The Parker Trilogy

by Tony Faggioli

  He sighed and scratched at the beard stubble under his chin. He was just being silly. Actually, he knew what had caused this new funk in him. It was the stupid book his bunkmate had borrowed from the prison library that Hector had decided to read one day out of boredom. Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment. It was anyone’s guess what that particular classic was doing in the library. Hector smiled vaguely. Can you say “rehab propaganda?” But it was actually a good book and he’d read it cover to cover in two days.

  Stupid book. It had made him miss an earlier version of himself, the one that hadn’t gone from foot soldier to gang leader, and who hadn’t been through all the pain and chaos that involved over the past five years.

  He was tired. And his weariness was growing like a weed now, digging in and spreading out. Marisol was supposed to have been the sun in his dreary life, but now she’d become eclipsed by betrayal. How could she do this to him? They’d had plans. He wasn’t even sent up for very long this time. Only months. Last time had been over two years. She’d stayed faithful to him then, why not now?

  Unless, of course, that was a lie too. Maybe that whole time she’d been boning other guys and had just been quieter about it.

  More “what if’s” came then. A practical chorus of them that he tuned out immediately.

  Her house was just up the street, a sun-bleached beige one-story home that she shared with her mother. The front yard was all dirt and dead grass. Standing out starkly was a decorative flag of a yellow daisy that hung from a pole to the side of the porch.

  “Hey, man,” Chico said, trying one more time, “maybe you should just call her, compa.”

  The rage in Hector only grew. He looked out the window so they wouldn’t see the tiniest of tears welling in the corners of his eyes. He said nothing, but instead just motioned his head toward the house.

  Bennie, who had been leaning against the front seat, sat back and cleared his throat.

  When they pulled up to the house the hidden sun broke through the clouds for a split second, bouncing off the windshield of a parked car across the street and hurting Hector’s eyes. Marisol’s brown Nissan was parked in the driveway.

  “You guys stay here.”

  “What?” Chico said surprised.

  “No way,” Bennie chimed in.

  “Yes!” Hector said through gritted teeth. “If that fool’s in there then it’s between me and him. If he’s in there with his homies, I’ll whistle for you. Got it?”

  Chico nodded. Good ol’ Bennie with the busted jaw took a lot longer to reply. When he did it was with two letters, filled with resignation. “O . . . K.”

  This was obviously not the homecoming party they were planning. The rest of the gang was probably down at the warehouse on Winston Street, stripping a few cars and waiting to smoke a few celebratory joints and down some beers while they plotted the next round of business. Hector’s crew was thirty strong now. He was a captain. No one had vied for his slot while he was gone because they knew better, and because he had their respect. At least that was the company line. The cold hard truth was that he kept their pockets lined with money and their bellies full, which was all they really cared about.

  Once that stopped, they’d turn on him like a pack of wolves.

  As he got out of the car he noticed a stray dog up the street digging through some trash on the side of the road.

  Crossing the street, he suddenly remembered his English teacher, Mr. Morgan, again. He’d taken him his junior and senior years, through Orwell and Bradbury, Chekov and Steinbeck. Happy journeys all, even if some of them were harder to get through than others.

  Hemingway had always been Hector’s favorite though, and it was with no small measure of foreboding that, as he stepped across the curb and began walking up the path to Marisol’s front door, that he remembered reading “The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber.” Only a short story, but man had it really upset Hector at the time. Maybe because he’d grown up watching his parents take turns cheating on each other, even as he and his two sisters became old enough to understand what they were up to. Or maybe because, in some weird unconsciousness way, he knew that this day was in his future.

  This walkway.

  That front door.

  Where the girl he loved awaited like some Hemingwayesque lioness, waiting to devour him.

  He took a deep breath and clenched his fists. “Fuck that,” he murmured. “Ain’t no one catching me off guard.”

  But his words crumbled quickly, even to his own ears. Because it was just brave talk. Because she already had.

  He knocked loudly on the door and waited, gazing out over the Los Angeles skyline off to his right, boxed in by the clouds above and the whizzing traffic of the freeway below. Stupid city.

  He remembered Staples Center and taking Marisol to Lakers games, when she would hold his hand as if he were the only man in the world, and he remembered making love to her at the base of the Washington Bridge after downing a few Olde English malt liquors and trading stories about grade school first kisses. She’d worn a black pullover Raiders sweatshirt that made her dark eyes sparkle, and her nails had been painted as red as her lips. Brave talker. She’d always been such a brave talker. She’d dared him to kiss her and threatened to punch him in the face if he tried, then she’d given herself to him with a resolve that caught him completely off guard.

  He peered in the window. No movement, so he knocked again, much louder this time, and shouted her name.

  Hopefully.

  He noticed it right away. His voice had not been filled with anger, or rage, or desperation, but with hope. There was no way she’d done this to him. No way. It was just more dangerous, nasty hood rumors, meant to bring him down. Chico, Bennie, someone had gotten shit wrong. That’s all. She’d always promised to be his baby. Forever. She had. And that’s all that had carried him through the dark nights of these damned streets and the lonely, eternal days of prison.

  When she opened the door, she was wrapped in a white sheet and her long black hair was a tousled mess. Hector didn’t care. He looked immediately to her eyes. He wanted to see eyes that told a Hemingway kind of story, because though some were sad, others weren’t. There was at least a chance of happiness left if he saw a little Hemingway there.

  She looked at him stunned and surprised as she took a small step backwards and pulled the sheet up to her neck.

  He barely noticed any of it, because his heart broke instantly, into a billion pieces, all because of what he saw in her eyes.

  There was not a trace of Hemingway in them. Not one.

  They were pure, fucking Shakespeare.

  Chapter Three

  The fact that Hymie Villarosa was sent into Koreatown to rob Sunny’s Liquor Store was problematic for two reasons.

  First, it was in an area primarily controlled by La Marea, an infamous Central American gang that had gone nationwide, able to challenge pretty much any gang, anywhere. Known for their viciousness, it was probably a given that the very tiny area around Sunny’s Liquor that was “controlled” by the Asian Soldiers was only done so with the permission of La Marea, no doubt due to some service the Asian Soldiers were providing for them. If Parker had to guess, it was most likely due to the fact that La Marea could get drugs into the Asian nightclubs and party scene using the Asian Soldiers as their surrogates.

  Second, that Hymie, a member of the Fresno Street Vatos, a Mexican gang that kept mostly to themselves and within a fixed geography, was sent across town to rob a place where two other gangs were going to be offended was brazen at best, foolish at worst.

  The investigation was just beginning, but Parker was willing to bet that they were about to kick open a rats’ nest. It had been four months since the botched robbery, and in that time there was bound to have been a retaliation of some kind, maybe multiple retaliations. Which meant that digging into Hymie’s murder was likely going to lead to a few other unsolved gang murders in East LA now.

  As he and Campos drove west down
Wilshire Boulevard toward Normandie Avenue, Parker gripped the wheel while keeping a wary eye on the traffic. It was light, but a few cars were weaving between lanes, the drivers no doubt hurrying to make it to meetings they were already late to. The police radio was turned down but still chirping with various calls for help or assistance across the city.

  His mind was wandering again. This time to the desert. The sand. There was blood there too. Especially on that day they were ambushed. Blood everywhere.

  He inhaled and exhaled, through his nose, like his therapist had trained him, hoping that Campos didn’t notice, and refocused his attention on the streets around him.

  After two tours in Afghanistan and Iraq, Parker had seen hard places and hard truths. But here, with food and shelter aplenty, people still found a way to beat their wives in the middle of the day, or shoot the neighbor’s dog, or get into a fistfight at a stop sign because someone didn’t wait their turn.

  “So, where’s this guy live again?” Campos asked as he thumbed a text to one of the many girlfriends he kept in play.

  “Normandie and Fifth. He just got out, so he’s bound to be jumpy about going back in.”

  “What’re we gonna hit him with?”

  “Suspicion that he was one of the two Soldiers that popped Hymie.”

  “But we don’t believe that, do we?”

  Parker shook his head. “Anything’s possible. But he doesn’t fit the description of either of the perps from that evening. He also might’ve already been in the system the night of the murder. I spoke with the DA’s office and Yi was taken into custody either that night or the next morning, for the drug deal he just got out for a few days ago. The file’s missing some paperwork, and one of the clerks over there is tracking it down to confirm which it was.”

  Campos grabbed the note sheet that Parker had put on the dash. “Eric Yi?”

  “That’s him.”

  “Five eight. 135. Skinny dude. One weapons charge, one burglary, one drug bust. Shit. This guy trying to hit for the cycle or what?”

  As a lifelong baseball player who peaked in high school and never had a chance to play in college, Campos found a way to sprinkle baseball vernacular into almost any conversation. At first Parker had found it annoying, as he was never into baseball and was a football guy all the way, but it was actually growing on him now.

  “If he is, odds are next up would be—”

  “Murder.”

  Parker braked for some lame-ass pedestrian that had decided to bolt across the middle of Wilshire to save the extra twenty-five-foot distance to the crosswalk on the corner. The man, dressed in chinos and a blue collared shirt, had misjudged the approach of a red Honda in the next lane and had almost been launched into oncoming traffic. Brilliant.

  “Pendejo,” Campos said under his breath before he resumed his texting.

  “What’s her name?” Parker asked.

  “Who?”

  “The chica you’re lying to right now.”

  Campos chuckled. “I wish.”

  “Don’t bullshit me, man.”

  “This is my ex. Bitching at me to bring some Pampers by after work.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m serious, Parker. No joke. Do you have any idea how expensive them damn Pampers are, man?”

  The way he said it, with whiny frustration, left no doubt that he was being sincere. Parker laughed.

  “It ain’t funny. I got a five-year-old, a three-year-old and now the new one. It’s like she done purposefully spaced them out so that the minute I forget how expensive diapers are, I get reminded again. And they just keep getting more expensive, man! Sun-na-nitch.”

  “So why keep having babies, dude?”

  “I dunno. Makes her happy.”

  “You don’t even live with her no more.”

  He gave one shoulder a shrug. “I know. But the sex is good, man.”

  Campos fell silent as he looked out the car window. Parker let it be. He didn’t want to pry, not yet anyway, but the playboy routine, though evidently successful, wasn’t making Campos any happier, it seemed, than the struggling marriage he’d abandoned.

  They made a right on Normandie, then a right on Fifth. The address they had for Eric Yi was a worn out yellow house with a front yard full of overgrown weeds that was surrounded by a low chain link fence. Roaming the yard was a fat pit bull terrier.

  “What the . . . Is that dog missing an ear?”

  “Yep. Must’ve been a helluva a dog fight.”

  “So, our boy Yi . . . maybe he gets lucky and goes down the final time for animal cruelty someday?”

  “For all we know it’s his mother’s dog.”

  “What?”

  “Yep. This is her house. Only known address for Eric his whole life, even though he’s twenty-seven now. Well, I mean, besides jail.”

  They parked and got out of the car. Captain Holland liked them in suits, which Parker hated. Especially when Trudy bought him the skinny legged pants that, though fashionable, made him feel like his balls were in a vice all day. Opening the back doors of the vehicle, they each grabbed their suit jackets and put them on. Parker was navy blue today. Campos had gone tan with a stark blue tie.

  “Where’s your tie?” Campos said with a sneer.

  Parker shook his head, instantly irritated. “Screw that tie.”

  “You know it’s my obligation to inform the captain that you’re in violation of departmental uniform policy, right?”

  “I’ll buy the next pack of Pampers.”

  “I didn’t see a thing.”

  They made their way up to the chain link fence. The pit bull went berserk, presenting them with the problem of how to get to the front door of the house.

  The solution was soon incoming. After a minute, the door opened and out came an Asian man in a dirty tank top and shorts who was a solid match for the mug shot of Eric Yi, and he was in a foul mood.

  “What the hell?” he yelled, spreading his arms wide in apparently sincere frustration. “I just got out and you guys are up in my shit again?”

  “Just want to ask you a few questions!” Parker yelled, trying to make sure he could be heard over the barking dog.

  Yi shook his head. “If I had a dollar for every time I heard that one.”

  Father Soltera’s worry for Luisa was just beginning to fade when, a moment or two later, the church doors opened and the Pioneer Club came pouring in. Mostly seniors, they were just beginning to plan for the summer carnival, which was still three months away.

  It was the church’s biggest fund raiser, mostly due to the beer garden, which Father Soltera never approved of but wasn’t ready to reverse, as it was a twenty-year tradition. The money raised from the carnival helped fund many missions and church outreach efforts in the community. But the beer money? He could never shake the feeling that the money came with a cost, because who knew how much sin came from sending people home drunk, even just that one night a year?

  “Hello, Father,” Addie Walker said as a smile on her face momentarily pushed her wrinkles aside.

  “Addie.” He smiled back, not looking her in the eye. “God bless you today.”

  “And you, Father,” the group said back in sprinkled replies.

  “Are we ready to get started?” he asked them.

  Juanita Flores shook her head politely. “Perhaps in about ten minutes. Give us time to set up the conference room and get some coffee brewing?”

  “Sure thing.” He nodded. “I’m going to step away to the rectory for a moment, but I’ll be right back.”

  “Great,” Addie said, gripping her purse to her chest with both hands, evidently still trying to shake off the cold of the morning air.

  They moved past him in a sea of small talk as he worked his way to the back of the church, down a short hallway and to his room. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a bona fide skeleton key for the door. It had been handed down by each of his predecessors to the next in all the years the church had stood. After turning t
he old lock, he heard it click loudly and went in.

  It was a small apartment, with a living room, one bedroom and a small kitchenette, all crammed together in a roughly four hundred square-foot area. His living room consisted only of a thirty-two-inch flat-screen TV, given to him by the staff for his birthday a few years back, a recliner and a side table. The adjacent bedroom was even sparser; it only held a twin bed and one end table.

  He had always enjoyed his years as a monk in Michigan the most, and his humble possessions were his attempt to hold onto those days, though he still felt guilty about the recliner. But his back had begun to go out on him more and more, and it was easier to sleep in it than the bed some nights.

  In the kitchenette was a small refrigerator that held mostly mini cans of diet Dr Pepper, Hot Pockets—both bad for him, but hey, ya gotta live a little—and Mylanta, which he liked to drink cold when his stomach got upset. On top of the fridge was an old NFL coffee tray that showed the helmets of every team, and on which his medicine bottles stood like small plastic soldiers, glaring at him and reminding him to take his pills. Two for his blood pressure, the other for his cholesterol and a third to help with the cancer. There was also a bottle of Percocet, which he liked a little too much, though he only allowed himself to take those pills after a couple of sleepless nights in a row, which happened from time to time.

  He popped open the bottles and took his pills, noticing how craggy his hands were looking today before blaming it on the weak sunlight spilling in from the living room window. On the tray were also a few of those stupid “Monday–Sunday” pill boxes, which the doctor’s office had given him but which he refused to use; his mind was still sharp enough to remember to take his meds, thank you very much.

  Chasing the pills down his throat with a bottled water, he glanced at the crucifix on the wall in the living room—and recoiled. He stumbled back a few steps, almost falling in the process.

  It was hanging upside down.

  A blanket of cold panic spread over his shoulders and down his back. He was too old for chills this violent, and so his knees began to tremble too. “My God,” he whispered.