With his face flush from exertion, and sweat forming on his brow, he did the routine again. He felt more alive, more himself, more focused. His third time through the routine of push-ups found him falling to the floor in failure, resting, then pushing through. The fourth time required several breaks. During the fifth time, his arms wobbled with each push-up, his stomach burned with each sit-up, and his legs nearly buckled after each squat.
Omar fell onto the bed, the sheets absorbing the sweat from his body. Hi, I’m Pablo Alvarez. I’m here for this woman I had an amazing week in Cabo with, she’s the one I’m going to marry. Omar sighed in disgust. He’d need a story for moving money around in Canada, and another for Europe.
Omar sat up in the bed, his stomach aching from the sit-ups, his heart still pounding from the workout. His body tensed in frustration. He couldn’t risk having all the money in a joint account with the real Pablo Alvarez, and didn’t know enough about bitcoin to feel comfortable putting his money there. If only he had more time.
Omar stood, sweat pouring out of his body. His legs wobbled as he walked to the shower. He tossed his boxers in the bathroom trash, unwrapped a little shower soap, and enjoyed the cold water while cursing the lack of water pressure.
Omar felt his body temperature cooling in the shower. He stretched his quads and hamstrings, and pulled against the wall to stretch his chest and back. Twenty minutes later, he was towel-dried and peeking out the window to find that the full darkness of night had arrived.
Omar flipped through the clothes Santiago packed for him. He chose the white t-shirt and khaki cargo shorts with paint splotches on both. It looked like Omar had recently been painting, or was a painter. He paired the outfit with his running shoes. He sniffed at his clothes from last night. They smelled like smoke so he tossed them in the bathroom garbage before packing.
Omar laughed to himself when he struggled to carry his heavy suitcase down the stairs. His legs nearly buckled from exhaustion several times, but he made it. Omar took a deep breath, taking in the hot evening air. He had minor cramps all over—he needed water, he was dehydrated.
He closed all his bags in the trunk, keeping only his passport and wallet with him. He drove to the front of the motel, parking in the registration spot. A moment later he was standing before a chubby woman behind the counter.
“Hi, I’m Pablo, checking out of room twenty-four. I left my license here.”
The woman reached under the desk and pulled out a little metal box. She flipped through a few cards, pulling out a driver’s license. She looked at one, then up to Omar. “You five-eight? I’m five-six and be taller than you.”
Omar glared at her, quickly running through his options. He glanced at the security camera behind her, violence was not an option. Omar shrugged. “That’s my height in heels,” he joked, flashing a smile.
She laughed and smiled back. She leaned forward and whispered, “My license says I’m one-thirty. I haven’t been that since junior high.” She handed Omar the license.
“Numbers don’t matter. We look great.”
“Uh-huh,” she agreed.
“Bye.” Omar pocketed his license and turned to the door.
“Wait,” she called out. “If you ain’t put no card down, we gotta make sure there’s no damage first.”
Omar turned back. “Okay. I can wait for you to take a look.”
She shook her head. “I can’t leave the front desk. Cleaner gotta check. Or you just give me a credit card for deposit?”
Omar walked back to her, handing her his license. “Is there a Walmart near here? Maybe I can run there and come pick this back up in a half hour?”
She pointed. “A minute down that road.”
Omar gave her his license. “Thanks. I’ll be back for it in a bit.”
After a quick jaunt through the night’s heat to Walmart, Omar filled up his cart with socks, underwear, shirts, gym shorts, work boots and gym shoes with thick soles that were two sizes too big, and four pairs of gel inserts. A minute later he was in the grocery aisle putting a package of bottled water on the bottom of his cart before grabbing two four-packs of pre-made coffee drinks.
Omar added four boxes of protein bars and three bags of beef jerky to his cart. These would be good snacks for the night, but he needed a real meal, even if it was just fast food. Just as Omar was headed for the checkout, he realized he forgot to get something to help conceal his identity. He went back to the clothing section and picked up two different baseball caps, a hooded sweatshirt, and two different pairs of sunglasses.
A hundred fifty dollars lighter, Omar put his food and drinks in the backseat. He ripped open two pairs of gel inserts, shoved both pairs into the new gym shoes, then changed into them. He put everything else in the trunk, then drove through Burger King, getting two Whoppers and a large Coke. With the Civic’s A/C cranked up, he drove back to the registration parking lot, ready to eat the burgers once he got back on the highway.
“Room was fine,” the woman said with a smile. “You threw out some good-looking clothes, though. Sure you don’t want them back?”
Omar paused. How could I be so stupid? No, wait, if someone here takes them, first thing they’ll do is throw them in the motel’s washing machine and destroy evidence. That’s good. If I’m tracked here, I’m fucked either way. “Yeah, I don’t need them,” Omar said, taking Pablo’s license back. “Have a good night.”
“You too.”
Omar reached for the door when he heard her call out, “Hey. You get taller?”
As Omar turned his head around, he noticed the height chart on the side of the door. If someone robbed the motel, when running away, the clerk would be able to give the police a good height estimate. This woman was checking him out hard. “I wish. Have a good one.”
* * *
Jo’s new burner phone buzzed. [Turn on KUSI.] She tapped Dzuy on the forearm. “Put on KUSI, will you, hon?”
He paused the newest Star Wars movie. “Who was that?”
“Omar’s guy. The one who delivered the letter to Smiley.”
Dzuy tapped the controller and a crime drama played in the background. “What are we looking for?”
Jo shrugged. “Can you click on the menu thing?”
A moment later, the menu screen appeared.
“Oh. The news starts in ten minutes,” Jo said. “Smiley’s probably a guest on the news.”
Dzuy set the remote down next to the shotgun on the glass coffee table. “Should we make some dessert?”
“Okay.”
Jo watched Dzuy eye the shotgun as he stood. “I think you can leave it. The kitchen is ten feet away.”
“You’re right. I just don’t like feeling this powerless. And afraid they’ll track me down for the thermite. Or you...”
Jo kissed Dzuy on the lips. “It’s been a heck of a year, hasn’t it?”
Dzuy kissed her back. “Understatement of the century.”
“Thank you.” Jo nodded to the shotgun. “For everything.”
Dzuy did his best to mimic Omar’s smirk, one eye closed and lips pursed more than Omar’s quarter smile.
Jo laughed. “Not even close.”
Dzuy laughed too. After a moment, he walked behind the kitchen island. “I’m going to miss that guy. You gotta admit things were exciting with him around.”
“Sure, but I thank God it’s looking like it’s finally behind us.” Jo looked at the empty counter. “What do we have for dessert?”
Dzuy went to the fridge and pulled out strawberries and blueberries. “Grab a banana, would you?”
Jo went to the counter near the blender and retrieved a banana from a silver bowl. “Fresh fruit? I was hoping for chocolate.”
Dzuy reached back into the fridge, pulling out a canister of whipped cream. “Sorry.” Dzuy tipped the can upside down and discharged a big spray into his mouth.
A few minutes later they were in front of the television with their bowls of fruit covered in whipped cream.
&nbs
p; Once Jo had a mouth full of food, Dzuy asked, “What are we really hoping for?”
Jo tapped him on the arm while chewing. After swallowing, she responded, “That MS-13 blames itself for all the killing.”
“I get that. But, I mean, are we really hoping for a gang war?”
Jo sighed and pushed away her dessert in self-disgust. “Of all the terrible options, it’s the least bad. The police can’t take on MS-13. Omar couldn’t. We can’t. The only group strong enough to destroy, or at least cripple MS-13, is itself.”
Dzuy pushed the fruit around in his bowl with his spoon. “Do you think there’ll be a lot of collateral damage? Kids getting caught in the crossfire?”
Jo closed her eyes. “I hope not.” She looked at Dzuy, her eyes glistening with tears. “I’d never be able to forgive myself.”
Dzuy put his hand on her thigh and squeezed gently.
Jo swallowed hard. “They might not fall for it and nothing much will happen. Except, you know, with this theory being advanced, law enforcement will be looking extra hard at MS-13—some good can come from this.”
“I hope so.” Dzuy turned the volume on the television up.
The attractive anchorwoman in her red pantsuit sat opposite a black-suited thin man with a closely trimmed grey beard and marine haircut. Lead Story graphics flashed across the screen before a graphic appeared below the grey haired man [David Smiley – Gang Expert].
“Our lead story is the shooting and fire at criminal defense attorney Brian Hogan’s law office. With us is gang expert David Smiley,” the anchor said into the camera. She turned to Smiley. “How do we know this was gang-related?”
“The police have a suspect in custody that has a tattoo of the number thirteen on his forearm. That’s a dead giveaway that he’s a member of MS-13.”
“Anything else?”
“From my contacts, I understand two of the victims have been identified. A man known as Devil’s Bullet, a high ranking MS-13 gang member. He was easy to identify because he had these metal implants in his skull. And a man named Marcos Omar, he’s not MS-13, but was thought to be a player in the San Diego protection racket.”
“What’s the protection racket?”
Smiley leaned back in his chair. “If businesses or people are shaken-down or harassed, they can usually go to the police. But if they are doing something a little illegal, they can’t go to the police, so they go to someone like Marcos Omar.”
“Are you sure Mr. Omar wasn’t MS-13?”
“No.” Smiley quickly shook his head. “But I don’t believe so.”
“Then why was he killed along with MS-13 gang members?”
“Good question.” Smiley smoothed his grey tie. “I believe Devil’s Bullet was trying to recruit Omar to make a move against leadership in the Los Angeles chapter of MS-13 so he could take over all of Southern California and Baja – be the biggest and baddest gangster since El Chapo. So, he wanted help taking out the leadership there.”
“Why an outsider?”
“Two reasons. If the move didn’t work, he wouldn’t look responsible for the attempt. If the move did work, and he was known as the person who orchestrated it, there would be a lot of resentment from the people coming up behind the old leaders. He’d be looking over his shoulder for a long time.”
“What happened? How did the plan go wrong?”
“Seeing how only one man made it out of the meeting alive, it’s pretty obvious. The suspect in custody was loyal to the L.A. leadership and set up everyone at the meeting. He burned the place down and shot those who were able to leave the building.” Smiley leaned forward. “Think about it. If all the leadership in San Diego goes down, someone’ll have to fill in, and the person with support from Los Angeles will have the best shot.”
Jo blinked repeatedly then swallowed hard.
“What’s wrong?” Dzuy asked.
“He just signed Juan Doe’s death warrant.”
* * *
When Omar saw the last exit sign for Sacramento, he shrugged with surprise that he didn’t drive through the Bay Area on Highway 5. Without his cell phone and internet, there was so much he didn’t know. He thought this drive would take him up the California coast, he was wrong.
The gas gauge showed he was nearing empty. The three empty bottles of water and two empty bottles of coffee in the passenger seat showed what Omar felt, he had to stop.
Omar took the exit. He feared there might be mountains ahead, so he couldn’t risk running out of gas. While he wanted to avoid a bigger city, this four am stop was a necessity.
Omar stopped at the first gas station, there was no attendant. He looked in the large wallet at Pablo’s credit card with hesitation. He didn’t want a record of charges showing him going north. A glance around the pump revealed a machine that would accept cash. Omar put a twenty in the machine and shifted uncomfortably as he filled the tank. It won’t even get half full. He put another ten in, not wanting to risk running out of gas. Omar finished the thirty dollars, hung the pump up, then darted towards the side of the building, to the bathroom.
Omar turned the handle and pushed. He pulled. He jerked at the door, but it was locked. Omar glanced around the four-pump station. No attendant. No one. Before a brown wooden fence was a blue dumpster. Omar walked to it, to partially shield himself from any passersby, and peed on the fence.
Midstream, Omar heard a car pull into the gas station. He upped the pressure to finish sooner, finished with a quick shake, and zipped up his paint-spattered cargo shorts. He jogged back to his car and stopped in his tracks. A cop car was shining its spotlight on his car.
The light swung into his eyes. He averted the light and looked at the ground. He gently raised his hands up to show he wasn’t a threat and walked slowly towards his car. His mind raced. It’s Sunday at four am and I’m wearing painters’ clothes. Painters don’t work Sundays. Pablo’s license has a San Diego address. The car is registered to him. Think.
Omar approached slowly. “Is everything okay, Officer?”
A female cop that looked an awful lot like the recently departed Officer Maggiore got out of her car. “Can you lift up your shirt and spin around?”
Omar did as he was told. “I’m unarmed. I’m a firefighter, friends with a lot of police. I’ll follow your instructions to a tee.”
“What were you doing behind the gas station?” she asked with suspicion.
A hard-charging cop could arrest him for something like disorderly conduct if they knew he peed in public. Shit, she could find any excuse to arrest him and search his stuff. He’d have a hard time explaining the cash, cashier’s checks, and gold. Omar kept his hands raised. “I bought gas then tried to use the restroom, but it was locked. I really had to go, so I found a private spot back there and went.”
“Drinking tonight?”
“No, Officer.”
“It’s late. Where you headed?”
“Medford. I was painting yesterday morning.” Omar tapped on his clothes. “Got a call that my grandmother had a stroke so I got on the road right away.”
“Thought you said you were a firefighter.”
Omar nodded. “I am. I was painting my own house.”
“Stay there,” the officer commanded. She stepped towards Omar’s car and shone her flashlight in it. “Coffee, water, Burger King?”
Omar smirked. “Not my first choice.”
With her right hand over her gun, she pulled out a pen with her left hand and approached Omar. “Keep your head still and follow my pen with your eyes.”
Omar watched her move the pen from left to right, back and forth.
“Okay. Stand still, I’m going to get a quick smell of your breath.”
Omar opened his mouth and exhaled for her.
She backed away. “Smells like coffee.”
“Sorry, haven’t brushed in a while.”
The officer chuckled and stepped back. “Okay. You’ve got a couple hours left, drive safe.”
“Thanks, Officer
. Have a good morning.”
Omar got in his car, used the turn signal before turning onto the road, and chastised himself to be more careful. What would be found during a search of his car would be impossible to explain. The Pablo Alvarez cover wouldn’t hold up forever.
30
“Remember,” Jo said, walking with Dzuy to answer the door at his condo, “he can arrest us. He can lie to us. He can record us.” She squeezed his hand. “So don’t say much at all.”
She felt his hand squeeze back. “Got it.”
“Thanks.” Jo let go, watching Dzuy take the last two steps to the door. His toned body was hidden by khaki shorts and a blue polo, but she could see his calves tighten when he leaned forward to look through the peep hole. A second later, he opened the door.
“Come in, Detective,” Dzuy said while holding the door.
“Thanks,” Browning responded, pausing to stare at the shoes on the shoe rack by the front door.
“Afternoon, Detective,” Jo said from the hall.
Browning took her in, checking out her legs. His eyes traveled up her shorts and t-shirt to her eyes. “Hi.” He glanced at back at Dzuy. “Shoes off?”
“If you don’t mind,” Dzuy said.
Browning dropped his notebook on the ground and huffed as he bent over to untie his running shoes. The bottom of his hairy belly protruded above his jeans and below his white polo shirt as he worked on the laces.
Jo averted her eyes and stepped towards the kitchen. She called out, “Can I get you guys a beer or something to drink?”
“No thanks,” Dzuy responded.
“Water,” Browning said while taking off his shoes. He stood upright. “Or something diet, if you got it.”
“Okay.” She walked to the fridge, glancing over her shoulder to see Browning sit on the recliner and Dzuy on the couch catty-corner to him. She grabbed three bottles of water from the fridge, walked to Browning to hand him a bottle, then sat next to Dzuy, setting theirs on the glass coffee table in front of them.
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