The Parker Trilogy

by Tony Faggioli

  “Your cellie?” Curtis asked, referring to Hector’s cellmate.

  “Quiet kid. Southerner. Fifteenth Street. In the SHU now, so I’m having some quality me-time.”

  Curtis laughed. “But you’re probably still sleeping with one eye open, huh?”

  Hector nodded. “No joke. This place is a trip, man.”

  “Yah.” Curtis looked at him hard. “It is.”

  Curtis took a deep breath. “Well, you’ll be getting a new cellie soon, so hold tight.”

  “Who?”

  “You remember Flacco?” Curtis asked.

  A blast from the past. Hector raised his eyebrows. “Yah. Barely. He’s old school, right?”

  “He ranked pretty high when you were just a pup. Handled Echo Park.”

  Hector could recall a very tall, very thin man with long fingers, graying temples and dead eyes, like a shark, that used to frequent the neighborhood. He wasn’t mean, but he wasn’t friendly, either. “Yeah. I remember him. He’s in here, too?”

  “You remember them fools from Figueroa?”

  “I do. That’s right. He shot up a few of them.”

  “Killed them both for robbing his sister by accident.”

  Hector nodded.

  “He went to Folsom for a bit. Got ordered to take out someone inside. Stabbed the dude to death with a steak bone his girlfriend smuggled in to him during a visit.”

  “A steak bone?”

  “Yeah. We don’t get no bones in here with our meat, ya know? Haven’t for years. You can sharpen those bad boys up like a caveman. Makes a perfect knife.”

  Hector was a bit incredulous. “Daaaaaaamn.”

  “Anyway, after that, his life sentence got doubled and he got shipped here two years before I did. But at least you have an ally in your cell.”

  “Hmm. Sounds good but . . .” Hector hesitated and tried to push away the moves his mind was making behind his eyes.

  It was no use. Curtis had trained him from day one and knew him too well. “My little homie,” he said with a smile, “go ahead and say it. Let’s see if you’re game has gotten better or gotten stale. C’mon.”

  “Well. He was a shot-caller way back, when you were coming up. How he handle you being his shot-caller now?”

  Curtis smiled, big and large. “There it is. Good ’ol, Hector. Trust no one and all that shit. You’re like the Mexican Mulder, ya know? From that X-Files show, man!”

  “The X-what?”

  “It’s an oldie TV show. I got all the episodes on DVD in my cell. Love it. We’ll have to watch them. There’s this little chica with red hair, his FBI partner? Oh, man. So hot. En fuego, Holmes!”

  Hector laughed. “Dude, you crazy.”

  “Yep. Anyway, Flacco is old school. He knows the game. The big bosses say I take lead? Then I take lead.”

  “S’cool. Good to know, especially if he’ll be bunking with me and knows my loyalty to you.”

  Curtis looked at Hector for a few seconds too long, like maybe he knew something. For a second, Hector panicked, but then he realized it could simply be that Curtis had gone a long time in here already and maybe had become just as paranoid as Hector.

  “Yep. Anyway, we’re running outta time. So, here’s your quick rundown, just for perspective, okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m listening.”

  “Okay. So. Eight out of every ten people in here will be right back here within five years of getting out. They process through the system like an Aflac rep. Someday you might want or get a transfer. It won’t matter. ’Cause the same vatos trying to kill you in here? Even when they get transferred and you think maybe you’re rid of them? They might transfer over right after you or have friends waiting for you there. You dig?”

  Hector nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Get it in your head now: prison life, for you now, is the only life. Deals, trades, alliances? That’s all that matters.”

  Hector shrugged. “How’s that so different than how it is on the outside?”

  Curtis nodded and looked out over the grassy area around them that formed a small courtyard. On one wall were lines of staggered potting boxes, each filled with herbs. On the other was a line of sticks with tall, vibrant tomato plants curving up their lengths and drooping with the weight of their harvest. By the back wall of the courtyard was a small garden of what looked like chili peppers of all kinds. After a few seconds, Curtis looked back to Hector.

  “Simple, really. Two things make it different. In here, homie? In here there’s no women and no retreat, you understand? And that’s big. ’Cause that means there ain’t no love and their ain’t no rest, man. We like animals, just pacing back and forth, day and night, digging at the dirt for some hope, for . . . for . . . I dunno what word I’m looking for . . .”

  Somehow, Hector did. “Humanity.”

  Slapping a knee with the knuckles of one hand, Curtis nodded vigorously. “Yeah, dog. That’s it! Some humanity, man.”

  In the corner of the courtyard was a large avocado tree. A brown bird drifted down to it from above and landed on one of the branches.

  When Curtis spoke next his voice was all business. “I want you to be careful. We’re on different rotations but that’s a good thing. It gives me some eyes on your shift, dig?”

  “Yeah.”

  Then, somewhat ominously, Curtis added, “And one other thing: you fucked up out there, shooting up that kid over some dumb bitch. It’s costing us all. We’ll have to talk about that later, after you’re settled in, you dig?”

  Hector watched the brown bird hop between a few branches before it took back off into the sky. He lowered his head and nodded at the ground.

  “I dig.”

  Chapter Nine

  They’d made the rest of the drive to Trudy’s parents’ house almost entirely in silence, both needing their own space to figure out the answer to their disagreement by considering the Venn diagram that was their relationship. It was an awkward silence, but a silence they both seemed to know they needed.

  The landscape around them had gone from patchy desert to lush farmland and the wide-open hills of Wine Country. Wooden fence posts stretched down either side of the highway, hemming in the occasional herd of cows or horses. They passed a few roadside stands and stores, closed now, and off the highway tractors could be seen here or there along with ranch-like homes that were painted fresh and bright. There was money in wine, for sure, and Parker guessed the cows and horses were just for show.

  When they reached their off-ramp Trudy finally spoke, her voice sad and hesitant, her cheeks touched with color. “You can kill him to keep me safe and then what? Won’t people want to avenge him? Which would mean I could end up in just as much danger, anyway.”

  Parker opened his mouth and then shut it, giving himself some time to process his answer so that it would come out calm and respectful. “You’re right,” he finally said. “Which is why I don’t plan on killing this guy.”

  She inhaled deeply, then exhaled loudly. “You don’t?”

  “Of course not, Trudy. I’m not a killer.” The last four words came out flat, because they weren’t entirely true and they both knew it. He’d been to war. He’d killed plenty. His therapist had said that someday he’d have to confess the many truths of this fact to her. But now was not the time.

  “Okay. But he’s dangerous. So, you can’t be sure that you won’t have to kill him.”

  He nodded. “That’s true.”

  “And you wouldn’t be in that position if you weren’t so damned . . . if you weren’t so insistent on going after him in the first place.”

  “Debatable, and we both know it.”

  “How so?”

  He gripped the steering wheel as he made a left turn into almost non-existent traffic. The road was wet in spots from a sprinkler system alongside it that was firing away in large, cascading streams. “He’s come after me once, through you, already. If you think about it, had I gone after him sooner? Then what happened, wouldn’t have happened.”
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  She looked out the front window but said nothing, so he continued. “You can take it front to back, or back to front. Either way, something’s got to be done. He’s a monster, plain and simple. I go kill him, there could be repercussions. Maybe. But with the chaos this guy has caused? The cartel could just as easily be glad to be rid of him.”

  “That’s a big gamble.”

  “Yes. But like I said earlier, killing cops or their loved ones is bad press, bad business, bad everything. At this point? In their jacked-up tribal existence? The cartel might actually think I have the right to do this.”

  “Do what exactly?” She put one foot up on the dashboard and uncrossed her arms.

  “Go after him. Get him.”

  “Get him?” she pressed. She was obviously going to make him say it.

  “Capture him. Bring him in. At that point, I’ve saved face and, more importantly to them, not cost them any face.”

  “And?”

  “He has troops loyal to him. Just acing him on his own causes unnecessary drama. But once he’s caught, everyone in that world knows that he’s a liability. The cartel no doubt has plenty of people on the inside to take care of him, if that’s what they want to do. At that point? The law will have done what the law does, and the bad guys will do what the bad guys do.”

  “What if you have to kill him?”

  “Then I have to kill him. But I give you my word it will be as a last resort, no matter what.”

  She nodded, then reached out and put her hand on his. “Next to last,” she said.

  As they stopped at a red light, he glanced over at her, confused. “Next?”

  “I get it now, why you’re doing this. I’m scared, but I’m behind you. Especially now that I know you’re not out to take another life as some sort of bullshit macho revenge. That being said? I don’t want you to hesitate with this man, not for one second. You’re right: he’s a monster. And if you died because you were hesitating because of me . . . I could never forgive myself.”

  The light turned green and he followed the orders of the voice on his GPS, driving to the next corner and making a right onto a dirt road that led through a wide vineyard. He could see what he guessed was her parents’ house about a quarter mile up ahead, its lights on bright in the middle of an open patch of land.

  “Okay?” she pushed.

  He nodded. “Okay.”

  Playfully, she raised her pinky finger to him as they came to a stop in the driveway in front of the house. “Pinky-promise me?”

  He smiled weakly, his heart swelling, as he wrapped his pinky finger around hers. “Pinky-promise.”

  She leaned in close to his face, wincing a bit in pain. “You do realize that pinky-promises are legally binding, don’t you?”

  His smile grew, and he barely got the word “yes” out before she kissed him full, long and hard on the lips.

  When the kiss was over, he pulled back and said it, point blank. “I love you.”

  Now it was her turn to smile. Her lips turned up slightly, but her eyes were still full of worry. “I love you more.”

  He went to grab the door handle. “No,” she said firmly. “This is not how you meet my parents.”

  “What?”

  “As far as they’re concerned, I had a friend drive me who couldn’t stay to visit. You will not be going in there to answer to my father for what’s happened—because trust me, he’ll own your ass—or to make small talk with all the grim thoughts you have in your head right now. It would be wrong, and quite frankly, it would ruin the moment forever.”

  “But you’re hurt and . . .”

  She scoffed, opened her door and swung one leg out. “I can take care of myself, and I’ll get my own bag. Just pop the trunk. You only have to do one thing, Evan . . .” Her voice broke and her eyes swelled with tears.

  He grabbed her hand again. “What?”

  “You come home to me. Do you understand?” She squeezed his hand so tightly that it hurt. “Come home to me.”

  Before he could reply, she got out of the car and shut the door.

  He popped the trunk and heard her pull her bag out before she closed it.

  Every instinct in his body begged him to get out, run to her and call the whole thing off. But he knew better. There was no running from this. No way to call a retreat from an enemy that was so insane or reckless. Güero was . . . a man of war.

  As he drove back off the property, he mulled this over in his mind. Yes. It was true. Güero was nothing but the latest orchestrator of death in Parker’s life. Al Qaeda. The Taliban. Murder and destruction, over and over. Misery caused by men determined to have their way, mostly in the name of money, couched in the name of war.

  His therapist always told him that in order to be honest with others, he had to—absolutely had to—first be honest with himself.

  This was the real reason why he’d opted to go after Güero this way, why Parker was choosing pseudo-military means over civilian means. Why he was calling on Melon for help, just like old times.

  Because Parker’s default setting was as a man of war, too. Because in Iraq and Afghanistan? There’d been hardly any justice served . . . and that’s what was killing him. Slowly. From the inside out. And he had to exorcise that demon. Crime was a different kind of war and this was a different kind of enemy. But still, at some point, there had to be justice in this life.

  And for that to happen, he had to be a soldier one more time.

  In order to be a soldier for the last time.

  Maggie told herself to calm down when Meenie came through the door of the shack with Moe, both with guns drawn, and told her and Luisa to turn around and face the wall. Once they complied, their hands were zip-tied behind their backs and they were marched out to the Escalade and loaded up.

  In her mind she began begging with God not to let it be too long of a long drive from where she had push-pinned their location on Facebook. Something told her to relax. If she really thought about it, they had Eenie’s phone ID now, which meant the police could probably track it. If, that was, he didn’t get sent off somewhere else. That would be bad.

  The sky was a loud blue, with hardly any clouds. After about a fifteen-minute drive through nothing but barren hills on a wide dirt road, they came to a stop and the doors of the Escalade flew open. Maggie was pulled from one side, Luisa from the other. Before them was an old house, mostly made of brick and adobe, painted a sun-bleached tan. The windows were shuttered and the lawn, if you could call it that, was all dead grass surrounded by a few hedges that were not long to follow. There was a path that cut through the lawn and to the front door, and as they were ushered along Maggie saw that over the door, painted in red, was a pentagram. The red was too stark, almost maroon, and smeared in places. Blood. She told herself it was probably from an animal of some kind, but she wasn’t so sure. Luisa, walking just ahead, saw it too and tried to put on the brakes, but it was no use. Moe grabbed her roughly by one arm and Miney by the other. She screamed and Miney used his free hand to cover her mouth. Maggie didn’t even try. Around them was nothing but open desert and what had once been farmland of some kind, with no other house or person in sight.

  The weight of their predicament was obvious. They were in a foreign country, far away from help, stripped of any US rights they’d become accustomed to. These guys were serious, Mexican Mafia types, which meant they probably owned any nearby town and its inhabitants anyway. They could run, they could escape, but to where and to whom for help? Nowhere, she thought, and her despair multiplied. Nowhere and to no one. You’re completely screwed, Maggie. You’ve gotten yourself into one you can’t get out of this time.

  The door to the house flew open, shocking Maggie out of her thoughts, and what was there took a while to compute. It was a woman, yes, but she was beyond pale. Her face was painted with some sort of chalk. Her eye sockets were small but worst of all, by far, were the piercings in her cheeks and lips, almost too many to count, so that when she looked upon Luisa and sm
iled, the sun caught the piercings in a wave of tiny glimmers. She reached out with one hand, her long fingers slender and tipped with long nails. As Luisa struggled violently to pull away, Maggie struggled just as hard to get to her but Meenie had her in a tight grip.

  They were forced into the home, where the three witches from the warehouse were waiting: Misha on a chair to the left, Delva and Anastasia on a frayed and worn blue couch to the right. The room was lit by diffracted light through the shuttered windows, which were partially covered with sheer black drapes. A large lamp in the near corner was turned on, spreading a cone of yellow across the floor, which was carpeted and filthy with the outside dirt. Between the witches was a folding table with bones and stones on it.

  “Ah. Here she is again. Finally. Lovely, lovely girl,” Delva said, gazing upon Luisa, her voice clogged. She cleared her throat of phlegm and continued. “Bring her to me.”

  Luisa was having none of it. Her adrenaline kicked in and she doubled her efforts at escape. Moe held tight but Miney lost his grip on one of her wrists. Luisa spun towards him, raking her nails across his face in the process. He screamed and grabbed at her hand, over and over, trying to catch it like a wild bird, as she swung it at him, missing a few times before connecting again, this time with his lower lip, which went plump almost instantly. He cursed and nearly tripped.

  At the sight of it all, incredibly, the witches began to laugh, hollow and wicked, in a round, like a children’s tune. This only frustrated Miney more but it didn’t matter. The woman with the piercings closed the door, crossed the room unceremoniously and slapped Luisa hard across the face. Shocked, Luisa fell back into Moe.

  “Easy, Sonia! Easy!” one of the witches screamed from the couch.

  In the far corner was some sort of display altar, covered in dead flowers and surrounded by dozens of candles in staggered rows, shorter ones to the front, taller and fatter ones towards the back, each with dried dribbles of wax. There was a photo at the center of the altar, but Maggie couldn’t make it out. She did, however, see an upside-down crucifix on the opposite wall, and the sight of it made her think of one thing: Father Soltera. She hadn’t reached out to him in a long time. Not because she hadn’t wanted to but because she hadn’t . . . been moved to. That was probably the only way to say it, if not the best way.