Immortality Is the Suck
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eyes flashed green as the Caddy startled it from its hiding place under a
pimped-out Silverado with extended shocks that made it loom over the pocked
asphalt like a dinosaur. I slid in behind it just a couple houses down from
where Freeway still lived with his mama.
Freeway had grown up on this block. He'd been one of those skinny boys
with long limbs and liquid dark eyes you'd see in a Mercado parking lot.
Practicing flips and slides on a skateboard covered with stickers. Worn clothes
kept clean by a stout mama whose vigilance and fierce love were nevertheless
not enough to keep Leonard safe on streets where poor, one hundred forty
pound boys, with no older brothers or cousins, were regularly pounded into
hamburger meat.
He'd allied himself with bigger boys, boys with guns. Joined Las Serenos,
an impressively violent Latino street gang. Spent his high school years banging,
freebasing, and skateboarding, until he got good enough at the last to compete
and surprised his whole neighborhood by winning a few contests.
He was then nineteen and that was probably the high point of his life. He
used the money he won to buy himself a bright blue Harley with ape hangers
that no doubt made him feel bigger and meaner than he had in his entire life.
He'd told me once that he drove that bike off the dealer's lot and straight over
to the local Mongol hangout, presenting himself as a prospect.
“Sure,” they'd said. “Here's what you gotta do…”
And that is where Freeway's and my paths had crossed.
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He'd been holding ten grams of ice, and a crate of assault rifles had been
found in his mother's garage. The officer who'd busted him had perceived
immediately that Freeway was in over his head. And when I went to talk to him
I saw right away that Freeway wouldn't make it through the five to ten he'd
probably get for possession with intent.
He'd been beaten, buggered, and probably threatened with more. He
already had RFFN tattooed on his knuckles, standing for the Mongol motto
“Respect Few Fear None,” and he had the visage and attitude of a newly
recruited martyr. But he was still scared spitless.
I saw the prospect patch on the leather vest he wore. It was the same
biker gang I was trying to infiltrate. So we'd chatted about the advantages of
working with the good guys. Good being open to interpretation. Then I spoke
for him before sentencing and he got out with time served.
A week later, he introduced me to Ruben Cavaso, president of the Mongols
OMG.
Freeway and I had what I would have termed a good working relationship.
We'd both profited and, I thought, even become friends.
I pulled out the prepaid cell phone and texted a three-digit number to
Freeway.
He'd not recognize the caller number, but the code was a Mongol's
members signal to another member to call them. Freeway might have been
keeping his head down since the bust, but he'd find it hard to resist the call.
Sure enough, a second later, my cell phone rang.
“Que?” said Freeway crisply.
“Freeway, hermano, que onda?”
A stunned silence. I swore I could hear the loud, adrenalized beat of
Freeway's terrified heart. “Quién como es éste?” he asked, voice wavering.
“Don't you know my voice, Freeway? It's Snake.” My Mongol brothers
called me that on account of my bright green eyes.
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I thought I could hear Freeway wet his lips. “Snake es muerto,” he
whispered.
“Not yet,” I said. And the cell disconnected. I didn't redial. I sat back and
watched the house and waited.
Sure enough, a few minutes later, white flashed in the small backyard
behind and uphill from Freeway's mama's house. I put the car in gear and
waited until I heard the belch and roar of Freeway's motorcycle, then pulled out
from behind the Silverado in time to see Freeway taking the corner at the end
of the block at an extreme forty-five, heading south.
I followed. He expected me to follow. I saw his face, like a death's head
grimace of fear, in the tall mirrors on either handlebar; he didn't recognize the
Caddy at first, probably expected me on my chopper, but when he saw that I
was hobbled by four wheels, he took a screaming left and went straight up a
narrow alley.
I took my time getting to the corner and following a parallel path. The
thing was, Freeway couldn't go anywhere on the bike that I wouldn't be able to
hear from miles away. Those pipes were like the roar of a train. I figured it
would take him a few more blocks to figure it out, though.
Sure enough, like a fox going to ground, he was heading south now,
toward Hollenbeck Park. I swung the car around lazily pulling a u-ey in the
middle of the abandoned boulevard and was surprised by the single bloop of a
police siren and the dancing lights of a black-and-white in my rearview mirror.
God fucking damn it.
I weighed my options for all of two seconds. On the one hand, I knew that
if these officers called in the car's tags, they'd make a courtesy call to Peter
before they took any further action. Of course, I couldn't predict how Peter
would react to that call. That man had become as moody as a menopausal
woman lately. He might even tell them to arrest me.
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On the other hand, if I gave them reason to chase me, the damned car
would be all over the morning news, followed by my ugly mug as they dragged
me from the vehicle. You ever try to outrun the LAPD, my friend? Well, don't.
Thing was, my only key to what had happened to me was rapidly getting
away. And I knew for a fact that, since he used this car for undercover and
surveillance work, Peter kept it in tip-top condition. I had the one advantage of
having spent five years as an outlaw in this neighborhood, so I thought I had a
good chance of outrunning the black-and-white, turbo eight engines or no.
It took me two seconds to make my decision. I slowed as if to slide up to
the curb. At the last minute, as the uni slowed also, I gunned the engine and
surged forward, going up the curb and onto the grass. Five yards down, a long
alley, barely wide enough for the Caddy's broad body and I hung a hard right
into it.
A second later, sirens screaming, the black-and-white was in pursuit.
They turned up the alley behind me, but I'd already crashed through trash
cans and headed south on the next block up. The tumbled trash containers
slid and rolled behind me, creating a small obstacle course that slowed my
pursuers just a bit as I hung a left up another alley and this time went left
across a series of backyards, the two-ton steel body of the Cadillac demolishing
a low wooden fence and a clothesline as it went.
I knew the neighborhood well enough to know that if I took the next right,
a left, and went down the side yard of a small house there, I could straddle and
cross a ravine that led to the back of a Ralph's parking lot, where a crowd of
brightly colored Harleys were parked in neat rows in back and a few young
The Caddy hurtled past the bikes in fourth gear and a few men came
running from the building at the ruckus. As I caught air and bounced back
into the street, I could see the uni, behind me, getting tangled up in the
interference of a bunch of angry bikers.
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Some of the bikes made as if to follow me for a few minutes, but they
quickly lost interest, circling and looping back to go check out the altercation
their pals may have been having with the police in the space behind their
clubhouse.
I kept going, crashing through lights and stop signs, occasionally glancing
back and thinking with half a mind about what I'd just seen. From the number
of bikes and the presence of guards it appeared that a meeting of the Boyle
Heights chapter of the Mongol MC was taking place. Since Mongol “church” is
held every Tuesday, this must have been about something else. Possibly
something to do with a recent shoot-out in a certain Marina warehouse. The
Mongols would be woofing and snarling at each other over a meth distributor
no one had known about. The latest sting would have set the entire paranoid,
gun-slinging, outlaw motorcycle club on edge.
Over the years, Freeway and I had indulged in a lot of mutual hand
washing, as they say, and he'd made full patch in just two years. Freeway was
now the munitions president for this particular branch of the Mongols. I hadn't
seen his bike while barreling past my brother Mongols so, when I was sure I
was no longer being followed, I cruised down Louise to Hollenbeck Park. There
was a good chance I'd find Freeway at one of the club's “munitions” bunkers.
Hollenbeck Park was closed at dusk, of course. But I found a secluded
spot for the Caddy, within sight of the building where Freeway stashed arms.
I tried Freeway's number again. No answer. I found a sagging point in the
Hurricane fencing and clambered over it with surprising ease. Then I skirted
the skateboard park and came up to the back door of the equipment offices.
Just outside the equipment bunker I stopped and listened. Now, I've
always been an adrenaline junkie, I suppose. The thrill of the hunt and all that.
It's what I call “the zone.” But tonight my senses seemed even keener than
usual. Honed. I could smell the eucalyptus and jasmine drenching the night
air. Lingering tobacco smoke from a cigarette someone had smoked back here
could be hours ago. The smell of the tar paper on the shed roof, some wood
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molds close to the windowsill, and very faintly but very definitely, the smell of a
sweating human body.
I dialed Freeway's number again and heard a cell phone ringing inside the
equipment shed.
I put my phone on vibrate and pocketed it. Sure enough, seconds later, it
started to buzz next to my hip as Freeway did a callback. I slid around to the
back of the shed where the dented aluminum door was ajar, allowing a scant
inch of golden light to outline the rough stucco of the exterior wall.
I could hear Freeway moving around inside, but I figured there was no
way I was getting that bent old door open without a hell of a lot of racket, so I
squatted down and waited until I heard him definitely heading toward me,
holding myself back until his head and shoulders emerged, and then it was
just a matter of getting my arm around his neck, my other hand holding both
of his wrists firmly, one leg catching and hooking his right foot back, and then
all of my two hundred plus pounds were on top of Freeway there in the sand
and Zoysia grass.
“Petiso de mierd, you set me up?” I said into Freeway's ear. It was a
hypothetical question, really, as I had his face shoved into the ground and I
don't think he could open his mouth to answer.
He spat grass and dirt when I jerked him to sitting, my arm still around
his neck. “Snake, usted me hizo mear,” he croaked.
I kissed the top of his head, which increased his terror all the more. “You
better start talking, pinche.” I smelled the skin behind his ear and tightened my
hold around his neck. His fingers went to my arm as if he could claw himself
free.
“I didn't know, Snake. I swear on my mother. B-B-Betsy she said she
scored ice from the dude right there on the boardwalk.”
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“Betsy?” I cast around in my memory, keeping my grip as Freeway dug in
his heels and tried to leverage his body out of my arms. “She that Goth chick
down on Speedway?”
Freeway made an abortive attempt at escape and I hauled him sideways
and to the ground again, allowing the whole of my weight to rest on him. He
squeaked and squirmed like a landed salmon. “Freeway, mi usted hizo palo,” I
said. “Do you want to make me hard?”
“No se,” he whispered, still squirming.
“We're going for a ride,” I said. I brought him to his feet and, holding his
arms behind him, pushed him, stumbling and resistant to the Cadillac. “We're
going to go talk to Betsy.”
When I shoved him into the backseat and stood over him, he seemed to go
limp. “I didn't know,” he said again. “I thought he was legit, man. Merde, son of
a bitch, fucking cops…” he spat.
There were dirt and grass stains on his shirt, probably from being thrown
to the ground just then. But Freeway looked scruffy nonetheless. He was
usually a careful man. Hair just so, white T-shirt with the Mongol crest
immaculate. He wore those dark blue topstitched baggy jeans so popular with
his crowd and generally kept them clean and creased. I had been treated to the
sight of Freeway, thick hair in pin curls and in his shorts, ironing those jeans,
more than once.
Tonight, though, he wore shitty old worn jeans. A hole in the knee with
dried blood around the edges. His shirt stank of fear and his hair was a
lumpish mess. “What the hell is going on, Freeway?”
“They'll kill me next.”
I grabbed his shirt collar and his eyes went wide and shocky as he stared
at me. “No me importa dos cojones,” I growled. And, I mean “growled” literally.
My voice sounded fucking strange.
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Freeway's mouth moved, saliva gathering at the corners, and he wet his
lips. “Sí, hermano, sí. I will tell you.”
I released his shirt. My eyes felt like they were bulging out of my head for
another second. “Go ahead.”
“Okay, Betsy, she met up with a dude who said he could make us all some
extra money. She thought he was talking a few grams, you know? Then, I
talked to him and I saw what he had at the warehouse.”
“Wait. You'd already met with Starz?”
Freeway's gaze darted to me and away, pupils bouncing like black rubber
balls. “That was a lot of ice, Snake. I…I thought, you know…”
“You were going to skim the stash because you figured he'd get busted
halfway to Baja anyway and never notice.” Fuck, I'd taught the little weasel too
well. “You should have told me.”
“You been, el loco, 'mano. Strange. I wasn't sure…”
Okay, here's a little aside as he had brought it up. There were some things
happening in my head just before our story opens. Stupid things. Things that
girly girls and old men think about. Blame it on the damned NA meetings. And,
of course, the bust had done my head in. After all, the Mongols had been like a
family to me. Albeit a raping, murdering, thieving family. So ever since then, I'd
been having thoughts, and they'd been messing me up.
Some of those thoughts had been about Peter. This was why I'd kind of
been avoiding him lately.
Anyway, that's neither here nor there. Save the psychoanalysis for Dr.
Phil.
“Snake, we was set up by La Eme, it's so fucking obvious. Fuck, little
Ruben finds out I'm still in town and on his turf, he'll won't just kill me, 'mano.
He'll kill my mama. He'll kill my cousins. He'll kill my fucking cat.”
“Little Ruben” a.k.a Ruben Cavaso, Jr., was the son of the Mongols'
president, the now incarcerated Ruben Cavaso, Sr. If I recalled the hierarchy
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correctly, he would be the new Ssergeant at Arms for the Mongols, since
Freeway was marked for death.
Things were a little clearer now. “How long you been hiding out?”
“Betsy called last night, said a bust happened in the Marina. An hour later
I get a text '86.'”
"86" was the Mongol code for “go into hiding.” Don't wear colors, avoid the
street, and if that wasn't possible, avoid cops. It meant something big had
happened directly affecting the Mongol MC.
“So, I called my old lady and she says that cop what infiltrated the Boyle
Heights chapter is dead. She says I should go to Canada, or even Alaska. She
says she don't want to talk to me no more, the bitch.”
Freeway and his “old lady” were actually divorced, a fact he managed to
forget frequently until another restraining order would remind him.
“You say Betsy told you what happened in the Marina? So what do you
think, maybe your girlfriend had her own agenda too?”
“No, my lady loves me, man. She'd never do nothing without telling me. It