by John Lansing
“Roger that,” Sean said. “Can’t piss off the gravy train.”
Terrence’s voice changed as the electronic bell over the door chimed and the men knew someone had entered the store.
“Later, Susan Blake’s man just stepped in. Gotta run,” and Terrence hung up.
* * *
Jack walked into the Dirk Brothers Clothing Store looking worse for the wear. His back was blazing, his eyes were burning, but he wanted to take care of personal business before heading home.
“Jack, wow, you look worse than I feel,” Terrance said, all smiles.
“Thanks, I needed that.”
“You made the news. Is our girl okay?”
Jack didn’t like the tone of the question and the familiarity it implied, but he chalked it up to his own fatigue.
“Susan’s fine. Just a scare. Seems to go with the territory.”
“The painting looked terrific on your wall. I hope it was okay. I’m not keen on surprises myself. But Susan . . . is very willful, and you have to admit, she has great taste.”
“That’s why I’m here.” Jack pulled out his credit card and handed it to Terrence. “I’d like you to credit her card, and put the charges on mine.”
“I understand. I’ll take care of it right away.”
Terrence slipped behind the register while Jack looked at the pictures that adorned the wall behind him. Terrence had already mounted a framed picture of him with Susan at the art opening, some actors he recognized, and what appeared to be a family portrait. Terrence and his two younger brothers in their teens. They looked like hell on wheels.
“Good-looking crew,” Jack commented, with a cop’s instinct to dig for more.
“Couldn’t run the business without them.” Terrence abruptly changed the subject: “In the market for a suit? I liked the Hugo Boss jacket you wore over your jeans, it’s a good casual look on you, but you might want something more upscale, forward-thinking.”
Jack laughed, too tired to take offense. “No, I’m good. But I’ll keep it in mind.”
Terrence hoped he’d just move on and vacate the premises. The last thing he needed was an ex-cop snooping around. “I spent the night doing inventory. The new fall line is coming in next week.”
“No help from your brothers?”
“They’re up north on a buying trip.”
“So that’s why you look as bad as I feel.”
“What?” said Terrence with a spark of anger.
“The inventory.”
“Oh, right,” he said, covering lightning fast. A move not lost on Jack. “Dead on my feet.”
Jack checked his credit card receipt, signed on the dotted line, and accepted his card back. Fifteen thousand, even. Terrence led the way to the door. “You just bought your first major piece of art, Jack. Enjoy it.”
“Thanks,” he said, surprised he felt no buyer’s remorse.
“Totally my pleasure.” Terrence closed the door so quickly, Jack felt he’d just gotten the bum’s rush.
A strange duck, Jack thought as he walked up Main Street and headed for the Mustang. At least he’d taken care of the issue of the painting. Until the end of the month, when the credit card bill arrived.
Fifteen
Jack spent twenty minutes in a scalding shower, trying to cleanse himself of the past twenty-four hours. He was unhappy about the emotional tug-of-war with Susan and regretted their sexual involvement. He had never crossed that line when he was on the force, and now it had complicated his life in ways he couldn’t readily articulate. The Vicodin had kicked in but offered little relief. He chased it with a couple more Excedrin and sat down at the computer with wet hair and a snarky attitude.
Four long days had passed since little Marie Sanchez was gunned down, and he was making little to no progress on the case. He had a list of people who wanted Vegas dead, shell casings found at a distance that proved the shooter was a sniper and changed the killer’s profile, but not much else.
The four phones in the loft rang as one. Jack picked up the receiver and hoped he wouldn’t live to regret extending an olive branch to his ex-wife.
“Jeannine,” he said.
“You sound tired, Jack.”
“It was a long night. What can I help you with?”
“Oh, do I sound that needy?”
“A figure of speech, you sound fine.”
“Well, thank you.”
Jack waited for Jeannine to get to the reason for the call.
“It’s so quiet here. In the house.”
Not what Jack was expecting.
“At first I thought, what a relief, to have that pompous ass out of my hair,” she went on. “And now it’s just quiet.”
“No call from Jeremy?”
“No, nothing.”
Jack was a little confused. “Let me get this straight. You did throw him out?”
“He didn’t fight to stay, Jack. At least you fought for your family. I think he was relieved. I think he was looking for an out.”
“Doesn’t sound like Jeremy to me. I don’t think he can survive without having someone to listen to his worldly views.” Jack said “worldly views” like the put-down it was meant to be. But he knew taking sides in a breakup was a fool’s game. Because when they got back together, Jeannine would use his own words to nail him.
“You’re so bad, Jack Bertolino.”
Now Jack was totally confused. She made it sound like bad was good. Jeannine hadn’t used that coquettish tone of voice in recent memory. Jack was avoiding those complications like an IED.
“So, I was thinking . . .”
“Yeah?”
“There’s nothing keeping me here, so I was thinking about taking a road trip. Like you did, Jack.”
“That sounds like a plan. Where to?”
“I was thinking California. I’ll rent a car and drive up the Pacific Coast Highway. You’ve been so kind the past few days, would you mind terribly if I spent a few nights at your loft? To save the expense of a hotel. I wouldn’t be a bother.”
Jack understood that there was no correct answer to be had.
“I don’t know,” he said, scrambling for excuses. “I’m working two cases simultaneously, and the loft is also my office.”
“You won’t even know I’m there.”
Jack’s next pause verged on toxic. “All right, Jeannine. Let’s see how it plays out. But if I’m up to my neck in alligators, well, we’ll have to work something out.”
“I’m pleased, Jack.” He nearly groaned at the note of triumph in her voice. “I know you’re busy, so I’ll let you get back to it.” And she hung up.
Jack walked over to the sink and popped a second Vicodin. Was his memory going bad, or was she the one who had demanded that he move out, out, out of his own house?
* * *
The waning sun loomed over the Pacific, and then dipped below the horizon sending shards of orange capping the midnight-blue waves that pounded the rocky shoreline.
Toby and Sean sat cliffside, legs dangling a hundred feet above the water, smoking a fatty, and watched as the churning waves pulled $350,000 worth of high-end marijuana out to sea. Toby took a long drag off the joint, grabbed the bottle of Dom Pérignon Sean was bogarting, and tipped some into his mouth, spilling more down his chin. He handed it back to his brother and got up to dispatch the last bale of pot. They had seven thirty reservations at Post Ranch Inn and he had worked up an appetite.
Toby ducked into the back of the van, checked to make sure he was alone, and pulled three five-pound waterproof parcels out of the green plastic-wrapped bale. He opened one of the custom-built side panels in the rear of the van and secreted the drugs. He’d heard Terrence’s warning, but he had plans that didn’t include his brothers. He’d take the fall, if necessary, but he didn’t feel like he was standing on
a precipice. Just being careful. Thinking three moves ahead, like his older brother had tutored.
Toby dropped the bale next to Sean and in a sleight of hand cut the wrapping off the bale before his brother could see the weight differential.
Sean looked over at Toby and passed him the joint. “You okay?”
Toby raised his eyebrows in a question and exhaled a thick cloud of blue smoke.
Sean said, “You look . . .”
“We should’ve taken the dog,” Toby announced.
“Huh. That’s what’s got a hold of you?”
“Why?” he said with more attitude than intended.
Sean took a long pull of the Dom Pérignon. “You’ve killed a lot of men in the past few days.”
If you only knew, Toby thought.
“It was a blood bath out in the water,” Sean went on.
“You protect blood with blood,” Toby said. “The dog didn’t do shit to us.” And then, “Why? It’s fucking with you?”
“It’ll pass,” Sean said.
Toby knew that fact to be true.
“Besides, Ricky J was on me,” Sean said. “I should’ve pulled the trigger.”
“It was a good play. The only play. No worries, bro.”
Toby and Sean got back to work. They knifed the last of the keys and scattered the drugs over the cliff’s edge like ashes of the dead, where they were sucked into the rough sea below.
* * *
Kolinsky’s Funeral Home was a twenties Victorian, white clapboards and subtle blue trim. The lawn was so green it looked like AstroTurf. To add to the charm, the cloying smell turned Jack’s stomach as he entered the vestibule with Cruz at his side.
“How many more days do you want me to track her?” Cruz asked.
“Until we get some answers. And it’ll give me time to knock on doors. Are you holding your own there?”
“Oh yeah. Caterer’s great, Susan’s easy on the eyes, and one of the makeup girls seems to be interested in moi.”
Jack smiled. Cruz never had to worry in that department. “Don’t forget you’re on the job. Stay focused.”
“No worries. Hey, BTW, Susan sure spends a ton of money. I mean, she’s rich. So, she’s got it to spend, but spend she does. Wait till you check out her bank statements.”
Jack was wearing a black blazer and black jeans; Cruz, a black T-shirt and jeans. Jack looked like a cop, and Cruz, a neighborhood friend of the deceased.
They staggered their entrance, walking separately into viewing room B in the middle of the service. The neighborhood priest was straining to relate the positive history of the dearly departed. The wails emanating from the deceased’s mother could’ve curdled milk.
It was an open casket, and Tomas Vegas, dressed in a green sharkskin jacket and lounge lizard shirt, looked younger than his years, waxy, and, well, dead. He was overly made up, too much red in the lips, Jack thought. He would’ve been pissed off.
Cruz was clearly uncomfortable with the proceedings, but moved to the far side of the room within listening distance of a group of young gangsters.
Jack, who had experienced far too many of these events, was all business as he eyeballed the room from the rear.
Heavenly viewing room B was filled with an equal number of cops, gangbangers, and relatives. The young bangers, members of Vegas’s set, Lenox Road, who Jack had tussled with at Juan Sanchez’s court appearance, stood in a tight knot giving Jack the stink eye. Jack looked through them as if they were invisible, adding insult to their bruised egos.
A few members of SM18 and Culver City 12’s had showed, keeping an eye on the proceedings, but Heavenly viewing room was Switzerland, for one night only.
Gallina and Tompkins stood in the back of the room, trying to blend in and failing. Gallina scowled when he saw Jack step inside. Tompkins, who was eating a cookie he’d grabbed from the tray in the vestibule, gave him a welcoming nod as he wiped crumbs off his mouth.
The priest, who finished his service with the Lord’s Prayer, invited the friends and family of Tomas Vegas to pay their respects to the dearly departed. The procession started calmly enough with some kids running up to the casket to see their first dead body.
Yet the proceedings quickly turned into a Spanish telenovela. Tomas’s grandmother, a slight woman shrouded in black lace, stumbled down the aisle, weeping, pushed past the priest, and nearly toppled her grandson as she tried to crawl into the casket with her boy shouting, “Take me, take me, Lord!”
Family members ran up and grabbed the distraught woman. As she regained her equilibrium, she broke away, bolted back up the aisle, and lashed out at a blonde woman in a red dress standing alone behind the last row of folding chairs.
“Puta!” the distraught woman shrieked as her bony hand slashed out, raking the young woman’s cheek below the eye.
One of Vegas’s cousins ran up and lifted the slight woman off her feet before she could strike again. He carried her kicking and screaming out of the Heavenly viewing room.
Some of the gangsters had their cell phones out, snapping photos and videos of the high drama, posting on Instagram and Facebook before the funeral director could close the doors to the room. The sound of the wailing was muffled and then died away. Jack remembered a time when the only thing people came to wakes armed with were rosary beads. The photo feasting made him feel tired.
The young blonde knockout looked like she was crying blood, but no tears were being shed. The buzz in the room went silent as she parted the seas, walking past Vegas’s gang members who showed no pity, family members who blamed her for Tomas’s death, and the cops who didn’t understand what the hell had just transpired.
She looked beautiful, Jack thought, but cold as ice, and a little unhinged. He snapped his own photo as she strode past, grabbed Kleenex from a box near the door, and exited the room.
Jack hand-signaled Cruz to stay put and followed in her wake. He was delayed by a crowd of mourners exiting viewing room A and spilling into the lobby, beelining for the table filled with gratis cookies, cakes, and coffee.
A baby-blue late-model Volkswagen bug was just pulling away from the curb as Jack hit the front porch. He muttered a curse as he jotted down her license plate number. Jack caught a glimpse of her dabbing the bloody cut in her rearview mirror as she stepped on the gas and cold vapor poured out of her exhaust pipes.
Cruz walked up next to him, checked his watch like he was waiting for a ride, and gave his report. “Vegas got dumped by our lady in red for some white dude.”
“No name?”
“White dude was all Vegas’s cousin knew. The family blames Eva—that’s the girl’s name—for all of his troubles.”
“Love’s a bitch,” Jack said dryly. “No last name on the girl?”
Cruz shook his head. “His cousin got suspicious with all my questions. Asked if I was a cop. I laughed, and he laughed, and I played it off, saying I was thinking to hook up with her,” he said, enjoying the challenge.
“You did good, but be careful. You live in their neighborhood and don’t need the heat.”
“I hear you.”
“My guess is Eva’s last name is sitting in Vegas’s criminal history file back in the loft. The deceased was a witness for the prosecution in a trial about a year ago, which is why it caught my eye. I think Eva was the defendant. We need a list of all the witnesses for the prosecution and the defense. That might be a trail worth pursuing.”
“She’s hot,” Cruz said admiringly.
“And she wasn’t there to mourn. Wearing red to a wake is provocative.”
“Why was she there?” Cruz asked.
“To make sure Tomas Vegas was really dead.”
* * *
Jesus Arcaro, with one fishing line already running off the Redondo Beach Pier, was carefully cutting a strip of calamari and attaching it to the hook of his s
econd weighted rig. His son was wrapped comfortably in a blanket, sitting on his wife’s lap in a folding lawn chair, sucking on a pacifier, and enjoying the swirl of activity around him.
The bell on Jesus’s first line dinged and the tip of his pole dipped slightly, making the baby laugh. Jesus handed the rod he was working on to his wife, grabbed his live pole, set the hook, and started to reel in. Big smile on his youthful face.
His good mood was short-lived as he realized his catch wasn’t fighting back. It was probably seaweed or garbage, he thought as he reeled it in, being careful not to break the line and lose his pricey rig. He pulled a clump of seaweed close to the cement pylons, where it was illuminated by one of the pier’s spotlights.
Jesus wasn’t sure what he was looking at. In the center of the mass of dark green was a white bloated . . . fish, maybe? No, it wasn’t a fish.
A man’s severed forearm bobbed in the chop, a gold pinky ring glinting between swollen, nibbled fingers.
Jesus stood paralyzed. His wife, concerned, walked over to the rail, looked over the edge, and cried out. Their baby picked up on his mother’s distress and started to wail.
Sixteen
Day Five
Jack hit the gas, and his Mustang’s eight cylinders responded effortlessly. He powered up to seventy-five and shot over the rise on the 405 in anticipation of a stomach-churning roller-coaster ride down the far side.
Instead Jack had to stomp on the brakes. The tires chirped, and he was thankful for the car’s antilock system. The freeway had turned into a parking lot, backed up all the way to the 5. Welcome to the San Diego Freeway.
Jack considered lowering the convertible top and then vetoed his naïve New York optimism. He made his descent, heel to toe, 3 mph, into the San Fernando Valley, a suburban sprawl veiled in a thick ribbon of yellowish-brown that shrouded the endless neighborhoods below.
Jack had lived here long enough to understand that Van Nuys scoffed at Reseda, and Encino thumbed its nose at Van Nuys, and wouldn’t be caught dead shopping in Reseda. It was zip-code snobbery. And to everyone on the West Side where Jack lived, it was all the Valley.
