by Dave Daren
The biker pulled hard on the handle, drawing Tony forward. Tony tried to stop his forward momentum and ended up falling to his knees, mere inches from the biker. The biker’s hand snaked forward, heading straight for Tony’s chest. Tony barely had time to register what he was seeing though Muriel let out a scream. I surged forward, grabbing Tony with one hand and punching with the other.
My fist found the biker’s left cheek, snapping his head back with a pleasing crunch. I saw blood and I thought I might have broken the nose as well, but then I realized the blood wasn’t coming from the biker. Tony had been slashed across his chest but the knife hadn’t gone in deep enough to do any serious damage.
“Take cover,” I yelled at the kid as I tried to push him out of the way.
Tony was frozen for a few seconds, staring at the blood that darkened his t-shirt, but he moved quickly enough when the biker growled. Tony scrambled backwards as I turned my focus on the biker.
He was back in a low crouch, his knife gripped in his right hand. He felt along his cheekbone with his left hand and then spat at me.
“Fucking gringo,” the man grumbled.
“Leave,” I told him. As much as I wanted to find out what this guy knew, a crowded restaurant wasn’t the best place for a ‘discussion’. “Before the cops get here.”
“Fucking pigs,” the man laughed. “What do I care if I get arrested? Besides, I’m just defending myself. You attacked me.”
“No one will believe that,” someone behind me called out.
“Don’t matter,” the man replied. “I’ll be out again before the end of the day.”
“I don’t know why you’re here,” I snapped, “and I don’t care. Just leave.”
“You should care,” the biker hissed. “You think we’re the only ones that fucking puto tried to screw over?”
“Who the hell are you talking about?” I demanded though it was clear that he was referring to Burke.
“Ask that whore wife of his what he did with the money,” the biker persisted. “You know who I mean. That Gloria bitch. We get our money back, and maybe we’ll let the gringa live.”
“There’s no money,” I insisted. “If Burke did steal from you, no one knows where he hid it.”
“Too bad for the gringa and that pretty daughter,” the man leered. “‘Cause that’s the only way they get out of this alive.”
“Why don’t you tell your boss to give me a call,” I suggested. “Maybe we can figure something out.”
“Ain’t nothing to figure,” the man replied as he made a couple of feints with his knife. “All we want is the money.”
“Then let me talk to your boss,” I insisted. “Leave now and let him know I’m willing to make a deal that helps us both.”
For a moment, I thought the moron was actually going to use his brain cells and listen to me. He risked a glance at the people gathered behind me and then growled, low and deep like an angry dog. With surprising speed, he was on his feet and swinging the knife like it was a sword. I was suddenly on the defensive, dodging and ducking his knife.
In the tight space of the burrito joint, swinging any weapon was a tall order. It left him with almost no place to go, except for the exit, and I wasn’t above giving him a helping hand out the door. When he lost his patience and tried to charge me, I slipped sideways to avoid the knife and grabbed his arm. I had him locked against my back and his arm with the knife wrapped under my own arm. One snap of the wrist and the KA-BAR fell to the ground.
The biker wasn’t done yet. He kicked me hard in the shin and followed that with a swift head butt to the back of my head. I swiveled again, and dropped to my knees, bringing him over my shoulder as I did so with the wrist I still held in my hand. The biker slammed into one of the wobbly tables, sending food flying in all directions, just before it collapsed under his weight. This time he howled and I drove my fist down hard for another hard hook. Blood splatter joined the mess as his nose finally broke.
The biker kicked wildly, landing a blow near my own injury. I stepped back as pain shot through the arm and the biker scrambled across the floor. He made it to the door and somehow pulled himself to his feet. He stumbled outside, heading for the monster bike I’d spotted earlier. It was tempting to follow, but my arm was killing me and whatever audience we had in the parking lot would only see me attacking him. They wouldn’t know the full story.
They’d also call the police which wasn’t something any of us wanted to deal with, I was sure. Me, because I didn’t feel like going down to the station again and answering more questions about why I was being attacked by yet another gang. The restaurant goers, because there might be a few questions about their own part in this whole business, which might lead to questions about their nationality and immigration status.
The roar of the bike coming to life filled the void of silence, and I watched as the biker peeled out of the parking lot, leaving a nice trail of rubber and more than a few honking horns in his wake. I looked around the restaurant and saw Muriel and another woman cleaning up Tony. The rest of the regular crowd was still standing in place, unsure what to do. The cook finally got them all moving again by yelling out a few orders in Spanish.
The other busboy and one of the middle-aged customers helped Tony to his feet and led him slowly to the parking lot. I watched as they put him in a small hatchback and then pulled into traffic with only slightly fewer horns than the motorcycle. Muriel was sweeping up the debris while one of the men examined the knife the biker had dropped. Others gathered around to look at it, but the cook finally took control of that as well and disappeared into the kitchen with it.
“Sit down,” someone told me in a kind voice.
I looked behind me to see one of the regulars, and an elderly gentleman who didn’t seem to have anywhere else to go, tugging gently on my sleeve.
“Sit down,” he repeated. “Just to catch your breath at least.”
“I’m fine,” I assured him. “Where are they taking Tony?”
“To the free clinic,” the man sighed. “They’ll take care of him there without asking too many questions.”
“That’s good,” I replied.
The rest of the lunch crowd had turned their focus on me, and after a moment’s hesitation, they started to applaud. There were even a few whistles as well, and I soon found myself shaking hands with everybody.
The cook reappeared, with two aguas frescas and a bag that reeked of powdered sugar and cinnamon. I could see the grease already seeping through the paper and my mouth started to water in response.
“Thanks,” I said as I started to reach for my wallet.
“Take it,” the cook insisted. “You earned it after you cleared out yet more of those scum.”
“He’s the reason they come here,” someone griped, but that drew more than a few growls from the crowd.
“Thanks,” I said to the cook as I grabbed the drinks and the bag and ignored the squabble that was threatening to erupt.
The cook was yelling at everyone again before I’d even made it out the door. There were a few grumbles, but most returned to their seats. A few helped Muriel set the tables back in place while someone else set to work on mopping the floor. It all came so naturally to the people gathered there that I had to wonder how many fights had broken out in the place before we’d moved in upstairs.
Chapter 5
I took the stairs more slowly going up and decided that a pain pill was definitely in order. I tried knocking on the door when I arrived but finally had to give up and set the drinks down while I opened the door. Sofia wasn’t at her desk and it took me a moment to find her, standing just to the side of the door with a baseball bat.
“It’s me!” I called out when I saw her take the bat back for a swing.
“Thank goodness,” she replied. “I was afraid there might be more of them.”
“I’m pretty sure he was on his own,” I noted as I glanced at the parking lot. “Chef sent churros for dessert.”
“You got in another fight,” she sighed as she took in my appearance.
“Just a small one,” I assured her. “But now I’m really hungry.”
“Seafood tacos today,” she said as she led the way towards my office, the baseball bat slung jauntily across her shoulder.
I grabbed up the drinks and closed the door to the office with my foot. After a moment of hesitation, I locked the door and followed Sofia into my private office. Sofia was setting out the plates and tacos, which were still steaming despite the delay. I dropped the bag of churros onto the desk and added our aguas frescas to the settings.
“Perfect,” Sofia declared with a nod.
“Wow, that smells good,” I said as I took in a lungful of the steam rising from my share of the tacos.
We both dove into the tacos, which were a heavenly blend of tilapia, avocado, black beans, fresh cilantro, garlic, chili and a creamy jalapeno sauce. Just enough kick to wake me up but not enough to make me regret it later. Washed down with the watermelon water, it was the perfect answer to the smoky, humid day. Not to mention an easy way to swallow the pain pill that I was really starting to need. At least I’d managed to demolish the tacos before I tried to unscrew the cap.
“Do you need to have your arm checked?” Sofia asked as she watched me down one of the pills.
“I think it’s okay,” I replied. “He didn’t open the stitches.”
“You better be sure,” she warned, “or I’ll send my mother to check on you.”
“I’m sure,” I said quickly. “Though a batch of something fried from your mother’s kitchen might help.”
“Uh-huh,” Sofia scoffed as she opened the bag of churros and peered inside. “The cook must really like you. He never puts this many churros in the bag when I order them.”
“I think that’s our thank you gift for clearing out the riff-raff,” I replied.
“Ah,” she noted as she split the churros between us.
“Speaking of the riff-raff,” I continued, “What have you learned about the Chuchos Locos?”
“The Crazy Mutts,” Sofia muttered as she took a bite of a churro. “They’ve been around for some time now. It’s hard to get an exact date on these things, but it looks like they started about ten or twelve years ago. Most of the original members were the remnants of a gang called the Code Five. They were the losers in a turf war, and those who weren’t killed off were arrested. When they got out, they started a new gang instead of joining one of the existing ones. That’s the Chuchos Locos.”
“Charming,” I commented. “I’m sure that story earned them quite a few interesting nicknames with the other gangs.”
“All involving the word loser no doubt,” Sofia agreed. “The Chuchos Locos were pretty small potatoes until their current leader took over. A man called Jabba.”
“You mean like Jabba the Hut?” I asked in surprise.
“Exactly like that,” Sofia replied. “Apparently, he’s really fat. He’s also got a reputation for being a mean son of a bitch. He’s made a lot of money for the Chuchos Locos in dog fights and cock fights. And he likes his gang members to be just as mean. The crueler you are, the more he likes you.”
“That explains the one guy last night,” I mused. “His partner gave the warning and was ready to walk away, but the short one really wanted a fight.”
“Maybe to prove he’s a tough guy,” Sofia added.
“Something like that,” I agreed. “Anything else about them?”
“Not really,” Sofia admitted. “They’ve done a good job of holding onto their turf, despite the fact that they’re not that big. Rumor has it that Jabba has trained some of his dogs to attack and kill humans.”
“Well, people have been attacked and killed by dogs,” I stated.
“But the story I heard was that in the early days, he had one of his rivals kidnapped and brought to his headquarters,” Sofia added. “The guy was tied to a stake, covered with pig’s blood, and then the dogs were turned loose. They tore him to shreds, and pieces were sent to other rival gangs as a warning.”
“Okay, that’s pretty gross,” I conceded.
“Heard some stories about his chickens, too,” Sofia continued.
“Do not tell me that chickens have killed humans,” I said in disbelief.
“Killed, no,” Sofia replied. “But the six-year-old daughter of a member who might or might not have talked to the police was attacked by a mysterious flock of angry cocks. She lost an eye in the attack.”
“How come I don’t remember hearing anything about this on the news?” I protested as I pictured some poor child being attacked by a killer flock of flightless fowl.
“It didn’t get a lot of coverage,” Sofia replied. “That actor was arrested the next day for killing his girlfriend.”
“Still,” I insisted. “There must have been some sort of investigation.”
“The story was that she had stumbled into the room where they trained the birds,” Sofia explained. “The police already knew about that cock fighting operation, thanks to the girl’s father, and the father admitted that he took her there sometimes when her mother had to work late. The girl could barely talk about it, she was so terrified, but the mother said the girl might have gone there on her own looking for her father. Never mind that it would have taken her the whole day to walk there, even if she knew how to get there.”
“So Jabba lost an operation that was already blown and he got to send a signal about what he would do to traitors,” I mused. “How about the girl? Whatever happened to her?”
“She and her mother quietly returned to Mexico,” Sofia said with a shrug. “It was less dangerous than staying here.”
“That’s saying something,” I sighed. “I’m surprised Gloria’s still alive.”
“He wants something and he thinks she can lead him to it,” Sofia suggested.
“He wants money,” I replied. “Or maybe Matthew Burke. Or both. That still doesn’t explain why he didn’t just kidnap her and torture her.”
“Maybe he planned to,” Sofia mused. “But then the FBI turned up.”
“It’s one thing to torture the daughter of a gang member,” I agreed. “But a big step up to go after a middle-class housewife with the FBI on her doorstep.”
“Maybe that’s the real reason she hired you to file the petition again,” Sofia added. “So the FBI will keep hanging around. I mean, they didn’t turn up until she filed the first time and they left her alone when she withdrew.”
“They put in a more public appearance after she requested that the court declare him dead,” I amended, “but they were keeping tabs on everybody before that. Her request seems to have tipped their hand somehow. Maybe you’re right, maybe she is using them to protect herself. But then where’s the money? And what’s the truth about Matthew Burke? And why does Gloria think she needs protection again?”
“There’s all that money in the trust,” Sofia pointed out.
“Yes, but if that was all of it, they could just sit back, wait for him to be declared dead, and then demand their share of the payout,” I replied. “There’s something more going on here.”
“And now the Reyes Dorados have shown up,” Sofia added.
“Damn, what was this man into?” I asked.
The office phone rang and Sofia snatched it up before I had the chance.
“Creed and Associates. How may I direct your call?” Sofia purred into the receiver. After a pause, she added, “I’ll see if he’s available.”
She hit the hold button on the phone and handed me the receiver.
“Albert Pickering,” she said. “Maybe he can answer some of your questions.”
As Sofia started to collect the remains of our lunch, I took a deep breath and answered the phone.
“Mr. Pickering,” I declared. “Have you talked to your lawyer?”
“I have,” Pickering replied. “I really do think a subpoena will be required. Privacy issues, you know?”
“I understand,”
I sighed.
“I do appreciate what you said earlier,” Pickering continued. “But, as you know, we have certain obligations here in the U.S. regarding the privacy of our clients.”
“Yes, I expected as much,” I replied.
“Not like some places,” Pickering added after a moment.
“True,” I agreed, though I wasn’t sure where Pickering was going with this.
“Now, I understand places like Mexico aren’t quite as particular,” Pickering continued.
“I’m not up on current Mexican law on that issue,” I noted.
“Well, let’s just say that hypothetically, if Matthew had clients or even investment accounts in Mexico or even real estate, say for his personal use as well as for clients, I might not be subject to the same restrictions,” Pickering mused.
“And, hypothetically,” I added with a smile, “You might be able to pass that information along.”
“Perhaps,” Pickering agreed. “Though, of course, I still have the reputation of Durango Investments to maintain.”
“Of course,” I assured him.
“Well, I shall have to think about this carefully,” Pickering sighed. “I’ll await your subpoena for those addresses.”
“Thank you, Mr. Pickering,” I said solemnly before I hung up.
“He’s not sending the information,” Sofia guessed as she dusted the last few crumbs from my desk.
“No,” I admitted, “but he did let me know that Matthew had investment accounts and real estate in Mexico, both for his clients and for himself. He may send us more information, depending on whether we can keep any mention of Durango Investments out of our investigation.”
“How could we do that?” Sofia asked.
“Not sure yet,” I mused, “but it gives you a place to start. Maybe see if anyone in your vast network can track down information for us.”
