Gangster's Court

by Adam Van Susteren

  Silence on the line.

  “Omar?” Dzuy asked.

  “That’s fine. Just thinking about a call I need to make.”

  “Okay,” Dzuy said.

  “Bye,” Jo added.

  “Good bye.” Omar ended the call.

  34

  “I should have known you were alive,” a thick voice said in Spanish through the burner phone.

  “Primo, hear me out,” Omar pleaded in Spanish into his cell phone while sitting at the small table inside his room at Medford’s Best Western Hotel. His cousin, his primo, Tomás, was his last unplayed piece in the game.

  “It’s four am,” Tomás responded.

  “MS-13 is set up for you to run,” Omar said calmly, as if he was ordering a pizza.

  “You alive. But you crazy.”

  “No. I can explain.” Omar looked at his cheap watch, it would take too long to recap everything. He had to go with the highlights that would sell his case. He gave a single chuckle in disbelief. “I just had bad luck—a beef with a lady cop and she had a deal with guys in Filthy Rose’s crew. That somehow brought Rose to me. That’s it. Then Rose killed the cop and Oliva did Rose.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Devil’s Bullet wanted to find out why Rose and a cop died together. He comes at me with a dozen guys. They don’t make it.”

  “Fucking Primo…”

  “I don’t want any problems with Thirteen, so I pretend to die, and leave. Then El Flaco comes down to take over all of Cali and Baja. Six of his guys get killed by the cops, twenty-four arrested. He’s with four in San Diego at the Andaz Hotel. Only four.”

  “What you want me do ‘bout it?”

  “Take ten guys, cross the border, and sit down wit him,” Omar said, continuing in a cadence and pronunciation to match his cousin’s.

  “A sit down?”

  “Yes, Primo. Meet with El Flaco and take Devil’s Bullet’s place. Become the boss of Baja and the border.”

  “What ‘bout you?”

  Omar’s eyes darted around the plain hotel room. He wanted more. He wasn’t sure what, but he had to be alive to figure it out. “Let me stay dead. Have Thirteen drop everything with my Mom, my crew, the judge.”

  A sigh came across the phone. “But Primo, I the most young of the four capitans. They don’t choose me.”

  Omar smirked. “Primo, I have a plan.”

  “Of course you do.”

  Omar leaned back in the chair and put his bare feet on the cheap wood table.

  “What’s your plan?”

  “First, tell the three other captains you’re going to get El Flaco to leave and go back to L.A. That’s what a leader does.”

  “So.”

  “Then meet with El Flaco. He needs to save face. He came down for information about what happened with me and Devil’s Bullet. So you give that to him.”

  “You say he also came to take over.”

  “I think so.” Omar pulled his feet off the table and sat upright. “You tell him the captains won’t follow him, but will work with him. And you offer him something he’ll like.”

  “What?”

  “A hundred guys.”

  “Ha!” Tomás scoffed loudly.

  “Primo, listen.” Omar stood and rocked back on his feet. “You got thousands of migrants from El Salvador, Honduras, all over Central America, caravanning into Tijuana to try to cross the border. Recruit some kids. Bring them across. Send them to El Flaco. They’ll be young, but he can save face by saying he got a hundred guys from you.” Omar paced past the bed. “For that, he will recognize you as the boss.”

  “Los capitans...”

  “That’s the second part. El Flaco calling you boss will give you instant cred. Not enough, but we can get it. You still need to replace Filthy Rose, right?”

  “Yes,” Tomás responded with intrigue in his voice.

  “Tell one captain he can choose who makes that spot. For another captain, I’ve got a lead on an Asian who is moving a lot of Oxy—he can take that contract. For the last capitan, I’ve got a lead on another Asian who’s moving lots of arthritis meds—he can take that contract. Good money for both. The captains get a gift from you—and you save them from a war with L.A.”

  Omar heard a sigh. He said, “Primo. It’ll work. They lose too much money in a fight. Too much heat from policia.”

  “What about La Jueza?”

  Omar hesitated, choosing his next words carefully. “She’s out of it.”

  “She shot El Flaco’s guy.”

  Omar paced back to the chair and sat. “Tell him he can’t kill a judge in your territory. Too much heat for you. Tell him your focus is money. And you’re the boss. You need your judge.”

  “Let me think.”

  Omar rubbed his temples. “We don’t have time. If you don’t want this...”

  “Of course I wanna be Jefe,” Tomás snapped.

  Omar’s eyes lit up with excitement. His cousin would be a far better person to run the gang than Devil’s Bullet or almost any other option. Way better than Plan B—risking his guys to kill El Flaco. Way easier to implement than Plan C, framing El Flaco so the police could arrest him. “It’ll work, Primo.”

  “If it don’t?”

  “Plan B. I get a big rig and run him off the highway.”

  “Primo,” Tomás laughed out, “you sound like a gangster.”

  Omar shook his head. You’re just a gangster in my Court. I’m El Juez. Omar smirked. “Monday is a busy border crossing day. Can you get to the line now?”

  Tomás laughed. “Primo, Primo, Primo,” he said in a condescending voice, “you forget something.”

  Omar looked at the ceiling for an answer. No, the plan’s solid. “What are we forgetting?” Omar chose the word we to suggest they have already closed the deal to work together.

  “Dinero, Primo. Cash money. I need it to recruit the hundred men. I need it as gifts for my lieutenants to be loyal, so none jump to El Flaco or another captain. I need it for the policia to look the other way when I am boss.”

  Omar closed his eyes, his comfortable escape plan was getting cramped. He mentally inventoried his assets and what he had given away to his family, his crew, and the fifty he gave to Jo. Omar sighed, “How much?”

  “A thousand per kid, a hundred kids,” Tomás said in a slow, singsong voice. “Twenty per lieutenant, five of them. That’s two. Hundred for El Flaco if he asks for cash. Hundred for me. What is that, Omar?”

  “Four.” Omar looked at his luggage filled with gold. He would have to part with it, and the chance of a gold dealer in Medford having the cash to buy it all was slim. “Primo, I’m dead. I’m not flush with cash anymore.”

  “That is pocket change for you. It is what I need to save your life, your crew, and your judge.”

  Omar closed his eyes.

  “And I need more. Jose Oliva killed Filthy Rose. Rose was our captain. If Oliva go to prison, La Eme kill him. If I am boss, I must be the one to kill Oliva.”

  Omar’s eyes snapped open. “You need Oliva out of jail?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know if that’s possible.” Omar rubbed against the stubble on his head. It would be impossible to negotiate unless he was in a position of strength. His mind raced, searching for leverage. “You close the deal with El Flaco, send a guy to San Francisco, and I’ll give him the four hundred tomorrow night. I’ll see what I can do about Jose Oliva. And when you’re boss, you’ll owe me.”

  “Hmm. If you cannot make Oliva happen, there will be heavy price,” Tomás warned.

  “Understood, Primo.”

  “Mierda,” Tomás groaned.

  “What?”

  “I need to wake my guys to get to the border.”

  “Text me at this number. Let me know what happens.”

  “Okay, Primo.”

  Omar hung up. Good luck.

  * * *

  Jo’s burner phone buzzed her out of a deep sleep. She patted around on top of the comforter,
snapping her eyes open and sitting up when she realized the metal object she tapped was the shotgun.

  She spotted the glow of the burner phone against the dark of the hotel room.

  [We might be ok. 2 tasks for you. Call you later a.m.]

  “What’s up?” Dzuy said sleepily into his pillow.

  “Nothing,” Jo said quietly, “we’ll hear from Omar later.”

  She watched Dzuy snuggle into his pillow, he’d be back asleep in a few seconds. She, on the other hand, was up. She slipped out from under the covers, picked up her two cell phones, and went to the bathroom wearing one of Dzuy’s blue t-shirts.

  She flipped on the lights and winced at the change in brightness, finding no refuge by looking down at the white marble tile floor. The floor was so shiny it reflected the overhead lights like a mirror. With one eye closed and the other half open, she closed the door and sat on the toilet.

  On her phone, she pulled up the local news. Nothing new since she went to sleep, three hours ago. Really, Omar? Texting me at five am to say no news? Jo shook her head in disgust.

  She set her phone on the marble counter, picked up the burner, and called Omar. The phone rang. And rang. And rang. “The customer’s voicemail has not been set up. Please try your call again later.” Jo hung up.

  She looked at the time on the phone. Jo rolled her eyes. She would be getting up soon for her first day as a felony arraignment judge. She called Omar again.

  “What?” a testy Omar asked.

  “I just got your text. What does that mean—we could be okay, but I’ve got two tasks?”

  “It means what it says. I put a plan in place and will know in a couple hours if it can work.”

  Jo tightened her posture, taking offense from Omar’s tone. “Okay. Can you put some color on that? What’s the plan?”

  “Judge…”

  “Omar, tell me the plan,” Jo commanded in a hushed voice. “They came into my home. I have one of them on my arraignment calendar this morning.”

  “Judge, this is between us, not for the police.”

  “Okay.”

  “My primo, my cousin, Tomás, is a Thirteen captain in TJ. I’ve given him a roadmap to take over for Devil’s Bullet as the boss. He’s going to meet with El Flaco to get him to leave and get his support. With that, and some other little things, we think he can become the boss instead of the other captains or El Flaco.”

  Jo groaned. “Your plan is to shuffle the deck?”

  “Yes, so I can have some control of the game. My cousin agreed to let me stay dead, to drop things with my family, my guys, and you.”

  Jo ran her hand through her hair, tucking it behind her ear. “What are the two things for me?”

  “Money. How much cash from the thirty and twenty you got left?”

  “Twenty. I gave the thirty to my dad. I have a little in savings. I’ve been paying off debt and will have more money as I save.”

  “I’m paying out four hundred to save your life. I’m still dead, so it’s harder for me to make money. Can you get me twenty-five this winter and twenty-five next winter?”

  Jo blinked away her disbelief. “For fifty thousand, I’m done and out? Yes. I’ll find a way.”

  “One other thing.”

  “What?”

  “We need to get Jose Oliva out of jail.”

  Jo laughed. “He’s in jail for murder. The murder weapon was found in his trunk. He’s a gang member. No way. There is no sane judge who would grant bail.”

  “If my cousin can close this deal with El Flaco, you and your family are no longer in danger. All we need from you is fifty grand and for you to make sure Oliva gets bail.”

  Jo squeezed the bridge of her nose. “How am I even involved? What we did with Brad had nothing to do with this.”

  “One thing leads to another. Shit happens. Pick your platitude. All that matters is your choice in this moment. You’re on MS-13’s radar. You want off, you help get Jose Oliva out of jail.”

  You’re the one who got him into jail. Jo closed her eyes in disbelief. “What about El Flaco?”

  “He goes back to L.A. Your cops can try to make a case against him.”

  Jo turned her head, opened her eyes, and found herself looking in the mirror. I’m sitting on a toilet, holding a burner phone to my ear, in the bathroom of the Wyndham Hotel, discussing gang leadership with my former client, hours before taking the bench in Superior Court. She stood, put her hands and phone on the counter, and looked into her own eyes. What the hell are you doing?

  She reached down to the burner phone and hung up on Omar. She stared in the mirror. You’re going to take the bench, arraign felons, let the cops chase the gangsters, let Omar go, and pretend this never happened.

  Jo looked down at the sink, turned the water on, and pulled the lever to close the drain. She stared as the water filled the basin. When the water approached the overflow holes, she shut it off and dropped the burner phone in.

  Jo watched the phone sink and settle at the bottom of the basin, releasing a stream of tiny bubbles up to the surface. She looked at her iPhone and nodded to herself, she would change her phone number again after Court today.

  She walked to the bathroom door, froze with panic, turned around, and rushed for the burner phone. She plunged her hand into the water and pulled it out, tossing it into a fluffy white hand towel to dry it off. Holy shit! What did I do? She set it on the counter, not sure if her link to Omar was severed.

  She looked at the time on her iPhone. There wasn’t enough time to fall asleep, not that she could anyway. She opened the door and let the bathroom light spill into the hotel room. She found her suitcase and pulled out a pair of shorts, socks, running shoes, and sports bra. A minute later, she grabbed her room key and headed down to the hotel gym to clear her mind.

  * * *

  “You come heavy?” El Flaco asked in Spanish while untying his white robe; he needed the slack to sit down on the black fabric chair inside the grand suite at the Andaz Hotel.

  Tomás nodded. “Ten guys. But only as backup,” he responded in Spanish.

  “Sit.” El Flaco gestured to the chair across from him.

  Tomás smoothed out his slacks and sat across from El Flaco. He looked at El Flaco’s tattooed torso; his abs were chiseled, not an ounce of fat on him. Tomás gently rubbed his pencil thin goatee, flattening it to his face, scanning the room for weapons.

  “Why are you here?”

  “To get you to leave.” Tomás eyed the pistola on the desk next to El Flaco.

  El Flaco picked up the revolver and held it with both hands. “You do not give orders to me. You are not boss.”

  Tomás steadied his nerves with a breath. “I am. With Bala del Diablo gone, I have the support of his captains to become boss. I have come to tell you so we can work together.”

  El Flaco shook his head. “No. I think I am the boss here.”

  Fucking Omar. Tomás smirked. “You kill me, my guys will get you. If they miss, policia will get you for my murder. We lose you, Bala, me. Who knows what happens to Thirteen? Why we do that?”

  El Flaco set the gun down and stood. His ropey muscles flexed as he stretched. “Let’s say I kill you quietly. Then get away.”

  Tomás stood, a full foot shorter than El Flaco. They stared at each other like two fighters at a weigh-in.

  The two stood in silence, mad-dogging each other.

  Tomás eased his stare. “We can fight. But hear me out first.”

  As if a switch had been thrown, El Flaco calmly signaled to the chair. “Let us sit.”

  “The police have thirty of your men, yes?”

  El Flaco nodded.

  “As a sign of good will, I will get you a hundred men.”

  Flaco raised his eyebrows.

  Tomás nodded. “I mean you no disrespect. I want to work with you, like you did with Bala.”

  “Bala was stupid. He never should have met with the judge himself. At most, he should have sent a captain.”

&
nbsp; Tomás nodded in an attempt to show constant agreement and cooperation. “I agree. He lost sight of making money. As boss, that’s what I want most. Money.”

  El Flaco smiled, revealing perfectly straight white teeth. “Bala had the border—never built a good tunnel.”

  Tomás smiled too, suddenly self-conscious about his slightly crooked and stained teeth. “Let’s build one, together. To show our cooperation.”

  El Flaco’s jaw clenched, his stare intensified.

  “What?” Tomás asked.

  “You come into my room, threaten me with ten men, and want to be my partner?”

  I can’t trust him for one second. He’s almost as unpredictable as Filthy Rose. “What would you have done?” Tomás nodded to El Flaco. “If I don’t act boldly, the other captains could make a move and start a war with you. I don’t want war. Bad for business.” He noticed El Flaco’s clenched jaw ease up.

  El Flaco interlocked his fingers. “You are young. You are bold. I like you, Hijo.”

  Tomás sat rigid as he thought through the meaning of hijo, a boy, a child. Accepting a nickname referencing his short height and young age could be an attack on him that he must oppose. He could not be seen as weak. But going to war over a nickname may be the dumbest thing any human being could ever do. Mierda.

  El Flaco grinned again. “What do they call you?”

  Tomás shrugged. “Most, Tomás. Some, Luis Miguel.”

  El Flaco slapped his knee. “You can sing?”

  Tomás shook his head. “No. I am terrible at singing.”

  “Sing for me, Hijo.”

  Tomás sighed. “El Flaco, I am a boss now. I do not sing on command. I do not take commands. But I will build a tunnel with you. I will start with a hundred U.S. Match me. We buy houses on both sides of border and build a tunnel. I get you a hundred guys. We make money together.”

  El Flaco sat in silence.

  “I will get Jose Oliva out of jail and kill him tomorrow. Because I am boss and I take care of my house.”

  El Flaco did not move.

  Tomás glanced to check out the tattoos on the chest of the rigid El Flaco. The fuck? He’s not moving. Saying nothing. “If it makes you happy, I will accept the name of El Hijo.”