I placed my order, then scanned the room’s patrons, slowly—one at a time—while Chago glanced at the menu.
“So, who’s the biggest threat in the room, Rev?”
“The gangbanger on the aisle facing us in the last booth. His jitters and inability to focus makes me think he’s a druggie. The tats on his neck and hands have ‘prison’ written all over him. Guys like him erupt easily if anyone pushes them.” I paused for a moment. “On second thought, the most dangerous man in the room might be you, Sarge.”
Chago’s phone buzzed. He read the text aloud. “Over the weekend, a twenty-eight-year-old woman was beaten to death in town. The medical examiner estimated the time of death occurred Saturday evening. The body wasn’t discovered until Sunday afternoon. Here’s what we got.”
Chago handed me the phone. I inspected two images of a crumpled, young woman in a pink bathrobe at the base of a broken wall mirror, her face puffy and bruised, her neck slit. Sticky blood spatters had landed everywhere.
“Who does heartless shit like this, Chago?”
“Happens more often than you’d think.”
Without thinking, I stared at the young woman’s death mask. My eyes watered as I recognized my ex-girlfriend, Vero.
“Can you forward me these photos? I liked to study crime-related photos when on active duty with Special Ops. We never knew what we might learn. Rod Stewart said it best, ‘Every picture tells…a story, don’t it?’” Chago finished the line. He took my cell phone and transmitted the photos from his. “What else would you like to know?”
I cracked my neck and exhaled. “Do you believe history repeats itself, Sarge?”
“I do. Your point is…?”
“Years ago, I had a professor who brought history alive for me when he talked about ‘strands of time.’”
Chago looked bewildered. “What’re you talking about?”
“He told the class to visualize a thick rope, the kind used to secure a boat to a landing. The rope had many strands, and each one disappeared as it braided along the unseen side of the rope, then reappeared again. The process was repeated again and again, from one end of the rope to the other.”
Chago raised an eyebrow.
“He told us to imagine that rope represented ‘history,’ and its strands were made of time. If we don’t learn from our mistakes over time, they’ll come back to haunt us later, maybe in a different shape or circumstance.”
“Chago, I been holding out on you. I just completed LAPD’s training, and they want to hire me, but I grew up in town here, and I wanted to do a ride-along with you before I made up my mind who to sign with. I have a lot at stake. There’s loose ends I have to tie up this morning, so I’m asking for a big favor. I’m asking you to believe in me, even though we’ve just met.”
Chago’s eyes bored into mine. He deliberated for a long moment, then spoke his truth: “Rev, ten years ago somebody asked me to believe in him, and I played it by the book. That didn’t work out well. Then five years ago, I worked with a high school senior who had feet in two worlds, each straddling the line of the law—one heavy into graffiti and gang vendettas, the other into a career in law enforcement. I went with my gut for that kid when he needed me. Today he’s a first-year LAPD officer doing a great job.”
Chago stroked his moustache, then resumed our conversation, “And now here you are. I don’t know your story, but my gut tells me it’s worth hearing what you got to say. Our conversation won’t go beyond this booth.”
“Thanks, Chago. I won’t let you down.”
“One condition, rook—I call you, or you call me regularly. I can cover for you for a while, but it’s serious shit if you go off the radar. Do you understand?”
“I do, Sarge. You have my word.”
“Okay, let’s box our food, and I’ll drop you at your car.”
Saturday, two days earlier, three p.m., Montebello Chevrolet, Whittier Boulevard
I hadn’t seen her in a decade until we met at the ten-year Bell Gardens High reunion a week ago at the Rio Hondo Country Club. I wasn’t sure why I had attended the event until I saw Veronica. She’d thrown a drink in the face of a vaguely familiar muscle-bound guy who had gangbanger written all over him. My buddy Zeke told me the guy, known as “Boxer,” used to date Vero until she got tired of his bullshit. Boxer glared in our direction before management asked him to leave.
That was my cue to reconnect with my old flame. We’d been close the last half of our senior year. I abruptly ended it when I left for boot camp two days after graduation. Vero was hurt and angry because I excluded her from the conversation. We couldn’t patch things up, and we drifted apart and moved on.
Ten years had passed, and the girl I knew then was a woman now. Seeing her re-lit a spark I thought had died. I didn’t know where things would go, but deep down I longed for a second chance. Vero and I exchanged emails and texts the whole next week, intent on getting together.
We arranged to meet at the Chevy dealership where her new black Silverado truck was in for a tune-up, ready for pickup by seven p.m. A strange place for a first “re-connect,” but I couldn’t complain.
I drove up at three. Standing in front of the Chevrolet of Montebello dealership, Vero wore a Hot Pink lace up jumpsuit, and I do mean hot. Her black After Hours heels accented her well-turned ankles; her long, streaked blonde hair spilled over a shoulder, almost reaching her waist; Burberry sunglasses, Blue Nile gold looped earrings, and a stunning gold Irish claddagh pendant on her neck rounded out a beautiful young woman in prime time.
Vero stuck out her thumb like a hitchhiker. “Going my way, cowboy? I need a good ride.”
“What’d you have in mind, señorita?”
“Give me a ride, homeboy, to my empty crib. It’s an offer you shouldn’t refuse.”
“Hop in, chica.”
Vero slid across the seat next to me. She had curves in places where most girls don’t have places. “Glad you don’t have bucket seats, baby. I hate climbing over those.”
On the ride to her apartment, her left hand found my inner thigh, and my throat went dry. Vero pushed her chichis grandes forward as her hand moved slowly in the opposite direction. I saw hardened nipples tautly pushing against her hot pink jumpsuit.
The lines from Roy Hamilton’s oldie lilted out of my ’66 Chevy Impala’s radio—“Ooh wee…this feeling’s killing me/ Ah shucks, I won’t stop for a million bucks…” Oldies music still creates a musical identity for many Chicanos in southern California. We both laughed at the timing of the song lyrics.
She bragged, “Once upon a time, my street had eight gangs within a block’s radius of my address. It’s better now, but still a tough neighborhood. We’re almost there. It’s time you see my pad.”
She pointed out her big apartment building on the right as we turned onto Quinn. I drove past her building and the large house next door shielded by two huge trees out front and continued another fifty yards further down the street, pulling over next to an empty parking lot.
Vero’s eyes widened. “Why you parking way down here?”
“Good exercise.” I’d learned a long time ago to: Never park directly in front of where you’ll be. Make anyone looking for your car have to guess where you are. Contingency plans are useful in varrios or ghettoes.
Vero shrugged and slid out of the seat, right behind me. Out of habit, I scanned the neighborhood as we walked to her building. Kids played tag across the street, gardeners joked with each other as they clipped bushes at a neighbor’s big, red-tiled property, and several women chatted and laughed together at the far end of Vero’s apartment complex in front of a door marked Laundry.
“Follow me,” Vero purred as she hip-switched up a flaking metal staircase.
“Whatever you say, bonita.”
Vero’s keys unlocked a deadbolt, then a regular lock to open apartment 4B. Once inside, she secured both locks.
“Can’t be too careful, Rev. Lots of bre
ak-ins around here.”
Her apartment was as quiet as an old shoe and just as smelly.
“Okay if I open a window?” as I moved toward one across the living room. “It’s stuffy in here.”
“No problem. Gotta check messages. Be right back.”
I opened a window in the living room and noticed a fire escape ladder six feet away, half the distance to her neighbor’s apartment. It reminded me of people in Mosul who didn’t get out of death traps like this when there was a fire.
I turned around, and Vero was there, putting arms around my waist and pulling me into her. She offered me her neck, which I gladly accepted. She moaned.
“Is someone coming home?”
“Not till six. Are you here to talk about my roomie or enjoy me?”
“Want to tell me about that big crack in the wall near the TV?”
“Compliments of my roommate, Lupe. Her street name’s Loca, because she goes crazy when she’s mad. And she’s mad a lot of the time. Lupe’s a big, tough chick with quick temper who loves to fight. Easy to see why she was in a gang for a long time.”
“Has she threatened you?”
“Oh, yeah. She threw a vase at me two days ago and missed. I still owe her two months’ rent, and she accused me of trying to steal her boyfriend. She’s coming home tonight from her folks in Moreno Valley. I definitely ain’t gonna be here when she shows up.”
“She makes a big deal about money you owe her, Vero. Does she work?”
“Lupe’s a very good tattoo artist. I know she does okay if she’s not tweaking.”
Vero had misted a light perfume across her shoulders and the back of her neck while in the other room. I tugged down a strap from her sexy jumpsuit. She fought me off, mischief in her eyes. “You’re a bad boy!”
We traded tongues, then I returned to her neck, not pulling my face away until she moaned.
Out of the blue, Vero asked, “Hey, talking about bad boys, did you see the guy at the reunion I threw a drink at?”
A silent alarm went off inside me. “Why do you ask, chica?”
She knew she’d pushed too far too soon. Her tongue flickered in my ear, but I made her stop.
“Yeah, I recognized that asshole. My friends in high school didn’t like him or his gang. We used to do some graffiti—you knew that—but hell, who didn’t around here?” I said as I kissed her. “Are we done talking?”
Vero took my hand and pulled me toward her bedroom. “Get comfortable. I wanna take a quick bath. I feel grungy. It won’t take long. You wait here.” She pushed me into her bedroom and closed the door.
Two minutes later, bath water sounds came from somewhere down the hall. I got hungry and crossed the living room into the little kitchen where I treated myself to a handful of Raisin Bran.
Scanning the room for nothing in particular, I noticed the front door was ajar. “How’d that happen?” I asked myself as I re-locked it.
Three car doors creaked open outside. My combat instincts kicked in. I peered through the kitchen blinds to see three cholos piling out of a shiny black Camaro.
The driver, tall and skinny, wore dark brown chinos and looked familiar. “Hell, that’s Ces, a cabrón from the old days. The backseat guy’s Eighteenth Street, too.”
A stocky guy with arms like Popeye’s emerged from the shotgun seat and slammed his door hard. Boxer!
I pulled on my T-shirt and moved across the living room to the open window. Looking both ways—my lucky day—nobody in sight. I gauged in my head it was a twenty foot drop straight down to the cement courtyard below. Bad option for a jump.
Vero hurried into the room in her bathrobe, clutching at my arm. I jerked it away. Tears in her eyes, she whispered, “Sorry, I’m so sorry, Rev. Boxer said I’d only attract guys with my body once he got done with my face if I didn’t call him. I had to make the call.” She looked at me wild-eyed. “My looks are all I got, Rev. Please go.” Vero sobbed as she retreated to the bathroom.
I saw a little piece of chalk on Vero’s “Reminders” board and crushed it in my hands. Footsteps pounded down the corridor. Hard knocking began on her front door.
I talk to myself when stressed. “Keep hands dry so I won’t slip.” I climbed out the window, slowly reversing my body to face the building’s exterior. With great care, I put my feet together onto the slanted little sill. Then, I straightened up slowly, holding the window’s frame with my right hand. I started moving to my left two inches at a time, first with the left foot, then with the right.
The pounding outside the apartment’s door increased while someone pushed the doorbell buzzer non-stop, but I only concentrated on the window ledge. I heard muffled footsteps inside the apartment as I leapt for the fire escape ladder. I missed the building’s façade and gripped the ladder forcefully when my hands made contact. My adrenaline was off the charts. I decided to go up instead of down, reaching the roof seconds later.
I hotfooted it along the flat roof of the long building, away from the pounding of fists on wood and raised voices. The red-tiled roof of the large home next door presented a tough drop onto a nasty slant, so I kept moving along the roofline. Ten seconds later, the sloped tiled roof ended, and a flat, gray-shingled rooftop began, only six feet below where I stood.
No-brainer. I swung over the side, landing on the rooftop below and zipped across that roof at an angle to another rooftop only four feet below. Reminding myself to stay focused, stay agile, I sprang onto the new rooftop.
From one corner of the little rooftop, I spotted the rear end of a flatbed El Camino pickup truck protruding from a garage below. All that remained in my way out of this jam was a driveway beyond.
I hollered “Banzai” like I had in the days when I jumped out of planes over enemy territory. I leapt, feet wide apart, only eight feet down onto the middle of the pickup’s cargo bed, kangarooed off onto the driveway, and executed a forward roll as soon as my feet struck pavement. I imagined gymnastic judges holding up nines and tens on their cards for my acrobatics before I ran out the driveway leading to the street.
Somebody yelled from behind, “Hey, what you think you’re doing, punk?”
I didn’t bother to look back as I sprinted for my car. I imagined the shit Vero heard from her ex-boyfriend as I raced away. Then, I remembered the unlocked door…
Bell Gardens, Monday mid-morning
I drove to the murder scene, Vero’s apartment building. Once parked, I looked at the selfies I had taken of Vero and me when she bought cigarettes at a liquor store on the way to her pad. We looked so happy. Then, I stared at the transmitted photos of her dead body. I stared at them and noticed something odd—no Irish pendant was visible on Vero’s body.
I noticed yellow crime scene tape as I walked into the courtyard of her apartment building. The tenant mailbox listed “V. Lopez/L. Ortega” on the label for 4B. I took a pic with my cell phone, then pressed the mailbox button for the manager, “M Avakian.” I got an answering machine. I left my number and a message, “This is Officer Revenir. I have some questions. Call me. It’s important.”
Two middle school boys peered at me through a crack in a door of a nearby unit. “Hey, guys, why aren’t you at school?”
“It’s Teacher Workshop Day,” they said in unison. “No classes in the district today. Pretty cool, huh?” They opened the door a little more.
“You guys live here? I need some information.”
“How much you got?”
We settled on twenty bucks.
They told me Saturday afternoon they saw Vero, looking hot, with a new guy. I breathed easier they hadn’t recognized me.
One boy said, “Three gangbangers came around her place at four o’clock and made a lot of noise trying to get in. We heard lots of yelling, and things breaking. Then, they left. Lupe, the big mean chick who lives there, too, showed up around five or six. She drove off but came back later that night. She took boxes and boxes of stuff out to Vero’s Silverado.”
“Anyone else go up there, chavalitos?”
“The landlady came Sunday afternoon to collect the rent. When no one answered, she went inside. Everybody heard her scream, and she called the cops.”
We fist-bumped, and I laid a twenty on them. The budding entrepreneurs high-fived each other and ran off.
I called the Chevrolet agency on Whittier Boulevard. After identifying myself to the manager, I asked if Veronica Lopez had collected her truck.
The manager said, “Her sister Lupe picked it up for her.”
“When?”
“Saturday, before closing.”
“Did she pay for the work with a credit card?”
“Let me look it up.” A minute later, he came back on line. “Nope. She paid two hundred twenty-three dollars in cash. Is everything okay, Officer?”
“Yes, sir, just checking out a lead. Thanks for the help.”
My cell buzzed. It was the manager of Vero’s apartment returning my call. I listened to her complain that Vero died inside the apartment, and Lupe left, stiffing her and her husband two months back rent.”
“Mrs. Avakian, we’d like to help you get your rent money, but I need Lupe’s contact information in order to do it. Do you have a phone number for her family in Moreno Valley?”
She did. I scribbled the number down.
I needed to find Boxer and Lupe, confront them, and get the truth. My resources had run dry, except one. I’d be taking a chance of losing a career, and perhaps losing my freedom. Keep my yap shut, and I might walk away scot-free.
Back at the car, I wolfed down my boxed-up breakfast. Then, I punched in the numbers for Chago’s cell. “It’s Rev. I need your help.”
“What is it, rook?”
“I need an address for a gang guy in town, street name Boxer. It’s a part of my past I’m trying to clear up, and it’s urgent. I’m asking you again to trust me. I got a lot on the line.”
Fatally Haunted Page 15
