OFFICER INVOLVED

by Lynch, Sean

  Two men got out of each car. All four were large Hispanic men. All wore sunglasses and Oakland Raiders baseball caps. Three of them, like Avery, were wearing outer-garments, despite the July heat. Two were in Raiders Gray and Black jackets, one was in a denim coat, and the fourth wore no jacket at all. The men in coats had their hands hidden in their coat pockets, and Avery was certain they weren’t empty.

  The oldest of the four men was about Avery’s age, and Avery recognized him instantly. This man was clearly the group’s leader, and the fact that he had arrived in person was not a good sign. He was wearing a skin-tight wifebeater, which displayed the numerous prison tattoos covering both of his brown, muscular arms. An XIV was inked on his neck, and a giant vulture, poised to strike, was etched across his broad chest. His face was like leather, and an unlit cigarette dangled from his lips. The other men flanked him, their eyes locked on Avery.

  “Que pasa?” the older man said.

  “You tell me, Buitre,” Avery said. “I didn’t call this meet.”

  “You been fuckin’ up,” Buitre said. “People ain’t happy.” Unfortunately, Avery knew exactly who he meant by ‘people.’

  “Why is this your business?” Avery said, although he already knew the answer. Buitre was Northern California’s top Familia enforcer, and had a well-deserved reputation as ruthlessly lethal. Most of Buitre’s errands involved bringing someone’s head back to his bosses on a plate.

  “I’ve been instructed to clean it up,” he said.

  “I’m on it,” Avery said.

  “Sure you are,” Buitre said, removing his cigarette and spitting. “You’re doing a fuckin’ great job of cleaning your shit up. Your end is shut down, five of your vatos are dead and gone, cops are all over the fuckin’ place looking for Artie, nobody’s taking possession, nothing’s being moved, and people are getting seriously pissed off.”

  “I always hold up my end,” Avery said, tossing his cigarette to the ground. “Me and my crew always deliver.”

  “What crew? Your home-boys are dropping like flies.”

  “I’ll get some new blood. Don’t worry. It’ll be back to business as usual soon.”

  The old gangster shook his head. “It ain’t gonna be business as usual. Not anymore. Not since Gabriel got smoked. He was solid. His little brother Artie is fucking mentecato, but Gabriel got shit done. I know you’re an old-school hombre, Avery, but you ain’t getting it done. What you once was don’t count. Only what you is now. And what you is doing, is fucking up.”

  “I’m expendable, is that it?” Avery said.

  “Isn’t everybody?”

  “Not me,” Avery said, pointing his finger. “I’m not going to be easy to replace. Tell your people that. I’m on the inside, remember? I’ve got a badge. I got jumped in back in the day, earned my bones along with you. But I wasn’t stupid. I didn’t get inked up, or spend so much as one fucking minute in custody picking up a record which could lead back to my crew. I graduated high school. I even served in the army. Been with the sheriff’s office over twenty years. My shit is flawless. It’s my place, and my juice, that keeps the product flowing smooth and everything nice and chilly. I thought your people appreciated that.”

  “They appreciate what you’ve done in the past,” Buitre said, his face hard. “It’s the only reason we’re talking right now.”

  Avery lit another cigarette and hoped the men didn’t see the tremor in his hands. What Buitre said was the stone truth. If the Nuestra Familia had deigned him a liability, and ordered him eliminated, there was nowhere on earth he could hide. He could be at his desk at the sheriff’s office and a loco with an AK-47 and a desire to make his bones, or with a Nuestra Familia price on his head or the heads of his children, would sacrifice himself to paint the walls with Avery’s blood.

  “I can handle things,” Avery said, trying to make the words seem like less of a plea. “Tell them to give me a chance to make it right.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” Buitre said, accepting a light from Avery. “If it weren’t so, would we be meeting?”

  “I don’t know why they’re putting this on my head?” Avery said. “Arturo is the one who’s been fucking up. Running off half-cocked trying to avenge his brother.”

  “They don’t want to hear no excuses,” Buitre said. “Artie’s part of your crew. Your fucking crew, your fucking problem. Get him in line.”

  “What I need to do,” Avery said, exhaling smoke, “is to get rid of his stupid ass entirely. Artie’s a liability. Bitch gets caught with a cop-killer rap on his head, he might dishonor his oath and his brother’s memory and forget to keep his mouth shut.”

  “That ain’t your call,” Buitre said. “You know that. I hope you ain’t stupid enough to take out one of your own boys without getting the go-ahead? That would be a very foolish thing to do.”

  “Of course I wouldn’t take Artie out,” Avery said, thankful Buitre couldn’t know Arturo Cervantes was already stiffening in his bathtub.

  He knew all-too-well what Buitre was referring to. A strict hierarchy existed within the Nuestra Familia and its subordinate Norteno soldiers. Only a senior Familia shot-caller at the highest level could authorize a hit on another blood-member of an established crew. If anyone within the organization discovered that Avery had killed a member of his own outfit without previous sanction, he himself would be immediately slated for execution. Every Norteno from San Diego to Portland would be tasked with carrying it out.

  “Good,” Buitre said. “Because you’ve got someone else to take out.”

  “Who?”

  “The rookie.”

  “We don’t have to,” Avery said. “He’s too hard to get to right now. Too well protected. Besides, I’ve already got a plan to plant dope and cash on him. He’ll go down. He was going to be set up like those other two shitheads, Mendenour and Trask. I was in the process of doing it myself before Artie fucked it all up with his vengeance-trip. As soon as I find out where the rookie is laying his head-”

  “Get it done however you want,” Buitre cut him off, “but do it. It’s already been decided. That’s how they want it. Arturo’s right on that point. The rookie took out some of ours. He has to pay for that. Blood for blood.”

  “It isn’t going to be easy.”

  “Like I said, that’s your problem.”

  “Okay,” Avery said, knowing he had no choice. “I’ll get it done. Anything else?”

  “Yeah. You gotta pay a tribute. No other way.”

  “How much?”

  “Twenty-five large for every vato in your crew you lost. That’s-”

  “One-hundred and fifty-thousand,” Avery interrupted. “I’ll have it to you in twenty-four hours.”

  “Okay,” Buitre said, motioning with his head to his men. “There better not be any more surprises. People don’t like surprises. They’ve been surprised enough. Any more surprises,” he said, “and the next time we meet you won’t see me.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Avery called out, as Buitre and his men began to walk away. “Tell them I’ll take care of it.”

  “Don’t tell me what you’re gonna do,” he said, getting into the passenger side of the Caprice. “Do it. I’ll reach out tomorrow.”

  “Don’t worry,” Avery said.

  “I ain’t worried,” Buitre said from the passenger window as as the cars drove past. “That’s your place.”

  Avery got back into his car, put it into gear, and drove away from Jingletown. He could feel the sweat trickle down his face, and hoped it wasn’t visible when he’d been talking to Buitre. The Kevlar vest was sticking to his chest and belly underneath his sweat-soaked shirt. He cranked the air conditioner to maximum and lit another cigarette. He’d been lucky. Not many people met Buitre face-to-face and lived to tell about it.

  Avery had work to do, or he was finished. He had to take out Deputy Kevin Kearns as ordered, and as soon as possible. He’d worry about coming up with a legitimate alibi for Arturo Cervantes’ death a
fter that task was completed. If he planned it carefully enough, he might even find a way to blame Artie’s death on the rookie.

  Avery turned onto High Street, and was heading for the 580 Freeway and home, when his pager beeped. When he looked down at his pager to see the digits on the display panel, he was startled to find it revealed his own home phone number.

  Avery headed for the Eden Township Station only a few minutes away. His mind spun as he parked his car and made his way to his office, grateful it was Saturday and no one else was around.

  Once at his desk he stripped off his suit coat, shirt and ballistic vest. Then he dialed his own home telephone number.

  “Hello,” answered a man’s voice. He didn’t recognize it.

  “Who is this?” Avery demanded, struggling to control his mounting fury.

  “Bob Farrell,” said the voice. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

  “What do you want?”

  “To talk,” Farrell said. “I have a proposition for you.”

  “What proposition?”

  “Sorry,” Farrell said. “Has to be discussed in person.”

  “Why should I agree to meet with you?”

  “You don’t have to,” Farrell said. “In that case, I’ll say goodbye to your houseguest in the bathtub, take the cardboard box and Tupperware bin I found in your garage, and be on my merry way. Although it’s only fair to tell you I’d be obliged to do my civic duty and call nine-one-one to report the mess in your bathroom on my way out.”

  “I’m not afraid of the cops,” Avery said. “I’ll simply claim you dumped whatever you say you found in my house yourself to frame me. It’ll be your word against mine, and I’m a sheriff’s sergeant, not a washed-up, former-cop-turned-P.I. with a drinking problem.”

  “I thought you might say something like that,” Farrell said. “So I called a pal of mine who works the Gang Task Force in San Francisco. Called him from your phone, actually. He gave me the name of the head Familia shot-caller in Oakland. Ever heard of someone by the name of Carlos Delossantos?”

  Rage and panic flooded Avery’s brain. Of course he knew Delossantos. Delossantos was on a very short list of people Avery considered potentially responsible for sending Buitre. He gripped the receiver so tightly his fist cramped.

  “I’ll bet Delossantos would love to know about your houseguest,” Farrell said.

  “How do you know he doesn’t already know about it?” Avery challenged.

  “Not likely,” Farrell chuckled. “If it was sanctioned, it would have been cleaned up by your own crew by now. We both know the fact that your guest is still in your house means it wasn’t authorized. That’s why you’re not going to send any of your boys over to get me right now, even though you know exactly where I am. And why you’re certainly not going to come over yourself.”

  “Where and when?” Avery said.

  “How about your place?” Farrell said. “I’ll be happy to wait.”

  “I’m not a fool.”

  “Didn’t say you were,” Farrell said. “Okay then; you pick the location.”

  “Do you know where East Castro Valley Boulevard meets Palo Verde Road and Eden Canyon Road?”

  “Yes,” Farrell said.

  “I’ll meet you beneath the freeway overpass at ten o’clock tonight. Come alone.”

  “Only if you do,” Farrell said. “First sign of anyone else and me and your property are in the wind. Permanently.”

  “Deal.”

  “I’ll see you tonight,” Avery said, using all his restraint to keep from slamming down the receiver.

  Avery removed the small bottle of cocaine from his jacket pocket. He rarely used the stuff, but realized he was facing extenuating circumstances. He was on the brink of exhaustion, and needed to remain alert and focused.

  Using the tiny spoon that was affixed to the inside of the lid, he snorted a scoop into each nostril and inhaled. He wiped his nose, then his brow, and picked up the phone again, dialing a number from memory.

  He hated calling from a departmental phone, but was desperate and had no choice. When an elderly woman answered in Spanish, Avery asked to speak with Jaime, also in Spanish.

  A moment later a young man’s voice came on the line.

  “Who is it?” the gruff voice asked.

  “It’s Avery,” he said. “You still looking to earn your bones?”

  “Fuck yeah,” Jaime said. “You know I am.”

  “I know where the rookie is. His girlfriend, too. You want them?”

  “Fucking right I want them. Me and the boys are looking to get some for what happened to Gabe and the rest of the crew. Where are they?”

  “I don’t know, but their lawyer does. He was on the news today bumping his gums. He lives in Alameda.” He gave out Judge Callen’s address on the Gold Coast.

  “Shit,” Jaime said, “that’s just across the bridge from Jingletown. I can be there in five minutes. I’ll make the motherfucker give up where they are. When I’m done with him he’ll be able to tell me what his own balls taste like.”

  “Be careful. It’s possible the rookie could be staying there with his attorney. Bring some squared-away vatos with you. None of those dust-smoking, wannabe shitheads you used to roll with. Make sure you’ve got enough guns. Don’t forget what happened to Gabriel and Izzy.”

  “Don’t sweat it. That pig bitch and his woman are already dead.”

  “When you get it done you page me, you hear? I need to know.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  Chapter 46

  “I hope Dad got something to eat,” Jennifer remarked. “And that he’s okay.”

  “Don’t worry about your old man,” Kearns said. “He can take care of himself better than anyone I know.”

  Kearns and Jennifer were finishing up the dishes in Judge Callen’s kitchen. They’d dined on Chinese take-out he’d picked up from Gim’s on Lincoln Avenue. The Judge was in his study along with Norm Hynds. As was his custom after dinner, Callen was enjoying coffee and a book in his favorite chair. The subject of his literary interest was Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning, a text he’d originally read shortly after returning home from the war. The Browning over/under twelve-gauge was resting against the hearth nearby.

  Hynds was also reading, but had selected lighter fare. He was also treating himself to a post-supper coffee, and was scouring through back issues of Field and Stream he’d discovered in Callen’s stash of old periodicals. His Colt carbine was slung over his chair.

  “What do you suppose Dad’s doing?” she asked.

  “I’ve got a fair idea,” Kearns said, “but Bob thought it best you don’t know.”

  “Aren’t you worried about him?”

  “Yes,” Kearns said, “I am. But I know better than to doubt him. I wanted to go along with him tonight, to back him up, but he made me promise I’d stick near you. He wants you protected.”

  Jennifer poured them each a coffee. “I can take care of myself,” she said.

  “Don’t I know it,” Kearns said. “But I gave my word. I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you. Not after what went down in the city at your father’s apartment.”

  “You’ve got to let that go,” she said. “I already told you, what happened wasn’t your fault. You want to drink our coffee outside? It’s a beautiful night.”

  “I’d love to.”

  “We’ll be out back,” Kearns called out to the Judge and Hynds as he and Jennifer went through the rear kitchen door.

  “Keep an eye open,” Hynds called back.

  Kearns slipped on his jacket, even though it wasn’t a cool night, because he was wearing the shoulder holster. The Judge’s considerable backyard property was surrounded by chest-high hedges, littered with trees, and largely beyond the view of his nearby neighbors unless one elected to peek over the fence, but he didn’t want to take the chance of spooking a neighbor.

  The rear patio was constructed of elegantly-crafted brick and featured a hea
vy wrought-iron table and chairs. Kearns retrieved a couple of cushions from a wicker chest and seated Jennifer.

  Though only a little after 8:00 P.M., it was nearing darkness. Callen’s Gold Coast mansion was less than a quarter mile from Alameda’s south shore, and the inevitable inversion layer had rolled in over the beach, blackening the sky.

  “I heard you talking with your mother on the phone,” Kearns said. “Everything all right?”

  “As all right as things can be with Mom,” she said, blowing across the surface of her coffee. “She’s furious at Dad over what happened, and blames him for almost getting me killed. She demanded I come home right away.”

  “Are you going to go?”

  “I saw some pictures of Judge Callen’s daughter in the house,” Jennifer said, ignoring Kearns’ question. “When Dad said she was beautiful, he didn’t tell me she was supermodel material.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “I’m surprised you’d let someone like that slip away.”

  “Paige is certainly pretty,” he said, “but it’s like I already told you. It wouldn’t have worked out. Besides, she’s not the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

  “You encounter beautiful women all the time?” Jennifer teased. “Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Only one,” he said, looking directly at her.

  “Kevin-”

  “We’ve had this conversation before,” he cut her off. “You know how I feel about you.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I think you’re the end of the rainbow,” he said. “I have from the first moment I laid eyes on you.”

  “You’re only saying that because when we first met I punched out an F.B.I. agent and helped you escape from the Omaha jail,” she said, but her face flushed.

  “You’re wrong,” he said, getting up and walking around the table to stand over her. When she looked up at him, Kearns leaned down and kissed her. She hesitated at first, but to his surprise, placed a hand behind his neck and pulled his lips hard against hers.

  “Ahem,” Hynds interrupted, opening the back door and sticking his head out. “Some guy named Stephan is on the phone for you, Jennifer. Sounds like long distance.”