Street Rules

by Baxter Clare

  “Kid spent her whole life in the ‘hood so that doesn’t exactly narrow the field for us.”

  “Yeah,” Bobby agreed. “And dig this. Why would you come home and then leave after a few minutes? Tonio said she came home around six-thirty, quarter to seven. She was only there for a couple minutes then she left. He remembers because she kept walking in front of the TV and he was trying to watch Hercules. But why come home at all if you’re not going to stay?”

  Frank twisted her invisible ring, caught in the irresistible lure of chasing a homicide.

  “To change clothes.”

  “Okay. Do we know what she was wearing at the park?”

  Frank shook her head and said, “Find out. What else? How about to get something to eat?”

  “Tonio said she didn’t go in the kitchen. Just into her room then out, like she was getting something. Maybe she was getting strapped. Maybe she came home to get a stash and went out to sell it.”

  Closer to the truth than she knew, Frank nodded, “There’s something about the drugs. I’ll call Narco on Monday, see what I can find out. Maybe we can get a warrant. I’d like to search the whole house Monday. I’ll set up the paper and have it good to go if Narco gives us anything.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Anything. I want to check her personal effects, pictures, notebooks, backpacks, scrapbooks, pockets, drawers, anything that might indicate who she’s been hangin’ with, or where. Maybe she’s slangin’, who knows?”

  “If there’s incriminating stuff like that don’t you think they’d have thrown it out buy now?”

  “Maybe,” Frank admitted. “I probably should have asked for a consent that first night, but I was too focused on Ruiz. Bad move on my part.”

  “I think we were all leaning to him. It seemed like a grounder.”

  “Yeah. Well, look. Get home to Les. Better not piss her off anymore than you already have.”

  Bobby smiled, “No, she’s all right.”

  Frank started walking away, then called, “Hey!”

  Bobby turned, and she asked if he’d ever brought the Estrellas donuts. He thought carefully then answered, “No.”

  “All right. Check with Nook would you? See if he took them any?”

  Ever meticulous, Bobby made a note of it right there. Frank drove away, aware the donut she’d had with Claudia had long since worn off. A hole-in-the-wall off Crenshaw made incredible catfish and greens, but the place only had two tables, so Frank called in an order. She added a side of corn-bread, and coffee and bean pie for dessert.

  At the tiny restaurant a large man, whose name she couldn’t remember, greeted her with winking gold teeth. Black vats of oil simmered behind him and he gleamed gunmetal blue in the close kitchen. Frank poured hot sauce and salt on the greens then propped the containers open in the passenger seat. She went south on Van Ness to get back into Figueroa territory, then meandered east on 52nd. She drove slowly through the residential streets, eating with her fingers, enjoying the sweet, greasy fish and hot, sharp bite of the greens.

  Even on her day off, her eye caught the three kids slinking into the alley too fast, the woman in the too-tight outfit near Tripps Market, the crackhead jerking toward a cluster of young men at the corner and their defiant perusal of all traffic. But none of that bothered her right now. With the sun warm through the window and hip-hop on the radio, she rolled through the shadows of tall palms and billboards advertising Hennesy and Alize, Virginia Slims and Camels, Whitney Houston and Ice Cube.

  Strikes and tags boldly proclaimed which gang’s turf she was in. Van Ness Gangsters and P Stones Jungles, Rollin’ 60s and Rollin’ 50s, Barrio Mojados and 38th Street. Where the boundaries met, rival names were repeatedly crossed out. Fresh names were painted over, then they too got crossed out and repainted. Frank made note of new tags and recognized old favorites. She turned onto a stretch of Denker that Placa had sprayed regularly. She didn’t see anything recent, but paused at a tire yard fortified by brick walls and steel gates.

  On the north wall, below the concertina wire and above a garbage-strewn lot, Placa and Tonio had painted a hauntingly beautiful memorial. Clasped black and blue hands, tattooed with three dots, prayed to a Grim Reaper rippling overhead. A weeping Madonna and Virgin of Guadalupe, skillfully robed in blue and yellow and orange, flanked the hands. The mural was circled with the names of fallen Kings. The inner ring had been completed long ago. As more kids died, their names had created a second, and then a third ring around the figures.

  Sure she could have painted her way out of south-central, Bobby had barraged Placa with scholarship forms and program applications. Frank didn’t know if she’d ever filled them out. Too late now, she thought, finding Placa’s name flowing in blue script, a temporary tail on the outer circle. Chuey’s name was painted near the beginning of the first ring and Frank wondered if Tonio’s would be up there someday, and if so, who’d strike it for him?

  Putting the old Honda in gear, Frank continued resolutely down Placa’s unfinished canvas.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Later that evening, it took time for a ringing telephone to penetrate Frank’s hard sleep. She rolled off the couch in the den, and jogged to the kitchen, answering, “This is Franco.”

  A CRASH unit had caught Ruiz taking a leak against a building just a block away from Lydia’s apartment. They’d requested back up and taken him in. Frank had called Nook and Bobby and they’d met her at Figueroa. Ruiz had been waiting in the cramped interrogation room.

  Nookey suggested, “Let’s do good cop — bad cop. I’m little like him, so you,” he nodded at Bobby, “can be the Intimidator. Besides, he might be more willing to talk to a gook than a spook.”

  “Well, when you put it that way,” Bobby grimaced.

  “Yeah. Try that,” Frank agreed. Meanwhile, she banged out a warrant to impound Ruiz’s T-bird. By three AM she was standing in Judge Levine’s living room watching him sign it. Back at the office her detectives worked Ruiz. Nook was nice and bought him a Coke. He offered him cigarettes. He praised the Playboys and ragged on the Kings. He told Ruiz he was their prime suspect because of the car, but that if Lydia’s alibi held up it would clear him. He wheedled, he cajoled, he joked. He made out like he was Ruiz’ best friend. Then Bobby, three times larger than Ruiz, loomed over him, believably menacing. Nook interjected. He defended Ruiz and apologized for his partner’s behavior, seeming to whisper behind Bobby’s back that he was a monkey. But it was okay. The kid could trust Nook.

  Frank watched all this from the small viewing window. Her boys put in a valiant effort but Ruiz wasn’t buying the old “I’m your friend” routine. It was amazing how many idiots did buy the tired ruse, admitting sins mortal and venal that no one in their right mind would tell an interrogating police officer. But Ruiz was one of the cagier perps. He wouldn’t open his mouth even after Nook confided that Lydia had copped to the party in Eagle Rock. For a second Ruiz had looked alarmed. Bobby had hammered him, but the boy sat with his lips clenched and fists in his lap.

  After a quick briefing at 6:00, Noah followed Frank back to the window in the box.

  “Does Ruiz know you?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Maybe you should put on the bra. Doesn’t look like they’re gettin’ anywhere with him.”

  Frank stroked her chin.

  “Too early. They’re just getting started.”

  “How long’s he been in there?”

  Frank glanced at her watch.

  “About five hours.”

  Frank returned to her office and made phone calls. She organized the T-bird’s removal to the print shed and instructed Johnnie to wait at the car until the police garage truck came.

  By noon Nook and Bobby still hadn’t cracked Ruiz. Ike had been hovering near Frank, watching his colleague’s lack of progress, and she had him bring Nook out.

  “I’m tired,” he yawned. “This little fucker’s wearing me down. I don’t know why
he won’t tell us anything. Unless Lydia’s lying about somethin’ Saturday.”

  “Noah thought maybe I should put on the bra. What do you think?”

  “Yeah, sure. What the hell. Couldn’t hurt. We’re not getting squat from him.”

  “All right. Why don’t you two order some lunch. Eat in front of him. If he doesn’t bend, back off.”

  “Got it.”

  Frank watched them for a moment, then headed downstairs. Planting a hip on the desk of a large, heavily made-up black woman, Frank grinned, “Donna. I need a make-over.”

  When she returned from the locker room, Frank’s detectives jostled for space around the viewing window. She was going into the box. Cracking the door, she peered into the room.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Somebody told me Detective Taylor was in here. Have you seen him? Big tall, black guy?”

  Ruiz sulked, “He was here ‘bout half a hour ago.”

  “Oh, dear,” Frank said, clearly distressed. She was wearing a Dolly Parton wig and Donna had artfully applied mascara, liner, shadow and lipstick. She’d said she couldn’t help with the foundation. Frank smoothed her short skirt, absently giving Ruiz a great profile of her tight, hugely stuffed sweater. She made as if to leave, then frowned, and said, “You’ve been in here a while, haven’t you, honey?”

  “I guess,” Ruiz mumbled, “Since about midnight.”

  “Midnight!” Frank screeched. “You poor thing! They give you anything to drink?”

  “The chino brung me a Dr. Pepper.”

  “And that’s all?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh, you poor thing,” she repeated. “You must be starving. You stay right here. I’m going to be right back.”

  She ducked out for a minute to low wolf-whistles and catcalls.

  “Where’s the candy?”

  Nookey produced two Snickers bars and a pack of M&M’s with peanuts, as Frank had requested.

  “Don’t you guys have work to do?”

  “Damn,” Johnnie gloated, “this is better than the Comedy Channel.”

  Frank put her hand on the door knob, composing herself.

  “Here we go,” she said, bouncing into the box. She gave Ruiz the candy and he ripped a bar open. Frank sat on the opposite side of the table, leaning over it to show the cleavage from her taped breasts.

  “I hope you like peanuts. I got candies with peanuts because I figured they had more nutrition.”

  Ruiz nodded and Frank shook her head, “Poor thing, look at you. You’re starving. What have they got you in here for anyway?” she asked indignantly.

  “I don’t know,” Ruiz said with his mouth full. ” I din do nothin’.”

  “Then why don’t they let you go?”

  “I dunno. They think I had sumfin to do with shootin’ some girl,” he said through the caramel.

  Frank sat back with a gasp.

  “You shot a girl?”

  “No, I din’ do it, but they don’ believe me.”

  Ruiz poured the M&Ms into his mouth and Frank pressed her fake breasts against the table.

  “Well, don’t you have an alibi? Why don’t you just tell them where you were?”

  “I can’t. I was with my friends. We was kickin’ it up to Dog Town.”

  Frank looked confused.

  “You mean the pound?”

  “No,” Ruiz chuckled, showing brown teeth.

  “That’s a place up to Eagle Rock.”

  Feigning a daffy moment, Frank shook her head, then insisted, “Well, for heaven’s sake, just tell them you were with your friends.”

  “I can’t.”

  Frank cried, “Well, why not, silly? If you tell them that they’ll let you go. They can’t keep you if you have an alibi.”

  “I can’t,” he said again.

  Frank reached across the table, and patted his hand.

  “Honey, why not?” she implored.

  “Cause I’ll get ‘em in trouble. We done some things,” he said vaguely, “and they don’t want to be talkin’ to the police. So I can’t say nothin’.”

  Frank clucked, “Poor thing. I think that’s very noble to defend your friends like that. They’re lucky. Was that girl, the one that got… um… shot,” Frank said delicately, “Was she a friend of yours?”

  “No. She was from another gang.”

  “Oh, dear. How old was she?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe sixteen, seventeen.”

  Frank tsk-tsked, “Poor girl.”

  Ruiz shrugged matter-of-factly, “You claim and that shit happens. Oh. Sorry, lady.”

  “That’s okay. I hear language like that all the time from the goons around here,” she said, indicating the door.

  “Goons,” Ruiz grinned. “I like that.”

  The sugar was kicking into his empty system and he started bouncing his leg up and down. Ocho was only eighteen and Frank caught a glimpse of the little boy he once was. Continuing with her bimbo imitation, she asked, “What’s claiming mean?”

  “When you say who you’re representin’, you know, what clica you’re with.”

  “Oh.”

  Pretending confusion she asked, “Are you a Blood or a Crip?”

  Ruiz snickered, “You ain’t been here long, have you, lady?”

  “Why?” Frank asked innocently.

  “Cause Bloods and Crips are black gangs. Mexicans don’t claim with them. Well, maybe some of ‘em do, but we don’t.”

  Frank asked which gang he was in and he proudly flashed, “Fifty-first Street Playboys.”

  She was slowly gaining his trust and wanted to get him bragging.

  “Aren’t you afraid? Isn’t it dangerous?”

  “Naw, I ain’t afraid,” he boasted. “There ain’t nobody scares me. They’re scared a me,” he confided.

  “Why?” Frank breathed.

  “See this?”

  Ruiz put his hand on the table and pointed at a blue teardrop above his thumb.

  “That means you don’t mess with me. Cause I’ll fuck you up. Sorry.”

  “How?” Frank whispered.

  “However I got to. No one can be disrespecting my click. It’s tough out there,” he asserted. “You gotta protect what’s yours. You gotta fight for everything, and protect it, even your name.”

  Frank nodded, open-mouthed.

  “Have you ever shot anyone?”

  Ruiz struck a casual pose.

  “Maybe, maybe not. But I scare the sokas. They’re scared a me. And my vatos. They know we mean business. They respect us.”

  Glancing over her shoulder at the door, she quickly leaned closer to Ruiz, whispering, “Have you ever killed anyone?”

  She knew she was pushing her limit. Bragging was part of the art of establishing and maintaining status within a gang, but no self-respecting banger would ever admit to murder inside a police station. And Ruiz knew that too, shrewdly repeating, “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “Your friends, the ones in that gang, I mean, they wouldn’t shoot that girl, would they?”

  “Placa? Not unless I tol’ em to.”

  “Told who?”

  “The Playboys. My clica. The Kings don’t mess with us,” Ruiz boasted. “We mess with them.”

  Then he said unexpectedly, “But you know. Placa was a girl and everything, but she was down, you know? She was carnal.”

  “Carnal?”

  “Yeah, you know. Down. She was all right.”

  Frank shook her head, and with grudging admiration, Ruiz explained Placa’s unusual status.

  “Wow,” Frank said. “So who do you think killed her?”

  “I don’t know,” he grinned, “But the goons think I done it.”

  Frank’s eyes narrowed with concern, and she put her hand on Ruiz’s.

  “But you didn’t have anything to do with that.”

  “Naw. I got better thin’s a do then get in a war with those punk Kings. I got business to take care of. If I’da shot Placa, then my homes would be gettin’ shot at and then we’d
have to shoot back. It’d be stupid. Ain’t no money in it.”

  “All right,” Frank said mustering a motherly pat and a sigh. “Look, honey, I better get back to work. My boss is a goon too. Look, you’re a sweet boy. Just tell the detectives you were with your friends and I’m sure they’ll let you go. Now, you stay out of trouble, okay?”

  She stood and deliberately tugged at her skirt. When she caught Ruiz noticing, he looked away. At the door she turned and said, “What’s your name, honey?”

  “Octavio Ruiz.”

  “That Mexican?”

  He nodded and she said, “Well, you take care, Octavio. It was real nice meeting you.”

  Ruiz kind of waved and said, “Thanks for the candy.”

  Frank yanked off the wig and was pawing at her lipstick just as Foubarelle came around the corner. He stopped dead in his tracks.

  “What the hell?”

  Johnnie was leaving the show and he mumbled, “Frank in drag. Scariest thing you ever saw.”

  Frank raised an eyebrow at her detective and he snickered. She motioned for Fubar to follow into her office.

  “What’s going on?” he demanded.

  “Just running a con on Octavio Ruiz. We brought him in late last night.”

  “Who’s he?” the captain asked and Frank stifled a sigh. She explained that Ruiz was their prime suspect in Placa’s murder, but that he wasn’t talking. She’d just gotten him to offer partial confirmation of his girlfriend’s alibi. It was becoming increasingly and uncomfortably possible that Ruiz might not be their man.

  “Then who is?”

  Behind the thick make-up, Frank’s stare was cold and flat. How the man was able to command a fork to his mouth, much less an LAPD division, was still a mystery to her. “Don’t know.”

  “Well, get on it, Frank. Not having any suspects is just unacceptable.”

  “You’re right,” she agreed, making the little man’s day. He was a pompous idiot, but he was easily manipulated and Frank appreciated that in a supervisor.

  “By the by, I’m officially on call this weekend, but I was wondering if you could take it for me. Something’s come up that I need to attend to in Palm Springs.”