She hates it. She wants out.
“Let’s go,” she says, and they duck around a corner, where Hector hotwires a Prius and drives the speed limit back to Huntington Park. Lola hates that he is letting her ride in silence out of respect that comes too late. She hates what she knows is coming for him. And for her.
The sun peeks over the eastern edge of Los Angeles, illuminating the alley outside the storage facility. Lola has been waiting here for an hour, watching dark turn to dawn. The swirls of liquid beneath her Pumas could be anything from car wash runoff to blood. She thinks again of the similar stink of the Venice alley. She wishes she had a cigarette, not that she has ever smoked, so that she could look like she has a reason to be here, waiting. But timing, in this instance, is crucial. She can’t go inside until she gets the okay.
So she waits. This section of Huntington Park is industrial. Warehouses stretch up to the next block, which is home to a car wash and a greasy spoon diner. Leaning against the storage facility’s brick wall, Lola can hear the beginning of the barrio’s Monday morning rumbles—televisions blaring with bad news, a child’s bark of laughter, a bicycle skidding over a pothole that will never be fixed. The sun burns pale pink and yellow toward the east, a bastion of safety on the rise that will be gone again in twelve hours. Gone, too, will be the innocent sounds of the inner city waking up to some sort of sick hope for a new day. Darkness will replace that hope with loud pops that might be vehicles backfiring, or gunshots. There are always screams, usually female, that go ignored. People turn up their televisions so the sounds of game shows and canned laughter emanate from their flimsy windows, shit glass behind rusted bars, muting everything else.
When she was young, Lola took refuge in alleys. Lola’s mother didn’t call her home for dinner or homework. Maria called her home only if she had a man waiting to hand over some more bad white powder she needed Lola to “work for.” But here, in shadows like these, Lola would hide from the dark things that happened in her mother’s own bright kitchen. She talked to strangers—none of them ever did the harm television told her they would. That harm came from within her own home, where, night after night, she didn’t want to go, and where she feared falling asleep—her mother considering it some kind of mercy to bring a man into her daughter’s bedroom for pleasure after Lola’s eyes shut. As if a man on top of her wouldn’t wake Lola. But in her mother’s mind, it was the most kindness she could do for her daughter. Maria needed her drugs. Maria didn’t have cash—she had Lola.
“They’re ready,” Jorge says. He is fast, appearing on the doorstep where before there was nothing. But, as the sun appears, Lola wants just one more minute out here.
“Okay,” she says, then, “How’s Yolanda?”
Jorge didn’t expect the question. Sweat drenches his forehead, blood dots his wife-beater like so many imperfect polka dots. His mind is not on his home life, because they met here first thing after everyone made their own way back from the fucked-up drop.
“She’s good,” Jorge says.
“Thought you told her you had to play the field,” Lola says.
Jorge laughs. “Lola, you know that was bullshit.”
Lola smiles, feeling the warmth of Jorge confiding in her when he’d lied to the men in the gang.
“Even if I wanted to cheat, Yolanda don’t trust me to leave the house without knowing where I’m going and when I’ll be back. I say I’m going to the store, she asks for a receipt. With one of those time stamp things. Movie, same thing. She don’t trust nobody. Some of those talk shows say that can kill a relationship.”
In this case, Lola thinks, the television is right.
“So you’re not? With some other girl?”
“Fuck no, Lola,” Jorge says. “Yolanda’d cut off my dick and feed it to my dog.”
“She say that?”
“In those very fucking words. And she keeps her word,” he continues, and the way he says that last part, Lola can tell Yolanda’s dependability has endeared her to Jorge.
Lola would say the same for herself. Three years ago, the cops picked up Jorge as a person of interest in a stickup the Crenshaw Six (the Crenshaw Four at the time) had pulled the night before. A jilted banger from the victim’s crew had described Jorge, given a partial plate even, that led back to Jorge’s father’s shop. Carlos hadn’t asked Lola where she was going that day. He probably thought she was headed for the library. Instead, she made the trek to the police station in Bell, the next neighborhood over from Huntington Park. She had told the desk sergeant at the tidy office that she was there to speak to the detectives who had picked up Jorge Ramos. She had waited with her bag on her knees, her two hands resting atop it, her fingers fiddling with nothing to do. She had behaved like an innocent because she was nervous. Back then, Carlos barely let her play lookout. But when the detectives sat her down at their metal desks and offered her coffee, she told them with tears in her eyes that Jorge was her man, and that he had been with her all night. He had no record, how could they do this? And whether or not the cops believed her, the fact that Jorge wasn’t in the system, coupled with the victim of this particular crime—a drug-dealing parasite they had better things to do than protect—meant Jorge was out in time for lunch with Lola. She hadn’t saved his ass, but she had prodded the cops to remember they shouldn’t waste their time on gangs sticking up gangs, especially when no bodies dropped.
After tacos at a Bell bodega they both agreed weren’t as good as any in Huntington Park, Lola and Jorge had returned to their own neighborhood, she to Carlos, him to Yolanda. Carlos had heard Jorge was out, but neither Lola nor Jorge ever mentioned how this came to pass.
Now, in this stinking home alley, Lola can’t remember if she already had it in her head what was going to happen later. Thinking of Jorge, of how he will always be loyal to her, she has forgotten why she is here. But the forgetting has made her ready.
Jorge holds open the streaked glass door for her, then remembers she hates that and mutters, “Sorry.” She holds up a hand to let him know it’s nothing. Then she is inside.
A long, dark hallway leads Lola to Darrel’s girl. Jorge’s uncle owns this place, and he’s agreed to let the Crenshaw Six use it on occasion only because the economic meltdown of 2008 fucked him. The Crenshaw Six had planned to bring both Darrel’s girl and Mr. X’s courier here, but that didn’t work out. Lola thinks now that Garcia should throw him a few extra bucks to put a lightbulb or two up in this hallway.
Then she thinks of the paper that was supposed to be two million in cash and how they could have lit the entirety of Huntington Park. Now, El Coleccionista will have her guts and her pain and her screams. Unless she can do what she came here to do.
After a few turns, winding through neat grids of metal roll-up doors, Lola finds the number she’s looking for—“2348.” She knocks twice, a simple code so no one will forget it. Three seconds and the door rolls up like a flimsy window blind, revealing Garcia.
Lola sees Darrel’s girl, awake now, her wrists bound with zip ties, sitting in a straight metal folding chair. It is not the only chair in the room. Others are folded and stowed in the corners, along with a matching table, as if the Crenshaw Six uses this facility for weekly poker games. In truth, the chair came in a set Garcia bought at Target. Like hot dog buns or potato chips, you can’t buy just one metal folding chair.
Garcia’s cell rings, and he answers with a barked, “Yeah.” Instantly, his tone changes. “Yes, yes I understand.”
When he hangs up, he looks to Lola, who knows that was El Coleccionista, calling with a grace period. The cartel wants to punish the Crenshaw Six by taking Lola’s life, but they also want their money back. If the Crenshaw Six can come up with the four million they lost at the fucked-up drop, maybe Lola will escape this whole debacle with her life.
“Cartel leader wants to meet with the leader of the gang that fucked up this drop. Before they take you.”
“Guess that fucking sucks.”
“Guess so.�
�
“How much time?” she asks Garcia.
“Till Thursday. Seventy-two hours. Meet the leader, give over the stuff, or…”
Seventy-two hours to live. Lola has never thought of a bucket list before. The term seemed too innocent, too white, too much for big dreamers. She thinks she might like to go on a roller coaster again. But is that it? Then she thinks of Maria Vasquez, of making sure her mother has food on the table, that she’ll rid her refrigerator of expired food instead of eating it, and now Lola’s pissed that she can’t even think about her own death without her mother creeping in like a slithering disease.
Lola takes a single step toward Darrel’s girl, whose name, the soldiers have found out, is Mila. When Lola looks back, Garcia has disappeared, and the rolling door slaps shut.
She is alone with Darrel’s girl.
The dried blood on the woman’s lip has browned. Garcia and Jorge have been in here with her a good two hours, and they have done their jobs—roughing Mila up without hurting her. They have played bad cop. As opposed to Marcos, who returned from prison a sociopath and would have actually been bad cop.
“Hi,” Lola says to Darrel’s girl, her voice tiny, shy.
Mila looks at her, chapped lips curled in a snarl. Her mascara has smudged, but Lola doesn’t know the source—sweat or tears. Her hair, clearer in the bare bulb’s light, is not cobalt, but a wild tangle of dark reddish brown, flying loose from her head. Her clothes, the black miniskirt and red camisole, rest on her lithe body, askew. But Lola knows it would take only a little hot water and a cloth to make Mila look like a million bucks again. She is that kind of woman—put-together pretty even in her darkest hour. Still, Lola feels the disappointment in her chest—she liked the Mila she saw, drinking sweet tea with Darrel’s mother in the light, then cat-walking in the dark.
“I brought you some water,” Lola says, retrieving a bottle from her cargo pants pocket.
The bound woman can’t take it, of course, so Lola twists the cap and waits for Mila to open her mouth. She will. She is human. She needs water. She needs Lola.
It takes five minutes, by Lola’s watch, for Mila’s pride to crumble and her mouth to open wide. In that time, Lola doesn’t move from her position over the metal folding chair, water bottle poised like a gun, uncapped, and Lola ready to pull the trigger.
But it’s not a gun, because Lola’s job is to play good cop.
Lola watches the clear liquid trickle into Mila’s open mouth. When a few drops spill out the side, Mila cries out, sad, but Lola shushes her.
“It’s okay,” she says, still soft and shy, looking at her feet. “I have another bottle.”
“Okay,” Mila says, and Lola feels the relief in her voice even before she leans her tangle of auburn hair against Lola’s exposed midriff. Lola feels the stick of day-old hairspray against her skin, and Mila stays there, glued by what Lola is certain is a higher-end version of Aqua Net.
When Mila has had enough water, Lola pulls up another metal chair. She sits, putting herself on Mila’s level.
“Darrel loves you,” Lola offers after clearing her throat. She tries to steady her voice. If Mila knows her as anything, it is the lookout, a low position in any gang.
Darrel’s girl is silent for a few beats, but then she speaks, her voice a low whisper, as if she wants to talk to Lola but is afraid whoever roughed her up might be listening. She doesn’t fear Lola, because in Mila’s mind, they are equals. Women in a man’s world. The realization gives Lola hope. If Mila discounts her, Lola might be able to get Mila out of this room alive, despite the Crenshaw Six’s original plan of torture and death. The original plan is done. Now, the plan is for Lola to live.
“Yes,” Mila says.
“Fuckin’ dangerous. A man like that loving you.” Lola’s voice gains momentum.
“It was a lot more dangerous being out on the streets. I was an addict,” Mila says, and Lola guesses from the way she talks she’s just another girl from the suburbs gone wrong. Otherwise, she’d have been “hooked” or “fucked.”
“Don’t know about that. Lot safer, being nobody,” Lola says.
“Is that who you are?” Mila asks, and Lola knows it’s not a challenge. Mila has lowered her voice, trying to take Lola into her confidence.
“Tell me about the paper,” Lola continues.
“What paper?”
Lola shakes her head in disappointment. “They fuckin’ told me you were gonna do this.”
“Do what?”
“Deny you knew someone put paper up in that gym bag. Was supposed to be cash.”
“I don’t know…” Mila says.
Lola lowers her head into her hands. “I told them you would talk to me. You would tell me the truth.”
“I am.”
“Fuck,” Lola stands and heads for the door. She puts her hands to her temples, a gesture of despair that can be read across cultural and economic divides.
“Wait!” Mila calls out. “I don’t know anything about any paper. I saw Darrel put the cash in the bag.”
“And it just turned to paper like fucking that?”
“He put the money in the bag at the house. After that, I don’t know what happened.”
“How much money?” Lola says, returning to her place like a preschooler finally engaged in storytime. She needs to test Mila.
“I don’t know. A hundred thousand, maybe.”
Lola levels her eyes at Mila. She doesn’t have to say anything for Mila to admit her lie. Maybe Darrel’s girl was testing her, too.
“Okay…I knew it was two million.” Mila pauses, then offers in the shy, hesitant tone Lola used at the beginning of their conversation, “Look, I’ve never done this before.”
“What? Dropped cash for Darrel?” Lola asks, knowing the answer. Mila has never dropped cash for Darrel. Mila shouldn’t be here. She is an innocent. The thought makes Lola taste the salt and bile that comes before sick in her throat.
“No. He wouldn’t let me. He thought it was too dangerous.”
“Maybe you should have listened.”
“Maybe,” Mila says. “It’s just…I got tired of depending on him for every need. Of asking for permission every time I saw a pair of shoes I liked. I never wanted to be a trophy wife. That’s what my dad used to call it, a woman who lived off her husband.”
“You and Darrel married?”
“No. Sort of. Not yet. We had talked about it.”
“Talk means shit.”
“I know.”
“Okay. You didn’t want your man keeping you. So what did you want?”
“Three years ago, I was an econ major at UCLA. A semester away from graduating. But I went to too many parties, did too much coke, my dad stopped paying my tuition.”
Lola’s heard the story before, straight out of an after-school special meant to scare. “But you’re clean now.”
“Because of Darrel. He saved my life. I’m not leaving him.”
“You should go back to school.”
“Darrel says so, too.” Mila sighs. For the first time, Lola sees the girl beneath the thick makeup lines, the grown-up hair. Mila’s older than the meth head waif who couriered for the other supplier, but not by much.
“He’s a smart man, Darrel. You should listen to him.”
“Maybe,” Mila says. “If…”
“If what?”
“If you let me out of here.”
“Tell me where that two million is, I’ll have ’em give you a hot meal and cab fare home.”
“But I’ve seen faces. That man, Garcia—”
“No secret he’s a banger.”
“Still…isn’t that how it works? He thinks I’ll tell Darrel who took me, even if I won’t, even if I swear—”
“You ever think maybe Garcia wants to get caught?”
Mila stops, and Lola feels her own stomach shrink up and her heart catch, and all the nausea that she has heard comes with talking to someone you know is already dead rises to her throat. Mila d
oesn’t know where that two million in cash is. Now that Mila has told them that the money does, in fact, exist, and that Darrel wasn’t just planning to rip off his new supplier, Mila is no use to them. Still, Lola has to try. It is her job.
“Why would he want to get caught?”
“Credit.”
“For what?”
“For killing Darrel’s girl.”
Mila works at the dried blood with her tongue, using the scab forming there as a pacifier.
“I shouldn’t have asked Darrel to let me do the drop,” Mila says.
“You asked him?”
“He said he’d let me do it, to get me off his back.”
Lola shifts her weight back in her chair. She needs a few seconds to think. Darrel King, who runs South Central, lets his lovable babe of an ex-econ major girlfriend do a two-million-dollar drop with nothing but plain white paper for backup.
Again, Lola thinks, shit does not add up.
“Who was Darrel’s new supplier?” Lola asks.
“I never met him.”
Lola sighs again.
“I mean, I saw him—”
Now Lola sits up.
“White, blond hair, blue eyes, some sort of old English name I’d never heard before.”
Lola longs for a little notepad to write these facts down. Leads, the cops call them. Even without a notepad, Lola knows Mila’s describing the WASP behind the wheel of the Chrysler. Mr. X.
“Where’d he get that much stuff, if it wasn’t coming from the cartel?”
Mila looks at Lola with disbelief. “You mean you don’t know?”
Lola doesn’t answer, because she never answers a question when she does not, in fact, know.
“Afghanistan,” Mila says. “It’s where the high-end heroin comes from now. The kind they have at raves and hedge-fund parties. None of this blue-collar stuff the cartel peddles.”
Lola feels a surge in her stomach, more anger than pity now, for this white-collar bitch who just insulted her kind. She is happy for the change. It gives her the cold she needs to do what she has to do.
“Least the cartel’s not funding terrorists,” Lola says. She has learned a great deal from CNN, which she uses as background noise when she’s doing other things—cooking, folding, thinking, fucking.
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