I found him in one of the two bedrooms on the ground floor. The walls were covered in dripping spray paint gang tags, and the air was thick with the smell of dog shit and death. There were steel wire pet crates, about half a dozen in this room, stacked on top of each other. Half the dogs in them were dead. The others, four fierce, muscular, scarred veterans of the arena, were quiet; they didn’t bark at my entrance. They didn’t growl or flinch in fear. They were surrounding a man sitting cross-legged on the filthy floor. He was rubbing and loving on the dogs, and they were eating up the first genuine affection most of them had ever received in their lives, licking and nuzzling the man.
“Hey, Ballard,” Dwayne said. Dwayne Perez-Walker Li was beautiful. I’ve yet to meet anyone living who disagreed with that statement. He was the best parts of several different ethnicities: African-American, Mexican, Chinese, Japanese, and Pacific Islander. His long, thick, black hair was clumped in dreadlocks, and he wore a fringe of a black beard and mustache. He was a shade over six feet and built as solid and muscular as these fighting dogs. His eyes were hazel, and he wore a frayed gray hoodie, baggy black shorts that fell to his knees, and leather sandals. Resting next to him was his badge of office, a length of steel rebar, wrapped in strips of colorful but weathered duct tape. A Barbie doll head was mounted on the top of the staff, colored in various hues of ancient, faded Sharpie and covered in glitter. The hair on the doll’s head was half shaved off. Radiating from the base of the doll head were small chains, like those used in toilet tanks. They hung with various charms on them: seashells, bottle caps, pigeon feathers, and old bus tokens.
“Hey, Dwayne,” I said. “You busy?”
“Not anymore, brah,” he said. There was no malice, no harsh edge to his voice. He sounded for all the world like a stoner surfer, innocent, at peace, even though he had just single-handedly slaughtered close to fifty people in this house without anyone getting off a shot. A large black dog with white paws, a German shepherd–pit bull mix, stood behind Dwayne. The dog was uninjured, clean, and not half-starving. She had been with Dwayne as long I could recall.
“Hi, Gretchen,” I said to the dog. Gretchen narrowed her eyes and growled lowly at me.
“She still fucking hates me,” I said. “Even after all these years, your dog hates me, Dwayne.”
“Hate’s harsh, man,” Dwayne said. “She just knows when you show up, we tend to get put into some ugly predicaments, Ballard.” Gretchen made a sound like “glomph” in agreement. “So tell me, brah, is she wrong this time?”
“No,” I said, “she’s an excellent judge of character. I need your help, Dwayne.”
“No, shit, man,” Dwayne said, continuing to rub and stroke the abused animals. I could feel the power shifting between his fingers, like invisible sand, as he was gently healing and soothing these dogs’ pain as best he could. “You definitely need some help. I felt what you did in there, Ballard, and that was majorly uncool. That’s unnatural, man! You’re gonna end up junking up what little bit of soul you got left.”
“Yeah,” I said, “thanks. I’m not really looking for a morality lesson from a guy who worships the expressway toll plaza.”
“Hey, brah, everything has a spirit,” Dwayne said. “There’s voices in the concrete, whispering, burning rain in the power grid. The lotto is the numerological oracle, and the traffic jam is the great serpent uncoiling across the land. Life finds its way, brah, anywhere, everywhere. The city is every bit as alive as the forest, the ocean, or the desert, and this city has a heartbeat. She’s good and loyal to those who love her back and treat her right, who listen. I was just born with better ears than most. She’s beautiful, you know that, Ballard, you used to love her true. What you just did in there, it’s against life, against nature, against the cycle. You know that, man, you feel it. You act like you don’t care, but I know your heart, man, and you do.”
“The asshole was betting blood sport on innocent animals,” I said. “To hell with him, Dwayne.”
“Your people find out you did that, and they are going fuck you up, brah,” he said.
“Look,” I said, “I need a sit-down with this guy who does business with MS-13. Dragon is on board to get me in, but I could really use your help, Dwayne. What do you say?”
Dwayne looked to Gretchen. The German pit made a sound like “Mmph.”
“Gretchen says I should shine you on, man.”
“Oh cut the shit, Gretchen,” I said. I tossed the accumulated loose weed, Thai sticks, and joints I had scored from my fans at Satellite earlier tonight at Dwayne’s feet. “This guy can help me find a runaway, lost out here. She’s a kid, scared, desperate on your streets, Dwayne. You know better than anyone the kind of two-legged predators hunting out there.”
Dwayne gave the fighting dogs a final skritch and looked to Gretchen as he stood, gathering up the drugs. “Find me a cell phone off one of these losers to call the shelter and the cops, Gretch,” he said. Gretchen padded out of the room, giving me an indignant sniff as she passed me. I gave the finger to her back as she headed down the hall. “I’m pretty sure about eighty percent of what you just told me was bullshit,” he continued. “But if you’re even doing twenty percent good, that’s better than your usual average, and your ass needs all the karma you can get, brah, so okay, we’ll help.”
“Thanks,” I said. “We need to get moving. Hitting those MS-13 assholes at dawn was probably the best way to do this.”
“Yeah,” Dwayne said, as Gretchen returned with a smartphone in her mouth. Wayne took it and petted her. “We’ll try to do this all quiet and cool, Ballard, but we might want to get our hands on boku hardware in case it goes sideways. Some of those MS-13 guys are Nahualli—Aztec sorcerers—and trust me, brah, you do not want to piss with them or their creepy-ass gods.” He swiped the screen of the phone and began to dial a number.
“Dwayne,” I said, “man, there must be like fifty guns or more lying around this house. All loaded, never fired, only dropped once, remember?”
“Oh, yeah,” the man responsible for all the carnage said, nodding as he put the phone to his ear. “I kinda forgot, I don’t do hardware unless I gotta … uh, hello? Hi! I wanted to, like, report some nasty-ass illegal dog fighting and, oh yeah, a bunch of like, dead assholes.” He pulled the phone away from his face. “Yeah, we’re going to need a trash bag, or maybe a laundry basket to put the hardware in…” There was a tiny voice speaking on the phone. Wayne put the phone back to his ear. “… wha? No, man,” Dwayne said, as casually as if he were ordering a pizza. “Sorry, I wasn’t talking to you … no, I said dog fighting, then murders … get it straight, man.”
I looked at Gretchen and she cocked her head at me. I shrugged and started gathering up guns, as the sky outside crept closer to dawn.
ELEVEN
Sherman Oaks was west of Studio City and decapitated by the 101. Located in the San Fernando Valley, it was a quiet little oasis of suburban calm in the pretentious smog of hipster pollution and the staccato machine-pistol frenzy of gangbang chaos. It was the kind of strip-mall, chain restaurant, P.T.A. place to which you’d flee to raise a family. So, naturally, it was the perfect place for the particular strain of MS-13 I was hunting to hang out. The mara had bought a ranch compound on about an acre of land, just off Round Valley Drive.
On the way over in a cab, I texted Dragon the address of the gang safe house. “Me and Dwayne are on our way there now to pry Luis Demir away from some MS-13 mouth-breathers,” I typed. “We’ll need evac, most likely a garbage run. Our ETA is about twenty minutes.” Three minutes later I got a curt text reply from Lauren:
“Asshole.”
I looked over to Dwayne as I put the secure smartphone away. “We’re golden,” I said.
It was about an hour after dawn when Dwayne, Gretchen, and I knocked on the front door of their house.
A young man, maybe twenty, opened the door. His face was tattooed with various slogans in Spanish and large stylized letters: MS. He had shaved his head
, presumably to have more canvas space. He wore no shirt and had the black eagle off the Tecate beer logo, wings spread and talons dripping blood covering his muscular chest. I thought to mention misappropriation of intellectual property to the gentleman, but somehow I managed to hold my tongue. The kid had the butt of a pistol jutting out of the sagging waistband of his baggy jeans. He looked pretty much how I looked, like he had been hitting it hard all night and now just wanted to crash, equally as hard. He reeked of weed.
“What the fuck?” he said in Spanish. “How’d you assholes get past the fucking gate?”
“Hey, brah,” Dwayne said, replying in Spanish. He was holding Gretchen’s chain leash and the German pit was sitting quietly by his leg. “My name’s Dwayne. I’m here to see Nester.”
“Nester’s in the fucking hospital with a machine breathing for him,” the kid said. “He got hit. Took two in the chest.”
“Shit, man, I’m sorry to hear that,” Dwayne said, and he meant it. The kid grunted and narrowed his eyes.
“I don’t give a fuck,” he said, his face stone, “stupid motherfucker too fucking slow to not get his ass shot, don’t mean shit to me.”
“Well, maybe I can talk to you,” Dwayne offered. The kid was having none of it. Somewhere down the hall, past Mr. Compassion, I heard male voices shouting back and forth to each other. Something about where the fuck was the milk for the Cocoa Puffs. Music started up down the hall, “Wake Up” by Immortal Technique.
“Who the fuck are you, you dog-walkin’, blasian motherfucker, come up to my house, jump my fence, don’t know you from shit! Got some junkie-looking, vieja perra blanca with you…”
“We actually wanted to share the good news of Jesus Christ with you, if you have a few moments,” I said in English. “Are your mommy and daddy home?”
“Shiiiit,” Dwayne said, his unflappable cool slipping for a second. “Ballard, shut the fuck up, man!”
“What did you just say, you maricón?” the kid sputtered, reaching for his gun. I drove a knuckle into his Adam’s apple. He gagged and gasped, grabbing instinctively for his throat. I took his gun away from him, cocked it, and aimed it at his lowered head. There was a chorus of oiled “snikts,” and we now had a half-dozen guns pointed at our heads, from a half-dozen dead-eyed, tattooed faces.
“No disrespect intended,” Dwayne said in Spanish, still sounding pretty cool. “We wanted to discuss some business with Nester.” The kid stood, glaring at me. I handed him the cocked gun back, butt first.
“Sorry,” I said in Spanish. “He dropped it, and I was just giving it back to him. I’m old; I have spasms.”
“Chinga usted!” the kid said as he aimed the gun at my face. A tattooed hand flashed out behind him and smacked his head, hard. The kid winced and looked back.
“You fucking stupid?” the older mara member said. “You know who the fuck this is you talking to? That’s Dwayne, pendejo. He’s a fucking bruja, boy, like Francisco!” The older banger looked at all his brothers. “Put those the fuck away, Dwayne’s the one that healed Nester’s mama when she was in the hospital and the insurance gave out on her, and he got Lonzo’s sister, Aleta, back from those coyotes that were going to sell her. He’s good.”
The name Francisco set off a little screaming fire alarm in my skull. Shit. Dwayne caught the shadow of recognition cross my face, but he played it cool. Guns were put away and most of the bangers drifted back inside, questing for milk for the cereal again. The kid I hit was still pissed and he wanted payback, bad. The older mara member and Dwayne gripped in a complex handshake and then embraced, slapping backs.
“Good to see you, Fabian,” Dwayne said. Fabian smiled and nodded.
“You should call first, man,” Fabian said, gesturing us inside. “Who’s your friend?” he asked as we walked down the hall; Gretchen stayed by Dwayne’s side. I could hear the silent “cop” in Fabian’s question.
“Ballard, Fabian; Fabian, Ballard,” Dwayne said. “Ballard’s cool. He needs to talk to one of your guys—no beef—just trying to reach some understanding. That’s why we came by. I’m sorry to hear about Nester, brah.”
Fabian gave me a curt nod and led us into an open and airy living room with high, wide windows giving a view of the sparsely wooded hills and canyons in the compound’s backyard. Besides the MS-13s who greeted us at the doors, there was another group in here, close to twenty in all. These guys all looked like they were on the last legs of a night of partying. Empty liquor bottles, bongs, rolling paper, and flavored cigar wrappers were everywhere. There was enough coke and marijuana residue on the faux stone Aztec coffee tables to make the DEA’s bust quota for a month.
“You guys move out here to the ’burbs for the better schools?” I asked. Fabian gave me a sidelong look.
“Who you need to see?” he asked, ducking the question. He sat down on a couch and offered us a pair of stuffed chairs.
“Luis,” I said. “Luis Demir. He’s a Blackhat identity thief. He works for your mara, among others.” Fabian nodded.
“Yeah, he’s here, got into town a few days ago. He’s got a workroom upstairs. Let me see what I can do.” Fabian stood and headed upstairs.
“This is going to go to shit,” I muttered to Dwayne. “Get ready. You too, Dragon,” I whispered to her, knowing she was listening in through the “scrywire,” the mystic equivalent of a surveillance wire, a henna tattoo that I had Dragon draw and incant on my chest.
“You’re being all kinds of negative, brah,” Dwayne said, lowering his voice. “It’s going to be fine. Fabian is righteous. Don’t lose your shit.” Two of the MS-13 members near us yawned and passed the dregs of a bottle of Jack back and forth. I wished for the millionth time this morning that I hadn’t been such a fuckup last night.
“Listen,” I hissed, “I know this Francisco they’re talking about. He’s one of those damn Nahualli you were talking about earlier, an Aztec sorcerer. He is nowhere near righteous.”
“Aw, shit, brah, really?” Dwayne said. Gretchen made a nervous “mmrph” sound, and Dwayne stroked her head to calm her. “You guys good? We wouldn’t get that lucky.”
“I nearly fried his ass a few times back when I was Nightwise,” I said, “what the fuck do you think?”
“Well … that’s disappointing,” Dwayne said matter-of-factly. “I was really hoping we’d get through this without any harshness.”
I looked around at the groggy street soldiers, at all the guns. “Yeah, me too,” I said. “Dragon—Lauren—darling, get ready to crash the party. I’ll give you the word.”
“Can we at least try to not hurt Fabian?” Dwayne said. I nodded.
“You hear that, Lauren? Try to not hurt this Fabian guy. Everyone else, hurt the hell out of.”
Fabian descended the open staircase to the upper floor of the ranch. Following him was Francisco. He had changed in over thirty years, the long black hair was now gray, he was still slender, a little too thin, and there were shadows under his eyes, which were still merciless wells of pitch. I stood as he walked down the stairs, locking eyes with me. I already felt some of his power playing through his eyes at the edges of my awareness, a subtle testing. I returned the favor, but I felt brittle and off my game.
“Laytham Ballard,” Francisco said. “The years have worked you over, Holmes, rough. You still got those balls, though, I see, walking into my house asking favors of me. You get Alzheimer’s or something, Nightwise?”
“Still like the junk, Francisco?” I said. “That shit will eat your soul, put you off your game.”
“Shit, this coming from someone who gave away more of his soul than his mamma gave away hand jobs.” Several of the mara bangers laughed at this. I felt ice crack inside me.
“Now, don’t go bringing family into this, Frankie,” I said. “Otherwise I might have to mention how your brother screamed like a little bitch when I cooked him from the inside out. You recall that, don’t you, ‘Holmes’?” I didn’t blink; my eyes were empty and evil, just like his. I f
elt the tiniest flutter of his pain, and I licked it up like a cat with cream.
“Look,” Dwayne said, getting to his feet. Gretchen stood as well. “We don’t want no war. We’re just here to do some business. History is bad for everyone’s money, you all know that. No future if we close each other’s eyes over someone else’s beef.” The MS-13 guys were up and aware shit might start flying, hands drifting to their pistols, shotguns, machine pistols. The Amazon Alexa near the bar was playing “Hard Time” by Proper Dos; even the air was getting ready for this. “Ballard just wants a sit-down with your mica maker; that’s it, and he’s willing to make it worth your time.”
“Is that so?” Francisco said, stepping off the stairs. Fabian and Dwayne exchanged quick glances. Dwayne shrugged. “What’s in it for us?” I already knew he wasn’t going for it, and he knew I knew. Everyone in the room knew.
“Well,” I said, lining up and opening my plexuses of power. I felt him doing the same, shields and wards dropping from that initial testing push. I left my defenses down and focused on building energy, taking the ragged scraps of spiritual energy in the room, and the raw electromagnetic power of the universe. The room got colder. My breath trailed behind my words, “You all get to live. You too, Frankie. I got no cause to end any of you. You’re just a means to an end.”
I felt something old gather around Francisco, its power emanating from hot stone, bitter pulque, and stained obsidian. He was summoning help from outside. The air around him got hotter, and you could smell the metallic tang of fresh blood. Several of the hardened gangsters whispered prayers or crossed themselves. I glanced at Dwayne. His eyes told me he was ready. I was less than ten feet from Francisco.
“I’ve missed this, Francisco,” I said in Spanish. He nodded. I nodded back. “Let’s war.”
The kid I fucked with at the door drew the pistol I took away from him, stepped toward me, aiming to blow my head off. He turned into screaming hot ash as he was caught in the first exchange between me and Francisco. Dwayne squeezed a tiny pin cable release on Gretchen’s leash and the chain disconnected from her collar. The dog launched herself at the throat of an MS-13 banger who was about to spray both Dwayne and me with a MP UMP machine gun. The kid gurgled and screamed as he fell over, struggling with the German pit opening his neck. Dwayne snapped the leash chain in his hand like a whip and cracked the temple of one of the mara killers. The chain bounced off the now-dead man’s skull with a flick of the urban shaman’s wrist and blinded the shooter next to him, pulping one of his eyes. Dwayne cleared the distance between them and crushed his windpipe even as he was screaming about the lost eye. The banger’s hand convulsed on his pistol’s trigger and Dwayne grabbed and aimed his rapidly drooping arm to shoot two more of the MS guys dead.
The Night Dahlia Page 14