Hard-Boiled- Box Set

by Danny R. Smith

  Many times, these wayward ladies were only searching for a thrill, a good time, or a story. Other times, they were in search of a dental plan, an insurance card, direct deposit twice a month. Which is why some cops simply referred to them as their future ex-wives.

  The last thing I needed were more complications in my life. So, work it was. I opted to go see Mr. Chaney. Maybe I’d ask him about that toothbrush for his wife’s DNA. While I was at it, maybe I’d ask about the two suits who had visited him.

  Leonard counted it out: $3,740. Not bad, but now that he thought of it, there had probably been more. He should have had a better look around the place, checked all the drawers and cabinets and looked for secret compartments in the walls or beneath the floor. Those Russians were sneaky bastards. But he knew better than to spend a lot of time with dead people, especially when it was he who made them dead. After counting the cash, he sat back in his chair and held the pistol up to have a good look at it. Beretta. He assumed it was Russian but wasn’t sure. He didn’t care. It was a nine-millimeter, he saw that on the barrel. After playing with it for a while he figured out how to release the clip—that’s what they called it in movies he watched in prison—and saw this clip was full of bullets. He wasn’t sure how to remove them from the clip, though he didn’t think it would be necessary to do so. All that mattered was there were bullets in it and all he had to do was pull the trigger. He was fairly certain of that, though he thought better than to try it.

  He began thinking about the cop in the hat, the job he now had about three weeks to get done, 23 days by his count, 18 if he went by Feldman’s calendar. Which he wouldn’t. He didn’t care what that asshole had to say, and he was glad he hadn’t heard from him in nearly a week. It’d be okay with Leonard if the prick never called again. They could send him his assignments and leave him be. Which made him think about checking the PO box. He needed to do that, just in case something had come in. Like a change in plans.

  He chuckled at the thought that with his luck, he’d whack the cop and there’d be a notice in his box telling him the hit was off. That’s all he’d need. Then he’d be arguing with that pockmarked prick about what day the letter was sent in order for him to get his money out of them. Plus, he’d have every cop in the county looking for him, out to gun him down or beat him to death. That’s what they did out here. There were movies about it.

  Leonard lit a Camel and blew a cloud of smoke at the dim light that hung above his head. It occurred to him it would be easier to continue whacking these foreigners and stealing their cash than taking out a cop and having that kind of heat come down on you. Maybe he would retire, go into business for himself. What’s Feldman going to do, come looking for him? Leonard smiled at the idea of it as he envisioned driving a knife into the mobster’s throat. But, it would be steady work if he kept whacking for the mob, so he’d kill the pig and wait for the next job.

  He thought back to the single-wide trailer that made the Russian’s office and saw the bodies still lying there in the dark. He had been smart to turn the lights off. It would be days before anyone discovered them, and by then they both would stink. He thought of the dogs and wondered where they were kept during the day. Had he thought of it, he could have pulled the gate closed and let them out, left the trailer door open so the dogs would have something to eat. He had read one time that when someone dies and can no longer care for their dog, little Smoochie will start feeding on their flesh within a couple days. The reliable little companion eating away the face of their former caretaker. So much for man’s best friend. But he hadn’t thought of it, and now that he did, it bothered him to think where the dogs might have been. Not because he was worried that they were locked away and there was no one to feed them or provide fresh water, but because had he thought of it, he might have put a bullet in each of them for trying to eat through the fence and kill him one night. Leonard hated dogs.

  Now he just needed to figure out a way to kill the damn cop. First, he had to figure out a way to watch him without being seen. The man was careful to notice people and vehicles in his neighborhood, that was for sure. Leonard had thought about how watching the cop from the grassy knoll that night seemed to work well. He could park a few blocks away and hike in next time, since the cop seemed to be looking for his car. He could buy an outfit from the army surplus and sneak in like a special forces guy. He pictured war movies and documentaries he had seen and now had an image of himself dressed in camouflage with some black paint on his face. The cop would come home as he always did, looking carefully for suspicious vehicles, and when none were found, he’d go inside and sleep soundly. Leonard could sneak in behind him and cut him the way he had cut the Russian and his big-titted girlfriend. He would give this more thought, because he felt he might be onto something now.

  Again, he thought about the need to check his mail. He snuffed out a cigarette and looked through exhaled smoke to the wall with no calendar. Leonard needed to get to bed so he could start early tomorrow, say ten or eleven, and not waste the day away. In the meantime, he would be thinking of ways to get the pork job done. He was tired of being in L.A. now; there were too many foreigners.

  I pulled to the curb across from Chaney’s, a couple properties down the street, and sat to watch for a few minutes before deciding on if and how to make an approach. The thought of Ray being annoyed that I would do this without him weighed on my mind. I wasn’t going to call him this late in the evening when he would be home enjoying his large family; four children, a wife, and a mother-in-law all lived in apparent harmony beneath the same roof. It was something to be admired, if not coveted. But with the images in my mind, I was careful to consider his time away. I reminded myself that some cops do have lives other than the job. As odd as it seemed.

  The scant interior lights gave me the impression nobody was home. After watching for half an hour, I decided to ring the bell. The street was silent with only an occasional vehicle traveling past. It was almost nine, and most people in this neighborhood would be settled in for the evening. Most.

  When I closed my car door, a dog barked from a nearby yard. It occurred to me that you didn’t often hear dogs barking in neighborhoods nowadays, now that most people’s dogs lived inside with the family, not outside on a chain or in a shabby wooden house. At least in most communities.

  After ringing the bell and waiting a minute, I moved around the front of the house trying to steal a peek inside. There was nothing notable and the home appeared uninhabited. It was furnished, and dimly lit, but there was something that felt abandoned and lonely about the place.

  I pulled away in my car and watched the windows as I did, just to be sure. But there was nothing to see, no movement or signs of life. It occurred to me I should find out which day the trash is collected here and come back the night before for a trash run. I was big on stealing trash for the purposes of gathering intelligence, and the courts had upheld that once the trash is set out on the street, it is fair game. Which means that without a warrant you could take what you wanted. Usually, when I planned a trash run, I would empty the contents of my trunk—all of my equipment and tools of the trade—and line it with plastic tarps. Sometime after midnight, and after watching the target’s home and surrounding residences for a short period of time, I would swoop in, grab several bags from the garbage containers and throw them in the trunk. I’d be back on the road in seconds. Floyd and I were known to meet at one of our homes—wherever the target was geographically located would be the deciding factor—and then once the collection was made, we’d spend the next several hours drinking beer and sifting trash with latex-gloved hands. It was surprising what one could learn by sifting the trash of another. I’d have to mention it to Ray.

  When I turned onto Valencia Boulevard I was going the wrong way. Not the wrong way against traffic, but the wrong direction to get home. I was headed toward Valerie’s but not readily admitting it to myself just yet. Once I turned onto her street, I could no longer deny it to myself. I reasoned
that it was only to check on her welfare, make sure she was okay. There was a vicious killer nearby, and separated or not—soon to be divorced, or not—I still cared for her. I still loved her.

  Sometimes I hated myself.

  27

  THERE WAS NO correspondence from Feldman; however, there was a letter from Whitey. Leonard smiled widely at the sight of it and rushed back to his car where he would read it before doing anything else. He was giddy at reading the words of his best and only friend.

  In the car he tore it open and quickly checked his surroundings, checking the rearview mirror, the side mirrors, and looking out all of the windows.

  Dearest Leonardo,

  I trust this correspondence finds you in the best of health and highest spirits. Please do forgive the time elapsed since my last letter; however, you must know the discovery of your whereabouts is arduous at times. Thankfully!

  But, I think of you daily. At least we can write to stay in touch. Cruel though it is, we may never see each other face to face, but we will always remain connected in our hearts. Know that I miss you dearly. Outside must be glorious, no? Family. Friends. Beaches replete with bikini-clad girls. Ocean waves crashing against their sandy shores. Seagulls circling while cawing for their loved ones. Sun rays that kiss the golden-brown skin of those who adore her, while the damp, salty air caresses one’s face. But for me, these sensations are but dreams. Or are they? You, the liberated between us, must live these dreams for us both.

  It would be unwise to speak of the many adventures that freedom has brought you, as our discourse will surely be scrutinized by the custodians. However, I do hear you are gainfully employed and excelling at your job. Did you know your CEO has a daughter? She is but a rotund thing and awkward, though loved dearly by her father and his son-in-law who stays by both of their sides. Sir Leonardo, I must apologize for the brevity of my friendly note, but you see, I have long days now, working as the librarian of the warden’s study. I find the assignment pleasurable, in that I have access to more literature than I could read in two lifetimes, which, ironically, I have been awarded for past transgressions. I now find myself awakening daily with renewed energy and a sense of purpose.

  Be well, my friend.

  Whitey

  Leonard smiled, hearing his friend’s voice and seeing his smiling, handsome face. Whitey fancied himself as the character of Doc Holliday in Tombstone, an educated gentleman of a killer. He had often quoted lines from the movie: Ed, what an ugly thing to say; I’m your Huckleberry; Why, Johnny Ringo, you look like someone just walked over your grave; You’re a daisy if you do. The two of them had watched it dozens of times in their cell on DVD, and Whitey had memorized every memorable line. He claimed to have used the line, I’m your Huckleberry, when he walked into the diner and killed the two mobsters over their lunch plates. Though it had not been confirmed, Leonard didn’t doubt that he had.

  Fond memories aside, now the message. Leonard studied the middle paragraph. He read aloud the first letters of each sentence. B, A, C, K, O, F, F, B, O, S, S, B, O, Y. He repeated it twice, putting the words together in his head, and muttering them to himself. BACK OFF BOSS BOY. That was the message? What would it mean? Back off the boss’s boy? He must be referring to Stretch, the nameless, pockmarked, Marty Feldman lookalike. Moses. But why? What had his friend heard? Clearly, there had been grumblings about the tension between the two. What a pussy, Leonard thought. Feldman had been whining to the boss that he’s been disrespected by a hired man. Somewhat of a cryptic message, yet a clear warning. Fine. He would try to show more respect. No, he couldn’t. Okay, he would try to show less contempt. There.

  He read the letter again, skipping over the middle paragraph babble because there was no meaning beyond the message. Whitey heard he had done well at his job. That was something to put the message in perspective. They are pleased, just don’t be such an asshole. Leonard smiled as he pictured Whitey working in the library, as he knew this would bring him great joy. Whitey loved to read, and to be surrounded by books would have to be the best possible scenario for a young man who would never again experience freedom.

  The reference to the CEO’s daughter had escaped him, but as he read it a third time he realized the message was connected to this passage. Feldman had married the boss’s daughter. Which would make him indispensable in all but the most egregious scenario. Whitey was warning him to back off, nothing good could come from his conflict with the right-hand man. Feldman.

  He smiled while folding the letter back into its envelope. He dropped his shades over his eyes and pulled out of the lot with one thing on his mind: murder.

  28

  THURSDAY AFTERNOON, MARIA Lopez landed at Burbank Airport and was picked up by her uncle and one of his friends. They didn’t park the SUV and they didn’t get out to greet her. They waited while she approached, both men watching her carefully through dark sunglasses, their expressionless faces telling her nothing about their moods.

  She was growing tired of the pressure her family put on her, and at times she wished she could escape and just live a normal life. Why couldn’t she?

  The back hatch of the Land Rover popped open and slowly lifted automatically as Maria stood waiting. She tossed her one suitcase into the rear compartment which was immaculate. The carpet appeared as it would have when brand new, and the plastic shined from some type of protectant coating. There was a strong scent of fresh pine, likely an air freshener. It occurred to her, knowing her uncle, there was probably some young vato assigned to detail the car weekly, wash it daily. These guys had an image to protect, and they loved their cars.

  She climbed into the back and slid into the slick leather seat. Tio looked back from the driver’s seat. “How’s our favorite hack?” He smiled and glanced at the gangster who rode with him before pulling away from the curb.

  Hack. She hated the reference, especially at home. It was one thing at the prison—it was expected there, the common term for prison guards—but she sensed the underlying distrust when it was used by family members. Especially from Lazy E. That’s what she secretly called him growing up. The gangsters in the neighborhood called him “Big Ed,” or “Big E” for short. But they didn’t grow up seeing his fat ass sleeping on their couch for a decade—when he wasn’t in prison. How he became a carnale, a made man of La Eme, she didn’t know. She thought of him as a loser, but she knew he put in a lot of work. What the gangsters call work: killing other gangsters or at least always being willing to try. That was her Uncle Ed. Big Ed. Lazy E. Lazy other than when it came to killing.

  “Mija, you ever met my homie from Florence, Pelon?” He looked to his sidekick who craned his neck around the seat to see her.

  Maria only lifted her chin a bit as a way of greeting and forced a quick smile. Neither spoke. Big Ed said, “We were down together at Tehachapi, my last stint. He’s a carnale, eh?”

  Who wasn’t, it seemed. At least in this family and its circle. It’s why she had dropped her dad’s name, Santos, and had taken her mother’s, Lopez. But changing her name hadn’t allowed her to change her life. She had visitors at all times reminding her of her roots. Reminding her they would never forget her. Reminding her she was part of them and pressuring her for something else. There was always something else.

  “He’s in charge of collecting from all those Florencia vatos, which is no easy task. So, we work together most times. I ride with him down there, and he backs me up in my hoods. I got The Avenues and most of East Los, eh.”

  Pelon looked back again, only this time she didn’t smile at him. She knew what he wanted. It’s what they all wanted, and it had always been that way, since she was thirteen. All the older homies and their friends, and even good old Uncle Ed had tried once. Lazy E. But Ed’s little brother—Maria’s father, God rest his soul—explained to him she was off limits. He had explained it by beating him unconscious with his fists. They had called her old man Boxer. He too was from The Avenues, and he was killed by 18th Street, a rival gang, when
she was only fifteen.

  Lazy E was still speaking. He would only stop after a barrel of heroin was loaded into his veins, and that would only slow him down for a few hours.

  “When we ride down south, we sometimes go through 18th Street, and I think of mi hermano, and them cockroaches that gunned him down.” Big Ed removed his hat briefly as a sign of respect, and then glared at his homie, who sat quietly. The man riding shotgun reacted by removing his black Los Angeles Dodgers ball cap to reveal his bald head. Pelon.

  “One of these days,” he continued, “I’ll see that little bitch, Rascal, from 18th Street, and I’ll get some payback for Boxer. That motherfucker ain’t nothing but an addict now, anyway. But somehow, someday, I’ll catch him slipping and put a cap in his junkie ass.”

  She thought of her father and the night he was gunned down in front of their home. There had been a gathering that evening, and it had wound down to just the closest relatives. And the homeboys. All of her father’s carnales. It had been her quinceañera, a celebration of her fifteenth birthday, her passage into womanhood. Though it was only a formality, as her womanhood had been realized years prior. Her dress was covered by her father’s blood when it was over. The cops loaded all of them up and hauled them to the station as if they were suspects in the killing. It was hours before the detectives took her statement and finally allowed her to return home. Like all the others, she had said she had no idea who was responsible. It was as if none of the thirty people present heard the shooter yelling “18th Street” before he opened up. Big dumb Ed was in jail at the time, probably sleeping. She had always wished it would have been him, not his brother, who was there to take the bullet.