The Parker Trilogy Page 26

  That’s what the gang life filled: that hole. That self-loathing or feeling of unworthiness. You had brothers in arms. And that meant something. Certainly, enough to be offended if one of you started plotting an escape. It was kind of like an even worse betrayal, because you all already understood what it meant to be the one left behind.

  He sighed, finished his Fanta and used his napkin to wipe his mouth clean, taking special care with his mustache and goatee. So, the idea of school had been abandoned, but not his love for at least one part of it.

  He still had books.

  Some might say this was because he was still pretending, trying to be a “studious gangster” or some shit. They could say whatever they wanted. He knew the truth, and the truth was that it was the stories that helped him escape his day-to-day hustle-until-you-drop existence. Because they were like time portals . . . no, life portals . . . that allowed him to be something else. To be someone else.

  Every single time he picked them up to read them.

  And that felt good.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Sergeant Emily Davenport stood in front of them, her arms folded across her chest and her eyes looking at them intently as Parker and Campos broke down the stats for the situation that could be awaiting them all at The Mayan that night. As one of the heads of the Los Angeles Police Department’s Tactical Response Units, it was important to get not only her green light on the raid, but also her input.

  “We make the place to have at least three different gangs inside at the time we go in.”

  She winced. “Damn.”

  At five foot seven she wasn’t short, but she wasn’t tall, and she was fit beyond belief. Known for competing in triathlons in her off-hours, her arms were lean and her shoulders taut beneath her uniform. Her brownish-blond hair was tied in a bun on the top of her head and her steely blue eyes were dancing across papers on the conference table before them, a mix of blueprints of The Mayan, two different seating chart plans and color photos of the interior that her assistant, Officer Heimo Okata, had printed off The Mayan’s Google Page.

  “Yeah,” Campos said, nodding at no one in particular.

  “Please tell me this is a private thug party and not a public event,” she said with sarcasm in her voice, as if she already knew the answer.

  “Nope,” Parker replied. “Tonight, it’s Hip Hop night, normally open to the public.”

  Her eyebrows slanted downwards. “Great.”

  “Whatcha got, Heimo?” Davenport asked the short, squat man next to her. A native of Alaska, he was of Eskimo decent, with the traditional facial features—round face, almond shaped eyes—and skin tone to prove it, but when he spoke it was in a loud, booming voice, as if Charlton Heston were in the room. “Seating capacity for concerts is one thousand five hundred. Seven hundred and fifty on the floor, seven hundred and fifty in the balcony. For events like this, they clear the floor seats and it becomes a huge dance floor. The DJ tonight, Marx 21, will be up on the stage with his setup.”

  “Marx 21?” Parker asked.

  “Yeah,” Heimo said with a nod. “Guy’s not bad, actually. Has a few really solid songs.”

  Heimo was in his late 30s. Davenport looked at him. Parker and Campos did too.

  “What?” Heimo shrugged. “My son likes him. I listen to his music when I pick him up from school sometimes.”

  “Okaaaay,” Davenport said with a smirk. “How about ingress and egress?”

  “Main entrance is on Hill Street, right under the marquee. There’s a fire exit out to the back alley on Blackstone Court.”

  “Interior?”

  “You’ve got the main floor, with a large bar, and a small mezzanine with a small bar that leads up to the balcony, which has traditional seating and three club areas for VIPs only.”

  “Our guys are going to be there, I’m almost sure of it,” Campos said.

  “Why so sure?”

  “Well. Shit. Because they’re VIPs. Especially this Guero character. Mondo will be sucking on his tit.” Campos paused, catching the flash in Davenport’s eyes before he forced himself to go on. “And Jin’s pretty high up in the Asian Soldiers, so he’s more than likely to be wherever Mondo is.”

  Davenport nodded. “Just to be clear. When you say ‘more than likely’ what that really means is ‘I’m not quite sure.’” She sighed. “And beyond that, I’m really hoping that in that vast vocabulary of yours, Campos, in the future you can come up with analogies that don’t involve the words ‘tits’ or ‘sucking.’ Do you think that’s possible?”

  Looking like a kid who knew he was in trouble before he even got called out in class, Campos squeamishly nodded and looked to the floor. “My bad,” he mumbled.

  As a sergeant, Davenport outranked him, but she was also capable of hurting him physically in about ten different ways. Parker was impressed with Campos for being man enough to realize his faux paus, and with Davenport for being woman enough to put him on check, right out of the gate.

  Heimo looked at Parker and raised his eyebrows. Parker cleared his throat.

  Davenport turned her attention back to the blueprints. “Okay. Moving right along then. Heimo, what’s the access to the balcony like?”

  “An entrance off either side that leads back down by stairs to the mezzanine. Same deal there, by the way—two more sets of stairs that lead down to the main floor.”

  “Bathrooms?”

  “Ground floor, just off the lobby, which is just inside the entrance.”

  “Anyone else we need to know about?”

  “Vendors inside the lobby. Vaping booths, t-shirts, posters and all that shit.”

  “Security?”

  “Bouncers at the door. They usually number two to four. Inside there’ll be another four to six, usually by the bars and down by the stage.”

  A moment of quiet came over them as they all looked at a photo that Davenport had picked up off the table. It showed a dance floor with mobs of people under purple and blue lights.

  “Hate to rain on your parade, boys,” Davenport grunted, “but before we go charging into that mess, before even one of you two goes in there to scout it out, we’ve got to try and nab this bastard on the way in.”

  Parker was disappointed, but he figured this was coming.

  Campos protested. “We don’t know what car he’s driving, who he’s driving with, when he’s supposed to arrive—”

  “I get that, Campos.”

  “So how do Parker and I camp out at the entrance without being made?”

  “We could go to the management for help.”

  “They’re clean,” Heimo interjected. “I checked them out. All permits, legit. No past issues with the law. No known ties to any criminal elements.”

  Campos rolled his eyes. “Okay. Can we say the same for the waitresses, the bouncers and the bartenders? Or how about the towel staff in the bathrooms?”

  Heimo shook his head.

  “This guy, Guero, he’s in tight with La Marea. He ain’t going nowhere that he don’t feel is safe. He’s probably got people on the inside, and they’ll tip him off if Parker and I dress up as bouncers or something.”

  Davenport scratched at her chin. “Can we make him from a distance?”

  Parker decided it was time to chime in. “We don’t even know how he’s gonna be dressed, and our latest pictures of Jin from his Facebook page are a little dated. We get it wrong and it’s lights out.”

  “Why?”

  “Jin’s known to melt away. Vegas. Arizona. Wherever. We can get a warrant to shut down his passport but I’m guessing he knows someone, somewhere that can get him a fake one that’ll get him out of the country and to Korea. Then? The gig is up and it’ll take years to get him back, if he doesn’t disappear somewhere in Korea too.”

  Campos picked up a pencil and began tapping it nervously on the table. “If he even gets the chance.”

  “What do you mean?” Davenport asked as she put her hands on her hips.

  “Jin
’s too close to everything. We want him to work our way up the food chain, and guess what? Both Mondo and Guero will know that too. He’ll be lucky to board a flight anywhere. I’m guessing someone will put a bullet in his head for insurance purposes long before he gets the chance.”

  Davenport’s face was twisted with frustration. “So, you guys want us to back you up as you go into a public night club, with civilians everywhere, and extract a known gangster who is wanted for two murders, all in the hope that in a place teeming with gangsters, you’ll be able to do so peacefully?”

  “We’re hopeful,” Parker murmured.

  “No. You’re high,” Davenport snapped. “This is a pinch play at home base all the way, with short notice. I can see why the cap’s nervous, and I don’t like it either.”

  Campos shrugged. “Then we drop it and this bastard gets away or gets buried. Either way, Parker and I can go tell Hymie Villarosa’s mom to quit bringing us tamales and tell Eric Yi’s eighty-seven-year-old grandmother that the cops she distrusts anyway aren’t going to be any help in the murder of her grandson.”

  When she looked at Campos this time, Davenport’s eyes could’ve cut a hole right through marble. “I like that idea even less.”

  Parker had enough. “Ya know, this is the shit I hated in the military. All the banter. All the strategizing. All the ‘if’s, ‘and’s or ‘what’s. With all due respect, sergeant, we know we have to get this piece of shit, we know where he’s gonna be and we just gotta do it.”

  Davenport leaned over the table. “This ain’t Iraq, cowboy. We blow this and end up with a couple of dead college girls in their high heels and micro mini-skirts on the damned dance floor? We can’t call in an air strike to cover it up, you know what I’m saying?”

  The room froze.

  Parker shook his head at her. “Yeah. I do. But based on that logic? ‘Don’t do anything unless we can cover it up?’ We shouldn’t fight any wars, criminal or otherwise, there, here or anywhere.”

  The room grew quiet. Out of the corner of his eye Parker could see Heimo nodding ever so gently, as if he wasn’t used to anyone challenging his boss, much less a new detective.

  Parker watched as Davenport’s eyes searched his. In their blueness, he found no warmth. Finally, she spoke. “Lay it out.”

  He didn’t hesitate. “I go in first, Campos follows. Once inside, we split up. We’ll be wired. It’ll be dark in there so it’ll take some time to sort things through, but we’ll keep you all posted on the outside. Once we have Jin in sight? We’ll call for backup. You guys come in with full presence to mitigate any machismo bullshit by anyone there.”

  “You think?” she asked with skepticism in her voice.

  “Yeah. Most of them in there probably won’t be armed.”

  “Probably?”

  “And even if they are, I’m guessing that being on the wrong end of a SWAT Team AR-15 will make them think more than twice.”

  “Okay? And?”

  “Once your people are in? Campos and I grab Jin. Party over.”

  “It’s gonna be that easy,” she said with a smile.

  Parker thought for a moment. “One can hope.”

  Davenport looked back to Campos and shook her head. “You bring me a babe in the woods who uses the word ‘hope’ when discussing a tactical raid?”

  Campos chuckled. “Yeah. He ain’t so smart, sergeant.”

  “Yeah,” she replied, before adding, “but he’s smart enough not to use the word ‘tits’ in a professional work environment with a female superior now, isn’t he?”

  Heimo smiled.

  They had their green light.

  Here was the thing—and Father Soltera knew it beyond a shadow of a doubt—there was the sin of the thing and then the thing itself. And the two were not the same. Despite all that had happened to him the past few days, despite the new realities and revelations that he still was sure he did not fully comprehend, and despite his conversation with Mr. Villa, nothing was going to change. He was still going to see her. He had no choice.

  No. That was a lie. He did have a choice and he was going to forever make the same one. He simply couldn’t help himself. Like a needle on a record player dancing recklessly over a warped album, his life had now become one long scratch stuck on the groove that was her.

  His head began to spin with the hypocrisy of his life. It lasted until a little while later, when he sat down with Carol and went over budget items and expenditures for the carnival. Afterwards, it was a series of conference calls, one with the company that provided all the rides for the carnival, another with the company that was to provide the security.

  He scoffed when the calls were over and Carol handed him a copy of her notes; basically, this year they were getting fewer rides, for the same money, and paying for more security to keep the evening fun and safe. As he did every year, he brought up his reservations about the beer garden, but Carol reminded him, as she did every year, that it was usually sixty percent of the evening’s funds raised.

  He scratched at the back of his head as they waded through a few more items, including a quote by a paving company to re-slurry the church parking lot, which was cracked with veins of weeds. By 1:00 p.m. they had one of the church volunteers run up to Subway to get them lunch while they pushed on with plans for the youth group.

  When their food arrived they were almost done, so they talked a bit about Carol’s daughter, Myra. She was doing great at San Luis Obispo State and planning on doing her internship in Monterey in the summer, and Father Soltera couldn’t help but notice the twinkle of pride in Carol’s eyes.

  Myra had hit a rough patch her sophomore year of high school, smoking weed and getting caught sext-messaging an older boy. Short, with dark eyes and a smile that matched her mother’s, she’d been very charming when Father Soltera had sat down with her to have a chat about things. Like any teenager, she’d been in a foul mood about being forced to go talk to an adult, any adult, much less a priest. Truth be told, when she left that day, he thought he’d gotten nowhere with her.

  But then, slowly, the stories Carol brought from home began to turn more and more positive, then hopeful, before becoming downright encouraging. It was a reminder to Father Soltera that we are all simply tools in use on any given project and that when it came down to the blueprints of a human life, it was always up to the Master Architect to approve the plans.

  After lunch, he had prayer time and then another meeting, this time with Jane Lamont, the lady who handled the church marketing efforts. Together they outlined the next three months of messages, handouts, hymnals and church banners, as well as the advertising for the carnival. After Jane left, he and Carol wrapped up the day by setting the staff schedules, taking into account Father Domingo’s pending return from vacation.

  After Carol locked up the church and left for the evening he had time to kill, so he went back to his room to watch TV and count down the hours.

  When the phone rang, he jumped. It was rare that anyone called his direct line. Few people had it. When he answered, he was startled by the voice that greeted him.

  “Hello, Padre. It’s Felix. You remember me, don’t you?”

  It couldn’t be. How did he get my number?

  “Yes. W-what . . . what do you want?”

  “I warned you, Padre. I did. I told you to stay out of things. But you wouldn’t listen.”

  “Look, this is not an appropriate time for—”

  “Screw your ideas of appropriate! I know you helped her go somewhere to hide and I know you know who I work for, so I’m guessing you have a pretty good idea that you’ve screwed me ten times over.”

  “Felix. You have to understand—”

  “He’ll kill me when he finds out. He will. If you’d have let me get her to the clinic, maybe cover up what we’d done? Then she stays quiet to keep him out of her life and her mom’s life, and I stay quiet to stay alive. Simple as could be, ese.”

  “You can go to—”

  “Don’t
even say it. Don’t even waste my time with your ideas about how you didn’t ruin my life.”

  “Felix, I’m sorry, but I—”

  “You’re a dead man, Padre.”

  The world seemed to come to a stop.

  “Now look—”

  “No. No more talk. I just wanted you to know that I’m coming for you. I’m not saying this because I’m drunk or just some little punk ass who likes to talk shit. I really am, Padre. I’m coming for you, and when I do?”

  “Felix . . .”

  “When I do? Not all the prayers in the world will save you.”

  The phone clicked in Father Soltera’s ear.

  Looking out his window he saw that it was dark outside. Felix could be out there, right now, waiting. But Father Soltera still wasn’t due to leave for a few hours. That might give Felix some time to cool off, or sober up. But just as quickly as he had these thoughts, Father Soltera sighed deeply. He knew, no, he was sure that Felix meant every word.

  He contemplated canceling things with Gabriella, but he couldn’t bear the thought. No matter how wrong it was, he’d been counting down the days to this night. Shame coiled in his heart and pumped out through his veins, making him weak.

  No. He had to go. He had to. This was the best time. Late evenings were better for her. There was less chance of him running into anyone, her family or friends, who might ask questions.

  He was glad for the rest he’d gotten, as the journey ahead of him was a bit long. Not for a younger man and certainly not for a healthier one. But for him, yes. She was in Monrovia, which was over an hour away.

  First, he would grab her copies of Vogue and People from the newsstand on the way to the bus stop at Soto and Seventh, where he would catch the 251 to First Street and then get off and walk to the metro Gold Line. From there, he would take the metro and exit on Landis Street, where it would be a three-block walk to Whole Foods, which had a nice floral department, where he would pick up her favorite: purple or pink tulips.