Angel Eyes

by Ace Atkins

  “Tell me more about these guys.”

  “They are very bad,” he said. “Bad people.”

  “I got that idea when they began to shoot.”

  “This man they killed,” he said. “Was he a friend?”

  “I barely knew him,” I said. “But he didn’t deserve to get shot. He was only looking for his employer.”

  “The movie executive.”

  I nodded. Bobby Horse left his post and a made a small tour around the gazebo, looking loose and relaxed, sauntering around in a clockwise motion. But I knew Bobby Horse. He was taking in every person, every movement, every passing car. He most definitely had a pistol the size of a rocket launcher under his coat and would quickly expel anyone who might want to harm Victor del Rio.

  “Why’d they kill this man, Yamashiro?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Chollo said he was being blackmailed.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “I assume he didn’t want to pay up.”

  “Then why come at all?” he said. “And alone.”

  “Very good question,” I said. “You would’ve brought Chollo and Bobby Horse with you.”

  “And maybe my new friend, Mr. Sixkill, too,” he said. “And none of those men would’ve cast a shadow in my direction.”

  “It was night,” I said. “Everything was in shadows.”

  Del Rio smiled and nodded. He said something in Spanish to the kids racing around on their scooters. I only caught part of it. Faster, faster. He chuckled with amusement. The kids looked at me funny, and I remembered my bloody temple and blood across my wrinkle-free blazer.

  “I take it you would like to know more about this man Sarkisov and what he has to do with these people who worship the sun?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I would. Although technically they don’t worship the sun as much as a man named Joe Haldorn. Ever heard his name?”

  “No,” he said. “But five years ago, there was some nasty business with me and Sarkisov. He was new to this country and wasn’t aware that we have borders, lines you don’t cross.”

  “And you had to remind him.”

  “Yes,” he said. “Quite firmly. People like Sarkisov are nasty, but they can’t compete with my business partners in the south. They don’t care to be tested and never ask twice. It’s better I don’t mention them, but they are quite ruthless and unforgiving. My people and Sarkisov’s people are happy to coexist, but only up to a certain point.”

  “Is that why they got banished down to Furlong?”

  Del Rio’s face split in a pleasant smile. “Yes,” he said. “Exactly. From there, in that tiny little town, they can do as they wish. Mostly it is stolen goods. Hijacked trucks. Cheap electronic garbage from China. Cell phones. Laptops. As long as they stay away from peddling our product, there isn’t any trouble.”

  “Is it true Chollo is now selling churros?”

  “Do you find that odd?”

  “Only in its alliteration,” I said. “It would look amazing on a T-shirt.”

  Del Rio didn’t seem to be listening. He stood up and met a tall, graceful woman who’d walked into the park. She had on a sleeveless white linen jumpsuit and very tall tan heels. Her cheekbones were high and prominent and her shiny black hair was pulled back into a long ponytail. Her skin was bronze, her eyes enormous and black.

  She met del Rio and kissed him on the cheek. She looked at me, but he didn’t offer an introduction. After she walked away with two of the children, a young boy and girl who looked as if they might be twins, he turned to me with a smile.

  “Very beautiful,” I said.

  “My daughter,” del Rio said. “And a rare visit from my grandchildren from the north. She might not be here if not for Mr. Sixkill. It pained me a great deal to hear that he’d been shot by Sarkisov’s people.”

  “It pained him even more.”

  “And the man you shot?” he said. “This was one of the men who shot Sixkill?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I nodded. “I never forget an ugly face.”

  Del Rio stood and waved for Bobby Horse to join us under the giant fig tree. A sign had been taped to a lamppost advertising a lantern festival that week to celebrate Chinese heritage. Bobby Horse and I shook hands. He gave the slightest of smiles. High praise for a man who rarely showed emotion.

  “I want to arrange a meeting with Sarkisov,” del Rio said. “This thing between Sixkill and the Armenians is finished. Whoever they are protecting and for whatever reason, that is finished, too.”

  “Maybe I should bake him a cake,” I said. “Or buy him a potted plant. It might make him feel better about losing two of his men.”

  “He won’t risk our agreement for whatever business he has with this Haldorn,” del Rio said. “If I don’t like his answer, my associates to the south and I can make life very difficult for him. Furlong won’t be far enough away.”

  “He might lose his head?”

  “Among other parts,” del Rio said. “Mailed to wives and girlfriends.”

  “Ouch,” I said.

  “Very.”

  We shook hands and walked toward the street. Bobby Horse offered to give me a ride back to the apartment in Santa Monica. I agreed and thanked him.

  Del Rio clasped my shoulder and then wrapped me in an unexpected hug. “The world is round, amigo,” he said, patting my back. “Perhaps I will need your help again one day.”

  “Anytime.”

  39

  The next day, Susan and I made several attempts to meet with Gabby Leggett. We were shut down on so many fronts, I started to believe the HELIOS people genuinely didn’t like me.

  We were told Miss Leggett was busy. We were told she didn’t wish to have contact with us or her family. We were told she was on another retreat.

  I didn’t blame her for not wanting to be found. News on the Yamashiro murder and a possible connection with a recent missing-persons case were strewn about America’s TVs, computer screens, and cell phones. I assumed that if I stepped outside of the apartment, I might see Gabby’s face plastered across the broadside of the Goodyear Blimp.

  Susan and I kept our cell phones handy. I spoke twice to Samuelson. He wouldn’t confirm, deny, or venture a guess on whether his people had found Gabby. I offered the idea of a wellness check at the mansion at West Adams. Samuelson offered me a blunt reply on what I might do with my advice.

  At the apartment, I made a large batch of chipotle chicken salad with feta and avocado and let it cool in the refrigerator. I went for a long run along the beach, and when I returned, Z was seated at the kitchen bar, catching up with Susan. He was drinking one of those Mexican Cokes in the tall green bottles.

  “You’ve replaced me already,” I said.

  “Can you blame me?” Susan said. “He’s like you, only the newer model.”

  “With that busted arm,” I said, “more like a demo.”

  “Stronger in the broken places,” Z said. “Or don’t you read anymore?”

  I looked from Z to Susan. “Is it too early to drink?”

  “Yes,” Susan said. “But not too late for lunch.”

  I doled out the chicken salad onto toasted sourdough slices and made a platter of small sandwiches. I set the table in the dining room and began to cut up some fruit for a small salad. We turned on the cable news as we ate, Gabby Leggett’s photo shown during the story on the Yamashiro killing.

  “Why are they calling Gabby a person of interest?” Susan said.

  “It doesn’t mean she’s a suspect,” I said. “They know the men who were there. They just want to speak with her.”

  “And can’t find her,” Z said.

  I asked him about her apartment. He said he’d been sitting on it for the last four hours.

  “And Jem Yoon?”


  “Still nothing,” Z said. “Gabby’s off the grid.”

  I ate a sandwich with some black coffee. It was so good, I helped myself to another one with a side of fruit. I didn’t care to go head to head with some Armenian Power thugs on an empty stomach.

  “And what’s stopping this man Sarkisov from luring you both in and then killing you?” Susan said. “His people already shot Z and murdered another man. It seems like they’d like to shoot you most of all.”

  “They’ll have to get in line,” I said. “Lots of people want to shoot me.”

  “That’s not funny,” Susan said. “Will Chollo go with you?”

  “Probably,” I said.

  “And Bobby Horse, too,” Z said. “It’ll be the Three Amigos plus some old white guy.”

  “Who are you calling white?” I said.

  “And you think that will be enough for them to let Gabby go?” Susan said.

  “Actually, I don’t want them to do anything,” I said. “Only to drop whatever agreement they have with Haldorn. By now, they’ve got to realize whatever it was isn’t worth the trouble.”

  “And this is based on what?” Susan said. “A code of honor? A thick layer of machismo?”

  I looked to Z and then back at Susan. I shrugged. “Basically,” I said. “Yes.”

  “But even you know most people don’t operate with a code,” she said. “Especially not these people.”

  “Perhaps code is too strong a word,” I said. “How about fear?”

  “These people are afraid of Victor del Rio?”

  Z lifted his eyebrows and nodded. “Very.”

  Z reached with his right hand for three small sandwiches and stacked them on a napkin in front of him. Susan walked back through the open kitchen and poured us both a cup of black coffee. I looked up at a small clock above the refrigerator. It was nearly three.

  “Do you ever worry that one day you might trust the wrong people?”

  “I trust del Rio,” I said. “And I believe in the healthy fear that Sarkisov will have if something happens to any of his people.”

  I had on a sleeveless blue sweatshirt, soaked down the chest, with my running shorts and shoes. A Browning nine-millimeter I’d borrowed from Chollo lay in its holster on top of the coffee table. Just close enough in case we had an unexpected knock on the door.

  An hour later, my phone buzzed.

  “Meet me in an hour at Union Station,” Chollo said. “Z can ride with me. Bobby Horse with you.”

  “Was Sarkisov excited to receive us?”

  “I don’t know, amigo,” he said. “I guess we will soon find out.”

  40

  Furlong was even uglier at night than it was during the day. Endless streets and avenues of tin-roofed industrial buildings behind chain-link fences. The only life came from the occasional barking pit bull and the roar of a tractor-trailer making a sweeping turn out from a loading bay. There were a few late-night bars tucked into the side of little standalone brick buildings and all-night bodegas and sandwich shops advertising with neon signs. But mainly Furlong resembled a scene from an apocalyptic movie, only with less character. Everything was asphalt and concrete. Concertina wire and sheet metal formed the basic aesthetic.

  “Why’d Chollo want you to ride with me?” I said.

  “You shoot and he shoot pretty good,” Bobby Horse said. “Z and I can back you up.”

  “You shoot pretty damn good, too,” I said. “And Z when he’s not injured.”

  “Not like Chollo,” he said. “No one shoots like Chollo.”

  “What about the churros?”

  “Okay.”

  “Just okay?” I said.

  Bobby Horse shrugged.

  I followed the taillights of Chollo’s car down a long stretch of road splitting the heart of Furlong, gliding through the cavernous path of metal buildings and brick warehouses. Bright lamps lit the way on the dry, dusty streets. The windows were down on the Land Cruiser and we listened to the wind and occasional bark of a dog. I waited for a tumbleweed to blow past my headlights.

  “Lovely place,” I said.

  “This is the asshole of Los Angeles,” Bobby Horse said. “Only the dead end up here.”

  “A positive attitude is always the key to success,” I said.

  “A cautious one is better,” Bobby Horse said. “A cautious one keeps you alive.”

  “Native American wisdom?” I said.

  “No,” he said. “Common sense.”

  Chollo’s SUV slowed and turned at a closed gate to a towering brick warehouse. He idled for nearly a minute before the large chain-link gate began to slide back, and we both drove inside and parked at crooked angles. The headlights of our cars brightened the broadside of the building. The Virgin Mary had been painted on the warehouse in a fading mural, clutching her sacred heart and looking toward heaven. Two men in white undershirts and low-slung jeans met us in the parking lot.

  The men held automatic weapons with shoulder straps that they used to usher us into the warehouse. Both were medium-sized, with shaved heads and razor-thin black beards. I couldn’t tell who was who with an automatic weapon aimed at my chest.

  I looked over to Z and Chollo and nodded. All four of us fanned out as we followed them into the brightly lit warehouse. The inside was a maze of industrial metal shelving rising thirty to forty feet high, stacked with boxes for chain saws, cases of champagne, laundry detergent, and new leather sofas and chairs wrapped tight in plastic sheeting. I felt as if we’d infiltrated a Costco.

  Under the bright lighting, I saw a man standing in a wide-open space, stacking crates into the back of the truck. He wore dirty denim coveralls and had a lot of thick, curly hair. He wasn’t large but moved like a strong man, with an oversized belly and skillet-sized hands.

  The skinheads walking us in stopped and hung back as we approached him. They rested their hands on their hips and waited.

  I looked above the man in coveralls at a catwalk with a small office. Three more men looked down at us, clutching identical automatic weapons with shoulder straps.

  “Wow,” I said. “Must be a big sale of AR-15s on aisle five.”

  The big-headed man stopped his loading and turned to us. He was a little out of breath as he placed his hands on his hips. His eyes were large. His nose was big. Even his jaw was big and unshaven. He looked like the very personification of Fred Flintstone.

  “You want to buy gun?” he said. “I sell you gun.”

  “Must be my lucky day.”

  “We will see about that, my friend,” he said.

  “You know why I’ve come?”

  Sarkisov nodded. He unzipped his coveralls and slid out of them, kicking his feet free. He was wearing a skintight black designer T-shirt with thin black piping. The T-shirt did little to disguise his pear-shaped body and long, hairy arms. He looked at me with bloodshot eyes and reached onto a folding card table for a cigarette. He lit one with a gold Zippo, took a deep drag, and clicked off the lighter with a quick snick.

  “I don’t like this,” he said. “I don’t like trouble. I am an easygoing man. I do my business. I let the fucking Mexicans do their business. Koreans. Chinese. Salvadorans. Everyone makes money. Everyone is happy.”

  I looked to Z in the sling. I looked back to Sarkisov. “Not everybody.”

  “Unfortunate accident,” he said, shrugging. “I do someone a favor. My people come to tell you to lay off. A little argument go sideways and then the boom, boom, boom.”

  I shifted my weight onto the other foot. The men above us stood a little stiffer, not aiming, but paying closer attention to our hand placement. Chollo waited to my left, still and easy, hands resting at the sides of his legs. Bobby Horse and Z to my right, calm and relaxed. Bobby Horse had his thumbs hooked into his hand-tooled Western belt, his eyes droopy, almost sleepy, as he listened.


  If Sarkisov’s men so much as sneezed, the violence would be quick and ugly.

  “What happened at the park,” Sarkisov said. “That is the end. Like I tell del Rio, this over. For us. For you. I am finished. Okay? We okay? We be friends now?”

  “Sure,” I said. “How about a hug?”

  “You joke,” he said. “You a funny man. I like you, funny man.”

  “Shucks.”

  “All this with the movie man and this girl,” he said. “Too much trouble for me. Too many policemen harassing my people and looking for me. Too much on the TV and the Internets. A headache, man. A real fucking headache, funny man.”

  I couldn’t see the two men who’d greeted us outside. But Z had taken a few steps back. Bobby Horse moved a few feet back, watching the men above and below. He wore a chambray Western shirt with his jeans and rattlesnake boots.

  “Why’d you kill Yamashiro?” I said.

  Sarkisov shrugged again. I couldn’t shake his resemblance to Fred Flintstone. I waited for him to give a thickly accented yabba-dabba-doo at any moment. He blew smoke from the side of his mouth and shook his head. “I didn’t kill that man,” he said. “He dead on the toilet when we got there. Ugly. Very disgusting.”

  Sarkisov sat on the card table and looked up to his men above. He leveled his eyes back at me and shook his head ever so slightly.

  “That’s some bad luck,” I said. “Your people going for a late-night hike and stumbling on the corpse of one of the most powerful men in Hollywood.”

  He blew out smoke again, slow and easy. He reached up to scratch his cheek. “Very bad luck,” he said. “I don’t need this trouble. I don’t want this trouble. The cops. The news of the TV. I am just—”

  “A simple businessman,” I said. “And this warehouse is filled with completely legitimate items ready to be trucked to your local Walmart. I could really use a gigantic tub of cake frosting and some paper towels.”

  “Sure,” Sarkisov said, grinning. “You need something? Guns? Champagne? Nice new lawn-mowing machine? Women? I know you like the women. I get you a whole party. Forget this girl.”