by Pete, Eric
When I saw the hotel, I could still hear the police sirens back around The Pink Lion as they fanned out over the area. I considered getting us arrested, as it would get Martino the medical attention he needed and would get me out of Alejandro’s reach for a minute. But I quickly dismissed that idea, because I was sure Alejandro would have someone on payroll on the police force, and then I’d be without whatever information Martino possessed. And I did believe he possessed some.
I led Martino into the hotel and up to his room; then I quickly got us behind closed doors. Inside the room, I removed his shirt and had him lie on the bed while I wet a towel to wipe the bloody wound. I didn’t really know what the fuck to do, but I talked a good game to keep him from panicking.
After double-checking the locks on the door and peeking out the curtain, I struck up a conversation with a semi-delirious Martino as I went about trying to tend to his wound.
“Why you out here, baby? Least you can do is tell Rio why that man’s trying to kill us.”
“He ... he works for Alejandro Zuniga,” he said through teeth gritted in pain. “I—I gotta call in. Let ’em know I’m safe ... thanks to you. Give ... give me my phone.”
“I’ll get your phone in a minute, but you need to lay still, okay? I used to be a nurse. Let me take care of this,” I urged. Of course, I’d never been a nurse a day in my life, but it sounded good. “Your boss let you come out here with these crazy mofos?” I asked as I tended to the blood steadily trickling from the hole in his back. We had only so many clean towels, and the comforter was already ruined.
“Yeah, I got somebody inside their organization. Paying him for info. Found out the beaner’s shippin’ crazy shit to these niggers back in New York,” he said.
Humph. Guess his delirious ass didn’t know that just because I was gay didn’t mean I suddenly wasn’t black. My previous crush on this fool was now officially over. Not only was he on the down low, but he was also a racist who liked to fuck black men. What kind of self-hating faggot was he? I made a mental note that if this racist faggot survived, I would make sure to literally bite his dick off.
“Hold still. I think I can get it out.” I dug a finger into Martino’s wound, acting like I was searching for the bullet. Really I was just punishing his racist ass. He let out a loud grunt, which brought a smile to my face. “Sorry,” I said, containing a giggle. “Shippin’ shit? Like stolen car parts?”
“Nooooo. Drugs. Coke. Heroin. Heavy shit, Rio. But get this. Niggers didn’t get their shit,” he said, laughing even through his pain. “My boss used the info I got out of the beaner over here, and he jacked the shipment once it got back east.”
“Niggers and beaners ain’t comin’ after you and your paisans over it?” I asked. Incredibly, he totally missed the irony in my tone.
“Nah,” he answered. He was so proud of the work he’d done for his boss that he suddenly seemed to regain some strength as he explained, “No one knows we knew about the shipment, so each side thinks the other’s lying. We’re turnin’ them against each other, and then we just wait to pick up the pieces. Some beautiful, wicked shit my boss thought of. When it’s over with the niggers, our guy out here will be in charge of Zuniga’s old operations on the West Coast. And I get more trips out here to keep an eye on things.” He turned his head to try to look at me. “You wanna move out here with me? We could go out and party every night. Fuck ’n shit, and nobody would know.”
I wanted to slap this silly-ass fool. “Doesn’t seem like it’s gonna happen now, Martino, since Zuniga’s men came after you in the club. Remember? They shot at us.”
“Y-yeah, you’re right. Damn,” he said, his voice trailing off as either the blood loss or shock began to take over. “Our guy musta gave us up and told his boss everything. That’s how those Mexicans knew to follow me out tonight. Aw. Everything’s fucked now.”
“That bastard.”
“Yeah. As much money and pussy as we supplied him with. We should cut off his dick and feed it to the dogs. I... I really gotta call my boss, I think. He’s gonna be pissed.”
“What’s the guy’s name?”
“My boss? We call him Mr. Dash. Respect, y’know,” Martino rambled, his eyes barely open now. I couldn’t believe how much information he was giving up so easily. I figured he must be in shock.
“Noooo. The guy inside Zuniga’s organization. That double-crossin’ bastard who sent them to kill you. What’s his name? If I get out of this alive, I’m gonna kill him myself.”
“Oh. We call him Road Map.”
I mean, this was just too damn easy. I felt like a detective on some television drama the way I was getting this dumb ass to spill his guts—figuratively and literally.
“Road Map? What the fuck kinda name is that?”
“He got jacked-up skin,” Martino said with a groan as he tried to laugh. “Face look like a ...”
“Road map?” I said, completing his sentence for him.
“Yeeeeah, you got it. Now... hand me my phone. I‘ma send somebody to help get us outta here. Just won’t tell ’em about us or where I was at. I’ll say you were a Good Samaritan ’n shit.”
Yeah. A blond, gay brother in the hotel with the supposedly straight Martino. Like they wouldn’t kill my ass on sight if I let him send his boys over. Now it made sense to me why he was so loose with his tongue. He probably figured telling me wouldn’t hurt, because I wouldn’t be around to share it with anybody.
I took his phone, looking through numbers in the directory first. Then I placed a call of my own.
“Hey, O. It’s me.”
“Rio? Thank God. You need to get as far away from Alejandro and them as you can. Pop just had both his brothers killed. In retaliation for Uncle Lou’s death.”
“Uncle Lou’s dead?”
He hesitated, then said quietly, “Yeah, man. Lou’s dead.”
“Oh, shit. So I guess I’m next.”
“Not if I can help it. Now, I need to know exactly where the fuck you are, man. I got Paris on the ground, looking for you.”
“Hotel Beverly Terrace on North Doheny, room three forty-eight,” I said. “And tell her to hurry. The block is hot, O, and they’re out to get me.”
I hung up. Once I got out of immediate danger, I’d call Orlando again and tell him everything I’d just learned about the Italians setting us up.
“Who was that?” Martino asked, a surge of consciousness allowing him to raise his head.
“I just called your people for you and told them where we’re at. They said for you to lay still and they’re on their way.”
“Damn. I owe you my life. Still wish we coulda fucked tonight.”
“Yeah. That woulda been some incredible shit,” I said with an eye roll.
With a crash, the door flew open. Shit. Martino’s blood drops must have led him right to the hotel. I tried to use Martino’s phone again, but our pursuer pointed his barrel dead at me.
“No... w-wait,” I stuttered as I slowly lowered the phone. Martino groaned as he tried to turn over in our direction. “He ... he needs medical attention.”
With rolled-up sleeves exposing the extensive ink down his forearms, he brought his aim in Martino’s direction. He fired two shots into Martino, killing him on the spot. Before I could yell or scream, he turned his gun back toward me.
This was it. I closed my eyes, not wanting to know when the fatal shot was coming.
“If it was up to me, I’d kill you right now,” he hissed. “But Alejandro wants to see you. You’re one lucky fuckin’ maricon.”
I kept my hands up in the air as I opened my eyes and glanced at Martino, who hadn’t been nearly as lucky. It looked like Alejandro’s man didn’t realize who Martino was or his significance. Our meeting up and his saving me was really a crazy coincidence, but I was alive because of it—something that didn’t make Alejandro’s man too happy.
“Of course, he didn’t say nothing about your condition when I deliver you,” he scoffed just before he cra
cked me upside my skull with his gun.
As everything faded to black, the only thing I could think of was that I hoped LC was proud of me. I was unconscious before I hit the floor.
Paris
45
“A w.w.w, fuck me!” I’d arrived at the hotel on the edge of Beverly Hills too late. The kicked-in door and the dead white man on the bed were clues that I was in the right room, just at the wrong time. I must have just missed them, though, because no one had discovered this mess yet. A cell phone lay on the carpet. I picked it up and checked the call history.
The last call was to Orlando’s number. I hit the button to redial.
“Rio!” Orlando yelled.
“Guess again,” I replied. “I got here too late. There’s one dead dude on the bed. All ventilated. Whoever he was, I guess he wasn’t important. No Rio in sight. That’s a good sign, I think. I mean, who’s to say the dead son of a bitch isn’t the result of Rio’s handiwork? Perhaps he’s learned a thing or two from his li’l sis.”
There was silence on the line for a second. Guess Orlando wasn’t in the mood for jokes. Me, I preferred not to get too wound up, too serious, because it made me lose my focus.
“No,” Orlando explained. “The only reason Rio isn’t laying right there next to him is because he’s the only chip they have left. They still think Miguel is alive. But with what Pop just did with the two brothers, I don’t think they’re gonna think that for long. You better find him, Paris. Find him and get the two of you home in one piece.”
“A‘ight, a’ight. I’ll call you later,” I remarked, taking one final look at the dead body before quickly exiting the room with the dude’s phone.
At least I kinda knew what to look for—the black-tinted Suburban I’d tailed from Alejandro’s dealership to West Hollywood. I just had to find it again. It was what led me to Rio inside The Pink Lion after I found it parked near a bunch of clubs and restaurants. Leave it to my brother to convince Alejandro’s men to take him out to a gay bar before killing him.
Out of all the clubs and venues in the area, I went with the newest, shiniest one in sight, figuring that was where someone with Rio’s tastes would be. And, of course, my instincts were right. Inside the club, I spotted the two goons pretty quickly as they tried unsuccessfully to blend in with the gay crowd. With no time to canvass the whole place, I had no idea how many more might be around, so I prepared to do some reconnaissance work.
Figuring I’d play the role of a lipstick lesbian, I found a nearby butch chick and approached her. From my vantage point at the bar, I could watch the goons while they watched my brother. I made some small talk with the lesbian and got her worked up over my boobies, which were peering over the top of my dress. Then I convinced her to show me around, taking a route past one of the thugs.
Dude was so out of place in a gay bar, and unlike me, he couldn’t play gay, even for a minute. As I walked by with my fake date, he took notice. Bold motherfucker actually reached out to caress my free hand as I moved past him. It was just what I was hoping he’d do. The touch was just long enough for me to stick the prick with a prick of my own—a tiny needle to his wrist that I’d concealed in my hand. Probably felt like a static shock to him, or the electricity that existed between us in his deluded mind.
It was going to take a minute or two for the poison to make its way to his heart. So, after only a few more steps with my impromptu companion, I suddenly declined my “tour,” leaving her to curse me out as a fickle bitch.
I was moving into position to take out the other goon when his partner keeled over, grasping his chest. Rio suddenly bolting threw a monkey wrench into my plans. When I got caught in the stampede of bodies fleeing the building, I was unable to move, swept up in the sea of people rushing for the front door. I watched my remaining target take off in the direction of Rio and the soon-to-be dead dude from the hotel. I waited outside the club with the rest of the confused and curious, but neither Rio nor the Mexican exited my way.
By the time I made it around to the alley, no one was in sight, so I hopped in my rental and went driving in circles, trying to find that Suburban again. I got the lucky break I needed in the form of Orlando’s call telling me to go to the hotel. As I left there now, I hoped I’d catch another lucky break, because I had no idea where Rio had gone.
On Santa Monica Boulevard, I decided to head back toward Alejandro’s place as fast as I could. That was when I spotted the Suburban, just as it was about to enter the 405. Too many cars separated us to do anything, so I had to follow it onto the freeway. The closer I let the SUV get to Alejandro’s turf south of here, the stickier the situation would be. I had to think fast. I had to think of something that would get my brother out of there without getting both of us killed.
As I shifted the Mustang GT and picked up speed, my mind went to a bad place. What if Rio was already dead? If anything happened to my brother, I would damn sure release my anger on more than just the guy driving the SUV. Shit, I’d take down the whole population of Mexicans in L.A. if I had to.
C’mon, girl. Stay focused, I reminded myself. Negativity wasn’t helpful at the moment. I had to remember my training and keep my eyes on the prize.
Thinking on the fly, I switched lanes to the right and accelerated to overtake them. I stayed within the flow of traffic, gradually easing alongside so as to get a look, but the damn tint didn’t yield much info for me. The only person I could see was the driver. I was pretty sure it was the one from the club that I didn’t get to. I was resolved to rectify that like a mutha now.
I let him get a look at me as I pretended to be texting while driving; then I reduced my speed to fall back ever so slightly. A loud pop rang out, followed by swerving as the right rear tire on his SUV blew out, courtesy of the shot from my Walther .380. I moved the Mustang in his direction, guaranteeing the collision I was trying to accomplish. With a wrenching crash, our vehicles made contact.
I clenched the wheel as I rode my car to a stop. Both cars were scraped up, and only one was drivable—mine. It was decision time. If he wanted to escape, he’d need my car. If he wanted to stay, he would be calling for backup to come pick him up. When I saw him on his phone, I knew his decision. I needed to hurry. I didn’t have enough firepower for a shootout on the 405.
“What’s wrong with you?” I screamed, exiting the Mustang on the passenger’s side. “I need your license, registration, and insurance!”
“You don’t know how to drive, bitch?” he yelled back as he exited the Suburban in a huff and came around to inspect the damage. “Fuckin’ textin’. I saw you!”
“And you fuckin’ came over into my lane. Comprende, estúpido?”
“You got a fuckin’ mouth on you. You know that?”
“Whatever. This mouth wants to see your insurance ’n shit. Same thing happened to my last car. Motherfucker drove off. Ain’t happenin’ this time,” I said.
He shook his head, obviously wanting to strike me. With so many witnesses driving by, he restrained himself... for now. Then his eyes turned lustful. That caught me off guard a bit. I wasn’t expecting that with the high pressure conditions he was under, but I guess transporting bodies, pulling guns out in clubs, and shooting up hotels was just another day for him. Wow. A potential soul mate? If that bitch didn’t have my brother in there, maybe we... Oh, who was I kidding? We’d kill each other on our honeymoon. Literally.
“Tell you what. Give me your number, and I’ll get your car fixed at our shop. Good as new, no charge. Plus a little cash for your inconvenience,” he offered.
“For real? How am I supposed to believe you? You might be lyin’ to a sista ’n shit,” I said flirtatiously, playing in my hair and flashing my “you might get you some eventually” smile.
“Look, just give me your number. I’ll have a tow truck come over now and take care of you.”
“Okay. You sound like a man who knows what he’s doin’. You got a pen on you? ’Cause I don’t have one.”
“Just give
me the number and I’ll put it in my phone.”
“Nah, I don’t trust that. You could put in the wrong number or just delete it. I wanna see you write it down on paper. Make it official. Old school. Like we in high school and you gonna ask me on a date.” I was making this thug think we were truly vibing.
He smiled, then sighed as he looked back at the Suburban. It took him a minute to decide, but just like all men, he couldn’t resist my charms in the end. As he walked toward his car, I followed on his heels.
“What’s your name, anyway?” I asked. “Somethin’ sexy soundin’ I bet. I was just breakin’ up with my man before you hit me.”
“By text, huh?” he said with a laugh as he reached over into the center console. He still didn’t give me a name.
Bet he’d tell me more if I let him hit it, I thought. I’d already let Miguel get some of this, though, and my rule was only one dick per organization. Too bad for this dude. Besides, I had much more important things to do at the moment, like getting my brother back.
Before he had a chance for more conversation, I wedged my gun up under his jaw.
“Is he alive?” I asked coolly as I removed his concealed handgun from his shoulder holster.
“Y-yeah,” he said, straining to swallow with my barrel pressing into his trachea.
I tossed his gun over the freeway railing, then hit the button to unlock the passengers’ doors. “Show me,” I ordered.
When I let him stand, he was smiling again. Trying to dazzle me with charm still. “You can’t be his girlfriend,” he joked.
“What I am to him and what I am to you are irrelevant. Move,” I said, shifting my gun to the base of his skull.
We walked to the rear, and I nudged him to make him move faster. I had to be gone from here soon. He opened the door just enough for me to see Rio lying in the back. He was bound with zip ties, with a knot as big as an egg in the middle of his forehead.