Jon Stone:
three days before Cole is taken
20.
This time of morning, still more than an hour before sunrise, Jon Stone watched Los Angeles turn gold from his home in the hills above the Sunset Strip. The ocean to his right was a black smudge dissolving into a murky night sky as the first glow of the new day seeped over the horizon. Soon, the eastern faces of downtown skyscrapers would catch the light, and as Jon watched, their golden fire would jump to Wilshire Corridor high-rises to the buildings along Hollywood Boulevard and on to the twin towers of Century City.
Jon stood naked on the tile deck at the edge of his pool, raised his hands to the city, and shouted as loud as he could.
“KISS. MY. ASS.”
Then Jon Stone shouted even more loudly.
“KISS! MYY! ASSSS!”
Jon loved Los Angeles, he loved his house, and he loved being home. It was great to be back.
Then he lowered his arms, and spoke quietly in a soft voice.
“Made it again, you bitches.”
Jon did a forward flip into his pool, tucked in tight for a fast rotation, hit the cold water, touched bottom, then pushed up and out in a single motion, back on the deck no problemo, dripping. It was a small pool, but still—Jon was built like a diver, but had never dived or swum competitively. He had played football and baseball in college, pole-vaulted all four years, and was captain of the judo and fencing teams. Junior and senior years, he part-timed as a bouncer. Jon Stone was good with his body, and enjoyed being physical.
Jon padded inside to his living room bar, and dug around in the fridge for a carton of apple juice. His house was dark except for the royal blue LED strip under the bar and bar cabinets. Mood lighting, to bounce off the steel tile and black marble counter. Earlier, Jon had pushed the four heavy glass doors into their wall pocket, joining the terrazzo interior with the tile deck to open his home to the pool and the city beyond.
Jon had purchased his house at the beginning of a down market: a twelve-hundred-square-foot, two-bedroom fixer on a tiny lot on a small street off Sunset Plaza Drive with an epic view and stellar privacy. Jon made a good living, but the house had been beyond his means, both then and now, so he funneled almost all his earnings into its re-creation. Floor-to-ceiling glass sliding doors, terrazzo floors, Italian tile deck, and French gray pool. The two tiny bedrooms had been transformed into an amazing master suite with a view of the city, a whirlpool tub, an oversized steam shower, and a walk-in, walnut, twenty-foot closet in which hung almost no clothes. Check out
Casa Stone
: black marble counters, German fixtures, Japanese toilets, and a full-on commercial kitchen. State-of-the-art, computer-controlled audio, video, climate, and alarms. Jon put his money into the house. It was his passion. A work of art in progress. An obsession with a home in which he did not live.
He kept his guns elsewhere.
Most of them.
Jon grabbed a carton of juice, then returned to the deck where he dropped onto a chaise lounge, still wet from the pool. The pool had been cold, and the pre-dawn air even colder, but Jon didn’t mind. He had spent twenty of the past twenty-one days above 12,000 feet in the Hindu Kush of Afghanistan, not far from the Khyber Pass and close to the Pakistan border. It had been a lot colder than his beautiful house high above the Sunset Strip. He could see the Whisky from here. He could see the big red, blue, and green buildings of the Pacific Design Center on Melrose where he had bought most of his furniture for cash.
Jon Stone was a professional military contractor—a PMC, also known as a mercenary. These days, he made most of his money by placing other professionals in contract jobs for a fifteen percent fee, though occasionally he still worked as a special teams operator for certain corporations and governments, namely the good ol’ U.S. of A.
Stone had the credentials to do this, and, like many elite soldiers, his credentials were surprising. He had attended Princeton University on a National Merit Scholarship, where he studied history and philosophy, though most of his time was spent drinking beer and playing sports. His course work was an afterthought, but completed with honors, after which he enlisted in the United States Army. No-brainer. His passion in history had been the great wars and generals, and the monumental land and naval campaigns that carved world history and elevated some few men to greatness.
God DAMN, but Jon loved that stuff!
OCS. Airborne, Ranger, Special Forces, Delta. Delta was a bitch, but everything else had been pretty easy. High-speed assault. Explosive entry. Hostage rescue. Jon ate it up. Loved being a soldier, loved the company of like-minded men, loved the noise and the skills and the crazy wild-ass adventure lesser men feared.
Lesser.
Men.
Made Jon smile, even now, gazing out over his city.
Thirteen years in service, the last four with Delta, and Jon had gone private. Time to see and do something else. Get a little diversity in his life. Jon had been married six times. Long-term commitments weren’t high on his list. He loved having a mission, and completing that mission, and if he got to kick a little ass along the way and make a few bucks, so be it. If things got hairy and his pulse spooled up, it was better than getting clogged arteries.
Now, eighteen hours off the plane from Afghanistan, and Jon was already thinking about what would come next, there on his deck as the city twinkled and his slug-butt neighbors slept.
His phone vibrated. A faraway buzz on the tile beneath the chaise lounge.
Stone checked the Caller ID, recognized Pike’s number, and immediately answered. Jon had booked Joe Pike in the past, and had worked with him, too. Jon could book Pike at two thousand a day, twenty G minimum, up front and guaranteed. Special assignments, the sky had no limit. And Pike was very, very special.
“Let’s go make some money, bro. I’m smellin’ green.”
Pike’s low voice came back.
“You speak Korean, right?”
“
Juh nun han gook mal ul mae woo jal hap ni da, moo aht ul al go ship eu sae yo?
”
Jon saying he spoke Korean perfectly, and asking what Pike wanted to know.
“How about Korean organized crime?”
Jon had spent time in both South and North Korea, and could read Hangul, the modern Korean script. But coming out of the blue like this, the question made Jon wary.
“Depends. Here or in Korea?”
“I’m watching a place on Olympic. The people I’m on could be OC.”
Stone tried to sound noncommittal. He knew Koreatown well. Liked the women. Liked karaoke. The Koreans were big on
noraebang.
“I might know something. I’d have to see.”
“You know something or not?”
“Maybe.”
“You good with Arabic?”
Bam! Out of left field, and now Stone was smiling. There were many Arabic dialects, from Moroccan Arabic with Berber words which often did not even sound Arabic, to the aristocratic Arabic spoken by the Saudi royal family, which was different from the Arabic spoken in the streets.
“
enta bethahraf aina be naifham kuiais. eish auzanee le olak bel logha arabeia.
”
Jon answered in street Arabic, saying Pike already knew he was fluent, and asking what he wanted translated.
Jon Stone was fluent in English, Arabic, Korean, Chinese, Spanish, Russian, and French. He could get by in Farsi, Japanese, German, and three different African dialects. He had studied only English and French in school.
Pike said, “Copy the address. Come down and see.”
“I didn’t hear a ka-ching.”
“Come down.”
“I’ve been away, man, c’mon.”
Pike didn’t respond, and Stone knew Pike was waiting him out.
“Twenty of the last twenty-one. I still smell like camels.”
“You miss it already.”
Stone stared at the faint eastern light and admitted Pike had him. Eighteen hours at home, and he already wanted to go.
“What about the money?”
“No money. It’s Cole.”
“That lame-ass turd works for shit. Why you waste your time with that guy?”
“If you can’t help, you’re gone. I’ll owe you a favor.”
Now Stone perked up. Pike’s favors meant money. He made a big deal of sighing, as if doing it was some monstrous pain in the ass, but he was already committed.
“Okay. All right. Where are you?”
Pike gave him an address.
Stone didn’t bother writing it because he would not forget it. Jon Stone never forgot anything, and never had. He could still recite junior high textbooks, operating and maintenance manuals for the M249 SAW light machine gun and twenty-seven other personal weapons systems, and both volumes of
Mastering the Art of French Cooking,
by Julia Child. Every word. Every word of every document, book, newspaper, and article he had ever read. School had been easy. Delta had been hard. Jon liked it hard.
“Be there in thirty.”
Stone placed his phone back on his belly. Far to the south, a line of bright lights descended toward LAX. Eighteen hours ago, he was strapped inside one of the lights.
Jon cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted as loudly as he could.
“KISS MY ASSSSSS!”
Far in the canyon below, another voice answered.
“Shut the fuck up, asshole!”
Jon Stone laughed, naked there in his backyard overlooking a golden city, then went inside to dress for the day.
Part 2
Elvis Cole:
three days before he is taken
21.
Thomas Locano phoned me at six the next morning, so early the canyon behind my house still held the fading threads of yesterday’s fog. I had slept on the couch.
“I didn’t expect to hear from you so quickly. Is everything all right?”
“My apologies for the hour, but I told you I might phone early.”
“Yes, sir, you did. This isn’t a problem.”
“Can you meet me in Echo Park by seven?”
I rolled off the couch, and went to the kitchen. This black cat who lives with me was waiting by his dish, but he wasn’t waiting for me to feed him. He had brought his own. A fourteen-inch piece of king snake was on the floor by the bowl. It was still twitching. Maybe he wanted to share.
I said, “You found something about the Syrian?”
“I found someone who knows of this man. We will see him together if you will meet me, but it has to be now. He has other obligations.”
I took the snake outside and dropped it over the rail. The cat let out a long, low war growl, then slipped off the deck after his kill. He would hold it against me.
I checked the time.
“I’ll be out the door in fifteen. Where do we meet?”
“On the east side of the lake, where they rent the paddle boats? You will see me.”
I shaved, changed shirts, and was making a fast cup of instant when Joe Pike called.
He said, “Jon’s in. He knows these people. Come down, he’ll fill us in.”
“Locano called first. I’m heading out now. He may have a line on the Syrian.”
“We’ll stay with the Beemer. Come when you can.”
I tossed the phone on the couch, locked the door, and followed the Hollywood Freeway south toward downtown Los Angeles. It was exactly the same route I drove when I first met Nita Morales, but this time I dropped off the freeway at Echo Park, an old and long-established community built around a decorative lake. The lake is encircled by a narrow green area split by a bike path. In the early days of Los Angeles, the silent film industry was centered in Echo Park before it moved to Hollywood, and the nearby Elysian Hills and Angelino Heights neighborhoods were home to the rich and famous. The makeup of the area has slowly changed since the film people left, and is now mostly home to working-class immigrants from Asia and Central America.
I made my way to the east side of Echo Lake, parked on a nearby street, and hurried to the boathouse. Even at this early hour, joggers and walkers circled the lake, and short brown women pushed baby carriages in schools like fish or stood talking to friends with their carriages parked like cars at a demolition derby.
Thomas Locano stood between two palm trees at the edge of the water, and wasn’t alone. A skinny Latin kid wearing white pants and a white T-shirt was with him. The kid was bald, maybe five four, and couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred ten pounds. He was also sleeved out and necklaced with gang ink, and couldn’t have been more than fifteen years old. They watched me approach, and Mr. Locano spoke first.
“Mr. Cole, this is my friend Alfredo Munoz. Fredo, this is my good friend Mr. Cole. He is also close to another good friend, Nita Morales.”
“Hey, Fredo. Good to meet you.”
“Uhn, yeah, you too.”
Fredo met my eyes, then glanced away as he offered his hand. His grip was limp, as if he was vaguely embarrassed. Up close, I saw a fine dusting of white powder on his face and neck and upper arms. Flour. His hands and forearms were clean, but he hadn’t washed above his elbows. Locano went on with his introduction.
“Fredo works as a baker’s apprentice here on the next block. Every morning from five to seven, then school by eight.”
I nodded, trying to look encouraging.
“Man, that’s early. That’s some schedule you have, Fredo.”
Fredo glanced away.
“Uhn. It’s okay. It’s good. Mr. Locano set it up.”
I stared at Locano, my expression asking why we were here with this boy, but then the boy spoke again, and when I looked back he was staring at me.
“That Syrian guy killed Raoul. I know about that guy. I tell you what I know.”
I blinked at him, then looked at Locano again.
“Raoul was Fredo’s brother. Raoul and Fredo were born here, but their parents weren’t. I represented them in a deportation hearing.”
“One outta two, that ain’t so bad.”
Locano looked embarrassed.
“Their father was relocated, but we made arrangements for their mother to stay.”
“He got her a work visa. That ain’t so bad.”
Mr. Locano cleared his throat.
“Raoul worked with Sinaloa here in Los Angeles and in San Diego. So did Fredo.”
Fredo said, “Uhn. Eastside Kings.”
The Eastside Kings were a Latin gang with ties to the Mexican Mafia.
I studied Fredo.
“How old are you?”
“Uhn. Don’t let that fool you, but I’m done with all that. I’m looking to the future.”
Locano filled in the blanks again.
“The different cartels have members all through the United States. They form partnerships with local gangs for the manpower and connections. One such partnership was with the Eastside Kings here, and a Kings affiliate in San Diego. Raoul and the other Kings were drivers. They brought marijuana and cocaine north up through San Diego.”
“I made that trip lots of times. I coulda been with him that day. Uhn.”
I stared at Fredo, and decided he was a million years old.
“Have you met the Syrian?”
“No, uh-uh. Uhn. I wanted to, though, I tell you that, but now I wanna get right.”
“Then how do you know about him?”
“The shot callers told us what happened, and these Sinaloa Mexicans came up. Two of our guys got away, and the Sinaloas wanted to hear it firsthand. They said it was him, this Syrian dude and his crew. They popped Raoul and this dude Hector, double-tap right here—”
Fredo touched his head, not even slowing.
“—and took the truck, and that was two hundred pounds of cocaine, that’s what they say, I never saw it. Jesús and Ocho, they got away. Those Sinaloa pricks, they thought Jesús and Ocho was in on it or some crazy shit, tol’ the Syrian where to find the truck or some shit, and those Sinaloas fucked’m up real good. They cut off Ocho’s fingers, uhn. Those Sinaloas, they said how did he know which truck? He had to get the information from somebody, and they put it on Ocho. I watched that shit happen. That’s when I’m gone, dude, uhn. I don’t need some dog shootin’ my back. My mama, she called Mr. L here, and he’s helpin’ me get right. He tryin’ to get my father back in, too. That ain’t so bad.”
Locano nodded when Fredo finished, and thoughtfully crossed his arms.
“When you mentioned the connection to Sinaloa, I remembered Fredo and Raoul.”
I stared at Fredo, then Locano, then went back to Fredo who looked like a child.
“Jesús and Ocho personally knew the Syrian? They recognized him?”
“The Mexicans had this picture—”
He held up his hand as if he was showing me a picture, and pointed at air as if he could see it.
“—this him? This dude took you down? Jesús and Ocho, they both say yeah, that was him, who in hell is this guy? Those Sinaloa Mexicans, they called his name, said he used to work with them.”
“He worked for the Sinaloas?”
“With, not for. He was a coyote, uhn, whatever they call it in Syrian, over there on the other side of the world. He brought people from over there to Mexico, and got’m where they wanted to go, but I know what happen—they took his bitch-ass business, and he said fuck you, I ain’t workin’ for you, so he started stealin’ their shit. Not just them. The Bajas. The Pacific Cartel. Whoever runnin’ stuff up. That Sinaloa, he said what we got is a rogue coyote, and we gonna put his ass down.”
I thought it through, and wondered if the Sinaloas had been right about Ocho and Jesús.
“So how did he know where to find your brother’s truck?”
Fredo glanced at Locano, then back, and smiled.
“Only one way that flies. He buys the intel. The Sinaloas got that part right, they just ain’t right about Ocho and Jesús.”
“The Syrian pays for tips?”
“That’s what they do, the
bajadores
. You can’t steal something ’less you know where it is, uhn. They pay. I met this dude, Wander, he say the Syrian pays better than anyone else.”
Locano fixed his eyes on me, and nodded.
“This was not long ago, after Fredo left the Kings. This is recent information.”
Fredo nodded, hanging on Locano’s every word.
“This dude, Wander, he works over here. He used to be Latin Blades, but he jumped out, too. When he heard I was a King, he knew we were with Sinaloa. He said I could pick up some cash, you know? I didn’t say I was on the outs, uhn. I just let him talk, tucking it away, thinking about Raoul. I said, dude, you crazy, you know Sinaloa wants to kill that Syrian bitch? But Wander, he says he feeds tips to all these cartel
bajadores
, and they killin’ each other left and right. He said the Syrian, he pays a lot more. He told me if I get something to sell, he can make it happen, put good money in both our pockets.”
I studied Fredo.
“You think it’s true, that Wander sells to the Syrian?”
Fredo shrugged.
“He drives a nice car. He’s got a silver buckle big as a plate, and a fat rock here on his thumb. I been asking. He’s been paying people for tips, that much is true. He’s gettin’ cash somewhere, so I’m thinkin’ the rest is true, too.”
Locano said, “When the Sinaloas came up, you said they called the Syrian’s name.”
“Uhn. Ghazi al-Diri. It was hard to say in my mouth, but I practiced to make it right. Ghazi al-Diri killed my brother, Raoul, shot him two times right here.”
He touched his head again.
I said, “If I wanted to see Wander, could you find him?”
Fredo studied me, and did not look away.
“What would you say?”
“I might have something for the Syrian. I might want to meet him.”
Fredo nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving mine.
“Why he wanna meet you?”
I didn’t have much to say, so Fredo shrugged.
“Lots of people trying to find him, and can’t, uhn. Just ’cause you say you want to see him don’t mean shit. Why he want to see you? You gotta give him a reason.”
“I’ll find a reason.”
“It’s gotta be good. He ain’t in business to mess around.”
“I’ll find a good reason. What I’m asking is, can you put me with Wander?”
Fredo kicked at the ground, then looked at the lake.
“I’ve been thinkin’ ’bout this thing Wander told me, him being up with this Ghazi al-Diri, trying to figure out what to do. I could give him up to the Kings, give him to the Sinaloas—they all want his ass dead. But here I am trying to get right. I have to put this stuff behind me.”
I nodded. I knew where he was going.
He looked at Locano.
“Mr. L, he says you’re trying to find some girl this dude took?”
“Yes. I am.”
“Okay, I’ll help you do that. Raoul and I, we can help. If I help get her back, maybe it helps me get right with myself. You see?”
“I see, Fredo. I get it, for real.”
He seemed to notice the flour on his upper arms for the first time. He brushed at his arms and neck and face.
“I look like a clown.”
Locano said, “No, Fredo. From this flour you make bread, and bread gives us life. This is not the makeup of a clown.”
Fredo fluffed his hair, and squinted at me through the dust.
“I gotta get to school. You find a good reason. Find a reason so good the Syrian can’t pass it up, I’ll put you with Wander, uhn.”
“I’ll let you know.”
Fredo offered his hand again, shook with Mr. Locano, and then trotted up along the lake. I watched him until he was gone, then looked at Locano.
Mr. Locano had watched him leave, too, and now sighed.
“That boy is fourteen years old. He is only fourteen.”
I told him I would let him know soon, then drove across town to meet with Joe Pike and Jon Stone, hoping we would find something so good the Syrian could not pass it up.