Secrets & Lies (33 page)

1961

O
CTOBER
10, 1961

I'm listening to Elvis's new album,
Blue Hawaii
, and it's wonderful. It has such an “exotica” feel, like that music I was listening to in New York for a while, although the ballad “Can't Help Falling in Love” is different. I predict that will be his next hit single. The movie doesn't open until next month, around Thanksgiving, but it's nice to have the record so I can be familiar with the songs before I see the picture. Actually, everyone's talking about the movie
West Side Story
, which comes out next week. It's supposed to be spectacular, and I'm excited to see it. I love the music.

This afternoon after I exercised at the Gym, I went to see Barry at his cabin in Laurel Canyon. I didn't dress up completely as the Stiletto, I just wore the mask and jacket. He laughed when he saw me. “Dressing casual, are we?” he asked.

Things have been quiet with regard to illegal guns. Barry's investigations have produced no worthwhile information in the past few weeks. The D.A. believes that my actions, along with the arrests, have curtailed the mob's activities. For a while, Barry thought the Heathens weren't cooperating with Casazza's organization because of all the heat that was on them.

“Actually, I think it's mostly about something else entirely,” he
said. “The Heathens are still at war with Los Serpientes, but their differences are not just about territory. Last week, border agents caught some members of Los Serpientes trying to enter Mexico carrying a load of counterfeit U.S. money. Remember I mentioned that? Customs officials have suspected that a pipeline between L.A. and the border has been in place for several weeks; some of the fake bills have already shown up down there. Counterfeit money is difficult to detect in Mexico because for the most part they aren't as familiar with what our money looks like as we are.”

“And you think Casazza has something to do with it?”

“I do. The Feds sweated one of the Serpents down in Chula Vista. He said that the Heathens weren't doing business with Casazza anymore because they were pissed off that the Italians were making counterfeit dough and selling it to Los Serpientes and not to the Heathens. The Serpents want guns, too, but Casazza's deal was only with the Heathens, and the Heathens won't sell to the Serpents.”

“Do you have proof that Casazza is behind the counterfeiting?”

“Only by this guy's word. We need physical evidence. That's where you come in.”

“I figured you'd say that.”

“It might be dangerous, possibly more dangerous than breaking into one of the Heathens' hangouts.”

I waved him off. “Do your worst, Barry.”

“We need to find where the stuff's being made. Maybe there are clues at Los Serpientes's hideout, so we'd like you to go there and see what you can find.”

“Where is it?”

“In a rough part of town. Southeast L.A., on a street called Florence. It's another auto-repair shop, but it also adjoins the Serpents's clubhouse and a commercial bar that caters to Mexicans. Their leader is a man named Carlos Gabriel. He's Mexican, but he's an American citizen. He's been in and out of jail so many times you'd think his wardrobe would consist of nothing but striped pajamas.
He's a very bad man, and his men are killers. I suggest you take a look at the place during the day, come up with a plan, and let me know. Then we'll coordinate a night when we can get plenty of backup. You might need it.”

He gave me the address, and I said I'd be in touch.

O
CTOBER
13, 1961

Today I went to Los Serpientes's auto-repair shop. Barry was right. The neighborhood was not somewhere I'd normally go, but I'm fearless, ha ha. The place was called Tijuana Auto, and the bar next to it was named La Cantina. Like the Heathens's shop, it was surrounded by a chain-link fence with barbed wire on top. The front gate was open, allowing access to the garage during hours of operation. La Cantina didn't have a fence, of course, the dive was always open to the public as long as the clientele was Latino, I suppose. Scary-looking Mexican bikers were all over the lot. Yes, it was intimidating, even in broad daylight. But I had a plan.

I drove my Sunliner right through the gate like I knew what I was doing. Did I stick out like a sore thumb? You bet. A pretty white girl in a Mexican neighborhood? No women around that I could see, just big, burly Latinos with tattoos and scars and bad teeth. After parking the car in front, I got out and said hello to two men who stood gawking at me, and walked inside the shop. Two ugly dogs immediately started barking with the ferocity of lions. They were pit bulls, I think, a breed known to be vicious attack animals. They were leashed, thank goodness, tied to a post, so they couldn't get at me unless I moved closer. I had no doubt they would have bitten me had I done so.

A man wearing greasy work clothes came in through the garage area and spoke to me in Spanish. I said, “Sorry, does anyone speak English here?”

The dogs kept barking and he shouted at them in his language.
They shut up and then the man answered, “Yeah, I speak English.” He said it as if the phrase was beneath him.

“Oh, great. I'd like to get new hubcaps for my car.” I gestured outside. “The Ford out there. I want something classy.” I pointed to the wall where several styles were mounted. There was a set of “dog dish”-style caps that were shiny and smooth that I thought would look great with a black body. “How about those? How much are they?”

The man looked at me as if I was crazy. What was a white girl doing in an outlaw motorcycle club's HQ? Buying hubcaps? Really? I knew that was what he was thinking.

“Hello? Did you hear me?” I asked after he said nothing.

“Yeah, I heard you. Why did you come here, lady?”

“A friend said you guys do great work.” I shrugged. “I live down the street.” I acted like it made no difference to me who I shopped with.

Another creepy man came into the sales room. He wore a Serpientes leather jacket that had a patch proclaiming him as “Presidente.” There was an intensity about him that was palpable. He was Carlos Gabriel, no question about it.

“May I help you?” he asked. No smile, no indication that he was there to be of assistance.

“Oh, do you work here? I want to buy those hubcaps for my Ford outside. Is that a problem?”

Gabriel looked at the other man, who spoke rapid Spanish and shrugged. Gabriel looked back at me and asked, “Would you like us to install them, too?”

“Yes, please. How much are they?” I reached into my purse. He quoted me an acceptable price and I paid cash. The other man asked for my keys, so I handed them over. He went outside, got in the car, and drove it into the garage bay. In the meantime, I squatted in front of the dogs. “What beautiful animals. I love dogs.”

They growled.

“Careful, they bite,” Gabriel warned.

I spoke baby talk to them. “Aw, you wouldn't bite
me
, would you? What are your names?”

“Hoja and Bala,” Gabriel answered for the dogs.

“Aren't they friendly to people they know?”

“Sometimes.”

“Introduce me. I'd love to pet them.”

Warily, Gabriel spoke Spanish to the dogs and indicated me. I carefully reached out and scratched Bala's head. His tail wagged. I did the same to Hoja. After a few minutes of neck and back scratching, they were my best friends. “Do you feed them any treats?” I asked.

Gabriel must have been impressed that a white girl like me would take to such horrible-looking and dangerous beasts. He reached up to a shelf, plucked two dog biscuits from a jar, and handed them to me. Bala and Hoja immediately started drooling and eyeing me with anticipation. I held the cookies above their heads. “Sit!” I commanded. Nothing happened. “Sit!”

“¡Siéntate!”
Gabriel ordered. The dogs obeyed, so I fed them the treats. In doing so, I got a good look at their big, sharp teeth.

“Could I try it again?”

Although he wasn't smiling, I think Gabriel appreciated that I gave so much attention to his attack dogs. Most people were probably so scared of them that they shied away, trembling. He retrieved two more biscuits and handed them over. I quietly repeated the Spanish word to him to make sure I got it right, and then I stood, displayed the cookies over the dogs' heads, and commanded them to
siéntate
!

It worked. Bala and Hoja sat, wagged their tails, and drooled. I dropped the biscuits into their mouths, and they gobbled them in one bite.

“Are we friends now?” I asked them. I squatted again, scratched their heads, noses, ears, necks, bellies, and I let them smell me and lick me, which is exactly what I wanted them to do.

“Are they good watchdogs?”

There was a hint of a smile on Gabriel's face. He was probably
thunderstruck that a white girl would be so friendly to him, be unafraid of the neighborhood, and take so kindly to his attack hounds.

“They'll kill anyone they don't know who tries to get on the lot after 9:00.”

“Really? What happens at 9:00?”

“We close.”

“Oh, right.”

But he shrugged a little and allowed more of a smile. “But most nights we're right next door having a few drinks.”

Was he
flirting
with me?

“Is it a good bar?”

“
Sí
.”

“Would it be safe for me to go in there some evening?”

The man stared at me for a long time. The hint of pleasantry had vanished. “Probably not,” he said.

I kept petting the dogs for several minutes until the other man returned and spoke Spanish again. Gabriel interpreted, “Your car is ready.” I stood and looked out the front glass window. My car was sitting there with the new adornments, and they were gorgeous.

“Wow, they look good, don't they! Well, thank you, er,
gracias
.” I turned to the doggies and said, “
Adiós, amigos.
” I petted them one more time and walked outside. Gabriel followed me and waited beside the car as I got in. After I started it, I rolled down the window to thank him again. He leaned in and said, “I don't know why you came here, lady, you can get those hubcaps most places. I suggest you don't come back.” Then he walked back inside.

Fine. I won't be going back as Judy Cooper, that's for sure. But now I know exactly how the Black Stiletto's going to pay a visit.

T
HE
P
RESENT

I'm out of jail and at the hospital with Dad. Mom, Ross, and Maggie are here, too. Yesterday he was still recovering from the operation and slept practically the entire time. Today Dad is awake and lucid. His neck is bandaged and he has bruises on his face where those guys hit him. Since he can't talk, he uses a pen and paper to write stuff down. They're giving him liquid food, but he complains that it hurts to swallow. The doctor said that's to be expected for a while.

When he saw me, he got tears in his eyes and we hugged each other. He wrote, THANKS FOR SAVING ME on the pad. I answered, “What are daughters for?” and he smiled.

Maggie is very attentive, and when she and the doctor spoke in their language—medical talk—it was obvious she was in her element. She had a tendency to boss around the nurses and tell them what to do until Dad wrote to her, RELAX, LET THEM DO THEIR JOBS, DR. McDANIEL. She laughed at that and said, “You're right.”

The police came to the ICU to see if Dad was willing to answer questions. The doctor told them they could try for just a little while. He didn't want Dad to get upset or overextend himself. He still needs a lot of rest.

There were three men. One of them was Detective Jordan, and one was that bastard Detective Merrill, who barely met my eyes. He
didn't have the wherewithal to apologize for arresting me. Late yesterday, just as I was being released, Detective Jordan told us that it was pretty clear that the two men who assaulted Dad were responsible for killing some woman on the West Side. I didn't know anything about that. He said forensics tests still had to be done, but he was pretty certain what the results would be.

The men's names were William “Stark” Simon and Bernard “Bernie” Childers. It was Childers who was the shooter and now had a broken neck. They were both being charged with the murder of that woman and other crimes against Dad and me. I was tempted to go find them and give them a piece of my mind, but I didn't. Detective Jordan also warned me to leave them alone. Simon was being released from the hospital today and taken to jail. It wasn't clear how long Childers would be in the ICU. If he survived a week after paralysis, there was a good chance he'd continue living. He'd have to go through months of rehabilitation and spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair or a bed. I suppose I should feel remorse for doing that to him, but what can I say?
He played with fire and got burned
.