the Pallbearers (2010) (13 page)

"Maybe hes independently wealthy," Sabas said, reading my thoughts.

While we waited for O'Shea to leave his house so we could tail him, Sabas worked quietly on some legal documents in his briefcase. Occasionally, his BlackBerry would ring and he would speak softly to somebody in Spanish. The calls all seemed to involve a gang drive-by where he was defending two of the shooters.

He kept instructing the person he was talking to on which discovery motions he wanted filed first. He wasn't aware that I spoke Spanish. He thought he could have conversations in another language without my understanding. Maybe
I
could use that misconception to learn something that would come in hand}' clown the line.

At about ten o'clock, it started to get warm in the car so I turned on the engine and the AC.

"Y'know, if we'd been both paying closer attention, mavbe you and I coulda stopped this from happening," Sabas finally said, looking over at me.

"Right." I focused on the house, trying to keep his gaze out of mine. I didn't want him to see the pain I was hiding.

He was quiet for a minute, then he said, "You're right about my juvie record. I was at Huntington House in the early sixties. Twelve years old when I arrived. Already had a righteous one-eighty-seven on my yellow sheet. Back then I was working for a Latin Kings drug crew. I started out as a lookout at six years old. My set liked to use p
e
e-wee G's for payback murders. It was how you got jumped in. The added benefit was, if one of us got caught, we'd only get juvie time.

"When I was nine it was finally my turn. I popped a Sureno over by one of our drug houses. The vato was only sixteen, but he hadda go cause he was doing corners on one of our blocks. The flute I used was a piece of rust. I'm amazed now it even fired. My cousin, Arturo, gave it to me, and cause I never owned my own burner, like an idiot I ditched it in my backyard. I wanted to keep it. Took the cops about ten minutes to find the damn thing.

"After I did my juvie CYA time, the courts assigned me to Huntington House. I found out later that Pop heard about my case and rigged that for me, got me out of the sheriff's honor rancho two years early. Once Pop was on a mission, there was no ducking him. He kept hammering on my juvie judge until she placed me there."

It was a familiar story. I'd heard different versions from other Huntington House grads.

Sabas went on. "When I arrived at Huntington House, I got put in Harbor Elementary. I had lotsa little homies in that escuela. With my bad-ass murder rep I was an instant big deal. A leader. I was down for my boys. But Pop was having none of it. As soon as he found out, he wouldn't let me see any of those kids, then he put me into a new school in Long Beach where I didn't have any vato brothers. Drove me all the way over there each morning himself. Pop got me out of my old set by force of will."

Vargas stopped his story and sat there thinking about it for a moment. "Y'know, I never got that dead Sureno off my conscience. It's been half a century and I still dream about that kid."

The overactive BlackBerry was now off and forgotten in his scarred hands. He turned to face me.

"Since he died, I've been seeing Pop in my memory, remembering him like he was back then. You ever do that?"

"All the time."

"He take you surfing?"

"Yeah."

"Losers on parade, right? I got to go a lot because I couldn't get out of my own way back then. Once we were alone, out beyond the break, Pop would be working to convince me I should take a better path. Nothing I did got him off my back. The man was on me like gel coat.

"I can still see him paddling out on that big ol' gun he used, that rhino chaser. Catchin' a pipe ride, getting vertical on his log, riding it 'til the curl collapsed. Then afterward, all of us on the beach having
Cokes and sweet rolls. Me wondering what the fuck I'm gonna do with myself. How I'm gonna get through tomorrow. Wishin' someone would just save me the trouble and take me off the count." He stopped for a moment before he added, "Walt kept me alive. He got me all the way from there to here."

"Pretty much says it," I answered softly.

We sat there in silence, both dealing with separate memories.

Half an hour later the front door opened and Rick O'Shea came out. He was dressed in workout gear, carrying his gym bag. His muscles rippled.

"Yeah, this pendejo definitely came off the wrong bus," Sabas said, watching as Rick O'Shea got into his car.

I let him pull away, then I put the MDX in gear, dropping in about a block and a halfback. We followed the maroon Escalade onto the 118 and then all the wav into downtown L
. A
.

Chapter
23

O'Shea parked in a lot south of Broadway, six blocks from the financial center in a slum neighborhood full of discount clothing stores and run-down secondhand shops.

I
pulled in, took a ticket, and parked a few lanes over. Sabas and I watched as he yanked his monogrammcd gym bag out of the passenger seat and made his way across the cracked asphalt to a medium-sized brick storefront that faced the parking lot. It had a dirty, plate-glass, floor-to-ceiling window with alarm tape and small gold letters that said:

NHB INC.

"Wait here,"
I
told Sabas, then got out of the Acura, went to the trunk, rummaged around, and found a Dodgers baseball cap. I pulle
d i
t out and put it on. Disguise. I crossed back to the passenger window and looked in at Vargas.

"Stay in the car, I'll be right back." I fished in my pocket for dark glasses.

"Whatta you gonna do?"

"Don't know yet. Keep an eye on my back."

I walked across the pavement toward the storefront, past a beautiful, modified red and white Indian motorcycle that had fancy leather saddlebags and was parked in a spot reserved for the manager of NHB. As I walked past the chopper, I wondered what I would find behind the grimy plate-glass window.

I pulled the baseball hat lower, put on my darks, opened the door, and walked inside.

It was a small gym, or more correctly, a fight-training center. Kxcept for the plate glass in front there were no other windows. Most of the light came from old-style wire-enclosed ceiling fixtures. There was almost no concession to decor. The benches and workout machines were mismatched. What paint there was had chipped long ago. An octagon for cage fighting stood in the center of the room. Heavy bags and workout equipment dominated the perimeter. The smell of sweat lingered. It was very old school.

One or two experiments in chemistry were taking turns lifting the bar on a Smith machine over in one corner. The Smith was a weight
-
lifting apparatus also known as a hat rack because it has a rack that guides and supports the plates. We have a few in the police gym where I sometimes work out, but I'm a free-weight guy so I've never actually used one.

There were several poster-sized pictures of past mixed martial arts events hanging on the paint-peeled brick walls. I spotted one that showed Rick "Ricochet" O'Shea advertising something called "The Fall Brawl." In the shot, he was pushing his flat nose at an equally intimidating opponent. Underneath it read:

"RICOCHET" O'SHEA

VS.

KIMBO SLEDGE

There were posters showing pictures of other gym celebrities
-
Raymond "Stingray" Jackson was a big black guy with a shaved head, Gary "The Great" White was aptly named. A huge glowering blond guy with a Mohawk named Dane Vanderheiden called himself "The Striking Viking." Never heard of any of them, but I don't follow ultimate fighting so that didn't mean anything.

All of them looked like they'd be serious competition in a brawl.

I moved behind a power rack, out of sight of the two fighters on the weight machine, and tried to spot where Rick O'Shea had gone, but he'd disappeared into the back somewhere.

"Whatta ya want?" a pissed-off voice behind me said. I swung around and found myself facing a six-foot-three pile of pale white gristle with a serious V-taper. He had sixty-inch shoulders and a monstrous set of lats that sloped clown from his armpits to a thirtv-two
-
inch waist. He was wearing a loose-fitting, low-cut sweatshirt that said NHB on the front. Under that were words that defined the letters: NO HOLDS BARRED. He had a shaved, torpedo-shaped head to go with his scowl.

"I was thinking maybe I'd get into MMA," I said, smiling. "You got a program I could join? A trainer who could work me out, show me some striking and ground-fighting techniques?"

"Private gym," he said. "We only train club professionals. No cardio bunnies. Take it down the street."

I pointed at the posters on the wall. "These the guys you train? Pretty impressive."

He gave me nothing. No expression. No personal connection. H
e j
ust stood with massive bowling-pin forearms crossed, looking like an ad for a toilet-bowl product. A facial muscle high on his cheek began to twitch.

"And you are?" I asked.

"Getting angry," he answered.

"I really like this place," I persisted. "It's near where I work in the financial district. I'd only come in on lunch breaks two or three times a week for an hour. I'm really serious about this. I can pay whatever it takes."

"How many times I gotta tell you we're a private gym? We don't deal with the public."

"Tell you what, let me write clown my number so you can call me if you change your mind."

"Get the fuck outta here," he growled.

Just then, Rick O'Shea came out of the back.

"Hey, Chris, you seen the shot kit? I left it in the lockup, but Brian's been in there cleaning up again. Everything's moved."

"In my desk," Chris answered. I pulled my ball cap lower, trying to keep my face turned away so I wouldn't get recognized. O'Shea had only seen me for a moment in Diamond Peterson's office, and that was two days ago. I was pretty sure, in my hot disguise, he wouldn't make me.

"Do I know you?" Rick said, immediately busting that hope. He moved closer to get a better look.

"Don't think so."

"You look familiar."

"I got one of those familiar-type faces."

I started toward the door, but he was moving along with me as I went.

"Wait a minute, wait a minute. You're the guy. With Diamond. From the home."

"Sorry I bothered you," I said to Chris. I had my hand on the door, but Rick O'Shea managed to get between me and the threshold, pushing my hand off the release bar. He suddenly snatched the ball cap off my head.

"What the fuck is this?" he said angrily. "You following me or something?"

I
started to open the door again, but Rick slammed it shut. Turned the bolt.

I was armed and just seconds from giving this idiot a gun-sight tonsillectomy when some instinct told me I should hold on and trv to BS my way out. Bad decision.

Without warning, Rick O'Shea hit me square in the forehead. I could feel my skin tear as a nasty cut opened up. I've been hit by some pretty good punchers, but this one rocked me, dimmed my lights, and sagged my knees. I went down, bowing before them.

"Get his wallet," Rick said. Chris grabbed my wallet from my pocket.

He was about to open it and find my badge when the plate-glass window of the gym suddenly exploded inward, raining glass shards all over us. It was followed an instant later by the entire front end of my car. Then Sabas Vargas was out of the driver's seat, swinging a tire iron, which I guess he'd gotten from the back of my SUV.

It happened so fast nobody had much time to react. Vargas bounced the metal bar off O'Shea's head, sending him to the floor. Then he dropped the iron and ripped a body shot at Chris's midsection, following it with an impressive uppercut. The big heavyweight was just turning toward him and didn't see it coming. He doubled over with the first blow, flew backward with the second. Both men were now spitting out blood and chipped teeth.

"Did you have something else you wanted to do or can we get the fuck out of here?" Sabas said.

I stumbled to my feet and started to get in the passenger seat of mv idling car, which was parked over some workout mats halfway through the window.

I suddenly came to my senses and went back, pried my wallet ou
t o
f Chris's hand, and relieved both of them of their wallets while Sabas got behind the wheel of my Acura. I half-limped, half-ran back to the passenger side of the car and tumbled in.

Sabas already had it in reverse and we squealed backward out of the gym. He smoked a U-turn in the parking lot, hitting the classic old Indian chopper that was parked out front, knocking it over on its side. Seconds later we were flying down Broadway, heading out of downtown.

Chapter
24

We got off the Hollywood Freeway at Santa Monica Boulevard and parked near Paramount Studios. Sabas kept the motor running. I was slumped in the passenger seat, dripping blood, looking down at a bunch of spaghetti wires hanging out from under my dash.