Lola

by Melissa Scrivner Love

  “Men can be convincing, when they want,” Maria says.

  “Maria,” Lola calls, a warning. Lola is fine with leaving Lucy in the same room with Maria when she is here, but she will never forget the day she came home from school to find Maria on the sofa, Hector beside her, the tinfoil and powder and spoon on the coffee table.

  “Sorry,” Maria says now. She’s so good at apologizing for the shit that doesn’t matter.

  Lola had told her mother it looked like Hector would serve some time for Darrel’s murder. Instead of railing at Lola for letting her brother take the fall for something she had done, Maria had nodded and said, “That sounds right.”

  Lola had wanted to push it, but Maria made it so she didn’t have to.

  “You did what you had to do because your brother made you.”

  Substitute “mother” for “brother” in that sentence and Maria could have explained her daughter’s whole fucking life.

  Now, Lola continues the futile, painful, sadistic scrubbing of stained tile. The kitchen has begun to fill with the scent of baking, bubbling queso and mole. Why does she do this? Because she is a daughter, and daughters take care of their mothers. Also, she doesn’t want to go home.

  She tried, the first night, going home to Garcia, but the fat white men on their foxhunting chair felt foreign to her. Garcia had washed all the dishes and put them in their proper places. The bed was made, the sheets clean. Maybe Garcia meant the clean house to be a comfort to her, a nice gesture, but Lola looked at it as a cover-up. She knows she can’t go back there, so she stayed here, under the same roof with her mother and Lucy, last night. It was an odd night, with Lola making up the sofa for her and Lucy, but Maria insisting they take the bed. Maria sang Lucy a bedtime song and told her a bedtime story about princesses, with the caveat that Lucy should not strive to be a princess, because what did they really do once they had snagged a man? Lola had wondered when her mother got wise to the fact that men saved nothing and no one. Maria had hugged Lola good night, and Lola had let her, thinking of her mother telling Lorraine that her son, Darrel, was dead, of delivering bad news, mother to mother, when Lola just wanted to run. Right before Lola was going to shut out the bedroom light, Maria had padded in with some antibiotic cream for Lola’s scabbed knees. She had dropped it on the table next to Lola with no questions, no how did you skin your knees, just left it there in case it could help. Lola had shut out the lights and pulled a sleeping Lucy close against her as she shed some silent tears in the dark, because Lola had understood why she had come here, to Maria’s, if only for a few days.

  It is because she has always been her mother’s daughter with the straight-line mouth, trying to do the right thing in the wrong way.

  Lola works for herself now. Jorge and Marcos are still her soldiers. They showed up at the fat man’s death scene in time to whisk Lola away in their newfound Prius. Jorge had talked the whole ride home about reducing the gang’s carbon footprint, and Lola found his loyal talk of the future so soothing she had fallen asleep on Marcos’s shoulder. They will change their name to the Crenshaw Four, which Lola has convinced herself has a nice ring to it. She has dropped Carlos from the count because she doesn’t fucking feel like including people who don’t deserve her respect. She will not leave Hector out of her count. He is her brother. He went to prison with his hands up in surrender because she willed it.

  Andrea, the true queenpin, didn’t get to arrest the fat man, her competition, to try him, but who was she kidding? Feds would have been on a wanted cartel head like flies on rancid, rotting meat. Sure, the cartel might send another man, another leader and this one won’t be fat, maybe, or maybe he will. Lola saved Eldridge’s life. She doesn’t know if she will ever see him or Mandy again, but Lola will love the woman forever for covering Lucy’s body with her own so no one would see the little girl, curled up between those Dumpsters.

  Now, the knock at the door brings Lola to her feet in a surprised instant. Maria starts up, but Lola stops her.

  “I’ll get it.”

  Lola opens the door on Sergeant Bubba. He’s sipping a smoothie from a Jamba Juice cup, every inch the New Age Westside LAPD officer.

  “Yeah?” Lola says.

  “How’s your day going, Ms. Vasquez?” he asks.

  “Fuckin’ great, pig,” Lola says. They are dancing, cop talking to criminal, role-playing like they’re actually all good or all evil.

  “Pretty language for a lady.”

  “Fuck you.” Lola says it loud, so Maria’s neighbors can hear her. She doesn’t want anyone seeing her being polite to a cop, but she also doesn’t care for Sergeant Bubba. He’s corrupt, and unlike her, he should know better.

  “Wouldn’t be talking like that to me, if I were you.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “She knows you burned that place to the ground.” Sergeant Bubba plants a scrap of paper in Lola’s hand. “You have a nice day,” he says.

  Lola uncurls the scrap of paper and finds a Westside address and a time. Tonight.

  It is from Andrea. Andrea, whose stash Lola sent up in smoke, whose front man she almost let burn to death trying to save a warehouse of heroin, whose cartel whale she stabbed through the neck and watched bleed out in under a minute.

  Andrea is the head of it all. She imports the drugs, manipulates the system so there’s always a front person, a kingpin she’ll never prosecute. If Andrea is smart, and she is, she’s cleaning up drug addicts and drug money at her husband’s rehab facility. She’s creating drug addicts and curing them, and she’s making and laundering a shit ton of money.

  Fuck.

  “Who was that?”

  “Cop.”

  “What?” Maria’s arms go to Lucy, pulling her close. It’s the protection instinct prevalent in this neighborhood, where cops are the villains. Lola used to want to think differently, but now, why bother?

  “No big deal,” Lola says. She doesn’t know what to do. If she goes tonight, she’s working for Andrea. But she doesn’t want to work for someone else, not even this woman she can’t help respecting. Still, Lola knows the Crenshaw Four are no match for Andrea.

  She needs to rebuild her own army.

  There’s another knock. Maybe Sergeant Bubba needs directions. This time, Maria doesn’t move. She keeps Lucy close as Lola walks back to the door with a sigh.

  “What?”

  But when she swings it open, she finds the cartel’s muscleman, clearing his throat, as if he, like his dead boss, has prepared a speech. It takes Lola a second to realize the cleanup man is standing next to him, smaller, no less intimidating.

  Lola steps out of her mother’s home, shutting the door behind her. If they’re here to kill her, she might as well not make it easy.

  She moves closer to them, her face against the muscleman’s. “You better get the fuck out of here and sit your ass on a plane to Mexico.” Her Spanish is fast and rounded and beautiful.

  “No,” the muscleman says.

  “You’re not fucking killing me on my mother’s doorstep. Assholes,” Lola says, sweeping her eyes over the cleanup man so he has his own chance to be insulted. But it doesn’t shake him. He just stands there, his hands clasped behind his back.

  Lola starts back in the house. She’s got knives inside. She’s going to go out swinging.

  “We’re not here for that,” the muscleman says, and Lola stops. She should never have turned her back to them, she thinks. She waits for the knife to land somewhere between her ribs, but it doesn’t.

  When she turns to face them, their heads are bowed. To her.

  “We want to work for you.”

  The statement takes a second to get into Lola’s brain, and when it does, she’s telling them no. “Look, I got this crazy prosecutor bitch on my back already.”

  “We know,” the muscleman says.

  “Let us help,” the cleanup man says.

  It is his plea, simple and kind, that makes Lola’s head bow back. A nod. A promise. The begin
ning of a new army. A new horizon. And Lola can change her gang’s name back to the Crenshaw Six.

  When she shuts the door on her new soldiers, she doesn’t fear the scrap of paper, the assumption she will show. She can fight back, even if it won’t be easy. Climbing never is. It’s the falling that’s fast and painless.

  “Who was that? Are you in some kind of trouble, Lola?” Maria has come over to the door, keeping her voice down so Lucy can’t hear. She’s continuing to behave like a mother.

  “I can take care of myself, Mom.” Lola sighs, a beleaguered daughter.

  Lola sees the smile playing at Maria’s lips. “You called me Mom,” Maria says.

  “Yeah,” Lola says, as if she meant to all along.

  Maria tosses a look back to Lucy and speaks to the little girl like she’s following the telenovela blaring on the screen instead of playing with her dollhouse. “That woman’s had so much work done. There is nothing wrong with aging gracefully, Lucinda. Remember that.” Then Maria turns back to Lola. “What can I do to help?”

  Lola pauses before she starts to hand her mother the scrub brush, but Maria grabs for it with eager, wrinkling hands. Her mother is getting old. Her mother is losing time to make amends.

  Lola walks into the living room and sits on the floor with Lucy and her dollhouse. “Can I play, too?”

  “Sure,” Lucy says.

  “You like your dollhouse?”

  “It’s the best,” Lucy says.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “I can make the dolls stand up or sit down. I can make them happy or sad.”

  “Yeah,” Lola says. “You can.”

  And they play together, Lola and Lucy, as behind them, Maria scrubs linoleum that will never get clean.

  My sincere thanks to Sonya Roth, who spoke to me about the ins and outs of the Los Angeles District Attorney’s office and specifics relating to the drug trade here. To Simone Shay, a prosecutor who’s never met me, but whom I got to see in action while serving jury duty at the Van Nuys courthouse. To Yahira “Flakiss” Garcia, whose music inspired me and helped me keep going with this book.

  To Nathan Roberson, my editor, who took a chance on me and has grown this book by leaps and bounds. To Eve Attermann, my book agent, who is my constant champion. To Blake Fronstin, my television agent, who is the best at what he does and might get around to reading this one day. To Oly Obst and Devon Bratton, my managers. Oly, thank you for being a wealth of knowledge and encouragement. Devon, thank you for your everlasting patience and for holding my hand through every draft of everything I’ve ever written. To Denise Thé and Amanda Segel, two of the best writers and people I know, thank you for your constant support and teaching me how to get through anything with grace.

  To Veronica Gomez and Lucy Valdizon, who made the writing of this book possible. To Lauren Rawlins, for always being on my side. To my mother-in-law, Tobi Ruth Love, who always likes what I write and lets me know I am loved, and my father-in-law, Jay Love, the best Pop-Pop around. To my dad, Michael Scrivner, who taught me to always keep my guard up and to always empathize. To my mother, Georgene Scrivner, who embodies strength, kindness, and love. You both gave me every opportunity—you gave me everything, actually. I love you.

  To David, my husband, my partner, and to Leah, our fierce girl. Thank you.

  MELISSA SCRIVNER LOVE was born to a police-officer father and a court-stenographer mother. After earning a master’s degree in English literature from New York University, Melissa moved to Los Angeles, where she has lived for over a decade. She is an Edgar Award–nominated screenwriter who has written for television shows, including Life, CSI: Miami, and Person of Interest. She and her husband welcomed their daughter in 2014. Lola is her first novel.

  What’s next on

  your reading list?

  Discover your next

  great read!

  * * *

  Get personalized book picks and up-to-date news about this author.

  Sign up now.