by Robert Crais
“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. Jesus and Ocho, they got away. Those Sinaloa pricks, they thought Jesus 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.
“Jesus 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? Jesus 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 Jesus.
“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 Jesus.”
“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 L
ocano.
“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.
22
Jon Stone leaned forward between us, and pointed a chopstick at the two men climbing into the Beemer. He was eating bulgogi heaped with kimchee. Bulgogi was thinly sliced barbequed beef in a bowl, which Stone had covered with a sweet, fire-hot mound of pickled cabbage. Stone knew the best barbeque places in K-town. He also knew the best bars, karaoke clubs, restaurants, and markets. He had bought me a galbi bowl filled with barbequed short ribs, and Pike a bowl of grilled vegetables and rice. Jon Stone was a K-town regular, and had spent the morning before I joined them speaking with friends.
Stone touched the air with the tip of his chopstick as if he was dotting an i with a quill pen.
“Your talker there, he’s Sang Ki Park. He doesn’t run the gang. That would be his uncle, Young Min Park. Sang is the second in command. They’re Ssang Yong Pa-the Double Dragon gang-straight out of the R-O-K. Hard-core and nasty.”
ROK was the Republic of Korea.
I watched the men as I listened. The big guy I put on the floor in the desert opened the Beemer’s door for the hard young guy who had done all the talking, then climbed in behind the wheel.
“Hard-core and nasty as in violent?”
“That’s affirm. All your Asian gangs are bad, but the Koreans are worse. It’s China. You grow up staring down China, it fucks with your brain.”
Pike said, “Please.”
“Please what? Remember those ex-ROK troopers in Africa? Why’d you send’m home?”
Stone turned to me before Pike could answer.
“The company sends us these three ex-ROK Special Forces turds who did nothing but fight. I’m not talking about fighting the people we were paid to fight, I’m talking about our own guys, the friendlies, even each other. Fuckers loved to fight. Pike here damn near killed two of them before he sent them home.”
Stone looked at Pike.
“If I’m lying, I’m dying. Am I right?”
Pike simply stared ahead as we followed the Beemer, so Stone turned back to me.
“You see? He knows it’s true. These fuckers are pit bull aggressive. You want more of this kimchee? It’s the best.”
I held up my bowl, and thought about it as Jon shoveled on kimchee. He was right about the kimchee. It was world-class spectacular.
“Sanchez told me they paid Sinaloa two hundred grand to bring up their people. You think they’ll pay the Syrian’s ransom?”
“Not in their nature. Your Syrian’s gonna be stuck with twenty or thirty people no one will pay for. And the Sinaloas are shit out of luck, too, ’cause if these boys here don’t get their money or people, they’ll go all World War Three.”
Rudy Sanchez had already told me the Sinaloas were worried, and worry wasn’t something normally associated with the Sinaloa drug cartel.
Pike glanced at Stone in the mirror.
“Why bring in so many people?”
“They need’m.”
I said, “For what?”
“Staff. The Dragons have been buying bars and restaurants as fronts for dealing dope and whores. They cater to Korean businessmen, so they want people who can speak the language, and they also want people they can trust. It’s the same way with the Tong in Chinatown. They bring people from back home who are scared shitless of the police, and they’re completely dependent on the gang for food, shelter, and protection. To a guy like Park here, people from back home are more trustworthy than Americans, and you know goin’ in none of them are federal agents.”
Pike glanced at Stone in the rearview.
“Where’d you get this?”
Stone had more of the kimchee.
“A couple of ex-ROK paratroops at a soju bar over here a few weeks ago. Double Dragons have these twin dragons inked on their arms, and these two assholes wanted to impress me with their ink. Hence, they gave up the farm.”
Stone grinned.
“Too much soju. Just like those shitbirds in Africa.”
We followed the Beemer only six blocks until it made a left, went two more blocks, and pulled to the curb outside a soju bar.
Stone broke into an even nastier smile.
“Is this too perfect or what? That’s the place right there-where I talked up the ROKs.”
The big guy stayed in the car, and Park went inside. He stayed for almost twenty minutes before he and another man came out. The other man was much older, with a leathery face, steel gray hair, and his eyes almost hidden by wrinkles. He didn’t look happy, and neither did Sang Ki Park.
Stone tapped the air with his chopstick.
“That would be the uncle, Young Min Park.”
“The boss?”
“That’s the man. This was the first bar the Dragons took over. He owns it.”
I twisted around, and looked at him. Stone shrugged.
“Those ROK guys wouldn’t shut up, bro. They just could not stop talking. You hear shit, you tuck it away, you never know.”
I turned back to the Beemer.
Jon Stone looked like a demented surfer with his spiky, bleached hair and pierced ear, but I knew his background with Delta. Sometimes you forget what that means. Most people think Delta, they’re thinking of Rambo, with the big gun and even bigger muscles. D-boys are deadly warriors, for sure, but you won’t find many who look like Rambo. This is because you can’t rescue hostages or snatch high-value targets from hostile villages unless you find them, so D-boys are also selected to gather intelligence. They are off-the-charts smart, look ordinary, and are trained to blend in anywhere with anyone. This is why D-boys are called operators. Jon Stone had worked the two drunk ex-ROK gangsters for no other reason than gathering intelligence was in his nature.
As we watched, the older man shook his finger angrily under Sang Ki Park’s nose. Park didn’t like it, but took it. The old man steadily grew more angry until the finger wasn’t enough. He slapped Park’s face hard, then stormed back into his bar.
Stone said, “The old man isn’t liking his nephew so much these days.”
Pike said, “What were they saying?”
“Couldn’t hear, but it’s an easy guess. The nephew here just lost two hundred thousand and a boatload of workers. They probably weren’t talking about a promotion.”
Their next stop was a large two-level strip mall on Vermont. The strip mall was in the final stages of being remodeled, with a club and a restaurant taking up most of the upper level and what looked like another bar and a karaoke lounge on the lower level. A large sign in Korean script and English hung across the front of the karaoke
lounge: OPENING SOON.
Stone said, “Y’see? This is what I was talking about. You can’t open for business without the right staff.”
I liked
it. Under construction was good. Opening soon was good. The more pressure Park felt to recover his people, the more desperately he would look for ways to do so.
We stopped at two more strip malls and a large commercial building on Western Avenue. Park met people at each site, and toured the properties as if checking their progress, but no one looked happy, especially Park.
One hour and thirty-six minutes later, we followed his Beemer eleven blocks north to a small Craftsman home between Beverly and Melrose, not far from Paramount Studios. The house and front yard were small, but neat and clean with an attractive flower bed surrounding a crepe myrtle tree. A black Porsche Cabriolet was parked in the drive. The Beemer pulled in behind it, and parked. The drive was so short, the Beemer’s tail hung over the sidewalk.
Park got out, went to the front door, and let himself in without a key. The big man rolled down both front windows, and stayed in the car. He would be there for a while.
I said, “Here we go.”
Pike stopped in front of the neighboring house, and the three of us got out quickly and quietly. We crossed the neighbor’s drive and walked directly to the Beemer, Stone to the passenger side, and Pike and I to the driver’s side.
The big man glimpsed movement, and turned, but by then I had my pistol out.
“Remember me?”
He jerked sideways, but grew still when he saw the gun.
From the other side of the car, Jon Stone spoke Korean. The big man gripped the wheel, both hands, ten and two. Stone slipped into the passenger side, holding a. 45 caliber service automatic. They had a brief conversation, then Jon explained.
“He’s seeing a girlfriend. I’m good here. Go.”
“Does she have kids?”
Stone spoke again.
“No kids. Go.”
Pike and I went to the front door and quietly let ourselves into a classic Craftsman living room. The wood floors and doors and trim around the windows were so dark the wood was almost black, so we followed their voices. I thought we would find them in her bedroom, but they were in a sunroom at the end of the hall.
Sang Ki Park and a young woman were sitting at a small round table framed in a glass bay window looking out at an avocado tree. The woman was slender, Asian, and probably in her twenties. Park had taken off his suit coat, and rolled his sleeves. She was laughing at something he said, and Park was smiling. Then I stepped inside, and their laughing stopped. The girl made a surprised gasp, and Park pushed to his feet. He was smart enough not to reach for a weapon, but he grew angry, squared himself, and shouted a belligerent stream of Korean. I held my gun to the side, pointing away.