Dog Eat Dog (26 page)

After dinner, Troy and Diesel said good-bye to Alex in the parking lot. When the attendant brought the Jaguar, Troy put the attaché case in the trunk. It already held his $100,000 and Mad Dog’s $100,000. “We’ll split it up back at the hotel,” he said.

“Whatever you say, Big T. You call the shots in this mob.”

The hotel was the Holiday Inn on Highland Avenue overlooking Hollywood Boulevard on one side and the Hollywood Hills on the other. Diesel had checked in for three days, and extended it for two more. The Mustang was in the hotel garage. It had an added layer of smog dust, but nobody had bothered it. They went to the room and divided Mad Dog’s money and what Alex had brought.

As Diesel bagged up another $66,000, he envisioned his wife when he dumped it on the bed. Add this to the first $100,000 she already had, the bitch would never say another word about nothin’. God knows I treat her good. He found himself anxious to get home and see her, and especially Charles, Jr. “It’s great having a kid, you know,” he said.

Troy nodded. A father he would never be; he had given up the thought in the middle of his San Quentin term. “What’re you gonna tell him?” he asked Diesel.

“Whaddya mean?”

“You know, about everything. Whaddya want for him … whaddya want him to think about your history.”

“I don’t know what I’m gonna tell him. I’m gonna kick his ass if he looks like he’s gonna get in trouble. He’s gonna be a fuckin’ citizen. And a man. He’ll be a man, for goddamn sure.”

“I hope so, bro’. I wouldn’t wish our life on anybody.”

“No bullshit, man.” Diesel zipped up the tote bag with the money and grabbed the overnight bag with his clothes. “How we gonna do this? You gonna follow me? Want me to follow you?”

“Why don’t you roll on up north. I’m gonna stay in L.A. one more night. I haven’t had a chance to cruise the city and look things over. Maybe I’ll pick up some chick … or buy some. I’ll see you tomorrow evening up there.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Maybe I’ll go play some poker.”

“Okay, I’ll see you up there. Maybe we’ll have a barbecue if you get there in time. I kick ass on a barbecue.”

They went down the elevator and said good-bye in the lobby. Diesel went up Highland Avenue onto U.S. 101, the Coast Route. In Thousand Oaks, he stopped at a Denny’s for coffee and two Dexamyl spansules. The amphetamine they contained kept his eyes wide and his mind racing as he drove north through the night, the sea often glowing phosphorescent on his left, the rolling hills black on his right—Ventura, Santa Barbara, Santa Maria, Pismo Beach, San Luis Obispo, and so on to south of San Francisco. It was between midnight and sunrise when he pulled up. A new Ford minivan was parked in the driveway. He had been thinking of buying her a new car, but now that she had gotten it without asking him, he was furious. He stormed down the hall into the bedroom and turned on the light.

“Goddamnit! Where’d that fuckin’ new minivan come from?”

“Charles … Charles … wait a second! I can take it back. I swear. That’s the deal I made. I’ll show you.” She jumped up, wearing panties and no bra, so her breasts bounced as she headed for the dresser. He knew what she said was true; he had no need to see the paper. Other thoughts had come to his mind. He went after her, put his arms around her and cupped her breasts. She trembled and the nipples hardened as he nibbled on her ear. He was carrying her to the bed when Charles, Jr., began to cry in the manner unique to a child. Diesel looked to the sky in exasperation and fell on his back on the bed. He had to wait for her to lullaby the child to sleep. He hoped he wouldn’t have the same old afterward reaction, where he felt dirty and disliked what they had done. It was a lousy way to feel after making love; he knew it while unable to do anything about it. She wanted to cuddle and he wanted to get away. He vowed to hide the feelings this time.

When Diesel was gone, Troy packed his $170,000 neatly in the trunk of the Jaguar. The smell of death was gone—or at least suppressed by the mothballs he’d spread around. The carpets looked the same as when they came from the factory. Everything was neat. Nobody would ever suspect that a nearly headless corpse had rotted therein for several days. Troy wished it would leave his mind as easily as it did the trunk. He kept seeing the tongue of fire leap from the muzzle of the pistol and lick at Mad Dog’s skull. He had just fallen, like a candlewick squeezed between fingers.

Before closing the trunk, he opened the attaché case and took out a packet of twenty-dollar bills. He debated a moment before also taking out a snub-nosed .38 Smith & Wesson and clipping its holster inside his waistband. It wasn’t for the police or to commit a crime; it was for self-protection in his hometown.

As he pulled out of the subterranean garage, Troy called Alex. “You hungry, bro’?”

“I thought you went north for the holidays.”

“Tomorrow. What about dinner?”

“I’m hung up on business, man. Damn!”

“Call me if you clear the deck. Otherwise, I’ll see you when I get back.”

Alex said something about good-bye, but it was unclear because the cellular transmission began breaking up. As Troy pushed the off button, he felt a mild letdown. He’d counted on Alex’s companionship for the evening.

While eating at the Musso-Frank counter, Troy mulled over what to do with the evening. Maybe he should have gone with Diesel. What about a movie? No. What he really wanted was a woman, but not some hardcore streetwalker or a head job in a massage parlor. He wanted female conversation and laughter. He wasn’t against paying a grand for the night, if he got value. Alas, he had no idea where to call a call girl. Then he remembered a cocktail lounge on the edge of the Strip. It had been a watering hole for high-class hookers.

When he walked in, he immediately knew he’d made a mistake. Instead of the dark wood and red leather and Frank Sinatra on the jukebox, it was now all mirrors, all male, and Judy Garland was singing. He beat a hasty retreat with red cheeks; then he began laughing at the absurdity of being embarrassed.

He then found himself heading east on Sunset, away from the glitter of the Strip and the wealth of Beverly Hills, toward seedy downtown and East L.A. beyond. Where Sunset Boulevard began was also where the City of Los Angeles had originated. When he got close to Union Station, he remembered a cocktail lounge on Huntington Drive in El Sereno. Ten minutes away, it was still a hangout for Chicano ex-convicts. Not two months ago Pretty Henry Soto had returned to San Quentin and, among other tales of life outside, mentioned that Vidal Aguilar now owned the Club Clover, with someone else’s name on the liquor license, of course. Troy hadn’t seen Vidal for several years, but for three years before that, Vidal had been in the next cell, and they had eaten breakfast and dinner together many times. They were friends and Vidal had gone out and stayed out, although stories came back. He had always been a high roller in the L.A. underworld. He and Alex Greco knew each other. The trouble with Mexicans really getting it together was that too many wanted to be top dog. Too much macho, not enough cooperation.

Beyond the bridge across the L.A. River, the graffiti marked the turf as “1st Flats.” The nicknames replicated those of Troy’s own youth. How many had he known named “Japo,” “Grumpy,” “Alfie,” “Crow,” “Wedo,” or “Veto”?

He drove past the low, sprawling projects. Between the buildings he could see the clustered silhouettes of the homeboys hanging out. Some of the project windows had Christmas lights. Indeed, many of the small stucco bungalows had been outlined in bright-colored lights. They made him feel sad and alone. He was seldom envious, but as he thought about Diesel spending a Christmas morning with a son, he felt a pang of envy. He wished his life had allowed him to have a son.

He turned on Soto and followed it past Hazard Park and the rolling hills of El Sereno, most of which were still empty, and from which rose several tall radio towers topped with pulsing red lights. Once, when young and drunk, he had climbed one of them to the top. He would have quit halfway up except for a macho Mexican named Gato, who was climbing the next tower and refused to stop short of the top. What he would do at twenty-two, he would never do now. He then remembered he had told Mad Dog the story less than two weeks ago. His mind quickly erased the memory.

Soto became Huntington Drive at its origin. The green sign, clover club, stood out even though the “L” was a bare shadow of its original glow. Troy parked half a block down a side street and walked back. The evening was warm despite the late December date. He could hear the excited voices of children playing in nearby backyards.

The Clover Club’s front door was opened, and the sound of mariachi music poured forth as Troy entered. The tables, booths, and bar were all full. A four-piece band was on a low stage at the other end. A few couples were on the tiny dance floor; they were pressed tight and swaying fast, doing the banda. Damn, Troy thought, fuckin’ Vidal has a winner.

Troy made his way to the bar. A few eyes turned to look him over—a gringo in Aztlan—but nobody said anything or radiated hostility. At the bar the one open space was the station between brass rails used by the cocktail waitress. She was leaving with a tray of drinks. Troy noticed that she had a big round ass, the kind that Mexicans prefer, although it would be considered too heavy in Beverly Hills. Troy squeezed to the bar. The bartender, who was big for a Mexican, had the mashed nose and thick eyebrows of an ex-fighter.

“Yeah.”

“I’m a friend of Vidal’s. Is he around?”

The bartender looked him over. Just then the cocktail waitress returned and Troy had to step aside while she unloaded empty glasses and gave an order for “Two screwdrivers, two Buds …”

In the mix of English and Spanish that is the lingua franca of East L.A., the bartender told the waitress, whose name was Delia, to tell Vidal that someone wanted to see him. The bartender turned to Troy. “What’s your name,
ese
?”

“Troy.” He found himself looking into Delia’s dark eyes, and then watching her move across the room to the hallway with the rest-room sign. His attention was pulled back when the bartender asked if he wanted anything. Troy shook his head.

A minute later, Delia appeared in the archway with a man. It wasn’t Vidal. She pointed out Troy for the man. He beckoned.

As Troy crossed the room, he plowed through a layer of cigarette smoke. Secondhand smoke freaks would be in big trouble here; their eyes would water and if they complained they would get punched in the nose. The man awaiting him grinned. Troy knew the face but could not put a name to it. Delia went by, smiling at him. Was there anything in the smile? He turned his head for a glance at her swishing hips. When he turned back, the man in the arch was grinning at him. “You like that, huh?”

“You might say that. How many kids she got?”

The Chicano held up two fingers. “They all got two kids.”

“Where’s her old man?”

“Soledad Central. You wouldn’t know him. He’s a youngster.”

They shook hands and the Chicano led the way down a narrow hallway with a closed-circuit TV camera at the far end. The rest-rooms were on one side. On the other was a door covered with sheet metal. The escort knocked. A buzzer sounded, freeing a lock. The Chicano pushed the door open. The room was combination storeroom and office, and along the walls were cases of beer and liquor.

Vidal sat behind a narrow, scarred desk. It had a wire basket, telephone, and a small TV monitor showing the corridor outside the office. Vidal grinned, his even white teeth showing against his dark skin and high cheekbones. His Indian blood was evident. Except that his hair was grayer, he had not aged in the six years since his parole. He stood up and extended his hand.

“It’s good to see you, Big T,” he said as they shook. “When did you raise?”

“Last month.”

“Where the fuck you been? You need some dough?”

“No. I’m okay. How you been, bro’?”

“Chicken today, feathers tomorrow. Siddown, man. You want a drink? Whaddya want?”

“Bourbon … Jack Daniel’s or Wild Turkey, with a little splash of Seven-Up.”

“Why don’t you do that, Tootie,” said Vidal.

“Be right back.”

Now Troy remembered: Tootie Obregon from Mateo. He’d worked in the kitchen and was a top handball player.

Tootie went out.

“How’d you wind up with this joint?” Troy asked. Vidal had been raised in the Ramona Gardens projects. His criminal career had begun in junior high school when he had started selling loose joints. He’d remained in the marijuana business because those he dealt with were far less violent and marijuana was far down the list of police priorities. Loose joints grew into ounces, then kilos, and finally truckloads. His one conviction was for a thousand kilos in a panel truck, although the drug agents turned in eight hundred and kept two hundred to sell for a thousand dollars apiece. Vidal’s term was cut when the agents were indicted for skimming money and drugs from their busts. Indeed, half the Sheriff’s Department narco squad were indicted. Vidal had changed his game when he got out. Word came back that he was a fence, buying and selling stolen merchandise. It was a crime with an even lower priority than marijuana.

“This joint was for sale and some
vatos
from Tucson hijacked a truck and trailer full of booze, six hundred cases of Johnny Walker and Jack Daniel’s and whatever. They had it in three garages in East L.A. I gave ’em twenty-eight dollars a case and I bought this joint for the price of the license. Nobody else wanted it. I don’t make what I made selling grass—but I’m doin’ pretty good. Me an’ Tootie, we run a football ticket, too. You sure you don’t need a little dough? I can loan you five or ten grand, man.”

“No, no, I’m good, Vidal. Thanks anyway.”

“Yeah, you always did okay. You’d be surprised how many dudes come in here beggin’ money. Some of ’em are scared to death because of that three strikes law.”

“It’s enough to scare anybody. They’re givin’ suckers life for nothin’.”

“I know. You remember Alfie from White Fence?”

“Little guy in the
eme
?”