Put a bloody cork in his inner idiot.
Beemer had already erred that day. He’d let his impulses get on the wrong side of good tactical judgment. In doing so he had pulled the trigger and unnecessarily blown the face off that MF #1 down in Lynwood. A regrettable mistake.
Beemer, still crouched below the powder room window, labored over his breathing. Slow in and slow out. He felt his mobile phone vibrate against his thigh.
Could it be?
Beemer removed the phone from his cargo pocket. On the screen a familiar number was displayed. 818 area code. He retreated from his crouch below the window, slowly walking an arc up behind the swimming pool, careful to keep his silhouette against the thick landscaping.
“Hello?” he answered, his voice hanging barely above a whisper.
“It’s Rey Palomino.”
Beemer felt his ears burn as his blood pressure built behind his eye sockets.
“How’s it going?” asked Beemer, finding some cool in his voice while slipping between the double trunk of a queen palm. From behind the fronds he had a clear view through the home’s windows and those matching French doors. He watched Rey, padding the floor between his kitchen and den, pacing, cordless phone held to his ear. The pool man’s obvious nerves reminded Beemer which one of them was the true predator.
“We’re good,” lied Rey. “Very good, in fact. I talked to my brother.”
“You did?” inserted Beemer in an effort to prompt Rey into deeper untruths. Maybe there’d be more sustainable satisfaction in allowing Rey to pile up the lies before punching holes in his body with hot stuff.
“And like I said. We’re good. For tomorrow,” added Rey, as if he’d forgotten.
“For tomorrow? Sounds good.”
Nearly all the lights in the house were ablaze. When Rey’s natural anxiety sent him walking from room to room, Beemer found following him was like watching a caged game animal, turning in place or pawing the ground before the inevitable slaughter.
“Thought eleven in the morning would be good,” continued Rey. “That way, wherever you’re coming from, you won’t have to fight rush hour traffic.”
“Thanks,” said Beemer before his voice tripped over the puddle of saliva at the back of his throat. Beemer coughed out, “Thoughtful of you. Thanks.”
“Least I could do after today,” said Rey. “Oh. And my brother is very sorry about everything.”
“Maybe I can meet him tomorrow?” asked Beemer.
“Sure you can. He’d like to meet you, too.”
It was a damned sweet sight, thought Beemer. To actually observe someone as they lied to you. A man who had no inkling whatsoever that he was only moments from certain death. Like the time-honored military practice of “painting” with the point of a laser to guide a smart bomb up a target’s ass.
“Do we need to go over the details?”
“Ten thousand cash. Twenty more when my product arrives at the destination.”
“And my brother will provide all the documentation, paperwork. All that kinda stuff.”
Rey had ceased his pacing, facing outward at the kitchen door, a single pane opposite the pool steps. Beemer instinctively receded to further obscure himself. He wasn’t ready to kill Rey. Not just yet. He made a quick calculation, measuring the light in the kitchen against the low voltage illumination in the backyard. Odds were strong that the pool man was gazing at his own reflection. Watching himself tell one untruth after another.
Beemer’s silence seemed to spook Rey.
“Everything cool?” asked Rey. “Can barely hear you speaking.”
“I’m uh…” thought Beemer. “People around. Some kinda tea an’ coffee place.”
“Well, have a cup of joe for me,” said Rey, stabbing at something glib, but falling well short on delivery. Beemer heard a quiver in Rey’s voice. A sure sign of nerves? Or possibly an animal instinct informing the prey that the end was imminent.
“Everything okay with you?” asked Beemer, letting the pistol dangle in his grip, shaking loose the tension in his shoulder. He was going to let Rey hang up before his final approach.
Just like he’d already pictured it. Teak chair through the window. Follow the breaking glass with two pairs of double taps.
“Yeah. Sure. Gotta go, though. Got my girlfriend comin’ home. See ya tomorrow?”
Girlfriend coming home?
“No prob,” said Beemer. “Looking forward to it.”
What Beemer was looking forward to was taking out Rey Baby. The safety on his weapon was off. The gun was hot and ready go. But the rules of engagement had changed like the channels on Rey’s big screen television. Through the big rear window frames of the modern Tudor, Beemer watched a slight, middle-aged Japanese woman lead a coterie of tennis-togged housewives into the family room. Eight women in all, the sharp frequencies of their combined voices penetrating into the backyard like a flock of descending geese.
Weapon to safe. Retreat.
Beemer took three steps rearward and stuffed the pistol back into his belt. It was his first autonomic reaction since the flop sweat that had busted out and wet his clothes while eavesdropping under the powder room window.
The racket of Mayako’s tennis crew sliding open the French doors blanketed Beemer’s hasty exit. The rest was covered by the darkness, into which Beemer reluctantly disappeared.
New plans needed to be formed. Sleep would have to be temporarily damned. And the clock to 11:00 A.M. was already ticking.
17
“Hell yeah I saw him.”
“So draw me a picture,” said Lucky.
“You want me to draw you something? Serious?”
“With your words,” explained Gonzo to the gang banger Beemer had labeled MF #2. Detective Lopes had ID'd MF #2 as Tyrone Charles. Street name: Speedy. Soon after the youngest in that carload of burrito-eating Bloods had agreed to help the cops, the sheriff had traded texts with Speedy. Initially, Speedy wanted less than nothing to do with cops, especially the L.A. Sheriffs. He cited trust issues, claiming he possessed the scars to justify his reluctance. But then Gonzo had become a welcome addition. She was both LAPD and a woman. A phone call later, Gonzo had negotiated a location where Speedy would feel safe from arrest. It turned out that Tyrone had an older half-sibling who served as a Compton fireman stationed at the South Acacia firehouse. So in a borrowed back corner of the massive garage, yards from the rear bumper of a neon yellow ladder unit, Speedy sat on a pair of stacked used truck tires. Gonzo was closest to him, interviewing him from a folding chair. Lopes and Bledsoe, whose puffed up face was swathed in fine beads of sweat, were a few paces behind her. The big man needed a breeze to cool him down. The air in that corner of the building failed to circulate.
Lucky was leaning one shoulder against the concrete wall. Legs crossed. Fatigue beginning to set into his shoulders. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger.
“Like a white dude,” said Speedy. “Tha’s what he looked like.”
“Got two white guys with me,” said Gonzo. “He look like either of them?”
“Well, he wasn’t no fat dude. Wasn’t no skinhead neither.” Speedy switched his eyes from Bledsoe to Lucky, who was withdrawing a bottle of Excedrin from his jeans pocket. Lucky shook the plastic container like a baby’s rattle.
“Dark hair? Light hair?” asked Gonzo.
“Was dark brown. Maybe black. Short hair.”
“Like a cop’s hair?
“Not that short. You know. Just regular.”
“Remember what he was wearing?”
“T-shirt. Some black pants.” Speedy added, “Pants with the pockets on the legs. You know. Extra storage.”
“Cargo pants?” asked Gonzo.
“Yeah. Tha’s what they were. And new kicks.”
“You remember that?”
“Yeah. Like runners, you know. Maybe blue. Guy likes to run, maybe.”
“Jogging or running shoes. Blue. Anything else? Facial hair? Eye color?
”
“Sunglasses. Like on CSI.”
“Which one?” asked Lopes.
“Whaddayou mean which one? The only one.”
“There’s three CSIs,” added Bledsoe, smug grin spreading underneath his mustache.
“Miami, man,” insisted Speedy. “The redhead motherfucker.”
“Like aviator glasses,” said Gonzo. She dipped into her jacket pocket and withdrew her personal pair of Ray Ban aviators.
“Yeah,” said Speedy. “Like that.”
“Anything else? Tattoos? Scars?”
Speedy wasn’t listening to the questions, momentarily distracted by the Kern cop with the noisy Excedrin bottle. He observed Lucky shaking out twin tablets, popping them into his mouth with a single, expert dry swallow.
“Hey, man,” said Speedy in Lucky’s direction. “That shit’s gonna eat up your stomach.”
“Yeah?” asked Lucky. “Thanks for caring.”
“Don’t care for nothin’. Just sayin’ a fact.”
“You a doctor when you’re not poppin’ caps?” asked Lucky. “Maybe you attended med school between hits on the crack pipe?”
“I’m not a crackhead. But I did watch my momma chew her insides up from eatin’ aspirins like they was Skittles.”
“Important safety tip,” said Lucky. “Believe the detective asked you a question.”
“S’all I know. Asides from the motherfucker blowin’ my homie’s face off. Now what’s his momma gonna do at the funeral? Can’t even lookit him again!”
“Said you were tryin’ to jack the truck,” said Lucky. “Ever find out what was in it?”
“I tried lookin’ but the back was all locked up.”
“But you thought you knew,” confirmed Gonzo.
“Yeah, we thought,” said Speedy. “We thought it was all rib-eyes and shit. You know. Meat.”
“Red meat,” confirmed Gonzo.
“Hell yeah. Who don’t like red meat?”
Lopes let out a laugh, joined briefly by Bledsoe, who was tired of leaking perspiration by the pint. He had already unbuttoned his shirt to his sternum, revealing a sweat-soaked wife beater. When he was nearly finished rolling up the sleeves of his nineteen dollar, J.C. Penney dress shirt, he hadn’t quite noticed the silence.
But Gonzo had. In a matter of seconds she watched Speedy’s all-too-comfy swag morph into sudden caution, then fear. His bulging eyes locked on to the extra large sheriff's detective. Gonzo swiveled, tracking Speedy’s stare to Bledsoe’s fencepost of a forearm. Inked on vanilla white skin was the exact same image Gonzo had seen on Lucky’s calf. A grim reaper holding a scythe in one hand, a pistol in the other. And a number. Bledsoe’s was number 49.
“Man, I know you!” said Speedy, on his feet, accusing finger pointing at Bledsoe. “I know all y’all!”
“No, no,” calmed Gonzo. “You’re talking to me, remember?”
“Fuck you and fuck them!” accused Speedy. “Them’s all Lennox motherfuckers!”
“Sit the hell down!” barked Lucky.
“You think I’m in a gang?” Speedy’s angst meter was at the maximum. “Ain’t no gang more evil than Lennox. They shoot a gansta just because!”
“Nobody’s getting shot,” cautioned Gonzo. “We’re just talking about what you saw—”
“I done. You tell my halfie I shook it loose.”
“Look,” said Bledsoe. “Rollin’ down my sleeve. Pretend you didn’t even see it.”
Speedy cut left around Gonzo, head down and dead reckoning for the exit. Gonzo snagged him at the crook of his arm.
“Whoa, whoa!” said Gonzo. “C’mon. Don’t just walk away—”
The thud of Lucky’s left palm heel connecting with Speedy’s ear had a slight, mid pitch slap to it. The blow came moments after Speedy stuffed his hands in his pockets and set a course for the nearest exit. Lucky had two-stepped past both Lopes and Bledsoe and unleashed the meaty part of his hand on Speedy’s head. The boy’s knees buckled briefly before he slumped against the ladder truck. He instantly covered his head with his arms, expecting more blows to follow.
Gonzo set her feet and launched herself into Lucky. She locked her elbows and fired every pound of her six-foot frame squarely into the Kern cop, repelling him two steps backward. The rest was all reflex. Gonzo drew her pistol, snapped the safety off, and positioned herself. Knees bent, combat ready. Her Beretta thrust forward into Lucky’s face.
Lucky slapped the gun to the side.
“Outta my way!”
“Stand down!” yelled Gonzo, retreating until she had Speedy safely pinned against the truck and herself between the unarmed gangster and the enraged cop. “Stand down or I’ll put one through your face! I’ve got justification and I got witnesses.”
Lopes knew exactly what she was talking about. He swung his gaze over the ladder truck to an open window where the firehouse dining room overlooked the garage. Shadows of fireman had gathered, curious about the ruckus in the corner of their station house.
“I deserve some Goddamn answers,” breathed Lucky.
“Yes you do,” said Gonzo. “You’ve had a real bad day. But that’s not my fault. And it’s not this guy’s fault either.”
“You don’t have the nuts.”
“Neither will you if you don’t back the hell off!” Gonzo lowered her aimpoint to cover Lucky’s crotch.
“Material witness to a capital crime,” entered Lopes into the fray.
“You wanted him to talk to you and he talked,” argued Gonzo. “If he wants to go now then that’s what he gets to do.”
“Detective Gonzalez,” warned Bledsoe, his voice taking on an officious, yet deadly tone. His left hand was outstretched while his right was gripping the rubberized butt of his Glock, its muzzle non-threatening and aimed at the floor. “Listen to me. You have willfully placed yourself between county cops and a suspected felon. You have no jurisdiction. Strongly suggest you holster your weapon.”
Gonzo nodded. With her free hand, she reached back and touched Speedy’s ribcage. She could feel the gang banger trembling, his bravado reduced to a case of the I’m-gonna-die-shakes.
“You okay?” asked Gonzo. “Ready to go?”
She assumed the half-squeak, half-grunt she heard from Speedy was a noise to the affirmative. Grabbing a piece of his T-shirt, she began to drag him in the direction of the exit, all the while keeping herself and her 9mm between Lucky and his intended target.
The puffing from Lucky’s cheeks appeared to deflate and his hands opened in sudden surrender. Next he gestured for Bledsoe to dial it back a notch. Lucky even forced a fake-assed smile.
“Know what?” said Lucky. “Actin’ this way? I don’t think you’re gonna get that ride back to Pasadena.”
“I’m all heartbroken,” said Gonzo, backing away, each careful footfall one step closer to the street and a safe exit. Gonzo wheeled a one-eighty just in time to see Speedy dashing out the firehouse door, legs pumping, vanishing into the darkness.
Both Lopes and Bledsoe busted out some chuckles, then closed ranks around their brother-in-arms with back slaps and a huddle of hushed conversation.
Then it hit Gonzo while she was standing just beyond the station house door.
The interview with Speedy had for most investigative purposes ended. There was nary more information the gang member would have or could have been able to pass on to them. So why had Lucky pressed the issue with a nuclear outburst? Had he merely reached his emotional limit? Had frustration played its last card?
Or…
Was Lucky playing her? Was this his way of turning his lemons into lemonade? With that single hammering sock to Speedy’s skull, Lucky had forced a reaction from Gonzo that would make it impossible for the partnership to carry on beyond that very moment. Hell. Gonzo had gone so far as to draw her weapon and threaten to kill a fellow police officer.
Shit.
The sum total was this. Sheriff’s Deputy Lucky Dey from Kern Country had at last jettisoned his female, LAPD
chaperone.
Whatever.
Gonzo found her mobile phone and dialed up a cab ride back to Pasadena. Next she speed-dialed her son, Travis. The eleven-year-old hadn’t yet entered the stage of preadolescence where the odds of his answering a call from his mother was less than thirty percent. In fact, her one and only child took great care with responsibilities such as cleaning up after himself, completing his homework before any television, computer games, or Xbox, and keeping his cell phone charged and close.
Travis answered on the first ring.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Hey, buddy. How’s it goin’?”
“Nothin’.”
“Didn’t ask what you were doing? Asked how it’s goin’?”
“Playin’ Madden.”
“Right. Okay. Tell Alice I’m on my way home. Might be an hour or so.”
“Hey, mom?”
“What?”
“Can you bring Taco Bell?”
“Didn’t you eat?”
“Yeah, but—”
“But nothin’. Have some fruit.”
“Awwwwww.”
“See you when I get home. Love you.”
“Mom?”
“Trav. I said fruit.”
“I know. Just askin’ if you’re okay.”
Gonzo exhaled deeply. There was never getting anything past Travis. The kid could read her like the large print on an eye chart.
“Just tired, buddy,” said Gonzo. “Long day.”
“But the day’s over, right?”
“Yes,” sighed Gonzo. “It’s finally over.”
18
The diagnosis was that Conrad Ellis suffered from an overly-busy mind. Thus the chronic insomnia. Since moving to Los Angeles ten years earlier he had run through the gamut of possible cures. From reading to sound machines to soft music to warm baths. None seemed to tame his buzzing brain. There was, of course, medication. Pills. Conrad had tried those, too. From over the counter remedies to prescription drugs with sleepy names like Lunesta and Ambien, Conrad had sampled them all. Either the meds didn’t work or those that did left him lethargic and napping through half the work day. So Conrad gave up on the doctors and medical research and resorted to the tricks his father had used. A hard day’s work followed by nights of banal television and whiskey, wearing paths in the rugs and floors of his home with his constant pacing. When sleep finally came it was a restorative surprise, only to be followed by successive nights of more insomniac wanderings.
Blood Money Page 13
