by Weston Ochse
“Hey, old man. Where have you been? I’ve been looking all over for you.”
Instead of replying, Kanga shuffled past him.
“Kanga, it’s me Bobby.”
The old surfer murmured something that sounded like, “You shouldn’t worry, honey,” then spun on his heel and headed the way he’d come.
Bobby hurried to catch up, but was intercepted by the two men in gray.
“You should leave,” said one.
“This place isn’t for you,” said the other one.
Both of them looked like they’d recently been in prison. Their eyes held the hard gleam of practical violence. There was only one way to handle these types. Bobby sneered as he said, “Fuck cares what you think. This is between me and my friend.” He stepped around them, then ran ahead to Kanga.
“When I met your mother she was the prettiest—”
“Kanga,” Bobby said, grabbing the man by his shoulders. “Snap out of it. This is Bobby Dupree.”
“Bobby?”
“Yes. It’s me. Let me get you out of here.”
“Can’t leave. Laurie...” he exhaled slowly, then inhaled. “...is here. She’s all alone.”
Bobby had to get him out of here. He’d been duped by the men in gray, or perhaps even drugged. By the looks of Kanga close up, he could easily be under the influence of something. The quaint belief that Laurie’s soul was here had transformed into something psychotic.
“It’s okay, Kanga. We’ll just leave for a little while, then come back later.” Bobby grabbed the old surfer by the arm and began to pull him away.
“No! You can’t take me.” Kanga jerked free and backed away. For a moment, his eyes were clear. “She’s here, Bobby. No kidding. I need to do what I always wished I had done.”
“She’s dead. Her funeral’s today, Kanga. That’s why I’m here, to take you there so you can be with her body.”
“Who needs her body when I have her soul?”
“But Kanga—”
“Laurie says she wished you guys had had that chance to go to Catalina together and see the stallions.”
“She said what?” Bobby had never told anyone about that conversation. “What did you say?”
But Kanga’s eyes clouded over again. As the aging surfer began to move, his gaze sought the sky, just as he’d done before. This time Bobby let him go and watched as the man began to silently converse with the air.
After a while Bobby headed down South Pacific toward Lucy’s place, the images of the people in front of the halfway house talking to themselves marching through his mind. What if they actually were talking to the souls of the dead there?
Chapter 24
Green Hills Memorial Cemetery was located along Western Avenue on the side of a hill overlooking an abandoned Navy family housing subdivision, three abandoned apartment complexes, and just over the trees, the port of Los Angeles. The subdivision had once held two hundred families and was the reason for a strip mall, a Vons Grocery Store, and seven fast-food franchises. Once a burgeoning community wedged between San Pedro and Lomita, base closures of the midnineties had turned it into a ghost town. Only now was the strip mall recovering with a Jack-in-the-Box and a Starbucks anchoring the frontage. The grocery store was still an empty shell, but rumor had it that Vons would someday reopen, keeping hope alive for the retirees who’d bought homes around the mortally wounded neighborhood.
But the subdivision was an anachronism. In this day of homelessness and government programs, how two hundred homes could stand empty was a miracle...or a crime. All less than ten years old, the government had thrown a chain link fence around the outside of the subdivision, with no plans to open it to the homeless or families in need.
The problem lay with ownership. The homes technically belonged to the Department of the Navy, but they wrote off the area when they were ordered to move away by the Congressional Base Relocation and Closure Committee. Now whenever the city of Los Angeles approached the federal government about the subdivision, no one would acknowledge responsibility for the area.
In the meantime, LAPD S.W.A.T. used it for urban warfare training, practicing breaking down door after door in the endless rows of empty homes. Other police departments used the area for exercises, pretending to chase gangbangers from house to house, rendering the police process into a high-tech game of paintball and leaving once proud homes spotted with hundreds of red dots of red-like one-story victims of a chicken pox outbreak.
And across from these ten acres of urban blight lay Green Hills Memorial Cemetery, occupying the side of a gentle hill, with gravestones recessed into the short, green grass.
Two funerals were occurring today.
Near the entrance a dozen people stood around a simple brass casket containing the mortal remains of a seventy-five-year-old Croatian woman who’d survived Christian genocide and subjugation by the communists of her own country, and had outlived most of her siblings to die of old age in the home of her American grandson. Now two elderly friends from church and whatever surviving family members ushered her to heaven using the words of her native tongue, with everyone huddled in black and weeping.
Farther up the slope where the dead would have a view of the roofs of the abandoned homes and the span of the Vincent Thomas Bridge, a larger group had gathered to bury Laurie May Jenkins.
Bobby and Lucy stood closest to the casket as the Catholic priest from Holy Trinity Catholic Church read John 3:16. Next to Lucy sat his abuela draped in a mourning shawl, her quiet sobs as much a part of the background as the cars passing on Western Avenue.
Around and behind them stood fifty members of the 8th Street Angels dressed in black pants and starched white T-shirts. Their colors matched the ten police cars pulled to the curb behind the gathering. Policemen leaned against their cruisers or clumped together to speak in hushed tones, occasionally glancing toward the gangbangers.
Everyone had known Laurie. San Pedro was a small-town with small-town connections. Those who hadn’t gone to school with her had brothers or sisters who’d gone to school with her. Because of her friendship with Lucy, she had a special place in the gang hierarchy. And because she’d been a beautiful Latina, her loss was even greater.
But the Angels were there for other reasons as well.
They’d lost some of their own last night, among them Split, or as he was known to his mother, Tincho Ocampo. And they were up against it. MS 13 was an octopus with arms into everything legal and illegal. Their powerbase spanned two hemispheres. Their viciousness was legendary. That MS 13 wanted the territory of San Pedro was bad enough. That the Angels might be the only thing able to stop them was what held each of the gangbangers’ thoughts in a vice grip of fear.
Each of them, in their own turn, cast their eyes toward Lucy. Would he bring them through this? Could he bring them through this?
Lucy wore a black suit, white shirt, and tie. He knew how to show respect. His men were poor and couldn’t afford such clothes so he never begrudged them their T-shirts and pants. He dressed as he did to set the example. He wanted them to know what was right, and respect him for that. Standing at the grave of an old friend was an easy thing. To face the dead all one had to do was pray. To face the living meant so much more.
Bobby stood next to him, still dressed in his Elvis sequin jacket. This was the best he could do, but honestly, he never once thought about what to wear. He’d never been very good at the more complex emotions. Death and love were foreign languages that he’d yet to learn to speak. He knew that a part of him had loved Laurie, but he also knew that that part was in hiding, a defensive mechanism he’d developed long ago in the halls of the orphanage.
As he stared at the casket containing the girl he’d called his own and the daughter of Kanga, who even now believed he was speaking with her in front of the halfway house, Bobby promised that one day he’d mourn her properly.
When he had time.
When he knew how.
Until then, she was just another d
isappointing loss in a lifetime of disappointments, and he’d treat her memory like he’d treated everyone who’d come before.
He’d deal with it later.
* * *
After Laurie was laid to rest, most of the gangbangers dispersed. Manolo, Trujillo and Blockbuster hung out, smoking or staring at their feet, while Lucy escorted his mother and his abuela to a waiting car. Once it drove away, the large gangbanger lumbered back up the slope to where Bobby still stood watching the grave, now freshly covered with dirt. Lucy waited with him for a while, then finally spoke.
“We’ve had a bad time of it, Bobby.”
“Me, too.”
“We lost Split.” Seeing Bobby’s surprised look, Lucy explained. “MS 13. There was an all-out attack last night. Split was pulling lookout on the welcome bridge and they got him.”
“Fucking pussy-assed chupavergas!” Manolo spat.
“Not around the grave!” snapped Lucy.
Trujillo smacked Manolo hard on the back of the head.
“How did it happen?” Bobby asked.
“Dunno. They seemed to be concentrating in one area, though. My guess is that MS 13 wants to expand and needs to find a way to get us out of the picture.”
Bobby looked at the row of police cars that had already begun to diminish since the funeral had ended. “Is that why they’re here?”
“Yes and no. Believe it or not, the cops are on our side. As they see it, we aren’t bad as gangs go, which is what I’ve been trying to get us to be. Last thing they need is for the Salvadorans to be in town. Blood would be knee-high in the streets.”
“Sorry about Split and the others,” Bobby said. “And thanks for doing this funeral. I know Kanga would have appreciated it.”
Lucy waved his hand. “I don’t know Kanga for shit, but Laurie’s been a friend since I was five. I’d do it for anyone in town, but for Laurie...well, that was special.”
“Yeah. Real special.”
Lucy turned as if to examine Bobby, then shook his head. “I don’t know if you’re a cold fish, or if growing up the way you did fucked you up.”
“I don’t know either, Lucy. Trying to get a handle on it, though.”
Lucy seemed about to say something when his cell phone rang. He stepped a few feet away and took the call. Anger raked his features as he listened to what was being said. His skin turned red and a jet-fueled glare scorched the line of cop cars. He hung up and shoved the phone into his pants.
“Fucking cops. They attend a funeral instead of doing their jobs.”
“What happened?” Bobby asked.
“My pops. They tried to get him in the hospital.”
“Holy Christ! What happened?”
“Three MS 13 bangers came in wearing UPS uniforms. The cop at the door had been pulled or something. All I know is that he wasn’t where he was supposed to be, and they sauntered right into my father’s room where he was hooked up to IVs and shit.”
The Angels erupted with curses and questions.
“What?”
“Is he okay?”
“Where the fuck were the police? Fucking pendejos!”
The sound of police radios intruded upon the background noise as static-laced commands poured in. Bobby watched out of the corner of his eye as several cops ran to their radios and pulled away. A tall blonde woman standing by the curb walked toward them. Her fingers were hooked in her belt. A look of disgust was etched on her pretty European features.
“Rafa was coming out of the bathroom when the bangers were pulling shotguns from the boxes they were carrying,” continued Lucy. “One look at the chupaverga and Rafa capped them with his nine.”
“And your pop?”
“He’s fine. Complained about the noise and shit, but other than that, he’s on cloud nine with morphine. Old Julio is bringing the dominoes by later. My pops is okay for now.”
“Look here.” Manolo pointed with his chin toward the police captain.
When Lucy turned, so did the others. “What you got Rafa locked up for? He was doing your job.”
“So you heard,” the woman said as she came to a stop in front of the half circle of men. She showed no fear. Her thumbs were casually hooked through her utility belt. She eyed each of them, her gaze resting a little longer on Bobby.
“Where were the cops? You told me you’d have a cop on the door.”
“We’re going to find out what happened, Louis. In the meantime, you need to call off your boys and let us handle this.”
“In the meantime, you need to let Rafa go. All he was doing was what your cop should have done in the first place.”
“You know we can’t do that.”
“I don’t know anything. Rafa saved my pops’ life. If your cop was there like he was supposed to, then Rafa wouldn’t have needed to be there.”
“Why was he there in the first place?”
“In case your cops screwed it up,” Lucy sneered.
She looked at the ground a moment, then into Lucy’s eyes. “I’m not going to kid you. Rafa’s in a lot of trouble.” She held up her hand as the gangbangers began to argue. “But things have a way of changing. We’re going to hold him for a few weeks. Once this dies down, I wouldn’t be surprised if he gets released.”
Lucy eyed her speculatively.
“You need to trust me on this, Louis.”
“I trusted you to keep my pops alive.”
“Yeah. Well, we get a second chance with that one. And I promise I won’t mess this up. In the meantime, I need you to promise not to do anything stupid.”
Lucy sucked on the inside of his cheek as he thought about it. He gazed out toward the horizon before answering. “We’ll do what we need to protect our own, but we won’t go out of our way to do it.”
She shook her head. “Is that the best you can do?”
“That’s the best I can do.”
She nodded, then turned on her heel and headed back to her cruiser. Lucy waited until she’d gone before he spoke.
“Trujillo, you know what this means?”
“They’re going to be coming again.”
“Definitely. Remember showdown at the OK Corral?”
Trujillo shook his head.
“Never mind. You get everyone set up. I want rabbits and hounds. I want lookouts. I want everything ready. We should know they’re coming before they get into Pedro, so call in some markers. I want to know when they hit PCH and the Harbor Freeway. There’s no reason for us not to get the word on this. Understand?”
“Understand, boss.”
Something Lucy had said earlier had been bothering Bobby. It wasn’t until now that he realized what it was, and if he was right, it could possibly solve their entire problem.
“Verdina,” Bobby whispered.
Lucy, who was the closest, couldn’t help but hear. “What did you say?”
“It all leads back to Verdina.”
“The pedophile from Van Nuys?” Blockbuster asked.
“Exactly. Remember when he gave us the address for the movie director in Rancho Palos Verdes? Well, I met him last night and we ended up having a long conversation before he threw me out. One thing he kept going on about was how he wanted to build a golf course and how Donald Trump had stolen his idea away from him.”
“What does Donald Trump have to do with this?”
“Nothing—everything. Listen.” Bobby felt the truth of the idea as it worked through his mind. “Shrewsbury talked about this plan he had to buy up property in San Pedro over near some park for a golf course. When it fell through, he made it seem as if he wasn’t done, that he had something else in mind.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. But maybe MS 13 is connected. You said they were firebombing houses. Why do that unless you want people to move out?”
“Gringo might have a point here.”
“Still a little far-fetched.” Lucy chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Which park did he say?”
Bobby struck the side
of his head with his knuckles. “Damn. I don’t remember. All I can think of is that Canadian skategirl rocker who looks like she’s twelve and a crack addict.”
“Avril Lavigne?” Blockbuster asked.
“Yeah! That’s what he said. Avril Park.”
“You mean Averill Park.” Manolo grinned and grabbed Lucy by the shoulder. “Holy shit, that’s where MS 13 was getting busy last night. Remember the guy we caught...” His voice fell away as his gaze shot to where the cops stood. He continued in a rough whisper. “That guy was from over on Weymouth trying to burn down one-armed Polo’s house. That’s right by Averill Park.”
Lucy’s gaze was drawn to the harbor, toward which he stared for a moment while the information sunk in. Then be nodded slowly. He put one hand on Manolo’s shoulder and one on Bobby’s.
“Maybe this porn director has made a deal with the devil,” Trujillo said.
“Then maybe we should visit him with Angels.” Lucy grinned. “Just like in the Bible: when Angels come to visit, it’s never a good sign.” He chuckled deep and mean, like rocks rumbling in a can. “And if I find out that pringao porn director has anything to do with this business of mine, I’m going to rain down such a host of Angels to make his home look like Sodom and Gomorrah, The Day After.”
Chapter 25
Three o’clock in the afternoon, and the Pacific Coast Highway was just beginning to build up to a four o’clock crawl. Blockbuster and Bobby were on the crest of the last free wave of cars, scrambling from traffic light to traffic light as they moved north through Torrance, Hermosa Beach, Manhattan Beach, El Segundo, then Venice Beach. There was a three-car pileup in Santa Monica, but Blockbuster avoided it by zipping up Ocean Avenue.
They rumbled past Vista View park filled with upscale homeless. Bobby had stayed there a day when he’d first arrived in Los Angeles. There was a particular homeless mafia at work in the park, but they’d left him alone. Still, this was an upscale neighborhood and the million dollar condos across the street shared the same million dollar view as the homeless.
