The Parker Trilogy

by Tony Faggioli

  “Makes sense.”

  “But these guys . . . they wanna look gangster, play gangster. They still aren’t to be trifled with. But it’s the whole Scarface bullshit that will always keep them on the fringes. The Triad? La Marea? They don’t want flashy types. They wanna move millions or billions of product . . . with absolutely zero attention.”

  “We know where Noh lives?”

  “He moves around a lot. But lately he’s got himself a steady. Some girl named Amy Kim. She goes to the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising, over on Grand Avenue. Has a flat over in the Arts District.”

  “No shit?”

  Again, Fisher chuckled. “Yep. The Gangster and the Artist. Like a damned Disney movie.”

  “You got more than I expected.”

  “Yeah. Well. Like I said. Balls. We all loved Nap too, Parker.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  “I’m sending the email now, along with the only photo we have of Mr. Tic Toc. It’s a few years old. He was booked for disturbing the peace after a fight broke out at some bar. But at least it gives you something to work with. Now that this is done I’ll turn my attention to the rest of the gang. But as for this Hector guy in East LA?”

  “Yeah?”

  “A number of us know of him. He just got out of jail. He runs the Fresno Street Vatos, a subsidiary, if you will, of the East Los Vatos, who are major players out of the east side these days. Hector’s no shark, but he ain’t no tuna either. More like a barracuda. I should be able to get plenty of info together on him.”

  “Perfect. Thanks, Fisher.”

  “No worries. Now go get this Tic Toc dipshit.”

  “We will.”

  They both hung up. Parker went to grab a cup of water from the break room. By the time he returned, Fisher’s email had arrived. He opened the file and printed the police report from the night of the fight and the notes from Fisher’s chat with his informant. Then he clicked the pdf that contained Danny Noh’s photo.

  The photo that popped up was the usual shot for gang-member-types: brooding and angry death stare. Noh was five foot six, with chubby cheeks and black hair cut tight to his scalp. He had a nose hoop and a tattoo on his neck of some sort of star.

  He was glancing over the police report from the night of the bar fight two years prior when Campos walked up and startled him. “Wassup?”

  Parker waved one hand at the photo on his computer screen. “That’s our Tic Toc boy. Real name is Danny Noh.”

  “Hmm.”

  “And this file here is from May 2015. Lucy’s Bar. An argument broke out over the type of Vodka being served.”

  “What happened next?”

  Parker read the paragraph written by the reporting officer that evening.

  “Witnesses state the suspect, Mr. Noh, demanded that the bartender, Mr. Lee, meet him outside. Bartender refused and the bouncer, Mr. Hop, attempted to remove Mr. Noh from the premises, at which time Mr. Noh shattered a bottle of tequila and forced Mr. Hop outside to the sidewalk. Suspect then disregarded the bottle and informed Mr. Hop that he knew martial arts and was prepared to use them. Mr. Hop told suspect to leave . . . suspect responded by performing a series of martial arts moves that dislocated Mr. Hop’s left knee cap and, due to a fall to the pavement, left Mr. Hop concussed by the time our Unit and Unit-17 appeared on scene. Suspect was taken into custody without further incident, claiming self-defense, as Mr. Hop was twice his size. Witnesses confirm, however, that Mr. Hop made no threatening moves towards suspect once outside the bar, even after suspect tossed the broken tequila bottle aside.”

  “Mmm. Noh’s a real tough guy, huh?”

  Parker shrugged. “I guess.”

  “You aren’t impressed?” Campos asked with a smile.

  “Why? Should I be?” Parker snapped. People like Noh irritated him. Bullies or brutes. He had no patience for any of them.

  “Good. Me neither.” Campos said as he crossed his arms across his chest and looked more closely at Noh’s photo. “His photo tells me all I need to know.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I don’t worry about the ones who look all mean in their photos, Parker.”

  “No?”

  “Nah. I worry about the ones who are smiling. They’re the dangerous ones.”

  Parker smirked and nodded. “Sorta like the talkers, right?”

  Campos looked at him with curiosity on his face.

  “First day in country I get a sargent who tells me that when we interface with the local tribes who are hostile? Ignore the loudmouths.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. Tells me it’s the quiet ones that’ll get ya, the ones that say nothing but just kind of look at you.”

  “Same rule applies in the hood. You know that, right?”

  “I worked South Central before I came here,” Parker said. “I know.”

  “Crazy. Over there. Over here. Iraq. LA. Same rules. Not much difference, right?”

  Parker printed the photo, folded it up with the police report and tucked them into his shirt pocket. “You mean besides the IEDs and the snipers from 1500 yards, right?”

  Campos raised his eyebrows in surprise, pursed his lips and nodded, a slight look of embarrassment coming over his face. “Yeah. Except for that.”

  “You’re partially right. There are some similarities,” Parker said as he stood and put on his suit jacket. “But right now, all I wanna do is go find this little punk ass and see what he can tell us.”

  “Where’s he at?”

  “At this hour? Maybe his girl’s place over in the Arts District.”

  Grabbing his jacket, Campos joined Parker on the way to the door.

  As they walked out of the station and to their car, Parker felt weariness rising in him again. The sky overhead was black. A few uniformed officers crossed in front of them talking about a mugging of some old lady in front of the Free Methodist Church just blocks away.

  “You ain’t worried about this guy’s ka-ra-te moves if we find him, are you?” Campos teased as he got behind the wheel.

  “Yeah, right,” Parker replied, shaking his head as he buckled up. “He tries that shit on me? I’ll break his body in four different places.”

  They pulled out on to St. Louis Street as night approached.

  Chapter Eleven

  The walk back to the church from Luisa’s house was a bit more challenging. He’d stayed with Luisa, partly to council her and partly to protect her in case Felix came back, until her mother, Carmen, had gotten home from work. There’d been tears between the two of them, with Father Soltera trying as best he could to referee, but things were still too fresh and new. The fact that Luisa was steadfastly refusing to identify the father of the baby was only making Carmen angrier. Father Soltera could see etched in Carmen’s eyes pain for all the dreams she’d had for her daughter that were now somewhat ruined.

  It was dark by the time he left their apartment. He’d turned down the offer of a ride—even though he desperately wanted it—so that the two of them could have some quiet time together. Carol had already called him an hour earlier to say that she was locking up and heading home for the night, so his choice now was to walk or try to figure out how to use the Uber app that Timothy, the church janitor, had downloaded on his phone one day.

  Despite the fact he felt even weaker than when he’d first arrived, he decided to make the thirty-minute walk back, to help clear his mind.

  He regretted his decision as soon as he reached the corner of Sheridan and Soto.

  Two men, similarly garbed in dark jeans and green bomber jackets, the kind with zippered pouches on the upper arms, appeared behind him from an alley he’d just passed and followed him the full block. He’d only glimpsed them from the corner of his eye but they appeared to be clean cut and—though not impossible for this neighborhood, but still highly unlikely—they were white.

  Are they cops? he wondered. Perhaps. With my jacket on, they can’t see I’m a priest. But why are they fol
lowing me?

  Behind him he heard their footsteps, which sounded equally measured, like they were walking in step. He passed homes with low brick walls and wrought iron fences on either side, their windows illuminated against tightly drawn drapes. Late model cars were parked on either side of the street but only a few people were out, and none of them seemed to notice Father Soltera or his new friends.

  He thought of running up to someone to ask for help, but an ominous thought occurred to him: Nobody can see them but me.

  Then that was followed by a more chilling thought: And if they could, someone might get hurt.

  He chastised himself for being paranoid and silly, then pushed on, down Soto. A four-lane road with two lanes going in either direction, it was at least busy with traffic, making him feel less isolated. But the traffic caused a problem too: he couldn’t hear the footsteps of the men behind him anymore, and a part of him was sensing that they were growing closer.

  At the corner of Soto and Folsom, he encountered a beige apartment building with a massive Aztec themed mural barely visible under the street lights. For some reason, he focused on the image of a campfire that had been painted around an A/C unit, a group of children in different colors seated around it. Fables and history. No doubt an artistic statement, the fire representing a rich, cultural past that was being cooled now by modern times. It was beautiful and yet he’d somehow missed it on his walk by here earlier. Probably because he’d been on the opposite side of the street and blinded by his focus to get to Luisa. But now, even though he could only make out the reds and blues in the half darkness, it proved a nice distraction from his fear.

  But a short-lived one.

  As he crossed Folsom there was a long lull in the traffic and he heard the men again, coming off the curb, their footfalls still steady and determined. Gaining.

  What’s going on?

  He wanted to turn around and confront them, but he had the feeling that would be unwise. Again, he felt silly, this time with a dose of shame, but still, he didn’t turn around.

  This whole street seemed to be one apartment building after another, but then, up ahead and on his left, was a small Christian church. It was closed now but it still felt safe.

  What is happening to me?

  He swallowed, his throat dry with fear.

  Never you mind. Just get to that church.

  He quickened his pace and, to his horror, the men behind him quickened theirs too.

  Guero Martinez’s men, no doubt. They must be. Sent to intimidate me again for the name of the baby’s father.

  But that didn’t feel right either, and he was relieved. Because if it was, he would tell them. He was out here, in the dark of night, over a mile from home, feeling vulnerable against the cold and . . .

  Vulnerable against the evil. These men are evil.

  The church was not far away at all. Twenty feet or so.

  That’s ridiculous. You’re delusional. How could you possibly know—

  The steps behind him quickened suddenly.

  They know where you’re trying to get to!

  In a semi-state of disbelief, Father Soltera began to run. He didn’t care if he looked silly or was overreacting. He just wanted to get to the church and the iron gate out front. But he was old now. Slow. He prayed the whole way that the gate would be unlocked, especially when he heard the men running after him.

  Get there! You’ve got to make it!

  Reaching the front of the little church, he grabbed the gate latch and felt it turn easily. The men were so close now that he could almost feel them on his back, mere feet away, as he stepped through the gate and slammed it behind him.

  Don’t look at them. Don’t do it.

  But he had to. He had to see who—what—had been following him.

  The men who stood on the other side of the iron bars of the gate did not have faces. Even though they were standing almost directly beneath a streetlight overhead, the light hit their foreheads and was nullified by dark smears that covered where their features should’ve been. No eyes. No noses. No lips.

  The Faceless Men took up position, shoulder to shoulder, just outside the gate, and even though it was impossible for people with no faces to look at you, Father Soltera felt that they were doing exactly that: staring at him.

  It was a preposterous notion, but so was this entire situation. Had he fallen asleep at Luisa’s, on the couch maybe? Had she and her mother simply covered him with a blanket and he was still there now, in that apartment, having a nightmare?

  Maybe. But maybe not.

  Traffic was whizzing by, just beyond the men, but they didn’t move.

  But they weren’t trying to open the gate, either.

  There was a large hibiscus tree that towered over the tiny front yard of the church and out over the sidewalk, and it rustled violently as a strong gust of wind blew down the street, sending paper trash in semi-circles down the sidewalk and out into traffic, where bits of it were caught up in the wake of passing cars and cast off even further. Father Soltera knew the smell of that air, metallic and alive, from his days in Michigan; the rainstorm the weather forecasters had been predicting for the last few days was finally coming.

  What now? I’m stuck here.

  For a brief moment, he was terrified that the men would try to jump into the tree and climb over the gate to get to him, but he banished this thought with the simple logic that it was the ground he was on, hallowed ground, that they wanted to avoid. Otherwise, all they had to do was turn the latch on the gate, as he had, and walk right in and get him.

  The men turned their heads to one another, as if they were communicating. They were plotting how to get to him. There was a way, somehow.

  He was caught in a fit of trembling when a man in a tan coat appeared at a distance, just down the sidewalk. Father Soltera couldn’t be certain, but it looked like the man from this morning, the one who had been sitting in the church pews, who’d gotten up and walked out.

  How can that be? What’s he doing here?

  A guttural growl escaped The Faceless Men as they spun to confront this new stranger, a man with black hair that had tufts of gray around the ears. A crack of thunder exploded in front of him and Father Soltera fell backwards onto his left hip, feeling it groan but not give way on the soft grass of the church’s front lawn.

  Then? He looked up to see what had happened, and no one was there. Not The Faceless Men, nor the man in the tan jacket.

  The traffic continued humming by, back and forth, up and down the street, as he got to his feet and contemplated what to do next. He had a mile or so to go before he could make it to his own church. With his adrenaline flowing the way it was now, he could probably walk that distance in half the normal time.

  But there was no way he wanted to find out what else was waiting for him out there, further down the block or the next street over. No way in . . .

  Father Soltera pulled his cell phone out and punched up the Uber app.

  He no longer needed an excuse to figure it out.

  Hector stood in Rosa’s Bar and held his fourth shot of tequila. First night out of the joint was always the best night out of the joint, no matter how many times you went in. The world was a blurry haze of merging colors and thumping music. The crowd was light, but not sparse. Most of the chicas here were with their men, which was fine by him. Drunk or not, he was in no mood to chase tail . . . but he kinda didn’t have a choice.

  He’d figured this out when they first arrived and everyone grabbed tables and started ordering rounds. More than a few of his crew was watching him, he could sense it. His pack was loyal, but they were still wild. There was always gonna be some young buck trying to move from beta to alpha, first chance he got. Thanks to Chico, Hector knew the current odds on favorite to try was Burro, who was seated now at a corner booth with Benito and Jose. The smallest grouping in the house.

  Hector downed his shot and sneered. They were so dumb it was almost funny. Grouped together like that, so obvi
ously isolated from the rest of the crew, they’d already shown their cards. So. Burro had recruited his first pod of supporters, two strong, in Benito, who had a tendency to run the other way when fights broke out and then make excuses later, and Jose, who was already mostly mainstreamed to the real world with his job at Target and his girl on her third pregnancy.

  “What a power base,” Hector murmured.

  “Que paso?” Chico asked.

  Hector had forgotten that he was standing right next to him. “Naaaaaaada, güey.”

  The music was slurring in his ears like his speech was slurring in his voice. It was a good melt that was going on inside him. If he was still on the inside, he would be in his cell by now, lying on that hard cot, staring at those damn walls. Painted masonry bricks. He’d taken a magic marker and colored in all the pockmarks on the brick nearest his head as he lay down each night. Black dots. Like dark stars in the lonely universe of his imprisonment.

  But not anymore. Now he was out and free and feeling good.

  Still. He had a few problems that needed addressing. The first one was about not looking pussy whipped by what Marisol had done to him. Even if he didn’t want to go home with someone tonight, he had to. It was all about saving face. His bitch might’ve done him wrong, but that only meant a chance for some new bitch. Otherwise? He’d look weak. There was one flighty paisa in a red blouse at the end of the bar, rolling with some girl and her boyfriend. They were keeping mostly to themselves, but Hector caught her looking over a few times.

  Women were the most vicious animals of all, because they could scent out the leader of any pack within minutes. And they, too, wanted to conquer the alpha.

  The second problem was the table of three traitors, who wanted him to look weak tonight. They were sitting there. Watching. Waiting. Secretly rooting it in. He had to put them on check. Quickly.