Blood Money

by Doug Richardson

  “When we have business plans? Yeah.”

  “What business plans?”

  “Shipping business. What the hell else?”

  “Shipping is my business. Your business is pools. Am I missing something?”

  “Can’t believe you forgot about it,” said Rey. “We talked about a customer of mine that needed a container shipped.”

  “You’re shittin’ me. Was I drinkin’ when we talked?”

  “You didn’t sound like it. You gave me a dollar figure. Said you wrote down the date.”

  “Blank, brother. Don’t remember a damn thing.”

  “Swell.”

  “Whatever. If I said I’d put this container to sea then that’s what I’ll do. Where and when?”

  “Was supposed to be today!”

  “Well, we both know that’s not gonna happen,” laughed Heber.

  “No shit,” said Rey, trying to sound equally amused. “But this customer is on a timetable. He’s gotta ship tomorrow latest.”

  “No can do.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Can’t ship it if I’m not there. You need a favor? You got somethin’ that’s gotta be walked around customs? I’m the one who does it and nobody else.”

  “Then get on a plane.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Fish are biting down here. Not comin’ back ’til the weekend and that’s it.”

  “That doesn’t work for me or my customer.”

  “Hey!” barked Heber. “Who’s doin’ who a fuckin’ favor?”

  “You. But you were supposed to do me the favor today.”

  “So says you. I don’t remember a Goddamn thing about it. Because I’m your brother and I love you I’ll do the favor. But not ’til Monday earliest.”

  The sweat had, once again, collected in Rey’s ear. His brother’s spiky voice was beginning to sound as if he was speaking from under water. That and the acid in his stomach was starting to bubble up and beg for a tab of Prilosec.

  “Hey, Rey. You still there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Make Monday work, okay? I’ll be there and all will be good.”

  “And if I’m dead by Monday?” asked Rey.

  “Yeah, right. Call me Sunday night and we’ll make it work,” laughed Heber. “‘Make it work.’ Ain’t that what that gay guy on the cable show says? ‘Make it work’?”

  “Wouldn’t know,” lied Rey in a self-flagellating monotone.

  There was a beeping sound when the satphone disconnected, followed by the click of Heber’s assistant ending the conference connection. The call was officially over.

  Rey stood in the middle of that patch of flaky, Reseda, California soil, his ears filled with sweat and his right sneaker full of sand. He couldn’t yet process the call or the ramifications. He thought of pressing redial on his mobile and starting the process all over again.

  And if I’m dead by Monday?

  Maybe he didn’t want to press his older brother on the issue for fear of discovering that family truly didn’t matter to Heber…that his untimely end would prove inconsequential in the Lord’s grand scheme of things. The thought was too great to ponder given that Rey hadn’t yet even partially processed the death of his only son, Daniel.

  Present calculation proved impossible.

  So Rey finished sketching the outline of the custom pool, shook the dirt from his shoe, rattled off a string of Spanish instructions for the longtime Mexican employee he lovingly called Gordo—or Fat Man—to stake out the perimeter so the client could see the space which would eventually become a beautiful custom pool.

  That was of course if Rey lived long enough to finish it.

  11

  “Now what?” asked Gonzo.

  “We wait for the call,” said Lucky.

  “What if they don’t get it?”

  “They’ll get it. They’re my boys.”

  The unlikely duo was parked on Spring Street in downtown Los Angeles, a mere half block from the Federal Courthouse. As heat records were crushed all over the Southwest, downtown was no exception. The sun was straight up and unfiltered through the surrounding skyscrapers. And the tinted windows of Lucky’s Dodge Charger were no match for the rays that penetrated the car despite the air conditioning being switched to nearly full arctic blast.

  “You know,” said Gonzo. “My office is, like, walking distance. It’s air conditioned. Comfortable—”

  “Sounds nice. You wanna hoof it there and call today a date, then swell.”

  “You’re saying that because you know I can’t.”

  “Am I?”

  It was one of the rare moments in the past few hours that Lucky actually looked at Gonzo. Right through his dark wraparounds, past her aviators, and to the back of her optical receptors. Lucky’s was a dead stare. Motionless. As if he could wait a lifetime for a response.

  “Look,” Gonzo began, risking the moment. “I’m sorry about your brother. I didn’t know—”

  “Told ya, did they?” said Lucky of his Lennox brethren.

  “’Course they did,” said Gonzo. “They care.”

  “S’pose they do,” said Lucky. He turned off that intimidating stare, emptying his gaze back on to the lunchtime traffic.

  “Mind if I ask you—”

  “I mind if you breathe, okay?” interrupted Lucky. “But since I can’t stop you from that, what’s it matter if you ask anything?”

  Normally, Gonzo would have given as good as she got. She enjoyed trading barbs. As a woman cop, she’d been around the block long enough to be accustomed to wearing a target on her back. She prided herself on her ability to dish the trash talk—in good humor or otherwise—right back at the direction it came from. But this time, she was staked out with a cop who was grieving his dead younger brother. That and Lucky was probably still in some sort of shock, running only on sheer will or adrenalin.

  “Why Kern County?”

  Lucky considered not answering the question. His mouth formed something of an astringent smirk.

  “You mean why Kern over some other sunny locale?” Lucky said, trying to rephrase the question into something he’d like to answer. “Shit. You didn’t even ask the question you wanted to ask.”

  Gonzo didn’t rise to the bait.

  “Why did I leave Lennox?”

  “I can think of a few answers there,” said Gonzo, letting her glibness slip.

  “LAPD, man. Not a glimmer about the South Sheriffs.”

  “Let’s not go there,” said Gonzo, not caring to open that bottomless pit of conflict between the L.A. County Sheriffs and the LAPD. Google Pandora’s Box and she would probably find video of a sheriff and a LAPD cop squaring up in a bloody octagon.

  “’Kay. So I don’t know shit about South Sheriffs,” continued Gonzo. “Why Kern County over Orange County or Ventura?”

  “Somethin’ wrong with Kern?” asked Lucky, his tone utterly rhetorical. “Had a bad experience that way? Got pulled over and mistaken for a farm worker?”

  “So you think that’s funny?”

  “Naw. Not to you.”

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  Lucky just shook his head, letting the faintest smile slip. No teeth. Just one edge of his lips was slightly upturned. He kept his gaze aimed at the street.

  Gonzo folded her arms across her chest, deciding it worthless to continue the conversation. She’d be better off calculating the money the city was paying her to babysit the asshole.

  Yes, girl. He’s an asshole. Grieving or not.

  “Wasn’t me who picked Kern,” said Lucky, sounding distant despite the short space between himself and Gonzo. “Tony…He, uh…couldn’t make it with L.A. County. Tried and tried but couldn’t pass the exam. And me? S’pose I thought that was best for him. You know, that he’d quit trying to be a cop.”

  Over the blast of the air conditioner, Gonzo did her damned best to read the amount of pain in Lucky’s vocal inflections
. The more Lucky spoke, the thinner his voice became.

  “Next thing I knew he’d made an application with Kern. Didn’t know anybody up there but I asked around. Got some names. Put in a good word, you know?”

  “That’s sweet,” said Gonzo. “You were taking care of him by moving up there.”

  “Didn’t have a choice, really. Kern pretty much said they wouldn’t have him unless I came along as part of the package.”

  Then she heard it. The tiniest crack in Lucky’s voice.

  “Some job I did taking care of him.” Lucky’s jaw muscles tightened and flexed. The light sheen of sweat that covered his stubble revealed the hefty mandible muscle bulging beneath his cheek.

  Beads of perspiration were breaking out all over him. His skin itched. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, unconsciously scratching at his shoulders and thighs. Gonzo observed him. She was detached. She had little in the way of feelings for him. Perhaps some empathy for having just lost his little brother. Even so, she remained defensively detached.

  Sweat must have been running down Lucky’s lower legs because eventually he reached below the steering wheel and rolled up his left pant leg for a quick rub down. This is when Gonzo saw the tattoo. It was five-and-a-half inches long, inked on the inside of his calf. The image was of the grim reaper, fabled scythe in one hand and a handgun in the other. At the bottom was a scroll with the number 52. And as quickly as Gonzo saw the tattoo, it was hidden again by the denim pants leg.

  Lucky’s cell phone trilled with an uncustomized tone. The noise was a loud, electronic sample of an old fashioned bell ringer. It was startling and clattered against Gonzo’s eardrums.

  “Yeah,” answered Lucky before the phone was even to his ear. He listened a beat then repeated the name as if he expected Gonzo to write it down. “Lilly Zoller…And she’s what? An assistant U.S. Attorney? Yeah, whatever. I’ll call you back.”

  Lucky clicked off and popped his car door.

  “Where we goin’?”

  “Some lady fed is pushing this thing. See what she knows.”

  Gonzo trailed Lucky across Spring Street and through the revolving doors of the courthouse building. The usual security precautions manned by federal deputies were set up in the lobby. Metal detectors and ID checks. There were two lines. One for civilians—most of whom were employees or grand jurors—and another for badge-carrying authorities. Both Lucky and Gonzo supplied their badges and weapons, explained that they had no appointment, waited fifteen minutes to be cleared, and passed through to the elevator bank. For the first time in hours, Gonzo felt less anxious. The feds inside that marble building were taking over the case. Whatever further assistance Lucky needed would come from agents of the FBI. But her feelings of comfort were extinguished when she recalled Lucky’s spunky little ditty from when they were standing outside the Lennox station.

  “The FBI can suck my white dick.”

  She didn’t have to ask what the comment was about. Gonzo could guess. Plenty of L.A. detectives—Sheriffs and LAPD—held some form of grudge against the feds, having been at one time or another on the bottom end of a investigative monkey pile. Federal authorities were well known for throwing the considerable weight of Uncle Sam around local municipalities without much care for the consequences. That and cops who carried U.S. government badges often treated city cops with the same indifference they reserved for common house flies.

  The elevator doors opened.

  “After you,” said Lucky with a hint of mockery, his open hand guiding her.

  “Whatever,” mumbled Gonzo, taking her place inside.

  Lucky followed her into the lift, pressing the twelfth floor and close door buttons respectively. The set of doors was sliding shut when an arm shot between them, triggering the motion sensor. The doors clutched and reopened to reveal a sharp-dressed woman who was often described by fellow lawyers as a tight package.

  “Sorry,” said Lilly Zoller with a minimum of eye contact. She pressed the button for the eleventh floor, swiveled to face outward, and waited for the doors to close again.

  The trio rode in seconds of silence as the car accelerated then eased to a stop at the fifth floor. When the doors were supposed to open, they remained closed. The elevator sat motionless, its passengers expecting little delay.

  Gonzo flicked her eyes to the button pad. Every button was brightly lit. Still the car didn’t move.

  With her thumb, Lilly pressed the eleventh floor button again. When nothing appeared to happen, she used the knuckle of her index finger to punch the button in an annoyed triplicate.

  “So what’s that mean when all the lights are on?” asked Gonzo.

  Lucky reached around the petite attorney. He uttered a faint “Excuse me,” as he worked both the door open and door close buttons.

  “Fucking hell,” said Lilly, bumping the side of her Jimmy Choo heels into the door, careful not to scuff the finish. “Of all the times.”

  “Happens a lot huh?” asked Gonzo.

  Lilly lifted her eyes up and to the side, taking instant stock of the gladiator-sized LAPD detective in cowboy boots and leather jacket. Her mouth twisted into a dismissive smirk—as if to say “it’s sweltering outside yet you’re wearing that getup?”

  “Government buildings,” said Lilly, twisting her head to get a better look at Lucky. It was instinct the way she answered questions—ignoring the questioner and directing her response to the nearest alpha male. It was her way of establishing her place in the social pecking order. “Always the last to get serviced.”

  Lilly gave Lucky a double once-over. Shaved head to his Haix duty boots and back again. But the man showed an utter lack of interest in Lilly which, to her, was odd. The man was obviously a cop and wore no wedding ring. And married or not, all male cops were dogs, always on the prowl for a taste of honey.

  “What do you think?” addressed Lilly to Lucky. “Will we get out of this alive?”

  “We’ll survive,” said Lucky, still focused on the panel. He pulled the red emergency button, expecting to hear the familiar jangle of alarm bells. Instead, the elevator shook ever so slightly, followed by an audible electronic hum.

  “That doesn’t sound good,” said Lilly, hardly nervous, but willing to play at being meek to garner a reaction from the man standing only inches from her.

  “You work here?” asked Lucky.

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’d best dial somebody and see if they can get the maintenance super on this.”

  “Good idea. Got a cell phone?”

  Gonzo was already holding out her cell phone for Lilly to borrow. Yet Lilly waited for Lucky to withdraw his from his front jeans pocket.

  “Thanks,” said Lilly.

  The mobile device he handed Lilly wasn’t by any means new or the latest in super fast smart phones. It was worn from abuse and scratched and the hinge squeaked when Lilly flipped it open. Nonetheless, when the phone came to life, the tiny screen lit up with a digital photo of the cop with a shorter, younger version of himself. A brother, Lilly decided. Both men sported wide grins as if sharing some kind of wicked secret.

  “Hey,” said Lilly after dialing her office. “I’m stuck in one of the elevators. Wanna get someone on it?”

  With the phone flipped back shut, Lilly returned it to Lucky.

  “So where you boys from?” asked Lilly. The slight toward Gonzo was unmistakable.

  “Excuse me?” piped Gonzo.

  “Sorry,” lied Lilly. “I meant cops.”

  “I’m LAPD,” said Gonzo without a lick of humor. “He’s—”

  The interruption was a loud ka-shung! The elevator gave a minor jolt then, once again, began traveling upward.

  “You must really rate around here,” said Lucky.

  “You have no idea,” grinned Lilly.

  “S’pose I don’t,” said Lucky, revealing the faintest smile, though not exactly genuine.

  “Nice being marooned with you,” said Lilly as the doors to the eleventh floor ope
ned. “Bye.”

  Neither Lucky nor Gonzo felt the need to reciprocate the verbal “so long.” But for entirely different reasons. Lilly spun on a heel and stepped out, the automated doors closing behind her with a hiss.

  The ride to the next floor took five smooth seconds with Lucky, once again, leading the way into the corridor and hunting down an office nameplate.

  “We’re looking for Deputy U.S. Attorney Lillian Zoller,” said Lucky without an inkling that they’d just shared more than a moment with Lilly in the elevator.

  “Thought we were dealing with the FBI,” said Gonzo.

  “Told you. The FBI can suck my…”

  Lucky was standing in front of an office door, next to which was a simple plate screwed to the wall, reading:

  1208

  Lillian Zoller

  Deputy United States Attorney

  A twist of the doorknob and Lucky was through the door, catching Lilly’s assistant, Jenna, sucking back the leftover broth from her microwaved Cup O Noodles lunch.

  “Are you Lillian?” asked Lucky.

  “Sorry,” said Jenna, scrambling for her napkin. “Lilly’s not in. Are you on her appointment sheet?”

  “No,” said Lucky, showing his badge. “I’m from Kern County Sheriff's.”

  “Oh my God,” said Jenna. “The Pepper Ellis case, right?”

  “No,” said Lucky. “The Anthony Dey case. You know, the dead deputy up in Kern County?”

  “Right, right,” said Jenna. “Same thing. It’s just that—”

  “What about Pepper Ellis?” asked Gonzo, well aware of the teen queen’s TV show. That’s because her twelve-year-old son, Travis, watched too damn much TV when he wasn’t playing too damn much Xbox.

  “You’re from Kern and you don’t know?”

  “I’m from LAPD,” said Gonzo. “He’s from Kern. And it was his brother who was murdered.”

  Lucky snapped a don’t-speak-unless-I-tell-you-to look dead at Gonzo. His eyes were unblinking, cocked and loaded with an unmitigated threat.