The Darker Hours

by Sam Lee Jackson

  She was sitting there staring at her notes when Danny Rich came back.

  “I thought of something, so I checked the files.” He sat down facing her. “It don’t make a lot of sense in that neighborhood where the shooting was, but the Trey Aces have a motto. Calle de Rojo. The streets of red. Or, the streets will be red. Red like blood. You ever heard of that?”

  Boyce shook her head, “Not really.” She swiveled around. “I don’t remember much about the Aces. Aren’t they just a bunch of punks hanging out? Petty theft, graffiti, shit like that?”

  “Minor league,” Danny Rich said. “The ambitious ones try to get a name so the Diablo Pistoleros will accept them.”

  “The Diablos have a motto?”

  He shrugged. “Not that I know of.”

  “Maybe one of the Aces trying to impress the Diablos by shooting up a bunch of kids in north Phoenix?”

  He shrugged again. “Hard to say. Maybe someone had a grudge against the kid who was having the party. Maybe the other kid that died had enemies. Maybe, maybe, maybe.”

  “Yeah,” Boyce said. “But why yell something, something rojo?”

  Rich sat on the corner of her desk. “Don’t put too much into it. Probably just doped up and yelling for no reason. But there’s a guy down there. Lightweight junkie Vice used once for a bust. I was the one that turned him. On the fringes. When he was a kid he was an Ace. But now, too punk to be a Diablo. Somebody to talk to. Maybe he knows something.”

  Boyce picked up her pen and opened the notebook. “What’s his name, and how do I find him?”

  Rich took his phone out and fiddled with it. He turned it around and showed her a picture of a guy with bushy hair, hat on sideways, looking surprised. “Eduardo Balto. Goes by Eddie. Hangs out at a pool hall on Broadway, close to 32nd street. Thinks he’s Fast Eddie Felson.”

  “Who?”

  “Fast Eddie Felson. Paul Newman. The Hustler. You know, Jackie Gleason.”

  “Oh yeah. I don’t think I saw that. Is he?”

  “Is he what?”

  “Good enough to be Fast Eddie whozit?”

  “Just enough to support his habit.” He stood up. “You need to let Homicide do their job.”

  “It’s personal,” she said. Thinking of Jackson and how that was always his go-to reason. She nodded at his phone. “Send that to my phone.”

  “Yeah, sure. But it’s probably nothing. You need to let Homicide do their job.”

  “I heard you the first time.”

  4

  Boyce walked down the dank stairs to records and spent a half hour looking at Eddie Balto’s rap sheet. Not much there. Petty theft and drugs. Picked up for vandalism fifteen years ago with some other members of Trey Aces. Picked up for shoplifting. Released. Had an older brother who was killed in a gang related shooting. She couldn’t find anything on the internet about the pool hall on Broadway. Danny Rich insisted it was there. Said it was located in one of the strip malls with no signage. He wasn’t sure which one. One of those spaces for rent. A large room with a dozen tables, rented by the hour. He said a lot of those places operated under the surface as private clubs. Buy your membership at the door for five bucks. Danny said these are the places where the hustlers and high rollers walked in with their custom-made cues. A hundred, two hundred a game was not uncommon.

  Boyce opened the center drawer to her desk and fumbled around the back of it. Back where the paper clips and rubber bands and old breath mints resided. She found what she was looking for. She pulled it out and looked at it. It was a stylized portrait of Livvy incorporated into an invitation to her high school graduation. Livvy looked gorgeous. Boyce remembered her own senior year. Like most kids, it was wasted. You knew you would graduate so most of the year was spent messing around while you waited. But some, like Livvy, spent the year preparing for college. And the privileged few prepared for specific colleges that had already accepted them. Livvy was an Honor Roll student and active in the student government., Livvy was going to Stanford. Boyce folded the picture and put it in her back pocket.

  Hicks and Grennel worked the night show and had gone home by now. She went to Mendoza’s office, but it was empty. The lights were off, which meant he probably wasn’t in the building. Probably with his sister. She stood in the doorway for a long moment looking at his desk. A profound sense of sorrow folded over her like a sheet. As always, his desk was immaculate, only adorned by a gilded framed photo of his wife and daughters.

  She turned and went down two floors to homicide and caught Sergeant DiMartini at his desk. Sergeant Dino DiMartini. When Boyce had first heard the man’s name, she thought that he had one of the coolest names she’d ever heard. Unfortunately, he didn’t look like his name sounded. While you’re thinking Dean Martin, you got a man that was short and thick. A shock of black hair on top of a potato face. A belly that grew larger by the year. A sloppy dresser, but still a damn good, seasoned, detective.

  “It’s too early,” he said to her inquiry. “We won’t even have the autopsy until tomorrow. The MEs are backlogged.”

  “What the hell do you expect the autopsy to say,” Boyce said. “Those kids were shot to rag dolls.”

  He shrugged. “Protocol,” he said.

  “Did you hear anything about someone yelling something in Spanish. Something with the word rojo in it?”

  He shrugged. “Three kids heard someone shout something,” he said patiently. “Two of them thought they heard the word rojo. Thirty-six of them didn’t see or hear anything.” He looked at her tiredly. “You need to stick to your turf.”

  “She was my friend,” Boyce said.

  “Yeah, that’s tough,” he said, turning away. “They are all somebody’s friend.” He looked back up at her. “I don’t mean to be insensitive, but you need to let us do what we do.”

  She squeezed his shoulder. “Hey, if you get anything, would you let me know?”

  He looked at her, his eyes tired and old. They had seen everything. “Sure, kid.”

  She went down to the street level, stopping at the vending machines for a candy bar. She walked across the parking lot and climbed in her assigned city car and started the engine. She sat there. She had thought she was going to Livvy’s home, but she just couldn’t. Not yet. She put it in gear and drove out onto the street, did a U-turn, then turned south toward Broadway and 32nd Street.

  She didn’t find the place on her first pass. It turns out there were a half dozen strip malls in the vicinity of 32nd Street and Broadway. It was the third one she pulled into. The only reason she found it was she saw a man with a rectangular case under his arm go into an unmarked door. Had to be a pool cue case. She found a space to park several spots down. She checked her badge on her belt, touched the Glock on her hip, straightened her jacket and went to the doorway and stepped in.

  It was a large open room. To her left was a glass counter. The case was filled with different brands of cigarettes, cheap cigars and cigarillos. On the other side was a guy with long sideburns sitting on a stool, reading a paper. There was a cigarette burning in an ashtray. The smell of cigarette smoke was heavy in the air. The guy looked up, giving her a surprised look. She took her time. She turned to look at the room. It was bigger than she would have guessed from the outside. There were a dozen pool tables spaced throughout. All of them had shaded lights hanging over the center. Five of the lights were on, illuminating the tables and the players.

  “Can I help you?” the man behind the counter said, setting the newspaper aside.

  Boyce looked at him. She took out her phone and pulled up Eddie Balto’s photo. She showed it to him.

  He shrugged, barely glancing at the phone. “Don’t know him.”

  Boyce slid her jacket away from her badge. “Take another look.”

  He looked at the badge, then looked at her, then back to the phone. He looked back to her. “Nope.”

  “Maybe a trip downtown would jog your memory.”

  “Hey,” he said. “I run a clean club here.
I don’t even allow booze.”

  “He’s not in trouble,” Boyce said. “I just have some questions.”

  The man’s eyes slid toward the back of the room. Boyce’s eyes followed his. At the back of the room was a door marked Gents. There was no door marked Ladies.

  “There’s a guy in the bathroom,” the guy said. “Don’t know if it’s your guy or not.”

  Boyce put the phone in her hip pocket and made her way to the back. The players glanced at her but kept playing. Each table had money sitting on it. One table was empty, but with the light on and a cue leaned against it. Boyce went to the men’s room door and leaned against the wall beside it.

  A few minutes later Eddie Balto came out checking his trousers the way men do. He walked past her without seeing her.

  “Balto,” Boyce said.

  The man turned. He looked at her, then around her. His eyes came back to her. “I know you?”

  She pulled her jacket away from her badge. “You have no trouble,” she said. “I just have some questions.”

  He leaned toward her and spoke in a low voice. “Not in here, this is where I work. I’ll meet you outside.”

  “You run and I’ll have the whole force on you,” she said. She turned and walked through the room and out the front door. She went a couple of doors down and leaned against the wall, waiting. He came out, looked up and down the street, then walked down to her.

  “I helped you guys out,” he said. “You got no reason to hassle me.”

  “No hassle, just questions,” Boyce said. “You know the Diablo Pistoleros and the Trey Aces down here?”

  He shrugged. “Everyone down here knows them.”

  “If a Pistolero or a Trey Ace was involved in a drive-by and a witness heard them yelling something, and they heard the word ‘rojo,’ that mean anything to you?”

  He pulled a pack of Camels from his breast pocket. He shook one out and put it between his lips. He offered Boyce the pack. She shook her head. He put the pack away, dug out a lighter and lit the cigarette. He blew the smoke out the corner of his mouth, away from Boyce.

  “Doesn’t mean anything to me.”

  “I’m told you would know,” she said.

  “Who told you that?”

  “Detective Danny Rich,” she said, watching him.

  He took another drag and turned slightly to exhale the smoke toward the parking lot. “Aces are a bunch of young punks got nothing to do. They gang together and do a bunch of kid shit. Vandalism and petty theft. Shit like that. They like to tag a lot of shit. Ain’t a garbage dumpster out here don’t have their tag on it.”

  “They tag the word rojo?”

  He nodded, picking a piece of tobacco off his lip. “Yeah, they like to brag they have streets of red. You know, like blood.”

  “Do they?”

  “Shit no. They’re just trying to be bad ass. Now the Pistoleros, they’ll shoot your ass for a dime bag. Those motherfuckers are crazy.”

  “Any reason you can think of why someone would yell “streets of blood” at a drive-by in north Phoenix?”

  “No idea,” he said.

  “Where do the Trey Aces hang out?”

  “You go down there alone, you could have trouble.”

  “Answer the question.”

  He shrugged and flipped the cigarette out into the parking lot. “There’s a park south of here, Esteban Park. They hang out there.”

  “Where is it?”

  “32nd and Roeser,” he said. “You done now?”

  “Just getting started,” she said. She turned and walked back to her car.

  5

  She found the park with no trouble. She pulled to the curb and looked at it. It was a wide-open space of winter grass and city-planted trees. Back in the frontier days of Phoenix, the population was centered above the banks of the Salt River. As it became more and more of a city it grew north, and the city fathers named the streets after old dead presidents. In the fifties and sixties, the population grew faster north and east. This left broad expanses of unimproved land toward the south. Chunks of this were perfect for city parks. Spread some Bermuda grass seed and plant a few trees, and voila. Later the community leaders felt the parks needed family entertainment so in came the playgrounds, the swing sets and picnic ramadas.

  On the other side of the park Boyce could see the playground area. In fact, she could see all four sides of the park. Some boys were shooting hoops. Others sat on the picnic tables smoking. There were several bicycles lying about. There were no cars parked on the streets. The kids she could see were too young to drive. At least legally. She pulled away from the curb and slowly made her way around the park. She came up opposite the ramadas and pulled to the curb. She put the keys under the seat and slid out of the car.

  The basketball players had stopped and were watching her. The kids in the ramada had swiveled, and watched as she slowly but steadily walked up to them. Across the park a bicyclist came racing toward them. A girl, long dark hair flowing behind her, pushing the bike hard. She got to the ramada the same time Boyce did. The girl hit the brakes and slid the bike around on the brown grass, laying it down at the same time. She stepped off the bike as it came to a stop. It was a very graceful move.

  The girl stepped from the sunlight to the shade of the ramada and two boys made room for her on the picnic table. One of them offered her a cigarette and she took it, pulling an elaborate zippo lighter from her pocket. She lit the cigarette. Boyce took her time, looking at the kids, one at a time. It was hard for Boyce to picture them as shooters. But she had learned to never underestimate. One of the deadliest gang members she’d ever dealt with was an angelic looking little guy named Manny. Convicted at eighteen, looking twelve, and doing three consecutive life terms.

  The girl blew cigarette smoke out the side of her mouth, away from the guy that had given the cigarette to her. She watched Boyce. The girl looked to be about fourteen. She was barely beginning to fill out. She was tall and athletic looking. The trick with the bike proved it. She watched Boyce with cool, unwavering eyes. Almost a challenge. What you got?

  Boyce took Livvy’s graduation picture from her back pocket. She unfolded it and held it out in front of her, slowly showing it to all the kids. The basketball players had wandered over.

  “Any of you kids recognize this girl?” Boyce asked.

  They just looked at her. The boy that had given the bicyclist the cigarette said, “She’s hot. I could make her my bitch.”

  Without looking at him, the bicyclist said, “Shut up, George.”

  Boyce watched them, looking for a reaction. They did not give her any.

  Still holding it out for them to see, Boyce said, “Her name is Olivia Cromwell. She liked to be called Livvy. She was seventeen her last birthday.”

  “Was?” the girl with the cigarette said.

  “Last night she was standing in front of a friend’s house. Just standing there talking, when someone drove by and shot her. Shot her dead.” She paused to see if there was any reaction. There wasn’t. “She was a straight A student. She was going to go to Stanford University to get a degree in education. She wanted to teach children that didn’t have the opportunities she had. She wanted children to know that their future was important. She volunteered at her church teaching second and third graders in a Bible class. She volunteered at the Boys and Girls Club in central Phoenix, and she’s dead.” She paused, letting her words sink in. Wondering if they did.

  “She’ll never be a teacher,” she continued. “She’ll never have a boyfriend. She’ll never have a husband or have a child of her own.”

  The kids were silent. Most of them had looked away. Finally the bicyclist said, “You a social worker?”

  Boyce moved her jacket away from her badge.

  “I’m a cop. I’m Detective Boyce of the Phoenix Police Department. I want to find the asshole that killed my friend.”

  “For real? You’re a detective?” the girl said.

  “For real,” Bo
yce said. “You know anything about streets of red? Calle de rojo?”

  One of the basketball players said, “Fuck this.” He turned and walked away; another one followed him.

  Boyce watched them walk away.

  Another boy slid off the picnic table. “Come on Spark, let’s go.”

  Boyce looked back at the girl. “That your name?”

  The girl just looked at her. George, the boy next to her, said, “That’s what we call her.”

  Boyce was still looking at the girl. “They call you Spark?”

  The girl shrugged.

  “Unusual name,” Boyce said.

  “That’s cause that’s about all it takes to set her off,” George said.

  “Shut up, George,” Spark said.

  Boyce looked at the remaining kids. “Anyone know what calle de rojo means?”

  “We all know what it means,” Spark said. “So what?”

  “Witnesses say they heard someone yelling it at the time of the shooting.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Spark said.

  “Why is it bullshit?”

  “Because that is just graffiti shit. Some of the guys try to be bad asses and they think that’s a bad ass slogan. But they ain’t bad asses. They just kids. There ain’t no blood in the streets. You want blood in the streets go over to the Diablo Pistoleros. Calle de rojo is just some of our boys trying to be tough. None of us did that shooting. Somebody is bullshitting you.” She took a deep drag on the cigarette and blew the smoke directly at Boyce.

  Boyce folded the photograph and put it away. She took her card from her pocket and handed it to Spark. “You think of something that will help me find the asshole that killed my friend, you let me know.”

  Spark took the card and looked at it for a long moment, then put it in her jeans pocket. Boyce turned and walked back to her car. She opened the driver side door and Spark came riding up on her bike. What was left of the cigarette was in the corner of her mouth. They stood for a moment looking at each other.