“Not one.”
“I don’t believe you. And you spent half your youth training in a basement with Father Peck. I suppose he was teaching you how to cook.”
Mark opened his window and let his arm hang outside the car.
“Peck didn’t teach me how to fight. He taught me how to survive.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Quite a bit. Nobody wins a fight. I have never willingly fought anyone in my entire life, and that’s the truth. I avoid trouble like the plague, and the few times it has found me, I’ve walked away. I would never lie to you, Luci.”
Neither spoke until she was about to turn onto Chestnut Lane.
“Just let me out at the top of the hill. I could use some air.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, it’s nice out too.”
“No problem,” she said as she brought the car to a stop. “Did you mean what you just said?”
“About what—fighting? Yeah, Peck beat that one into me pretty good. Only idiots fight. How do you think I’ve maintained my good looks so well? By not getting punched in the face—that’s my secret.”
“I believe you about fighting. I meant about never lying to me.”
Mark locked his eyes on hers and leaned forward.
“I have no reason to lie to you, Luci. I never have and I never will. Scout’s honor,” he said, holding up two fingers.
She leaned away and smirked.
“You were never a scout. Get out of my car. And please get a driver’s license because I don’t plan on being your taxi.”
Luci winked. Mark felt lightheaded as his pulse quickened and all the blood rushed below his waist.
Don’t do it, Mark. Don’t blow it. Be patient and get the hell out of the car.
“Thanks for the lift. I guess I’ll see you when I see you.”
Thirty-one
Hector Gonzales was already running ten minutes late when Lourdes stopped the car in the alley next to the abandoned warehouse. He pulled down the passenger-side visor and examined his face closely in the small mirror. After wiping the inside of both nostrils with his index finger, he squeezed several drops of Visine into each eye and pulled two mints from his pocket. He was sweating profusely, but his mouth was bone dry.
“You want me to wait for you here, mi amor?” she asked.
“Fuck no. I got business so just get out of here fast.”
“Can you give me a little bump for later then?”
He bent down, pulled up his pant leg, and fished around in his sock.
“Take this and get the fuck out of here. And don’t talk to nobody, right?”
“Whatever you say, baby. Just don’t forget about me.”
“Just a little bit longer and I’ll have enough for both of us to disappear forever, okay? Just trust me, Lourdes. I know what I’m doing.”
He watched the car until it was safely out of sight. Then he turned and sprinted two blocks in the opposite direction to the real meeting site.
Never trust a puta.
Hector, known in the Almighty Latin King and Queen Nation as King Heavy, slipped into the building through a broken window and stopped to catch his breath. He glanced at the illuminated hands on his fake gold Rolex—he had pawned a real one for quick cash months earlier—and forced his skinny frame to start climbing the stairs toward the meeting room on the top floor.
Relax. Breathe. Nobody knows.
He paused on the fourth-floor landing and nodded to the two Kings who were standing in the shadows, handguns at their sides and index fingers carelessly on the triggers.
“Amor de Rey, hermanos,” he said before continuing the arduous climb.
“Amor de Rey,” replied both in unison.
When he reached the tenth floor his heart was pumping so hard that he did not hear the same greeting from the final two Kings guarding the door to the meeting. Instead of returning the salutation, he simply waved his hand, motioning for them to get out of the way.
The sentry on the left considered standing his ground until the other leaned in and whispered in his ear.
“Recuerda, son primos.” Remember, they’re cousins.
“Verdad. Perdóname.” Right. Sorry.
The first sentry twisted the knob, pushed open the door, and stood off to the side.
“Amor de Rey,” the sentries said again in unison.
Hector wiped his forehead with both hands and used the sweat to slick back his hair before he walked nervously through the door without saying a word. The sentries closed the door behind him, shook their heads, and refocused their attention on looking out the large window to the street below.
Thirty-two
Agent Frank Tagala stumbled out his door and nearly fell down the front steps but grabbed the railing with both hands to catch himself. He swayed back and forth for several seconds on bent knees. Then he regained his balance, descended the stairs, and shuffled his way down the crumbling brick walkway toward the car—leaving the front door to his house wide open. Mark slowed his pace and watched as Frank crossed the cul-de-sac.
Not looking so good tonight, Mr. Tagala.
Mark wanted nothing more than a beer and an episode of Magnum P.I. before going off to bed, but when he climbed the steps to the side door he paused and turned back to watch his neighbor.
Frank stood next to his car and fumbled with a large metal ring full of keys. He cursed aloud, dropped the keys several times, and finally realized that he had the wrong keychain. Stumbling and mumbling, he started back toward the house but made it only a few steps before catching his foot on a loose brick and falling sideways onto the lawn. He lay on his back and flailed his arms and legs, eventually flipping over onto his stomach. From that position, after a few deep breaths, he pushed himself off the ground with both palms while slowly bringing his grass-stained knees up under his body, one at a time. Then he cautiously stood up and continued the journey.
Mark shook his head and exhaled forcefully through his mouth.
I guess Magnum will have to wait.
Frank had just let go of the handrail at the top of his front stairs and was taking baby steps through the open door as Mark approached.
“How’s it going, Mr. Tagala?”
Startled by the voice, Frank fell face forward into the house with a loud thud. Mark jogged the last few paces and bounded up the stairs. When he reached the top, he froze in place and held his hands up in front of him. Frank lay flat on his back with one arm extended toward the open door—Glock 27 held firmly in his hand, trigger finger fully extended along the side of the gun frame.
“Hold your fire, Mr. Tagala. It’s Mark from next door. Just relax. I was walking by when I heard you fall. It’s your neighbor Mark—Agnes’s kid. No need for the gun.”
Frank lay still and did not move the gun, trained on Mark’s upper chest.
“Please lower your weapon, Mr. Tagala. I’m here to help, or if you want I’ll mind my own business and leave. Either way, you’re going to have to lower that gun first. Why don’t you do it right now. Look, I’m not armed—my hands are right here.”
He waved his empty hands over his head playfully and managed a smile.
Come on, Buddy. Put the gun down. This is how accidents happen. If your finger moves just one millimeter toward that trigger, you won’t be down for breakfast tomorrow. So just drop the gun and save us both the trouble.
Mark smiled even wider and slowly lowered his hands to his sides, bringing his shooting arm closer to the holster tucked behind his right hip.
“Do you need a ride somewhere? I can take you anywhere you want to go,” he offered. “Where were you thinking of heading?”
Frank muffled a belch and tried to suppress his nausea. But the pressure mounting in his gut was slowly pushing a fireball up his esophagus and into his throat. He turned his head to the side and heaved a few ounces of bloody acid onto the hardwood floor before lowering the gun.
“Sorry, kid. Habit. I don’t like anyone sneaki
ng up on me,” said Frank as he slowly pulled himself to his feet and clumsily reholstered his gun.
“Glock 27?” asked Mark.
“What? Yeah, it’s a 27. Why?”
“Standard issue—so you must still be on the job, right? DEA or US Marshal? I can’t even remember, it’s been so long.”
“ATF, son. ATF.”
“Cool. So do you need a ride somewhere, Frank? May I call you Frank?”
“Frank’s fine. I was heading for the liquor store but forgot my keys inside.”
“Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it’s almost 11:25. In the People’s Republic of Massachusetts, that means you’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”
“Shit,” muttered Frank as he wandered into the kitchen and sat down at the table, which looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned in months.
Mark looked around the main entrance and family room. Dirty clothes and trash were littered about the house. He had been too distracted before by the gun in his face to notice the strong stench of urine in the air. The mess and smell got worse as he followed Frank into the kitchen.
“Kid, open the freezer and see if there’s any more vodka,” Frank said without taking his eyes off the empty glass on the table in front of him.
A dozen frosted glasses jingled on the door shelves as Mark opened the freezer. Half a bottle of vodka sat open on the top shelf.
Did you miss this one, Frank? Or did you know that it wouldn’t be enough?
“Here we go, Frank. There’s enough here for a nightcap.”
Mark approached the table slowly with the bottle in his left hand, keeping his right hand free to draw his weapon if the booze in Frank’s veins made him do something stupid. Guns and drunks don’t mix, but Mark figured that trying to disarm an old-school agent would likely make things worse than simply managing the risk. The last drop had barely reached the glass before Frank snatched it from the table and guzzled its contents in one long gulp. He slammed the empty glass onto the table, almost smashing it.
“Again.”
Mark nodded, refilled the glass, and watched Frank take a deep breath and drain it again, this time swishing the vodka between his teeth for several seconds like mouthwash before swallowing.
Holy shit, what a fucking train wreck.
“There’s only a little bit left, Frank. Might as well just kill it, right?”
Frank finished the final glass and let out a long, guttural moan.
“You know, you may want to have your stomach looked at. Stressful jobs like yours can cause ulcers if you’re not careful.”
“The job’s almost done, kid. Just a few more weeks and that little fucker will be nothing to me.”
I’ll just assume “that little fucker” refers to a boss of some kind. Raging drunks tend not to get along very well with authority.
“Retiring? That’s great news. Any plans after that?” asked Mark, doing his best to sound interested.
Frank sat silently, examining the empty vodka bottle in his hand. Mark waited a few more seconds.
“Okay, unless you need something, I’m going to head home now.”
No response.
“Good night, Frank.”
You’re not my problem anyway.
Mark locked the front door behind him, descended the front steps, and cut across the lawn. When the empty bottle shattered against Frank’s kitchen floor, he simply glanced at his watch and kept walking.
Just in time for Magnum.
Thirty-three
Hector walked quickly to the center of the large room to join the circle. He patted two Kings on their shoulders and waited as they reluctantly made room for him between them. Then he got down on one knee like the rest of the Supreme Council and tried to blend in. Tardiness for official meetings usually earned a group beating, but Hector was more slippery than most and knew how to leverage his relationship with Carlos. Unfortunately for him, a Latin King can play that card only so many times before karma catches up.
Standing erect in the center of the circle, listening intently with his hands clasped behind his back, was Carlos, known as King C., Supreme Inca of the Massachusetts Chapter of the Almighty Latin King and Queen Nation. Kneeling next to him and taking notes on a small tablet was Kelvin, his personal assistant. Kelvin took detailed minutes of the meeting while King C. focused his attention on his chief of intelligence, occasionally looking away to scan the rest of his advisors.
“Okay. That’s enough. Thank you for your loyalty to the crown, King Juan. You’re taking some major risks to get me the information I need to make good decisions, and I will never forget that. Amor de Rey!”
“Amor de Rey!” responded the council in unison.
“Let’s make one thing clear to everyone right now. Once it’s ours, we will never give up territory. Not to Bloods, not to Crips, not to anyone. We hold at all costs. Everyone know what I’m sayin’? Amor de Rey?”
“Amor de Rey!” responded the council members, their words echoing throughout the cavernous room.
“We gotta keep what we got, but we also gotta expand. You know what I’m sayin’? New territories, new members, new markets. Remember what I said last meeting? The future of any organization rests on its ability to attract new members and business opportunities. Let those other bitches waste their time trying to get what we already got while we keep that shit and get more. Amor de Rey!”
“Amor de Rey!”
King C. nodded his head and slowly scanned the circle clockwise before resting his sights on Hector.
“King Heavy. How are you doing tonight?”
Hector swallowed as sweat poured down his face and neck.
“Very good, King C.,” his voice cracked.
The Supreme Inca raised his eyebrows in mock surprise.
“You’re not fooling anyone.”
Hector surveyed the circle of burning eyes and forced an unconvincing smile to try and mask his paranoia.
“I serve the nation, King C.”
Carlos paced slowly toward Hector as he spoke.
“I know you do, Heavy. But you’re not looking so heavy these days. What’s your secret? Diet? Exercise?”
Hector scanned the circle again, seeing the blank stares turned to smirks as everyone waited for his answer to the Supreme Inca’s question. He removed a handkerchief from his back pocket and casually wiped his forehead.
“Just doing my part to battle obesity. You know how it is, Carlos.”
Most of the council looked away at the sarcastic comment and familiar use of King C’s real first name. Carlos stayed focused on Hector, his eyes burning with intensity.
“Yeah, I know how it is. Organizations are the same way—always looking for ways to trim the fat … or remove tumors. Let’s you and I talk in private after the meeting.”
Carlos spun around slowly and addressed the nation’s enforcer and chief disciplinarian directly.
“Let’s hear from you, King Loc. Tell me something good. Amor de Rey!”
“Amor de Rey!” replied all but Hector, who was rattled from the group shaming and already worried about his meeting after the meeting.
Hector, you stupid fuck.
Thirty-four
Mark changed into shorts and a t-shirt, popped open a cold beer, and stretched out comfortably on the couch, his head propped up by an old, dusty pillow, only to realize that the remote control for the TV was sitting on top of the cable box.
Get up and get the remote, or just lie here until I die? Or at least until I need another beer?
He took a long sip from the bottle and thought about Frank Tagala next door.
What the hell happened to him? What happened to his wife and kid? And how the hell can you manage to work a job like his—or any job—when you’re that fucked up? Agnes never mentioned anything about the neighbors over the years. Agnes. The box.
He took the last swig of beer and placed the bottle on the counter on his way to Agnes’s den.
Thirty-five
Two Kin
gs closed the double doors tightly, leaving Carlos and Hector alone on the balcony. Carlos rested his elbows on the railing and gazed out over the Boston skyline.
“You know, we’ve worked hard to get where we are today?”
“Yeah, we have. No doubt. This shit didn’t build itself,” answered Hector, glancing left and right to make sure they were alone while keeping his distance from the railing.
“There’s more at stake now than ever. And that means we gotta be more careful than ever. Too much to lose, Hector. No weak links, you see what I’m sayin’?”
“Of course,” he started, but Carlos quickly cut him off.
“Where’s Pedro? I haven’t heard from him today and he didn’t show up tonight. That’s not like him. Have you seen him?”
“No, man. I haven’t seen him lately,” answered Hector. Technically, this answer was true. He hadn’t seen Pedro since the day before, when he strangled the nosy accountant and buried the body somewhere in western Massachusetts.
“Okay. Tell him I need to talk to him ASAP. He still owes me some answers, and I’m losing patience.”
“No problem, C. Anything you need—you know that. I’m your guy—Amor de Rey for life, you know.”
“For life. Ain’t that the fuckin’ truth,” added Carlos matter-of-factly.
Members of the Latin Kings nation may disagree on many topics, but the oft-repeated maxim of “once a King, always a King” was universally acknowledged. The only way out of the nation was to die. Whether that came about through natural causes or someone else’s plans was increasingly out of members’ control, especially for the anointed few in leadership. When you join the nation, the death clock starts ticking. As you climb the ladder, the ticking accelerates. By the time one reaches the top, everyone knows he’s on borrowed time. There are no retired Supreme Incas from Massachusetts. They are all either dead or serving lengthy prison sentences.
Carlos turned to face Hector, put a hand on his moist shoulder, and spoke softly.
“You know I love you, Hector. You’re the son of my favorite tía and that means something. But one of the best parts of being a King is never having to choose between family and the nation … because the nation is your family. I don’t know what the fuck is up with you, but you need to figure shit out and fix it. You also owe apologies to the rest of the council for disrespecting them.”
Wrong Town: A Mark Landry Novel Page 10
