The Parker Trilogy Read online

  It was this moment that ushered him back to the waking world, his heart aching from what she’d done to him. He knew it was normal to get all tripped out over a bitch and feel like it was the end of the world. This wasn’t his first time on the bullshit “carousel of love.”

  The ride came cheap in the hood and everyone knew it, but like anywhere else in the world they accepted it as an inconvenient truth until they found the real thing. Truth was, be it in East LA or in Paris? Most people didn’t find real love. But Hector had. With Marisol, he had. There was something about her, all the details of her that never stopped adding up, that changed him. That made him want to get out of this life. Have a family. Shit, be a UPS driver or a manager at Target making pennies compared to what he made now. It didn’t matter.

  She stripped the world of all the fakery and made it all happiness.

  Rubbing his forehead, he sat up. It was dark outside, but the chorus of voices and laughter told him that the crowd out there had grown. They’d let him sleep. He wished he never woke up.

  “Jefe?” It was Chico, his shaved head appearing in the doorway, reflecting the lights outside.

  Hector cleared his throat. “Yo.”

  “We thinkin’ maybe we should head out soon. Maybe Lucia’s or The Pit?”

  “On a Tuesday?”

  Silence for a moment. Then, “Yeah. You’re right. You wanna just chill here, order some pizzas and pop some bottles?”

  “No,” Hector said, shaking his head and wincing at the pain it caused in his eyeballs. “Might get too rowdy. Call attention to the shop and shit. You know that.”

  “Yeah. Yer right.”

  “I saw earlier that it’s Salsa Night at The Mayan, right?”

  This time the silence held. Chico just bobbed his chin.

  “We could change up, head down there for a bit—”

  “Jefe?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You just got out, man.”

  “And?”

  “You go in again, this time you go in longer even . . . I dunno, man.”

  “Shit happens.”

  “Yeah, but . . .” He was bobbing his chin harder now, like a kid afraid of angering a parent but still trying to force the words past his lips.

  “Spit it out.”

  Chico’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Burro’s been pushin’, man.”

  There it was. Hadn’t he just been wondering about this? Hector could swear he had ESP or some shit, but he really knew better. Life on the edge meant thinking the worst nine times out of ten, which meant you were right most of the time anyway.

  “Pushing? How?”

  “Just talking shit. The whole time you were in. About Hymie at first. Then, he found out about Marisol and that puto bouncer before anyone else did. Started spreadin’ rumors that she was sleeping around with other guys too.”

  No rage. Not even a blip of anger. Just exhaustion. “Got it.”

  “So? What now?”

  Hector imagined everyone going to The Mayan and finding that the bouncer, this David Fonseca guy, wasn’t working. Then he’d look like a fool and have everyone skulk back to their cars or, even worse, have a drink in the place where Marisol’s lover worked. Chico had the right idea. “Okay. Let’s just chill out here, then head to Rosa’s.”

  Chico’s sigh of relief was barely audible, but it was long.

  Yawning, Hector stood. “Gonna take a long-ass shower now. Let’s bounce in an hour.”

  “I’ll let everyone know.”

  At the back of the shop was a three-quarter bath with a fiberglass shower that had a hole in the bottom, allowing water to drain into the dirt below the building. After turning on the water and balancing the knobs to get the right temperature, Hector stripped and got in, closing the cheap shower door behind him and feeling his skin jump in relief beneath the spray. A quarter bar of Lava soap, looking ancient, was adhered to a ledge.

  He was prying it loose when he felt him nearby. He didn’t want to look, so he buried his face beneath the shower head, feeling the water push against his eyelids and loosen the tension in his jaw. As the hot water spilled down his neck, his shoulders relaxed. Maybe, just maybe, if he didn’t look, the little bastard would go away.

  But it was no good. After a few minutes of trying to pretend, Hector looked at the shower door and saw him there, on the other side, short and stout, his image warped by the frosted glass, his red eyes visible through the steam like tiny laser dots.

  “What the hell you want?” Hector said aloud.

  The Smiling Midget didn’t say a word. The water kept running, rolling around the drain clockwise, reminding Hector of what one of the guys on the inside had told him, about how the water went down the drain counter-clockwise in Australia, and how Hector had told him that he was an idiot, only to look it up later in the prison library to find out that it was true, proving once again that the world was just full of weird shit.

  Like me? The Smiling Midget said inside Hector’s mind.

  “Leave me alone.”

  Why?

  “Because I’m out now. I don’t need you anymore.”

  The Smiling Midget laughed like he always did: in a tight, mocking wheeze. Oh, really?

  “I mean it.”

  No, you don’t.

  Hector put his head back under the water, trying to drown out his voice, but it was no use.

  One dude is bangin’ your girl. Now another dude is trying to take your crew.

  The Smiling Midget kept talking and what he said next was the simple truth.

  Hector, my boy, you need me now more than ever.

  Chapter Nine

  They made their way into Phillipe’s and waited in one of the long lines of people queued up at separate registers at the counter. The staff barked orders for dips, sides and drinks to one another, each cashier taking care not to handle food and money in the same hand as trays were assembled with various dishes ordered à la carte. When their turn finally arrived, a short old man behind the counter in a stained apron shouted a hello to Campos and got one back in return.

  After their order was filled, they paid and found a few seats at the end of a long table nearby.

  “So why do you think he did it?” Campos asked as he spread copious amounts of spicy mustard on his French dip sandwich.

  “Who?” Parker asked.

  Campos threw his tie up over his shoulder so he could lean over his plate. “Hector. If it’s true, why do you think he threw his cousin to the wolves like that?” Then he took a large bite of his sandwich and commenced chewing.

  Parker took a bite of his own sandwich while he thought about it for a minute, then answered, “I’m guessing it’s like Yi said, right? To prevent a gang war from breaking out?”

  “Hmm,” Campos mumbled with a few nods. He rubbed his hand over his clean-shaven face, which was naturally tan, and then motioned for Parker to try again.

  The air was full of low mumbling and loud talk, the clink of diner-style plastic plates and metal silverware clicking against each other as the restaurant went from nearly full to overflowing.

  “I’m thinking that’s the best guess right now, but if you insist on a second one? They had a beef of some kind?”

  “Sonnanitch,” Campos said, his dark eyes going wide with surprise and beginning to water.

  Parker didn’t think that either of his guesses merited such a response. “What?”

  “Damn . . . mustard, man,” Campos squeaked out. “I do it to myself every time.”

  “What? You think that shit’s like Tapatío or something?”

  Campos coughed. “Man. I drink Tapatío straight outta the bottle. This a different kinda pain.”

  “Well, wipe some of it off.”

  Instead, Campos stubbornly took another bite. “No.” He coughed. Then he cleared his throat. “Matter of principle now.”

  Shaking his head, Parker returned to his own sandwich, which had a good smear of the hot mustard itself, though not the cake-icing-lev
el that Campos had gone with.

  A heavyset woman walked by with two friends, all of them in business attire and balancing their trays as they looked for somewhere to sit. Campos had taken off his suit jacket, exposing his gun and shoulder holster. One of the women, tall with long brown hair, noticed the gun, then looked up to see Parker noticing her noticing the gun. She looked away nervously.

  Their conversation was evidently on hold as Campos engaged in mortal combat with his sandwich. One swig of soda for every two bites. Occasionally he mixed in a few of his chips or a bite of potato salad, but mostly he stayed the course. By the time he was done, beads of sweat had formed on his forehead. When he spoke next it was with a tortured throat. “Right. The beef. Cousins have them. But to kill him?”

  “If it’s true? Yeah. That’s pretty rough.”

  “We got Tic Toc in play. Might as well go speak to Hector as well. See how he answers things.”

  Parked nodded. He’d overdone it while lifting at the gym the day before and his chest felt tight. Seemed like he was always overdoing it at the gym these days, all in an effort to get out the . . . anger . . . inside of him, and the restlessness that never seemed to cease, both of which had really affected his sleep. “Yeah. Eventually we’re gonna have to take the full tour too. Getting to Jin should be easy, but Mondo might be tougher.”

  “I know Nap had pretty much just started your training, and we both know that the cap wants me to continue it, so here goes. Any investigation we do?”

  “Yeah?”

  “We start with the longest thread first, because its already loose and it’s the easiest to pull. Got it?”

  Parker nodded and sipped his Dr Pepper.

  “Like I was saying on the way here, I could be wrong but Mondo’s gonna lawyer up right away. If not, then we get lucky and he’s just stupid. Jin is fifty-fifty. He may be high enough up to be in the know. Remember: just like we train our people? They train their people. Jin might zip it and ask for an attorney the minute we ask him to come in for an interview, much less take him into custody.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “So, the little guys like Yi? Who’s a grunt? And this Tic Toc guy? They’re always our best shot. We work our way from the bottom up, ’cause the guys at the bottom are there for a reason. Namely, they ain’t that bright. Our best chance of catching the elevator is on the ground floor.”

  “Yeah. But Yi didn’t seem to be all that dumb.”

  Campos nodded as he looked around the restaurant, just as Parker had done a moment before. You never rested entirely in public as a cop; you always expected trouble to follow you, even when you gave it an hour off while you tried to grab a meal. “No. Yi wasn’t dumb, but he wasn’t smart, either. He was something even better than that—at least for our purposes: he was bitter.”

  “Okay? So?”

  “So, we pulled that thread and got a whole bunch more: Mondo, Jin, this Tic Toc fool and Hector. But of those four? Only one is isolated.”

  “Hmm.”

  “And he happens to be the one facing the most serious charge. Campos wiped his mouth with his napkin and looked hard at Parker. “Murder.”

  “Yeah. The store . . .”

  “Is harder to prove, with lots of moving parts. Dollars to donuts, though? We’ll end up sweeping the old man’s wife into jail with the gang members her husband worked with for all those years—”

  Parker looked at him, a bit surprised.

  “Yep. Especially if she’s still letting it go on.”

  “That would suck.”

  “Maybe. If they were as clean as we’re both assuming they are. As in: leaned on heavily and too scared to say no to the gang from day one. I’m guessing that’s how her attorney will argue it. But my guess is that the store deposits, or personal deposits, will be off somehow with their tax returns. They’re Asian, though. They mighta hidden the cash under their mattress or some shit.”

  “Gee. That’s not racist at all.”

  “You trying to tell me you don’t have a natural set of assumptions about people that aren’t politically correct?” Campos said with a chuckle and a shrug.

  “Well . . .”

  “Then please tell me why you’ve now glanced a good half-dozen times at the Arab dude in the raincoat over by the door.”

  Parker was silent for a moment. “Could be Indian.”

  “Could be a lotta things. Just like the old Asian couple could be innocent, deep down, but the DA won’t dig that deep if he or she don’t have to. Collusion. Trafficking. Distribution. Possession. Tax evasion. Granny will get swept up with the rest of them, and you and I get to live with that for the rest of our lives.”

  “Well. Hey. We don’t know for sure that she’s not as crooked as—”

  “True story. But even if she was? I dunno. It was punishment enough don’t ya think, seeing her husband blown to pieces like that, at her age?”

  They both stayed silent as that thought lingered in the air like a ghost.

  “So,” Parker said, “Hector?”

  “Our boy Hector is the man in the middle.”

  Parker polished off his own potato salad. “Between the Asian Soldiers and La Marea?”

  “Yep. He’s got a crew member chasing a skirt in another gang—a problem in its own right—but also willing to sell out his own crew? That’s a line you don’t cross. Ever. Especially when the way you’re planning on doing it could cause a huge war.”

  “The drugs disappear, then La Marea comes after Hector’s crew . . .”

  “As big as La Marea is? They come after the whole gang, not just Hector’s crew.”

  “So, Hector’s pinched.” Parker heard the firm confidence in his voice now that he’d figured it out.

  Campos nodded. “Go on.”

  “He can’t win for losing. He has to deal with Hymie to stop La Marea from coming after him, and, if word gets out, from stopping people higher up in his own gang from coming after him.”

  “Órale, Parker! You got it.”

  The patrons came and went to the hustle and bustle sound of a lunch hour that ran three hours long at Phillipe’s. Outside, the gray skies had given up trying to hold back the rain and it let loose in sideway sheets against the windows, proving the Arab kid in the raincoat was smart. That same coat was unzipped now, revealing—to Parker’s shame—a Red Hot Chili Peppers t-shirt and nothing else.

  “So?”

  “So, that’s gotta hurt. Blood is blood, Parker. Hymie was his cousin. Familia. I’m guessing that changes a man, to have to do that to someone you love.”

  Parker grunted. “I get it now: we’re back to bitterness.”

  Campos shrugged and sighed, a look of weariness sweeping over his eyes. “Yep. There might be bitterness everywhere in this one Parker. And we’re just getting started.”

  “Padre?” Luisa said, looking stunned as Father Soltera walked up.

  The boy with her spun around. He was wearing a white t-shirt and dark, baggie jeans that hung beneath his boxer shorts. A thin silver chain hung from the belt loop he obviously wasn’t using and curled down to a brown wallet at the other end, which was jammed into his back pocket. His shaved head was bad enough, but the facial tattoo made it worse. In script letters, he had an “L” curving over one cheek and down to his neck, and an “M” curving over the other. LM: La Marea. The Tide.

  Father Soltera looked away from the boy’s hard, fixed eyes and to Luisa. “Mi hija.”

  Their greetings exchanged, and awkward moment of silence ensued as Luisa used her t-shirt to wipe her cheeks completely dry. “What are you doing here, Father?”

  “I’ve come to speak to you about something.”

  “She’s kinda busy right now,” the boy said curtly, like a big, tough gangster. Still. Father Soltera was surprised. The moms in the neighborhood lost battles with their kids every day, but the one thing they usually managed to instill in them, if nothing else, was a healthy respect for the church.

  So. It’s going to be man-to
-man then. Okay. Father Soltera pivoted from Luisa to the boy. “And you are?”

  “What’s it matter to—”

  “His name is Felix, Padre,” Luisa cut in. Then she shot the boy a hard look. “Have some respect.”

  Felix tucked his thumbs into his jean pockets and leaned back a bit before he chuckled softly. “Yeah. Okay. Sorry . . . Father.”

  Father Soltera looked back to Luisa. “Is this . . . ?”

  She nodded softly.

  “Is your mother home?”

  She shook her head.

  “Is there any way I can help?”

  She shook her head again, but this time, perhaps subconsciously, perhaps not, she rubbed at the inside of her left arm: there was a bruise there. Two, actually. Father Soltera stiffened.

  He looked back to Felix. “I think the three of us should talk.”

  Felix shook his head. “She just told you—”

  “I’m not really sure she’s answering me truthfully.”

  Felix spread his arms wide and looked to the sky. “Madre mia!”

  “We can go inside and—”

  “You wanna talk, Father?” Felix said, arrogantly bobbing his chin. “Let’s do it right here.”

  “I don’t think that—”

  “I was just telling this bitch that she needs to get a damned abortion, okay?”

  “Felix!” Luisa hissed, obviously appalled at the way he’d spoken.

  For the first time since arriving, Father Soltera really took a moment to study the boy. First off, he wasn’t really a boy. Probably twenty-one or so, and his face had the same flat gangster look they all had: heavy frown, stiff chin. But there was something different about him. Not different like Guero Martinez, he didn’t emanate pure evil; instead he seemed to be like someone who was just plain dead inside. His eyes had now narrowed in defiance, which only made him seem more dangerous.

  “Okay, son. I think you should leave.”

  The air between him and Felix stilled as Luisa’s eyes shot back and forth between the two of them.