“What do we call it?” Coop asked him.
Fredo scratched his head. “How about “Operation Freedom: A Place to Play?”
They set up a meeting with the Archdiocese, who agreed to allow them access to the old school so they would have a place to store tools and materials for the project. A donor’s list was started, beginning with a fence company who donated all of the chain-link fencing. One of the wives found a small private school that was going to be demolished. The basketball court lights were donated to the project. The Archdiocese agreed to pay for the water and electricity to run the property, and to have a functioning kitchen, and bathroom facilities.
They found a road grading contractor who agreed to re-blacktop the whole playground. The courts were painted and re-striped. Hoops were replaced.
Fredo and Kyle got on the City Council agenda, in an emergency session, asking for the city’s support for the project; they were given a community block grant of over fifty thousand dollars as seed money, with local banks and other businesses providing matching funds in exchange for promotional rights. A local news station got wind of their project and did a series of stories, which were picked up by crews from Los Angeles. A couple of professional players from the Warriors agreed to donate time, do television spots, and help set up and run basketball clinics.
Christy Lansdowne and several of the realtors from her company donated a work day. Boarded up houses were painted and re-opened. The properties that had been abandoned had reverted back to the City of San Diego, so work crews and several contractor firms took on projects, house by house, donating labor and materials. Julio, Lupe, and their mother were able to move into a newly refurbished rental home run by the San Diego Housing Authority, overlooking the basketball court.
By the time the New Year had started, the old school had been inexpensively converted to a club house that the Archdiocese agreed to run, in partnership with one of the local service clubs. There were plans to install computers and classrooms teaching painting and creative writing, as well as other crafts.
Fredo’s project took on a life of its own. But of all the things he enjoyed, they paled in comparison to the relationship he was building with little Julio, who had learned to be quite the community organizer, and became the “grass roots” unofficial spokesman for the project. Lupe and her mother helped with bookkeeping. In essence, Fredo had created gainful employment for the entire Hernandez family.
“Why you do all this, man?” Julio asked him one day.
“Just because we can. Because someone has to do it.”
“I’m not complaining. Just why doesn’t our government do things like this?” Julio asked.
“Oh, who knows? Probably trying to defend against lawsuits, trying to manage the media, all that shit. This is just simple. We get people to help us because it’s fun, it feels right, and everyone likes to work together. Maybe these sorts of things should never be government-run.”
“You could have a lot more free time with the Mrs.” Julio pointed out. “Can’t imagine you’d want to do anything else, you understand what I’m sayin’?”
Fredo put his arm around Julio. “Oh yes, there are times when a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do. I manage to get some time in there for Ricardo and Mia.”
Mia had been reminding him of the same thing, but Fredo didn’t want Julio to know. She’d been fretting a little over not getting pregnant and even went to the doctor about it, without telling Fredo.
“So now you go, Fredo. It’s not me. You go and get checked.”
He started to agree when he got a phone call that completely shattered his day.
Chapter 7
‡
“Calm down, Lupe. Where is he?” Fredo listened as Lupe told him they’d taken Julio to Scripps.
“How bad is it?
“He’s looking like a piece of hamburger. He tried to stop them. Fredo, the school, the club house—everything is destroyed. They even shot out all the lights.”
Fredo was furious, but he knew there would be time for that later. Right now, he wanted to go to Julio’s side and be there when he got out of surgery. Mia watched as he disconnected his phone. He might have thrown it against the wall if Mia hadn’t been standing there.
“Fredo, you go. But please, don’t do anything stupid, my love. You call and let me know what’s happening. You call more than you usually call. No going dark, hear me?” She ducked down to capture his gaze. It was hard to say no to Mia, and it always would be.
“I will,” was all he could muster. She sent him away with a hug that hurt his still-sensitive lung cavity.
Riverton agreed to meet him at the hospital. The detective had a female officer posted over at the Hernandez house. The Department was doing a house-to-house search for a group of armed thugs, kids wearing black sweatshirts and masks, claiming they were “taking back the neighborhood.” Pictures of the partially burning building and twisted piles of chain-link fencing that had been literally ripped from its roots began to surface on the local and national news service wires.
While Fredo waited for Riverton, Mrs. Hernandez arrived. He was glad Lupe and the baby had stayed behind.
“I am just sick, Fredo. I should have never let him go over there by himself. He saw the boys, I think recognized the boys. Actually, he said there were a couple of girls, too.”
Fredo hugged the small woman who reminded him of a younger version of his own mother-in-law, Felicia Guzman.
“This will not go unpunished.” Fredo worked to keep his anger between the lines. Part of him wanted to throw the waiting room furniture.
While they waited together, holding hands, he viewed the news reports, fisting and un-fisting his left hand while seeing live camera shots of the destruction on TV. Materials and contents of the school building were dumped on the blacktop, much of it set on fire. One of the light standards was lying on its side, having been rammed with a large truck of some kind. Several of the houses, even those with occupants living in them, were spray painted “Take It Back” with black letters.
Fredo thought they were nuts.
Riverton joined him. “I’m just racking my brain, wondering who would do this and why?”
“One reporter said someone was disgruntled because they weren’t hired on. Another said they heard the complaints that it was “outsiders” who tried to take over their neighborhood, and they wanted it back.” Fredo shook his head. “But that just makes no sense at all. I mean, ninety days ago, they could care less what went on there.”
“So maybe we disrupted their operation. That’s what I’m thinking.”
They sat in silence. Fredo took it as a personal attack against himself. And he understood now that the Hernandez family, just by virtue of being friends of his, were vulnerable. He’d caused this just by showing kindness and doing the right thing.
Dr. Patterson came out into the waiting room, his weary eyes telegraphing something tragic. Fredo embraced Mrs. Hernandez, and they both inhaled, waiting to be told the news.
“I pulled out five slugs. Small, luckily.” He rubbed his eyes together with the tips of his fingers, forming a tent over the bridge of his nose. “I cannot get the last bullet right now at the base of his skull.”
Fredo felt like he’d been gored.
“Base of his skull? He was shot, like an execution?”
“I’m afraid so. If they had anything bigger, he’d be dead. Right now I can’t do anything more until some of his brain swelling goes down. Then we’ll worry about the spinal cord injury.”
“Spinal cord injury!” Mrs. Hernandez screamed. “My Julio. Oh my God, Julio!”
Her voice echoed throughout the emergency room and probably beyond.
“I need those rounds,” Riverton whispered to the doctor.
“You got it.”
“So when will we know?”
Dr. Patterson’s long face didn’t look hopeful. “I’d prepare for the worst. He’s already had two seizures. We can do certain things
for the swelling or it will cause further injury, both for his ability to be mobile as well as for the health of his brain. My biggest fear is infection. We’ll have to play it out. Good news is that the kid’s healthy and young. Young tissue heals fast and responds to treatment. And thank God he has no drugs in his system.”
“Of course he has no drugs in his system.” Mrs. Hernandez barked her protest to the young doctor.
Patterson shook his head. “We always test. This age group, high percentage of even casual drug users. Affects what we can do. We gotta know, especially with stimulants.”
“Is he conscious?” Fredo asked.
“I’m afraid not, and that’s good. I want him to heal. He needs rest. Not going to wake him up right now. It could risk his life.”
Fredo was numb. All the good he had been creating for the neighborhood wasn’t worth the news about Julio. What was he thinking? He didn’t miscalculate like this usually. Why didn’t he see it coming?
He withdrew from Mrs. Hernandez, who sobbed against the doctor. Dr. Patterson lovingly extricated her from his chest and handed her over to Riverton, who stiffened at first then accepted his role.
“I gotta go. Unfortunately, Julio wasn’t my only GSW tonight.”
Riverton helped Mrs. Hernandez to a seat next to Fredo.
Evil exists when good men do nothing. Fredo wanted to blame himself for this. It was indeed his fault, or at least part of it. But as a SEAL, he was more prepared for paying the price with his life, his health. He hadn’t counted on a youth of thirteen who’d already lost his older brother and a mother who had lost one son to the violence of the neighborhood—hadn’t counted on them having to pay that price, as well.
But pure evil worked that way. Preyed on the innocent. Fredo knew it wasn’t a good idea to plan a counter when he was in the heat of loss and grief. But he knew that somehow he’d get even. He searched his options. None of them were viable, not if he wanted to remain a SEAL.
“Kyle, you see the news reports?”
“Yeah. Knew you were busy with the family. What can I do to help?”
“I’m gonna get these bastards.”
“Roger that, Fredo; and I didn’t hear it, either.”
The pause on the phone between the two warriors was awkward.
“Don’t go taking any of our guys down that hellhole, Fredo. You choose to hang up your career, don’t drag anyone else with you. This isn’t our fight here.”
“I understand, LT. But this is my fight. This is why we’re doing this. No way this should have happened. I was completely shit-faced stupid.”
“Don’t bear that one. You can’t be everywhere. Besides, your job is elsewhere. You do understand your real job, don’t you, Fredo?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And yes, this sucks. But we live in a land where there are laws. I wish the police could do what we do over in the arena. I wish they had the firepower, the training we do. But that’s for another day. Today, you fight to stay sane, Fredo. I don’t want to lose one of my best men.” After a brief pause, when Kyle didn’t hear Fredo’s response, he sighed and said, “I’m sending Coop and Jones, maybe T.J. too. They’re gonna stick like glue to your ass until you get yourself back home. You hear me?”
“Yes.”
Fredo was already trying to figure out how he could give them the slip, do his own reconnaissance, find the guys—or at least the leader of the gang who did the destruction—and do him in; painfully, slowly, with relish. He’d look into the face of the man he was going to kill, and he’d take that life. Perhaps the last time, he’d take a life. And he’d make damn sure he enjoyed every second of it.
His dark thoughts scared him more than some of the dark dangerous streets in Iraq or Syria.
Chapter 8
‡
As word of the destruction of the project spread, the outpouring of sympathy and help from the community in San Diego, especially the SEAL community, kicked in big time like a high-level tactical operation. Just like always happened when they lost someone on their team, the guys got busy. Work always made horrible things seem less horrible. This wasn’t a time for smack talk, play, or joking around. This was as serious as the protection of all of the country. Someone had violated the normal boundaries of their SEAL community, and that wasn’t anything that would be allowed to stand.
The activity did give Fredo minutes here and there when he could get lost in the neighborhood. At first, Coop, T.J., and Jones let him go on short errands, but when he was gone two hours without checking in, they remained one link away from his person.
Taking at least one Team guy with him, Fredo discussed the project with the leaders at the Archdiocese. He talked to several of the volunteers who worked at the center. While no one gave him a name, a pattern developed. Older kids, kids who used the vacant buildings as drug houses, kids who hung out in the dark and dirty regions of the neighborhood, had begun to ask questions. Fredo could see that this had been a planned and coordinated attack designed to fill them with fear so they’d give up.
Well, they didn’t know the half of it.
Because of the high profile nature of the violent event, police and community resources were being used. No one wanted this attack to go unchecked. No one wanted the haters to win.
A couple of non-local news media erroneously reported a terrorist connection. Fredo doubted that, but four days into the rebuild and cleanup, and after canvassing the neighborhood, he still needed to speak to Julio. Fredo knew the kid would be able to tell him who did this. He knew he had to get the mystery solved, or at least help the police get it solved, while everyone’s attention was still there. Once another shooting or event overseas eclipsed the news, the spotlight would be silenced, and then it would be harder to catch those responsible.
Every day, he came by the mercado and asked if the clerk had seen anyone of interest or heard anything. Today, he had Jones with him.
“I’m glad you came by today, Mr. Frodo.”
“Fredo, asshole.”
“Pardon. I overheard something. I didn’t get any names, but several new guys showed up and bought energy drinks, snack foods, and lots of alcohol. They were talking about some big party going on very soon. Some big gang leader was getting out of jail. They were going to celebrate and have a ‘do-over,’ they called it.”
“When is this happening?” Fredo asked.
“Sounded like very soon. Like this guy was pissed they didn’t wait for him.”
“Okay, thanks. You stay safe.”
“I’m going to close up early tonight. I’ve told the owner I’m not well. He doesn’t have anyone to cover me, so I think we’ll be closed.”
“Probably smart. You call me if you see anything.” Fredo wrote his cell on a piece of paper for the clerk.
Fredo called Riverton and let him know what he’d been told. Riverton confirmed what Fredo had been told. “We got fuckin’ Sonny Alvarez getting out of Pelican Bay this afternoon or maybe tomorrow. Got his conviction overturned, and I’m sure there will be a retrial, but the Feds are cooking something up, and he’ll get re-charged, but we don’t know when. He’s a total scumbag, Fredo. He’d gotten twenty-five years to life. He’s not supposed to return to the neighborhood, per conditions of his release, but sounds like he has other plans.”
“Maybe that could tack on additional years, then, if he gets caught.”
“Could be. It’s the catching him that’s the problem. Takes a lot of resources, and we’ve got our hands full with budget cuts.”
Fredo knew it might be a long shot, but this was the connection he needed. He and Jones started asking neighbors if they knew where the Alvarez family lived. He got an answer from an unlikely source the next day.
Mrs. Hernandez told Fredo some of Sonny’s junior lieutenants, boys still in high school with clean records who could move in and out of society without notice, had been harassing Lupe.
“Ephron knew it. I couldn’t be sure, but I wondered if that’s what got him sho
t,” she mumbled. A fat tear traveled down her cheek.
“You tell the police this?”
“Oh yes. That was almost two years ago. Fredo, the police did nothing, really. Just called it a random shooting. But I know my Ephron. He wasn’t a Navy SEAL, but he was still a corpsman, and he’d have been like you, not willing to let it go.”
“So did the harassment stop after his death?”
“Lupe said so. But by then she was pregnant, and out of school for the summer and then later to go have the baby.”
“Did Julio know these guys?”
“I don’t know. But if I was to guess, I’d say yes.”
On the way over to the hospital, T.J. asked Fredo several questions. “So Jones says some big gang guy is getting out of prison, and he might have a connection to all this? That right, Fredo?”
“Yes. Riverton thinks he gets out today.”
“So you think Julio knows him?”
“No, I don’t. But I’m sure there’s a connection.”
“So why are we going over there?”
“I wanna see if Julio is any closer to waking up or can talk. I need a little bit of something more, T.J.”
“Not sure that’s smart, Fredo.”
“Gotta try. We’re running out of time. If they’re planning on something else, we better be ready.”
“But you just can’t wake up a patient like that. You could cause brain damage.”
“I know that. I won’t do that. But I gotta try. Gotta do what I can.”
A few minutes later, Fredo was arguing with the head nurse, in hushed tones, at the foot of Julio’s bed in intensive care. As if hearing the voices, Julio’s eyes began to trace beneath his closed eyelids.
“Holy shit, Fredo, he’s regaining consciousness,” T.J. said as he grabbed his buddy’s arm, pulling him to the bedside.
“You don’t touch him. I’m going to get the doctor.” The nurse shut off her attitude, turned, and ran to the hallway.
Fredo's Secret, A SEAL Brotherhood Novella: A SEAL Brotherhood Novella Page 5