“No. What do you mean?” Parker asked, knowing full well what he meant but just stirring the water, trying to kick up some mud.
Hector’s face changed and he murmured something.
“What’s that?” Parker asked. “I didn’t catch it.”
“Nothing. I just said, ‘An eye for an eye, and the whole world would be blind.’”
“Tough stuff.”
“Yep.”
Then, for some reason, Parker decided to test Hector. Looking at Campos, he said, “That’s a Martin Luther King quote.”
Hector’s face pinched up, but he didn’t say anything.
“What? I get that wrong?” Parker asked.
Hector shrugged.
“Don’t make me look stupid, man. Who is it then?”
“Gibran,” Hector replied, almost shyly.
“Who?” Parker asked, knowing full well who, not because he gave a rat’s ass about poets or books, but because Johnson, an English Lit major in his unit in Afghanistan, who’d actually made his way safely back home, loved to say this exact quote in silent protest of the war, usually after every fire fight.
Hector cleared his throat and said, “Kahlil Gibran.”
Parker nodded and tried to hide the fact that he was stunned. It was incredible, really, how Hector’s entire demeanor had changed once they’d gotten him alone. First, the posturing stopped, especially between him and Campos. Then the thug accent disappeared, and now this.
Evidently Campos didn’t care about books either. “Who the hell is Kaji Gibran?”
Parker chuckled in spite of himself. Hector offered a tight-lipped smile to Campos, obviously afraid of offending him. “Kahlil. He was a writer.”
Campos rolled his eyes. “Okay. So. What’s he got to do with—”
“I was just saying that Hymie . . .” He looked pained to even say his cousin’s name. “Damn, man. He knew what he was getting into. And he shoulda known better.”
It was an odd feeling to know full well what someone who thought they were fooling you was really talking about. Hector wasn’t talking about the liquor store; he was talking about the Korean girl that Hymie had fallen head over heels for . . . and started shooting his mouth off to. Anyway, they could call his bluff now, play the Tic Toc card right up front, but it’d be premature and reckless. Parker remembered what Campos had said about threads: you pull them. Slowly.
“Well. Here’s the thing,” Parker said, glancing at Campos, who looked at him as if to say go for it. “You ever hear of someone named Eric Yi?”
“No.”
“He’s a member of the Asian Soldiers.”
Hector’s chin stiffened. “He the one that shot Hymie?”
“We don’t know,” Campos answered.
“Don’t bullshit me, man.”
“I ain’t bullshitting you. We don’t know. But on that note? Even if he was and we knew it, you know damn well we ain’t gonna tell you that.”
“Yeah. I know.”
It was time to rattle his cage a bit, so Parker did. “Anyway. It don’t matter. Eric Yi is dead.”
This time Hector behaved as one would expect him to behave. Death was no news in the hood. It wasn’t as common as mail, but it wasn’t uncommon either. “So? What’s that got to do with me?”
“Where were you last night?”
Blink. The gangster was now back completely. Even the accent. “Sheesh, man. I shoulda known,” Hector said with disgust in his voice. “You come around here to chat me and my boys up, being my friend and shit, and the whole time yer trying to hang a murder wrap on my ass?”
“If you didn’t do it, then just answer the question.”
Hector rattled off his whereabouts for the entire night, in rapid fire, from partying when he first got home, to napping, to being at Rosa’s Bar late into the night, to spending the night with some girl, to waking up with a box of Frosted Flakes. Beyond that, he got hazy.
“What was the girl’s name?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know her name?”
“Man. I just hit that and quit that. I ain’t looking for love.”
“You get her number?”
Hector sneered. “Why the hell would I do that? I got no interest in seconds.”
“Yeah,” Campos said, “but you might not want to let her know that’s how you feel about her.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because it sounds to me, right about now? She’s your alibi.”
Hector whistled and Chico came jogging over to the gate.
Thanks for that, Hector, Parker thought. It was now pretty much confirmed that Chico was second in command.
“That paisa I hooked up with last night?”
“Yeah?”
“You know her name?”
“No,” Chico said, “but I think the bartender knew her friend’s name.”
“You know his name?”
“Stevie or something like that.”
Parker was taking notes. “Tuesday night couldn’t have been that busy, right?”
Hector shook his head. “No. It was dead in there. He’ll tell you her name. What time did I leave with her?”
Chico thought about it. “Midnight or so?”
Parker and Campos looked at each other. Just the ease in which Hector was cooperating and leaving himself exposed to bad answers like the one he’d just asked Chico pretty much meant he was clean, and he knew he was clean. They would still follow up, of course, with the girl and the bartender and maybe even the bar owner. But at this point, it looked like someone else had gotten to Eric Yi.
“Okay. We’ll follow up,” Campos said. “He’s only one of that gang that we’re looking into, by the way. We’ve got a lot more rocks to turn over.”
His hands now in his pockets, Hector was adamant. “No way I did shit to him, man. I guarantee it.”
And then, as if he wanted to start some dominos falling in Hector’s head, Campos acted confused. “Who? You’re talking about Eric, right?”
It was a wicked blow and it caused a nervous double take. “Well . . . yeah,” Hector said, genuinely put off. Parker couldn’t even begin to guess how many times Hector would play this moment over in his mind after they left, no doubt wondering, Who the hell else did they think I was talking about?
“We’re done here, I think,” Campos said. “We’ll be back if we need anything. You got any more info for us?”
“No. I can ask around some, but ever since that shit at Evergreen Park a ways back, the streets have been stone cold quiet.”
Nobody had to ask why. The police and gang units were still sorting out all the parties involved in the shooting that killed Detective Napoleon Villa and five members of the Traps Street Gang, as well as wounded four LAPD officers and a half-dozen bystanders. It had even made the evening news.
Campos glanced nervously at Parker and Hector caught it. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay,” Parker said. “He was my partner.”
Hector froze. “Shit. Sorry.”
Then, because the sharpest knives cut the deepest, Parker spit it out. “This thing with Hymie? It was his last case.”
Hector said nothing. He didn’t have to. His face said it all.
Because, instantly, he had the look of a doomed man.
Chapter Seventeen
Felix had looked Father Soltera in the eye, but only briefly, and not out of shame. It was more of a covert glance, a “we have a secret and if you’re smart it’ll stay that way” look, before he simply went about his bodyguard duties—covering Guero Martinez as he got into the Escalade and shut his door, before he got into the front passenger seat and the vehicle drove off.
As he watched them disappear down the street, Father Soltera had to wonder: why wouldn’t Luisa tell anyone who the father was?
Then it struck him: she was afraid of him. Afraid of Felix.
Hadn’t it been obvious, the way he had spoken to her, so degradingly?
Yes. It had been more than fortuitous that he had arrived when he did, just as Felix was invading Luisa’s personal space, his chest out, his arms wide.
Then something else struck him: she was afraid of both of them. She was afraid of her uncle, Guero Martinez, as well. Of what he would do to Felix when he found out. And if nothing else, Guero’s behavior the last two days had proven that this was a reasonable fear for her to have.
Felix was not only trying to intimidate her into getting an abortion for the usual reasons, to avoid the responsibilities of fatherhood or to keep from paying child support, but also for his own safety. As an employee of her uncle, he had no doubt broken some sort of code by sleeping with Luisa. Either way, with a man like Guero, there was the very real risk of great bodily harm, or worse, to himself now if the word got out.
As Father Soltera went back into the church to warm up, he continued to mull things over. By the time he stirred some sugar into the last inch of coffee from the pot in the office kitchen, he felt like he mostly had a proper take on things.
Luisa was trapped in a bizarre triangle of fear, and fear was one of the best weapons of the enemy. She was afraid for herself, for her baby and for her future. She was afraid of the man who’d impregnated her and what he might do to her if she did not comply with his wishes. And she was afraid of what her uncle would do to that same man if he discovered his identity.
It was the last part that didn’t entirely make sense.
Why? Yes, Luisa and her mother seemed like good people who might not want to be a part of Guero’s world, even if he was family. But, surely, in the face of Felix’s threats, one could see it if they had a moral lapse and turned to Guero for help.
So that meant one of two things.
Or both. Yes. It could be both.
Luisa was afraid of her uncle and of what he might do to her, too. That was bad enough, but even worse? It was highly likely that she was in love with Felix too.
Father Soltera sighed and rubbed his eyes. That’s what he’d seen in her eyes the day before, when he walked up on them while they were arguing: the desperate look of love . . . when to keep one thing meant to lose another.
To keep Felix, she would have to sacrifice the baby. And she was too young to understand that she would never keep Felix anyway, regardless.
“You look tired, Father,” Carol said from behind him.
He turned around and smiled wearily. “Yes. I am.”
Her tight lips twisted slightly downward in a look of concern. “Should I cancel your appointments today?”
“What do I have on the schedule again?”
“You have one person waiting in the confessional. She said it was urgent. Then in about an hour you have a diocesan meeting. It was supposed to be downtown, but due to the weather it will be done by conference call. Father Domingo isn’t back from vacation until Friday, so you’re normal Wednesday lunch at Los Cinco Puntos is canceled, but after that you have prenuptial counseling with Robert Avila and Laura Pena.”
“Not a heavy day, but it still sounds exhausting.”
“Like I said, I can—”
“No, no, Carol,” he said, chuckling and waving her off with his free hand. “I’ll be fine. Thank you, though.”
“Okay. But I’m watching you,” she said, only partially in jest, before she walked back out to the front desk to greet the mailman.
Father Soltera stood in the office kitchen and looked at the ticking plastic clock that hung over the microwave. He wished Father Domingo was back already. As his fellow parish priest, they usually split the duties of the church. Since Father Soltera was the senior priest on site, he often had the lesser share of the work now, except for vacation weeks. He’d been offered a substitute while Father Domingo was away but turned it down, a decision he was now beginning to regret.
He guzzled his coffee, hoping for an instant shot of energy, and headed to the confessional. Once inside, he closed the door and opened the screen.
“Welcome,” Father Soltera said.
The woman’s voice was barely a whisper at first. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”
“Amen. May the Lord be in your heart and help you to confess your sins with true sorrow.”
She cleared her throat and spoke up. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been two months since my last confession.”
Over the next five minutes the woman, who was kneeling and hiding her face, confessed to stealing designer clothes with her friend from a warehouse downtown. The friend used to work for the company, and knew when the deliveries were made. They’d made off with boxes of product in the back of the woman’s minivan, and sold the clothes at cut rates to people all over the neighborhood.
“My boyfriend’s out of work,” she mumbled desperately, “and we were going to miss rent for the second month in a row if I didn’t do it. I had to. But . . .”
As she told her story, Father Soltera closed his eyes, listened, and in moments of silence while she struggled to continue, he prayed. He could not count how many times he’d heard this confession over the decades, from men and women alike, for more reasons that could ever be counted and tallied.
When she was done, she regained her composure and said firmly, “These are all my sins.”
Father Soltera said a prayer over her and then struggled to give her penitence. It wasn’t that he didn’t know what to say or what it was. Sins were like illnesses, somewhat unique but usually requiring pretty much the same prescription. No. That wasn’t the problem at all. What was the problem was that he no longer felt, in his core, qualified to give it.
He didn’t. And that was that. But he had to. Meekly he spilled out the words to her and asked her to make an act of contrition.
Her voice trembled. “O My God, I am sorry for my sins with all my heart.”
Father Soltera spoke firmly. “God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son has reconciled the world to himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“Take heart, my child.”
After she left he closed the screen and stayed put for a while. Laying his head on the interior wall of the booth, he took solace in the fact that he was hidden away now, behind the curtain, where no one could see him.
Except for God. God could see him now and God had seen him then. He swallowed hard as his emotions began to choke him and, against his will, Gabriella came to his mind again.
She was a business woman on the rise, or at least trying to be, who nervously called the confessional booth her “cubicle,” which was inappropriate to say the least. But he’d allowed it. Because he wanted to talk with her. Plain and simple. Often coming in during the week, she would be wearing a business jacket and skirt, almost always dark linen, and high heeled shoes. Before long, it was a little joke between them, to help her relax and speak up. He would ask if she needed some “cubicle time” and she would nod, often sadly, sometimes eagerly.
It was the eagerness that he should’ve spotted right away. One should never be eager to go to confession, even if it was good for you. Somber about it? Yes. Resolved? Sure. But not eager. And before long he realized that she wasn’t eager to be confessing.
She was eager to be seeing him.
Soon their chats in the booth became social, contextual and private, with a confession tossed in to justify things, instead of the other way around. Their pasts soon became pretexts for who they wanted to be and what they wanted to do. Before long they realized that they not only shared mutual interests, despite the fifteen-year age gap between them, but also mutual visions of the future.
He knew that sometimes women fell for their priests. It was easy to idealize a man of the cloth as being “special” or “purer” than other men
. Yes, there was the taboo factor too, but he had sensed early on that this was not what appealed to her. Her fascination with him was not predicated on a desire to sin. It was fastened to a desire to escape.
Regardless, he should’ve stopped it all, right then and there. But he didn’t.
And before long, her want of him was joined by his want of her, a coaxing, gentle and shared weakness. A quiet call of temptation becoming more and more unbearable.
He had never laid a hand on her. They’d come close, more than once. But the physical line had not been crossed. The mortal sin had not been committed. Not in this world, at least. Not like with the woman who had just left to say her Hail Marys.
But did that really matter? No. It didn’t.
Because in his mind he had made love to her a hundred times.
And since the last time he’d seen her, God help him, there was not a single time when he went into the confessional booth and heard a woman’s voice that he did not wish, deeply and profoundly, that it was her.
That she’d come back to take all the fear of the cancer away.
And make life worth living again.
The Smiling Midget wasn’t smiling anymore. I told you that your prissy ass wouldn’t get away with it!
“You didn’t know nothin’ about it,” Hector whispered to himself. He was seated in an old, beat-up recliner, the tan fabric smudged with grease and old oil spots, a small pillow behind his head as he listened to the sound of cars being hurriedly patched together to be moved off-site, to an abandoned parking garage over on Ingraham Street in Downtown Los Angeles, one block south of Wilshire Boulevard, in case those detectives came back.
Yeah, and maybe this time they come back with friends—maybe a dozen black-and-whites—to shut this whole damned place down.
“Nah. Not yet. They still need me.”
The Smiling Midget’s left cheek was full of moles, two of them sprouting long, gray hairs. His upper lip was curled mockingly upwards. Need you? Need you for what?
“They don’t know it’s me that was behind it.”
The Parker Trilogy Page 17