by Robert Crais
The heat was merciless on an August afternoon the day Artie committed homicide. Artie, his two younger brothers, and baby sister were on their front steps, waiting for their mother to return from work as a housekeeper in Cheviot Hills. Their father was away, which meant he was doing time in Soledad Prison. Artie recalls that he and his siblings were bored, and making up lies about their father, entertaining themselves by pretending he was a larger-than-life outlaw instead of a drunken bully with mild retardation from huffing too much paint thinner and glue. Artie and his siblings had reached a lull in the stories when Lucious Jefferson pedaled past. Artie’s baby sister, Tina, was on his knee when Artie saw Jefferson on the shiny blue bike. Jefferson wasn’t even looking at them. He was pedaling past, taking his time, and for no other reason than the rage in his heart, Artie called out—
“Get off our street, you Crip nigger!”
Jefferson, who, until this time, had paid no attention to the four children on the steps, flashed a gang sign and shouted back.
“Spic beaner! Fuck yo’ pussy ass!”
As Arturo told the story, he flew into a blinding rage that left him alone in the world. His two brothers and sister vanished. Thoughts of his mother, now only moments from home, vanished, and reason as civilized men know reason ceased to exist. He has no memory of pushing his sister from his knee, nor of her screaming when her head split so deeply on the step she would require eight stitches.
Artie ran into his house, snatched his father’s .22-caliber rifle from beneath his mother’s bed, frantically checked to see it was loaded, then crashed out of the house. He caught Lucious Jefferson a block and a half later where Lucious was waiting to cross a busy street, whereupon he pushed the rifle’s muzzle into the older boy’s back and pulled the trigger. Killed him. Murdered him. 187’d his ass.
Lucious Jefferson did not even see Artie coming. He was watching the traffic for a break in the onrushing river of cars when Artie ran up behind him and shot him between the T5 and T6 thoracic vertebrae, destroying his spinal cord and sending a bone chip from the T6 transverse process into Jefferson’s pulmonary artery. Artie would later say, in that moment, the real world and the reality of what he had done crashed into him like a freak wave, waking him from the mindless place of his rage by crushing him with the horror of what he had done. Lucious collapsed onto his bike, fell, and landed on his back. His eyes were wide as saucers, so wide they were balloons bulging out of his head. Artie saw the terror and pain in the dying boy’s eyes, a horrible pain that flowed from his eyes like a spirit leaving his body and flowed into Artie, forever changing his life.
Following that terrible event, Artie Alvarez spent three years at a special facility for boys, where he kept to himself, took part in regular counseling, and was visited by Lucious Jefferson’s eyes every night in his sleep. The arrogance of his youth was replaced by guilt and a thoughtful shame. He eventually obtained his bachelor’s and master’s degrees in psychology at Cal State Northridge, and became a counselor to youth groups, nonprofit organizations, and outreach programs throughout the city, with the goal of ending hate and violence through education. He created Angel Eyes as a nonprofit outreach program for at-risk children, and worked with gangs throughout the city. At-risk meant at risk of joining a gang, at risk of going back to drugs, at risk of becoming a prostitute, at risk of turning to crime. The Angel Eyes message was simple—act as if someone is watching, which was the Angel Eyes motto: Someone is Watching. His audiences thought this was a reference to God until Artie explained that not a night had passed without his seeing Lucious Jefferson’s tortured eyes in his dreams. Lucious Jefferson was watching.
Angel Eyes HQ occupied a small stucco home on a residential street with mixed zoning ordinances. When Pike rolled up, the house was surrounded by a couple of dozen older children and younger teenagers of both sexes, along with two counselors in their early twenties. Most of the kids were Latin, but African-American, Anglo, and Asian kids were among them. Armed with brushes and rollers, they were painting the house a peaceful beige color under Artie’s direction.
When Artie saw Pike, he came to the street and opened the gate. He was wearing shorts, sandals, and a T-shirt with the Angel Eyes logo.
“Marisol told me you’d be dropping by. Good to see you, my friend.”
“Got a minute?”
“Hang on—”
Artie called out to his army of painters.
“Ladies and gentlemen, here is my friend, Mr. Joe Pike. Please welcome him.”
The kids answered back.
“Hello, Mr. Pike. Welcome to Angel Eyes.”
Artie beamed, and Pike nodded.
“How many you have here?”
“Twenty-three here today. Another twenty at the South L.A. facility. Eighteen up in Van Nuys.”
Though Artie employed counselors who resided at the various houses, his kids weren’t allowed to live on-site except for short-term cases where they risked at-home physical abuse or assault from neighborhood gangs. The sites existed to give them a place to go, counselors they could talk to, tutors to help with their studies, and a peaceful harbor from the stormy waters of their lives. Artie Alvarez charged nothing for these services, and covered his costs by fund-raising and donations. Though the grounds were neat and orderly and the house was being painted, Pike noticed missing roof tiles, torn window screens, and other indications that Artie was running low on funds. When Pike mentioned it, Artie shrugged.
“It’s the economy. The state’s broke. Rich people aren’t feeling as rich as they used to, so they give less.”
He smiled at the kids as if he admired their courage to change.
“We’ll get by. Now c’mon in, and let’s talk this out.”
Pike followed Artie into the house. The living room was set up like an office and waiting room with two desks, two couches, and two chairs. A pretty young Latina who was probably Marisol was at the front desk, speaking on the phone while typing at a computer.
As they passed, Artie said, “Joe, Marisol, Marisol, Joe.”
Marisol raised a hand in greeting without interrupting her conversation. She was trying to convince a local restaurant to donate their leftover food to a shelter for abused children. Pike noticed a pearl of sweat running down the side of her face before she brushed it away. The house was not air-conditioned.
Artie led him to what was once the master bedroom, though it now served as Artie’s office. Every window was open and a couple of fans moved the air, but it was still hot. The cool ocean breezes rarely ventured this far from the sea.
Artie dropped into a secondhand chair behind a cast-off teacher’s desk.
“Sit. What can I do for you?”
“Venice Trece?”
“All right. They’ve owned the Westside for years. Which clique are we talking about?”
“Malevos Pacificos.”
“Pacific Gangsters. They’re at the end of the boulevard, right by the water.”
“I want to speak with the jefe.”
Each clique had its own boss, known as the jefe.
Artie arched his eyebrows and leaned back.
“Speak as in talk, or speak as in someone won’t be speaking again?”
“As in talk. If I wanted the other thing, I would not have involved you.”
Pike explained the situation about Mendoza and Gomer, and the vandalism that had occurred. Pike understood bangers from his days as an officer. He could make them dead, but he could not make them listen. Only their jefe had that power. If their boss told them to leave Smith alone, they would leave Smith alone. A reasonable request. Made in the spirit of cooperation.
Artie said, “Mm. So you want to make a personal appeal.”
Pike nodded, and Arturo leaned back again.
“I don’t see why not. They have a new kid over there. Miguel Azzara. Goes by Mikie. This kid will surprise you.”
Pike nodded again. Mikie.
“You have a relationship?”
“I talk to al
l these cats, man. V-Thirteen sets, the Culver City and Santa Monica gangs, the Shoreline Crips. They don’t all like me, but they know I’m trying to do right. They all have little brothers and sisters.”
Artie tapped the desk for a moment, thoughtful, then studied Pike.
“You want him to know who he’s dealing with?”
“Whatever you think is best.”
“He won’t respond to a threat.”
“This isn’t a threat.”
Artie thought about it for another moment, then shrugged.
“I can reach out, ask as a favor to me. He’s a bright guy. Not what you expect.”
Pike said, “Good.”
Art laughed as he picked up his phone.
“Give me a minute, okay? I’ll see what I can do.”
Pike took the hint and stepped out to let Art speak in private. A few minutes later, Art emerged with the answer. Miguel Azzara agreed to meet Pike at three o’clock that afternoon.
6
Mikie Azzara met Pike at a coffee shop on Abbot Kinney Boulevard, not far from the Venice Canals. The afternoon sky there near the beach was clear and blue, and the temperature was in the mid-seventies. Pike was surprised when Artie told him where Azzara wanted to meet. Abbot Kinney was an upscale area of restaurants, designer shops, art galleries, and bars, and now here at the coffee shop, seated outdoors, he was surrounded by attractive affluent women who went well with the surroundings. Most were tanned, and most were between their twenties and forties, and most were fit. Most wore light summery dresses or shorts and sandals, and none of them smoked. It wasn’t a place a V13 veterano would frequent.
Pike arrived early, and sat outside as had been agreed, sipping black coffee. The coffee was weak, but he didn’t care.
At three-oh-five, a black Prius pulled to the curb on the opposite side of the street. A man in his late twenties got out, checked for oncoming traffic, then strolled across to the coffee shop. He wore a lightweight Hugo Boss sport coat over an AC/DC T-shirt, tailored jeans, and huaraches. He was fit, clean-shaven, and handsome enough to be a Esquire model. The women seated around Pike watched him approach.
The man searched the crowd when he reached the curb, saw Pike, and came to the table. He smiled as he offered his hand, flashing perfect teeth and dimples.
“Mr. Pike? Michael Azzara. Father Art told me I’d spot the arrows. May I sit?”
Pike nodded, noting he had introduced himself as Michael, not Mikie or Miguel. He was slick, clean, and as different in appearance from the street-dog veteranos at the body shop as the Prius was from a candy-red ’56 Bel Air. Miguel Azzara looked like a frat boy from USC, built strong, though, as if he had been a pretty good high-school wrestler.
Azzara sat, laced his fingers, and looked at Pike with an innocent curiosity.
“I love Father Art. He does so much for our community.”
Pike nodded, and waited for Azzara to continue.
“How can I help you?”
Now, seated, Pike noticed the skin on the side of Azzara’s neck was mottled with faint blemishes. When he was fourteen or fifteen, he had the ink, but sometime between then and now, he’d seen the laser. Small scars laced the knuckles of his left hand and split the line of his left eyebrow. Maybe he hadn’t always looked so different from the men at the body shop.
Pike lifted his cup.
“Want something?”
“That’s all right, thank you. How can I help?”
“You speak for Malevos?”
Azzara checked to see if the nearby women were listening. A woman in her late thirties saw him glance over, and smiled. Azzara smiled back, and looked like a movie star.
“Hey, how’re you doing?”
She blushed and turned back to her friends, pretending she wasn’t drooling. Azzara turned back to Pike.
“That’s why I’m here, yes. How can I help?”
Third time he’d said it—how can I help?
“Reuben Mendoza and Alberto Gomer.”
“Those guys are idiots. Mendoza was just arrested.”
“You know why?”
“I know I had to cover his bond. Is this about that?”
“I’m the man who put him down. Is that going to be a problem with us?”
Azzara looked surprised.
“Depends on what you want. If you want money for some reason—say, a payoff so you’ll refuse to testify—then, yes, it’s going to be a problem.”
“Nothing like that.”
“I didn’t think so. Not with Father Art vouching for you.”
Pike went through the events exactly as he had with Hydeck, Button, and Artie Alvarez. He told Azzara that Wilson Smith was a friend, and that now, early that morning, someone had vandalized his shop.
Azzara listened with a thoughtful frown, nodding occasionally in the way people do, and did not speak until Pike finished.
“Uh-huh, okay. I get it. These people are your friends. You don’t want them hassled.”
“That’s right.”
“Done.”
Pike waited, thinking there would be more, but there wasn’t. After a few moments, Azzara realized Pike wasn’t going to say anything, so he explained to fill the silence.
“This nickel-and-dime stuff is bullshit. It draws heat, pisses off the CRASH units, and for what? So an idiot like Mendoza can bag a free sandwich or shake down some dude for twenty bucks? Is it worth twenty dollars, that kind of trouble, me sitting here with you? Please.”
“Trece will leave Mr. Smith’s shop alone. No more vandalism. No trouble.”
Azzara shifted, irritated he had to deal with small-time stuff like this.
“It’s done. This nonsense with the paint? What are they, in the sixth grade? Look, I don’t know if it was Gomer or whoever—this is the first I’ve heard of it—but I’ll find out, and this will stop. I don’t want these vatos out doing things like this. I mean, this is the lesson right here—me and you, right here right now, wasting our time. This is absurd.”
Pike said, “Thank you.”
Azzara checked the time, sighed, then studied Pike for a moment. Pike wondered why he hadn’t left. They were finished. Miguel Azzara could leave.
Then Azzara leaned forward and lowered his voice.
“The Father told me you’re a dangerous man. I said, Art, what are you, crazy? Is this guy trying to front me off?”
Pike shook his head.
“I’m not fronting you.”
Azzara raised his palm.
“Art covered that. He specifically said you told him this wasn’t a threat, and you told him to make sure I understood. I’m cool with that. These matters of respect are important.”
Pike knew more was coming, and waited it out.
“He says to me, listen, I just think you should know, and then he tells me some things. I don’t know if he’s making these things up, but he tells me these crazy things about you, and I don’t know if he wants me to be scared or what, so I tell him to stop.”
Azzara made a big show of holding up both palms this time, reliving his conversation with Art.
“I say, what are you saying here, Art, this man will go to war with me? I don’t give what he wants, he’ll come for me, me and my homes, all of the Trece?”
Pike waited for it to pass.
“And Art, he says no, no, no, nothing like that, he just felt obligated because he was putting us together, so this wasn’t coming from you. The Father wanted me to know who I was getting involved with. Can you imagine that guy?”
Azzara paused for a response, but Pike didn’t respond.
“You don’t say much.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“You don’t have to say anything. But if there are things I must understand, then there are things you must understand, too.”
Azzara leaned forward, and now he stared.
“You look dangerous. You look like everything Art said, but looking is different from being. I know what I look like, too.”
/> “Is there a problem?”
“I want things clear between us. I understand you’re not threatening me. You’re coming to me like a man, asking me to help your friends.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not going along with this because of an implied threat.”
“I understand.”
“You know La Eme?”
“Of course.”
“Then you understand why I have no fear.”
La Eme was the Mexican Mafia, so strong in numbers they controlled the drug trade in the southwestern United States and virtually owned the prisons in California and Arizona. They were an existing criminal army within the borders of the U.S.
“I understand.”
Azzara flashed the dimples and stood.
“Man to man, you ask. Man to man, I answer. It’s done. Tell your friends to relax. I’ll talk to my homes. This will never happen again.”
Pike glanced across the street.
“You like the Prius?”
“Love it. It’s important to be environmentally conscious. What do you drive?”
“Jeep.”
“Go green, Mr. Pike. The planet needs love.”
Azzara flashed the dimples, once more offered his hand, then made his way to his car.
One call. Simple. It’s done.
It should have been finished, but wasn’t.
7
When Pike returned to the sandwich shop, the air was warm with a silky inland breeze. The glass people had finished their job, and now a new glass window was in place. A CLOSED sign sat in the door, but Pike saw someone moving inside.
Pike went around to the back entrance. A large fan sat in the door, blowing out. Dru was on her knees by the counter, scrubbing the floor with what looked like a large towel. The two little tables were against the far wall with their chairs upended on top and their legs thrust up like antlers. The shop was heavy with the smell of turpentine. She had probably spent the morning cleaning the floor, and now was trying to scrub away the turpentine.
Pike watched her. She was faced away from him with her butt in the air, bearing down on the towel with both hands. She was barefoot even though the floor had been covered with broken glass that morning. Pike watched the play of her back as she pushed and pulled on the towel, coming up and down on her heels. Her tan was deep. Even the soles of her feet were tanned.
