The Parker Trilogy Read online

  He could still remember the first time he’d given them to her, by accident really. They were left behind in the church after a wedding, and not wanting to throw them away, he offered them to her after one of her visits. She had taken them shyly, her finger grazing his beneath the petals.

  The confessional booth had felt especially warm that day, as she spoke through the screen and told him of a love she had for someone that she had no right loving, leaving him speechless to answer, much less offer much penance. Afterwards, the flowers had seemed appropriate. Wearing a white, sleeveless dress that fell just past her knees and white high heels, she almost looked like a bride and he’d felt the worst thing of all rise in his heart then: jealousy. The mere thought of her marrying someone else, someday, cracked his heart.

  He looked in the mirror and saw his reflection as he finished getting dressed. He should’ve known better, so many times and in so many ways. But he hadn’t. How could he, really, when she had looked so beautiful that day, in her white dress, her dark hair brushed into a new look, bangs down to her eyebrows, giving her a girlish appearance, youth and innocence in her dark eyes and huge smile, the pink tint of her makeup on her cheeks only adding to the image.

  Again, he thought of her nickname: Olive Oyl. That’s what the kids had called her when she was little. And she was still tall and thin. But those kids had no idea the beauty that she would grow up to become. If they had, they probably would’ve treated her much differently.

  But on the inside, Father Soltera knew, that fragile little girl still lived, roaming the halls of her dreams with lingering insecurities. He knew as much because she told him so. Confessed them. Sacred truths meant only to be relayed to the Lord, but which Father Soltera kept, like notes written in code, to whom she really wanted. And by then, after complaining to him about all the men her own age, after telling him of how her father was a ruthless cheater who shattered her mother’s heart so many times that she’d lost count as a child, it was obvious that sin or no, she wanted him. She wanted her priest.

  And he wanted her.

  He cleared his throat, snapping himself out of it, noticing that he was staring off blankly into the emptiness of his room, utterly lost in the folds of his memories.

  He never should’ve let any of this happen. Even now, he should not be going to see her.

  But he could already see her face, waiting for him. Needing him.

  There was no use in fighting it. He would catch the metro and exit on Landis Street, and by the time he got near her building, he knew he’d practically be running to get to her.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Hector felt good. The shot of tequila helped with that, as did The Smiling Midget’s rather quiet disposition that night; he was lying on the bed with his legs crossed as he flipped through a biker magazine he’d found on the floor of Hector’s room.

  You good? he said with no concern in his voice whatsoever, as if he already knew the answer.

  “Yeah,” Hector said, checking out his reflection in the mirror. Prison had made him leaner and more muscular. He flexed and looked at all the art on his body; thousands of dollars in tattoos that he’d had done over the years.

  On his right shoulder was an image of Montezuma in full regalia, the colors of his shield and helmet deliberately enhanced to pop. On his left shoulder was a cascade of skulls that spilled down to his wrist, with the one nearest his hand showing a snake poking out from one eye socket.

  Over his right chest he had the image of a Dia de los Muertos mask, the eyes circled in black and outlined in ornate, red and yellow semi-circles. The lips were a stitched-over smile, and there was a tiny heart encircled in a crown of thorns on the forehead.

  On his left chest were the letters “LA,” stenciled in block letters, the bottom of the “L” making up the crossbar of the “A.” One of only two traditional tats he allowed himself to get, the other being a pair of praying hands holding a rosary, which was centered at the top of his abdomen.

  The rest of his stomach was a stenciled proclamation, “Fresno Street Vatos,” surrounded by an intricate series of cobwebs, a tiny “2010” pronouncing the year of his “birth” into the gang, and a spider with dozens of eyes hiding in a corner between his ribs. On his neck, just below the shirt line, were three words in dark black: “Trust No Bitches.” His very first tattoo, which he vowed never to ignore the wisdom of, at least until Marisol came along, and look what that had gotten him.

  Mesmerized for some reason, he turned his back to the mirror to get a good, hard look at his most prized tattoo: a large skull, highly detailed, with a stark black crow balancing on top, right between his shoulder blades. Below it was a piece of tattooed parchment that took up the rest of his back, inscribed with the closing lines of “Invictus” by William Ernest Henley: It matters not how straight the gate, How charged with punishment the scroll, I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.

  His favorite poem. Because everyone remembered the end of it but not the rest.

  When it was the rest that told the whole story.

  He put on his blue collared shirt and fixed the last button, leaving it untucked over a pair of dress jeans and polished shoes. It was going out night, party night, Hip Hop night at The Mayan. And Hector wanted to look good for upcoming events. Yeah. There’d be plenty of muchachas there tonight, but that wasn’t what he was going for. Nope.

  When his cell phone rang from an “UNKNOWN” caller, Hector smiled. He answered.

  “We good?” he asked.

  Burro’s voice came over the line. “Yep.”

  “The phone?”

  “Throwaway.”

  “We clear?”

  “Am I picking up a six pack or a case?”

  Hector paused for a few seconds and looked at himself in the mirror. His cheeks and head were now freshly shaved, his skin tight from the aftershave he’d splashed on. His mustache was trimmed and layered perfectly with his goatee, and the chains around his neck were shiny and bright. He hadn’t been able to wear them since going to jail, and it made him feel more dressed up. Everything looked good, except his eyes. There was something in them that he didn’t like.

  He felt The Smiling Midget shift on the bed behind him, as if he were looking at him now, and this provoked Hector’s resolve.

  “A case.”

  This time the hesitation was on the other end of the line. Then, “Got it.” When Burro hung up there was a heavy finality to it all, a “no turning back” sense of discomfort that squirmed in Hector’s stomach. A part of him knew this was too much. An overreaction to things. But there was no calling back a throwaway phone, so that was that. He looked into the mirror again and saw at last what it was that was in his eyes: doubt.

  He forced it away with utter disdain. For this punk-ass college kid who’d made a move on his girl, yeah, but also for the whole thing: the gang, Hymie, his promotion, the heat that might come his way from Ramon when word got back to him of what Hector had done.

  “Shit, homie,” he said to himself with a shake of his head. “It’s all fifty-fifty, like every damn other thing in life. Promotion, no promotion. Marisol, no Marisol. People will like the move, people will criticize the move. Whatevs.”

  Most importantly, this whole thing is so simple, there’s no way it’s going to fall back on you with the law, The Smiling Midget added.

  Hector nodded. It was true. And wasn’t that what Curtis had always taught him? Be mindful of all the dominos and how they’ll fall, yeah, but be especially mindful of the shit that will have you trapped between four walls the rest of your life.

  Each time Hector had been on the inside, time had been measured in months, but still felt like years. He couldn’t even begin to imagine how decades might feel. That was a slow, meandering, weak and tortuous death. At least on the street, if it was your time, it was done and over with. Eyes open, eyes closed.

  When his cell phone rang again it was Bennie and Chico saying they were on their way. Hector told
them he’d wait out front. It was still rainy outside, so he put on a dark blue Tom’s jacket and grabbed his keys and cash.

  Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that The Smiling Midget was still reading the magazine, taking a good, long look at the bikini model straddling one of the bikes in the centerfold spread. “You’re pretty chill, tonight,” Hector said.

  The Smiling Midget shrugged and curled his lip up on one side. Nothing to not be chill about. Looks like you got it all under control.

  Hector nodded and headed for the door, then he hesitated. The Mayan had good security, but still . . . you never knew who was going to be there or what might go down. So he grabbed his Glock 43. Single stack. Six shots plus one in the chamber. 9 mm bullets. Small enough to tuck into his crotch area, not a spot that any bouncer was likely to frisk, right before he went in.

  When the boys pulled up it was in a pimped out 1968 Chevy Box Nova with chrome rims that caught and reflected the dull street lights as they rolled down the street. Hector jumped in and took a puff of the joint Bennie handed him.

  “We ready, jefe?” Chico said.

  “Yep,” Hector said.

  “Fure as fhit we are,” Bennie stammered. His eyes were already heavily glazed.

  “What the hell we smokin’?” Hector asked, looking at Bennie with concern as Chico pulled a U-turn and headed downtown.

  Chico laughed. “It ain’t the reefer, man. It’s the Percocet’s got him soaring, I think.”

  “You want fome?” Bennie asked.

  Hector shook his head. “Nah.”

  A bottle of tequila was tucked between Chico’s legs, just beneath the steering wheel, which was made of chromed chain link.

  “Man. Tres Generaciones? Whassup, big boy?” Hector teased.

  “I dunno. I brought the good stuff ’cause, well, tonight feels more like your real homecoming, ya know, like the formal shit and all,” Chico answered.

  “Odale,” Bennie grunted, and Hector smiled.

  “I hear The Mayan has been poppin’ off on Thursday’s, jefe,” Chico said as he took a swig of tequila and passed the bottle to Hector.

  “Yeah?”

  “Senoritas galore. Wall-to-wall people by ten, spilling onto Hill Street by midnight.”

  Bennie suddenly came down with the giggles, which looked painful. He grimaced, trying to keep his jaw still, as his neck bounced up and down.

  “What?” Chico asked. “What’d I say?”

  “Nothin’, man,” Bennie replied, waving his hand at him as he continued to chuckle.

  Hector looked at him, bemused, but said nothing as Chico got mildly annoyed. “I’m serious, vato. What’s so funny?”

  Bennie kept on chuckling, in turn making Hector and Chico chuckle, until finally he managed, “Man. He don’t give a fhit about no fenoritas or partying. He only after one thing.”

  Chico nodded. When he spoke, it was only three words, but they were ominous. “Our boy. David.”

  “We sure he’s working tonight?” Hector asked.

  “As’right,” Bennie said, his eyes wide, evidently pleased with himself for finally managing an actual “s” in a word.

  Another round of laughter. For a second, Hector felt like he had some sort of weird out-of-body experience. He saw the inside of the dark car, Bennie and Chico’s faces highlighted in the red, green and white lights of the city . . . the stop lights and the store signage along Glendale Avenue, the passing traffic muted by the rolled-up windows, which were pockmarked with raindrops as the windshield wipers waved lazily from side to side. Then there was the sound of their laughter that struck him; they sounded like three cackling hyenas. It was a weird notion that he instantly chalked up to taking too long of a pull of the tequila bottle.

  And yet still, even then he couldn’t shake that the darkness of the night all around them was so strong that it was even enveloping the bright, towering skyscrapers of Downtown Los Angeles just up ahead. Like a raincloud of doom.

  Soon, they would drive through the Second Street tunnel, famous for being in so many movies and car commercials, then make a right on Main Street, which they would take to the parking lot on Olympic Boulevard. Then, in they would go.

  Hector smiled.

  David Fonseca had no idea what was coming his way.

  But, truth be told, neither did Bennie or Chico. They both expected that David was in for a good, solid ass whoopin’. The kind bad enough to surely send you to the hospital.

  Or what the gang called by code a “six pack.”

  They had no idea that Hector had actually called for “a case.”

  If they did, they wouldn’t be nearly this light-hearted right now.

  Because “a case” meant that it was time for a killing.

  Trudy wasn’t happy. “What do you mean you’re going on a raid?”

  “It means we—”

  “I know what it means, Evan,” she said curtly, “but you’re a detective. Why are you—”

  Parker tried to explain. “Campos and I are the one’s best acquainted with the case, the suspect and the players.”

  “And?”

  “Look. It’ll be fine.”

  “I call double-jinx on that shit!” she snapped.

  He laughed. “I swear. You Irish girls and your superstitions.”

  Concern drenched her voice. “Don’t be saying things like you know for sure that’s how it’ll be.”

  He sighed. Campos had warned him not to call her and tell her anything, but he hadn’t listened because he and Trudy had agreed on total honesty from day one. “Trude. C’mon.”

  “I don’t like this at all.”

  “It’s my job.”

  She was quiet.

  “Hey.”

  “Look,” she blurted, and now it was apparent that she was distressed. “Tell them to send someone else in, okay?”

  “You know I can’t—”

  “Yeah. Well. Ya know what? I can’t lose you. You understand me?”

  “Shit. Where’s this coming from? You’re not going to lose me,” he said assuringly. “There’s gonna be an entire SWAT unit with me.”

  “Oh! That just made me feel all better, right there. Even more guns. Total cure for all my worries.”

  He chuckled nervously. “Look—”

  “There’s nothing funny about this,” she sniffled angrily.

  “Well. I figured I should tell you.”

  “Why? Why call me and tell me this shit? I didn’t need to know this.”

  “Because. We agreed, remember? To be honest with each other, to not hide anything from each other.”

  “Yeah. As in going to strip clubs or sleeping with someone else, you dumbass!”

  He grimaced. “Oh.”

  “From now on, I don’t want to know when you’re going off to stuff where you can get hurt. Are we clear?” Her voice had leveled off.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay,” she said, then almost whispered the rest. “Are you doing okay?”

  Four words, but they both knew what she was referring to.

  “Yeah.”

  “You sure? Because you don’t sound right.”

  He looked at the tile on wall. It was white, with dark green trim. Green like the grass that day. He closed his eyes and lied. “I’m fine, Trudy.” After all, she’d just told him not to worry her.

  “Okay,” she said. “Now. Are you listening to me?”

  “Yes.”

  Her voice was fiery and insistent. “If the shit hits the fan tonight?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Shoot any damn thing that moves and get out, you understand me?”

  “Okay.”

  “I. Mean. It.”

  “I. Hear. You.”

  “Good. I’ll see you when you get home,” she said, before adding hurriedly, “and I love you and all that.” Then she hung up in his ear.

  He felt instantly bad for calling her and worrying her. Then a moment of clarity struck him and he realized that, no, he really wasn’t. It was
good to be loved. To feel loved. To have someone to love. He hadn’t had that for a very, very long time.

  Still. The memories were back. Efren screaming in the green grass, falling into Parker’s arms. Waheeb screaming under the desert sun, being dragged away across the sands. Blood. Blood everywhere.

  He stood up and slammed the door to his locker, intentionally shocking himself into the moment, then made his way to the sinks, where he splashed cold water on his face and down across his hair and over his ears. Over and over again. Trying to chase away the images that were going off like bloody flashbulbs in his mind.

  He couldn’t change the channel this time and now he felt a panic attack coming on. Big, bad vet. About to fold up on himself, again. The knot that was in his stomach before he’d called Trudy had now made its way up into that soft spot at the bottom of his throat and he felt suddenly weak. If he wasn’t careful, he was gonna lose it.

  No. He couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t. It would affect everything. He had to go into that club with his mind as clear as Windexed glass. For his sake, yes, but for Campos’ sake too.

  He grabbed some paper towels and patted his face dry before he scooped a few handfuls of water into his mouth and drank them down. He thought of his therapist and heard her voice.

  When nothing else works, I want you to think of your thoughts as if they were wild horses. Whisper to them. Calm them. Then walk them back to the stable. Slowly. One at time.

  It took a good five minutes, but he finally did. The knot loosened, his breathing, which was mostly shallow, now evened out. In his mind, he guided the final horse, the one that trampled him with guilt for not getting to Napoleon sooner, for not being a good enough partner to save him, the horse that even made Parker question why he visited Efren these days. To make the boy feel better or to make himself feel better? It was a black horse, dipped in the ink of failure, but he grabbed it by the mane and walked it in, picturing the stable gate locking into place.

  Going back to his locker, Parker put on his bulletproof vest. Then took it off. It would stand out too much in the club and, even worse, it would restrict his natural movements. He didn’t want to be inhibited in any way.