It was the clothes, of course.
Raul didn’t care. He was proud to be a Dallas Police Explorer, the youth program for those interested in a career in law enforcement. The uniform—dark pants, a light-blue shirt with a gold badge embroidered on the breast—provided him with a sense of pride and purpose.
Law and order. That was what this country needed. Not that Chicano revolutionary babble he used to be so into. What an idiot he’d been, listening to those people who came around after his brother died, the ones who wanted him to be the poster child for a new revolt against the white man.
He exited the church and stood on the curb on Pearl Street, waiting.
Better to work within the system. Better and safer.
Bobby arrived a few moments later, driving an unmarked Chevy bristling with antennas.
Raul hopped in the passenger seat and grabbed the microphone from its holder on the dash.
Bobby’s strawberry-blond hair was thinning and going gray. The bags under his eyes, on the other hand, had grown thick and dark. But he still had a kind expression on his face, and it pained Raul to realize that the man who had been like a father to him was growing old.
Bobby pulled away from the curb.
Raul asked if he could call dispatch to tell them they were out of service.
Bobby smiled and nodded. Then he sped up as Raul held the mic to his mouth and gave the unit number of the squad car.
A few minutes later they were on Stemmons Freeway, speeding past the Hyatt Regency tower, where Bobby and Junie had taken Raul for dinner on his sixteenth birthday.
They headed toward Bobby’s home, a ranch in Ellis County, just south of Dallas.
The place had seventy-five acres, maybe a dozen head of cattle. It was split by a creek, the terrain flat like Kansas. The only trees were the cottonwoods that lined the water.
Twenty minutes later, the Chevy pulled through an open gate and then down a caliche road that led to a wooden farmhouse built in the 1890s.
The grass covering the pastures was the color of sand, the result of the current drought, but the lawn surrounding the house was green and lush. Between the lawn and home lay a flower bed filled with roses and petunias.
Bobby parked in the garage next to a battered Ford pickup.
He and Raul got out and entered the home through the back door.
The air smelled like old wood and fried chicken. Comforting, safe.
Raul always felt good when he stepped into Bobby’s house.
Junie was in the kitchen, cooking lunch.
Chicken and mashed potatoes. Green beans with sliced onion and a ham hock simmering on the stove.
Bobby kissed her forehead and poured three glasses of iced tea.
Raul said hello. Then he performed his chore: setting the table, the silverware and napkins placed on the oilskin tablecloth just like Junie had showed him.
Since his mother died, he’d been more or less living with Bobby. His abuela, Maria, had legal custody but she was old, well into her seventies, and did not object when Raul stayed away for days at a time.
Junie was fourteen. She had reddish-blond hair and legs that seemed to go on forever, at least when she was in those cutoff jeans.
Raul tried not to stare at Junie’s legs or the swell of her breasts underneath the T-shirts she wore in the summer.
Raul missed his brother. He wished he could visit with him, explain what he was thinking and feeling. Raul and Bobby were close, but there were certain things he just couldn’t talk about with the older man, especially when it concerned Bobby’s daughter.
Junie fussed over the food. She was unusually quiet. Bobby and Raul looked at each other and shrugged. She was changing as well, becoming moody at times, stubbornly independent at others.
After a moment she turned to Raul and said, “Add another place at the table, will you?”
Bobby arched an eyebrow. “Who’s coming for lunch besides the three of us?”
His daughter didn’t answer, intent on maneuvering a plate of chicken out of the oven or maybe avoiding the question—Raul couldn’t be sure.
“Hey, Junie.” Bobby’s tone was insistent, forceful. “Answer me.”
Raul paused, a knife and fork in his hand—the extra place setting. The atmosphere in the kitchen was tense.
Junie turned around. A lock of hair dangled in front of her eyes, making her look older and more beguiling than her years.
“Wayne’s coming to lunch, Daddy.” Her voice was soft.
A sharp intake of breath from Bobby.
Wayne was eighteen, a dropout from a little town near the ranch.
Junie attended a private school in Dallas on a scholarship. But she lived here, in rural Ellis County, a world that was only a few miles from the big city but light-years different when it came to the types of people one encountered. Even at Raul’s age, he understood the difference those few miles made.
Raul had met Wayne. He detested him, as did Bobby. Wayne had cruel eyes and an expression on his face like he enjoyed other people’s misfortune, like there was humor to be found in someone else’s pain.
Wayne wore his hair long in the back, short on the sides, and dressed in skintight Wrangler jeans and plaid shirts with the sleeves ripped off.
Bobby called him a punk, repeatedly pointed out to Junie that he’d been in and out of trouble with the law since he was thirteen.
For some reason, this seemed to make Junie want to be around Wayne all the more.
Raul heard the name and felt a little bit of his soul crush.
Junie was so pretty, so kind. Why would she want to hang around with somebody like Wayne?
Junie said, “He’s just a friend, Daddy. That’s all.”
Bobby nodded once, his eyes cold and hard, like when he had to arrest somebody. He looked at Raul and said, “Set another place. Looks like Wayne’s gonna be joining us for lunch.”
Raul did as asked, wishing with all his might that Wayne would just go away and die.
- CHAPTER FOURTEEN -
At the Iris Apartments, leaving Tremont’s unit, I was halfway down the stairs of Building Six when I heard the screams.
First floor. The breezeway. A woman’s voice, terrified.
The smart thing to do would be to keep going, head straight to the Lincoln and leave.
But I didn’t do the smart thing; I rarely do.
At the foot of the stairs, I stopped. Turned. Looked down the row of ground-floor units.
Two men in baggy shorts and T-shirts stood over a crumpled figure.
A woman in a black dress, crying, hair mussed.
Sawyer. Lysol Alvarez’s girlfriend.
Crap. Why did I look?
The larger of the pair, an overweight guy who looked like Fat Albert from the old Bill Cosby cartoon, smacked her face.
“Where’s the rest of the money, ho?”
Sawyer whimpered.
“We gonna take that Mercedes, then,” Fat Albert said. “Plus, you owe for the last eight-ball.”
“Noo!” She held up one hand, pleading.
Fat Albert grabbed her fingers, bent them backward, an awkward, painful angle that would break bones if it went much further.
Sawyer screamed again.
The smaller thug laughed.
I stepped into the breezeway.
“Let her go.”
Fat Albert and his crony, Little Albert, looked up. Sawyer yanked her hand free.
“Move away from the woman.” I used my best cop voice. “Place your hands on top of your head.”
I headed toward the three individuals, walking with as much swagger as possible.
“Who the hell are you?” Fat Albert put his hands on his hips.
“DEA.” I held up my badge.
Little Albert pulled a gun from his waistband.
“Bitch owes me two large,” Fat Albert said. “You gonna cover that, mister DEA agent?”
“Put the gun down and let her go.” I stopped about ten feet away.
“You ain’t the five-oh,” Little Albert said. “Where’s your piece? And your backup?”
Fat Albert lumbered toward me, fists clenched.
When he got close enough to touch, I said, “I have the money she owes. You don’t have to hurt her.”
Fat Albert stood between me and his partner, blocking Little Albert’s shot. He said, “Let me see the cash.”
I reached for my pocket with one hand and popped him in the eye with the other, using the tips of my fingers. Nothing takes the fight out of a man quite like getting hit dead center in the pupil.
Fat Albert screamed, pressed his hands to his face.
Little Albert tried to peer around his partner’s bulk to see what had happened while not getting too far away from Sawyer.
I kicked Fat Albert in the groin.
He screamed again and fell to the ground, landing on his side, his back to Little Albert. His shirt rode up, displaying a handgun wedged in the waistband.
I dropped to my knees and reached for the weapon.
Little Albert was holding a mouse gun, probably a .22 or .25 caliber. He gulped, trying to comprehend how things had gone downhill so fast.
Then he fired. And missed.
The bullet hit his partner in the buttocks.
Fat Albert was having a sucky day. I almost felt sorry for him. First his eye, then his nuts. Now he’d been shot in the ass.
Little Albert tried to fire again but the gun jammed.
I grabbed Fat Albert’s piece, an off-brand semiauto nine-millimeter. I racked the slide back to check the chamber.
The gun was empty.
I dropped the weapon, jumped up and charged. Head down, arms out. Tackled Little Albert.
He dropped his gun and tried to fight, but I elbowed his ear twice, rendering him immobile for the next few moments.
After a second to catch my breath, I stood, tried to keep my knees from shaking.
“Are you okay?” I looked down at Sawyer.
She was hyperventilating, arms crossed, face pale.
From the parking lot came the sound of people yelling. From Hampton Road, the blare of sirens.
“We gotta get out of here.” I pulled her up.
“You don’t understand.” She pointed to the nearest unit. “I need to go in there.”
Little Albert groaned. The sirens grew louder.
“We are in the hot zone,” I said. “We really nee—”
She opened the door and dashed inside.
At the far end of the breezeway, maybe fifty yards away, three police officers rounded the corner.
No choices left. I dashed in the unit after Sawyer, slammed the door shut. Hoped the cops didn’t see me.
The apartment was a drop house. The living room was empty except for a duffel bag full of foil pouches, a boom box, and a couple of video games.
Sawyer was on the floor, rooting through the duffel.
I grabbed her arm, shoved her toward the back. She reluctantly let herself be guided away from the living room, a handful of foil pouches clutched in her fingers.
“Lysol told you no coke, remember?” I opened the bathroom door, dragged her inside with me. There was a window over the tub that led to the parking lot.
“Please don’t tell Lysol what Sawyer did.” She shut the door. Slid her arm around my waist. Drew us close. “Please.”
Her breasts pressed against my chest, our faces inches apart.
“Sawyer will make it worth your while.” She licked her lips. “She promises.”
“Will Sawyer quit talking in the third person?”
“Huh?” She frowned. “Look, just don’t tell Lysol where you found me.”
I started to answer but the bathroom door burst open, and a uniformed officer aimed a pistol at my face.
“Don’t move,” he said. “Police.”
“Shit.” Sawyer slumped against the wall.
“Put your hands on your head,” the cop said. “Both of you.”
I did as requested.
Sawyer said, “I want my lawyer.”
- CHAPTER FIFTEEN -
Mason Burnett was running late.
He hated to be off schedule, but with the implementation of the chief’s new anti-crime initiative and his other activities, he had no choice. Plus, he’d had to spend a lot of time filling out forms about what had happened to the gangbanger at the boardinghouse in Oak Cliff.
Mason hated paperwork. But since the pantywaist Delgado had been there, he figured he’d better make sure his version of events was crystal clear.
He found a spot in the parking garage large enough for his Suburban. The nearby cars were expensive, Mercedes and Cadillacs and BMWs.
All the wealth the city had to offer seemed to be concentrated into this small area, a five- or six-block complex of office buildings and stores known as Preston Center.
He jogged across the street, caught the elevator just in time, and walked into the nondescript set of rooms, only seven minutes late for his appointment.
The woman with the sensible shoes was waiting in the reception area. She smiled at him.
“Sorry I’m late,” Mason said.
“You ready to begin?” She pointed to an inner office.
Mason nodded and followed her into a frilly sitting area, four white leather chairs around a coffee table. Two bottles of water rested on the table.
They sat in silence for a few moments. Mason opened a water, took a sip.
“How was your day?” She tapped a pencil on her knee.
Mason took several deep breaths, tried to compose himself.
The woman’s name was Corinne. She was a therapist under contract with the city of Dallas, among other law-enforcement agencies. She specialized in couples counseling as well as treating first responders for stress-related maladies.
Mason had been seeing her for six weeks.
Ever since the incident with the prostitute in the platinum wig.
“My day.” He put the water down. “It was fine. I had a good day.”
“Everything okay at work?”
More silence.
The woman with the platinum wig had been working a corner on Fort Worth Avenue, south of downtown. Mason’s people had been taking down a drug house a few blocks away. He had stopped at the curb to make a call when she’d approached him while he was still in his vehicle, offering him a date he’d never forget—round the world for only forty bucks.
Corinne cleared her throat, brought him back to the present.
“Work is fine,” Mason said.
“Good.” She nodded.
Mason looked around the room but didn’t say anything.
“You can talk about whatever you like.”
Mason nodded. Wondered what he should bring up today.
More silence. Then:
“You ever notice how brown this damn city is?” Mason asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Dallas used to just be coloreds and whites.” He paused. “Sorry, I mean African Americans and their white oppressors.”
Corinne stared at him like he’d taken a shit in the middle of her coffee table. Damn bleeding-heart bull dyke.
He continued. “Now half the billboards in town are in Spanish, and you can’t hardly turn on the TV without seeing some Mexican soap opera full of big-titted sluts named Maria or Consuela.”
Corinne scribbled furiously on her pad.
“We’re confidential here, right?” Mason smiled.
S
he looked up and nodded, clearly trying not to curl her lips into a sneer.
“Not that I mind big tits.” Mason winked. “You like a nice rack, too, dontcha, Corinne?”
She put her pen down. “What I like or don’t like is not why we’re here. Let’s talk about you. Or your job, which is what brought you to me in the first place.”
“Everything’s great at work.” Mason crossed his legs. “Except for the fact that the chief has me boxed in like a cow on the way to slaughter.”
Corinne started scribbling again. “What exactly do you mean?”
Mason explained briefly: the new SWAT team program foisted on him by the chief in response to the spike in crime. He neglected to mention the gangbanger and the window.
Corinne interjected occasionally but for the most part let him vent.
While he talked, Mason envisioned the prostitute with the platinum wig. The way she stood, the color of her hair, the halter top that barely contained her breasts. All of it reminded him of his stepmother.
“What the chief did.” Corinne tapped the pencil on her pad. “How does that make you feel?”
Mason chewed on his bottom lip for a moment, thinking.
“Fucked,” he said. “Is that a feeling?”
Corinne got a thoughtful look on her face. Then she nodded.
The hooker had nearly died, right there on the sidewalk by his official DPD vehicle, a few hundred feet from the drug house.
Mason hadn’t meant to strangle her, but the memories she stirred in him had been intense, a blinding spell of anger that he hadn’t known existed.
One of his men had stopped him.
When it was over, he’d looked at the bruises on her neck, amazed that he’d caused such damage. The entire experience had been like a different person inhabiting his body.
Because he was Captain Mason Burnett, a twenty-five-year decorated veteran of the Dallas Police Department, a man feared by rank and file as well as the command structure, Internal Affairs had recommended counseling.
“How are the dreams?” Corinne asked.
“They’re fine,” Mason lied.
“You’re sleeping okay?”
He nodded.
His father haunted his slumber. An angry, bitter man, full of whiskey and rage. Blue-collar and proud of it. No explanation why he married a woman who wanted more out of life than Hee Haw reruns and Sunday dinners at Luby’s.
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