Street Rules

by Baxter Clare

  “No sweat.”

  Frank tipped herself back on the barstool at her kitchen counter. She felt surprisingly good. She was warm and well fed, and had a nice buzz going, but she had to admit she’d had a really good time tonight. In a town like L.A., where people were obsessed with cash and flash, Gail’s simple good looks and honest conversation were refreshing. Attractive, Frank decided, then dropped the stool back onto all fours. That was neither here nor there.

  Stretching and sighing, she planned out tomorrow. She needed to talk to Johnnie and sit him down with Noah, have them make peace. Christ, she thought, I’m running a Romper Room, not a homicide squad. Miles glided into Seven Steps as she flipped open the L.A. Times on the table. It would have been a fine thing to see Miles live, she thought, wondering if Gail liked jazz.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Before Johnnie and Noah went out, Frank called them into her office. Noah sat on the thin couch and Johnnie straddled a plastic chair. Cocking a hip on her desk, Frank glared down at both of them, a rare vantage.

  “What happened in the morgue yesterday was inexcusable. Johnnie, your comment about Placa was inappropriate, unprofessional, and offensive to everyone in the room. You apologize to Doc Lawless and her staff, today.”

  Johnnie started his usual bluster, but glaring at Noah she continued, “Your behavior wasn’t any better. You apologize along with your partner.”

  Noah rolled his eyes and crabbed, “Whatever. But that crack —”

  “I don’t want to hear it,” she said. “I want that apology today, in person, both of you. Got it?”

  “Fuck,” Johnnie said, “I got court all day.”

  “I thought that wasn’t until ten.”

  “I gotta get a wit before that,” he complained.

  “Then you better get going. Morgue opens at eight.”

  “Come on, Frank,” Noah tried intervening, “can’t this wait until tomorrow?”

  “Nope. I want this taken care of before you,” she said to Johnnie, “open your fat mouth again, and before you,” to Noah, “pretend to be Sugar Ray again.”

  Noah hung his head, but Frank could see the grin under his bangs.

  “You can go,” she told him.

  Johnnie squirmed in his seat, whining like a schoolboy, “How come he gets to go?”

  Frank ignored him, telling Noah to close the door. When he did, she answered, ” ‘Cause he’s not using all his sick time on hangovers.”

  “Did he tell you that?” he said jerking his thumb at the door.

  “Didn’t have to. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out when you come in shaking and sweating, bloodshot as hell. Want to tell me about it?”

  “There’s nothin’ to tell about! Shit, Frank, I don’t have enough fingers to count the number times you’ve come in lookin’ like something the cat threw up.”

  “You’re right. Everybody ties one on sometimes, me included, but we don’t skip work because of our hangovers, and when I’m getting complaints about one of my cops leaning out of his car and puking in the street, then I’ve got a problem.”

  “I had the flu or something. That fucking chicken at Popeye’s.”

  “Johnnie. You can bullshit this all you want. That’s your decision. I can’t make you talk to me. But I’m telling you, you’re walkin’ a fine line. You got a problem? That’s okay. Everybody’s got ‘em. Hell, I got ‘em, and I’ll do whatever I can to help you. If you can handle it on your own, great. Show me. If you can’t, and it starts interfering with your work, then it becomes my problem and I’ll do what I have to to fix it. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “There isn’t a problem,” he told the floor.

  She studied him a moment, remembering how he’d come onto the squad, still lean and muscled, an old linesman like Bobby. He was all swagger and bragger back then, the Happy Clapper, cheerfully waving off his bouts with various STDs, convinced if they had a poster boy for LAPD cocksman, he’d have been it. But the long hours at a desk, and all the booze and fast food had softened him. He looked tired now, his charm as tarnished as an old uniform button.

  “You know where BSU is. And you know my number.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Yeah.”

  Frank watched him lumber out, feeling for him. She put the pity away and got ready for the eight o’clock ADA meeting.

  “Hey, Frank,” Johnnie called from his desk. “We gonna see you on the news tonight? LAPD Lieutenant pulls postal, slays supervisors. Coalitions and committees to blame.”

  Frank had finally broken away from back to back meetings and had gotten to the homicide room a half hour before quitting time.

  “Just about,” she answered, surprised he was in such good spirits. She wondered if he was making an effort to show everything was okay.

  “Where’s your partner?”

  “Down in Property.”

  Frank headed to her office, but when Nook and Bobby trailed in with an armload of binders, she said, “Hey. What’s the word?”

  “We can’t find Ruiz anywhere,” Nookey puffed. “The fucker’s in the wind. According to the aunt he’s got relatives in Fresno, Calexico, Madera … not to mention Mexico. He could be anywhere.”

  “Did you put an APB on him?”

  “You want us to?”

  Frank stifled a sigh. As much as a pain in the ass as Gough was, at least he’d been a good partner for Nook. Between he and Bobby, she didn’t think they’d wipe their asses without asking her first.

  “Yeah. What else did the aunt say?”

  Nook made a disgusted sound.

  “The usual. Her nephew’s a good boy. He’d never dust anyone. Specially not a girl. You know, just a real gentleman.”

  “But we had a nice talk with Lydia Alvarez,” Bobby said.

  “La Reina?”

  “Yeah. She and Placa had been seeing each other for about six weeks. In fact, Placa was at her place Saturday from about 11:30 to 2:30. We’re getting her day accounted for, but she didn’t tell Lydia where she was going when she left. Just said she had to take care of some business.”

  “And according to her, nobody knew that she and Placa were doing it. She swears Ruiz doesn’t know, and she doesn’t know where he is. We asked her where she was when Placa got hit and she says she was at a party up in Eagle Rock and that Ruiz was with her.”

  “Where was the party?”

  “She’s not sure. It was dark and she didn’t know where they were going. She’d never been there before.”

  “Better get more than that.” Stroking her chin, Frank asked, “If Ocho didn’t do anything why’s he gone?”

  Nook said, “Words all over the street that we’re puttin’ this on him, and he didn’t want to stick around to defend himself.”

  “You talk to Itsy again?”

  “Not yet. She’s at a cousin’s in El Monte. But we talked to La Limpia. She and Placa were hangin’ at Hoover’s from about 10:30 to a little after eleven. That’s when Itsy showed up and Placa took off. She didn’t say where she was going or anything, just left like she was pissed that Itsy was there.”

  Bobby was talking about a corner store were kids hung out and kicked it, sharing blunts and 40-ounce bottles of Olde English and Cobra malt liquor.

  “She was only there for a couple minutes. Limpia said she was still in a bad mood and wouldn’t talk much. They tried to get her to stay, said they’d go throw down some winos, but she was pissy and said she had to be somewhere. That was the last she saw her.”

  “Didn’t say where she had to be?”

  “Nope. Or where she’d been.”

  “Ask about any boyfriends?”

  “Yeah, and everybody laughed at us. Don’t know who it was that shagged her but I’m bettin’ she ain’t marrying him.”

  “How about a homie or an off-brand that tried to make her? Anybody she particularly dissed?”

  “Shit,” Nook laughed. “The girl was OG. Who didn’t she dis?”

  “Keep t
he heat on and let’s talk to CRASH. See if they got any word for us. I called County OSS too, told them to keep their ears open. And if Itsy’s not home by tomorrow find out where she is and get her. I stopped by the Estrella’s this morning. They’re upset but they’re not saying anything. Claudia’s got her lips sewed together, and Gloria’s bouncing off the walls. She’s pissed, but she’s not talking. I don’t know what they know, but it’s something. Keep the heat on them too. I want one of you there at least once a day.”

  “Oh joy,” Nook grumbled and Bobby asked, “Do you think Gloria’d do a payback?”

  “I don’t know. It’s hard to say. Once they have the babies they kind of get out of that, but this is blood. And a lot of it lately.”

  “If they do, we’ll never close this.”

  Heaving his shoulders in resignation, Nook pointed out, “It wouldn’t be the first one.”

  He tried to move past Frank but she put a finger into his chest.

  “I want this one, Nook.”

  “We’ll do what we can, but I can’t pull this guy outta thin air.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  She went into her office, leaving Nookey muttering under his breath, and Johnnie laughing. Almost out of earshot, he called Frank by her nickname, commiserating, “Damn, Nook! Is Le Freek on the rag or what?”

  The comment was vintage Briggs and Frank marveled again at how well he was dealing with this morning’s reprimand. Like mushrooms after a rain, forms and papers magically resurfaced her desk. Frank glanced through a few of them, then called Bobby into her office.

  51st Playboy territory ranged outside of the Figueroa Division boundary and Frank had lost touch with the nuances of the set hierarchy. She vaguely remembered Ruiz coming up as a Baby Playboy who’d yet to earn his colors, but she had no recollection of Lydia Alvarez.

  “What’s up?” Bobby answered.

  “You heading home?”

  “Nah, I still haven’t written anything up for today, and barely did anything yesterday. I was going to stick around and do that. Why?”

  “Mind introducing me to La Reina?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Driving down Broadway, Frank saw an old gangster and told Bobby to pullover.

  “Colgate!” she shouted out the window. A thickset Hispanic man in his early thirties turned. Recognizing Frank he raised a hand in greeting and approached the unmarked, boldly marked by its inconspicuousness.

  Frank stuck her hand out and they clasped in a casual street shake.

  “Que vole?” she asked. “Still packing a brush?”

  The man flashed beautiful white teeth. Sometimes it was days, even weeks before a prisoner at the county jail could get any personal effects. Because Colgate was arrested so frequently and so suddenly, he’d taken to carrying a toothbrush like other men carried a wallet.

  “I don’t need that any more,” he declared proudly. “You know I ain’t bangin’ no more.”

  Colgate had opened a church and was trying to attract young people to it before they got caught up in the cycle of gang life. Frank asked him what the word was about Placa and he was as dumbfounded as everyone else.

  “But I’ll keep my ear to the ground. I knew that chica,” he said with a sad shake. “That’s the shame of taking the devil’s road.”

  “Yes it is,” Frank agreed soberly, flipping him her card. “She was trying to get out of the life. She was a smart girl and she had some plans. But she didn’t have enough time to get off that road. You hear anything, you call me. Okay?”

  “I will do that,” he said, tucking her card into his wallet.

  “Take care,” she said.

  Her right hand stroked her left ring finger as they cut back into the traffic.

  “I don’t know, Bobby. Doesn’t make sense that nobody’s claiming this.”

  The detective agreed, taking a side street.

  “Check it out,” he said, slowing by a large tag on a low concrete block wall. “That’s fresh.”

  Highly stylized Old English letters, in blue and about two feet high, spelled “PLACA V2KING”. Next to it was “187 LAPD”, with a large X over the LAPD.

  “What’s that about?” Bobby asked.

  “Beats me. Wonder if Tonio threw that.”

  “Yeah, he favors the V His tats are all V2, instead of 52.”

  They rolled on, Bobby saying that he’d seen another strike like that at the 49th Street School, with the LAPD crossed out.

  “Hey, there she is,” he said swerving to the curb. Three girls were kicking it in the doorway of a bodega, and he said, “The one with the big hair.”

  The girls started to run off, but both cops jumped out as the car lurched into park, Bobby shouting La Reina’s name. Even a four-year old knew that running from the LAPD could be deadly so Lydia Alvarez froze in her tracks. She turned slowly, hands behind her neck while her homegirls halted their flight.

  “Go on girl, put your hands down,” Bobby said in his gentle bass. “We ain’t pronin’ you. We just want to talk.”

  He waved her friends away as Lydia’s petulant expression shifted from cop to cop. Her hair was dyed reddish brown, highlighted with purple streaks, and teased up high. Kohl-rimmed eyes, a pouty, mocha-colored-mouth and a shape like a figure eight, advertised Lydia Alvarez as some hot coochie.

  “This here’s Lieutenant Franco. She wants to ask you some things.”

  Frank’s appraisal of the girl was cool and Lydia felt it.

  “Like what?” Lydia glowered, stepping impatiently from foot to foot. Her tough bravado hid fear; it didn’t look good for bangers to be talking to the law.

  “Like where’s Ocho?”

  “I don’t know. He come by Sunday mornin’, woke me up early, and made me give him all my money I had. He said he was goin’ away for a while, to hold it down for him while he was gone.”

  “Why’d he have to go away?”

  Sullenly, she repeated what she’d already told Nook and Bobby.

  “Where was he going?”

  “He wouldn’ tell me. Said if I didn’t know, I couldn’t tell.”

  When she talked, Frank could see her missing front tooth. She indicated the gap in Lydia’s mouth, asking, “He knock that tooth out?”

  “Oh no,” she defended, “that was some White Fence bitch. I busted her ass. I can take care a myself.”

  “How old are you, Lydia?”

  “Fifteen?”

  “Any babies?”

  “Not yet.”

  Her grin was quick and shy and she covered the gap in her teeth behind her hand, “But I’m trying to give Ocho a baby.”

  Opportunity was scarce in the ghetto, and as hard as it was for young men, it was even harder for young girls. Many tried to alleviate the endless poverty by hooking up with a ghetto star. The competition was fierce, but presenting a boy with his child gave a girl an advantage. Plus, being a mother took her out of the life. No self-respecting girl was allowed to bang if she had babies at home. Once into the life, babies and serious religion were the only safe ways out.

  “Tell me about you and Placa.”

  Lydia’s soft grin was instantly replaced by hyper-vigilance. She glanced all around her, even up at the roof of the bodega. You never knew where your enemies might be. She jammed her hands into her tight back pockets.

  “What about her?”

  “About why your name was branded onto her leg. Why you trippin’ with a King?” Frank asked, getting into the lingo. Lydia rocked restlessly, eyeing every passing car, each pedestrian. She shrugged, glanced at the sidewalk. Lydia was reluctant with an answer so Frank pressed her on things she already knew, testing the girl’s veracity. She passed.

  “What did Ocho think about you and Placa being hooked up?”

  “He don’ know nothin’ about that,” Lydia spat. “If he did, I wouldn’ be standin’ here.”

  Frank believed that was true.

  “Who else knew about you two?”

  “Nobody,” she avowed wi
th deathly sincerity.

  “How about Itsy?”

  “Psh,” Lydia snorted. “Ain’t no way.”

  “Why you say that?”

  ” ‘Cause she a skank,” Lydia said in disdain. “She ain’t down. She’s a baby. She’d a cried it out to the world if she’d a known.”

  It was common to trash the enemy, but as Frank recalled, Itsy was almost as hardcore as Placa. She ostensibly ran the Queens, though she deferred in all gang matters to her former girlfriend. Itsy was devoted to Placa and their break-up must have devastated her. Not only did she lose her lover, she’d lost her status in the set. Word was that La Limpia and Payasa were running the Queens now.

  “How about her brother, Tonio?”

  She shifted uneasily. “I don’ think so.”

  “Did he ever see you two together?”

  She repeated her answer.

  “How about drugs? You and Placa ever slang?”

  “No. We din’ do no business together. What we had goin’ on … it was personal. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Did Placa ever use?”

  The multi-colored hair shook like a beast about to loose it’s chains.

  “She only smoke weed. She tell me once she’d kill me herself if she ever caught me crackin’ or shootin’. Like that bitch Itsy.”

  “Itsy was using?”

  “Yeah,” Lydia snorted meanly, “that girl’s a rock monster. That’s why Placa didn’t want nothin’ to do with that bitch and they was tight.”

  “I hear you were at a party in Eagle Rock the night Placa got smoked.”

  “Yeah.” Lydia hung her head and Frank couldn’t see her expression.

  “Where was the party?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I want you to take a ride with us, show us where that party was.”

  “I don’t know,” she protested. “Me and my homegirls was in the back gettin’ high and messing around. I don’t know where that party was at. Ocho was drivin’.”

  Frank lifted her jacket sleeve away from her watch.

  “I’m gonna give you one hour to find out where that party was.”

  Lydia pouted at the cracked concrete.

  “What if I can’ find out?”