Nothing (4 page)

You may stay and speak to Mister Yama.

He turns to Largo and takes his elbow.

Please Sir, follow me.

Largo does not move. I tell Largo.

It's Okay.

Largo and Dallas walk into another room. I notice more girls, more flesh. Yama speaks.

Dah!

I step down into the pit of cushion and couch. He says.

Sit. Sit.

His English is perfect. His accent American. He sits and smiles. It's not a warm smile. Not a human smile even. Just a stupid fucking grin smeared across his face. My emotions are moving further away from me. Distant. I am not me anymore. I see my sisters face. Damage. Death. For some reason, I don't know why, my mind is calm and clear leaving me totally emotionless. I want to think. I want to engage. I want to smash this fat fuck in the face with both fists. Bang. Slam. Both hands keep hitting until my lungs burn and Dallas races in too late, firearms ready. Bang. Slam. Blood. Teeth. Mucus. Smashed skull. Bang. Slam. Nothing happens inside me. I sink into the mass of oversize pillow. Huge bean-bag-like seats enfold around me. The smile does not move. I speak.

You know why I am here.

Michael called ahead. You have had a death in your family. It seems you have my sympathies.

Yama bows his head slightly. Only slightly. Almost imperceptible. I say.

Who is Manalito Santana?

Ah. You know Manalito?

No.

Then...?

The police think he is the man who murdered my sister.

Yama changes his expression.

No this is not possible.

Why not?

Santana does a lot of work on this coastline. He would not involve himself in such a course of action.

Again, why not?

Why would he? Why would he bring people such as you here to the west coast? He is not a stupid man. Not a poor man. Who would need this heat?

That's what I need to ask him.

The smile returns. So I ask Yama.

You said people such as me. What do you mean?

The smile was still there but he knew he had to take care with his answer. Bang. Slam. Was still inside me somewhere. Yama replies.

I would like to ask a favor.

You would?

Yes. It is delicate, but if you do this for me then Manalito is all yours. I will even gift wrap him for you.

This favor I assume would be 'for a person such as me.'

The fat fuck presses his fingers together. Steepled. He says.

Precisely.

I unbutton the top of my shirt. A girl offers me a cold drink. I refuse. She offers me cocaine. I refuse. Yama unfolds his request. I feel the Rage. Fire in my bones. It feels good. I feed from it. I can see a thousand miles. I feel no fear. I try to remember this moment, this clarity. Try to create some connection, some bond. This is not a mental construct. Not psychological. It courses through my bloodstream. I'm mainlining adrenaline. I remain calm. I am calm, fearless, focused. I have a task to perform. This favor is for me. Not now though. Later.

I hold up a hand. He stops. I speak.

I need to talk to Manalito Santana before I consider anything. He knows something and I want to know who killed my sister.

Yama waves his hand.

Your sister is not important to me.

I smile. I feel the adrenaline fur crawl up my spine.

My sister means nothing to you, that's fine with me you stupid fuck and you know people like me ... so I'll look for Santana, you can get another person 'like me' to do this shitty job for you.

Yes ... Yes, I will.

Tell Santana I'm looking for him. His days on this earth look somewhat limited.

I stand. From a side door 2 men appear dressed in the same suit as Dallas. Curly filaments hanging from their inner ears. I step up to the same level as the 2 men. They stare. I stare back holding on to my Rage, my inner fire. Yama speaks.

You may take this advice, you may not. Santana is a very dangerous man. He might look for you, then we will see who has numbered days.

Largo walks from the door Dallas led him through, shirt unbuttoned, face flushed red from sun and hot chicks. I wanted the cold to be here. The Chicago bitter chill in my hands, my hair, my heart. I turn to Yama and say.

We'll see.

These were my parting words to Yama. He barks something in Japanese but I ignore him. Largo and I travel back to the hotel to pick up our things. We know we have to come back to L.A. This is where my answers lie. By the time we reach Del Mar the sun has dipped into the ocean and the sky is a strange peach color. I feel wasted and want to sleep. I have a small wrap of speed in my holdall. I consider taking a dab then heading back to L.A. I ask.

Larg, you want to head back tonight or tomorrow?

I'm beat, let's stay in sleepy town one more night. Grab a drink at the bar. Yeah?

Fine.

My clothes and supplies were in Largo's room. I wanted to book a single for me for one night, then I could recover from the day. The heat. Yama. His bullshit.

Check in was a small desk. A young Hispanic was behind. Blue tee and blue jeans.

Single room. One night.

Largo carried on upstairs to his room. The kid placed a card and a key on the desk top. I filled it in. All false. The kid took it and read the registration card. Looked at me then the card.

He spoke, his accent strong.

This your name?

Do you want fucking money?

A man cane here early today. He 'scribe a man like you.

Kid looks back down to the card and continues.

This not the nay he ask for. He says other nay.

Did he leave a name so that I could get hold of him?

No. He says nay, 'scribe you and you friend. I tell him you no stay here. He leave.

What did this man look like?

I place another $20 bill on the desk.

The kid places a strangle hold on his own neck and says.

Angel wings like this.

GOOD COP BAD COP OLD COP

Yama warned me. Yama also knew where I would be. Santana is on his team. Santana is safe while protected by Yama. Maybe Yama sent him to make this right.

I laugh.

I shave. Shower, take a leak with a weapon nearby. Largo will do the same. I dress. I put on a tee-shirt and jeans. Shoes without socks. Heat pours in through the window. It's carried on a breeze that tempers it a little. Sea air. A low white moon. Cloudless sky, black on black.

I walk into the corridor. It's dimly lit. A few bulbs are dead or have been removed. The shadows within the hotel doorways are still. I remain still locking the door with the key with the large plastic fob, keeping my face and eyes on the doorways. I keep my eyes open and remain still. Movement gives clues to movement. I remain calm and still and motionless. I move. My steps are quick and take me to the stairwell. I enter and descend to the foyer.

Largo is sat on a plastic chair out by the patio outside the foyer. Tourists pass on their way to diners. I tell Largo.

Let's go.

He climbs out of the chair slowly. I can tell by the way he places his hands against his knees and pushes himself upright that he is aging.

We are both aware that this place could become dangerous. Quick. Santana is in town and looking for something. I am prepared. I am sure he will be too. Before I take his life I will find what he knows about my sister. And her death. Angled parking bays line the street. The street is busy. Red lights on cars blink and reverse as the drivers exchange parking spaces. A white Lincoln pulls into one of the slots 15 yards ahead of us. We walk closer.

Largo glances at me I return the look. I am prepared.

The door unclips. Detective Iverson emerges. The opposite door opens and the Old Cop unfolds from it.

Iverson hitches his pants.

Old Cop speaks.

You ladies on a date.

Something like that. I tell him.

Well maybe we could make it a double date.

My man here's a little shy.

Largo giggles and waves his fingers.

Don't look shy to me.

You need to see him naked.

Iverson speaks.

Enough of this bullshit.

We need you to follow us.

I just told you, I have a prior engagement.

Old Cop chimes up again.

Listen fuckhole, dead bodies follow you around like a fart in an elevator. We need you to see something and tell us what the fuck happened.

I make a face. And say

You're detectives aren't you supposed to find out. You know ... detect what happened?

Old Cop tensed his jaw. Iverson looked at Old Cop then his shoes.

I hold up my hand.

Okay, okay, you got my interest. Where we going?

Old Cop says

Yeah, yeah, we got your fucking number.

You do I'm sure you're real dialed in now where we going to?

Follow us. The morgue again.

CROOKED WINGS

Largo drives following the tail lights on the White Lincoln. I am calm, fearless and focused. I don't think this is a trap. I don't think that these cops are on Yama's bank roll. I ask Largo.

Do you think Pilgrim fucked up the clean with the California girl?

Largo shakes his head, no. I carry on.

Old Cop saw the girl in my room, she was in the tub.

Largo shrugs.

You're very conversational tonight. Largo decides to speak.

Let's see where they're taking us. I don't like this and I don't like carrying while getting friendly with a fucking stupid cop whose minutes away from retirement. This asshole is a liability we don't need. And even if Pilgrim fucked up, what connects you to the girl, you said he only saw her feet?

Maybe that's what they want to see. Maybe she had special toenail polish that the Old Bastard recognized. Maybe his wife wears it. Maybe he wears it. Maybe they think I'll crack and bawl out my eyes, followed by an I killed her confession.

We both laugh.

Largo speaks

Yeah, but who killed the Cal girl?

I think the same person killed my Carly. We find Santana then we ask.

Largo pulls into a parking spot next to the White Lincoln at Saddleback Memorial Hospital. I get out, he follows, the cops get out and we both follow them into the sliding doors of the hospital. It's a medical building. I don't like the white fluttering walls. Blue white fluorescent. Aqua colored scrubs, long corridors, machines with black concertina bladders, tubes and wires everywhere, sounds of electronic peeps blotted out by hacking coughs. Iverson holds the door as we enter the pathology wing. Old Cop talks to a nurse behind a high white desk. Her black skin shines grey beneath the hard fluorescents. She nods, they speak, he shrugs, she points toward a room with wired glass doors and curtain pulled across. He walks, we follow. The room we enter is stainless steel and white ceramic tile. A wall is covered with stainless rectangular drawers. Old Cop looks at a folder the nurse had passed to him. He squints at the numbers on the end of each drawer handle. He bends down, all arthritic and rheumatism to a low drawer and tugs until it slides out.

I don't feel anything. It's cold. I feel cold. It's fucking freezing.

Old Cop points at me with the folder. He says.

You.

A body is outlined beneath a white sheet. Almost a skeleton in shape. Sharp shoulders. Pointed nose. Feet shoot upwards towards the harsh lighting.

Know anything about this?

Old Cop slides back the sheet, it reveals the upper body of a man. His eyes are closed. He is Latin American. He has a large winged tattoo across his throat. His torso is coated with blue ink. Gang, prison, tats I have seen before. I say.

Never seen him before.

Old Cop snorts.

Word on the street says different. Word says that you're looking for this man. Been asking for him by name.

I look at Iverson. He had written Manalito Santana on the back of his card. I move my eyes back to Old Cop.

He's not my type.

Old Cop flips the sheet back covering Santana's body. He takes his time walking around the open drawer until he stands in front of me. I hold my position. I hold my stare. Old Cop says.

Death is following you Sir. You are a known felon. A stranger to this neighborhood. You've been asking about this man in connection to your sisters death. This man is a known pedophile and this could be seen as a public service by some but we don't like this shit.

Iverson places a hand on Old Cops chest stopping him moving any closer to me. Iverson speaks.

Manalito Santana is known to us and doesn't usually venture to these parts often. He is a pedophile, that much we know is true, and he is, excuse me, was, our prime suspect in the investigation into your sisters death.

I notice that Iverson has a new sense of confidence. I notice his authority. I say.

So you're the senior officer?

He nods.

Interesting.

I tug the sheet back and look at Santana's corpse.

He has a single hole above his right eye, it has powder burns. Close range. His sternum has two more holes. He was hit twice by what looks like a small caliber weapon. Then finished off real close with a bullet to the head. It looks personal, but it was professional. This is just how it was meant to look. The small caliber prevents exit wounds or spray patterns. Largo always carries a .22 on him. Won't kill a dog at twenty yards but at this range the damage is easily fatal.

A pedophile you say?

He was known and registered in LA and Orange County. As his other various illegal activities became more successful he became bolder and thought he was untouchable.

Untouchable?

You know his employer?

I shrug. Largo doesn't move.

Gichin Yama. You'll know him as Baba Yama.

I shrug.

Old Cop moves again.

Don't fuck with us. This is case closed.

Why did he, if it was him, kill my sister? You trying to say he tried to pick her up, she refused, and he puts her out the game, right there on the front porch?

That's what I'm saying.

Iverson picks up a manila folder from a tray behind him. He flips it open.

Santana had committed a similar offense almost 2 years earlier. One of his gang took the rap but you know what happened?