by Dave Daren
“Creed,” I mumbled into the phone.
“Mr. Creed,” an imperious and high-pitched male voice declared and I nearly groaned out loud as the sound hit my ears. “I am Juan Vittorio Malaga, royal secretary to his highness, Julio Perez.”
“Julio Perez,” I mumbled as I tried to wrap my head around the title royal secretary.
“You have asked for a meeting,” Juan continued, “and his majesty has consented to meet with you today at noon. His majesty has graciously decided that you will dine with him.”
“Dine with him,” I repeated.
“I will send you a text with the address,” the royal secretary continued. “Remember, noon. And I should warn you, his majesty does not like to be kept waiting.”
“Right, noon, got it,” I replied.
The royal secretary hung up then, and I stared at the phone screen for several seconds, trying to decide if that had really been Perez’s royal secretary, or a prank call from one of Sofia’s assorted nieces and nephews. I finally decided it was real, since it was unlikely that the kids knew enough about either Burke or Perez to come up with such a crazy plan. It did make me wonder just how crazy Perez was.
I made it to the office without picking up a tail, and the parking lot was blessedly free of lowriders, motorcycles and loitering gang members. I found Sofia at her desk, though she’d clearly only just arrived. Her computer was still waking up, and her coffee cup was still in her hand.
“How did it go with Jabba?” she asked as soon as she saw me. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m alive and well, and the meeting went about like I expected,” I replied. “He warned me that the hands off approach he’s taken towards Gloria could change if no one finds the money soon, FBI or no FBI.”
“They must be getting desperate then,” she said.
“Either way, Jabba’s counting on Gloria to lead him to Burke and the money,” I explained. “Either because they’re in cahoots or because she really does want to dump him in favor of Geoffrey.”
“Well, at least you didn’t get beat up for your troubles,” she sighed. “I haven’t heard anything from Perez or Aranda.”
“I already spoke to Aranda,” I said. “And I have a lunch appointment with Perez.”
“When did you speak to Aranda?” she asked, suddenly on the alert.
“He was waiting for me in my apartment when I got home last night,” I replied.
“Vince!” she exclaimed as she examined me more closely.
“He just talked,” I assured her. “Well… and planted some coke. At least, I think it was coke. I flushed it down the toilet and got rid of the bag, but I was going to ask if you knew someone who could give my apartment a really thorough cleaning.”
“I know just the person,” she replied. “But what did Aranda say?”
“Much the same as Jabba,” I sighed. “He also offered protection from the other two.”
“Don’t tell me you accepted it,” she cautioned me.
“I didn’t,” I said. “But I didn’t exactly refuse it either. He told me to think about it and let him know. He sent me a number to call when I’ve decided.”
“Vince,” she declared in a dire voice.
“It could be useful if this thing blows up,” I replied.
“We’re not that desperate,” she replied. “We can put together an army of our own if we need to, but we are not going to rely on that scum. You’ll be his pet attorney before you even realize what’s happened.”
“I know,” I assured her. “I promise I won’t take any actions that endanger this firm.”
“I wonder how many young, naïve lawyers have said that before,” she mused.
“All of them,” I told her. “And most of them turn out okay.”
“Most of them,” she snorted. “But you’re not like most of them, Vince.”
“I’ll be careful,” I repeated.
Sofia studied me for a moment and then she frowned.
“Did you see you were having lunch with Perez?” she asked.
“His royal secretary called me this morning and informed me that I had been invited to dine with his majesty,” I replied.
“Oh,” she murmured. “A royal secretary. Wonder how much they get paid.”
“I know, it’s bizarre,” I said with a shake of my head, ignoring the question about the pay. “But this guy hasn’t survived this long without some sense of reality. I’m pretty sure he’ll be just as ruthless as Jabba and Aranda.”
“At least you’ll get a meal out of it,” Sofia pointed out.
“God, I hope it’s not spaghetti and meatballs,” I laughed as I drifted into my own office. Sofia gave me a quizzical look, but the phone rang before I could explain, and then we were deep into the business of the day.
After meeting with two new clients and reaching a settlement on another case, I realized it was time to head to my lunch date if I was going to avoid being late. The address that Malaga had sent straddled the neighborhoods of Walnut Park and Huntington Park, two largely Latino neighborhoods on the other side of the city. It’s a working class area, with a lot of people who live paycheck to paycheck. It’s mostly families, though, so it’s safer than people might think. At least, that’s what I told myself.
I was able to take the interstate most of the way, and finally ended up on local streets when I hit the Slauson Avenue exit, where an overturned semi blocked traffic. Then it was a winding tour through the heart of Latino culture as I made my way towards Florence Avenue.
The address belonged to an old two-story building on the edge of an industrial park. The industrial park was still bright and shiny and had been sold to the locals as a fantastic opportunity to bring new jobs into their neighborhood. The building I was going to, on the other hand, looked tired and dingy and had probably been a part of someone’s brilliant plan to bring more jobs to the area about fifty years ago.
All the windows on the ground floor had been boarded up and the white stucco had been painted over with graffiti which identified this particular building as the property of the Reyes Dorados. Four guys in matching Reyes Dorados jackets lounged on the steps watching everyone who passed by. Most people walked on the other side of the street, and I saw quite a few people suddenly cross over when they neared the block where the Reyes Dorados had their headquarters. It was a strange phenomenon, to see the sidewalks so busy and packed with people, except for that one stretch, where everyone refused to walk.
I parked the Honda in a Walgreen’s parking lot at the end of the block and walked back towards my destination. I was the only person on that stretch of sidewalk, and I have no doubt my appearance drew a lot of stares. The four thugs lounging by the door had sobered up pretty quickly when they saw me heading their way and I saw more than one hand shift towards the waistband.
“I’ve been invited to have lunch with Julio Perez,” I said as I stopped in front of the four men.
“You Creed?” the one with the bad buzzcut asked.
“That’s me,” I agreed, wondering if I would be asked to produce a government approved picture ID Or maybe a small calling card that could be carried inside while the help determined if his royal highness was available to meet with me.
“You can go in,” buzzcut said. “They’ll want to check you inside.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” I replied as I picked my way between the men. I pulled the door open and stepped into a dark entryway where three more men with Reyes Dorados jackets were gathered around a table, playing a dice game. They all stopped and looked up when I appeared, and then Steve Buscemi’s much taller and much skinnier twin approached me. He patted me down before I could even open my mouth and then he nodded to the other two men.
“This way,” one of them said as he started down the hallway.
I followed after him as we made our way to the rear of the building. The place was cleaner than I expected, with nary a piece of trash nor a stray beer bottle to be seen. The rooms all had doors, another surp
rise, and most of these were closed. The only time I saw other people was when a pale college-aged kid stepped out of one of the rooms, a glazed look on his face. He faltered when he saw me and my escort and my escort shoved him back into the room and closed the door. I had a glimpse of mattresses strewn across the floor and a handful of people spread out across them, the same slack-jawed, glazed disconnection on their faces.
It turned out that not all of the windows had been boarded up. The room we ended up in still had floor to ceiling windows that looked out on the rack of motorcycles that had taken over the back alley. Long drapes softened the harsh sunlight, giving the illusion of soft candlelight. The room was filled with long tables and benches and a small dais had been set up at the far end of the room. Another smaller dining room table had been set on the dais, and three chairs placed facing the benches below. The center chair, I noticed, looked suspiciously throne-like.
I glanced around the room as we moved towards the dais, and picked out the shields and swords that hung from the wall, as well as a banner bearing the crest of the Spanish royal family. Portraits hung from the wall as well, reproductions of art from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. I guessed these were supposed to be Perez’s ancestors and wondered which one was his supposed link to the royal family.
“You’ll sit there,” my escort said as he nodded to one of the chairs at the end. “Wait down here until Julio tells you to join him.”
With that my escort left, leaving me alone in front of the stage. I wanted to take a closer look at the paintings and the weapons, but I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to wander around while I waited for my host to arrive. I could smell food cooking somewhere, and I had to admit, it smelled good.
Nearly ten minutes went by before the same door I had come through opened once again. A small group of men moved into the dining hall. One man was at the center of the group with the rest forming a loose circle around him. Leather and jeans were clearly the clothing of choice, except for the man in the middle of the pack who dressed like he had just returned from a shopping spree at j. Crew. Apparently, Perez hadn’t completely bought into the whole gangbanger thing.
The group approached the stage and only Perez and another man stepped up. The other four headed towards one of the long tables. Perez sat down in the center chair and finally deigned to look at me. He was good looking, I had to give him credit for that. He reminded me of a young Ricky Martin, though with longer hair and a pencil-thin mustache.
“You are Vincent Creed,” he declared loudly. A couple of the guys at the long table looked at me with interest, but nobody said anything.
“I am... your highness,” I replied and threw in the title at the last second.
That made Perez happy and he pointed towards the steps to the stage.
“Please, join us for our noon repast,” he insisted.
I walked to the steps and climbed to the stage. I crossed to the seat my guide had pointed out, which was the only empty seat left on the stage. I almost sat down, but then realized everyone else was still standing. Perez smiled at me again and then lifted his hand. When he dropped it, the rest of us sat down.
“I understand we have common interests,” Perez said as four women appeared from a small door off to the side carrying trays. Two women moved towards the long table while the other two quickly climbed the steps and moved to serve those of us on the stage.
“I’m not sure interests is the right word,” I replied as one woman pulled the cover from her tray to reveal a pitcher of water, a bottle of red wine, and the appropriate glasses. She quickly poured us each a drink of both wine and water and then scurried away. The second woman was placing plates of crusty, warm bread, thin-sliced Serrano ham, and a sampling of cheese in front of each of us. I glanced towards the long table and saw that they had a basket of warm bread and a communal plate of cheeses.
“However you wish to refer to it,” Perez said, “we both seek Burke.”
“My goal is to have him declared dead,” I pointed out. “Not to find him alive somewhere.”
“But to prove him dead, you are investigating all leads that would indicate otherwise,” Perez insisted.
“We’ve been following some tips,” I admitted.
“Tips you received from the FBI, perhaps,” Perez noted with a frown.
“I’ve talked to one of their agents,” I agreed. “She called me after I filed my lawsuit.” No need to mention my first phone call to Special Agent Smart.
“I understand why you feel you must talk to them,” Perez mused.
He said nothing else while he finished his plate, then took a sip of wine. I opened my mouth to talk, but a warning glance from the third and still unidentified man made me change my mind. I took a sip of the wine as well and discovered it was delicious. Someone had spent some serious pocket change on the beverage of choice.
“You have also spoken to the leader of the Chuchos Locos,” Perez added as our empty plates were swept away and replaced with bowls of vegetable soup filled with asparagus tips, mushrooms, and even bits of artichoke. It smelled divine, and though I wasn’t a big vegetable fan, I took a large spoonful before answering Perez.
“Jabba invited me to his arena last night,” I agreed in between slurps of the garlicky heaven of the soup.
“Such a disrespectful name,” Perez said with a frown. “I do not know why he allows them to use it.”
“Perhaps he was a fan of the character,” I replied. “After all, he did run a large galactic empire of sorts.”
Perez looked unconvinced.
“The character was an unrefined slob,” Perez remarked.
“So is Jabba,” I said.
“He has no manners,” Perez agreed.
“You’ve met him?” I asked.
“Many years ago,” Perez replied, “when I began building my army. He once accused me of stealing away some of his soldiers.”
“And were you?” I pressed.
“There were many who responded to my call,” he said with a shrug. “Some no doubt once served a different master but once they understood my rightful place, they joined me instead.”
There were so many questions I could ask about just that last statement alone. Where to begin?
“It’s unusual for people to switch gangs,” I pointed out. “Doesn’t the other gang usually try to hunt them down as traitors?”
“I do not run a gang,” Perez said angrily. “I have an army whose goal is to see me returned to my rightful place.”
“Okay,” I mused. “But still, if some of the people who joined your cause used to fight for Jabba or Aranda, wouldn’t Jabba and Aranda be angry and look for revenge?”
“There were attempts early on,” Perez finally conceded, “but I have made it clear that we will defend our fellow soldiers in this great cause to the death.”
“All for one, and one for all,” I suggested.
“Yes,” Perez agreed. “The Frenchman had it right.”
“Tell me about your cause,” I said.
“I am the true King of Spain,” Perez declared.
I waited until the server had removed the soup bowls and placed a plate of seafood paella in front of each of us. Shrimp and clams were piled atop the yellow rice and bits of chorizo could be seen as well. The scents of saffron and paprika filled my nostrils, and I sucked in a deep lungful before I returned to our conversation.
“So you intend to reclaim the throne,” I stated. I took my first bite of paella and tried not to roll my eyes in pleasure. It was the perfect balance of sweet and heat, and I could actually taste Spain. I had a quick image of myself, sitting outside at an old wooden table under the shade of an oak, some ancient building nearby. Maybe Anna would be up for just one more trip when she returned. A short holiday in Spain might be just the thing.
“I do,” Perez finally answered after he’d eaten about half of his paella. Not that I was complaining. It left me plenty of time to devour my own yummy rice.
“How are you connect
ed to the royal family?” I asked.
“Most people are skeptical,” Perez said with a smile. “But I have been very careful in my research. I can prove that my ancestor was the son of King Fernando.”
“As in Ferdinand and Isabella?” I asked in surprise.
“Si,” Perez nodded. “Fernando survived for many years after Isabella died, you see. My ancestor was a beautiful woman who was sent to their court to earn favors for her family. She became pregnant with Fernando’s child and returned home when her state became obvious. Fernando bestowed lands and titles on the child at his birth, and when he was old enough, he sailed to the new world to claim them. But by then Fernando was dead, and his children with Isabella did not want him acknowledged. So, my ancestor was forced to conceal his true self. Instead, he said that the lands had been a gift for the support the family had long provided to their king.”
“Wouldn’t that kind of information have been recorded?” I mused. “I mean, they kept pretty good records of all the royal births back then. Not to mention all the titles and land decrees.”
“But they were not married,” Perez replied. “And Isabella was still very popular. It was accepted that Fernando would still have needs, but such things were handled discreetly, as were the records of any… events that might lead to. When my ancestor, Inigo, was old enough to understand the circumstances of his birth, he agreed never to reveal his true birth father in exchange for the lands Fernando had granted him.”
“So you might not be the only one with a claim,” I pointed out.
Perez scowled and the third man shook his head at me.
“Of course, they probably haven’t done the research you have,” I continued.
“The woman who bore Fernando’s child, Floria, was the eldest daughter of one of the oldest and noblest of houses,” Perez replied. “The kings and queens of Aragon and Castile were our cousins.”
“So no one else would have a claim as strong as yours,” I guessed.
“Exactly,” Perez said.
“Fascinating,” was all I could come up with.
