by phuc
“If they're still molesting kids I can't let that happen,” George said. He took another swig of beer.
“Then call them. But first, call Stacy. Try to see her if you can. Tell her you love her, that you're her friend, and that you're standing beside her. She needs you now."
George sighed and nodded. Talking to Al about this made him feel better. “Yeah, I'll do that. I'll call her today."
“Good man."
George took another swig of beer. “Then I'll see what she thinks about me calling the police."
Alfonso shook his head. “No, you don't want to do that. Don't even tell her you're calling the cops. That might make her defensive. She might either deny anything happened, or she'll tip off her parents and they'll hide all that shit. Then you'll be fucked.
Don't tell her. Just call the cops."
“Yeah, you're right.” George said, nodding. Al was usually right about things like this.
Except in this case.
George called Stacy four hours later. He was still at Alfonso's, and he was completely fucked up now. Getting drunk was the only way he could summon the courage to make the call. Alfonso was sitting beside him in the living room, the windows open to let in the August summer afternoon. Al was well on his way to being sloshed, too.
Alfonso nodded encouragingly at George as he picked up the phone and dialed.
The phone was picked up on the fourth ring by Stacy's father. George asked for Stacy. “You just missed her,” Mr. Temple said, no hint of any sinister quality to his voice at all. “She left this morning for college."
“College?” George felt all the hope and enthusiasm deflating. He didn't know what to say. She hadn't said anything about leaving when they were together yesterday.
“I imagine she'll call us to let us know she arrived safely,” Stacy's father said. “It was such a split-second decision. Her mother and I knew she was contemplating several colleges, but—"
“You mean she's gone? She just picked up and left?” George still couldn't believe what was happening.
Mr. Temple suddenly sounded suspicious. “You a friend of hers?"
“Uh ... yeah,” George said, trying to think of what to say. This had really thrown him for a loop. “Um..."
“You might want to try back later,” Mr. Temple said, his voice strong and stern.
“I'm sure she'll call. Is there a message I can leave for her?"
“N-no,” George stammered. “Thanks.” He hung up.
Alfonso was waiting with bated breath. His eyes were wide with excitement.
“What happened?"
George told him. The two friends talked about it. Alfonso produced a bag of Thai Stick and tapped it into the bowl of a clay pipe. The two friends smoked, trading the pipe back and forth until they were both good and stoned. Alfonso put Black Sabbath's Heaven and Hell album on the turntable. They contemplated what had happened in stoned silence.
Finally, George broke the silence. “I don't know what to do. I just don't know what to do."
“You still thinking of calling the cops?” Alfonso said.
George turned to him. “I don't know."
George never did call the police. And he never heard from, or saw, Stacy Temple ever again. He would talk to John Burke in the weeks ahead, and John would later tell him that Stacy had told him the molestation story, too. John had believed her as well. Had John seen the tape? George would ask. John would nod that, yes, he had. And as the months went by and they started embarking upon their lives in that late fall of 1982 and the spring of 1983, attending college, working jobs, George would think about Stacy and the dark secrets she harbored. And whenever he was alone his thoughts would turn to her and he would beat himself up for not standing up and offering her the love and support she needed when she told him that her parents had used her as a sex toy. And as the months turned to years, other women came into George's life. And as the years went on, some of those women became faded memories.
But Stacy Temple would always remain in his mind.
He always wished he had been man enough to take her in his arms that day and tell her he loved her.
He never forgot her.
And whenever he thought about her, he thought about that day when she had shown him her secret.
And the one thing that George never forgot, the one thing that still stood out in his mind, was the way her voice had changed when she had tried to rape him. How deep it got.
And the expression on her face ... her body language.
As if she were a different person.
Chapter 1
September 10, 1996, 11:33 p.m.
Los Angeles, CA
When Detective Daryl Garcia and his partner Detective Steve Howe entered the shabbily furnished apartment in East Los Angeles off Briar Avenue, he knew that they would find what they were looking for. And find it they did.
The man who opened the door for them was Rudy “Psycho” Montego, a nineteen-year-old member of the Los Compadres Mafia street gang, one of the most feared and notorious gangs in East Los Angeles. Rudy stood at the door shirtless, clad only in a pair of long baggy shorts, a pair of tennis shoes and white tube socks that went up to his knees. If you're going to wear socks all the way to your knees while wearing a pair of shorts that go down to your shins, what was the fucking point?
Rudy nodded as he opened the door. He had called “who is it?” at the sound of their knocks and opened the door immediately after Daryl and Steve identified themselves. Rudy knew better. He may be a gang member, but he wasn't entirely stupid.
“Was’ up, homes?” He asked, assuming a stance of normality. Daryl and Steve had known Rudy for the last three years; the last time they had busted him was for public intoxication and carrying a concealed weapon. Rudy stepped aside as Daryl and Steve walked into the apartment and noticed that he wasn't alone.
Another male gang member was lounging on the worn, tattered sofa in the tiny living room. This gang member was small in stature and physically resembled Rudy; slight build, shaved head, tan skin, wearing nothing but baggy shorts and tennis shoes.
Both men sported numerous tattoos on their arms, chest, and back. The man on the sofa looked younger, probably no older than sixteen. It didn't matter though; at sixteen the kid was already a lost cause.
Steve closed the door behind them and Daryl faced the two men. Rudy had retreated back toward the sofa but hadn't taken a seat. His friend remained seated, a bored look on his face. Daryl nodded at the younger gang member. “What's your name?"
“Flaco,” he answered.
“What's your real name?"
The kid grinned. “Frankie."
“Frankie, I want you to get off the sofa slowly and get on your knees and face the sofa with your hands behind your head."
Frankie threw his hands up in an exasperated manner. “Aw man, what I do now?
Jesus Christ!"
Daryl had his hand on the butt of his gun and he was tense. He felt Steve beside him, just as tense. It was just the two of them in this apartment and they didn't know if there were any other homeboys hiding in the back bedroom. They had to get these two in custody as soon as possible. “It's just for our safety while we talk. Come on now."
Frankie looked at Rudy, as if getting confirmation to comply. Steve motioned at Rudy. “You too, Rudy,” Steve said. “Hands behind your head and on your knees please."
“Man, you can talk to us like this,” Rudy said, arms out at his side, trying to reason with the two officers.
“Rudy...” Daryl warned, putting an inflection of menace in his voice. His hand was on the butt of the gun now, ready to pull his weapon.
The four men stood there, a Mexican standoff. Finally Rudy threw his hands up, placed them behind his head and turned around, getting on his knees. Frankie did the same. Daryl and Steve moved forward, Daryl cuffing Rudy while Steve cuffed Frankie.
Steve helped Frankie up and walked him over to Rudy, motioning for him to get on his knees beside the older
gang member. When both gang members were handcuffed and on the floor, Daryl motioned for Steve to check the rear of the apartment. Gun drawn, Steve inched down the short hallway to the rear of the apartment while Daryl covered him and kept an eye on the gang members. A moment later Steve came back. “Clear,” he said.
“Okay.” Daryl didn't reholster his gun. He crossed in front of the gang members, drew the makeshift coffee table over and sat on it, facing them. Steve stood behind the gang members, his gun trained on them. “You know why we're here, don't you Rudy?"
Rudy feigned toughness, his chest thrown out, a snarl on his face. “Why the fuck should I care?"
Daryl backhanded him suddenly and ferociously. The force of the blow rocked Rudy's head back and he almost toppled into Frankie, who was suddenly looking scared.
Before Rudy could gain his senses, Daryl grabbed him by the throat and sat him back up straight. He brought the gun up to Rudy's face, which was rapidly turning deep red. “I'll ask you one more time and I don't want to hear any more smart-assed answers. You know why we're here, don't you Rudy?"
Rudy opened his mouth as if to answer, then closed it. His eyes flicked to Daryl's, then down to the floor as if trying to find an escape route. He mumbled unintelligibly.
“What?” Daryl asked, leaning forward, gun still trained on Rudy's face.
“I said, no,” Rudy said, softly. He glanced up at Daryl then back down at the floor again. The right side of his face, from just below his right eye down to his jawline, was a crimson red from Daryl's blow.
“No,” Daryl repeated, gaze still trained on Rudy. The gang member managed another glance at Daryl's face and averted his eyes again, as if afraid of something. It was the behavior of a guilty man.
“Well let me tell you something, mister macho-fucking gangster,” Daryl whispered, still training the gun on Rudy's face. “I think you know why we're here tonight.
I think you very well know why because you're behaving like a guilty man, señor. A very guilty man."
This seemed to snap Rudy out of his self-incriminating behavior. “But I didn't do anything, man! What the hell—"
“Didn't do anything, huh?” Daryl glanced up at Steve who was standing behind the gangsters with his piece trained on them. “Steve, why don't you tell these two young worthless pieces of shit what brought us into their pathetic lives today."
“Forty minutes ago there was a drive-by shooting off Lancaster Drive and Alameda,” Steve said, his voice a monotone, as if he had recited similar crime statistics before. “Two suspects with descriptions matching yours drove by in an old Camaro and fired at a group of kids playing in the front yard of a house. One of the shots went through the window of one of the houses and killed a five-year old girl instantly. None of the targets of the shooting were hit.” He smiled sickly. “None of the targets were even gang members."
“Yeah...” Rudy exclaimed. Daryl could almost imagine what the gang member was about to say before Rudy thought wisely and shut his trap. Yeah, so fucking what?
Instead his voice trailed off and he lapsed into silence.
“Yeah,” Daryl resumed, picking up where Steve left off. “Strange that none of the targets were gang members. We know that area is not your territory, it's Tortilla Flats turf, but we found it ironic that the border to your territory is only six blocks away. And we found it an odd coincidence that witness descriptions of both the cowards that committed this act, and the vehicle they were in, match you and your friend to a T."
Now Rudy looked nervous. He glanced quickly at Frankie, who was looking like he was going to pass out. Rudy licked his lips and tried to weasel out of it again. “Listen, man, it wasn't me. My brother had my car tonight. He and his friend Carlos were out cruising earlier and—"
“I find that it's an odd coincidence as well that our star witness said that the shooter had a large tattoo of a woman over his right chest,” Daryl said. “A woman with long, flowing black hair. Just like yours.” He motioned toward Rudy's tattooed chest and grinned. “Exactly like yours."
Rudy stammered, as if his mouth was ahead of his brain in coming up with an excuse. Daryl reached into his inner coat pocket and extracted a handgun. He reholstered his own police issue nine-millimeter and held the gun he pulled out of his inner pocket.
He brandished it for the two gangsters. “See this? This is an Interarms Firestar Plus nine millimeter with a thirteen round magazine. A shitty little gun in my opinion, but then a bunch of these were stolen during shipment while on their way to a gun shop in Van Nuys. This is one I acquired a few years ago from a gun dealer. The serial number has been filed away from the barrel and it's untraceable.” He smiled and pulled the slide back on the weapon, chambering a round. “If you don't do what I tell you to do, my fingerprints won't be on this gun at all. But yours will."
Rudy opened his mouth to protest. “Wait, man, you don't know what's happening.
Listen—"
“I'll listen,” Daryl said, leveling the barrel of the gun at Rudy's face. “Tell me where you were forty minutes ago, Rudy."
“Wh-wh-we were here, man!” Rudy exclaimed, his breathing coming fast and heavy. He turned to Frankie, who had lost all the color in his face. “Weren't we, Frankie?
We were here the whole time watching TV and drinking some brews."
Steve spoke up from behind them. “That's really interesting, considering there aren't any empty cans or bottles to be seen in this pig sty."
Rudy began to protest again, and now Daryl brought the barrel of the gun closer to Rudy's face. “Where were you forty minutes ago, Rudy?” His tone was direct and commanding.
“I-I-I—” Rudy stammered.
Daryl pushed the barrel of the gun to Rudy's mouth, gently prodding it open. Rudy made a muffled mmmppphhh sound as Daryl pushed the barrel of the gun deep into Rudy's mouth. “Now we can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way. The hard way is going to be a mess, for everyone involved. We'll have to fill out more fucking paperwork and Steve will have to waste a bullet on your friend Frankie. But mostly it's going to be a mess for the crew that will have to come in here and clean your brains off the walls. Your mother might cry over you and I really don't care, but if you have a family that gives a shit about you it'll be harder on them. Please don't make me resort to putting down in my report that I tried to stop you from blowing your brains out and failed, only to have Frankie here lunge at us, resulting in us killing him too. It won't be worth it.” He leaned forward and smiled. “So. What do you say we do this the easy way, Rudy? Tell us where you were forty minutes ago and I promise that if you do it'll be easy on you."
The stench of urine invaded the room, and Daryl glanced to Frankie and grinned.
The young gang member was squirmy on his knees, the crotch of his dark baggy shorts now a darker stain. He chuckled. “Come on, Rudy. Tell us what we want to know before your friend here shits his pants."
Rudy nodded, sweat running down his face. Daryl eased the gun slowly out of Rudy's mouth, letting the barrel kiss his lips. Rudy stammered. “I-I ... w-w-we did it,” he blurted.
“Oh my God,” Frankie murmured, and Daryl smiled. He had cracked these two little sociopaths. As tough as they liked to make themselves out to be, they would die for their homies. When faced with Mr. Death they were pussies.
“Are you saying that you and your friend Frankie were involved in the drive-by shooting I just mentioned?” Daryl asked, an inflection of sarcasm creeping into his voice.
Rudy nodded, his face sweaty and tear stained. He looked like a little bald baby for a minute, crying and shaking. “Y-yes ... I-I—did it,” he said, breathing heavily. “We drove by and did it, me and Frankie, we did it."
“Fuck you, pendejo!” Frankie yelled. “Just shut the fuck up, you shot them, you did it!"
Daryl looked up at Steve and smiled. Frankie yelled at Rudy, telling him that he was a pendejo, a hoto for telling the goddamned pigs and ratting on them like that, that it was T-Flats they had
shot at, not some stupid little kids like these pigs said it was and—
Daryl pulled the gun away from Rudy's face and replaced it within his jacket pocket. “Thank you for being honest with us, Rudy. But now there's one more thing we need to get squared away before we head down to the station."
“Okay,” Rudy said, sniffling. His eyes were cast down toward the floor again.
Daryl rose to his feet, standing over the two gangsters with a smug look on his face. He turned to Steve, who had replaced his own firearm, and nodded.
Rudy didn't have time to see the foot Daryl lashed out at him. The kick connected solidly with Rudy's ribs, doubling him forward into the fist Daryl smashed into his face, snapping his head back. Steve grabbed Frankie from behind the neck and hauled him up to his feet as the young gangbanger's legs began kicking wildly. Steve threw Frankie onto the coffee table, splitting it in two. He was on the young gangbanger in an instant, pummeling him with his fists as Daryl hauled Rudy up by the throat and slammed him into the wall. “What happened is that we had to subdue you and Frankie by force because you were resisting arrest. Got me?” And he slammed Rudy back into the wall to emphasize his point. Rudy nodded, crying and spitting up blood.
“Good.” Daryl threw Rudy back down on the floor as Steve hauled Frankie to his feet. Frankie's face was bloody and now he was crying.
“One more thing,” Daryl said, pulling the unregistered nine-millimeter out of his inner coat pocket. He pulled out the magazine, which he placed on the dusty TV, and ejected the lone cartridge from the chamber. Then he wiped it down with a white handkerchief Steve handed him. With the gun encased completely in the handkerchief, he stepped behind Rudy and put the gun in Rudy's hands, which were still handcuffed behind his back. “Here. Grab this and get a good hold of it.” As he did this, Steve stepped in front of him with his gun drawn, barrel sighting down on Rudy's left eye.
This time, Rudy was the one who pissed his pants.
