Street Rules

by Baxter Clare

  The three men were talking on the sidewalk and Frank called Hunt’s name. Dimmler swore under his breath. Muhoz said, “Lieutenant, I’m —”

  She held up a hand. Hunt was a good head taller than Frank, bigger and meaner. Under his chin, close in to break his swing if he wanted one, she said, “I can’t tell if you’re stupid, psychotic or both. Even a dumb cowpoke like you has got to know you just bought a CUBO, maybe a suspension. If you’ve got a union rep, you better call him.”

  Thumbs hooked in his jeans, he laughed, “Thanks for the tip.”

  “I’m glad you think this is funny,” Frank smiled, ” ‘Cause it’s going to get a whole lot funnier.”

  “Whatever you say,” he mocked.

  “Take him home,” she ordered, not leaving his face. Dimmler hustled him away, but Hunt wouldn’t break his derisive stare. And Frank wouldn’t let him. Even after his buddies got him into the back of their car he kept his eyes on her. Craning his neck, he flicked his tongue from the rear window. Frank watched the car drive around the corner, stood there after it was out of sight.

  When she reclaimed her chair at the table, Johnnie speculated, “I wonder how Hunt’s new asshole feels.”

  “You should know,” his partner jabbed back, and the boys started one-upping each other over who’d gotten the worst reaming by Frank. Gail’s drink was empty and Frank asked, “Can I get you a refill?”

  Gail shook her bob and Frank finished her soda. She was tired of cops and men, their noise and banter. Glancing at the doc, Clay’s advice came to her.

  “Hey. You like Italian food?”

  Frank had to lean close to ask, and she picked up Gail’s peachy shampoo again. “Doesn’t everybody?”

  “Want to get out of here?”

  “I’m right behind you.”

  The doc drove behind Frank to her favorite restaurant, and as they settled heavy linen napkins in their laps, Frank told Gail she was great with Hunt.

  “God, what a creep.”

  “You should lodge an official complaint. The guy’s got some serious problems. I’m going to take care of it from my end but the more stuff that goes in his file the better.”

  “You’re damn right I will. What an asshole. Or am I just an asshole magnet? First his beefcake friend, then that other guy? Maybe it’s my pheromones.”

  Frank tried to suppress a smile, but Gail insisted, “No really. Christ, I get so tired of all these gorillas running around thumping their chests. And if one more man ever says to me at work, what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this, I’m going to lay him out on the table! I swear I am.”

  Frank let her rave, then Gail said, “You must get that a lot too, huh?”

  “Not really.”

  Gail looked puzzled, then laughed. Frank was handsome, especially when she was relaxed. Wheat-blonde hair usually held back by a pair of ray-Bans or a ponytail fell straight to her shoulders. Her eyes were deep and dark, like international waters. She had strong features and a long, fit body. Frank could have been a knockout, but her bearing clearly discouraged male attention.

  “I’m sorry. I have to put up with apes like that all week, and the last thing I want to do is deal with them on my own time.”

  “I understand. Believe me.”

  The waiter glided to the table. Greeting Frank by name, he asked if she’d like to start with a carafe of wine.

  “Not tonight, but the lady might like something.”

  Gail declined and the waiter recited the specials. After he left, the doc smiled coyly.

  “I like the way you said, ‘the lady’ like there was only one of us here.”

  “I don’t consider myself a lady.”

  “Why not?”

  “Ladies are … hmm. How best to put this without being offensive.”

  “I was going to say, you’re on some pretty thin ice.”

  “Ladies are beautiful and gracious,” she said carefully.

  “Neither of which you are?”

  “I don’t see myself as beautiful, nor gracious.”

  “Really?”

  “No. I mean, I’m not ugly, but I’m not winning any beauty contests either.”

  “Well, I think you’re very good-looking. And gracious to boot.”

  “Well, thank you. Now can we change the subject?”

  Gail laughed and picked up her menu. Noting the red bumps on her hands, Frank said, “I see you you’re still wearing latex.”

  “I’m always running out of the vinyl gloves and then I forget to order them.”

  “You can get them at a drugstore, can’t you?”

  “Yes, but I forget to do that too. I’m not horribly organized.”

  “I know. I’ve seen your office,” Frank teased.

  “I remember that day you came barging in when you were Working on the Delamore case.”

  Frank winced slightly, but Gail didn’t notice.

  “I thought you were the rudest person I’d ever met.”

  “See?” Frank said. “Not gracious at all.”

  “You weren’t that day. So RHD ended up breaking that case. Did you help them with it?”

  “Hey. I’m sure we can find better things to talk about. The oso bucco’s to die for.”

  Gail’s mouth dropped open.

  “You eat veal?

  “Sure. Why?”

  “Do you know how they raise veal calves?”

  “In tiny little cages with no exercise or food, only milk to keep them tender.”

  “And you can still order it knowing that?”

  “If I don’t order it will they stop making it?”

  “No, but how can you participate in such cruelty?”

  “Guess I shouldn’t order the lamb, either,” Frank joked, but Gail’s outraged expression didn’t change.

  “I know you’re not a vegetarian. I saw you slam that roast beef the other night.”

  “No, I’m not. But at least cows and pigs and chickens have some sort of a normal life.”

  Frank conciliated, “Would you be happy if I got pasta?”

  “You can get whatever you want. It’s your conscience, not mine.”

  Don returned, asking if they’d decided.

  “Certainly not the oso bucco,” Frank mumbled.

  “I should certainly hope not,” Gail shot back. Without even opening the menu, Frank said, “I’ll have the butternut ravioli, Caesar salad, and a glass of the Baileyanna chard with dinner.”

  Gail smiled into the menu, saying, “And I’ll have the veal Marsala —”

  “—hey!”

  “Just kidding,” she laughed, ordering the eggplant Parmigiana. Don whisked the menus away and Gail smoothed the perfectly flat tablecloth.

  “So. Does this count as our second date?”

  The question startled Frank enough that she chuckled out loud.

  “I’m not sure. Do you want it to be?”

  “I’m not sure, either,” Gail offered. “I figured that’s why I’d better check.”

  “Then how ‘bout we just say it’s dinner and call it good?”

  Gail grinned, “That’ll work.”

  Dinner was excellent, and as they shared a creme Brule, Gail mentioned that one of her doctors was execrable. Frank smiled.

  “You know what I like about you, doc?”

  “Tell me.”

  “You use big words like didactic and execrable.”

  “I’ve got to put eight years of college to use somehow”

  Watching Gail swipe her spoon at the last of the Brule, Frank asked, “Are we done here?”

  “Oh God, I am so full I can barely breathe. That was exquisite.”

  They both reached for the tab but Gail snatched it.

  “This one’s mine.”

  “I won’t argue,” Frank said.

  “Smart,” Gail said, pulling out a credit card. “I like that in a woman.”

  Frank walked Gail to her car, making sure she got in safely. The doc teased Frank about being gallant.
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  “Wouldn’t look good if I let the County Coroner get assaulted.”

  “Are you always on duty?”

  “Gets to be a habit after a while. You pick up a sixth sense for stuff you couldn’t filter out even if you wanted to.”

  Through the rolled down window, Gail smiled up, telling Frank she had a lovely evening.

  “I’m glad it was just dinner. It’s nice getting to know you.”

  “Yeah,” Frank agreed, oddly touched by their candor. She quickly scanned the doc’s streetlit features. Angular shadows accentuated the high cheekbones, the narrow, emerald eyes, and the pert, upturned nose. Her complexion was ethereal in the twilight. A part in her bangs revealed two creases. Smaller lines parenthesized her mouth and radiated from her eyes. Frank wondered what it would be like to touch them, realizing she’d never gotten that chance with Maggie.

  Frank straightened, slapping the Pathfinder’s roof.

  “Look. You be careful driving home. I’ll see you next week.”

  Frank left Gail staring behind her.

  Chapter Seventeen

  At the cemetery, Frank spotted Bobby standing a discrete distance from Placa’s funeral.

  “What are you doing here?” he murmured.

  “Thought I’d take in the action,” she whispered back.

  “Shoot, if I’d known you were coming I’d have stayed home. It would have saved me grief with Leslie.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “All right,” Bobby smiled, then blurted out, “She might be pregnant.”

  “No way.”

  “Yeah. She’s going to the doctor on Tuesday.”

  “Hey, I hope it works out.”

  Bobby’s wife had miscarried twice before. They wanted lots of kids and were in the process of adopting a little boy.

  “Anybody around?”

  “Not yet. I thought for sure I’d see a couple Playboys by now. I hate these gang funerals. It’s like waiting around for sharks to find a school of bleeding fish.”

  Frank took a look at the assembled crowd. She recognized some of the older folks, the Estrella relatives, but most of the mourners were kids Placa’s age. They were all dressed in their finest, the boys in large shirts with sharply pressed baggies, and the girls in divulging tops over skintight skirts. Tattoos were as common as pimples and Frank watched two groups of boys greet each other with bold hand signs, openly announcing their gang affiliation.

  Several ranflas slowly cruised the street, no doubt Playboys or another set waiting and watching. The sharks were beginning to gather. Propping herself casually against Bobby’s car, eyes and ears wide open, Frank told him about Claudia’s reaction when Frank had mentioned dealing junk.

  “Maybe it wasn’t a Playboy,” Bobby said, eyeing the crowd behind his dark glasses. “Maybe it was a deal that went bad. A kickdown.”

  “Maybe. We need to get with Narco, see if we can’t pin down exactly what sort of action they’re into.”

  “Okay,” Bobby said, his eyes lingering on a knot of young men smoking at the entrance to the cemetery. Their tats identified all of them as Kings. Frank recognized some of them and Bobby asked, “Want to hit ‘em up?”

  “May as well. Why don’t you take Rojo and I’ll take my namesake over there.”

  “Roger.”

  The cops walked toward the boys, watching blunts get flicked away.

  “Hmmm. Smells good over here,” Bobby said.

  “Yeah,” Frank said, “and most of you are probably on parole, aren’t you? Hey, Frankie. Walk with me a minute.”

  A thickset older boy did as he was told, but not happily. Frank walked with him, close enough that her shoulder brushed his heavy arm. She stopped and crowded him.

  “Okay. I know you’re a smart guy. You wouldn’t come to a funeral without protection, right?”

  He didn’t want to answer that, and Frank said, “Don’t make me prone you in front of everybody. Just show me what you’re carryin’.”

  Frankie sighed and looked sideways, lifting his long shirt-tail. A nickel-plated Tech-9 rode in his waistband.

  “Nice. Now let me ask you some questions. You tell me something I can use, I don’t talk to your parolie, okay?”

  “Wha’ you wanna know?”

  “What’s the word on Placa? Who hit her?”

  “Seem like a Playboy.”

  “Yeah? Who’s claimin’ it?”

  “Ain’t nobody I know of. I heard some people say it was Ocho Ruiz. The ride that pulled on her was like his but ain’t no Playboys ownin’ it.”

  “And nobody else is. Don’tcha think that’s kinda funny? Now if a King did this, you wouldn’t be telling me that either, would you? Kinda makes me wonder if this was inside, you know what I mean?”

  Frankie stopped walking, eyes hard and dark on Frank’s.

  “Wasn’t no King done it,” he warned.

  “How do you know?”

  “I just know. Placa was down. Ain’t nobody’d have the guts to do it. And Placa was like, loca, man. You jus’ didn’t mess with her. She put a hex on a dude I knew. Made him think he was a chicken. You didn’t mess with Placa ‘cuz if she didn’t put that freaky malojo on you then her sister would. That whole family’s crazy. They’s like witches or somethin’.”

  “Really? You believe that?”

  “Yeah, man! I saw that vato get on his hands and knees and start eating dirt. He was just like a chicken.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Frank murmured. “All right, Frankie. I’ll believe you. But if I find out it was a King, I’ma come find you and you’ll be back at the Hall before you can kiss your mother goodbye. No es mentira. You change your mind, or you hear somethin’ before I do, call me. Don’t lose this,” she said slipping her card into his hand.

  Frank turned around and said, “Okay. Who’s next? Shadow. How ‘bout you?”

  A skinny little kid, with bones where muscles should have been, whined, “Why me? I ain’t done nothin’!”

  Frank just wiggled her finger and Shadow threw his hands up.

  “Aw, man.”

  “Come on,” she coaxed, “take it like a man.”

  “Pero, mierda, I ain’t done nothin’.”

  He was shorter than Frank and she wrapped an arm around his ropey neck.

  “Okay. Frankie showed me that pretty Tech-9 he’s got, now I want to see what you’re holding.”

  “Nothin’!” Shadow protested.

  “Hey, easy, easy. I’m not on your case, man. ‘Sides, if I was, I could probably get you for associating already, and that ain’t air freshener I’m smellin’. I could take you in on just that.”

  “I’d be out in an hour,” the kid bragged.

  “Not if I pat you down and find you’re holdin’. You don’t want me to do that, do you?”

  Frank twisted her head, “Besides. Aren’t you sixteen now? Bust you this time you’re going to County with the big boys. I hear they got a whole new block full a skinheads.” She grinned, “I bet they’d love some puto-ass homeboy coming in on possession. Hm-hm,” she said licking her lips.

  “Fuck that,” Shadow spat. He pulled a snub-nose .38 out of one pocket and a .22 out of the other.

  “Man, what are you a Boy-Scout? You come prepared. Okay.”

  Frank gave him and another King the same spiel, getting much the same answers. Bobby’s tack was different but he ended up with what Frank did. Zip. Nobody had heard anything.

  Propped against Bobby’s car again, Frank said, “Okay. Tell me what this means.”

  Bobby picked a leaf off a tree and started folding it into what looked like an origami shape. Frank was about to add, “Before I get gray hair,” when he said, “Well. It could mean a number of things. Could be a Playboy not claiming because he’s afraid of payback. Could be a King not claiming for the same reason, somebody trying to rise in the clique. But that’d sure be a way to make a name for yourself. If it’s one of those, somebody’ll talk sooner or later. That kind of stuff doesn’t happe
n alone. It could be a completely different clique, different gang. Maybe Lydia did it alone. Maybe it was getting too dangerous, or maybe Placa was playing her.”

  “With who?”

  Frank waited patiently, then Bobby lit up.

  “The guy who left the sperm in her.”

  Frank smiled, and Bobby said, “Ocho?”

  “Could be. Maybe she was playing them both.”

  “Pretty dangerous, and for why?”

  “Don’t know. But look at our body count here. All of Julio Estrella’s family, plus the uncle. Then Luis ODs. Supposedly.”

  “You’ve got nothing to say he didn’t,” Bobby warned. Despite Frank’s misgivings about it, all her detectives were eager to put the Estrella shootings onto Luis.

  “I’m just saying it’s a big coincidence,” Frank defended. “And now someone’s capped Placa. All this within a week. And she wanted to talk to me about something. I’m saying this isn’t over yet. That Placa knew something about what happened to her uncles, about what happened to Barracas, and that whoever killed them shut Placa up too, before she could talk. This is a lot of killing, for what? And Claudia knows something, and the drugs make her nervous. Let’s say there’s some action being run out of that house that we don’t know about. Let’s say the Estrella’s are cutting into Ruiz’ action, which might be cutting into somebody else’s action. Let’s say that somebody’s fucking tired of it.”

  “You’re saying Julio was cutting into Ruiz’ turf?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what the connection is yet, if there even is one. But we’ve got a car like Ruiz’ at the scene. He’s on the fly. Let’s say he took out Placa. Why? Coincidence? Maybe Luis did kill his family, but we’ve got no motive for that either. All I’m saying is that maybe they’re all tied up. Maybe Ruiz is the link, maybe he’s not. Just keep in mind that this could be bigger than a banger thing.”

  “But if we pin Ocho to that party …”

  “Then we got shit,” Frank conceded.

  Mourners started drifting from Placa’s gravesite and Frank scrutinized every movement, thinking if there was going to be trouble, this was when it would start. Bobby flicked his leaf away, watching too.

  “Well we know it wasn’t an accident. Whoever shot her took a lot of trouble to do it. It wasn’t just some wild-ass drive-by. That the car was parked, tells us she was probably in it with the shooter, or that whoever was driving it was friendly enough with her that they could take the time to park. So it had to be someone she knew.”