The Parker Trilogy

by Tony Faggioli

  Father Soltera nodded, drank another gulp of water and said, “Why’s that?”

  “He used to be a boxer, down in Mexico. But he got out of control one fight. He was losing and he cheap-shotted his opponent. When the man went down, El Puño followed him to the mat and beat him to death. His uncle was high in politics in Sonara, so they were able to get him out of the country and to here.”

  “Lucky us.”

  “The man who confronted you? Guero?”

  “Yes.”

  “Padre. This man. I’ve heard much about him. This is bad that he came into my store.”

  “I’m sorry, Filipe. I had no idea—”

  “No! Padre. You misunderstand. This is not your fault. I’m not blaming you. But, still. That I have seen him and El Puño. I would rather have not. Do you know what I mean?”

  Father Soltera nodded and then stood tall. His balance was back and the last swig of cold water had helped clear away any remaining cobwebs. “You and me both, my friend. I just came for a root beer and some chicharrones.”

  “Here, Padre. Let me help.”

  Filipe scrambled over to the chicharrones boxes and grabbed the bag that Father Soltera had left there, then he went to the display case that held all the sodas. “A&W, like always, right?”

  Father Soltera nodded.

  “It’s on the house, Padre.”

  “No, no. I insist,” Father Soltera said, shaking his head as he made his way to the counter. “And I owe you for the water as well.”

  “Padre—”

  “Filipe. Come now. What’s my total?”

  Filipe hesitated, then reluctantly rang up the transaction. “Seven ninety-five. But, Padre, will you please pray for me?”

  Father Soltera paid the amount. “I always do.”

  “No. A special prayer. These men. They are evil. They do very evil things. Even the brujas over on Winston Street will not get near them, do you see what I mean?”

  “Yes. I do,” Father Soltera assured him. “Okay, Filipe. I will. I promise. Give me your hand.”

  They prayed a short prayer together, for peace and protection, before a few construction workers came in to grab some sandwiches and interrupted them.

  “You’re going to be okay getting back, right, Padre? If not, I can close up real quick and—”

  “No, no. I’m fine, Filipe. Sorry for the excitement today. Take care.” Father Soltera left.

  Back out on the sidewalk he looked around, making sure that neither Guero nor his henchman were still around. They weren’t. As he slowly walked back to the church, he tried not to dwell on exactly what type of men could be so bad that even the witches over on Winston Street, who supposedly practiced the black arts, were afraid of them. The sky was growing darker, and a few wispy sheets of rain were beginning to fall. He sidestepped the parts of the sidewalk that were becoming slick.

  Once back at his office he was thankful that Carol was on the phone with one of the parishioners, who was asking about prices for a wedding. No one was waiting for him, so he gave Carol the hand signal that they both knew meant “don’t disturb me” before going into his office and closing the door softly.

  After placing the root beer and bag of chicharrones on the desk, he fumbled at the zipper of his jacket before taking it off and hanging it on the worn brass hook on the back of the door. The air in the office was much warmer than the air outside and he thanked God for that. He needed warmth. To feel again. To feel safe again.

  Only when he sat down in the chair behind his desk and looked over at the bookcases on the opposite wall, with all the biblical commentaries and individual books of study, books by Nouwen, Lewis, Merton and Kierkegaard, only then did he allow himself to remember Guero’s words.

  Not a day went by that he didn’t think of her. Of the woman that almost made him give up his frock and leave the church. How? How could Guero Martinez have any possible way of knowing about her? And who was this “friend” of his who had told him about her?”

  “They used to call her Olive Oyl . . .” Guero even knew her childhood nickname, which she’d only confided to Father Soltera over lunch one day, back when she’d first began to share her pains, her life, her dreams with him. It was a nickname that dripped with irony.

  How those boys who had teased her in her youth would’ve cursed their stupidity if they’d have seen the beauty that she blossomed into. Tall. Black hair that fell like a shiny sheet straight to the middle of her back. Big, brown eyes that could “swallow the moon.” How did Guero Martinez know that too? How did he know that was how Father Soltera always described those eyes, to himself and only himself?

  She was a woman who had endured so much and still had stood strong in the face of it, her slight chin always tilted up and out, in a soft statement of defiance, as if she were telling the entire world to go ahead and take its best shot. A strength in her borne in such a stark vulnerability that it left him speechless, almost every time.

  So many wounded had come to him before, but she was different, because she saw all the wounds within him. They talked. They shared. Pure and innocent at first. Priest and congregant. Then acquaintances. Then friends.

  He was such a fool.

  Wasn’t it right there, in the opening pages of his Bible? Yes. Yes, it was. In Genesis.

  The serpent was subtle.

  Yes. Subtle indeed. A whisper, barely audible, through the faint leaves of that tree in the Garden. Soft. Gripping.

  He should’ve known better. He’d dedicated his life to knowing better. But all the hours of studying scripture and commentaries had been like leaves in that tree that were simply nudged out of the way.

  Before long, her eyes were swallowing him up too, calling to his heart. She was feeling a hundred times worse about it than him, but just as helpless in the face of it all. Because she’d heard the whisper too.

  Father Soltera sat in his chair and struggled to stifle the sobs that bloomed in his chest. It had been a hard day already. And now this. Now the memories that cut cruel and wide were back. His God and Father, always the rock and hope of his salvation, was only a prayer away. He knew that.

  But shame left him completely mute.

  Tall. Brown eyes. An insecure laugh that wanted, so desperately, to be truly happy.

  Her name was Gabriella.

  He’d told her that he could love Jesus and no one else.

  Then he’d fallen in love with her anyway.

  Chapter Seven

  Hector, Chico and Bennie gave Jimmy a little more of a beating before they left his house. There was no point in telling him to keep his mouth shut. Sure, there was still a chance he’d run to his homies, but not likely. “Face” was everything in the game, and fessing up to the fact that he was forced to eat his fish and would be crapping sushi for the next two days was probably enough for his pride to keep him quiet.

  Back in the car now and cruising to the warehouse, Hector took a moment and tried to still the rage that was swimming back and forth between his heart and mind. It was an effort with mixed results, because each time he calmed down and leveled his breathing, The Smiling Midget would reappear; first on the corner of the street they were turning down, then tap dancing on top of a mailbox further along the road, then riding a bicycle next to the car, and now here he was again, holding a woman’s hand as they made their way through the crosswalk right in front of their car.

  Always the same, with his beady red eyes and knowing sneer. The same look he wore that very first day Hector had seen him, after being in jail nine days exactly, after Hector had backed down from a fight. The bitter shame of his retreat had infested him that night as he laid on his bunk and tried to fall asleep. He told himself that he’d only done it to avoid additional time getting added to his sentence. Swore to himself it was the smart play. “He who runs today, lives to fight another day” and all that. He’d find this fool, on the outside, and settle things up then. Yada, yada.

  That was when The Smiling Midget appeared at the foot
of his bunk, a gnarled looking hand resting on the crossbar as he shook his head from side to side in a barely perceptible fashion and spoke the real truth:

  Nonsense. You’re a coward. You knew he’d absolutely kick your ass, maybe even kill you. So, you backed down. Like a little bitch.

  The worst part about The Smiling Midget was that his lips rarely moved. The sneer was fixed, permanent, so that it was like having a psychic conversation with a vicious looking doll.

  On the inside, day-to-day was the only way. He did his work duty, took advantage of his yard time, ate the crappy food and told himself it would all be worth it when it was over. He didn’t need The Smiling Midget to tell him that was a lie. The outside was better than the inside, but not by a whole lot. It was kinda like the difference between a drizzly day and a rainy day. The contrast was only in the amount of wet, not in the absence of it.

  He’d been battling every day since his first day in the gang, right after he’d run the gauntlet and been beaten senseless by his friends, when he’d limped home, weathered his mother’s fierce lecture, and sat in his room rubbing his swollen eyes. It was the first moment he began to accept that this was it for him. The gang life was all he had. He’d never admit it to another soul on this earth, but he was bitterly sad for that fact.

  “Yo, jefe?”

  It was Chico.

  Hector jumped. “What, man?”

  “I’m gonna park around back when we get there.”

  “Why not out front?”

  “Cops been sweeping the streets lately. Taking photos of cars and shit.”

  Hector shrugged. “Fine.”

  “You tired?” Bennie asked, caution in his voice.

  “Yeah. I am. That’s the most action I’ve seen in months.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Beatin’ that fool was exhausting,” Hector said with a chuckle.

  Chico laughed. Bennie followed. The tension in the car after the visit with Marisol was gone now.

  Moments of clarity would sometimes come over Hector, and one did right now: your pain could always be relieved, at least temporarily, by causing pain to someone else. It felt wrong, but it was true. That little punk in South Gate was unlucky enough to have been home, but Hector knew that if they’d missed him then it just would’ve been someone else that got the beating. Maybe someone who looked sideways at him at the gas station or the park, or later tonight when they hit the clubs.

  You had to get your pain out, one way or the other, or it would kill you. Someone else’s pain? That was their problem.

  As they made their way past the Hollenbeck Police Station, Hector flashed both middle fingers at the empty black-and-whites parked outside, making Bennie laugh again. “Fhupid affholes.”

  “You sound so funny, fool,” Hector teased.

  Chico chimed in. “It’s like some urban poetry shit or somethin’, right?”

  “Fhut up, bitch. Fhit!” Bennie snapped.

  Another round of laughs, this time with a few snorts. They were still high from the day’s events.

  Before long they were pulling into the driveway of their headquarters, an old beige building on Fresno Street next to the 60 Freeway that used to be an auto shop back in the day. Now it was used for meetings and to strip stolen cars, which was still a steady side market for the drugs. As the large wrought iron security gate in front of the driveway creaked open on rusty wheels, the first thing Hector noticed was the trash out front. His good humor was squashed immediately.

  “Who’s in charge of cleanup?”

  “Tito,” Bennie replied.

  “Well. He’s doin’ a shit job.”

  “Okay. I’ll tell ’em,” Chico replied sheepishly.

  “How many times I gotta tell you fools? Don’t attract unnecessary attention.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Does a legit business let the front of their shop look like a trash dump?”

  “No, jefe.”

  “Okay then, I mean, I try and—”

  Hector was right on the verge of a good old-fashioned tirade when they turned the corner at the back of the building and he saw them: Carlos, Eddie, Francisco, Reuben, Renee, Alberto, Tito and all the rest.

  He smiled. It was his crew. Every time he saw them he was reminded of the sick book he read in his junior year of high school, otherwise known as his last year in high school: Lord of the Flies. His crew was his and he was theirs, and this side of town, their little island, was a wide-open place of possibility.

  Yeah. What’s with you and the blues? he asked himself. Snap out of it.

  The hollers, whistles and cheers broke out wide when he got out of the car, and he spread his arms as if to hug them all at once. “Whassup . . . putos?” he shouted.

  A chorus of laughter erupted, followed by handshakes and greetings as he made his way into the crowd.

  In one of the mechanics bays a boom box started blasting some rap music, and Hector noticed a half-dozen coolers of beer lined up next to a table of snacks and treats, mostly bagged potato chips and bowls of peanuts.

  A banner hung over the table that said, “Welcome Back, Churro.” It was Hector’s nickname; when he was young he ate about five churros a day, never getting fat because he was always running—from the law or from his mom’s boyfriends and the many-colored belts they’d try to whip him with.

  “We missed you, jefe!” someone shouted, and more cheers broke out.

  Hector nodded and the party began. They’d keep it chill until after dark, drinking and napping their way into a change of clothes before they’d head out clubbing.

  It was a Tuesday. Not exactly a big night to party. But as Hector downed a whole Pacífico in one deep pull, he saw The Smiling Midget sitting behind the wheel of a half-chopped-up Lexus up on the rack in one of the other bays.

  You remember, right? The Smiling Midget asked, his words like bricks falling with a clunk between Hector’s ears.

  Hector nodded. He did. He’d seen it earlier that day: a poster on the glass doors, as they’d knocked to no avail.

  Tonight was Salsa Night.

  At The Mayan.

  Campos looked at Parker with mild frustration. A quick drive by McClintock Park gave them nothing. A few guys in their mid-twenties, both white, were shooting hoops while a scattering of moms pushed strollers along the cement pathway or refereed their children on the play structure. A bum was passed out next to the three-foot redbrick wall that ran along Wilshire Boulevard, a Carl’s Jr. hamburger wrapper plastered to one of his cheeks.

  Campos had driven through the parking lot, just in case, but they saw no purple Hondas anywhere. He backed into a parking space. “Nothing,” Campos said. “You gonna call it in?”

  “Yeah,” Parker answered. “Name like Tic Toc? GU’s bound to have a file on him.”

  Campos took out his phone and pulled up Google Maps. “I’ll look up this Piper’s place, then we can swing by there too. It’s still kinda early though.”

  “Okay.”

  As Campos did his search, Parker called the station and was patched through to a Detective Fisher with the specialized Gang Unit for East LA. Contrary to Parker’s hopes, the name Tic Toc was not in any way infamous. Fisher dug around a bit on the computer before announcing he was in the middle of something right now, but that he’d find what he could and email it over as soon as possible. While he was at it, Parker asked him to look for information on the Asian Soldiers as a whole and to see what he could dig up on a Hector Villarosa of the Fresno Street Vatos gang.

  Parker hung up as Campos gave the word. “Auto shop’s ten minutes away.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  They drove mostly in silence the whole way, the radio volume still on low, bleating with calls to and from dispatch by various units in the area. A mugging had just taken place at MacArthur Park, a man in his mid-forties left bleeding near the restrooms, and a domestic disturbance on Thirty-Ninth had blossomed into a multiple car response when the husband had answered the door with a sle
dge hammer.

  In the passenger seat, with the window rolled down and the cool air bouncing off his face, Parker took stock of the fact that he was having what his therapist would call a “be careful” day. This case was already looking gray, and the gray skies were naturally depressing, but the city he saw around him held an even starker truth.

  It was a city full of broken hearts and wild souls, some people trying to live and others just waiting to die. It was cold and hard, just like any other city really, capable of breaking anyone at any given time. Except, unlike a place like New York, which would crush your soul with its overwhelming size and gravity, LA was more cunning. It lured you in with palm trees and blonds, then cut you at the knees with a shallowness as sharp as a scalpel. Because by the time you figured out that the blonds were bleached and the palm trees weren’t indigenous, and that you’d moved to a place built smack-dab in the middle of a desert that would parch your bones? It was too late.

  Here he was, in a desert. Again. After surviving in the deserts of Afghanistan and Iraq. From military wars to criminal wars. He was starting to figure out that when it came to human beings? There was no such thing as peace. Just constant war. External and internal.

  Stop it. Change the channel.

  The slow-paced breathing technique having failed, he moved to the trick his first VA therapist—the one he’d seen right after his last tour, when he was given mandatory exit counseling—had trained him to use. “Treat your mind like a television. When something’s on that you don’t want to watch? What do you do? Change the channel.”

  Parker had said too much then, and was beyond lucky to have drawn a therapist who deemed Parker’s confessed mood swings for his last year “in country” as “mild” and didn’t report him, a move that would’ve made his current job with the LAPD nearly impossible to get. Since law enforcement had been the only real post-military career he’d ever envisioned for himself, it was a huge thing.

  But this only depressed him even more now.