Street Rules (22 page)

“Nothing. That just sounded so… Shakespearean.”

“Well see? You talk like a wife-beater and I talk like a British Lit professor. Maybe brutal’s better.”

“No,” Frank corrected, “I love the way you talk. It’s like listening to Mah-stuh-piece Thee-uh-tuh.”

Gail laughed, and Frank felt uncharacteristically self-conscious under the doc’s scrutiny.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Already told you what L.A. stands for.”

“I know,” Gail smiled. “I was thinking of something else.”

“Shoot.”

“The stuff you said you were working through. Can I ask what it is or would I be prying?”

Playing with her snifter, Frank considered, then said, “You’d be prying. And I can tell you. Be good for me. Make my shrink proud.”

Gail’s brow crunched in disbelief.

“You have a
shrink?”

“Richard Clay. At Behavioral Sciences. They’re mostly a bunch of quacks over there, but Clay’s a good guy. I’ve worked with him, and I had to see somebody after I shot Timothy Johnston. He’s all right.”

It was amazingly easy to tell Gail about Maggie and how she died, then about Kennedy and Delamore, and how she was finally dealing with the whole literally bloody mess.

“Impressive,” Gail said when Frank was finished.

“How so?” Frank asked, draining the last of her grappa.

“There’s a lot more substance to you than I originally thought.”

Frank smiled, “More than just a wife-beater, huh?”

Gail returned the smile, her eyes lingering on Frank’s. Looking away, Frank said, “I saw you hiding a yawn a while ago. Maybe we should call it a day.”

“Probably,” Gail said. Frank cleared the dessert plates and Gail helped. When she started rinsing the dishes in the sink Frank stopped her.

“Leave ‘em. I’ll get ‘em tomorrow.”

“Wow. You cook
and
do dishes. Are you sure you don’t want a girlfriend?”

“Pretty sure. But if I change my mind, you’ll be the first one to know.”

“Promise?”

“Absolutely,” Frank assured, walking Gail to the door.

“Thanks for dinner. It was wonderful. And I had a great time today.”

“Me too. Maybe we can do it again.”

“Really? Even the hegira?” Gail chuckled, and Frank thought,
damn,
that’s the sexiest sound.

“See?” Frank pointed out. “There you go again.”

“There I go what again?”

“Hegira. I’ve never heard anybody use that word in conversation.”

Gail laughed and Frank made sure the doc drove away safely. For a long time she stayed under the red Pasadena sky, searching the darkness where Gail had turned the corner. When she finally went back into her house, she whispered as if trying to convince herself, “Pretty sure.”

Frank hated Mondays. Not because she was going back to work, but because meetings ate up the day; press meetings, the lieutenants meeting, community building meetings, district attorney meetings — meetings ad nauseum. She didn’t catch Nook and Bobby until quitting time. Flapping the bus schedules in front of them, she asked what they thought.

“Busy girl,” Nook said.

“Busy doing what?” Bobby said, taking the words straight out of Frank’s mouth. She loved watching her detectives chew on a problem, and she sat back, letting them run with it. Slanging was their first thought too and they kicked it around, deciding it was a family thing. Their points were that Claudia, Gloria, and Chuey had all had possession with intent to distribute charges. They weren’t rolling in dough but were obviously living better than they could on AFDC and food stamps. Claudia probably handled the business end and the kids had done the running. Claudia’s offhand remarks about dealing here and there belied a sensitivity to the issue. It was likely there was someone else involved, someone bigger than Claudia who could put the screws to her, maybe even cap her family when necessary.

The cops felt like they were getting part of the picture but not the whole screen. Frank considered asking Nook’s opinion on the shakedown theory, but kept quiet, still wanting to flesh it out more. It was a serious charge, and not one that Nook or anyone else in the department would take lightly.

When she asked if they thought Placa could have been hooking, Bobby stared at her deadpan. His partner snickered, “That girl had her hustle on, but not like that.”

“I don’t know,” Frank said, stretching her arms over her head, “I think it might be worth nailing down.”

“Yeah, well, Les and I’ve got a doctor’s appointment at 3:30 …”

“I’ll take care of it,” Frank said. “It’s a silly idea, but if I can find Lydia I’ll run it by her. See if I can’t pin her down some more about the dope.”

“I’d go with you,” Nook said, “but I’ve got an appointment too.”

“Yeah, with your Lazy-boy.”

“I’m not young like you two,” he balked. “Time for the old dogs to move over and let you pups have a try.”

Frank baited, “Don’t tell me you’re retiring, Nook.”

He hissed at the “r” word, mumbling retirement was for losers. His old partner had retired in January and that was when Nook had put in for transfer. He was right. Homicide at Figueroa wasn’t for old dogs. Frank usually worked at least a twelve-hour day. When they rolled on a fresh case, 24, 36, even 48-hour days weren’t uncommon. The job was physically, emotionally, and intellectually demanding. Joe Girardi had called homicide the decathlon of police work, and Figueroa the Olympic arena.

After they left, Frank reveled in the silence that enabled her best work. She stopped for a moment when she heard footsteps shuffle and click in the squad room. Ike was the determined click and Diego was the Vibram-soled shuffle. Frank went out to tell Ike that McQueen wouldn’t budge on her charges.

“Whatever. I did my part.”

“That’s all you can do you,” Frank commiserated. It was hard enough finding the bad guys, but then when the district attorney’s office let them go with a slap on the hand it felt like fighting a losing battle.

“How’s it going?” she asked Diego.

“Okay,” he answered, filling Frank in on their day. When he was done, she said to Ike, “Aren’t you late for the track?”

“That’s were I’m headed.”

Every afternoon he could be found at Hollywood Park, putting money on the last races of the day.

“Damn, Pinkie, I don’t know. Peep you, dipped like a bailer, got your bling on … those ponies must be ridin’ bank to you.”

Ike’s mouth turned down. He was no Rhodes scholar but he hated street slang. All you had to do to send him into a fit was say “ebonies.”

“Yeah,” Diego grinned, slipping Frank some skin, “Gi’ my dawg mad props. He be da illest one-time hoedin’ it down fo’ da Nine-Tray.”

“Assholes,” Ike grumbled, straightening his tie. He was the only detective Frank knew who
tightened
his tie after work.

“Gang-stuh,” Diego kidded, watching his partner preen. Frank unperched from the desk, saying goodnight. She was tired of being inside all day and figured she’d try to find Lydia or Tonio. Driving north from the station, she absorbed the surrounding graffiti and street action. The ratty section of Hoover Street that she was on was probably how most people envisioned south-central. Neglected houses pocked with bullet holes and defaced by taggers served as shooting galleries and rock houses. Empty windows yawned behind the black teeth of iron bars. Dirt yards fronting the street were strewn with garbage, rusted engine parts and busted furniture. Banana trees and bougainvillea struggled in the impacted soil, creating the look of an impoverished banana republic plunked down in the middle of one of the wealthiest cities in the world.

The Estrella’s street was neater and cleaner. Frank noticed their tired Buick wasn’t in the driveway and was pleased when Tonio opened the door.

“Hey.
Quivo!”

“My mom’s not here,” he answered through the steel mesh.

“That’s okay,” Frank answered easily, “How ‘bout your sister?”

“She ain’t here either.”

Frank asked where they were. Tonio said he didn’t know, they’d been gone when he got home.”

“Where you been today?”

“You know. School.”

“This the one day a week you go?”

“Huh?”

“Nothin’,” Frank grinned, picking up the stink of stale malt liquor. “You look like you been hangin’ out. Smokin’ some Phillies, crackin’ some Eights.”

“I wun doin’ that.”

“Hey. I ain’t your PO. I don’t care if you’re flying all day long. Looks like I woke you up.”

“Yeah.”

“What you so tired from?”

Tonio pitched a thin shoulder. A crude Virgin of Guadalupe was tattooed on his bicep. On his left arm he wore the same gang insignia his sisters had, and on the right he had KV2. He was wearing boxer shorts and a dingy tank-T. Frank noticed a faint blue mist on the shirt. She glanced at his index fingers, finding more of the tell-tale blue, the King’s favorite color.

“Been out strikin’?”

He flicked his shoulder again.

“You do that one at the PikRite? It’s pretty good.”

“Nah, that was Tiny. He’s way better’n me.”

“I don’t know. There’s some pretty nice tags out there for your sister. I know you done some of ‘em. You do that one on Denker? That big one? It’s pretty good.”

The boy sheepishly scratched his belly, confiding that Placa had done most of the mural.

“You should be in art school or something, I mean, I can’t even sketch a crime scene. Where’d you learn to do that?”

“Don’t know,” he answered, bashful all of a sudden.

“Placa teach you how to make those curvy letters?”

“Yeah, she taught me some.”

“She was pretty good, huh?”

He agreed and Frank said, “Tell me, how you get them so high? You carry a ladder around or something?”

The boy guffawed and Frank grinned, “Is that how you do it?”

Frank was trying to build Tonio’s confidence, his trust.

“No way,” he snorted. “You gotta make somethin’ to step on, you know. You stick screwdrivers into the cracks. Or branches off trees. You can step on ‘em.”

“Man, that’s dangerous.”

The kid shrugged dismissively, “You gotta be careful. But I don’t weigh so much. Some of these guys, they can’t do it, you know? They’re too big.”

“Do you ever fall?” Frank asked, seemingly in awe.

Twisting his back, he pointed proudly to a large, bruised scrape.

“I did that last week, doin’ the one on 58th Street.”

Bingo, Frank thought. Tonio had done the hard part for her.

“Oh yeah, I know the one you’re talking about. That’s a good one too. But why you’d strike out the LAPD?”

Tonio’s enthusiasm was quickly replaced with sullen wariness. He just stared at the porch floor.

“Is it me? ‘Cause I’m hanging around so much? Is that it?”

When he didn’t respond, Frank sighed loudly, and hung her head too.

“I’m just trying to figure out who did this to your sister. I want the
maricon
did this caught and put in the ‘Dad for a long time. And I hope he’s real pretty and that all the guys like him. A lot.”

Frank dropped her voice, appealing to Tonio’s Latino pride.

“I know you know who did it. I can’t blame your mom and Gloria for not talking. They’re women. They’re scared. I understand that. But you’re different. You’re a man. You’re not a coward. You’re not a little boy anymore either, even though your mama tries to protect you. I respect you, Tonio. And I respected your sister. She had a heart like a man.”

In the barrio, where masculinity and strength were admired above all else, that was high praise. Tonio was still staring down. His features were fine and sharp, offering no hiding place for his distress.

“She called me a couple days before she died, wanted to meet with me. Said she had something to tell me. It must have been hard for her to call. I could tell from her voice that she was scared. But she did it anyway. She didn’t give in to her fear, she didn’t let it beat her. Whatever Placa was afraid of, she was facing it like a man. Are you? Would she be proud of you, Tonio? Are you respecting her memory?”

She gave him time to consider, then gently slipped her card into the door frame.

“Keep that. You’re Placa’s baby brother, but I think you’re just as brave. Tell your mom and Gloria I said hello.”

Next, she cruised southeast, into 51st Playboy territory, keeping an eye out for Lydia. The girl didn’t have a phone so Frank couldn’t call her, but wouldn’t have anyway; announcing her visits gave people time to think of answers or disappear. There was no reply when Frank knocked on Lydia’s door. A thick, older woman taking out garbage, eyed Frank suspiciously, then said, “The tramp ain’t home. I seen her go out about lunchtime.”

She wheezed on a cigarette and Frank asked if Lydia had left alone.

The woman hacked up a lung, adding, “She was with those hoodlum friends of hers. They’re none of ‘em no good. Robbin’ old ladies and children.”

She spit in the hallway, narrowly missing Frank’s expensive loafers.

“I seen you here before,” she said, taking in the ID clip and badge on Frank’s belt. “What did she do?”

“Afraid I can’t tell you that,” Frank played up, “But let’s just say it ain’t good.”

The old lady nodded, snorting, “That don’t surprise me.”

Frank returned the nod, adding, “Yeah. And I’ll bet you’ve seen a lot.”

“Oh!” the old lady coughed, flourishing a chubby hand, “I could write a book.”

“You ever see her with a real tough looking girl? Got her gang tattooed on her forehead, a devil on her arm?”

The old lady was nodding before Frank even finished.

“You ever see them go out together?”

“No, I only seen that other one going into her apartment.
That
girl was trouble.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, just look at her!” she sputtered. “That girl couldn’a been up to no good. Uh-uh.”

Then she went into the diatribe Frank knew by heart. How this used to be a nice place to live until the gangs started taking over and why didn’t the police do anything about them? Always disposed to recruiting snoopy neighbors, Frank sympathized for about two minutes before taking a firm but graceful exit. She tried a few more places where she thought she might find Lydia, then tried the apartment again. Frank’s luck was good because Lydia was just slipping the key into her lock.