The Parker Trilogy

by Tony Faggioli

  Then, he disappeared.

  Blinking away the tears in his eyes, Hector looked down. Cradled in his fingers was a small yellow and orange flower. He recognized it immediately because a talented tagger in the heart of Boyle Heights had one year spray-painted dozens of them on freeway overpasses, large and bright, loud and colorful.

  It was a marigold.

  Epilogue

  A week later, Parker’s cell phone rang. It was Maggie Kincaid, telling him that she’d had a dream of Father Soltera. In the dream he was with an elderly couple, standing in a meadow. The man with him was wearing a gray suit and had his arm around the waist of a woman who was holding, of all things, a Peanuts thermos.

  After speaking to the man for a bit, Father Soltera nodded, then walked to where Maggie was standing, next to a tree at the edge of the meadow, her bare feet being tickled by the grass. He asked her to have Parker do something for him that was very important. Never mind that Parker had never paid much attention to dreams before, or that the request was unexpected. There was a time when Parker would’ve taken a call like this and either asked Maggie if she was off her meds or drunk, but that time was long gone.

  As a detective he was also trained to hear the most important words in any person’s statement. And in this case, he only needed to hear two.

  Gray. Suit.

  So, he dutifully took notes with a pen and paper, then canceled his plans to go to the gym and instead drove to St. Francis Church in East Los Angeles, where he spoke briefly with a nice woman in the church office named Carol, telling her Maggie’s message while leaving out the part about it being told to her in a dream . . . and by an angel, no less. It didn’t matter. Strangely, Carol did not ask for any specifics.

  “That sounds just like something he would want,” she said, tearing up as she found the key to Father Soltera’s office and led Parker there.

  Once inside, he saw the home of a modest, well-read man. A loaf of bread was still on the counter in the kitchenette and a row of pill bottles were lined up on top of the microwave. “I haven’t had the strength to clean up in here yet,” Carol said, her voice drenched in sadness. Parker simply nodded. Jesus watched them from a large cross on the wall near the bookcase as they searched around until they found what Parker had come for. And then he left.

  The two-hour drive to Corcoran State Prison went by in a daydreamy sort of haze. His Spotify playlist worked its way from song to song with each passing mile, and he was relieved that the task before him had taken his mind off something that had been the center of his thoughts since he’d gotten back from Mexico. A decision. A big one. Maybe the ultimate one.

  It had finally stopped raining in Los Angeles. He’d left behind a city under sunshine, with temps in the mid-eighties. As he made his way through the central part of the state, though, the skies became hazy again. He’d never been to Corcoran State Prison before but there was no missing its ominous, lonely presence in the distance when he took Exit 14. A solitary road led to the entrance gates and a guard who checked his ID and let him in. After he parked, he grabbed the paper bag on the seat next to him that Carol had given him, feeling its contents within, and wondered how this was all going to go over. But, feeling Napoleon’s approving presence nearby, he pressed on. Regardless, it felt like a good thing, what he was doing.

  Once inside, it took thirty minutes for him to be vetted and searched by the guards, the contents of the bag checked and double-checked.

  Finally, after another thirty minutes, Hector Villarosa was led into the room.

  Their eyes met the way two acquaintances from opposite sides of the law often do: hard and suspicious at first. Parker was almost positive that Hector was remembering him in the driveway of that chop shop in the old neighborhood at the same time he was. Having been the only other time they’d met in person and having been a moment of shared passive aggressiveness, this moment now seemed awkward at best.

  Hector lifted his chin at Parker. “What up?”

  “I hope that’s not sarcasm I hear,” the guard who led him in, a large man with a black goatee, said. “We had to jump through hoops to get this visit done. Same-day, unannounced visits? They aren’t a thing. But this guy’s old station house threw enough weight his way to make it happen.”

  “Oh?” Parker said, looking at the guard.

  “Yeah. We called there to check on you. Detectives Klink, Murillo and Campos, and your captain? They all vouched for you, though they had no idea why the hell you were here.”

  “It’s good to have homies,” Hector scoffed as he sat down on a metal deck chair at the small metal table opposite Parker.

  “Yeah,” Parker replied with a smile, thinking of the comic look of exasperation Klink could get when something caught him off guard, and Murillo’s big smile. Hearing Campos’ name was a surprise, though. Back already? He must be on desk duty. Campos and his Muttley-the-dog laugh. Cool. And the cap? The cap was the cap.

  The guard gave Parker a serious look. “You got fifteen minutes, understand?”

  Parker nodded, and the guard left.

  “Well?” Hector said, almost defiantly. His prison garb made him look different than he did that day on Winston Street. Parker noticed he had a lot more tattoos than he remembered. Hector looked around nervously, then leaned in and whispered, “Did you get his ass?”

  “Yeah,” Parker replied in his own whisper. “Güero is done for.”

  Hector’s mouth curved downward and his eye brows shot up. “Daaaamnnnn.”

  Without missing a beat, Parker said, “He’s with the Feds now.”

  “How . . . No. I don’t wanna know. Just glad it worked out.”

  “Is that relief I hear in your voice?” Parker asked.

  “Yeah. He was putting a lot of heat on me in here . . . and threatening people I still care about. Funny, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The Gray Man? He’s gone now, by the way. But he told me before he left that things would work out.”

  “And?”

  “I didn’t believe him. Now I do.”

  Parker laughed, eying the bag next to him. “Yeah. Funny how that works.”

  “You said you’ve seen him, too?”

  “The Gray Man? Yeah. A few times. Including down in Mexico.”

  Hector made no reply. Instead, he just cleared his throat, as if he were waiting for Parker to continue.

  “So,” Parker said, “what I’m about to share with you, I expect that you’ll get. What you’ve seen, what I’ve seen, what we talked about on the phone and—”

  “Yeah, yeah, man. I get it.”

  “Anyway, our gray friend? He put in a request, with a friend of a friend, to have something brought to you,” Parker said, sliding the bag across the counter.

  “What’s this?” Hector said, surprise in his voice.

  “Open it.”

  Hector opened the paper bag and tilted it sideways. Out of it slid an old blue Bible. “What . . .?”

  “It used to belong to a priest who worked at St. Francis Church in your neighborhood. You ever go there?”

  Hector scoffed. “I look like the kinda guy who ever went to church, man?”

  “Yeah, well . . .” Parker sighed deeply. “The Gray Man wanted something told to you, too.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That this is his favorite book.”

  “Hmm. Okay. Great. But how’s it gonna help me in here?”

  “I dunno,” Parker said with a shrug. “I’m guessing the answers are in the book.”

  Hector furrowed his brow. “You mean, you haven’t read it either?”

  “Me?” Parker said, shaking his head. “Nah.”

  Parker watched Hector open the Bible and flip through it. The way his hands cradled around the spine and his eyes combed over the words with a glint of eagerness revealed that Hector was no stranger to books. “Man,” he whispered, “did you look in this?”

  Parker shook his head.

  “There a
re notes everywhere by this guy,” Hector continued. “At the bottom of the pages . . . between the lines . . . in the margins. Where’s this priest at? I mean, why didn’t he bring it himself?”

  “He’s dead.”

  Hector looked at Parker with surprise. “Dead?”

  “Yep. One of Güero’s bodyguards got to him.”

  A mutual moment of silence passed between them as Hector obviously tried to process that he was holding a dead man’s Bible sent by an angel. Parker was still pretty scared of The Gray Man, so truth be told, he was happy this little gift had been sent Hector’s way instead of his.

  Then, Hector suddenly looked at him funny. He blinked rapidly a few times, as if a memory had just washed over him. “You will need him, in the long run,” he murmured.

  “What?” Parker said, stunned.

  “Nothing,” Hector said softly. “Just something The Gray Man told me once.” Leaning forwards, he looked at Parker seriously. “Fine. I’ll read that book if you do.”

  Parker scoffed. “What?”

  “Yeah. Who’s to say it can’t help you, too?” He shrugged. “And besides . . . it’ll give us something to talk about when you come visit.”

  Parker was bemused. “Visit?”

  “Yeah, man,” Hector mumbled, “I got nothin’ now. No gang. And after Hymie? No family. The Gray Man’s gone. I mean, who else gonna visit me in here?”

  Maybe it was the way he said it, the words desperate, the eyes sad, the face vacant. But somehow, someway, this hardened criminal reminded Parker yet again, for the briefest second, of Waheeb, crying for help in the desert, just before he was dragged away. It was as if, surely, Hector Villarosa was at risk of being dragged away now, too. By fate. By the darkness of this place. By the other side. If he was left all alone.

  And Parker couldn’t have that. “Deal,” he said firmly, watching as Hector’s face lit with surprise, then relief, before his emotions were quickly disguised by a stiff macho chin and confident nod.

  “S’cool,” Hector said.

  “S’cool,” Parker parroted.

  Then Parker got up and left.

  He was just out of the prison doors and headed down the steps to the parking lot when he saw Napoleon waiting for him. “Good job, rookie.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You heading home now to that girl of yours?” Napoleon teased gently.

  Parker nodded. “Yep. She’s still mad at me for what I did, but she loves me.”

  “God and his miracles,” Napoleon said with a smile.

  “And she’s got me started on EMDR therapy, twice a week. And a PTSD group on Saturdays at the VA. So, I had to make those little concessions, too.”

  “So?”

  “So . . . what?”

  “What next?” Napoleon said as they began walking to Parker’s car together.

  A decision. A big one. Maybe the ultimate one. Parker thought a bit before he answered. “I’m gonna ask her to marry me, that’s what.”

  Napoleon nodded. “Smart move.”

  “Yeah. Sure. If she doesn’t laugh in my face.”

  “And after that?” Napoleon asked.

  “Maybe a nice little honeymoon in Greece or something.”

  “Yeah. Well. My money’s still on her laughing in your face, so don’t get too far ahead of yourself, champ.”

  “Nice. That’s real nice. Thanks for that. Way to boost my confidence.”

  “As if that was something that ever needed boosting. And I’m just kidding. Greece sounds nice. And what else are you thinking about?”

  Parker sighed. “Going back to the station house, I guess. Maybe talk to the cap and try and get my badge back.”

  Napoleon smiled. “Smart move number two.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You can never get past anything by running from it, Parker. I’m sure you know that by now.”

  “Yep. It’s just . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah. I know. The administrative hassle of administering to the administration and all that. Don’t let the bastards grind you down, Parker. Remember that.”

  They walked on, before Parker finally worked up the courage to ask his own question. The one that had been fumbling around in his mind for a while now. Holding his breath, he said, “What about you? What’s next for you?”

  “Me? Oh. I plan on sticking around. Maybe helping you out with a few more cases.”

  Parker exhaled with relief and grinned. “Really?”

  “Yeah. East LA is my little sector of the universe now. At least for a while. And, well, you’re in homicide, Parker. And where you find murder? You’ll always find evil.”

  They were quiet together as the sun began to set in the distance. Napoleon added, “It should be fun, rookie.”

  “Yeah,” Parker said, “for sure. But . . . are you ever going to stop calling me rookie?”

  “Nope.”

  They laughed as they got in the car and drove back to Los Angeles together.

  The sky over them was all gray.

  But not the least bit gloomy.

  Also by Tony Faggioli

  One In A Million (Book 1 of "The Fasano Trilogy”)

  A Million to One (Book 2 of "The Fasano Trilogy”)

  One Plus One (Book 3 of "The Fasano Trilogy”)

  Another One (Book 1 of The Parker Series)

  One Way or Another (Book 2 of The Parker Series)

  One Gray Day (Book 3 of The Parker Series)

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  About the Author

  TONY FAGGIOLI BEGAN WRITING stories in the 5th grade and continued doing so until college, when he gave up writing to pursue a very short career in politics and a much longer career in business. One day, he finally realized that neither brought him anywhere near the amount of joy as writing. Born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, he was raised in Los Angeles, California and graduated from the University of Southern California. He is a happily married father of two kids, two dogs and a pretty awesome goldfish.

  For more information, connect with Tony on:

  https://tonyfaggioli.com