The Parker Trilogy

by Tony Faggioli

  His phone vibrated again, but Campos ignored it this time. His face was full of focus. “Yeah. But, ya know, that’s still bothering me, Parker.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You read the report. No witnesses outside. The only ones were the customers inside, who had just experienced the entire shoot out. After it all went down, no doubt because they were rattled, their statements were inconsistent.”

  “And that’s how the story stayed.”

  “Exactly. Once word got out in the neighborhood that it was a gang related shooting? Everyone zipped up and went mute on us.”

  “So, now what?”

  “Follow the bouncing the ball, right?”

  “What?”

  “Well. I mean, shit. This case ain’t cold but it’s pretty lukewarm. Four months now, with little movement. We can try to go back at them, but odds are the witnesses will have even cloudier memories now.”

  Parked nodded. “Not to mention the fact that we went to Yi and now he’s in the morgue.”

  Campos sat back in his chair and kicked his feet on top of the desk again as he popped a Life Savers mint into his mouth. “We finally tracked down Tic Toc, and he denies being our man for Yi, too. So. Where’d he say he was the night Yi was killed?”

  “With Amy. She confirms it, but she’s more than a little biased. They both said they were at House of Pies, one of Allison’s friends is a waiter there. He confirmed their story, as did his manager. After House of Pies they met some of her school friends to see a midnight movie at the Arc Light. After this long, it’s doubtful we’ll be able to pull any security video from that night, but they were pretty exact. Latest Jack Reacher movie, 12:15 a.m showing, theater eight.”

  “Damn.”

  “Yeah. Amy’s a real stickler for detail. Said she still has the Fandango receipt on her phone and gave us the name of the three friends that joined them.”

  “Let’s assume his alibi holds.”

  “Then Tic Toc is off the hook for both killings.”

  “We’re running out of people.”

  “I know. This is bullshit.”

  Campos chuckled. “No, rookie, this is great.”

  Parker was confused. “How’s that, again?”

  “This is usually when these investigations get crazy. A bigger gang, with three hundred members or so? There’s hardly any chance we ever track down the shooter. Everyone will point to their right one day, to their left the next. So far, I’ve been happy to hear both Yi and Tic Toc confirm this was handled from within, by the Asian Soldiers.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. If they had said that La Marea had sent in the shooter? Then, shit, we’re screwed. ’Cause La Marea numbers in the thousands and could bring in a guy from out of State to do the job, then send him on his way back to North Carolina or wherever. No. We have a small circle here. We just have to tighten it.”

  “Mondo?”

  “Not for the killing, no. But I’m starting to like this Jin guy more and more.”

  “Yeah. He leaves the club. He knows the appointed time is midnight. He has plenty of time to get over there and lie in wait for Hymie to show up.”

  “We can go at him next. Last we heard he was in Bakersfield.”

  “Maybe. But if he’s the one who capped Yi too? Then he’s obviously back.”

  “Well. If he capped Hymie and Yi? He’s in for two murders now.”

  “We’ll have a hard time finding him—and when we do, he’s gonna be dangerous.”

  “Yep.”

  Campos had put back on his training cap. “So . . . let’s hear it. What do you think we should do next?”

  Parker thought about it. A few phones were ringing around them. The next shift had come on duty and Parker saw one of them, Detective Miles, take a call and immediately roll his eyes. A janitor was working his way down the aisles between the desks, mopping back and forth in rehearsed movements, his mop wet enough to slop water along the baseboards, the wetness flat and stark against the subdued lights overhead.

  There were a lot of textbook answers to give to Campos’ question, but Parker defaulted to his first training days with Napoleon, who had told him to always go with his gut. And right now? His gut was only saying one thing.

  “I want to talk with this Toolie girl.”

  Campos seemed genuinely surprised. “Go on.”

  “Hymie was in love with her. He told her shit. She was involved. She obviously told someone in the gang about Hymie’s offer to slide info their way as to where the Fresno Street Vatos hid their drugs. Who knows who. But more importantly, what she knows, if anything, will be easier to get at. She’s not as likely to lawyer up on us if we can track her down. We only got one person fingering Jin for Eric Yi’s death right now, but if Toolie corroborates what Tic Toc is saying about Hymie’s death? We got two people, each fingering him for one of the murders.”

  “Okay. That makes sense. We make a run at Toolie next.”

  Parker stretched and shrugged his shoulders against his neck muscles, which had tightened up. It had been a long-ass day.

  “I’m impressed, Parker,” Campos said as he stood up. “Ya know, you’ve almost made up for coming to work dressed like an ’80s singer today.”

  Parker laughed. “Screw off, man.”

  “Time to call it a day. We’ll go after Toolie tomorrow.”

  “Who’s your date?” Parker asked with a smirk.

  “What?”

  “Is this an old booty call or a new one?”

  “How’d you guess?” Campos asked.

  “C’mon man. A few text messages, a little sly peak at the map of Valley Village before you shut down the computer, a handful of mints . . .”

  “Damn, Parker,” Campos said with a big grin. “If I didn’t know any better? I’d say you were a detective.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  When their Uber was pulling down the street that Eden Hill Women’s Shelter was on, Father Soltera saw The Faceless Men immediately. There, in the distance, they stood just outside the shelter, one on the curb with his hands in his pockets, the other leaning against the wall.

  As if sensing him or Luisa, both their heads turned to look at the car.

  “Keep driving,” Father Soltera said.

  “What?” the Uber driver, an Indian man in his forties, replied with confusion as he looked at the GPS display on his iPhone. “But it’s right up—”

  “I know where it’s at!” Father Soltera snapped. “Please. Just circle the block for a moment.”

  The driver was unhappy with this notion and his face showed it plainly.

  “I’ll tip you for it. Don’t worry.”

  With this, the driver complied.

  As they passed by the shelter, the heads of The Faceless Men tracked them. There was no doubt now. They knew they were in the car.

  “Father?” Luisa said, sounding confused. “What is it?”

  Without thinking, Father Soltera replied, “Do you see them?”

  Luisa leaned forwards to look out the window. “See who?”

  She can’t see them.

  One of The Faceless Men began to move down the sidewalk in long, even strides, as if he were a long jumper in the Olympics and—

  He leapt into the air and affixed himself, like a ghost, to the car. Father Soltera jumped back, almost knocking Luisa into the passenger window.

  “Hey!” she squealed.

  Father Soltera could barely hear her. Instead, he was watching in horror as The Faceless Man peered through the window at them. It didn’t matter that he didn’t have eyes, Father Soltera could tell beyond a shadow of a doubt that he could see, because once he craned his head to the side and Luisa was visible, he began to twitch excitedly and a screeching sound erupted from him.

  Alarm. He’s sounding the alarm. To the other one.

  They turned first one corner and then a second as the driver made his way around the block, glancing worriedly at Father Soltera in his rearview mirror more than
once.

  “Father, are you okay? You’re very pale,” Luisa said.

  You need to be strong for her. “Y-y-yes, Luisa. I’m fine. I’m sorry,” he answered, forcing himself with great effort to look away from The Faceless Men. “Just nerves.”

  The second Faceless Man was hovering in the back window now. He swung around to Luisa’s side. In seeing her, a rip formed in his face and a long, black tongue shot out and began to stab at the window, trying to break through.

  To stab her . . .

  It was when they turned the final corner that Father Soltera heard Napoleon Villa’s voice in his head.

  Have him drop you off right up here.

  “What? Why not in front of the shelter, why halfway down the block?”

  Because. They’re not alone and their strength is still concentrated around the entrance. Now, do as I say, Father! Napoleon barked. This is gonna be hard enough to pull off without everyone flapping their necks!

  Complying, Father Soltera tossed a twenty into the front seat and gave his own bark: “Pull over. Here.”

  The driver, obviously as wigged out by his behavior as Luisa was, complied immediately, almost hitting the curb in the process.

  Get out and start moving towards the shelter.

  When he opened the door, he noticed that The Faceless Men had both peeled off the car and were now hovering overhead. Grabbing Luisa’s small hand, Father Soltera helped her out. Glancing around, he saw Napoleon standing behind a nearby bush, his face barely visible but looking dead serious. He nodded at Father Soltera, then towards the shelter as if to say, “Get moving.”

  “Father? What’s going on? Are we still going—” Luisa tried to ask.

  “Yes,” Father Soltera said firmly, before practically yanking her down the sidewalk, his adrenaline sky high.

  “Father!” she yelled, pulling on his arm. “You’re scaring me.”

  The Faceless Men hovered down to the sidewalk between them, Napoleon and the shelter.

  You have no idea, Father Soltera thought, before it hit him. You have to lie to her, to get her to start moving. You have no choice. There’s no time to try and explain this.

  “Luisa. I saw Felix. Behind a car. When we first pulled up. I think he had a gun.”

  Her eyes widened but she was still pulling in the opposite direction.

  “Child, please!” Father Soltera shouted. Looking out the corner of his eye he could see The Faceless Men approaching, closing the gap between them, the second one’s tongue also out now and darting back and forth from one cheek to the other.

  “Maybe I can talk to—”

  Father Soltera saw it when it happened, the horrible instance when, due to a lie, Luisa finally realized a truth; Felix was going to hurt her and her baby. Someday. In some way. He just was. If she let him. Her eyes flashed with resolution and she quit pulling in the opposite direction.

  But now what? Father Soltera couldn’t walk her right into them and—

  When Napoleon Villa stepped out from behind the bush, The Faceless Men, evidently unaware of his presence until then, reacted with surprise. They backpedaled a bit, but this time, unlike in front of the neighborhood church on his walk home from Luisa’s apartment the other night, they did not blink away. Instead, they seemed to vibrate with frustration and turned to face him.

  The world went still and Father Soltera gasped. The traffic light in the distance was frozen on yellow and the cars in the intersection did not move. A homeless man in the distance was locked in an endless push of his shopping cart, one leg up in the effort, his head down, a cardboard box that was about to fall off the edge now suspended in mid-air.

  But Napoleon Villa was not frozen; he was marching with purposeful intent, right towards The Faceless Men, a tan light glowing in his hands. The Faceless Men charged him and the light suddenly condensed into rings around each of Napoleon’s fingers.

  What was it that Napoleon had told him in the courtyard? “I was always street. Old school.”

  And he was, as evidenced by the brass knuckles of crackling energy now on his hands that were so powerful they warmed the frigid air of the night.

  He plowed into The Faceless Men, striking one in the head and grabbing the other by the ankle as he tried to hover, up and away. Instead, Napoleon whipped him violently down to the ground, the sidewalk splitting beneath the force. Black ooze gushed from his side and he convulsed in pain. The first creature stepped backwards, his tongue flashing out, many feet long now and covered in barbs. He struck Napoleon in the arm and he yelped, but instead of retreating, he ducked and punched The Faceless Man on the ground in the head, caving in its brains.

  One-on-one now, it appeared that Napoleon saw their chance. Glancing quickly at Father Soltera he screamed, Get moving! Now!

  Evidently seeing the alarm in Father Soltera’s face, but unable to properly understand it, Luisa said, “Do you see Felix again, Father?”

  “W-what? Uh. Yes. Maybe. We need to get moving.”

  They made their way swiftly down the sidewalk.

  A sound came from The Faceless Man, a sort of mournful screech, before Napoleon moved back on the offensive and attacked him, striking him twice in the chest as they grappled sideways into a car and then span in the opposite direction before Napoleon slammed him into a telephone pole.

  Father Soltera began to run up the sidewalk, as best his old legs could. Somehow he knew the shelter was protected ground too. He didn’t know how he knew that, but he did. There was just one problem.

  The air. It was vibrating. With an energy of a different kind. A real-world energy that even Luisa could sense.

  “Father? What is that?”

  He knew that sound. From his seminary trip to Morocco, just before finishing his studies. Sometimes humming, sometimes buzzing across the sands, mysterious and foreboding. So thick across the sky that they could darken the landscape.

  Locusts. My God! They’re locusts! How can that be? We’re in Los Angeles, we’re—

  There was no time to answer Luisa because they were close, so close. He yanked Luisa down the sidewalk as fluttering wings descended upon them from the night sky.

  “Father!” Luisa screamed, but he had an arm around her now, and between his own fear and mounting desperation, he felt twenty years younger, closing the gap to the shelter quickly as the locusts flooded down all around them. Digging. Trying to burrow into them as if they were two stalks of wheat.

  Luisa screamed as he pulled her up the cement path to a small set of stairs that led to the entrance. It was a nondescript building at the corner of Fourth and Boylston with beige stucco that was cracked and peeling in places. During the day the white ledges of the windows looked dirty, but now they almost glowed as the rain-glazed street reflected the overhead streetlights in all directions.

  He pushed frantically on the call button until they were buzzed into the mint-green lobby. Once inside, he slammed the door behind them and struggled to catch his breath.

  Nearby, a coffee table that had seen better days sat in front of four green cloth chairs, one of which he was sorely tempted to go over and collapse into. Opposite the chairs was a large, thick glass security window with a metal circle to speak through.

  There was a new woman at the counter, stunningly pretty, with blond hair and coffee-colored eyes, looking a bit bewildered. “My God, are you guys okay? Can I help you?”

  A few locusts had gotten stuck in Luisa’s hair and had flown into the room. She swatted at them as Father Soltera replied, “Yes. I’m with St. Francis Church and I’ve brought someone who needs help.”

  “Sure, but . . .” She nodded as she glanced at the entrance door, evidently to make sure that it had shut securely.

  “Locusts,” Father Soltera said matter-of-factly, too tired to say much more.

  “In LA?” the woman replied.

  “That was crazy,” Luisa said, her face still pale.

  “Maybe the storm brought them in from the desert or something?” the woman
asked.

  Father Soltera shrugged. He jumped when he heard a horrid shriek outside that he knew was the final cry of the other Faceless Man.

  The woman motioned them through a second security door and smiled at them warmly. “Okay. Well. That was a trip! Anyway.”

  Father Soltera managed to compose himself and stick out his hand. “Hello. My name is Father Soltera and this is Luisa.”

  “Hi,” she replied. “My name is Maggie. Maggie Kincaid.”

  The rain, upon its return, harder now and with a cold chill, had chased Hector from the rooftop back down into his room. He didn’t want to go there. It was dark and quiet, like it was each night in prison. Perfect conditions for The Smiling Midget to make an appearance.

  But tonight, most likely because of Hector’s Fahrenheit reading, he did not.

  Hector lay on his bed and listened to the rain falling outside, its patterns sounding weirdly like some sort of water-filled guitar solo. The sound on the branches of the tree out front, the awning overhead and the window pane each like separate chords in a very lonely song. It reminded him of a line from the book: I’m still crazy. The rain feels good. I love to walk in it.

  Sometimes your thoughts are the only things that can keep you company; so even though he knew better, he still thought of Marisol on the day that he met her, at a garage party one year at the end of summer break, and the image of her that came to mind caused pain on so many levels that it made him catch his breath.

  He noticed her, shorty that she was, all the way across the back yard, deliberately dressed mock-gangster, her butt perfect in a pair of tan Dickies rolled at the bottoms over blue Pumas. The white cotton tank top she was wearing was tight fitting, accenting the curves of her chest, the tan straps of her bra teasingly peeking out. The outfit was meant for fun, but the night was warm and her forehead had the slightest glint of perspiration when he walked up to her.

  “Hey,” he said with a nod.

  “Hey,” she replied, taking a quick sip of her beer, which was in a big red cup.

  Then, well, he got stuck. He didn’t mean to, of course, but her eyes were like sprung traps, dark and piercing. Around them her eyeliner was cut in sharp curves within smoky eyeshadow, beneath full and shaped eyebrows. Her nose was long but not large and led perfectly to full lips, painted a gaudy red, in stark contrast to the soft red of the blush she was wearing, or that he was causing.