Halfway House

by Weston Ochse

  He returned to Marley. The man knew what he was doing. He was soft-balling Bobby, not offering any reason to hate him. And it was working.

  “I hear Kanga is at the halfway house dealing with the loss of his daughter.” Marley tilted his head down, frowned and shook his head. “I miss that man. We were good friends once.”

  Bobby took a long drink of beer. He felt uncomfortable, like he should say something, but he had nothing to say.

  “Vincent’s circumstances were a lot like Laurie’s,” Marley began. “God rest her soul. I’d left him with his mother to surf the world, drink beer and meet women from every land. While I was gone he got into some pretty serious trouble. He ran meth up and down I-10 for five years and got deep into the life. When I finally found him, he was locked up in a private Indian prison on the Tohono O’Odam Reservation East of Yuma. They cut him like that, their own penalty for dealing drugs on their land.”

  Bobby glanced from Vincent’s hands to the teardrops, then back to Marley, who’d been watching his every move.

  “The tear drops? I never asked him. I figure when he wants me to know, he’ll tell me. Otherwise, it’s his business, not mine.”

  Vincent smiled like he had a great secret, but didn’t seem inclined to share.

  “I feel for Kanga. I’m able to do what he never could. Perhaps its karma’s way of paying him back for leaving me like this. Perhaps it’s something simpler. I don’t know. What I do know is that I don’t hate Kanga anymore. Sure, there was a long time when I wanted nothing more than to see him in a wheelchair like me. But I got over that. I worked through it to where I am today, a successful businessman, with a son and a nice house on the beach.”

  Boonie stood and began to clear the table while Woody got them more beer.

  “Why am I here?” Bobby finally asked.

  “I wanted to meet you and see who it was that was trying so hard to help my old friend. Now that Laurie’s gone, you’re all he has, you know?”

  “I hardly know him. He took me under his wing like a man would take in a stray.”

  “Is that how you think of yourself, Bobby? As a stray?”

  He shrugged. “No offense, Mr. Macklin, but my life isn’t an open book. I like personal things personal.”

  “Call me Marley. Only the police and trial lawyers call me Mr. Macklin.”

  “Why don’t you help Kanga? We’ve talked about you. He misses you and feels bad for what he did.”

  “Ah, yes...” Marley looked toward the ocean. “Did he tell you what he did?”

  “He stole your wave. Yeah, he told me.”

  “When it came down to it, he was willing to toss aside our friendship for fifteen seconds of rush. Do you believe it?”

  “No. And neither should you.” Bobby wasn’t about to let Marley say things he knew weren’t true. “He wasn’t willing to toss aside anyone’s life, much less yours, and you know it. Both of you were living life on the razor’s edge. You both challenged death and disaster every day and came out on top. You thought you were invincible. And you were for a while, then you became merely human again.”

  Marley glared at Bobby before he broke into a smile. He turned to Vincent. “Would you have stood up for me like that?”

  Vincent merely smiled.

  “You’re right, Bobby,” Marley said. “But it took me ten years to figure out what you said in just ten seconds. Kanga and me, we were two boys playing games and I’m the one who got hurt. We were always in competition, trying to outdo each other. It wasn’t Kanga’s fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. It just happened.”

  Bobby frowned. “You need to tell him that.”

  “I will, I will. Maybe when this is all over.”

  “When this is all over may be too late. I don’t know what the wardens are going to do to him.”

  “Ah, the wardens. Vincent told me about them. He said he recognized one from his old days.” He patted his son on the shoulder. “And the halfway house. That place always gave me the creeps. It’s funny that Kanga’s involved with it. He used to get a kick out of the story about the Japanese attacking L.A. and the witch woman who cursed them.”

  “Jap’s Cove,” Bobby murmured.

  “This is why of all the coves along the cliffs, any one with great waves, Kanga decided to build his surf shack there. He liked to joke about the footprints in the dirt, and tell people there were real Japanese soldiers attached to them.” Marley laughed at the preposterous idea.

  But Bobby wasn’t laughing. “Didn’t anyone ever check?”

  “What?”

  “Dig them up and see?”

  “See if there are Japs attached to them? Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Is it so ridiculous?”

  Before anyone could answer, the sound of distant machine gun fire caused everyone’s heads to turn as the Mariachi band wound down their set. Vincent stood and glared toward South Pacific Boulevard a mere three miles away. His fingers twitched like he wished he had a gun. There was another burst of machine gun fire.

  “Stay here,” he said. “Boonie, with me. We’re going to see what’s going on.”

  Bobby tried to stand, but Marley placed a large hand on his knee and kept him down. He was stronger than he looked.

  “Not just yet. Vincent will find out what’s going on. This is his element.”

  Bobby heard another round of machine gun fire followed by the sound of a car skidding out of control. It made him think of Lucy. The gang leader had to be in the thick of it.

  Chapter 28

  Reports were coming rapid-fire through Lucy’s cell phone and those belonging to Trujillo and Manolo who both stood beside him, helping to coordinate the defense of San Pedro. An explosion at the gas storage facility in Torrance had pulled all cops and emergency vehicles away, leaving San Pedro undefended. The Salvadorans should have had an easy time of it, except that this time Lucy and the 8th Street Angels were ready.

  MS 13 had attacked from two directions: two dozen cars sling-shotting from 25th Avenue down every southbound side street, and another dozen cars and trucks across the Vincent Thomas Bridge from Long Beach, then slipping onto Harbor Boulevard where they, too, slashed into every northbound side street. The effect was to compress everything in front of them to the two major east–west thoroughfares in San Pedro, Gaffey Street and South Pacific Avenue.

  Unlike their previous incursions, the area around Averill Park wasn’t their primary target. Lucy had been warned that the body of the tortured gangbanger had been pulled out of the water by the harbor police and that the Salvadorans wanted retribution. Lucy had already sent out word for everyone to get off the streets. Most of the local businesses had shut down, including Vons Grocery Store and several of the major fast-food franchises.

  MS 13 meant to shoot anyone they saw. The least Lucy could do was to reduce the number of civilian targets. He’d also sent out rabbits to draw the Salvadoran hounds away from areas where there were just too many people for him to do anything about it. Even now, his Angels were being chased from street to street, zigzagging down alleys and alongside streets. Sometimes they’d get boxed in and were forced to roar through a yard, smashing through backyard fences into the nearest alley. It didn’t matter how the rabbits did it as long as they kept the hounds chasing them toward Sunken City.

  Through it all, Lucy held everything together. Trujillo kept track of the northern section of San Pedro and Manolo kept track of the southern section. Leaning against his Fleetline Bomb, they passed phones back and forth, moving markers along the monopoly map spread across the hood so that Lucy could better visualize what was happening and interject his orders.

  They’d lost three cars, but so far had no casualties. His Angels had managed to get the hell away before the Salvadorans opened fire. And the closer MS 13 got to where he waited for them at Sunken City, the faster Lucy’s heartbeat. He could finish it here. Tonight could be their showdown.

  He grabbed a beer from the cooler and slammed it back, allowing the
cold liquid to sweep the dryness and doubt away.

  He had yet another problem that was competing for attention—Blockbuster. Lucy had received another report from the field and this one didn’t look good. Someone had been relating information about his gang. The last time MS 13 invaded, they’d managed to hit areas where the Angels weren’t with such success that it couldn’t have been coincidence.

  And recently Blockbuster had some time that he couldn’t account for. One of the reasons he’d assigned him to help Bobby was to get Blockbuster out of the way while Lucy conducted his own surreptitious investigation. It turned out that Blockbuster had gone missing all day long and had only turned up an hour ago. He’d have to explain later, but for now Lucy decided to keep him where he could control him. So they’d posted him on the roof of the Pacific Sands Apartments with Rafa, a guy recently released from jail. From there they could see all the way down South Pacific Avenue and most of the rest of San Pedro. Rafa was to be lookout, while Blockbuster was to report.

  A surge of chatter drew Lucy’s attention.

  MS 13 had set a row of buildings on fire along South Pacific Avenue. A taco stand, a secondhand store and a ballet studio were fully engulfed. This was serious news. All the fire trucks had already been drawn to Torrance. Short of a battalion of gangbangers with water pistols, they didn’t have what was needed to put the fire out. Most of the buildings were fifty years old or older, held together with nails and the prayers of the faithful. If he didn’t do something, the street would go up like a row of tinder.

  He made a call.

  One of his cousins worked for the harbor fire department. Normally only concerned with the safety of the docks and the ships, their secondary mission was to the safety of San Pedro and Long Beach.

  Two minutes later, as Lucy stared toward the growing glow, he heard the faraway sounds of sirens. The harbor fire department had rolled with two alarms and were en route with two cars of Harbor Police to protect them. All Lucy could do was wait.

  Returning his attention to the map, Lucy saw that the enemy had passed 25th Street. Close enough so he could hear the roar of the engines and occasional gunfire. This meant that most of the city had been spared. When this was over, if he survived the night, he would need to travel the streets and talk to the people. He needed them to know that the fear they felt this night had been something rare and would not be repeated. He needed them to feel happy in their homes.

  The walkie-talkie buzzed with Blockbuster’s voice.

  “Rabbits coming up South Pacific being chased by putos traveling 33rd, 34th, and 36th Streets. First cars coming to Cabrillo. Over.”

  Trujillo coordinated the drivers to make sure they slowed enough so that the enemy was able to close in on them. The idea wasn’t for them to get away or to lead MS 13 away from the city. The idea was to bring them right to Lucy.

  It was time for a face-off.

  The next two minutes showed the rabbits converging on 36th Street together. They slid south and turned into Cabrillo Beach. Lucy’s car was parked with the cliff face behind him. They joined him there, each rabbit pulling his car into the line so that their headlights shot spears of light down the empty expanse of sand parallel to the shoreline. Angels leapt out with rifles, pistols and submachine guns, leveling them across the doorframes and waiting.

  As the last of the rabbits fell into line, the hounds found the beach.

  MS 13 came skidding over the curb, sliding along the sand in search of traction. Nissan Maximas, pickup trucks, Ford Explorers and Lincoln Navigators roared one after another across the sand dunes until they found their own line opposite the Angels. They formed their ranks in the same manner as the rabbits, their line running from the edge of the water to the bathhouse, a full thirty cars. They outnumbered the Angels by a third.

  Lucy stepped forward of his line of Angels until he was a body-length past the front fender of his Bomb and held his phone in the air. All the eyes of his men were upon him. He tried to see past the enemy’s picket of headlights, but couldn’t penetrate the glare.

  He stood for almost a full minute this way. His legs felt a little weak. Fear danced along his spine. It was an easy shot to take him out. All they had to do was fire. But Lucy understood the psychology of war and knew that he needed to show his men that he was fearless, even if it wasn’t exactly true.

  His phone finally rang.

  He brought it to his ear.

  “This is Louis Cabellos. Who am I speaking to?”

  After a momentary pause came an answer, the voice jagged as glass. “Mijo.”

  “This is Lucy. Come out so we can talk.”

  “Un momento,” came the same ruined voice.

  A few shouts on the enemy’s side stirred his men. The sun had set behind them, leaving the dark black cliff face the backdrop for the events that were about to transpire. Lucy searched for the owner of the voice, but couldn’t see what was going on beyond the glare of headlights. When a shape finally separated from the row of cars and stood in front of a tricked-out red Nissan, the Angels began chambering rounds behind him, itchy to open fire. Lucy remained still as Trujillo ordered the gangbangers to stay calm.

  But something was wrong.

  The figure who stood on the other side couldn’t be older than a kid. Lucy couldn’t make out many features other than the stature and a cell phone pressed to an ear.

  “Mijo?”

  The figure nodded.

  “We need to talk,” Lucy said.

  The figure shook its head.

  Lucy turned toward his men. This wasn’t going as planned. This diminutive MS 13 gangsta couldn’t possibly be the leader. Lucy realized that he was being played. But before he could say anything, a single shot rang out.

  High-powered rifle.

  Then three shots. The water erupted in gouts of spray as bullets impacted. The third shot produced a scream. Lucy saw a dozen El Salvadorans surging from the waves in a sneak attack as all hell officially broke loose.

  His dive to the sand seemed to take forever.

  Semi-automatic and automatic gunfire erupted from both sides. Glass shattered. Bullets bit into the vehicles, the sound of Teflon popcorn. Screams of rage and pain came from everywhere at once.

  More high-powered rifle fire came from three Angels dangling from climbing harnesses on the cliff behind him. They had infrared scopes, all former U.S. Army infantryman returned to the hood after multiple tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. They’d had his back the whole time and had seen the Salvadorans trying to sneak ashore.

  Sand bit his face and open mouth. He wanted to burrow to safety, but knew he needed to get back up and add his violence to the conflagration. Fighting past his fear, he tried to reach the nine tucked into the back of his pants, but felt the world change as he was suddenly jerked back behind the safety of the Angel cars.

  They’d tied a rope around his ankle in the event something went wrong. The idea was for him to dive, and three Angels to pull him to safety by running in the other direction holding the rope. He’d forgotten this imminent salvation in the excitement of the moment, and blessed Trujillo for the idea that had him break the gangbanger on a rope land speed record.

  By the time Lucy got to his feet and opened fire with his own pistol, the battle was almost over. Near the water a huddle of MS 13 hid behind the tailgates of a pickup as one of Lucy’s snipers walked .50-cal rounds down the length of the truck. When they reached the tailgate, it exploded in fist-sized holes that punched through the faces and torsos of the El Salvadorans.

  That was enough for them.

  Those who hadn’t turned to run joined their gangster brothers who’d already fled. They left half their cars behind, piling into trucks and backseats as they lunged and sprinted for safety.

  Lucy called a ceasefire.

  Admiring the devastation they’d laid upon the enemy, he felt a surge of victory. El Salvadorans lay sprawled all across the enemy line. Cars burned. Discarded weapons lay everywhere. All but one set of hea
dlights had disappeared. A horn blared from the engine of the pickup his snipers had just destroyed. One more round and the horn was silenced.

  Lucy turned with a grin. He wanted to share his victory. He wanted to celebrate. But his side had taken substantial damage as well. More than a dozen Angels lay dead and barely moving down the length of the line. He saw Mojo, his face almost ripped off, blood soaking his white shirt. He saw Manolo cradling a man whose brains were seeping free.

  He felt a burn along his left arm and the warm stickiness of blood. He tried to check his arm but found he couldn’t move it.

  He’d been hit.

  Trujillo.

  Where was Trujillo?

  He felt an arm come around his shoulder. Trujillo’s face was as implacable as always. The man’s calmness settled Lucy and they watched as the last of the enemy tore up 36th Street.

  The Battle of Cabrillo Beach was officially over when Rafa radioed in, “No mas.”

  Chapter 29

  Fatigue owned Kanga.

  They’d taken him inside to rest just that one time, and he’d vowed never to return. The once legendary surfer named after the television children’s show host, Captain Kangaroo, still shuddered at the memory of the leering faces of the upside-down Japanese soldiers and his frantic search for the daughter he’d thought was trapped in the walls of the house. He’d come unglued. Whether it was from what they’d given him to drink or pure exhaustion, what he’d seen and heard couldn’t have been real.

  Except for the part about his daughter.

  Whatever had actually happened inside the house, the single greatest thing was that it had shattered the wall that had been separating him from speaking with Laurie. When he’d first arrived at the halfway house and decided to join the throng, it’d seemed that no matter how hard he tried, he hadn’t been able to communicate. Whether it was the drugs, the presence of the dead witch’s body or some truly fantastical magic, the part of him which didn’t believe had been vanquished, allowing Kanga to speak without limitation to his daughter. And although he was exhausted beyond reason, he wasn’t about to leave her alone. He’d left her once and couldn’t do that again, especially since she was dying all over again.