by Alexa Davis
By the time I was twelve, I was playing dice with the neighborhood hustlers in back alleys. They taught me about smoking, drugs, drinking, and what little they knew about women. As a result, I never touched the first two, but the last two, well, I always say I've never met a drink I wouldn't sip and a woman I couldn't enjoy. The problem was that I also learned not to trust anyone.
Except for Riza. I'd met her on the streets when we were twelve, and she'd quickly decided I was her best friend. She was taller than most of the boys in our neighborhood and her exotic looks, thanks to her Honduran father and Moroccan mother, gave her face a mysterious look of danger. It also helped that her father was a known drug lord during the ’70s and had a reputation for "disappearing" anyone who dared cheat or disagree with him. Riza was his pride and joy, and since I was her best friend, he trusted me.
"Hey, boss, you want me to take the car and follow the kid?" she asked. "I can tail him tonight, if you want. The next shipment isn't scheduled till Tuesday, so I've got some down time."
"You sure you want to do that?" I replied.
"Yeah, sure, why not? I've got the time. Why not nip it in the bud now and bring him to heel?"
"Alright. If you're up for it, then do what you can," I said as I walked behind the bar, filled a glass with ice, and then hit it with a shot of soda water. I had a meeting coming up later and I needed a clear head. "But don't let him know you're following him. He'll lose his shit and then I'll have to deal with it, and I don't have time to deal with a Beck meltdown this week. Clear?"
"Crystal," she saluted as she sauntered across the floor towards the door.
"Be back here at three," I said. "I need you here for the meeting."
"Aye, aye, boss." She waved as she pushed open the door and let sunlight briefly enter the darkened club. Then she was gone.
Riza's dad had taught me the business from the ground up and then made me a silent partner in his cartel. I worked my way up from a corner boy, to the top dog on Skid Row. I kept my head down, worked hard, and listened to every single thing Hernando D'Oro ever told me.
Hernando, or Papi as we all called him, had groomed me to run the empire and when he was gunned down in a gang fight two years after he'd made me his second in command, I stepped up and took over the business. I now owned a hotel on Grand Avenue and this club, and, with the help of a loyal band of warriors, I ran a billion-dollar drug business that owned the entire Los Angeles market. Everyone hated me.
Except Riza. When it had become obvious that her father wasn't going to train her to be the head of his cartel, she joined the Marines and spent a few years in Iraq. Papi had gone ballistic the day she'd told him what she'd done, but since she was eighteen, he had no say in the matter. I knew it hurt him to watch his beautiful daughter pick up a gun and fight in "a man's war," as he called it.
There had been nights when we'd made a run down to Tijuana to pick up a shipment and Papi would talk to me about Riza and war the whole way down. But despite the pain, deep down he was also incredibly proud of his daughter.
He just never told her.
When she came back from Iraq, something about Riza had changed. She’d seen too much and done too many things that she said she didn’t want to talk about, but it came out in other ways. She was constantly picking fights and winning them. She was one of the most feared gang members in LA, mostly because it was rumored that she had no conscience. I knew better, but she wanted to keep her secrets safe and maintain a certain level of respect via fear. So, I looked the other way and watched her try to self-destruct.
Papi was furious about his only daughter’s behavior. He’d wanted her to settle down and get married so he could have a bunch of grandkids to bounce on his knee, but Riza was stubborn and refused to settle for any of the guys in the cartel. For a while, I thought maybe she didn’t like men, but when I asked, she said it was that she didn’t trust anyone outside of Beck and me. She was quiet and wary, much like her father. And, when he was gunned down just a couple of months after she returned stateside, she turned even further inward. For two years after Papi’s death, the only people she'd talk to were Beck and me.
Even now, she was a woman of few words and didn't tell me too much about what was going on with her. She simply showed up and did her job 24/7, 365 days a year. She was still my second in command, only now she also functioned as my bodyguard during trips and meets with other cartel leaders. She was my shadow, and she kept a lid on the business in ways that even I didn't know, but I trusted her, so I didn't ask.
CHAPTER TWO
Brooke
"Brooklyn Jane Raines!" my mother yelled as I stepped into the kitchen and walked across her freshly waxed floor. "I'm going to kill you, child!"
"Aww, Mama," I said with a sheepish look of apology. "I didn't know you'd just waxed. I'm sorry!"
"It doesn't matter how old you kids get to be, you're still completely intent on driving your mother crazy!"
"Who's driving their mother crazy?" my father asked as he stepped into the kitchen and walked the same path I'd just walked.
"TONY RAINES!" my mother yelled. "I'm going to kill you and your offspring alike!"
"What did I do now?" my father asked with a genuinely confused look on his face. He had a pencil tucked behind one ear and several sheets of printer paper in his hand.
"Pop, she just waxed the floor," I said as I nudged him in the ribs with my elbow.
"Oh, I'm sorry, dear," he said as he flashed my mother the grin he knew would cause her to forgive his sin as he bent down and pecked my cheek. "How're you doing, Brookie?"
"Dad," I said. "It's Brooke, just Brooke now. I'm a lawyer, not a first grader."
"You'll always be my Brookie," he said with a smile as he danced a few steps. "I'm your dad, it's my prerogative."
Both my mother and I groaned at his terrible ’80s reference. My father has been the entertainment reporter for the LA Times since the early 1970s and as a result, we are constantly treated to his encyclopedic knowledge of entertainment history in every conversation. My mother shook her head and ran the mop over the ruined part of the kitchen floor as she muttered under her breath. She's been a math teacher at Lincoln High for the past twenty years, and is a perfectionist when it comes to having a clean house, refusing to let anyone else clean, even though between the two of them, they make enough to hire a housekeeper. We knew no one else would meet her standards, so we all just grinned and took our lumps.
"What are you doing all the way out here, Brooke?" my mother asked.
"I wanted to stop by and see if you and Dad were free for dinner next week," I said as I opened the fridge and grabbed the orange juice pitcher that my mother kept filled with fresh-squeezed juice.
"And, you couldn't have called to ask?" she replied. "I smell something fishy going on here."
"Mom, I dropped by to see about dinner, that's it," I said as I poured a glass of juice and then looked at her as innocently as I could while sipping it. Then, mumbled into the rim, "And, I wanted to talk to Dad about something."
"I knew it!" my mother declared. "I knew it wasn't a simple visit. It never is."
"Mom, that's not fair!" I protested. "Fine, but dinner? Yes?"
"Yes, we'll have dinner with you," she said smiling as she moved to the sink and rinsed her mop. "When and where?"
"I'll figure it out and let you know," I said before turning my attention to my father who was now completely engrossed in editing something on the sheets of paper he'd brought into the kitchen. "Dad, can you help me write a convincing ad that will bring in more business for the firm?"
"Huh?" my father looked up, confused. "What about it?"
"An advertisement, Dad," I said. "I need help writing something that will make people flock to our firm and hire us."
"Business is tough, is it?" he said as he made another mark on the paper in front of him.
"Incredibly tough," I said.
"Broke, is this a thinly disguised request for a loan?" he said as
he pushed his reading glasses to the top of his head.
"No, Dad, it's not," I said, knowing full well that it was. "It's a request for help writing a persuasive ad that I can use to drum up more business."
"Kid, never play poker," he said shaking his head. "You're a terrible liar. I'll get the checkbook, but you're going to need to tell me exactly what you need."
"Just one month's rent," I muttered. "I can swing the rest."
"Are you sure that's all you need?" my mother called from where she was bent over the sink. "Tony, give her more than just rent money. Add phone and electric and groceries. No, better yet, I'm going to cook meals for you. That way I can give half to you and half to your brother."
"Mom, Teddy eats at the fire house," I reminded her.
"Well, he still has a few days off, doesn't he?"
"Yeah, but he spends them at Gina's," I said. "And, I assume that he knows how to cook for himself by now."
"So do you, but I still like to feel needed."
"Alright, I've got the checkbook. Lay it on me, Brookie," my father said as he came back into the kitchen. "How much do you need?"
"Just one month's rent, Dad," I repeated. I knew that I needed much more than that, but I already felt guilty about the fact that my parents had footed the bill for my undergraduate education and my law degree, so I didn't want to ask for more than I could justify in my own mind. I could put off paying the electric bill for one more month and cross my fingers that business would pick up.
"Brooke, I know you're not telling me the whole truth," my father said as he filled out the check, and then ripped it out of the checkbook and handed it to me. "So, I'm going to use my own discretion."
"Dad!" I protested as I looked at the check. He'd given me six months rent plus expenses and then added a cushion. "You cannot give me this much money!"
"I can do whatever I like, thank you very much," he said as he tucked the checkbook in his back pocket and poured himself a cup of coffee. "I'm a grownup."
"Thank you," I said softly as I walked over to where he and my mom stood and hugged them both. "I'm going to make this work, I promise."
"Brooke, we know you're doing the best you can," my mother said. "We want to help you as much as we are able to."
"And since we can't take it with us, it just makes sense to use it now," my father added.
"Don't even joke about that," I warned.
"I'm not, I'm serious," my father said. "We might not always be able to help, but if we can, we will."
"Thank you both," I said as I hugged them again and then headed out the door. "You're the best."
"Sure, sure, you say that now," my father, laughed as he waved me off. "Dinner next week. We'll pick the place and you meet us there."
I waved at both of my parents and headed out to my car. I needed to deposit the check and pay my late rent before I headed over to meet with Roger and Jordie at the office and decide if we could salvage our business.
CHAPTER THREE
Dax
"Sir, you're going to need to leave your weapon at the door," Dozer said as I watched on the club's closed circuit security system. This was the monthly meeting of all Southern California kingpins, and we had a strict rule about no weapons in the meetings.
"Man, that's fucked up!" Mario yelled at the camera. He was new to the game, so he'd have to learn. I watched as Dozer bent his 6'7" frame so that his face was level with Mario's.
"That might be true, my friend, but that's the rule," Dozer said as he held out a plastic box for Mario to deposit his weapon. "You want to argue with me?"
"Nah, homie, we cool," Mario said as he dropped his gun in the box and leaned back from Dozer's intimidating stare. Not many people were foolish enough to try and tangle with a Samoan man the size of a refrigerator. Dozer smiled, tagged the box with Mario's information, and then put a lid on it and added it to the stack of weapons he'd already collected.
"Welcome to the meeting." Dozer smiled as he turned and allowed Mario to enter the main floor of the club. "Please help yourself to food and drinks at the bar. Mr. Malone will be starting the meeting in fifteen minutes."
I smiled at the nice touch of hospitality that Dozer always added to the proceedings. It wasn't necessary, but it helped soothe bruised egos and made the meetings feel more professional.
Five minutes before we were scheduled to start, Riza came rushing through the door, pushing Dozer out of her way as she tried to head for the office. He held his ground and held out a box for her weapon. She shot him a look of immense irritation and muttered something I couldn't hear before she pulled her pistol out of its holder and dropped it in the box. She quickly covered the floor and barged into my office without knocking.
"Boss, we have a major problem," she began.
"You know I'm about to start this meeting, right?"
"Oh fuck that, this is major," she said as she began to pace the floor. "Dax, Lydia's missing."
"What?"
"Fuckin' Lydia is missing. She's been gone for three days and no one's said a word until now," she said as she ran a hand through her long black hair.
"How do you know she's missing?" I asked. Lydia Banks had been my lawyer for ten years. I'd found her just after she'd finished a year as a low-level defense attorney for the state and was disillusioned with the system. We'd met in my club, had a one-night stand, and the next morning, I'd hired her on the spot. It turned out to be the best decision I'd ever made. Lydia was the person who dealt with the police, the courts, and the prison system. They were all hazards of the trade. She filed the paperwork that kept my hotel and club legitimate and she got bail for the low-level dealers in the organization. Most of all, Lydia kept me out of the fray.
"She didn't show up in court for the bail hearing this morning," Riza said. "I asked around and no one's seen her since she left Dooley's on Saturday night after closing."
"You tried to track her down in all the usual places?"
"Of course I did," Riza said as she turned and planted her hands on her hips. "How fuckin' stupid do you think I am?"
"Don't get an attitude with me, Ri," I warned. "I don't have time for that bullshit today. First, Beck fucks up and now Lydia disappears, this is just fuckin' great. I have a meeting to run!"
"What do you want me to do about it?" she asked.
"Get your ass out there and find my fucking lawyer!" I yelled.
"You want me to stay for the meeting?" she asked quietly.
"Yeah, yeah," I waved her off. "Stay and listen to what's going on. Maybe you'll get some information on where Lydia is, who the hell knows."
I wasn't pissed at Riza and she knew me well enough to know that, but I was pissed at Lydia. She was a good lawyer, but I knew she had a problem. I'd known about it for a long time. I'd tried to get her to go to a clinic and dry out. I even offered to pay for it, but she was hardheaded and refused to acknowledge that her drinking was starting to affect her work. I'd warned her about that. It was one thing to fuck up her personal life, but it was an entirely different thing to fuck up my business, and I wouldn't have it. We had come to an understanding, but it had been touch and go for the past few months and Riza had had to bail Lydia out on more than one occasion.
I'd seriously considered replacing her, but the problem was that I didn't know any other lawyers who would skirt the boundaries of the law the way she did. Until I found someone as equally trustworthy, I couldn't afford to cut her loose. Despite her drinking problem, she was still an incredibly good lawyer who was willing to work around the clock to get what she wanted.
Besides, she knew all my secrets.
CHAPTER FOUR
Brooke
"Good morning, Ms. Raines," said the gray-haired woman at the front desk. "Your messages are on your desk and the memo you asked me to type up is in a file folder in your inbox."
"Good morning, Alma," I said with a smile as I set a small, limp potted violet on her desk. "I found this at the open market over the weekend and wondered if
you could nurse it back to health?"
"I will do my best, Ms. Raines," she replied as she picked up the pot and gave it a once over. Her disapproving “tsk, tsk, tsk” let me know that there was definitely something wrong with the way the plant had been kept, but when she murmured, "Now, don't you worry, I'll have you back in tiptop shape in no time", I knew I'd made the right decision.
We had hired Alma Granger a few weeks after we'd opened the firm. She was the only secretary that the three of us could agree upon. Roger and Jordie had voted for secretaries who resembled Hooters servers and whose nail appointments and spin classes made them unavailable during business hours. I, on the other hand, wanted someone who was familiar with the law, could work with design programs, and could write like a novelist while answering phones and keeping track of my schedule.
Alma answered our ad in the Times and was the only candidate all three of us could agree upon. She was in her early sixties and had run the front office of a small law firm in San Diego for thirty years before the lawyer (her husband) had dropped dead of a heart attack while meeting with a client about a murder charge. She'd moved to Los Angeles to be closer to her grandchildren and wasn't ready to retire quite yet. She ran our office with an iron fist and idiosyncrasies that ranged from having everything on her desk placed at a ninety-degree angle to calling the three of us by our surnames, and while we'd tried to get her to call us by our first names, Alma was old school and refused to budge.
"Alma, have you seen Roger or Jordie this morning?" I asked as I walked toward my office.
"Not yet, Ms. Raines, but I'm anticipating their arrival in just a few minutes."
"Very well. When they get here, will you please have them stop by my office?"