Gil Mason/Gunwood USA Box Set

by Gordon Carroll

  Majoqui scanned the area looking for any further threats. There were none. His men had killed the rest of the Crips and were quickly hacking their bodies with long machetes. In the distance, sirens could be heard. As if on cue, his men stopped their mutilation and gathered up their dead, piling them into the cars. And then they were gone and there was only Majoqui and the screaming boy. Majoqui picked up his rifle and as he passed the bleeding Crip, almost casually swung down with the sword a final time, severing the boys remaining foot at the ankle. The boy shrieked as though he were being burned in a fire. Once again the charms had worked and Majoqui was safe. He did not spare the boy out of compassion, he spared him to send a message.

  And the message would be understood.

  40

  The first call was from the Crip I had made the deal with. It was two o’clock in the morning and he was wide awake and mad. I didn't know his name, not even his street name, and that was the way we were going to keep it. In my head I called him 'Dog' because of the way he canted his head when he was thinking. So Dog he was, although I would have to be careful not to call him that out loud, he might take offense. Dog called me on the cell phone I'd originally gotten for Jim Black. He told me their plan, whatever it had been, had failed and that The Crow was still alive and that he would get back with me as soon as he got any information that might help me find him. The conversation was short and as soon as the second call came in I understood why.

  It was Jim Black and he told me about the massacre in Gunwood. Eighteen dead Crips, all shot up and hacked to pieces. And another in critical condition with no hands or feet. It made national news. The biggest gang land killing since the Capone era. And right here in the sleepy little bedroom community in Colorado. Jim said it had Majoqui's handy work written all over it… and in blood. I told Jim about Majoqui's secret title, The Crow. He said it fit and I agreed. He said he’d start a world-wide search for info on the street name of The Crow.

  I went back to my computer and the file that Jim had supplied me, looking for anything they might have missed that would give me a clue to Majoqui's whereabouts.

  It was nearly five in the morning and I hadn't slept in thirty hours. The dreams were too bad. Every time I closed my eyes I was back in the van, seeing the glint and hearing the music and saving my wife and daughter, only to wake up with the knowledge of the truth slapping me in the face like a bucket of ice water.

  And then I saw it, right there, in a picture of the listing of his personal effects. The Saint Christopher's medal, bent nearly in half from the impact of the .45 I'd sent into his chest. There was blood on it. Dried blood. I did a quick scan of the DNA test and found that some of the blood had been his, probably spatter from Pilgrim trying to bite his face off, but there was other blood as well… goat blood.

  And that got me thinking.

  Santeria.

  Basically a perversion of Catholicism mixed with voodoo, practiced by a lot of South American, as well as Caribbean and West African cultures. It mixes worship of the saints with animal sacrifice and sometimes narcotics.

  If Majoqui was a believer in Santeria, then he would need a priest or priestess to bless his protective charms. And I didn't think there could be that many of the Santeria hierarchy in Colorado. I googled it using about a dozen different headings and came up with a plethora of psychics, mystics, witches, warlocks and fortune tellers, none of which had anything to do with legitimate Santeria practices. The best thing about the internet is how much information is out there. The worst thing about the internet is how much information is out there. But along with the garbage, I managed to sift out five possible candidates. Three were priests, but none had achieved a rank higher than Obas and none the highest rank of Babaalawo, or ‘Father Who Knows the Secrets’. Of the two priestesses, one was only a diviner known as an Italeros. But the other one… ah the other one. It took me nearly an hour to find a picture of her, but when I did, I knew my search hadn’t been in vain. She was a Lyanifa, or ‘Mother of Destiny’, the female counterpart to the ‘Father Who Knows the Secrets’, and she looked the part. The real thing. And since Majoqui was the real thing, I felt certain this was the woman he would go to for his magic. I took down her address and phone number.

  In a few hours I would make an appointment.

  Before, I might have been scared, a little anyway, but now I was beyond fear. All fear. Death meant nothing to me. Hell meant nothing. I didn’t even fear failure — because I would not fail. Nothing could stop me.

  The house was pathetic, either by design or just lack of care. The old roof sagged, and of the tiles that were left, many were askew and all were weathered to the point of near disintegration. The yard was an unintended xeriscape of weeds and dirt. The porch decorated with bones on strings and small statues of saints… and other things.

  The old, unpainted door creaked slowly open on my first knock. Inside smelled of ancient tar and nicotine. Cobwebs collected in upper corners and stretched from lampshades and across dipping door frames. Bruised light pushed through time worn curtains caked with dust.

  She sat at the table, smoking. The picture had made her look like a starlet in comparison to the reality that stared at me with the one good eye.

  Ash, longer than what was left of the cigarette, wobbled as her wrinkled, bright red lips puckered and sucked at the filtered butt. Ridiculously fake eyelashes fluttered as a curl of yellow-gray smoke, almost the same color as her flesh, drifted slowly past them.

  Picture a black, scarier looking version of Betty Davis in the movie What Ever Happened to Baby Jane.

  When she spoke, her words were not loud, but they were heavy, laden with the malignant power of disease.

  “And what do the police want with an old mother of Santeria?”

  I was not in uniform. I wore an untucked short-sleeved shirt and blue jeans; socks and sneakers on my feet. I wasn’t even wearing a badge. What was it with people being able to tell I was a cop?

  “A reading,” I said.

  In the corner, I spotted a bowl with smears of dried blood in it. I sat across from the old woman.

  She took another drag on the cigarette, holding the smoke deep in her lungs for so long, only a dirty shifting of the dim light was left to dribble out from her flared nostrils. A wan smile tilted her lipstick smeared lips. She reached her hand across the table, palm up, in invitation. Her wrists and arms were withered sticks, the skin sagging loosely.

  I laid my left hand in hers, also palm up.

  She looked down into the lines of my life. She stubbed out the remainder of her cigarette in a glass ashtray next to my hand, then slid a long nail, as red as her lips, along my palm tracing my journey.

  “You are not a believer,” she said, and it was not a question.

  “No.”

  “And yet,” she said, looking up into my eyes with her milky cataract and piercing black orb, “you do believe.”

  “That’s not why I’m here.”

  “Is that so,” and again it was not a question. “You think you know why you are here, white man. You think you know.” The smile widened, her overlarge dentures looking like panther’s teeth. “You know nothing.”

  I started to pull back my hand, but she held it with a strength I wouldn’t have believed her capable of.

  “You walk,” she said, “you talk, you breathe as though you are alive. But you are not alive. You are dead. The walking dead. Your soul is dead. I see you, zombie, with my dead eye, walking in the world of the dead. In the world of the damned.”

  Her false teeth snapped shut, making a sharp clicking sound.

  “You think you know,” she grinned, and it was a thing of horror to behold, “you think you do, but how can you know anything when you do not even realize that you are dead?”

  I swiveled my hand in hers — fast — so fast she didn’t have time to react — and crushed the brittle bones tight — so tight I felt them pop and grind in my grip. Her grin turned to an oval of agony.

  “
That,” I said, “is where you are wrong, old woman. I know exactly what I am. And unless you are ready to join me on the other side, you will tell me everything you know about Majoqui Cabrera, The Crow.”

  A tear welled and overflowed her living eye and started down the curve of her cheek, but the moisture was absorbed in the dark, deep crevasses of her age before making it to her lips.

  Through her pain she spoke.

  “I know that he will destroy you. I know that he has killed you already. But that that is only the beginning. I know that what awaits you is an eternity of torment and guilt. That is what I know, white man.”

  I squeezed tighter.

  “I don’t feel guilt, old witch. I’m dead, remember? I don’t feel anything. So think on this… you speak of beginnings, well fingers are only a beginning. After that there is the wrist, the forearm, the elbow, the shoulder. And then you have another arm, and legs. The human body can be an encyclopedia of pain, and unless you want me to read it to you the way you read palms, you better start telling me what I want to know.”

  “You won’t…” she started to say, but choked off as I ground her bones together.

  “Oh, but I will.”

  She looked at me then, maybe seeing me for the first time. Seeing me for what I truly was, for what I had become. For what Majoqui Cabrera had made me. So I let go of her hand and she told me what she knew. It wasn’t much, not as much as I needed, but it was all she had so it would have to do for now.

  41

  Jim Black was playing a dangerous game and he knew it. Gil Mason was a loose canon just now, and if things went south, it could easily cost Jim any chance of ever making chief and might even end him up in jail. On the other hand, Gil was the best cop Jim had ever seen work the streets. He solved more cases than most detectives. And the old adage of 'nothing ventured, nothing gained,' was strongly at play here. Because Jim did want to make chief and he didn't want to wait another ten years to do it. Of course he had made some good cases over the years, enough to build a solid reputation, but it took more than that to make it to a seat on the command staff of the Sheriff's office. It took a really big case. Like this one.

  The scary part was what Gil would do if he actually found this Majoqui Cabrera. If he killed him, and Jim had little doubt he would try, it could turn out bad. If Gil got killed it could also be bad.

  Still, the investigation was going nowhere and it needed a kick start. And if anyone could do that it would be Gil. Obviously no one had more motivation to get to Cabrera than Gil. The murder of his wife and daughter, while leaving him alive but paralyzed, was the ultimate motivation. Which was another reason Jim wanted to bring him in on the investigation. But he had to keep it quiet, completely under the table. He couldn't even bring his partner, Ryan Nolan, in on it. No, this had to be between him and Gil and no one else, for three reasons. First was the courts; Gil's involvement, if known, would seriously jeopardize any chance for a conviction. Second was the department itself; the Sheriff would have a fit if he knew Gil was anywhere near the case. And third… ah third; chief's positions didn't come open very often, but when the next one did, Jim planned for there to be only one viable contender for the job. If Gil, or even Ryan, were known to be directly responsible for catching Cabrera, the position could just as easily go their way. And that just wasn't going to happen.

  The light sound of email landing in his computer binged. Opening it, he saw it was from the LAPD Gang Squad. A hit on Cabrera's alias of The Crow; it was the third one today. Already Gil's info was paying off. Jim had reciprocated by letting the other agencies in on Cabrera's real name, as well as his mug shots, fingerprints and DNA. Jim figured this was just the tip of the iceberg and he had a feeling the berg, when fully revealed, would be big enough to sink the Titanic. They had already linked him to as many as nine additional murders in locations ranging from San Salvador to California to New York. The guy was an elite killer, maybe on a level with the likes of The Jackal. Jim hoped so. The more the merrier. All the more impressive for the man responsible for capturing him.

  And Jim, through Gil, would be that man. He could feel it.

  Another bing from his email. Jim smiled.

  42

  James Arthur Washington Jr. Stood outside the 7-11 on the 6300 block of 72nd Avenue in Combat City. He watched, with hard eyes, as the police cruiser rolled past. The cop watched him back with equally hard eyes.

  As soon as the cruiser was out of sight, he lit up a blunt and pulled the mixture of cigar and marijuana smoke deep into his being. He was no punk kid doper. He'd had his play with the hard drugs back in the day and it nearly cost him everything. But that was a long time ago. Now he contented himself with the occasional drink and a nice blunt a couple times a week.

  One of James' lieutenants walked around the corner and they went through the ritual hand shake routine. Dashon had been one of James' most loyal dealers for over a decade. He was Crip through and through. Although even Dashon didn't know James’ real name. His real name was reserved for only his close friends and blood relatives and most of them were long since dead. To Dashon and most of the Denver Crip contingent, he was 'Three-Eight', named after the snub-nosed .38 he always carried somewhere on his person. Sometimes he carried two, maybe even three, no one could ever be certain and that helped keep him safe. Another thing that kept him safe was the fact that no one ever saw the guns, not until they were needed, and then it was too late.

  When James had been young and full of fire and battle lust… as well as other lusts… he had loved the moniker, a symbol of his acceptance and fighting prowess. But in the last few years, something had changed in him. He couldn't say what exactly it was, but it was there and it was real and he couldn't not notice it's affect on him. It wasn't any one thing, really. It was more a series of subtle shiftings that had somehow crept into his subconscious and subtly played with his emotions and thoughts. For instance; he could no longer think of himself as Three-Eight. He thought of himself only as James. So much so that he sometimes wanted to shout at his underlings for calling him by the gang name. Sometimes he could barely restrain himself from pulling out a gun and blowing their fool heads off. He knew this to be impractical. They were only paying him the respect he was due and besides, they didn't even know his real name so they couldn't call him by it if they wanted to. But sometimes that didn't matter. Sometimes the anger boiled up in him so hot that he actually had to talk to himself on the inside to keep from erupting into unwarranted violence. Another thing, and this one was really bothersome; he found himself crying at movies. Not all movies, but some. Mostly movies where someone brave died. And when he cried, he noticed that his hand would tremble. His right hand. His shooting hand. Sometimes it would tremble when he was eating or drinking. Not as bad, but still, not a good thing. And then there was the deal he had made with the cop. Something he would never have done even a few months ago, but he had, and he didn't even feel bad about it. If any of the Crips found out he would be killed. And not all of his years as a gangster or even his elevated position in the gang would change that. They would see him as a snitch, even though he wasn't. That was the way they would see him. No matter that he was doing it to save them, to protect them, to eliminate an enemy he wasn't sure they could eliminate on their own. None of that would matter. They would kill him. But first they would make an example of him.

  So why was he doing it? He couldn't say exactly. It was like the movies and the crying and the trembling and his name. It just was.

  James hadn't seen Dashon in several months and now he noticed something different about him.

  "What happened to your lip and cheek?" he asked.

  Dashon shook his head. "Spic with an antenna."

  "A what?"

  "Antenna," said Dashon. "Like from a radio. Used it like a sword or something. Almost took my eye out with it."

  This brought back memories to James. Memories of the old days, back before the Thirteens had invaded. Back when the Mexican gangs were normal,
like the Crips themselves. Back before there were so many guns. Back before even he had joined. When he was still too young. But he was not too young to see, even back then. In those days, fighting with antennas was an art. One mostly forgotten on the youth of today.

  A thought struck him.

  "What did this man that cut you look like."

  "Small," said Dashon. "Wiry. But cool, very cool and calm."

  "Do you know his name?"

  Dashon thought for a minute.

  "No, but he's shacked up with some chick I was gonna pimp. Least he was."

  James took another drag on the blunt, the smoke drifting up into his eyes. Behind him, the lights inside the 7-11 blazed. All around were the night sounds of the city.

  "Is he a Thirteen?"

  Dashon's eyes grew wide.

  “Maybe… I don't know… but yeah… maybe." He rubbed the scar on his lip. "You think maybe he's The Crow?"

  "Do you?"

  Dashon thought again.

  "I didn't see no tats… but he was wearing long sleeves like they do." And then his eyes got bigger. "His one eye was jacked up."

  James dropped the blunt and crushed it under his blue sneakered heel.

  "Where's this woman live?"

  43

  "Ziggy done seen the sons of Mara," said Ziggy. "Ziggy done seen 'em with his own two eyes, that he did, yes sir." His head bobbed about, eyes looking everywhere.

  "Where?" I asked. We were at a sandwich shop up the street from Coors field. There was a game underway and every once in awhile you could hear the crack of wood meeting ball and the roar of the crowd. It was an afternoon game and the sun was out, bright and warm. In the old days I would have loved it, now it was just another annoyance.