by Buck Sanders
She had cried out in shock upon seeing the obvious physical evidence of his fate since seeing her, particularly the broad strap of white across his nose.
“Mercy,” he nodded, a chilling deadness in his voice. Lucius faded against the wall; for all intents he was not present. And Slayton had instructed that the observation room remain empty.
She fidgeted in the chair, wringing her hands, then looking up and meeting his eyes with a whipped expression.
“I guess if I jumped up and ran into your arms and said I was glad you’re alright”—she swallowed unnecessarily and gave a weak little shrug—“that you might not buy it. Jesus Christ, Ben, I—you don’t know how sorry I am. Everything went sideways, everything got screwed up. I’m not doing this very well, am I?” Tears began to run down her face, and she made only a token attempt to wipe them away.
Slayton stood as rigidly as a column of basalt. “Let’s have the story first,” he said. “From before the warehouse.”
She sniffed. She had had a lot of time to think about what she had to tell him.
“The gang had you made as soon as you hit the barrio. They didn’t know who you were, but they had instructions to find Kiko and squeeze him until he led them to you. He wasn’t supposed to get killed; that’s when I first saw things were going bad. Ortiz says Kiko’s death was an accident—his guys were really wired up for action, and it got out of hand.”
“You might say that, considering the bastards stabbed an essentially blameless man thirteen or fourteen times. Happens all the time in L.A. Nobody gives a damn about a derelict, right?” Slayton’s tone was icy, his eyes as passionless as steel ball bearings.
“Oh, Ben, I’m so goddam sorry. I didn’t want to hurt poor Kiko…”
“Or poor Ben.”
“You don’t understand!” she screamed at him, standing up. Her depleted reserves of terror and remorse gave way to healthy anger, bright and piercing.
“You don’t understand! You don’t know what it’s like down there, how people have to live! You don’t know anything about the way Chicanos do things! You don’t give a damn—you don’t have to give a damn! Nobody who doesn’t have to live like a cockroach in a place like that understands!” She slammed her fist down on the desk with a thump. “I was Ortiz’s woman,” she said, gilding the term with disgust. “I ran away from him, embarrassed him in front of the gang; you don’t do that. He’s the machín, and you don’t do it to him. I went with him for a kick, to try to power-play my way out of the ghetto, and all I found was a way to sink deeper. I got to meet the top guy once, I went to bed with him once, and that was the end of it. Nothing.”
She dug a cigarette out of a worried pack and lit it with a trembling hand. “Until I get this message from him. Gang members are everywhere, like informers, for him, and Ortiz panicked when Kiko was killed. Manuelo Paz was one of the guys involved in the stabbing, and he was Ortiz’s right hand. Ortiz was told everything would be cool. It took about five minutes to get a message to me, in the El Condor, while you were blowing Paz’s Chevy away in the parking lot.” The long drag she took on her cigarette only accented the funereal quiet in the room, the benign hostility of the men across from her.
“I caught a ride into L.A. They promised me a lot of money if I could lead you to them without a lot of fuss. I thought it would be easy—just lead you to the warehouse, you know? It was all set up, all I had to do was phone them and they’d find you. But then you told me I had been followed—that was the first thing that made me nervous. Then you offered to help me lay low. I was so used to dealing with whore mentalities I couldn’t even accept a kindness.”
“Not true,” Slayton said. “You were just a way to get to them, at that point.”
“But the money they offered me meant I could get out of here, start over someplace else. I had to make it important. I didn’t know anything about you. It started backfiring in my face. By the time we got to the warehouse I wanted out, but I didn’t know how to do it, and wanted to stick with at least one decision I’d made. I felt like hell, I felt worse than trash—but by then it was almost over.”
“You’ll pardon me if I don’t burst into tears,” he came back, coldly.
“You idiot!” she shouted again. “I didn’t have to go to that warehouse with you! I was scared of Ortiz. I thought that I could convince him to let you go, or at least not to hurt you… but he had a score to settle. He beat me. Nasty kind of arm-twisting. Slapped me around—told me that I had been bought by the Starshine people and given back to him as a present for delivering you. He… he beat me and raped me in the warehouse… just tore my pants off and pounded his way in. I suppose I’m lucky he didn’t use his blade on me. He spit in my face, called me a slut and a pig and a cuachalota. I thought he was going to throw me to the gang. But he threw me the car keys and told me to get the hell out of the barrio, for good, or the gang would cut me up. They kicked me out. I was so crazy by then I just went home to cry and sleep. Before I could even hit the pillow, Lucius picked me up. I felt safer sleeping here, anyway.” She sniffled loudly.
“How about an alternate scenario,” said Slayton. “You found out about their interest in me and decided to play it for whatever it might be worth, to get out of the barrio. It explodes in your face when you discover you don’t have the clout you thought you had, so you go back to the one place where both the gang and the Department knows you live, and wait to see who shows up first. You come back when Lucius tails you, pretend terror of the gang to hide out under the wing of protective custody, and feed me this bullshit story about how much you really cared all along. How close is that?”
“I told you you didn’t understand. I don’t want anybody’s forgiveness. But I’m glad you’re alive, Ben.”
The look in her eyes had been genuine when he came through the door; Slayton had known it and felt it. But there was no sympathy left in him. She was honestly concerned for him, and he dared not feel any similar emotion.
“Give me one good reason, Mercy,” he said, “why I shouldn’t have Lucius bust the hell out of you right now.”
Her eyes flashed with hurt and indignation. “We’re all whores, aren’t we, Ben? This guy whores for the Feds. I whore for money. And you whore for the upper hand, for information that isn’t worth a shit, just to power-trip. You’re just like Ortiz—the big frog in the little pond. I hope to god I’m wrong. But since reasons—hard little facts you can file—are the only thing you give a damn about”—her eyes were watering up again—“I’ll give you three, not one. Charity from a whore—look out, Ben. Suspect it. Slap the truth out of me if you don’t buy it.”
She pinched her eyes. She was aware of the tears shining from her cheeks, and smacked the table again. The ashtray flipped over and scattered ashes and butts all over the smudged surface. Then she locked onto his eyes again.
“Ortiz is hiding out in North Hollywood at the Marina Apartments, number 206. He’s alone. Manuelo Paz is overlording the gang down in the barrio. He’s easy enough to find. And the name of the man you want is Brian Hill. You’ll find him overseeing his porno film operation in two other apartments at the Marina.” Her voice seemed then to lose all tone; her face, all color. She seemed drained, even as Slayton had been depleted by violence.
“We let her make the calls, Ben,” Lucius said. “We’ve got tapes. I don’t think it’s a scam.”
Slayton turned to him. “Get men down to the barrio and pick up Paz. Charge him with first degree murder. You’re going with me out to the Marina today. I want backups in case something blows up, but I want them far behind us and inconspicuous. If we don’t call them, I’d just as soon they catch lunch at an In-and-Out somewhere.”
“Right,” nodded Lucius.
“Now,” Slayton said, and Lucius scampered out the door. It sighed shut on its hydraulic closer, reminding Slayton of the Starshine warehouse.
“It appears we don’t require further help from you on any score, Mercy,” he said. “We don’t need you for testi
mony; I was there where Paz and his hyena pack killed Kiko. And I’m a number-one witness for my own face job. It looks like it’s up to me what happens to you.”
“Ben—oh, forget it,” she said, defeated. “I give. You win. Christ. I screwed up, I admit it. My judgements aren’t infallible, like yours, and they aren’t well-informed. I tried to cover my own ass first, is that so bad? That time we spent in your room—that wasn’t a fakeout. Do you… can you possibly believe that I didn’t have second thoughts, that I didn’t start to feel rotten about the whole business?” She had a Kleenex in her hands and had wrung it to pieces. “Oh, godammit, I’m going to cry again.”
“I don’t know, Mercy,” he said finally, feelings trying to wash over him from inside. “I believe what you say. But you forgot one thing.”
“What? I gave a damn about you, Ben, I did! I wasn’t just playing a part to suck you into it!”
“Yeah. But you went ahead and sucked me into it anyway. Afterward.” He turned on his heel and left the room.
16
“How do you even know they’re in there?” Lucius asked, pointing at a pair of second-floor apartments. They were milling about by the ice machine at the Marina. Their car was parked five blocks away. Waiting in readiness were three full radio units with three men each. The L.A.P.D. could be buzzed in in seconds if extra manpower was required.
“Those are the only two connected apartments that also have all the curtains drawn. And somebody is inside 206, watching television.” He was not interested in the mop-up. He wanted Ortiz and Hill. “To the manager’s office,” he indicated.
The manager, a portly but pleasant man named Moe Dowling, was somewhat aghast at being confronted by Federal agents on a dull Sunday morning, but wanted to cooperate with the government above all else. No, of course he had no idea what might be going on inside of his building—after all, he was only the manager.
Normally, Slayton knew, in L.A. the first question would have been Are you a member of the Los Angeles Police Department or are you affiliated with any law enforcement agency? It was the litany of every prostitute and hustler and pimp in the city, designed to keep them from entrapment. Since Moe Dowling did not instantly protest innocence, Slayton was fairly sure he had nothing to do with Brian Hill, and Dowling was thereafter more than happy to permit use of his private office telephone. Slayton punched in 206. It rang twice before it was picked up.
“Ortiz?”
“Yeah.” The voice was sullen and bored.
“Mr. Hill wants to see you.”
“Why?”
“Remember the little set-up you saw upstairs? The cameras, the lights?” Even behind blackout curtains in the daylight; Slayton could see high-intensity shooting lights being moved around in the closed-off double apartment, and it was logical to assume Ortiz had been up there as well.
“Yeah.”
“Mr. Hill needs another dude for a scene he just improvised. Make you some pocket cash. Interested?”
“Yeah. I gotta get out of this room before I go berserk. Do I get to make it with a quinto? Be in the vistas?”
“The virgin we can’t promise, but the movies we can, kid. Comb your hair and show up with a hard-on in five minutes.”
“Right.” Click.
Slayton turned to Lucius. “Let’s go.”
They flattened themselves on opposite sides of the door to 206. True to form for a vato, Ortiz spent ten minutes making sure his hair was in the correct form. Lucius had his gun out. Slayton’s .45 remained in the shoulder holster. He placed a gift-wrapped box he had toted with him to the manager’s office on the ground between his feet.
Both men glanced at each other when the multiple locks securing the door were racheted back. The door opened and a nervous-looking Ortiz stepped out, dressed uncharacteristically in Levi’s and a brown workshirt.
Slayton said, “Good afternoon, El Chingón, sir,” and flat-handed Ortiz in the face. The cholo did not even have time to throw up a block. He stumbled backward on rubber knees, and spread across the floor like a clumsy sky diver. Whatever protest he wished to shout was drowned by the breath missing from his lungs, and the nasal blood that was on its way to clogging up his throat.
Slayton was on Ortiz in a second, lifting him off the floor by his shirtfront. He slapped him back and forth across the face to keep him conscious. “Listen to me, you goddam hair-bag. I’m taking you upstairs. You do exactly as I say and I won’t kill you.” Blood was coursing from both nostrils, and Ortiz’s eyes had already gone milky. “Jesus, let’s see if this is broken.” Slayton did a little poking and testing. “Nope. You lucked out, compadre.”
Slayton cocked his fist back and punched Ortiz in the nose as hard as his strength and anger could manage. He let the impact send Ortiz pinwheeling across the room to crash across some junk on a suitcase stand. He lay still, one leg hanging over the toppled stand, breathing in the ragged tempo of blackout.
“It’s broken now,” Slayton whispered to himself, still expressionless, but seething. His guts were a boiling volcano of retribution. He forced his own injuries to sting, to bring the gut hatred up to full power to help him do what he had planned to do. He had to be careful not to shoot over the edge. But certain actions had been justified. His motive was sound, and he knew just how far he might combine the two and still get away with it, legally.
Lucius’s jaw was clenched as though he was choking back bile. “Christ,” he said, but did not protest.
“Prop him up,” said Slayton, bringing a damp washcloth from the bathroom and tossing it to Lucius on his way to the desk telephone. “Clean him off and bring him around now.”
Lucius did not have to tell Slayton what a disaster area he had made of Ortiz’s nose.
Slayton dialed the room numbers given him by Moe Dowling moments before. His voice coarsened into an approximation of Ortiz’s indifferent Hispanic slur. “This is Ortiz. Is Mr. Hill still there?”
“He’s busy, Ortiz, what’s the problem?” Slayton knew that if actual filming was going on up there, there might be upwards of ten people in the room. There would be no way in advance to tell who was Hill, but he could ascertain whether Hill was present
“Tell him Tve gotta see him for a minute. It’s about that whore, Mercy. I gotta show him something—I’ll come up, okay?”
“Wait a minute, man, just—”
“Five minutes! C’mon, man, I’ve been trapped in this box all day. At least let me watch the naked ladies.”
A hand came off the mouthpiece at the other end. “Yeah, he says it’s alright for you to come up and watch. But knock first. Knock three, then wait, then three. Got it?”
“Si, señor,” Slayton said, sarcastically.
He heard a capacious sigh at Ortiz’s stupidity precede the click of the receiver.
“Remember,” Slayton said to a dazed, but conscious Ortiz. “No frills. Or I’ll blow your head into the next county. You got it?” He stuffed the mouth of the .45 into the hollow of Ortiz’s neck; the cholo nodded rapidly, then grimaced in pain because the nodding made his head spin.
Lucius was just around the corner from the door to the first of the connecting apartments. Slayton flattened out at an angle that prevented his being seen from any of the windows. Ortiz wobbled on his feet before the door. Slayton stretched over and knocked three times, waited, and repeated the knocks.
He knew he was not yet finished with Ortiz. He knew the cholo’s mind operated in the cocky way that said an exchange of busted noses was nothing in terms of a stand or a settlement between fighters. If he regained any more consciousness, he would begin to think he had gotten off easily. Basic coward that Ortiz was, he would be the first to make a move if the opportunity presented itself. Ortiz, therefore, was about to become Slayton’s centerpiece effect, and only Slayton knew it.
Someone peeked out through a crack in the blackout curtains. The check was so brief Slayton knew Ortiz had been recognized, and the sounds of the door unlocking followed.
; Slayton knew that, most likely, the actors and crew involved with the sex-film footage inside had nothing to do with the Starshine ring. Hollywood and L.A. comprised a place Uttered with people on the fringes of the legitimate film industry, and porn was big business. He realized the man behind the camera could be a director with a failed feature, or a nonunion guy just grinding out the month’s rent, or a network television dude picking up extra scratch, or a technical victim of one of Hollywood’s nitpicky blacklists. The actors could be anyone, depending on the caliber of the trash being filmed. Anyone from USC coeds to waitresses, from notorious porn studs and easy meat to starry-eyed kids finding themselves on the West Coast without a meal ticket. As screwed up as they might or might not be, in terms of the Starshine incident, they were innocent of what for Slayton had become almost a personal vendetta. Oh, god, he had to be careful! The balance of the investigation hung in the next few seconds, and Ortiz was his “special effect.”
They had successfully dammed the bleeding from Ortiz’s nose. Close inspection would have revealed that his nostrils were stuffed with toilet paper, his nose was still skewed to the left radically, and his eyes had an almost catatonic cast. But the purpose Ortiz was about to serve denied the time required for such a spot check.
The door cracked open and a voice said, “Get your ass in here; don’t just stand there like a dummy!”
Slayton put a hard fist into Ortiz’s shins as he staggered against the door. Ortiz plunged forward, throwing the door wide to immediate cries of protest from within. Before he hit the floor, Slayton and Lucius bounded up and inside. Slayton rolled Ortiz clear with a quick motion of his foot and slammed the door.
They had everyone’s attention in seconds.
