Nothing (5 page)

What happened?

All the witnesses were paid off or intimidated into coercing his story. Someone had to take the heat. Yama got one of his team to place a deal. Santana walks.

Largo speaks.

Cunts.

I'm emotionless. I want the Rage back, the anger, the heat. But this seems too cute for me. Too wrapped in a nice bow for me take home as a souvenir of the Golden State. I am calm, focused, fearless. I take the folder from Iverson. Old Cop doesn't like that and moves within striking distance. Largo also moves closer to me. I flick through the black and white stills and badly typed reports. Handwritten notes. Another female child was killed on a well-lit suburban street in front of 13 people. All the statements are hand-written, no one saw too much. Hispanic, latino, spanish, vague. All these words are common in the reports, and are threaded through the hand scrawled diction. Terrified, scared, lonely, frightened. Those words were not there but that's what I read. Until I crossed a name - Jennifer Gerbershaden. I scanned the words and nothing registered. I came back and read it again. I've seen that name before. Iverson takes the folder and looks back at the name I had traced with my finger.

This is ... odd.

Old Cop moves beside Iverson and looks at the statement.

Largo asks.

What's odd?

This witness here. This is where his sister was the day she died. She's a neighbor of your mom's.

I could feel it now. Rising. I smile. Rising like a temper but not. Like aggression but not. And now violence was imminent. I say.

It's too clean. This woman knows or is linked to him.

I point at the tattooed carcass.

But she's a little too convenient to put my sister in his path. Nah. Something stinks this place up. Maybe you boys shouldn't worry about me so much, you already got a murder here to investigate.

Iverson nods, closes the file, and says.

You don't need to be here right now. We won't look too hard to find who dispatched this shithead. Bad rubbish is what they say.

I nod and give Largo a nod to leave. We walk back into the blue white flickering walls. I do not speak. Largo does not speak. The doors swish open automatically. Largo blips the doors on the rental.

We get inside. Largo hits the AC. He speaks.

You buy any of that crap?

Not a word.

You got any idea what that was about?

Not yet. But I get the impression someone wants me dead in California.

Why here?

To be honest, I don't think they give a shit where it is as long as it's not Chicago. It's not easy to pull someone out of their home turf. Taking this kind of action, this kind of move. Nothing else could happen ... a lot of people get hurt.

I felt weary. Exhausted. I needed to think. Re-group. Feel. Get back my edge. Time seemed to be slowing down. My life seemed to have a vanishing point. I always thought my day would come with a cold hard wind and rainy chill. Now, it's coming with a warm sea breeze and blue blue sky.

Largo takes me to a Mexican joint. I drink a lot of JD and Coke. I eat quesadilla with fries on the side. It's hot and good. Largo drives back to the hotel. He parks while I wait for him in the lobby.

Danger feels close. My eyes are wide open. It's irrational. I am irrational. I'm prepared. I'm professional. I wait. I wait too long. The danger I now feel is out there.

The lobby is bright and cool. The young girl behind the check-in is reading something on her computer screen. She ignores my presence. I can see the darkness outside through the archway of the entrance. I move to the right hand wall and press myself against it. The adobe stucco block outside is still and quiet. A black Escalade with tinted windows slides across the entrance to the hotel. The rear passenger blacked out window rolls down, Dallas is sat in the back, I can see the curly wired earpiece. He is wearing sunglasses. He says something to the people inside the truck. Largo appears, bending forward so I can see him. His nose is bloodied. Dallas throws the keys to the rental onto the sidewalk.

Mister Yama will see you tomorrow for lunch. Let's call it noon.

I present myself so I am clear to see. I nod. Dallas nods. The window rolls up. The Escalade rolls forward and merges into the cars moving along Del Mar Street. It stops at the traffic signal then turns right. I move with care to the sidewalk, scan the ground with my eyes in the dim light while keeping my mind on the piece shoved into the back of my slacks. I see the key to the rental and pick it up.

JENNIFERS BODY

I've decided this much: I fucking hate California. It's blue blue sky, it's sea breeze, it's green ocean, it's persistent sun. All of this I can take it. I can leave it. But the people, I can't call them Californians because no one here is from California, they are all full of shit. Everyone I talk to is on the hustle. They're actors, screenwriters, designers, faggots. Then how come you're serving me fries? Oh, I'm between "projects" one major league ass hole actually put the inverted commas in with his fingers. What the fuck!

Driving to see Jennifer Gerbershaden I realize that nothing here is black and white. In Chicago I could go somewhere, I could get information. I could take what I needed. Here. Who the fuck knows anything. Nothing here is black and white. But everything is tanned for sure.

I drive the rental onto the street where my sister was murdered. I park the car 200 yards from the Gerbershaden residence. I pull on the handbrake hard, lock the door, and stroll down the sidewalk. Today I am sporting a printed shirt. Blends in with the locals. I look like a prick and fit right in. I am invisible.

I stop at the Gerbershaden house. I stare down at the spot. A small mark that seems to have been scrubbed leaves a stain. I feel nothing. I feel no grief. No anger. Nothing here is black and white.

I walk up the pathway. I smell beautiful flowers that have a strong scent, eucalyptus, and press the doorbell. I turn until my back faces the door behind me. Nothing happens. I press the bell again. And one more time. A thumping rumble from inside sounds like someone jogging down stairs. A latch clicks behind me, I don't turn. A female voice says.

Can I help you?

I rotate back quickly in a turning thrusting motion and punch Gerbershaden square in the teeth. Her hair wraps around her face as she is propelled back by the force into a stumbling stagger until she drops to the tile floor. She allows a small groan to seep from her bloody mouth.

I walk inside and close the door. I can hear a small child upstairs. Walking past Gerbershaden I snatch her pony tail and drag. Pull and drag. Open the door leading to the garage and drag. She and I are inside the cool garage. Scanning the room I see the place is very clean. I let go of her hair.

She is on her knees now. Her hands are close to her face collecting the blood drip drip dripping from her lips. A tooth falls into her hand. Another tooth. Blood spills in between her fingers. I slip the 9mm from the back of my Dockers and lightly tap it agianst her temple. She groans. She looks through her hair as it hangs limp around her eyes. Longer strands have become sticky and matted with the drip dripping blood. Stuck slick to her cheek. I chamber a round and smile. I have no intention of killing her. Not at this point. Not yet.

You lured my sister here for Manalito Santana. Why?

A slurring sucking sound. Then a weak groan.

I press the muzzle against the crown of her skull. I tap it down twice.

Listen to me. I know what you are. You're a groomer for this asshole. He's dead, so there's no need to worry about repercussions.

Another low moan.

I appreciate that you are in pain. I understand. I really do, more than you'll ever know. In fact...

I slip off my right canvas shoe and show her my right foot. The long toe next to my big toe is missing. Severed. All the way back to the knuckle of my foot. I speak.

I was in a similar situation to you one time. I didn't want to talk. Didn't see the need to say anything. I was in danger of death. Didn't want to die. They had already shoved needles into my face, my wrists and ankles and balls. But they had to cut off my toe before I said a thing. The stupid part I thought was why fuck around with needles, why not just go straight to the toe, saved us all a lot of time and pain. You want to die?

She shakes her head.

Good.

There is a pool of piss on the concrete floor. Her body trembles and jerks involuntarily. I step away from the expanding pool of piss. I tell her.

Concentrate. I need you to stay focused. Santana. He got you to get Carly here, why? For sex?

Shakes. Shivers. She shakes her head. This is a good answer for her. If she had nodded I am not sure how I would have reacted. I'm pretty sure my reaction would have created a lot of noise. A sense of relief sweeps through me. To the matter clear I will finish with Jennifer's confession first.

She could not speak well. A 20 minute conversation of mumbled words and cries of pain. She told me that Santana had been asked to grab the girl as a favor. It was Gerbershaden's job to procure certain types of girl for Santana. These were not girls but kids, Gerbershaden called them girls. Santana rented this house for her. He told her Carly was special, that it was an order. She did not and does not know what he meant by this. When my sister was on the driveway or the front yard of her house she was to call him so he could carry out the snatch. She did not know there would be death or violence.

I break Gersharden's nose with a left hook directly to the face. She went into shock but remained lucid. Inside the clean garage was a reeled hose for washing cars I suppose, or some other domestic shit I do not concern myself with. I unreel it and spray her body, hair, legs, arms and face. She starts to come round, gains consciousness. Spitting blood. I turn off the hose. I grab her hair and shake her head. She pleads. They all plead. She tells me she knows.

Knows what?

She tells me she was pissed at Santana for what had happened to Carly. He gave her more drugs, heroin, a lot more, laughed at her, told her it was just a favor. I shake her head again, hard. She screams. I wrap the hose around her throat. She pleads. They all plead.

Who asked the favor? Who did he do the fucking favor for?

She says she doesn't know. I ask her where the drugs are. She points with her bulging eyeballs to a row of suitcases mounted on an upper shelf that hangs from the ceiling so cars can be parked beneath. I let go of the hose and pull each case down until one feels heavy to the pull of gravity.

I can hear her breathing. Panting like the dog she was. I throw open the case, there are several small bags of coke and two large packets of smack. I rip one of the bags of coke and throw it at her. She shrieks and tries to grab the powder in the air, then from the concrete with her bloody fingernails. I grab another baggie of cocaine and squeeze it. She pleads. They all plead.

Who asked for the favor? A favor that was to kill my sister?

She tells me that if she tells me who the favor was for then I will kill her. I tell her that I will destroy all the powder then kill her if she doesn't tell me. I throw her another baggie. Intact. As a sign of good faith. She does not know, really does not know who Santana did this for, but she says she knows that whoever it was came from Chicago. She got a call. The accent was the same as mine, she recognized it. Chicago.

I feel my muscles tighten. I can sense my blood drop in temperature. The rage begins to rise. I try to force it back. I push and try but it's too late. My mind cannot process this. It cannot emotionally engage what she said. It's too late for her. I take the piece from the back of my Dockers and fire a single round into her eyeball. Blood sprays fucking everywhere. I wasn't prepared. Didn't want to do this. The rage did this. Rage always does. It is its nature.

I slam the case shut. The powder is still inside. I wipe the door handles with my printed shirt tails. Pick up the spent shell cartridge. I am aware that my fucking DNA is all around. I remove the green hose and reel it up in a loop around my arm and elbow, feed my arm through it and take it with me.

A child is playing upstairs. I walk down the sidewalk and up to the rental car. I take the nondescript cell I picked up at Walmart and call the sheriffs office. I give them the address. Told them I heard a disturbance and noise. It's urgent. I leave no name. The suitcase is laid on the rear seat. It was around 8 grands worth of street gear or 28 years depending on how you viewed these things. I need Largo around. Need him now. The rage is fading but the word of a Chicago contract on a child. My sister. Still kept my mouth dry and throat tight. My blood cooler. A favor she called it. From Chicago the voice she said. Let me get Largo. Let me get the truth.

Reverse the car and head for the I-5 North.

THE FAVOR

Getting to Yama by noon was pushing it. Especially with this fucking traffic. I pushed the car forward. I drove with aggression, the pussies on the freeway gave me space until there was no more space to give. I pass all the auto dealers at Irvine. I carry on North passing Disney and other fairground shit. Stop. Crawl. Make up 2 more miles. Pick up speed to 40mph back to 20mph back up to 60mph then 70 and didn't see no accident, no car wreck, no reason to slow down at all. It was all just pure weight of traffic. Car Car Car RV Truck Truck Car Motorcycle. An old guy on a Harley pulls it slow then moves into the car pool lane. His bike is shiny, his leather is shiny, he is fake and shiny and a fraud like the rest of his compadres. Middle aged assholes who try to look young, go back in time and try to buy a hunk of steel that will throb between their legs like an anal vibrator. Fucking A-holes.

Sliding closer to LA, the garbage on the highway grows showing the decay that surrounds the city. I take the La Cienega exit twisting back upon myself to Sunset and Wilshire, closer still to Beverley Hills. Inside the winding green streets I feel light years from the rotting urban decay of the suburbs. Here was clear streets, manicured hedge rows, renta-cops and high-end cars. Most of the houses seem modest in size and stature but then a humongous monument to bad taste gets thrown into the mix. This is Beverley Hills.