by John Lansing
The women paid the bill out of ancient change purses and disappeared behind locked doors. The truck rumbled down the road, and made a left where it dead-ended. Jack enjoyed the silence, and the smattering of stars that appeared in this rural neighborhood. He heard three extended blasts of the horn. The traveling grocer was selling his wares on the next block over. The sliver of moon gave off no light in the darkening winter sky. Jack’s back had seized up, and the Excedrin was having no effect other than giving him a case of heartburn.
Jack decided to get proactive. He grabbed his small Maglite from the glove box and slipped out of the car, keeping in the shadows. The pools of light created by the streetlamps guided him to a fallow field at the end of the dead-end block. But now that he was walking on the county land that ran along the back of Hector’s property, he was on his own. The gigantic electrical towers loomed overhead, and served as markers for Jack as he slowly made his way back toward his destination. The electric current running through the high-voltage lines snapped and buzzed like summer insects.
Jack stopped to get his bearings, and pulled some brambles off his socks that were cutting into his ankles. He moved forward until he was standing directly behind the chain-link fence that bordered the Lopez house. He could make out the occasional shadow crossing what he thought must be the kitchen window.
Jack used the overhanging branch of an old neglected orange tree that was on the corner of the property to help him jump the chain-link fence. He landed heavier than planned and stopped short to make sure no one had heard.
He could see the outline of a lean-to that was attached to the back of the garage with what appeared to be a thick cutting block and bench inside. A rusted grill had been discarded next to the shed, and a few rakes and shovels were propped against the building.
Jack carefully edged closer, using the garage to shield himself from the rear windows of the house. He moved past the lean-to and stopped short at the window on the side of the garage.
It was too dark to make out anything on the inside, and the window’s thick layer of dirt made it impossible to see even with light. But Jack hadn’t come this far not to try.
He cupped the Maglite with his hand to stop any light from bleeding in the direction of the house. At first he couldn’t make out a thing. Then he found a small opening where a condensation drip had cleaned a narrow channel on the dirt-caked glass.
Jack raked the light in a compact arc and found himself looking in at a furnished space. Low rent, but livable.
It looked like a derelict building from the outside, but someone—and Jack felt certain it was Hector—called the garage home. Jack extinguished the light and quickly returned to the protection of the lean-to. This time he discovered an old wooden door that provided access into the rear of the garage. It was locked.
Of course, he thought.
He turned on the light again, found a wooden milk crate that held some rusty tools, pulled out a small screwdriver, and went to work on the door. He placed the Maglite in his mouth, used the tail of his T-shirt to dampen the sound, and tried to pry the lock open.
The screwdriver slipped, grazed the palm of his hand, and the Maglite fell out of his mouth and onto the dirt. He silently cursed and bent to pick up the rusted tool. He then reached for the light.
Jack saw the shadow of a boot in the Maglite before he sensed Hector’s presence. He tried to stand up but was stopped by the sound of his skull being cracked. An explosion of color skyrocketed behind his eyes, and then Jack Bertolino’s world turned black.
42
Jack’s eyes blinked open to excruciating pain. His hands and feet were bound together with duct tape, and he was hanging from a rafter in Hector’s little slice of heaven. His feet dangled about two feet off the garage floor, and he wasn’t sure if his shoulders were dislocated. His mouth had been taped shut. The garage door was closed, but the track lighting that was attached to the same wooden beam as Jack provided nightmarish pools of light.
Jack’s vision was blurred, and when it came into focus he saw double. Now he knew how his son must have felt, and it made him angry. He quickly contained that rush, however. Jack knew he had to control his emotions if he was going to come out of this alive.
But seeing two Hectors was a terrifying image. His tormentor was brutish, bare chested, cut, and deadly. His body was covered in tortured ink and gang graffiti. His eyebrows were so thick he appeared simian.
Hector sat in his Barcalounger nursing a beer, lost in thought. When he saw that Jack was awake, he swiveled the chair around to sit facing him fully. His eyes were heavy lidded and demonic.
In one motion he jumped out of the chair and slammed a punch into Jack’s abdomen that sent him spinning. Jack feared that if he puked, he might choke to death on his own vomit. He fought for control.
Hector, like a boxer controlling a heavy bag, stopped Jack’s body from spinning. Jack’s eyes watered and snot ran out of his nose. As soon as his body stilled, Hector nailed him in the kidneys with a series of roundhouse punches. The pain in his back howled so hard that Jack passed out.
Jack’s eyes flickered open, and he was overpowered by the smell of beer. Hector stood in front of him, shaking a bottle of Dos Equis. He sprayed Jack’s face, eyes, and hair with the foamy brew until he was revived. The salty sweat and beer that ran into his eyes stung like fire ants.
“Did the cops know about Johnny?” Hector asked, his voice hollow yet taunting.
Jack shook his head no. Let him think that killing Johnny was a mistake. Maybe piss him off.
“Do the cops know you’re here?”
Jack nodded while he tried to make sense out of his situation and discover a way out. Hector had been busy during the time Jack was unconscious.
A large military duffel bag had been packed with personal belongings. Jack could see his Glock, his leather rig, and his phone sitting on top of Hector’s clothes. A mirror was set next to his chair with the remnants of cocaine. Hector liked to mix business with pleasure.
Jack’s ears began to roar, as if he was caught in a wind tunnel, when he looked down and saw that two five-gallon metal jerry cans had been placed directly under his feet. The smell of gas permeated the ripe scent of beer and sweat and angry testosterone.
He tried to swing free, but the muscles in his arms and shoulders were numb and useless. His wrists were bound tight with butcher knots.
Hector disappeared behind Jack and then reappeared holding a third full can of gasoline. He gave the room what appeared to be a final look of appraisal mixed with nostalgia. Then he unscrewed the top of the jerry can and splashed gasoline over every surface in the garage.
He filled the empty bottle of Dos Equis with gas and cast the metal can to the side. He walked up to Jack and pulled out one of his razor-sharp knives.
Hector’s eyes had a crazed glint. He put the knife to Jack’s neck, and then in one fluid motion sliced the black T-shirt off his body and yanked it free, causing him to rock and sway and spin in a dizzying pattern.
Hector shoved the torn cloth into the neck of the beer bottle and created a wick.
Jack couldn’t talk, he couldn’t scream. He couldn’t slow his crazy death spin.
Hector placed the Molotov cocktail on the seat of his prized Barcalounger, lit a match dispassionately, and set fire to the wick.
Picking up his duffel bag, he sauntered past Jack and out the back door.
Seeing the flames move up the T-shirt wick toward the bottle, Jack bucked his legs wildly, trying to escape.
He didn’t see the explosion but heard the ignition, the whump, and the blast. Glass shards knifed into his back as Jack spun toward the front again, where he could see Hector’s possessions being inundated with fire.
Flames curled, shot up the wall, and melted the flat-screen television like a Dali painting. The recliner had become a deadly torch. The bed and sheets
created unbearable heat. Jack prepared for a painful death, because as soon as the fire hit the two jerry cans filled with gas, Jack’s flesh would melt like the television, and he would cease to be.
He spun toward the back door, which had been left open by Hector’s exit. It created a draft that forced the flames toward the front of the garage.
As Jack’s body twisted back around, the garage door jerked up and open.
Hector’s mother stood in the opening with her shotgun butted against her thin shoulder, pointed directly at Jack’s face. Through the flames Jack could see that she wore a nightgown and a haunted expression.
The resolute woman fired.
Jack didn’t blink. He refused to face death with his eyes shut.
Rather than feeling a burst of pain, however, he fell painfully onto the jerry cans of gasoline, knocking them over and spilling their contents, yet he hardly noticed. He was free. He desperately rolled over the broken gasoline-soaked garage floor toward the back door. With a violent wrench he forced himself up onto his knees. Jack scrabbled through the door, out into the field of weeds, putting as much distance between his body and the garage as possible.
The concussive explosion sent debris, flames, and smoke shooting into the air in a spectacular fireball. Burning embers singed Jack’s bare back and arms as the force of the blast threw him face-first to the ground. A length of rope was still attached to one wrist, bound tight with a butcher’s knot.
Gotcha, motherfucker.
Through the smoke, Jack could see the slight old woman use the shotgun as a makeshift crutch, and hobble into the safety of her house. He made a mental note to thank Hector’s mother for saving his life—and passed out.
43
Nick Aprea stared at Jack’s tortured back with eyes that could chisel granite. An EMT was plucking out shards of glass, applying topical disinfectant and bandages. His lower back was black and purple from the beating Hector had administered with his bare knuckles. His shoulders and arms would be sore for weeks, but other than muscular strain, nothing was torn or broken. The crushing blow he had taken to the back of his head had swollen to the size of a walnut, but didn’t require stitches. He had clearly suffered a concussion, but it wasn’t his first. It didn’t worry Jack as much as it did the paramedics. Jack had refused to be admitted to a hospital against recommendations to do so.
The last thing he wanted was to be lying in a hospital bed next to his son. He wanted to get patched up; say good-bye to Chris, Jeannine, and Jeremy without worrying anybody; and get on with the business of running Hector to ground.
Nick Aprea gave a mixed review on the Angelina front. She wasn’t talking, but after procuring a warrant—that DDA Sager had helped expedite—they had discovered an 8GB microSD card in her billfold, Johnny’s phone, and what appeared to be his computer. The LAPD tech specialists were in the process of downloading the information from his devices and scanning the computer’s hard drive to reconstruct data that had been erased.
Local news helicopters flew in a circular pattern overhead, creating the feel of a war zone. Red, blue, and white lights flashed on fire trucks, emergency vehicles, police units, and news vans.
Hector’s garage had burned to the ground. All that was left was a smoldering blot on the rural landscape.
The strobe’s colored lights from the emergency vehicles played on Nick’s face as he searched for words.
“You know, I can’t honestly say anything, because I would’ve done the same,” he finally stated. “You know, going in without calling me. Like I asked you to.”
“Small favors,” said Jack.
“But you should’ve fuckin’ called me.”
“Funny way of keeping your own counsel.”
Both men grunted at the shared camaraderie.
The main house was unscathed. A local Hispanic detective was interviewing Hector’s mother, but no one held out much hope that she could provide anything of interest. She was high on Jack’s list for sainthood. He had made a mental note to pitch the idea the next time he talked to the pope.
On Jack’s suggestion, the LAPD had agreed to foot the bill for a crew with a cadaver dog and ultrasound equipment to search for the remains of Hector Lopez Senior. That was the least he could do for the old woman. She’d endured the pain of not knowing for long enough.
—
The clock was ticking on the drug scene. The Outlaws’ bus had arrived in Miami. Kenny Ortega and his crew over at DEA had tracked the shipment of cocaine from the Dominican Republic to one hundred miles off Miami’s shores. They followed three go-fast boats in a Coast Guard AWACS helicopter as the boats swooped in, picked up the floating parcels, and raced back to Miami cloaked in darkness.
As soon as Ricci Jay and Wisteria finished their gig, and the tour bus was loaded and on the road, Kenny would fly to the West Coast where the DEA, LAPD, and Ontario police would have twenty-four-hours’ lead time to gather for a TAC meeting and strategize how to proceed. Jack hadn’t been invited to the party yet, but he wanted in bad.
Nick had more than enough ammunition to call in the calvary, close down the Black Stallion, round up the usual suspects, and bring them in for questioning. But Jack argued to whoever would listen to keep their powder dry and take the 18th Street Angels down right. Take them down so that they wouldn’t be back out on the street in three months selling their poison, taking lives, and destroying families, like they’d done in the city of Ontario for the past fifty years.
Jack was singing to Nick’s choir, and he called off the hunt until after DC-day, delivery of the cocaine.
Gallina and Tompkins had rolled on to the scene after Nick, grumbling about the distance and the time of night. They looked almost happy to see Jack alive and well, and they were positively elated when they signed off on the evidence bag that contained the rope and butcher’s knot. That tied Hector to the last murder and the attempted murder of Jack Bertolino.
“There are better ways to gather evidence,” Gallina said, “but there isn’t better evidence.”
Jack, in a conciliatory mood, nodded his thanks.
“Hey, I talked to Aprea earlier, and he agreed,” Gallina went on. “I called in a few favors to keep your name out of the papers until the drug deal goes down. Let them think that you fried.”
“Nice,” Jack said.
“There’s a good chance Hector Lopez will be there for the action. Let him think he got away with it.”
“Makes sense.”
“Let’s give him enough rope . . .” And Gallina swung the evidence bag and almost cracked a smile.
Tompkins added, “After that Angelina broad spends a night in county, with the added evidence she isn’t aware we have in our possession, my guess is she’ll be a little more forthcoming.”
Nick offered to drive Jack home, and he gratefully accepted, while Tompkins agreed to drive Jack’s undercover ride back.
Jack Bertolino downed two Vicodin, courtesy of the EMTs, and a cold beer. Fuck red wine, Jack thought, a simple joy, beer. In fact, this specific beer was the best beer he had ever tasted.
—
Jack was running late again. He had stopped downtown to meet with a computer sketch artist, where they came up with a passable rendering of Arturo Delgado and a startling likeness of Hector Lopez. Jack gave a second statement about what had transpired the night before, hit the Santa Monica Freeway, and enjoyed a clear shot to St. John’s.
The bag of Krispy Kremes tempted Jack all the way to the hospital. He denied the urge, although if he’d been fishing for a date, the bag of fried, sugared dough would have made great bait. The nurses’ smiles were sweeter than the doughnuts.
All he wanted to do was get his family on the road and out of harm’s way.
In the hallway he ran into Dr. Stein, who gave his son a clean bill of health. The swelling in his brain had diminished, and he should e
xperience no lasting effects from the head injury. His arm would take time, but with proper care, should be healed in three months, and then with a regimen of physical therapy, back to normal in six months or so.
Noticing the massive bump on Jack’s head, the doctor asked if he was feeling all right. Jack faked his way out of a prolonged discussion and Dr. Stein’s generous offer to inspect his wound.
Jack let the bag of doughnuts lead him into the hospital room, hoping it would provide camouflage. The attempt failed.
“You look like shit,” Chris said worried.
“It’s nothing, and you have to find a new way of greeting your old man. Hi, Dad, would work just fine.”
Chris ignored Jack’s banter. “It looks like something. I tell you, Dad, you have to find a new line of work. This one doesn’t seem to be working out too well.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence. What time’s checkout?” he asked, thinking evade, evade, evade.
Jeannine couldn’t hold back any longer. “We’re just waiting for a wheelchair,” she said in clipped tones. “I was worried you weren’t going to make it in time. Jeremy’s already downstairs in the minivan he rented.”
“That was thoughtful of him,” Jack said, trying to cut off her attitude at the pass.
“I’m going to caravan up with them,” Macklin said, attempting to ease the tension in the room. Smart kid, Jack thought.
“Good idea,” he said. And then, “Say good-bye to Jeremy for me.”
Big mistake, Jack realized.
“Well, you can say good-bye to him yourself. I mean, you can hang around long enough to see us down to the car, can’t you? That is, if you can find the time.”
“Oh, yeah, sure,” Jack said as he tried to control his baser impulses.
A young candy striper entered the room pushing a wheelchair. Chris and Macklin both sat up a little taller, shy smiles plastered on their young faces, and both Jack and Jeannine softened some when they witnessed the boys’ reactions.