Blackbird

by A. J. Gentile

  Alex nodded.

  "Great. If I catch wind that you've been stealing from me, or that you ratted me out to the guards, I'll kill you myself. If you’re are released, and I hear that you narc'ed on me to the cops, I'll have someone else kill you. First delivery is in the toilet. Get to work."

  Alex stood for a few seconds before walking over the to the toilet. At least the water looks clean, he thought. He knelt down beside the toilet, Jimmer watching him closely from his bunk. Alex thought about his parents and sisters. He thought about his motorcycle, his classmates at L.A. Trade-Tech. He wondered about all of the people that lived in Los Angeles and whether they thought about the poor souls stuck in jail.

  February 12th, 11:30am

  "Jesus. There's a whole bunch of Phillip Salters in L.A. County," Matty said as he and Zeke scrolled through Twitter in Zeke's office. "This is gonna take a while."

  By Monday, Zeke had started getting desperate for a lead on the case. "Let's check Instagram. The pictures may be more helpful," Zeke said. Matty navigated to Instagram and typed 'Phillip Salter' into the search box.

  "How is it possible that every Philip Salter on Instagram is ugly?"

  "Bad luck, I guess," Zeke said, "I think this is our guy." Zeke moved the cursor to a man sporting a salt and pepper beard and wearing sunglasses.

  "How the hell can you tell? He looks like the unabomber."

  "That's him. He's shaved down to a mustache now, but that's definitely him. I can feel his judging gaze through computer screen."

  "Why exactly are we trying to find him? Didn't you make an arse out of yourself the first time you met him?"

  "Well . . . yes . . . but if he's working as a detective on homicide cases, then he's probably a veteran LAPD officer. Wainwright said Eddie Martinez is a well-known dealer that frequents these Hollywood house parties. Salter will probably know about someone with that kind of notoriety. Plus, the Assistant District Attorney working on Alex's case seemed to brush off any other possible leads. Maybe if we raise the issue with Salter he'll pursue it."

  "And what makes you think he's even going to talk to us? Cops and criminal defense attorneys aren't exactly best friends.

  "Hmm . . . fair point . . . professional courtesy, maybe?"

  ". . . we're fucked."

  "Worst he can say is 'no.' Besides, he's just as interested in finding the real killer as we are."

  Matty laughed, "Yeah. But he thinks he's already got the right guy. You're the jerk double-checking his work."

  "He's tagged in a bunch of pictures at a bar in Atwater—"

  "That's The Bigfoot Lodge," Matty said, "I've been on a Tinder date there before."

  "How'd it go?" Zeke asked.

  "Great, until she told me she wasn't into guys with a Bigfoot fetish."

  "What the hell is a Bigfoot fetish?"

  "Not sure. But apparently taking a date to a Sasquatch-themed bar is in poor taste."

  "Weird. Anyways, I'm thirsty. Let's head over there for a drink."

  "As long as we can expense it."

  February 12th, 1:45pm

  Zeke and Matty walked into The Bigfoot Lodge and were immediately transported. Outfitted to look like a logwood cabin, sasquatch memorabilia adorned the walls and dwarf fir trees stood at either side of the bar. The tables and chairs were furnished out of tree trunks and the Bigfoot Booze menu had cute names like, "Scout's Honor," "Bigfoot Lament," "Cleen Living," and "Dic Pic."

  "Classy," Zeke said as they both took a seat at the bar.

  Matty, though, was embracing the theme. "I'll have one Roasted Marshmallow," he told the bartender, "and my friend here is paying." Matty turned to Zeke, "So, do you see our mark?"

  "We're just two dudes, Matty, not assassins. And yes, actually, Salter is sitting at the other end of the bar," Zeke said.

  "Wow. Can't believe that worked. Now what?"

  "Well, one of us has to build up the gumption to go talk to him, I guess."

  "This feels like too big a job for a mere associate, Zeke. I think the guy with the fancy-schmancy law degree should do the talking."

  "Ha, whatever. We'll both go over there," Zeke replied. "Hey, funny seeing you here Detective," Zeke said as they sat down next to Salter. Matty rolled his eyes.

  "What the fuck are you doing here?" Salter said. "And who's this asshole?" Salter had clearly been at the bar for a while, he reeked of cheap whisky.

  "This is just . . . our local watering hole. And this is . . . my intake associate . . . the one I was mentioning."

  "Hi. Matty. Intake associate," Matty said with an outstretched hand.

  "Local watering hole. Jesus H. Christ. How the hell did you find me?" Salter said, turning away from Matty.

  "You're popular on Instagram," Matty interjected.

  "Dammit. I told the cadets to quit tagging me in that bullshit. Those newbies at the academy are worthless. Payin' more attention to their phones then the lethal hunk of metal strapped to their belt. What do you want?"

  "I want to talk about the Cahill murder."

  "That's a no go, partner. I can't release any details about an ongoing investigation. Not to mention you're the killer's lawyer. ADA Williams would have my ass kicked out the door in seconds if he found out. The whole goddamn thing is tragic though, if you ask me. She was a real talent, with looks to match. Once-in-a-lifetime kind of thing."

  "Right . . . but the case is hardly ongoing," Zeke said, "based on news reports, and the fact that my client is sitting in jail right now, you've already sent charging papers to the DA."

  "It's LAPD policy not to release details on an investigation. Certainly not before the suspect is arraigned," Salter said. "I do have one question, though, if you don't mind."

  "Shoot," Matty said. Zeke gave Matty the stink eye.

  "How does it feel to be representing the scum of the earth, Zeke?"

  "My client maintains his innocence. And . . . there's no confession. Frankly, your evidence is circumstantial," Zeke said.

  "Circumstantial my ass," Salter continued, "We found a bloody knife in the back of his bike—"

  "Right, which requires an assumption that it was Alex that put the knife there. It's circumstantial, detective."

  "Listen to yourself. You've drunk the Kool-Aid. You've got a long career ahead of you if you're gonna believe every criminal that tells you he's innocent."

  "Maybe so. But I'm actually here to ask you about someone else. Eddie Martinez," Zeke said.

  Salter paused a minute. He took a sip of whiskey. "Ha, that slippery bastard. What about him?"

  "I have it on good word that he was at Mikulski's house that night," Zeke said.

  Salter paused again. Matty swished the ice around in his glass, as if trying to fill the silence. "Yeah. A few witnesses mentioned seeing him at the door. Asked Mikulski's bodyguard about it. Said he didn't let him in, and Martinez left."

  "So . . . did you pursue Martinez as a suspect?"

  "He was on our short-list, sure," Salter said, "but the knife effectively ruled him out as a suspect. Even if he was able to break into the party, unnoticed, and kill Cahill, there's no way in hell he could put the knife into Alex's motorcycle without breaking the lock."

  "What if the keys were in Alex's gym bag, too," Zeke said.

  "We didn't find any keys. Wanted to ask your client about them, but he refused to talk to us without his lawyer. And even so, that is an extraordinary amount of planning for a low-level drug dealer. You haven't met the guy. He's not the hottest chili in the hotpot."

  "You've met him?" Matty said.

  "Oh yeah," Salter said, "he's been in and out of jail a few times. Drug stuff, not as serious as what your client’s going down for."

  "We'd like to talk to him, if you know where he lives," Zeke said, not totally sure his gambit was going to pay off.

  "Good fucking luck, kid," Salter replied, "you don't have a clue what you're in for."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Martinez is a hustler. Always tryin
g to find another way to make cash and start his next business. He's all about the money. If he thinks you'll threaten his livelihood—and you're accusing him of murder, by the way—he won't hesitate to drop you like a hot potato."

  "Sounds lovely," Matty said.

  "Where does he live?" Zeke asked.

  "Still interested, eh? Maybe you do have some grit, newbie. It'll probably get you killed, but it’s no sweat off my back. Yeah, I know where he hangs out. We caught some of his guys running drugs in Downtown and East Los Angeles. Phones showed they frequented a warehouse in the Fashion District, near Main and 7th streets. That's probably where Martinez is running his operation. He'll have the place armed to the gills though. He's a real piece of work."

  "Great, thanks," Zeke said.

  "Now screw off. I'd like to drink in peace."

  Zeke and Matty got up, paid their tab, and headed for the door. "So what the plan?" Matty asked.

  "Guess I'm going to the fashion district. Interested?" Zeke replied.

  "Interested, yes. Available, not really. I still have to make rent this month." Matty said.

  "I mean, it could wait. But what am I supposed to do, let Alex marinate in jail?"

  "Fair point. Maybe you should pack some heat?"

  "Matty, I've never even shot a paintball gun, let alone a serious firearm."

  "Ok . . . but if you think Martinez is the killer, why don't you just call Wainwright with his address."

  "That's what I plan to do. I'll go to the Fashion District in a few days, pin point which warehouse he's working out of, and then give Wainwright a call."

  "Alright, gumshoe. Good luck." Zeke and Matty stepped outside into the blistering Los Angeles sun.

  February 15th, 6:45pm

  "I'm looking for an Eddie Martinez . . . do you know him?" Zeke asked. It was Thursday and Zeke was interrogating shop owners off of an alley in the Fashion District. Its storefronts were littered with discount suits and half-priced dresses. More than a few were packed full with thousands of bolts of fabric. Every three or four stores were selling cheap merchandise targeted at tourists: mostly sunglasses, hats, and sweaters that said, "I Love Los Angeles."

  "Never heard of him," one man said, "do you have a picture or something?"

  "I don't . . . no. Thanks anyways." Zeke kept moving. It was getting late, and the buildings’ height over the west-end of the Fashion District cast a gray shadow over the alleyway. Shops started turning on their neon signs. "Open" and "Big Sale." Zeke could see a couple food trucks hanging out at the end of the alley, preparing to close up shop. A woman cooking bacon-wrapped hotdogs on a small skillet was making what appeared to be her final sale for the night.

  Where the hell could he be? Zeke wondered why it was so difficult to find a big-time drug dealer in the middle of a shopping district. If his operation was as big as Salter claimed it was, then some of these people should've recognized his name.

  "Hey! Gringo!" About 30 feet down the alley a man shouted at Zeke through an open third floor window. "You looking for Eddie Martinez, man?"

  "Yeah . . . do you know him?" Zeke yelled back.

  "Do I know him? Of course I know him, I'm Eddie Martinez, man."

  Oh boy. Zeke was just looking to confirm Eddie's location, not actually find him. He may be a murderer, after all, Zeke thought. "Oh! I just—"

  Before Zeke could reach for his cell phone, two men grabbed him on either side, restraining his movement.

  "You were just looking for the local candy store, right? I'm gonna have my guys bring you up. Nothing to worry about, just normal procedure. See you in a minute."

  Zeke's heart was racing. Martinez's men didn't relax their grip as they guided him to a steel door along the alley. This can't be normal . . . right? On the door was a mundane sign that read, "Downtown L.A. Fashion Laundry." The men escorted him inside and closed the door behind them. One man manipulated several locks on the door behind them as the other opened the lock on an iron cage that lead up to a set of stairs. As they passed through the gate, the first man locked that, too. Zeke shouted obscenities in his head.

  Classic rock blared from a room up at the top of the stairs. 'Relax' said the nightman, we are programmed to receive', Eagles' vocalist Don Henley sang. His escorts guided him up the stairs of what appeared to be a dimly lit warehouse. The walls, reinforced concrete, amplified Henley's voice. You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave!

  Zeke and his minders stepped on to the third-floor landing. "Glad you could make it," Martinez said from inside a large office, "Santa Maria, you look even younger from up close. Makes sense, no one with any street knowledge would've come here looking for me."

  Zeke stood still, unsure of how to respond. The guards shuffled him inside the room. It was immediately clear this was Martinez's base of operations. He sat behind a large, glass-topped desk. Behind him were two safes: one large, almost six feet tall, and another short. The large case read, "Gun Vault Pro." In the middle of the room was a bearskin rug, surrounded by four overstuffed, brown leather couches. Martinez's men sat Zeke down in the couch facing the boss' desk.

  "Like I said, a few birdies told my friends here that you've been asking for me. Care to tell me what's going on?" Martinez tapped his fingers on the desk rhythmically.

  "I . . . my . . . my name is Zeke. Zeke Blackbird."

  "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Zeke Blackbird. What can I do you for?"

  "I . . . am . . . a lawyer for Alejandro Garcia. I'm just here to ask some questions about his case," Zeke mumbled.

  "A lawyer, really? Can't say I took you for a lawyer," Martinez said, staring at Zeke's slacks and sneakers.

  "Well . . . I am," Zeke replied, as he straightened his square-ended red-knit tie.

  "If you say so, Zeke. Who the hell is Alejandro Garcia?"

  Figures, Zeke thought, he probably doesn't even know who he's set up. "Where were you on Monday night, into Tuesday morning?"

  Martinez laughed, "who are you, my mother? You came to my neighborhood and interrupted my day. It's proper form to introduce yourself. So, I'll ask again. Who is Alejandro Garcia?

  Zeke took a deep breath. Shit or get off the pot, he thought. "A few days ago LAPD arrested my client, Alex, on suspicion of killing Francesca Cahill. He asserts his innocence, however, so I'm questioning potential witnesses about that night's events."

  "Your guy is going down for the Cahill murder? Wow, that's some nasty business right there. So what do I have to do with it?"

  "Witnesses place you at the crime scene that night."

  "Yeah, I was there, so what?"

  He was there. "Well.." Zeke paused for a moment, thinking. ". . . did you see anything, out of the ordinary?"

  "The only thing weird was that prick, Connor Wainwright. I've been going to Victor's house parties for a while. But I show up at the party on Tuesday night, and that jerk says I'm not on the list. I've been working for Victor for years, and Wainwright has the cojones to refuse me at the door."

  Working for Mikulski? "So what'd you do?"

  "I cursed him out. Told him what was what. May have waved my pistol around a bit. I was pissed."

  "Seems a little overboard for a house party," Zeke said."

  "Yeah . . . well . . . it’s a long drive from Downtown. Least he could do would be to give me a little notice."

  "I've heard different. Someone told me that you have a bit of a reputation as a dealer, of sorts."

  "Ha. Man you can't trust no one anymore, can you? Just who the hell have you been talking to?"

  Zeke decided that he wasn't going bluff his way out of this standoff. If he wanted to get out of here, he needed to show his hand. "I sat down with Wainwright a few days ago. He said you went absolutely nuts on him at the party."

  "So what're you trying to say?"

  "I think . . . you might know more about Cahill's death then you're letting on. I'm not looking to pin this on anyone, but I need something to get an innocent kid out of jail."
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  Martinez stopped tapping his fingers and sat up. "Wainwright's an even bigger prick than I thought. First he cuts off the legs off our business arrangement, then he embarrasses me at Victor's party, and now he's accusing me of murder. Son of a gun."

  "Wait, what?"

  "You heard me, Wainwright has it out for me. Victor too, maybe. But Wainwright never saw the upside to distributing on the other side the river. Thought it was risky. Man, I should've known that deal was dead on arrival."

  "I'm sorry, I don't understand. You're in the film business too?"

  After a moment of dead silence, Martinez and his men erupted into laughter. "Did you hear that? Film business! Oh, you're wonderful Zeke. You're really growing on me."

  Seemed like a reasonable question, Zeke thought to himself. "It's just that . . . you mentioned a business arrangement. With VMK."

  Martinez took a few moments to calm down. "Whew. Figures, you being a lawyer and all. He's only told you half the story, hasn't you?"

  Zeke wasn't surprised to hear Wainwright had omitted some important details. "How do you mean?" Zeke asked.

  "Victor Mikulski is the drug kingpin of West L.A. Wainwright is his enforcer. You've been played, kid."

  I guess that explains the parties, Zeke thought. "I'm not so sure. You said that Wainwright had recently ended you and Victor's 'business arrangement.' Sounds like reason enough to take a swipe at VMK."

  Victor's men both pulled guns out of their suitcoats. "Let me give you some advice, kid. The next time you accuse someone like me of murder, make sure you've got some big friends with you."

  Zeke could feel a gun muzzle against his temple.

  "It's fine, Felipe. Put it down," Martinez said. He stood up and walked around to the front of his desk. "I like you, Zeke. You're cut from a different cloth. Anyone else come in here and pulled that wouldn't be walking out of here. I'll tell you this much. I didn't kill Francesca Cahill." Eddie walked over to a bookshelf on the far end of room. "Come over here, take a look at this."