The Poe Consequence Page 17

  “Like I told you,” a Lobo said, “motherfucker’s shootin’ us up with some poison shit.”

  “We haven’t found any traces of poison,” Dean replied.

  “What the fuck is he doin’ then, man?” Ruiz asked. “What are you hidin’?”

  Atkinson rose. Turning toward Captain Dean, he leaned close and whispered, “You told me to tell ‘em the truth, Captain. That’s what I’ll do.” Glancing first at Ruiz, Atkinson scanned every face before speaking. All eyes zeroed in on him. “There’s one more thing we can’t figure out. The findings from all nineteen heart attack victims…” Atkinson paused, realizing this next bit of news would either make or break the effect of the entire meeting. “The findings,” he repeated, “the autopsies, show that the hearts had been…frozen.” (Dean later described that moment to Atkinson as being so quiet, “you could hear the fraying of the volleyball net.”)

  Dean stood and offered a tight-lipped smile to his Lieutenant, signifying a job well done. Doing his best to avoid technical details and medical terminology, Dean went on to explain how the coroner arrived at his findings, and why the heart stopped beating. After answering some questions, Dean moved forward to within a few feet of both gangs. “There’s something you men better realize,” he said, “and the sooner the better. You’re no longer in control. Someone out there has got your number, comprende? Thirty-five young men from your two gangs have died in the last six months. If you keep this war going, you’ll lose a whole lot more. Maybe some of you here tonight.”

  “Six months and you ain’t got a fuckin’ clue, man!” Ruiz shouted. “Maybe that’s ‘cause you don’t give a shit if the Mexicans kill each other. If we was white, you’d be all over it.”

  “I don’t care what damn color you are!” Atkinson shouted. “We’ve got a killer on our hands and we need your help, not your paranoid bullshit.”

  “Let me remind you of something,” Dean said. “Nineteen of the deaths over the last six months had nothing to do with heart failure, and everything to do with the Lobos and Diablos. Seems to me it’s you guys who don’t give a shit if Mexicans kill each other.”

  “You said somethin’ ‘bout needin’ our help,” Alejandro interjected. “What kind of help you talkin’ ‘bout?”

  “You want to answer that, Lieutenant?” Dean asked. As Dean moved to the side, Atkinson left his chair to occupy the same spot where Dean had been standing. “The consistent, next day, four a.m. pattern of the heart attacks leads us to believe it’s one person behind all this,” he said. “When it comes to multiple killings, precision doesn’t work well in pairs. This guy’s clever. A real shrewd son-of-a-bitch. But in every case so far, one-hundred-percent of the time, he only strikes after someone from one of your gangs commits a murder. Based on that fact alone, we believe if you stop your war, he’ll stop his.”

  Dean walked over to Atkinson. Standing side by side, the two of them faced the twelve representatives who they needed to forge a peace, albeit a cold one.

  “The Lieutenant has said all there is to say,” Dean stated. “The rest is up to you. Go back and let the others know what we discussed today. This isn’t a trick or a joke, men, it’s a life or death mystery that should scare the shit out you.” Dean searched the expressions on the twelve faces again. “I’ll leave you with a famous quote,” he said. “It’s an ancient one, but as meaningful to your two gangs as when it was first spoken.” He stood silent for a brief moment. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.” Dean paused for several more seconds before continuing. “What that means, men, if you haven’t figured it out by now, is that you share the same enemy and you’re in this together, whether you like it or not. Together. Someone out there doesn’t seem to want you guys around. Either you start understanding this, and stop the killing, or kiss your macho asses goodbye.”

  * * *

  Alejandro Torres approached Atkinson after the meeting. “You ain’t bein’ straight with us, man,” he said. “Seems to me this could be an inside job. Maybe some cops are havin’ their way. Treatin’ us like their bitch. Got plenty of my homeboys thinkin’ that kind of shit.”

  “I know that’s how a lot of you think, Alejandro, but there’s nothing that leads me to believe that.”

  “There’s lots of you out there don’t like us, man. You gonna argue with that?”

  Atkinson glared at Torres. “No, I won’t argue with that at all. In fact, I’ll add to it. There’s lots of us out there that hate you. We hate what you stand for, the fear you bring to the good citizens of our community. The heartbreak you bring to so many families, including your own.”

  Torres gave a sarcastic laugh. “Our own families? We don’t got families, man. We got shit at home. Why you think we found each other in the first place?”

  “You’ve got family, Alejandro. I’ve met your mother and sister. They’re good people. And they care about you.” One of Alejandro’s homeboys yelled out to him from the door. “Hey, Face, let’s go!”

  Atkinson looked toward the door. “Is that what your homeboys call you, Alejandro? ‘Face?’”

  “That ain’t none of your business, man. I just don’t need you tellin’ me ‘bout my mother and sister.”

  “You’re right,” Atkinson said. “You don’t. You’re smart enough to figure things out for yourself. Hell, you were smart enough to figure out you’re the only two gangs getting heart attacks. Seems like nobody else knew but you. Why don’t you take those brains of yours and do something useful? Your father was a rough character but he’s not around anymore. He can’t bother you now. It’s time for you to move on, don’t you think?”

  Face turned away to join the others, glancing back in silence.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Pissed off at the possibility of peace, and frustrated with the lack of satisfactory answers, King sat brooding for several minutes before heading toward the exit where the Lobos had been instructed to go. Fame, Colt, Tower, and Snapper left right away, but Ram stood blocking the doorway. King noticed him staring at Atkinson talking to some pretty-boy Diablo kiss-ass.

  “What the hell you lookin’ at man?” he asked with disgust. “C’mon, let’s get the fuck outta here.”

  “Esperate, King,” Ram replied, telling him to wait. “You see that asshole talkin’ with Atkinson?”

  “Yeah,” he muttered, “so fuckin’ what?”

  “I heard one of his homeboys call him Face. That’s fuckin’ Face, man.”

  “That’s fuckin’ Face, man’,” King mimicked. “Who the hell is he?”

  Ram turned his gaze away and looked at King. “I’ll tell you who he is, man,” he said, lowering his voice. “He’s the pinchi culero worked it out to kill Viper.”

  Ram’s words hit King like a sledgehammer. “What?” he barked, his eyes wide and attentive. “How the hell you know that?”

  “I was there when Viper went down, man. At Ironwood.”

  “From that Diablo prick over there? You sure?”

  “Wasn’t no Face who did it. Some fat ugly ass Diablo snuck a shiv into the cafeteria,” he explained, describing the use of a homemade knife made in prison. “Nobody saw it comin’. When Viper went down the motherfucker kept yellin’ somethin’ ‘bout, ‘a message from Face to honor his sister, Victoria.’”

  King squinted, leaning his head closer to Ram’s. “You mean, Veronica?” he asked. “Was the bitch’s name Veronica?”

  “Yeah, man, maybe that was it. Veronica. Face and Veronica.”

  King felt a surge of adrenaline barreling through his body, realizing that the Diablo asshole talking to Atkinson was actually his old neighbor, Alejandro Torres. His mind raced from the possibilities. This was the news he needed to boost his sagging spirits, to rejoice in the sudden discovery of unexpected inspiration and a reminder of how good it felt to be a North Rampart Lobo.

  “C’mon,” he said, prodding Ram through the door. “We gonna kill us a Diablo!”

  Ram stood his ground. “God damn, man,” he blurted. “A
in’t you heard what’s goin’ down? Fuckin’ crazy shit.”

  King brought his face to within an inch of Ram’s. “Ain’t no fuckin’ cop bullshit gonna turn me into no pussy,” he growled. “Viper was like my brother, man. I been waitin’ a long time for this. That Diablo motherfucker is mine!”

  King charged to the outside area where the other Lobos waited. He felt drunk, but on the intoxicating nearness of overdue revenge. The taste seemed even sweeter than cold Bud. How many years had it been since his old man abandoned the family for that bitch whore? He wasn’t sure, but that’s when they had to leave their house and move to the subsidized piece-of-shit they lived in now. One thing he was sure of, though, was that Alejandro Torres, the punk-ass neighbor who kicked his soccer ball down the street and almost got him killed, was now a pinchi Diablo. That fuckin’ asshole deserved to die back then for what he did to him and was gonna die now for what he did to Viper. King chuckled to himself. He didn’t know it at the time, but the perfect payback had already been carried out on Alejandro’s sister, Veronica. Life can be a fuckin’ funny thing.

  * * *

  The name on the same mailbox still read “Torres.” King plotted his revenge from the passenger seat as Ram accelerated away from the house.

  “We’ll stake out his place,” he said, “and look for a time to catch that Diablo punk alone.” King took a large swig from the Bud they shared. “Too many fuckin’ eyes around here. We gotta be smart.”

  Ram downed the last few swallows before tossing the can out the window. “I still ain’t cool with this, man,” he complained.

  King pounded his fist on the dashboard. “You were there, God damn it! You watched Viper take a filero in the neck and get dissed as he was dyin’, man! You gonna let that shit go unpunished?”

  King glared at Ram, watching him rub a hand over his tatted face and the top of his shaved head. The thought of a Diablo taunting Viper as he lay bleeding to death sickened him. But he couldn’t pull this off alone. You can’t have a drive-by without a driver, and he sensed Ram’s reluctance weakening.

  “It’s about respect, man,” King told him, lowering his voice from a growl to a snarl. Respect for Viper and respect for the North Rampart Lobos.” King leaned in closer. “If we don’t take a stand, Ram, what does that make us? Nothin’ but pussies. Little fuckin’ pussies.” Pounding his heart with his fist, he added, “I got too much fuckin’ pride, man. I’m goin’ after him.”

  Ram looked over at King. “I ain’t doubtin’ your heart, man,” he said, in the agreeable tone King wanted. “How you gonna do it? Back at his house?”

  King nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I’m thinkin’,” he answered. “When I’m finished with that motherfucker, he’ll have more holes than a Tijuana whorehouse.”

  Ram laughed. “That’s a lot of fuckin’ holes, man.”

  “Don’t wanna fuck this one up,” King said. “I’ve waited too long. I need to find some shit out. Does he hang around for dinner? Does he sleep there? Does he got some wheels he leaves in the driveway or the street when he’s home?”

  Ram shook his head. “You can’t hang out there, man. You got Diablos gonna spot your ass. How the fuck you gonna learn them things?”

  King smiled. “I ain’t no pendejo, homie,” he said, telling Ram he wasn’t stupid. “I need me another pair of eyes. A spy. I’m gonna recruit me a little wannabe gonna do what I tell him.”

  “You got somebody?” Ram asked.

  “Some cholos from Luis’ school been askin’ him ‘bout bangin’ with the Lobos. That school ain’t no more than a half mile from the house. Gonna find me one who lives close.” He rubbed his hands together. “Some lucky little cabrón is gonna do King a big favor.”

  “You think a punk-ass cholito can pull it off?”

  King rocked back and forth, riding the wave of his adrenalin surge. “If he listens to what I tell him to do,” he answered. “That fuckin’ Diablo rat piece-of-shit ain’t gonna spot the smaller trap, man. They’re the hardest ones to see.”

  Ram remained silent for a long moment. “I know what this means to you, King,” he said, his voice quiet but intense. “You wanna pull this shit off, and you need help. I got your back, homie. You don’t need me tellin’ you what not to fuckin’ do.” Ram cupped the back of King’s head. “I’m down, vato,” he told him. Just tell me when.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  In one way, Veronica had come far. That long, difficult journey of working double shifts as a waitress in order to support her schooling and find a stable job away from the neighborhood ended in success. She’d been hired to manage the day care center at a medical clinic about twenty-five miles north of downtown in the San Fernando Valley, kept up with her car payments, and lived in a safe, spacious North Hollywood apartment. But that can of Mace she kept in her purse symbolized a large part of her current life still chained to the past, and as she sat and stared out the window of her apartment, thinking about Kevin Palmer, that chain seemed as inescapable as ever.

  He had seen her walking through the mall a few weeks after Seth’s tutoring lessons started and asked her to join him for a cup of coffee. Although her initial reluctance turned into a long, enjoyable conversation, she’d managed to keep the relationship from advancing beyond a lunch date and occasional phone calls and e-mails. His requests to see her more often had been met with imaginary excuses, but how many more could she offer without seeming obvious about it? If he wanted nothing more than her company, no problem arises, but she anticipated and understood his eventual desire for physical love, leading to her rejection of him, and his resentment. Veronica recognized Kevin as someone who didn’t make her feel threatened like other men, but as long as she remained a slave to the memory that ensnared her like an unyielding cobweb, she couldn’t make love with any man.

  She had convinced herself that any emotions tied to love had died, but something about Kevin made her defenses weaken. Still, she remained incapable of laying down her shield. Her feelings alternated as a constant tug-of-war between desire and dread, passion and repulsion. She needed more time, but would he be willing to wait for her to overcome her fear? Would his drifting hands and probing fingers make her grow tense? Would the brushing of the hair from his arms and legs feel like wispy icicles shocking her skin? Could her body welcome his penetration without turning frigid?

  Her roommate’s cat, Luna, scaled the side of the couch and curled himself in her lap. As she stroked the round, white spot above his eyes, she noticed its resemblance to a solitary moon amidst the black fur. Veronica wondered if her destiny meant living in as cold and isolated a state as the real moon.

  “These are the fun years, girl,” her roommate, Kimberly, warned her. “With your face and that body, you could have any man you wanted wrapped around your little finger. Come on, hon, what are you waiting for?”

  The tears formed and fell from Veronica’s eyes as she recounted to herself, again, the night that changed her life forever.

  * * *

  The Halloween party inside the Park and Recreation Center building had been well attended, despite the cold drizzle that moved in that afternoon and persisted into the night. Veronica was only twenty-three years old but entrusted with organizing the neighborhood affair featuring a face painter for the kids, music, food, soda, and, of course, plenty of candy. A special treat was the “Haunted House,” for those young souls brave enough to confront the various scare tactics of four different volunteers hiding in the dark. Judging by the screams heard through the evening, the actors played their part quite well.

  Along with the originally planned vampire, ghost, and witch, an unexpected late addition brought them a costumed, unshaven pirate wearing a black patch over his left eye. A few minutes before the event started, he approached her near the food stand.

  “Me and you used to be neighbors.”

  Looking up from filing a large bowl of popcorn, Veronica’s eyes widened when she saw a stranger staring at her, dressed from head to toe as
a pirate. “We did?” she replied. “What’s your name?”

  “Miguel Ruiz,” he answered. “When I was a kid I lived next door. You’re Veronica. And your brother’s Alejandro, right?”

  Veronica stared at him a few moments before a smile of recognition appeared. “Yes, that’s right,” she said. “I remember you now. How’ve you been, Miguel?”

  “Good,” he said. “What’s Alejandro doin’ now?”

  “He’s…working. As a mechanic.”

  “In L.A.?”

  “Yeah…L.A.,” she answered, wanting to steer the subject away from her brother serving time. “I like your costume.”

  “I was thinkin’ I could help here,” he said. “You need a pirate?”

  Veronica looked at her watch. The kids would start arriving in less than thirty minutes and she still hadn’t prepared the whole food table. “I’ll tell you what,” she said, smiling, “I need a pirate to help me finish with the food and sodas. Okay?”

  “How ‘bout over there?” he asked, pointing to the makeshift room with the “Haunted House” sign on the door. “I wanna do that.”

  “The Haunted House?” she asked. “I wonder if there’s enough hiding space left in there.” Veronica evaluated the idea for several moments. “All right, Miguel. We’ll fit you in. We go from six to nine tonight. Can you stay until the end?”

  His smile seemed odd, and his one exposed eye appeared bloodshot, but she figured the effect of the costume caused her uneasiness.

  “Yeah, I’ll stay,” he said. “I’ll stick around to help you clean up if you want, too.”

  “Muchas gracias, Miguel.” Veronica reached under the table and produced two large bags of M&M’s. “Help me put some more candy in the bowls,” she said. “Then we’ll find you a place to hide.”