Deadly Lullaby

by Robert McClure

  Chief’s plate contains the same food items as mine except double the portions. Blessed with the metabolism of a nuclear reactor, he is a mountain of a man but nowhere near as fat as his food intake would suggest.

  He squeezes his body into the chair across the table from me and sighs, eyeing our food with anticipation. “Man, a taco-and-egg breakfast on your patio. Just like old times, huh?”

  “Better than old times. The here and now beats hell out of old times any day.”

  Chief clinks the neck of his beer bottle against mine. “Here’s to suckin’ wind.”

  We drink and dig in to breakfast.

  He makes a taco disappear in two, three bites. Chewing, he says, “Babe, how many friends you think we lost over the years?”

  I would be less put off if he had lifted one of his butt cheeks off the seat and farted. “By lost you mean whacked?”

  “What else?”

  A heavy topic for this early in the morning, but I decide to roll with it; this is, after all, Chief I am talking to, a very morose man. “To the extent I ever think about this at all it is to make sure nobody adds my name to the list.”

  He acts as if he did not hear me. “I counted ’em last night and came up with sixteen.” He squints and grimaces. “Sixteen.”

  I shrug. “Considering the nature of our business and the length of time we have been in it, that number does not astonish me—especially when you consider well over half of those guys got burned because they were total dumbasses.”

  He tries on a smile. “No shit. Remember Mickey Bocko?”

  I take a drink of beer. “The Mouse, yeah, Jesus. If the Mouse had caught Alzheimer’s, his IQ would have shot up a hundred points.”

  “Hah,” he says, “that’s a good one,” and stomps his foot. “And what about Paulie Tramunti?”

  “What about Paulie, shit. Paulie was so stupid he looked to the Mouse for advice.”

  Chief slaps the table and shakes his head. “You’re right, you’re right, a hunnerd percent. That ree-tard did whatever Mickey told him to and it got both of ’em killed, fuckin’ morons.” He chuckles, sighs, unwraps another taco.

  I allow him time to inhale a taco before saying, “Chief, why dwell on such things? The Macky thing bugging you?”

  He pauses to think, his hand set to shove an egg in his gob. “Nah, it ain’t what you’d call buggin’ me. It just got me thinkin’, is all.”

  “Not that rare an activity for you.”

  He flips me off, sucks up the egg, checks his watch, and talks with his mouth full. “See, the thing is, this time yesterday Macky was barkin’ at me about collectin’ from this mutt who owes him money. Now Macky’s fuckin’ ashes.” He swallows, gulps beer, goes, “Ahh,” and says, “And, you know, first thing I thought about when I opened my eyes this mornin’ was, ‘Man, I gotta get that money for Macky or he’s gonna yell at me again.’ Then I thought, ‘No, I won’t be hearin’ from Macky no more.’ ” He shakes his head. “It made me sad.”

  “Sad.”

  “Yeah, sad. Not that I miss the fucker or nothin’, but it made me sad that another guy I work with bit the dust, you know? You won’t believe what I did after.”

  “Unfortunately, I probably will.”

  “I called Macky’s cell.”

  “If you tell me he answered, you will have to get off my property—now.”

  “His voicemail greeting answered, dummy. It was fuckin’ creepy. I never heard it before, so he must’ve just put it on there, like, yesterday, just before, well, you know…You gotta hear it.” He takes his cellphone from his shirt pocket, punches a couple buttons and holds it between us. “Listen, I got the speaker on.”

  “Hey, asshole, you got the right to remain silent. If you wanted to exercise that right, why the fuck did you call? So leave a message. Just remember that anything you say can and will be used against you by certain alphabet agencies that can suck my stiff cock if they’re listenin’.”

  Chief clicks off the phone, shaking his head in bemusement.

  I say, “Creepy, yeah, and funny, especially for a hump like Macky.”

  “I didn’t know he had a single funny bone in his body. He sure didn’t show it at work, the dickhead.”

  “So why did you go to work for him?”

  “Macky needed some temporary help and Joe loaned me out for a while. Was fine with me. Macky’s main guys were just regular assholes. The guys Joe’s got runnin’ his show now give regular assholes a good name.”

  “Donsky and Fecarotta.”

  “Right. You met ’em?”

  “Yes. What is your problem with them?”

  He grows sad, the skin of his face practically sliding off. “You remember Hymie Berman?”

  I have to think about it. “Yeah, I do,” I finally say. “A skinny Jew, practically a kid when I knew him. Ran a book out of Culvert City and did B-and-E jobs on the side, a good safe man. Sure, Hymie, yeah, a stand-up guy. What’s he up to?”

  “Not much—like, nothin’. He’s one of the sixteen guys I just added up, courtesy of Donsky and Fecarotta. Hymie had this pretty wife, man, a real Jew doll, you know? Fecarotta got handsy with her at Guido’s bar—you know the joint, over on Santa Monica?—and the fucker wouldn’t take no for an answer. She went to the bathroom to get away from him and he followed her in there, tried to fuckin’ rape her. She ran out screamin’ and Hymie popped him one or two, flat laid him out.” He smiles. “You get Hymie riled, he was a match for anybody….Anyway, next thing you know, Hymie’s disappeared. Fecarotta whacked him, betch’a anything, and Donsky helped him.”

  “My son has implied he hates those guys, too. Well, he hates Donsky. Fecarotta he has never met.”

  He nods, makes quick work of another taco. Before long he begins to act uncomfortable, as if working up the courage to broach the subject that has troubled him all along. “So, uh, how’s your son dealin’ with you whackin’ Macky?”

  I do not respond right away, instead taking in a forkful of egg. “We talked this morning,” I finally say. “He is dealing with it the way we agreed he would.”

  “Which is to say he ain’t gonna tell on you.”

  “Of course not, Chief. Jesus. He is my son.”

  “Don’t get sore, man. It’s just that he’s a cop, you know? Understand what I’m sayin’?”

  “Yeah, yeah, rest easy. You were an innocent bystander. Your name will never be brought up.”

  “So nobody’s brought my name up so far?”

  I shake my head. “Nobody but me and Leo know you were there, at least nobody now sucking wind. Leo will tell no one, trust me—he promised. The last thing my son wants is for anybody to know he was there. You understand what I am saying?”

  He nods, absorbing everything I have said. “So if one of us tells on the other, it’s like we’re telling on ourself, too.”

  “Mutually assured destruction,” I say. “A check and a balance.”

  “I got it,” he says, pauses a bit then says, “You mind telling me why Macky got whacked?”

  “C’mon, Chief, surely you have that figured out by now.”

  He shrugs. “Joe and Tarasov got mad because they thought Macky was gettin’ too close to the Cambodians.”

  “Yeah, see, you know as much as I do. Joe and Viktor need money—bad, from what I understand. Macky was content to coast on the hold he had on gambling and prostitution and farm out his retail drug work to the Asians. Joe and Tarasov want to expand the drug business and are willing to fight for it. Macky, rest his soul, was not.”

  “I heard Macky say more’n once that the drug business wasn’t for the white man no more.”

  “If it was up to me, the coloreds could have the drug business all to themselves. I have a bad taste in my mouth from my one foray into it.”

  He shakes his head. “What did you get, six years?”

  “Nine, Chief, nine. For smuggling smack.”

  “That sucks,” he says, and becomes pensive. “This Tarasov guy, what
do you know about him?”

  “Quite a bit. Me and Tarasov met in prison and became friends. He got out like two years ago. Actually, I played a part in him and Joe getting together.”

  “I didn’t know you and Tarasov were friends.” He grins. “My guess is Macky didn’t know that neither.”

  I smile. “A strategically kept secret.”

  Something occurs to him. “So have you talked to Joe since yesterday?”

  “Yes, several times. We met yesterday afternoon.”

  “And you didn’t tell him I was at the warehouse when you whacked Macky.”

  “Like I said, Chief, your name never came up.”

  “I hope he don’t ask me to work for him again. I don’t want to deal with his nasty twins.”

  “Hey, Chief, it is a free country. Just say no.”

  “Easy for you to say,” he says, and will not meet my eyes with his; he fidgets in his seat, no longer acts interested in his food.

  “Chief,” I finally say, “something else weighing on your mind?”

  He blinks and squints his eyes as if he just walked into bright sunlight from pitch dark, presses his lips into a thin line and shrinks in his chair as he lights a cigarette. “Yeah, I need money.”

  “All right, how much you need?”

  He shrugs back. “I dunno, three grand or so? Rent’s comin’ due and—”

  I halt his awkward plea with a show of my palm. “The job we have late this week, maybe next, will net you more than that.”

  My last job, hopefully—ever.

  Chief brightens. “You have a job for me this week?”

  “I do, yes, like I said—this week, maybe next.”

  “How much is it worth?”

  “When it’s completed, say, sixty grand to you. I will gladly advance you ten of that before you leave today.”

  The big hump beams as if he has fallen in love, batting his eyes at me like a fag gorilla. “Talk to me.”

  I withdraw a slip of paper from my hip pocket with two addresses written on it, slide it across the table to him. “I need you to follow this guy. His name is Errol Ovando.”

  Now he goes head over heels: Chief gets his nickname not only from the fact he resembles the big Injun in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, but also because he is as proficient as an Apache ghost at tracking people—and even more passionate about it. In fact, some people—namely his ex-wife and several so-called girlfriends—have officially complained that this passion of his constitutes stalking in violation of the California penal code. “Calm down now, Chief,” I say, “and listen to me. Ovando’s home and work addresses are written on this paper. I want a detailed report that notes every movement he makes from the time he wakes up ’til he gets off work. He owns a bank, and when he is at this bank I need a record of every swinging dick that walks in there. You know the drill. Before we make our move, we need to know if he is under surveillance, and if so, who is doing it. Do this over the next few days, then let’s talk tactics.”

  He wipes his mouth, practically bouncing in his seat like a kid ready to leave for the amusement park. “What are we doing after the surveillance checks out?”

  “The usual.”

  He understands and is fine with it. “Ah, the usual.”

  “Right. Plus we are going to make a withdrawal from Ovando’s bank.”

  His euphoric demeanor disappears so quickly and completely you would think I slapped him. “Don’t tell me we’re gonna rob a fuckin’ bank.”

  “In a manner of speaking, yeah, we are.”

  His voice is a low growl. “Babe, in all my years, I either definitely robbed somethin’ or I definitely didn’t.” His teeth are clenched. “I never robbed nothin’ in a manner of speakin’.”

  “You see far too much black and white, pal.” I make a grand gesture at the sky. “Take note of the dazzling array of colors in our universe. Expand your horizons. Be all you can be.”

  He hangs his head, pinches the bridge of his nose and squints. “Why do you always hav’ta drag shit out?”

  “What is wrong with you, scared of a little bank robbery?”

  “I swear, if you don’t—”

  “It is a walk in the park. It is taking candy from a baby. It is shooting ducks in—”

  “Babe.”

  “All right, all right, no need to worry.” I take a drink of beer, sighing casually after I swallow. “It is an inside job.”

  “An inside job.”

  “Yeah. A new client of mine lined it up. Rest assured he knows what he is—”

  One of my cellphones rings from its position on the table and I lean over to check out the display.

  “I have to answer this, Chief. Joe Sacci is calling.”

  This call is a surprise. Me and Joe agreed last night that I would call him at precisely noon today, which is almost three hours away.

  My hope is there is not another mess to clean up. If this is why Joe is calling, it means two more jobs before retirement.

  Leo

  Forget the overdone sets you see in cop shows, those interrogation rooms with big two-way mirrors and conference tables that could seat a corporate board. It’s all Hollywood bullshit. The reality of it is that the interrogation rooms here at Rampart Division are as cramped and intimate as a Catholic confessional, so designed to achieve the same purpose: a confession in exchange for perceived salvation. Though I walked into this interrogation room with all the moral authority of a backsliding priest, I’ve grudgingly set aside that feeling, along with all the sins thrust upon me yesterday. The sinner I have in the box at the moment requires my full devotion.

  Said sinner is Taquan Oliver, the kind of man you know from a glance was a jock in his youth—a football lineman, a wrestler, maybe even a power forward cast from the Charles Barkley mold. You also know from a glance Taquan’s seen better days. He’s twenty-nine going on a heart attack, his chalky black skin streaked with crack sweat and his right knee working harder than the last good piston in an eight-cylinder engine. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so they’re all over the place, rubbing his face, his nappy ’fro, picking at the congealed cut on the bridge of his nose.

  Taquan looks off to the side and uses his hand to brake his knee, mumbling under his breath, “Crucci, Crucci,” before looking at me in a way that doubts my very existence. “You played for Roosevelt?”

  “Yes, Taquan, I was a standout starter at tight end my senior year, though not in the normal sense of the word.” A smile. “I stood out because I was the only Anglo starter on the team.”

  He smiles though the haze, mulls this over. “Oh, yeah, now I remember you,” but the fact that he doesn’t is written all over his face. It’s a polite lie, though, one I’m surprised he’s considerate enough to even bother telling.

  I return his smile as best I can and lean back in my chair.

  I’ve slow-talked Taquan for almost thirty minutes now. At first he was willing to talk about minor facts associated with the murder of Sonita Khemra, the eighteen-year-old found strangled to death in MacArthur Park last night. Then he became too shaken to continue and looked ready to take the Fifth again. When a criminal suspect takes the Fifth, the interview has to cease. Cold. No browbeating, which means no further questions and no attempts to talk them out of their inalienable constitutional right to remain silent. Otherwise, nothing they say is worth dog shit in court.

  There are times when I don’t care what the information I browbeat out of somebody is worth in court. Today I care because cameras are recording my actions.

  Which is why thirty minutes ago I threw the process in reverse and avoided the subject of Sonita Khemra like it was nuclear waste.

  Since then, I’ve been gaining his trust.

  Our conversation began with where we grew up—me in Boyle Heights, he in East LA near Atlantic Park—and the conversation inevitably rolled around to the fact that we each played high school football. Turns out he played defensive end for my high school archrival, Garfield. Fou
r years apart in age, me being the older one, we each played in the annual East LA Classic, our schools’ big rivalry game, though obviously not at the same time.

  I can’t remember the last time I talked about playing in the Classic. The game was the last one of my (very average) career when I was a senior, and the old thug was due to be released the day after. To his credit, he tried like hell to convince Corrections to release him a day early so he could watch me play, even got his lawyers involved. The Commissioner of Corrections wouldn’t give up one day, not one stinking day, which gives you a good idea of what official California thought of Babe Crucci. Unfortunately for the Garfield kids that lined up against me in the Classic, the fact that the authorities dissed the old man really pissed me off and I played way above my head. That was the last time I felt any disappointment whatsoever at my father being behind bars.

  Having established with Taquan that we’re homies, I decide to keep my mouth shut. The man’s been throwing off classic signs of guilt—fluttering hands and feet, an inability to maintain eye contact, an overall jittery demeanor—and my strategy is to let him lead the conversation now. He’ll cave soon enough. Cocky guys like Taquan, especially those who’ve never been arrested before, always try to charm and lie their way out of custody. If they’re guilty, their low mentality being what it is, sooner or later they almost always say something incriminating. They can’t help it. It’s their nature.

  The seconds tick by slowly. Taquan stares at me and starts working that knee again, rubbing his ’fro and nose and chin again. He sniffs, wipes his nose with his wrist. “Crucci, man, why you bein’ so quiet now?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “I think you’re ready to talk business.”

  His perception surprises me. I shrug. “I am if you are, no rush.”

  He thinks, nods, leans forward on his elbows. “Man, you need to help me get outta this. I didn’t do nothin’ to that girl.”

  I draw a heavy sigh and shrug my hands before folding them on the tabletop. “I want to help you, Taquan, I do. But you’ll have to help me.” I nod at the clear plastic bag on the table between us that’s been bagged and tagged as evidence. “Officers that chased you down say they found that purse in the trash can at the corner of Alvarado and Sixth, close to where they caught up with you. The purse or anything inside it gonna have your fingerprints on them?”