you will have created life in this universe—”

  “But—”

  “The greatest thing you could ever do, child.”

  She blinked and he noticed that a beam of sunlight had cut through one of the stained-glass windows and fallen across the room, casting a sea of red and yellows over her hair, across the side of her cheek and down to her delicate chin. She seemed to be struggling to hold back a sob. He waited. Like he always did. Waited and prayed.

  Father, help her see in herself what You have placed there. Not the fear of what may come, but the reality of who she already is, and who she still can be.

  There was a smell to his office that he noticed from time to time: old wood and the oil that was used to clean it; the scent of real oak and false pine.

  He shifted his weight and his chair creaked, startling her out of her thoughts. “My whole life is ahead of me,” she murmured softly, “but I’m not sure that it’s really worth living.”

  He sighed. She could handle what he was about to say. She was strong. She had been since the day he’d baptized her, when she was just an infant and had arched her body and flung her head back so hard that she’d almost squirmed right out of his hands. Every priest had their own liberties. His was the baptisms. He loved holding the babies in one arm, so that he could see their beautiful faces as the holy water spilled over their foreheads. So that he could see their infant eyes grow wide with wonder at the first touch of the Holy Spirit.

  “Child. You’re losing hope. This is unacceptable. You are a daughter of Christ.”

  “I just don’t—”

  “Understand. I know. You don’t understand why this boy doesn’t feel the same way about you as you feel about him, especially after what you did together.”

  She nodded and began to cry softly.

  “But know this: what you did, you did out of love. And though you have sinned greatly in the eyes of Our Lord, nothing you could ever do is unforgivable. Nothing could ever separate you from His grace.”

  “I gave away my virginity though . . .” she added forlornly.

  “In hope, for love. Yes. You did. And it’s done. You’ve come here to repent and you are seeking forgiveness, with a right and true heart. So . . .”

  “I don’t have the strength to confess today, Father. I can’t talk to God today, I can’t –“ Her eyes swelled with tears.

  He swallowed hard against the lump in his throat, against the emotions that were welling in his chest. “Okay. But you need to. You know that.”

  “Yes. But about the—”

  “I’m sure that you will honor the miracle in your belly by having it, either for yourself or perhaps for an adoptive couple who can’t have one of their own, if that’s what you choose.”

  She sniffled, nodded and swiped the hair that had fallen across her face, twisting it into a strand and pushing it behind her ear. “I’m going to have to tell my mom that I did this.”

  “In your own time.”

  “Yeah. But she’s going to be so disappointed in me.”

  The emotions in his chest blossomed into a soft smile that creased his lips. “In only half measure, at worst, to how much she loves you. And remember, many things fade. But a mother’s love? Never.”

  It was mid-morning on a Tuesday. One of the sleepiest days at his church. When Luisa had come in he’d been surprised. Now, he heard the church doors open again. Then silence. Then footsteps. From his office, he couldn’t see who had come in. Carol, the church secretary, was coming in late today, so whoever it was out there, they’d just have to wait. He wasn’t going to rush this. Luisa was at an impasse, he could sense it, and for his part he was going to hold the line here, in his office, for hours if that’s what it took, to make sure that she had someone pointing her the right way.

  But she’d heard the person come in too. She glanced over her shoulder, and then wiped her eyes dry. “I should go.”

  “There’s no hurry.”

  She nodded and her eyes did a dance—off to the side, then down to her lap, then up to the ceiling, as if she were choreographing her thoughts. “Thank you, Father. You’ve been so much help to me today. I honestly didn’t know where to go or what to do. It just hurts so much. I was lying in bed all morning and I didn’t even want to get up or eat or anything. My mom thinks I’m sick.”

  “You are. With heartache. Please remember this feeling. It’s important for the future. Remember: when you don’t wait for the right person to love, this is the feeling that you will get, every time.”

  She chuckled softly, and he saw the spunk in her come alive. The same spunk that made her a lively one in Sunday school when she was a child, and made her ask him so many tough questions in catechism a few years back. “Gee, Father. That’s an uplifting thought!”

  He parroted her chuckle, then said, “Child. A broken heart is an open heart. Be open to the Lord. Worry is the opposite of faith, so chase it from your mind. Hold firm, okay? I’m here no matter what you need.”

  “I know that,” she said as she nodded. “Thanks again.”

  He prayed with her, making the sign of the cross over her, and said goodbye.

  Even though there was someone else out there now, he took a few moments to himself. He was tired. Lately, sleep was getting harder to come by. Though the diagnosis wasn’t entirely grim, stage two neuroendocrine pancreatic cancer was nothing to laugh at. But it was “better” than the exocrine version of the disease. As a result, his chance of a five-year survival was estimated at fifty-two percent instead of seven. Five years. When he was a younger man that was a long time, but now it felt like far too little.

  He prayed again, but not for himself. He prayed for Luisa and her mother, and for the boy in her life to grow up, to respect her, and to be a good father. Then he stood, a joint in his left knee popping loudly, and made his way out to the sanctuary.

  His church was small, located on the outskirts of Boyle Heights in the gang ravaged neighborhoods of East Los Angeles. But it was a mighty church. Better than the one he’d served at in Gardena, and before that in Hawthorne. Here the faithful were more rooted in their need for God somehow, probably because they all knew something of death and drugs and evil on practically a daily basis. They waded through a sea of misery just to get through the church doors every Sunday, but they came. Three services, each to capacity. They came and they cried and lamented, sang hymns and praised God, in English and in Spanish, with full-throated abandon.

  He walked across the marble floor in front of the sanctuary, where the pulpit stood alone and silent. It took a while for his fifty-five-year-old eyes to adjust to the gray light that was pouring in through the windows. The old brick walls, plastered as they were with mission style stucco, were brightened, almost glowing, as he looked around. After a bit, he could make out a man sitting alone in the pews, just inside the entrance.

  Someone who had no doubt come to pray in peace, Father Soltera thought. Until he noticed that the man’s head was not bowed, nor was he looking up at Christ over the altar. Instead, he was looking right at him. The man appeared to be in his fifties and had graying black hair and eyes like a St. Bernard, dark and slightly droopy.

  “Can I help you?” Father Soltera asked gently as he walked up the aisle towards him.

  Instead of replying, the man simply stood and walked out.

  It was a bit odd, but it had happened before, many times. Sometimes that’s just how it was; people only wanted to talk to God, or to themselves. Father Soltera had learned a long time ago not to take it personally,
or himself too seriously. Actually, the older he got, the more he appreciated not being leaned on.

  Some people could lean too much, and tip you right over with them.

  Hector blinked and The Smiling Midget was gone.

  Having just gotten out of prison, he wasn’t supposed to be in any big hurry to be going back in. But, truth be told, he hadn’t cared one way or the other when he’d gotten his release papers and been given his personal belongings during processing earlier, and he cared even less now.

  His head was pounding with rage and his chest was caving with heartache. It was one thing to lose your freedom, quite another to lose your hope, and Marisol had always been exactly that: his hope. For a life beyond the street. For a family. For a reason to get up each morning that didn’t involve scratching out an existence with the dull instruments of drugs or money.

  Chico and Bennie rode in the car with him like mimes—silent while occasionally indicating which street to turn down. Marisol’s house was only a few blocks away now and the “what if’s” were bouncing between their eyes and off each other’s foreheads as they glanced at each other in the rearview mirror. It was obvious they were both wishing they were anywhere else but here right now.

  Hector could only imagine that their “what if’s” were the same as his:

  What if the bouncer is at the house?

  What if he’s a member of a rival gang?

  What if he’s carrying?

  Shit. What if they catch her in bed with him?

  He should’ve stayed in school. He was a straight-A student until he got jumped in. Until the gang convinced him that grades would do him no good in the world. At least not as much good as easy money and fast women. It had proven true for a while, but he missed classes, and learning, and arguing with teachers and studying new things. His mind now felt like a shrinking thing. What was it his English teacher had said to him one day? Think small thoughts, have a small mind. Yeah. Exactly.