The Parker Trilogy Read online

  It hadn’t been like that earlier in the morning, when he’d left the room.

  But it had happened once before. Over fifteen years ago now, when he’d taken confession from the evil man, the child murderer that the whole city was looking for, on that cold November day, when the church was darkened by the things the man told Father Soltera in proud whispers.

  Whispers utterly void of repentance.

  Things Father Soltera would never forget, horrible things that still haunted him to this day, of what the man had done to the children before he killed them.

  Sometimes it took two of those Percocets to forget that voice. Sometimes three.

  That day, when the man had finished confessing, he’d asked a single, sarcastic question. “So, Father. How many Hell Marys do you think I should say now?” Then he’d stifled a crazy, wheezy kind of laugh and fled. It had taken Father Soltera a full minute to leave the confessional, he was so shaken.

  Truth be told, he wasn’t sure the man had fled. So, he had cowered in the confessional booth, worried that the man was just outside, waiting to cover up all the things he’d just admitted to.

  But when Father Soltera finally peeked out, there was no one there, so he leaned against the confessional booth for a moment, tortured by the silence his vows demanded. The seal of the confessional was never to be broken. But, surely, in this situation, how could it not?

  Tormented as to what to do, he ran to his room and locked the door, and that was when he had turned to see the crucifix, upside down, just as it was now. His shame was instant. That was fifteen years ago, and still Father Soltera could feel the blood on his hands.

  Standing now in his room, he rubbed at his forehead and fought against the trembling in his body. He began to pray fervently, a prayer of St. John, and asked for strength. Then, pushing his fear aside, he marched to the cross and turned it right side up with tears in his eyes. The marble engraved image of his savior, his king, peered out from beneath his crown of thorns, as if still questioning the crowd that had gathered around him that fateful day. “Is this what you wanted?” the face said. “Is this going to make it all better for you now, finally being rid of me?”

  The room was still, but for Father Soltera it was too late; the tears came hard, fast and heavy. He was crying because he knew that, just like Luisa not a half hour ago, he was in trouble. Lost. Confused. Afraid.

  And he was lying to himself.

  The face of his savior wasn’t saying any of that. Instead it was asking, “Why did you hide in the confessional? Why didn’t you run after him, right away? If you had, if you had, if you had . . .”

  Father Soltera heard his own voice, dry as fall leaves, finish the sentence: “Two more little girls might’ve lived.”

  Because he’d kept the vow of the confessional, sacred and intact, that horrid, evil man had gone on to kill again.

  Fear was a sin, Father Soltera knew that, which meant, on that day, he was a very big sinner. Because after that, his faith had been a monumental struggle of insecurity and self-doubt.

  With the ghost of Joaquin Murietta haunting him each and every day.

  Chapter Four

  They’d been arguing for five minutes before he could breathe again, the pain in his chest so intense that it felt like he was going to vomit up his heart.

  Marisol stood in the doorway, where she refused to budge, the sheet wrapped tighter around her now as she looked at him angrily. “I’m tired of this life, Hector.”

  “Is he here?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’ve told you twenty damn times that he’s not here. Damn.”

  “Why? Why did you do this to me?”

  “Are you not listening? Why is it you never seem to listen? Like. Ever. Why?”

  Her eyes were full of fire and indignation and he couldn’t help himself: he wanted to hurt her. To smack her face so hard that she got back in her place. Instead, he glanced nervously over his shoulder back at the car where Chico and Bennie were still waiting.

  She scoffed at him. “What? You worried about your homies and what they might think?”

  He glared at her. Her eyes diverted swiftly to his hands as he clenched them into fists. Her face melted, and her emotions colored her face like makeup. “Go ahead,” she squeaked. “Do it. I don’t care.”

  But as her lips quivered, his hands were robbed of all their fury. He began to break out in an all-over sweat. With so many words to say, and too much hurt to say them through, he was again reduced to the same, pathetic plea: “Why?”

  “I already told you,” and with this she began to cry, her golden-brown eyes filling with water. “I’m tired of this life. I don’t want it no more.”

  “What life!” Hector screamed suddenly, making her nearly jump out of the sheet.

  “This!” and she waved one hand over him, then out to the car at the curb, then around the whole neighborhood, like a magician waving a wand and trying to make things disappear. “This shitty going-to-jail and getting-out-of-jail existence.”

  He sneered. “Like you’re the one doing the time?”

  A look of shock came over her. “Yes!” she spat. “Exactly, Hector. I do the time too.”

  “Bullshit!”

  “Oh my God!” she snapped, shaking her head in dismay. “You don’t get it, do you? When you go in, Hector? My life stops too!”

  “Give me a break. How?!”

  “Everything, Hector. If I want to get a new job or move to a new city. What about having a baby?”

  “Don’t start with that shit.”

  “Exactly!” she screamed, pointing her finger at him now. “Don’t start ‘that shit.’ Don’t do this or that. You always say the same thing. Wait for me. I won’t mess up again. Just wait one more time, boo.”

  “What am I supposed to say?”

  “You’re not supposed to ‘say’ anything! You’re supposed to care enough to ‘do.’”

  He couldn’t stop shaking his head at her, much as he tried. How dare she hurt him like this and then blame him for it. He dropped his head, his anger temporarily abated by a growing sense of utter dismay, and stared at the concrete porch. “Do what?” he asked, but it was barely a whisper because he was starting to fade now, deep down into some place within himself.

  “Leave this life too, Hector.”

  It was his turn now to look at her shocked. “What? You can’t be serious.”

  “I am. The drugs, the money . . . these fucking streets . . . Hector, I can’t do it anymore. I can’t lay in my bed one more night waiting, waiting, waiting for my phone to go off and hear that you caught a bullet in the face.”

  “Stop it.”

  “No! I won’t stop it. No more, Hector. I could barely sleep, I was so worried about you. All the time. Then you go to jail and it’s the same old shit. ‘Wait for me, baby. I’ll be out soon.’ And who knows if they get you inside this time, if someone decides to stick you in the neck before you can get out.”

  “That ain’t gonna happen . . . It hasn’t happened!”

  “Not yet. But maybe next time, or the time after that . . . and if you have your way I’ll be in this same house, living with my mom, with a kid or two, telling them their daddy loves them, like he loves Mommy, he does, just not as much as—”

  She lost it then. The hand she was using to point a finger in his face began to shake badly. The tears spilled down her beautiful cheeks like rain splatter, and a small moan escaped her. That’s when Hector realized that she was heartsick too, that maybe she’d been rehearsing for this moment for weeks or months, but even so, was totally unprepared for it now that it had finally arrived.

  The wood frame of the doorway was splintered in places, and he was splintering too. He was struck with an urge that he hadn’t felt in many, many years: the urge to flee. To retreat. To run from this moment and pray that it wouldn’t chase him down. But it would. He knew that. It would chase him down and kill him the minute he turned his back on it. Resigned, he pressed her. “Not as much as
what?”

  “Not as much as his gangster life. Not as much as his gang or his homies.”

  Tears filled his eyes, knocking him speechless. He quickly wiped his forearm over his face, smearing the tears over the bridge of his nose and his right temple. Unable to speak, he simply shook his head.

  “You never loved me more than your life around here. Big, bad Hector Villarosa. A ‘capo’ now! Big shit! You just wanted me to shut up, wear my skirts and high heels and be the one to make them all jealous, huh?”

  The world had gone black for a while, but now it was going red again. He loathed himself for feeling sorry for her a second ago, and for crying. That was bad enough. But now, to let her mock him? It was too much. Far too much. He knew this feeling. He had to leave. “Shut up.”

  “I won’t do it anymore. I won’t lay awake waiting to find out that you’re dead.”

  The rage in his heart uncoiled and hissed. He pinched his lips together, then gritted his teeth. “Kinda hard to do when you’re banging some other dude, you whore.”

  Her head snapped back in offence and surprise before she replied in a loud voice that grew swiftly into a full scream. “Oh. So that’s how it’s gonna be? You’re gonna call me a whore now?”

  “Damn straight, bitch.”

  “You mother—” she yelled and used her free hand to punch him on the side of the face with the bottom of her fist, her long nails curled awkwardly into her hands and her thumb sticking up. She kept at it too, that fist flying back and forth as he tried to grab a hold of the arm that was launching it.

  He heard Chico and Bennie yelling as they got out of the car. “Hey, jefe! Let’s just leave, man—”

  But it was too late. Red. All red. Mouth open, fangs bared.

  He grabbed her by the throat and slammed her so hard against the half-open front door that it bounced off the wall behind her and slammed into the back of her head. She dropped the sheet, revealing her full and beautiful chest, a chest he had laid his head on and fallen asleep against so many times. Happy times.

  Gone times. As he stepped through the doorway and pushed her firmly against the wall, she tried pulling his hand from around her throat, her eyes bulging in terror.

  It was the tragedy of seeing someone who once loved him, so much, looking at him now with such unbridled fear that made him pause. Funny little gangster in East LA who thinks he has jokes and likes to read his books. That’s all Hector ever wanted to be. Not some sort of leader who loses his woman to pride and arrogance, like some silly bullfighter waiting in the arena for applause that always fades.

  He loosened his grip as she gasped for air. He looked down at her panties, white with a blue flower print, and thought of the man that was now enjoying her. Surely, this would bring back the red in him.

  It did not.

  Worse, it brought calm. “What’s his name?”

  She shook her head, still afraid to speak.

  “I said, what’s . . . his . . . name?”

  “Don’t hurt him. I didn’t tell him about you. He didn’t know.”

  “Everyone around here knows you’re my girl. Were my girl.”

  She hesitated, long and hard, before she realized she’d doomed her lover either way now.

  Hector knew it too. “The only way this pendejo doesn’t know is if . . .”

  “Leave him alone. He’s not hooked up.”

  “No gang?” Hector said, and smiled. Perfect. Because now he could do as he pleased with no worries about any retaliation.

  “He’s not from around here. He’s going to school.”

  “He’s cost me face—”

  “How can he cost you something when he didn’t know you even existed?”

  “Face is face, puta.”

  She reached down and covered herself quickly with the sheet again, then took a few steps from him before raising her chin. “You gonna do what you gonna do, no matter what, huh?”

  Hector bobbed his head defiantly. “Damn straight, bitch.”

  She swallowed hard. “Fine. I can’t stop you. But I’m not going to help you.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t love you anymore, and I never will. No matter what you do.”

  More pain, but the calm was a thing in him that was deep and strong. He shrugged and sneered at her. “You know that life you want out there, in the big, wide world, mi amor?”

  She stared at him but the fire and indignation was gone now.

  “Well,” he said as he looked her up and down one last time, “you better go find it quick. Fair warning. When I’m done with him? I’ll be coming back for you.”

  With that he turned and made his way off the porch, noticing with concern that his knees almost buckled as he made his way down the steps.

  Eric Yi had a tattoo of an angry rooster on the side of his neck that for some reason made his head look crooked. The ink was done so poorly and at such an odd angle that it gave off some sort of optical illusion, and Parker was so distracted by this at first that he could barely get his questions out. But eventually he had, and so did Campos. Within a few moments they determined that Yi was already in custody the night of the shootout at Sunny’s Liquor—or claimed to be anyway. They’d have their confirmation from the DA’s office soon. More interestingly, he had a theory as to what had happened.

  “It was a setup, fools.”

  Campos looked up from his notepad with eyes full of bad intent. “Excuse me?”

  Yi looked down. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to call you guys fools.”

  “Yeah,” Campos murmured. “I figured.”

  Parker began digging. “So why do you think it was a setup?”

  “That little creeper from Vatos? Are you kidding me? He didn’t stand a chance. That old man, that store, they were high earning for us.”

  Campos shot a surprised look at Parker, then looked back to Yi. “High earning?”

  Yi shrugged. “Man. I shouldn’t even be talking to you guys.”

  “Yet here you are,” Parker countered.

  Yi puffed out his chest. “Yeah.”

  “So, why are you?” Campos said softly. It was normally a stupid question to ask, because you didn’t want to make your suspect doubt their cooperating ways, but Campos had been on the job a long time, so Parker was curious to see where it went.

  “I dunno,” Yi said, shrugging defiantly.

  “They sold you out, didn’t they?” Campos pressed.

  Silence. Yi glanced across the yard to where his pit bull was sitting by a loosely coiled garden hose, as he had commanded it to moments ago, evidently unhappy at the order by the sound of its persistent low growl. When Yi finally spoke again it was one word, but it opened up a huge door. “Yeah.”

  Campos barged right in. “How?”

  “I done time for the last bullshit call. It wasn’t my turn again.”

  “So, you didn’t do the job?”

  “Hell no, man. I wasn’t the one with the drugs at the club that night. Jin was. I was just steering the customers his way, at the bar. Then? He walks up and passes them off to me, saying he has to use the can. Yeah. Right. It was just as the cops showed up, your vice boys. Does he tell me? No. He sets me up and then disappears stage left with the cash. That’s a jacked move. But ’cause he’s dating Mondo’s sister, he gets a pass. Make matters worse, no matter who did the job?”

  “I take it Mondo is the leader of your crew?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay.”

  “So…it was Jin’s turn to take the hit, anyway.”

  “Double dogged,” Campos said with a nod.

  “Damn straight.” Yi’s cheeks were pockmarked, no doubt from teen years that were ruthless with acne. His eyes, which were flat black, flashed with frustration.

  Campos was silent a second longer than one would expect. It was Parker’s cue to take a turn, and he knew just how he wanted to do it. No need to corral a horse that you wanted to run free, so Parker went with an open-ended question. “So . . . what then?�
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  “So, they tell me that’s just how it works. But my mom, she’s got emphysema—”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Yeah. Whatever. Anyway. She’s sick, man. My grandmother moved in to help. I got my sister and me, we’re trying to keep all the bills paid and shit. I go in and do time, maybe my mom’s house gets foreclosed and shit, ya know?”

  “And?”

  “They tell me ‘them’s the breaks.’ Make up some shit about how I ain’t been earning my cut lately, when everyone knows I have. Whatever. Everyone knew it was just because Jin was dating the boss’ sister, but oh well!”

  A green Nissan rolled down the street, rap music bumping out from behind darkly tinted windows. Yi gave it a hard look before evidently finding it to be no threat whatsoever. He continued, “Anyway. In the hole I go. My sister’s gotta drop outta UC Riverside and get two and a half jobs, man, you hear me?”

  His new pal, Campos, sympathized immediately. “That’s messed up, man.”

  Yi nodded vigorously. “Yeah. It is. She’s super smart, man. She can get the grades to get her and my mom outta here, ya know? Instead she’s workin’ shifts at Kentucky Fried Chicken and Ling’s Market most of the week, then at the Mobil Mart on weekends.”

  Parker noticed how Yi was getting more animated, his frustrations stenciled on his face. He folded his arms across his chest before adding, “But she had no choice. My mom loses her house, she loses everything.”

  Parker nodded. Campos nodded. The pit bull growled. Down the street someone was lying on a car horn in frustration.

  “So, while I’m in, do you think my . . . crew . . . did shit to help them? Nope. Nothing. Top Ramen up in this house almost every meal, man.” Yi bounced a looked between them both. “Being a white boy and a Mexican, you guys got no idea how much eating Top Ramen sucks to an Asian, ya know?” He glared at Campos. “That’s kinda like you eating Taco Bell every, single day, man.”

  Parker suppressed a laugh, but barely.

  Campos stayed on point and brought it around full circle before a full-blown bitch session could begin. “And now?”