Hernan took out the rifle and peered through the scope.
“Then when he least expects it,” Nestor pointed his finger in the shape of a gun. “Blam!”
Nestor opened the manila envelope on their kitchen table and began sifting through the photos. He felt a rise in his pulse as he saw the pictures of Edgar Williams. They called him “Fast Eddie,” a reference to his teenage years as a high school track star.
Flash forward thirty years later and he is a returning hero...from prison. He had spurned a college scholarship in track and field to pursue the street life in Oakland. By the time he reached his mid-twenties, he had amassed a fortune and moved heroin between the Bay Area and Los Angeles.
The FBI took notice and ultimately got him for tax evasion.
He had been out for three years now. Fast Eddie came back to the same streets that spawned him but found them to be a lot different from when he left. He had made residents of an entire Oakland neighborhood drug addicts. But now someone else had taken his place.
And that someone wanted him dead.
Nestor knew that Cisneros prided himself on being a forward thinking man. “Fast Eddie” wanted to recoup his turf and it would only be a matter of time before he hit Cisneros.
He parked outside Nestor's village apartment in 98th and San Leandro Avenue. He could hear the bustling sound of stereos playing 1980s rap. Nestor surmised that no one in the neighborhood would dare complain about the noise.
Nestor spotted Fast Eddie’s apartment at the end of the second floor hall. A lean Doberman was chained to a railing outside the door. Mean and fierce, it barked at nothing in particular.
Nestor watched some hit man documentaries with Hernan and decided this would look like an old school Chicago gangland shooting. There would be a spray of gunfire and collateral damage would be inevitable. His thoughts sped up as to what route to take when they got away. He thought about when they should take the shot: at the point of which the exited their vehicle or when they when be leaving the club. His heart rate quickened. Cisneros was right. Violence could be a salvation of sorts.
He went on-line and found Fast Eddie’s Facebook profile. His target would post pictures from a place called “Darcy's,” a dance hangout joint on Jack London Square. The posts were dated real time and Nestor could see that all of his Friday nights were spent there.
Fast Eddie would have guards with him, and shooting him up in the club like they did in Chicago seemed a bit too messy. There would be too many witnesses and too little options for a quick exit.
Nestor scoped out the topography around Darcy’s. He liked the parking lot. They could get things done at long range.
Cisneros' gift of the new rifle would be very useful.
Nestor drove the two miles down to Ana's apartment. He found the creepy quiet of her apartment building to be a stark contrast to the cacophony of noise that surrounded Fast Eddie’s place. He could imagine the police investigators going in and out of the room. Questioning an inconsolable old woman who hid her head in the sand at her granddaughter’s lifestyle. They would tell her that questions would be uncomfortable but necessary because they were only trying to help.
He looked at his watch. Midnight. The lights were still on in Ana's apartment. Maybe the old lady could not sleep as she waited for a call from a police detective that would never come.
Nestor took out his wallet and fingered the picture of his mother. He thought of the little boy and how he would face life without a parent. He would go to school and sing songs in class. Play dodge ball and run with the other kids. But deep down inside, he would be numb. Nestor realized that there were certain things you cannot recover from. The loss of a parent may not kill you physically. Just the person that you used to be. Or that you could have become.
The light inside Ana's apartment window shut off. The door opened and out stepped young Antonio.
He hung by the railing of the apartment, looking down, staring down at the streets. Nestor thought about how many times the young boy must have seen his Mom come home with her make-up smeared. With dried mascara tears on her cheeks and her hair mussed up. He wondered how long it would take before the boy looked back on his past and realized the kind of mother he had.
Nestor got out of his car. He looked over at the boy and noticed how much different he looked from when he first saw him.
The boy’s face looked blank. He folded his arms on the railing and laid his head on his tiny forearms.
He waited for his mother to come home.
Nestor looked at his Mom's picture and folded it back into his wallet.
CHAPTER 10
The droning thump from Darcy’s nightclub rattled the windows of Nestor's truck.
The air around the place seemed as tense as Nestor. He hated bars and dance clubs. With his facial scar and rat-like features, he could never fit in. Not even if he had money to toss around.
Darcy’s stood at the end of the Jack London Square strip and overlooked the estuary. A barbershop next to the club shut down after the owner was robbed and murdered a month earlier. Next to the barbershop stood an adult video store, long abandoned. A spray-painted penis decorated its shuttered doors.
Nestor checked his watch then sat up in attention as a black Infiniti glided into the lot.
“There he is, amigo.” Nestor took out his gun and checked the clip. “And taking up two parking spaces like the entitled asshole that he is.”
Hernan stared with hooded eyes as the parking lights clipped off. His gun dangled from his long arm as he massaged the handle with his thumb. A nervous twitch. Then he checked his own clip and inserted it back in slowly, as if it were a sacramental gesture.
“This scumbag may have more than one woman with him,” Nestor said. “Plus the driver.”
They watched as the driver stepped out of the vehicle. He opened up the rear passenger side door.
“We have to take out his entire entourage. The driver. The girls. I don't care if he has a puppy dog in there.”
“What if there is a kid?”
Nestor said nothing as he watched a Puerto Rican woman with long blonde curls exit the vehicle. He could smell her perfume twenty yards away. She wore a tight fuchsia dress, matching the streaks of pink she had in her hair.
Fast Eddie exited after her. Wearing a three-piece suit with a paisley necktie, he pinched the girl's butt as she scooted away from him. “Baby girl got booty,” he said.
Nestor slammed on the gas and the tires squealed forward. It took less than three seconds for them to reach the target. Nestor put the car in park as Hernan threw his door open.
Hernan's first shot hit dead center of Fast Eddie's forehead. The ex-con went down with a thud.
Racing over to his victim’s prone body, Hernan’s shadow came over the man like a grim reaper. He shot him two more times in the heart. Nestor’s bullet ripped open the side of the chauffeur’s temple. He went down in a heap, his hand stuck in his coat pocket as he reached for his gun. Nestor shot him in the head once more for good measure.
The Puerto Rican girl stood frozen taking it all in. Then she screamed so long and loud the music inside the club stopped.
Nestor heard the crackle of the gun before he felt the searing pain of a bullet go through his shoulder.
“FBI!”
Nestor dropped to the ground and rolled toward the truck. He heard the men running toward him. Then he heard Hernan return fire.
His first shot nailed the agent who shot Nestor. His partner ducked for cover.
“Run!” Nestor commanded.
“No,” Hernan fired again at the remaining agent. The bullet blasted a window and the glass cascaded down on his pursuer.
“Come on!” Nestor got up and pushed Hernan forward. They sprinted toward the street and turned the corner before they heard the sirens.
People emerged from the club in open-mouthed shock. One of the patrons took out his cell phone and filmed the blue-vested agent pounding on his partner's chest.
Nestor and Hernan ran down the street as fast as they could. One, two, and then three blocks down. They stayed on the main strip running through red lights and causing cars to careen sideways.
“Come on,” Nestor instructed.
Wanting to get on a less populated street, they turned a corner and ran down a dark alley.
That's when they saw her. The blonde-haired girl with pink streaks, squatting in the corner.
She stood up, scared and shocked that they found her.
Nestor struggled to catch his breath and leaned his back against the wall. Hernan pointed his gun at the girl. Mascara tears scrawled down her cheeks.
“My parents are lawyers,” she stammered. “Both of them. They could help you.”
“Shut up,” Nestor wheezed at the woman. She spoke with a bearing that made him think she came from an educated background. Probably got involved in drugs and her rebellious spirit carried her into the armpit of East Oakland.
“I can help you guys!” the woman snapped, now taking trying to take a tone of superiority. “Do you understand English? How fresh over the fence are you?”
The girl saw the revolving blue lights reflecting off one of the storefront windows in front of the alley. Hernan followed the girl's eye-line then put his hand over her mouth.
The young woman bit into his fingers and sprinted away “Hey!” she called. “Over here!”
“Come on!” Nestor climbed over the wooden fence.
Hernan waited for a moment then aimed his pistol at the woman. Nestor could only watch as he pulled the trigger.
The girl fell face first down on the concrete before she reached the end of the alley.
Hernan hopped the fence and ran.
They crossed through a backyard and dogs barked. Sprinting past a chained pit bull, they hopped another fence and raced toward the train tracks.
Away from the streetlights, they cloaked themselves in the darkness. Their running feet dredged up broken glass, McDonald’s wrappers and used condoms. They didn’t stop until they could hear their wheezing breath over the fading sirens.
Hernan ran a sponge over Nestor's shoulder wound.
“It just grazed me,” Nestor said, punching his own thigh in frustration. “Why didn’t we see those FBI guys! Fuck!”
A siren blared as a police car raced by the apartment outside. Hernan ran to the window with his pistol cocked.
“The sirens would alert us so they wouldn’t use them if they were coming for us,” Nestor flipped on the TV remote. “They'd come in silent and deadly.”
The TV report showed a composite drawing of both Nestor and Hernan.
“Police are looking for these two men. One about five foot eight with a slender build in his mid-forties. The other is five ten to six foot with a slender build in his early to mid-twenties.”
“Doesn't look anything like us,” Hernan said.
“You're complaining?”
The sound of more sirens echoed outside.
“I can't live like this anymore,” Hernan said as he wiped away paranoid beads of sweat from his forehead.
Nestor didn't respond. He stared at the TV commercial in silence.
“What if Cisneros knew about the FBI?” Hernan asked.
“I doubt it,” Nestor said, shaking his head. “If you are thinking he set us up, I doubt that too.”
“I think it is a sign,” Hernan said. “God wants us to do something else. To escape.”
“We can't just resign like we're working at Taco Bell,” Nestor snapped. “We have to kill him. He won’t just let us go.”
“Okay,” Hernan said.
The news report came back on.
“Today, restaurateur Ignacio Cisneros was arrested on drug charges today at his restaurant in East Oakland. Authorities say that Cisneros had transnational gang ties to the Mexican drug cartel.”
The television broadcast showed a tall, sharp dressed man addressing reporters.
“Today is an historic day for the city of Oakland,” the television showed his name as Frank Nickles. “Our streets are safer now that vermin like Cisneros are now longer peddling drugs to our young people. This is step one in our campaign to make Oakland safe again. We started at the top of the food chain. And we’ll work our way down. The only people who aren’t safe are the drug dealers.”
Nickles looked directly into the camera. “You know who you are.”
“Great,” Nestor said as he rose to his feet. “Now what are we going to do for money?”
The next morning Nestor and Hernan drove out to the duck pond in silence.
Hernan tossed the bread to the ducks.
“It might not be so bad,” Hernan said. “As long as I have time to come here, I’ll be okay.”
Nestor shook his head. He walked away, staring at the expensive homes in the distance.
A woman in her early sixties walked up from the trail onto the grass where Hernan stood.
“Hola,” she said in a heavy Mexican accent.
“Hi,” Hernan said. Nestor watched the woman from afar as he lit a cigarette.
“I was told you guys came out here early,” she said.
“What?” Hernan looked confused.
“It's really cold out here,” she said, rubbing her arms.
Hernan shrugged his shoulders. “Cold doesn't bother me.”
“Ice in your veins,” she said. “That always helps.”
Nestor noticed that a man in a three-piece suit watching him from about thirty feet away. He wore dark sunglasses but Nestor could spot a bodyguard when he saw one. The old woman noticed his suspicion and waved for him to come over.
“Yes?” Nestor asked.
“They call me Miss Sosa,” she said. “We have a mutual acquaintance in Ignacio Cisneros.”
Hernan looked at Nestor.
“How can we help you?” Nestor asked.
“I was hoping we could talk,” Sosa pointed to a green Escalade parked in the lot. “In private.”
Senora Sosa poured a glass of Cabernet. She handed it to Nestor.
“I know you don't drink,” she said to Hernan. “That's a good thing. You need a steady hand.”
Hernan looked out the tinted window. Some of the ducks had followed him to the car.
“Cisneros was part of a wide reaching organization. He was just another node in the network but I bet if you asked him about it he would say he was the center spoke.” Miss Sosa laughed.
“We never talked shop,” Nestor said. “He gave us jobs and we did them.”
Sosa nodded. “You do all the talking but he does all the killing, correct?”
“I can pull a trigger when I have to,” Nestor said.
She eyeballed Hernan as he stared dreamily out of the window. “I know you can take care of yourself. But this man,” Sosa pointed at Hernan,” is a killing machine. Funny because most people wouldn't be able to tell from looking at you. But I can. You remind me of a son I had. He looked like a choir boy but when I gave him a job it was done with deadly precision.”
The old lady nodded and smiled at Hernan as if he were a long lost grandson. The young man smiled back.
“Cisneros is out of the picture now. But I'm wondering if you boys want to keep working?”
Hernan nodded his head, looking over at Nestor.
“I'm listening.”
“Bigger money,” Sosa said taking an envelope from her purse. “For bigger targets.”
She handed the envelope to Nestor. He opened it up and took out a picture of Frank Nickles. The man he saw on television.
“His name is Nickles,” Sosa hissed. “Goes to a tanning salon every week and jogs every morning. I'll let you pick which activity you think will be most convenient.”
Nestor looked at the picture of Nickles. A handsome face made to get ahead in the world. Everything he wasn't.
Sosa pointed at a suitcase on the side panel of the vehicle. “That’s yours,” she smiled at Hernan.
Hernan laid the case across his legs and opened it. Inside was a gold plated gun laid atop stacks of money.
“That is how much killing this clown is worth to me,” Sosa said. “I don't care how you do it as long as it takes place in public. On a street or place of business. I don’t want him shot in his bed. I want him face first in the dirt. I need to send a message to anyone who wants to take his place. Do not tread on Miss Sosa.”
Nestor noted that the lyrical quality to Sosa’s voice did not match the intent of her message. She had the voice of a sweet old lady even when she talked about killing someone. It had a slow, measured quality and she would look at both Nestor and Hernan to make sure they were listening.
She looked at them as if they mattered to her.
Hernan handed the suitcase to Nestor. He gulped hard as he saw the stacks of bills neatly sorted.
“Do we have an agreement?”
“It will be done,” Nestor said.
Once Upon A Wish : Book One Page 7