“You was out late,” said Des’ree, trailing off into another of the house’s tiny rooms.
“Workin’ workin’,” returned Frosty.
“Didn’t know all them trees you growin’ grew at night.”
“Trees never stop workin’,” said Frosty. “Just like my momma never stop workin’.”
“But unlike me, their bark ain’t worse than their bite.”
Frosty released a gentle chuckle. “Ladies and gentlemen. She here all week.”
“Hungry?”
“I get somethin’ when I get there.”
“Get where?”
“Bossman calleth.”
“Same fellah you call King Julius?”
“Jus’ Julius. Ain’t nobody call him king.”
“Because there ain’t but one King and that’s the One up in you know wheresville.”
“And you be the queen.”
“And don’t you forget it.” Des’ree reappeared, barely five-feet-tall but wide enough to fill the doorway. She wore a turquoise shift of lightweight polyester and what little of her hair that remained was pulled into a neat top knot.
“Be home for dinner, I think,” volunteered Frosty. “I can pick up somethin’ to cook.”
“Coupla whole chickens. Make that brick thing again.”
The flow between mother and son was comfortable and breezy. More to the tune of a contented married pair than a thirty-eight-year-old momma and her boy. Frosty tugged on the last loop of his laces, strode two lanky steps and kissed his mother’s cheek.
I love that woman.
And if things worked out in a year or so—if the plans Frosty was part of bore the promised fruit—he’d not only have the capital to start his own urban tree nursery, but some leftover Benjamins to buy his momma the house she truly deserved. Somewhere beyond Compton. Perhaps further inland to Riverside, he thought. Or the sun-kissed knolls of Chino Hills.
13
The yellowed tiles of the former Compton PD showers dated all the way back to the swinging seventies. But the fixtures, corroded down from their peeling chrome finish, still delivered a scalding spray with significant force. Nothing like the lousy water-saving shower heads required by state building codes. Lucky chuckled at the irony of a deputy sheriff breaking water conservation statutes just by taking an office shower.
After enduring one of his thrice-weekly rehab sessions with his physical terrorist, Lucky had arrived at the station with time to shower, stretch again, then prep for the shift ahead. He toweled himself to a cool semi-dry and settled in front of his locker. As he dressed, a young deputy whose name Lucky had yet to memorize slid in behind him.
“Sonofabitch,” remarked the young deputy.
“Got a problem?” hissed Lucky, barely a look over his shoulder.
“Sorry,” said the young deputy. “I just didn’t believe it. Least not till now.”
Lucky twisted at the waist. He had just pulled on a t-shirt when he realized the young deputy had keyed in on the Reaper tattoo covering most of his left calf.
“Is there a number on it?” asked the deputy. He was thin enough to blow over with a kiss, with hair cut short on the sides and choppy on top. The fit of his uniform was something akin to an oversized condom.
“Yeah,” said Lucky, neither volunteering the digit nor inviting the young deputy to take a closer look.
“Lennox motherfucking Reapers,” grinned the young deputy, who finally introduced himself. “Gil Ramirez. Hey. I bet you got some stories, yeah?”
“Don’t we all,” said Lucky, pulling on the neoprene knee pads he wore under his uniform pants.
“Me, man?” said Gil. “I’m too new. Like only two years on the map, you know?”
“Compton map?”
“Yeah. But Lennox Station was top of my list. This is as close as I could get.”
Compton was, in fact, an easy map compared to some of the other Sheriff’s stations. The street grid was simple and nearly every inch of it ran north/south and east/west. And if a deputy ever got lost during a pursuit, a scan of the horizon would usually provide a glimpse of the thirteen-story Compton Courts building. The concrete white monolith—not so affectionately nicknamed Fort Compton—stood well above all other buildings in the zip code and was an easy visual for a cop to use for quick orientation.
“Can I ask something?” asked Gil, not so much waiting for a response. “Did you have to shoot your way in?”
Lucky lifted one eyebrow.
“To be a Reaper,” Gil continued. “You had to be in a gunfight, yeah?”
“Have a good shift,” was Lucky’s retort, thus ending the conversation.
The evening brief was scheduled for 9:00 P.M., but it could be later depending on station watch. The five-minute warning came over the locker room’s public address system.
“Evening brief at ten after,” buzzed a voice with muffled articulation equal to that of a Metro driver announcing the next bus stop.
Lucky found his back already stiffening—a pronounced restriction in mobility his physical terrorist had ascribed to his taut-as-drumheads hamstrings.
Note to self. No foot pursuits tonight.
The folding chairs in the briefing room were dated and once painted a chocolate brown. The color on every seat had been worn through to a metallic sheen. Lucky sat at the back of the sparse gathering, having little trouble keeping to himself. While other deputies were trading trash talk or making plans on where to meet for their post-midnight lunch, Lucky kept to the comfort of his own skin as well as his position as outsider. He was hardly shiny, but was still considered someone new—known mostly as “that transferred badge from Kern County” or “the ex-Lennox Reaper with the sinister tattoo.”
“Okay. Got a list so let’s get to it.” Torres took to a badly veneered podium still bearing the fading emblem of the defunct City of Compton Police Department.
Lucky swiveled his eyes to the doorway, still missing his trainee.
“Before you start,” cleared Lucky. “Anybody seen my greenie?”
“Babysitting your ride-along,” said Torres, his porno-stache hardly stirring above his ChapSticked lips. “Surprise to me too. Talk to you when we’re done with all this Fourth of July crap.”
Lucky sat back and privately commiserated over the bad news. He wasn’t a fan of ride-alongs. A police officer’s job was to serve and protect the everyday Janes and Joes. Not play tour guide to some connected bureaucrat or thrill-seeking reporter. In addition, he was in training mode with a deputy who’d spent half her first night drying off from a near drowning.
“Before we get to the Fourth of July memo,” said Torres, “The department is once again delayed with the issuing of body cams. Temple Street says the week after next. I will believe it when I see ’em. And for those of you who look upon this as a two-week reprieve, remember. Body cams will be as much for protection of patrol deputies as they will the public. Questions? No? Good. Moving on.”
Lucky would like to have lodged a complaint. He’d policed just fine for sixteen years without needing a stem-to-stern recording of his in-uniform activities. Yet he also knew he couldn’t control the future nor the challenges that came with it. But had there been body cams back when he’d started with LA Sheriffs?
There wouldn’t have been Reapers.
“So tomorrow night is you know what,” repeated Torres. “Forecast is a record breaker heat-wise. So more fun with that. And if you haven’t worked a July Fourth down this way—and I’m talking Compton, Lennox, Century—it’s nothin’ short of Baghdad on the first night of the invasion. Any of you served, you get me.”
The Mustache had fought in both Iraq and Afghanistan. Or so Lucky had heard. But the heat in the Middle East had a predictability and purpose. In LA when the offshore breezes shifted to the Mojave-driven Santa Anas, the population on the semi-cool flatlands between Hollywood and Long Beach would often react like insects travelling across a pancake griddle.
Bad things happened when it was
hot.
The watch boss carried on with his reiterations of the dangers when dealing with the seemingly trainloads of illegal fireworks that were sure to be uncorked within his jurisdiction. July Fourth was generally a night that guaranteed law enforcement officers would be chasing their tails, hoping to bag bad boys with guns and more than likely coming up with trunks full of illicit Chinese- and Mexican-made bottle rockets, roman candles, and air-burst projectiles.
“Of course,” droned Torres, “As is their usual modus operandi, LAFD has new and—these are their words—‘improved procedures for disposal of confiscated incendiaries.’”
“My douchebag bro-in-law is FD and I got an improved procedure where he can stuff illegal fireworks,” announced Gil to the room’s belly laughter.
If Lieutenant Torres had an explanation for saddling Lucky and his trainee with a ride-along, he had forgotten or had been urgently distracted post briefing. No matter, decided Lucky. If The Mustache had gifted his newest T.O. with a slice of fertilizer pie, it would be Lucky’s job to stir it into a teachable meal.
The night air had turned uniquely thick. A thin cloud ceiling hung amorphous and gray against the reflection of dim city lights. Lucky, standing on the curb overlooking the motor yard, lowered his gaze to the Crown Victoria radio car that was backed up and idling with three of its four doors open. Shia climbed out, new smile stretched across her face and appearing no worse for wear after the harsh dunking she’d suffered the night before.
“Dry and ready to ride,” she grinned. “Can’t say the car is quite what we had last night.”
“Partial to Crown Vics,” said Lucky. “No matter what I do, seems we end up back together.”
He scoped the ride-along’s legs as they stretched from the Crown Vic’s backseat. Spindly and long inside a pair of perfectly faded denim. White converse All-Stars with no socks, shaggy beach hair in a designer cut, and a muscle t-shirt underneath a fresh-from-the-plastic-wrapper, black ballistic vest.
“Hey there,” introduced the ride-along. “Atom Blum. I’m your tourist.”
Lucky measured the man as roughly thirty-five to forty years with a youthful exuberance underneath hard-partying skin. Entitled. The skinny SOB stunk of a zip code south of Mulholland and west of the 405. Some kind of showbiz asshole, that was for sure. Despite all instinctive reservations, Lucky greeted the boy wonder with a handshake.
“I’m Lucky. I expect you’ve met Deputy Saint George.”
“Already familiar,” said Atom. “Second night on the job, I hear.”
“Gonna see if we can keep her dry tonight.” Lucky nodded toward Shia, knowing full well the undertow of sexual innuendo. Night two of hazing had already begun. Sure enough, the movie director’s eyes widened with puerile delight.
“New body armor,” noted Lucky, ambling around to the driver’s door. “Ride-along expecting a gunfight tonight?”
“Oh, the vest,” exclaimed Atom. “Yeah, that. Paul McGill suggested I wear one.”
If Atom’s name drop was meant to impress, it slipped past Lucky like a haymaker missed wide. Not that Lucky didn’t take stock in the name. Paul McGill was the Department’s number two in command. Assistant Sheriff. Top brass.
“Connected guy, huh?” said Lucky.
“Good to know people,” said Atom. “Anyhow, Paul thought I should maybe think about putting some LA Sheriffs in my next picture. You know? For p.r. Make you front-line cops look good.”
“You in movies?” asked Lucky, more pro forma than profoundly awed.
“Director,” said Atom, trying and failing to not sound dazzled at himself.
“Mr. Blum directed the Roadkill movies,” volunteered Shia.
“I’m Atom,” the boy wonder insisted. “My step-daddy’s the only mister I know.”
“Rules of the backseat,” segued Lucky. “You get out when I say get out. Stay when I say. And if for any reason I tell you to hit the floor, don’t ask why. Just do and we’ll all be okay.”
“Hey,” said Atom. “All good. You be you. I’m here to observe and nothin’ else. Call me Mr. Invisible.”
“Thought you weren’t a ‘mister,’” played Shia.
“Shoots and scores,” clucked Atom. “Cuff me and do with me what you will, Ms Deputy.”
“Let’s have a good shift,” refocused Lucky.
“Yes, sir,” agreed Shia.
14
“Pizza Wang,” Lil Rod sang into a crust-covered phone receiver. The kitchen of the former Pizza King was steamy and the decrepit ventilation unit installed to suck the cooking gasses out of the building contained a rattle that sounded like loose change tossed in a tumble dryer.
“It’s Pizza Wing, dumb ass,” yucked Tuba as he slammed the oven door shut so hard the push of hot air licked his eyelashes.
“S’all about the sound,” argued Lil Rod, scribbling down the phone order. “Throw down some wang on our wing an’ our shit’s got game.”
“Keep it up and J’s gonna have me pop this paddle upside your brains.” Tuba jokingly pretended to bat with the giant metal spatula used to shovel the pies in and out of the oven.
It had been nearly three years since Julius Colón had bought out the old Pizza King on Compton’s East Alondra. The deal was legal down to the lawyers and the ink despite the long-time owner’s polite resistance. Once Julius had purchased the block of storefronts, he had handpicked the business from which he wanted to operate his less-than-legit ventures and began raising rent until the original proprietor had no choice but to capitulate. As Julius’s first order of business, he added a deep fryer and wings to both the menu and the street sign, which soon read Pizza Wing. Adding chicken to the delivery service was an instant boon to the business.
“Pizza WANG!” danced sixteen-year-old Lil Rod, trying to Frisbee a handful of pepperoni slices one-by-one onto a pair of extra-large pies. “Say it, Tubes. The wang got the swang.”
Tuba, the nineteen-year-old assistant manager, shook his head, his short dreads wagging as if made from springs.
The back office door had a squeaky hinge. High pitched. It was Tuba’s only warning that Julius was on a path to the kitchen. Unconsciously, Tuba swiveled his view to gather in his bantamweight boss, who favored skin-tight workout wear to show off his MMA sculpted physique.
“You better be countin’ them meat slices, young’n,” rang Julius, arm raised and pointing the length of the kitchen to a hand-written chart outlining exactly how much meat could be expended per each size pizza. “And what does bein’ cheap earn me?”
“All da money,” chimed both Tuba and Lil Rod.
“Jews ain’t stupid,” said Julius. “Why those tribesmen still own most of what they survey.”
“Maybe you was a Jew in another life,” added the hulking Big Otis, Julius’s bodyguard and self-appointed right hand of God. Prostate cancer drugs administered by a Tijuana clinic had left every hair on Big O’s three-hundred-plus-pound body in permanent retardation and his skin a constellation of Rorschach blotches.
“A Blaxican Jew,” joked Julius. “Rich and badass. Now there’s a super race I can use to beat ass on the world.”
Hands in his pockets, Frosty appeared from behind Julius, wearing a blue skully to match those new shoelaces on his Jordans.
“Hey Fros’,” tipped Tuba from the open oven.
Frosty chinned his acknowledgment and smiled thinly, grateful that he’d long since graduated from Julius’s school of thug-work-ethic. All the Colón Bad Boys were schooled in hard work to balance out what Julius called gang-life-lazy. Slingin’ and stealin’ and protectin’ turf wasn’t so hard when compared to the character-building toil of a day laborer. Julius made every homie his legal employee, empowering them with part-time, minimum-wage positions at his various businesses. Frosty’s tutelage was at the Greenleaf Nursery, a quarter-mile strip of tilled earth under the DWP high-voltage towers that striped southern Compton. It was a backbreaking job which Frosty had initially hated. That was before he’d discovered his
passion for all things trees and glimpsed his way out of the streets.
“When you knock off?” asked Julius.
“S’posed to clock at midnight,” said Tuba. “But that’s if last shift shows up right.”
“After you clock,” said Julius. “Want you to go over and keep a watch on my hole.”
Lil Rod failed to muzzle his giggle. The sixteen-year-old’s imagination wasn’t so firmly tucked in his extra-baggy American Eagle jeans.
“Shut your baby ass,” barked Julius. “My hole. The big mess in the middle of Poinsettia. Power fuckers are too cheap to keep a twenty-four-seven crew on it so we gotta keep it clean. Ya feel me?”
“We gotcha boss,” said Tuba, meaning to slap his chest out of ownership. Instead he caused a mammoth ripple across his fatty middle.
“And watch you don’t overcook no more wings,” finished Julius, crossing through the kitchen with Big Otis, Frosty a languid step behind.
“Hey, yo,” said Tuba, putting down the spatula. He chased Julius by the order counter and a yellow-tinged dining area smaller than a Starbucks bathroom.
“You leavin’ Raydon alone in my kitchen?” shot Julius, referring to Lil Rod by his birth name.
“Got somethin’ you might wanna know,” hushed Tuba. “Somethin’ my cous’ heard over at the Sheriff’s.”
“Who’s your cous’?” asked Julius.
“Explorer scout kinda cous’.”
“Wanna be a cop?”
“Naw. He just got ambitions. Checkin’ his options.”
“What he know?”
“What he heard. ’Bout a new fellah with a leg tattoo.”
“Tattoo? So what?”
“Lennox tattoo. You know. Reaper shit.”
The Lucky Dey Thriller Series: Books 1-3 (The Lucky Dey Series Boxset) Page 69
