by R. Lee Walsh
A sense of purpose she hasn't known since her journey on earth began courses through her limbs and she searches for something to write on. Cursing Riley for his twisted sense of humor, she's eternally Grateful to him for this gift at the same time. Digging through her backpack she finds only a couple bar receipts and a paycheck stub, but this remarkable pencil is far too precious to waste on something so mundane. Exasperated, she looks around the empty apartment, pausing at the pristine white walls.
Who needs paper when she has a blank canvas?
The first line she draws near the front door with a trembling hand, a whimper of delight escaping her mouth. The depth of color is incomparable. In moments her hand is a blur, eons of repressed ability flowing through her fingers. She painstakingly recreates cherished memories of her homeland and the journey that brought her to this place.
One wall. Two. On and on it flows, like a river with no beginning and, as yet, an unknown end.
When her phone rings, she startles. Blinking, she notices the sun is high.
She walks over to retrieve the phone from the carpet where she left it, stunned to discover it's almost noon.
She stares at the number and takes a calming breath, slowly letting it out before she answers.
“Hey, Elsa. How's Tob?”
“He's okay. Is this a bad time?”
“Nope. It's fine. What's up?”
“Well, we wanted to talk to you about your offer. Toby and I discussed it and I think we'll take you up on it. That is, if you're still willing.”
“When did you want to leave?”
“Today, if possible. There's a flight that leaves this evening and we'd like to be on it if we can. Can you come in soon? Toby wants to go over the paperwork and he's making a list of what needs to be done. Is that okay?”
“Sure. I'll be there within the hour.”
Hanging up, Peach surveys her handiwork. Somewhere between three a.m and noon, she's covered every inch of four walls. While there's so much more she wants to record, it's a start.
Dialing Riley's number, she squints out the window into the California sunlight, listening to it ring. She knows he won't answer so she waits to leave a message.
“You win. Meet me at the T-Bird tonight. And bring me some damn clothes.”
After replacing her pencils, she carefully closes the precious box. She looks around for a place to hide it, then decides she cannot bear to part with it.
A half hour later she rides into the empty T-Bird parking lot, her three day old outfit wrinkled and hopelessly stained. Sighing, she locks her bike next to a lamppost, then walks over and knocks on the back door.
Elsa immediately opens it with a harried smile, ushering her into the office. Toby is rummaging through his desk.
“Just a sec. I need to find the weekly inventory sheet.”
“It's right there under the Kirin Beer order.”
An hour later Peach is armed with every bit of paperwork Toby can come up with, their travel information as well as phone numbers. They're scheduled to return the day after Easter. Standing at the back door for the fifth time, Peach once again assures them she has it covered, strongly encouraging them to leave for the airport.
“If there's a problem I'll call you. Seriously. You're going to miss your flight.”
Elsa hugs her for the dozenth time, thanking her again for agreeing to do this. With a last anxious look toward the kitchen, Toby squeezes her arm and they finally exit the building. Peach waits at the back door watching their car pull out of the parking lot, just as Raul pulls in. Latino music blares from his aging Toyota Celica, a tangle of rosaries hanging from the rear view mirror. She holds the door for him while he gets out of his car.
“Where they going?” he asks, watching Elsa and Toby drive away.
“Japan.”
“Now?”
“No, yesterday.”
Rolling his eyes, he takes a freshly laundered shirt from the back seat of his car. Eyeing her same outfit, he wisely chooses not to comment. “So who's supposed to run the bar?”
“Who do you think?”
“Un quilambo,” he mutters under his breath. “When they coming back?”
“Three weeks.”
By the time he reaches the building another car is pulling into the parking lot. Both Raul and Peach turn as a canary yellow Bonneville comes to a halt near the entrance. Riveted, Peach watches as a young hispanic male exits the rear passenger door, nodding once at Raul. She narrows her eyes when she recognizes the new fry cook Toby hired. Robbie. Mannuel's grandson. There are two other people still in the car. A man and a woman.
“Just in time, esse,” Raul says. “We got lots of prep work to do.”
The Bonneville backs up to turn around and Peach watches it pull away. Robbie says nothing as he saunters past her, following Raul into the kitchen.
Closing the back door, Peach waits a beat then follows them, watching as they stow their gear. They joke with each other in hushed spanish, unaware that she not only understands but speaks all languages.
“I don't believe we've been introduced,” she says, offering her hand. “I'm Peach.”
“Roberto,” he answers, glancing nervously at Raul before shaking it. His hand's sweaty and she notices a slight tremor.
“Manny said you're his grandson?”
“Si.” The look he gives her is part challenge, part curiosity.
Raul hands him a clean apron and he immediately takes off his outer long-sleeved shirt to put it on. The white t-shirt he wears beneath reveals two full sleeves of vivid tattoos and a detailed history of his life. His right hand is wrapped in an Ace bandage and Peach zeroes in it.
“You injured?”
Robbie's face immediately turns red and he shakes his head. He flexes his hand. “Is nothing. See, is okay.”
“I worked with him yesterday and it didn't slow him down at all,” Raul interjects.
“Speed's not the issue,” Peach says. “I just don't want Toby to get sued.”
“Nobody's gonna sue nobody,” Raul snaps, his expression darkening. “Why don't you just go open the bar and let us do our job.”
Peach is sure Robbie and his friends are the men who almost hit her the night before and instinct tells her he's hiding something. The fact that he's Mannuel's grandson is the only reason she doesn't confront him. Besides, at the moment Raul's right. She has more pressing things to worry about.
After stocking the bar and setting up the tables, she returns to the office to get the inventory list. Rounding the desk she finds a neatly folded stack of her own clothing in Toby's chair. Snatching it up, she immediately sprints from the office to the back door. A quick perusal of the parking lot shows it's still empty, so she turns and makes her way back to the kitchen.
“Anybody come through here earlier?” she asks, startling Raul and Robbie. “Big guy? 'Bout yea high?” They exchange a bewildered look, both shaking their heads in denial. Peach continues to the front, surveying the bar.
“Everything alright?” Fiona asks, stocking the condiments.
“Fine,” Peach grumbles, internally screaming with frustration. She said he won and she's never conceded a game. Ever. Why can't he just let it go and gloat over his victory like he always does? “I'm just gonna go change before we open.”
Chapter Five
Parked near an underpass under the 91 freeway, Riley watches three young children playing in a kiddie pool in the front yard of a modest home that sits in one of the most notorious neighborhoods in Orange County. Keeping watch from the front steps of the small house, a group of hispanic men are holding a heated conversation, as Roberto Sanchez, known as Diablo to his Eastside Anaheim brothers, tries to convince them to meet with Riley. Gesturing wildly, he relays the incident at the park while his audience mocks him with hysterical laughter. Growing increasingly frustrated, Roberto finally points toward Riley. Standing, his audience turns to see where he's pointing, their expressions turning serious.
Chuckling to
himself, Riley starts his bike with an ominous rumble, pulling out of his parking place down the block. With a premeditated slowness he drives the short distance to the house, parking his horse in the middle of the crumbling driveway. Six pairs of eyes analyze his every movement. He's the biggest white man they've ever seen and his bike alone is worth more than the property they're standing on. Killing the engine, Riley drops the kickstand, but doesn't dismount.
Taking off his sunglasses, he tucks them into the collar of his shirt then makes a point to smile at the children. Pedro, the boy he met in the park smiles back, but the two little girls squeal and run for the house. Riley waits until the girls are inside before turning his attention to the men. He meets their malevolent glares calmly.
“Gentlemen,” he says with a nod to Roberto.
“Monstruo,” one of the men mutters. “I think you're in the wrong neighborhood. This is private property, esse.”
“Don't,” Roberto warns his friends, his face pale and sweating.
“See, now that's where you're confused,” Riley says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Did you know this whole area used to be forest and wild fruit orchards? After that, it was farms. Of course this was way back before your great, great, great, great grandparents were even born.”
“So, what, you came here to give us a history lesson?” the man they call Padrone, Roberto's brother and the infamous leader of the EA laughs. The other men half-heartedly join in, but are too busy calculating the threat Riley represents to pay much attention to anything he's saying. He makes a point of thoroughly appraising each one individually, counting two besides Roberto and Padrone who are tainted.
“A history lesson? Yeah, I guess you could say that. See, technically, this property belongs to me and my family. Crazy, right? But it's true. We've owned it for longer than you can possibly imagine. As a matter of fact, this whole city belongs to us.”
“Who is this guy, Diablo?” Padrone chuckles. “He comes here to tell me he owns the whole city?” He pauses, his expression turning cold. “You must be loco. See, I got a deed from the bank says I own this property. Matter of fact, I own this whole block. So whatever game you're playing, pendejo, you came to the wrong neighborhood.”
Riley glances at little Pedro, who still stands listening to this conversation. He winks and the boy runs to the house. Riley takes a moment to casually look around, surveying the unnaturally quiet neighborhood. No cars are driving down the street. No people are walking or in their yards, but he senses dozens of eyes watching. There are tired families and scared children like Pedro, not to mention the numerous elderly who are forced to live behind barred windows in this sorry neighborhood prison.
“Tell you what,” Riley says. “How bout we ask the people in this neighborhood who they'd prefer.”
Padrone lifts his shirt to reveal a Glock 9mm in his waistband. “I got a better idea. How bout you get the hell out of here before I bury you in my yard.”
Roberto starts backing away toward the house.
“Where you going?” Padrone snarls, pointing at him. “You brought this cabron to my house. Now you want to hide?”
“Go on,” Riley says, nodding at Roberto. “You'll be late for work.”
Padrone looks at Riley, then back at Roberto, his expression incredulous. “You answer to him now, is that it, brother? Fine. Go ahead, run to Abuelo. I'll deal with you later.”
With one last terrified look at Riley, Roberto darts up the steps and into the tiny house. The screen door closes with an ominous click and the remaining group turns to stare at Riley.
“Mind if I ask a question?” Riley says. “I mean, before we get started.”
Shaking his head in disbelief, Padrone crosses his arms. “Why not? I'm feeling, how you say, generous, today. Let's hear the dead man's last request.”
“Well, I was just wondering. Let's say you had a big family so you bought a huge piece of land. I mean really large. And in that land was the best of everything. Plenty of farmland, abundant water, and more than enough space for everyone to live in peace. And let's say you had to take a long trip. So long, in fact, that most people forgot you even existed. Then one day when you tried to return, you found an enemy had taken over your home. Not only had he destroyed the land and everything you worked for, but he also robbed, murdered and corrupted your family. My question Fernando Estanza Abarca Cabrera is what would you do?”
Padrone scowls, his mind racing. His full birth name has never been used in this country and is not listed on any documents. An eerie high-pitched whispering rises from somewhere close by, and a strong gust of wind blows leaves and bits of trash up the street. Squinting, he glances up to see massive storm clouds gathering overhead where only moments ago was clear blue sky. A fear he hasn't known since childhood, makes his heart beat faster, goosebumps rising on his arms.
“Who are you?” he asks suddenly, his voice betraying his growing unease. He can likewise feel the others growing restless as the wind picks up and black clouds roll over their heads. An unnatural twilight falls, the eerie whispering sound increasing with it.
Still seated on his bike, Riley takes his glasses from his collar, slipping them into his shirt pocket.
“Good question,” he replies. “And we both know names are important. But for now, let's just say I'm the repo man and everything you stole must be returned.”
A thunderous boom erupts from the clouds above them and the group of men automatically flinch. Unnerved, Padrone slides the gun from his waistband, letting his arm hang casually at his side.
“If you think you're man enough to take something from me, then bring it, esse,” he mutters through clenched teeth, his finger caressing the trigger. A bolt of lightning smashes into the ground in front of him, immediately followed by a second and third. Padrone is thrown backward, landing on his back and the gun begins to melt in his hand.
Two of Padrone's men lay immobile on the ground, acrid smoke rising from their hair and damp shoes. The remainder scramble to get away, only to be zapped on the chain link fence surrounding the yard that now hums with several hundred thousand volts of electricity.
Screaming obscenities as his hand turns to blackened ash, Padrone shouts for his posse to help him. The survival instinct combined with abject terror sends them limping toward the house instead, where the occupants terrified faces are plastered to the heavily barred windows. One of the men reaches the front door, only to find he can't open the screen. Pounding on the metal frame, he shouts for someone to open it, but the women don't budge.
Good for you, Riley thinks. At least the women know enough to protect the children.
“You never answered my question,” Riley shouts to Padrone, who stumbles next the fence, clutching his blackened forearm. Sweating profusely, his glazed expression and ghostly pale skin are the tale tell signs of that his body is going into shock. Blinking heavily to clear his sight, he stops moving in front of Riley.
“I don't. . .,” he stutters, then collapses heavily onto his knees.
Tossing his massive leg over the bike, Riley stands next to it and the men on the front steps freeze. Seeing him mobile and fully erect, he's ten times more threatening. Ignoring them, Riley steps forward then lowers to one knee next to Padrone. Leaning close, he whispers in his ear.
“You have two choices. One, you and your loser friends over there can die an excruciating death while this entire neighborhood watches. Or you and your entire gang can swear loyalty to me.”
Shaking violently, his teeth chattering, Padrone's entire body crumples forward, his head nearly hitting his knees.
“I can make the pain go away,” Riley murmurs, leaning down even further to speak softly next to his ear. “Swear your loyalty to me and I'll make it stop.”
“Go to hell,” Padrone mutters.
Shaking his head, Riley stands. The men on the porch have disappeared around the back of the house, but he can hear them yelling and pounding against the rear door. He sees the yellow Bonneville d
isappear around the corner and breathes a sigh of relief. Roberto should just make it to work on time and Peach will have her clean clothes. The two men lying dead in the yard stare into eternity, their fingers charred black from electricity.
With a heavy sigh he looks back down at Padrone. “Take a look around my friend. Hell is already here.”
Chapter Six
Frustrated by Riley's continued absence but relived to be wearing clean clothes, Peach finds a middle aged man and woman lounging on a classic Harley by the entrance when she opens the T-Bird for business. Within minutes a dozen customers have wandered in.
By ten the dinner rush has successfully passed and from here to closing will be a steady, but dwindling flow of customers. By her estimation Toby and Elsa should be somewhere over the midwest.
“I say the Seahawks are a fluke,” says Shane, an accountant and regular who sits at the bar. A football game is on the television mounted over the register and he's spouting his usual nonsense, trying to get a rise out of other customers. Peach knows his wife left him six months ago and he's bitter. Dangerously so. Nearly everything he says is just begging for an ass kicking. Nodding as if she agrees, Peach hands him a fresh bowl of Elsa's famous pretzel pecan mix to shut him up temporarily.
Raul rings the bell to signal an order's up and Peach strolls over to retrieve it. Street tacos and a giant bowl of tortilla soup sit steaming in the pass through. One of Riley's favorites. “Who's this for?”
“You.”
“I didn't order anything.”
“Just thought you might be hungry.”
Peach glares at the food then at Raul. “When did we start serving street tacos?”
“It was Robbie's idea. They're good. You should try one.”
Leaning to the side to look past Raul, Peach tries to locate Robbie in the kitchen. “Yeah? Where is he?”
“I cut him loose an hour ago. He's got a kid at home.”
