“Mi fridge es su fridge.”
“Now it’s Spanish? Go get a gig at the U.N.”
“Talk about miscreants.”
He created a second concoction using honey as the sugar source, consumed it at a more measured pace.
Four gulps, sitting down.
“Say what you want, but sometimes gluttony pays off,” he said. “I hadn’t had a thing to eat since the night before, the dive I was staying at didn’t have room service, and by the time I got outside, I was feeling pretty mean. First place I spotted was a bar and grill two blocks from the prison. Bartender got the kitchen to microwave a plate of spareribs, and we started talking. Turns out he used to work as a prison cook, left seven years ago.”
“A year after Troy’s murder.”
“Ten months to be exact. He remembered Troy’s murder clearly, was there when they took the body out. Couple of counselors carried it right through the kitchen out to a loading dock. Didn’t even bother to wrap it, just put the kid on a board and used belts to keep him from sliding off into the soup. Bartender said Turner didn’t look much bigger than a plucked turkey, was about the same color.”
He strode to the fridge, pulled out a beer, popped the top, sat back down.
I said, “Bartender had a good eye for detail.”
“It helped that there was no love lost between him and the prison. He claims they fired him for no good cause. His other clear memory is that there was a prime suspect for the murder. Not a Vato Loco, an independent freelance knife-boy named Nestor Almedeira. The V.L.s and the other gangs used him and guys like him when they wanted to keep a low profile. And guess what? Said prince got out a few months ago and his last known address is right here in L.A., the Westlake District.”
“Almedeira ever work for nongang clients?”
“As in Barnett Malley? Who knows? As far as I can tell, Malley never visited. Ditto for Rand. All Troy got was three personals, one from his mother and two from Drew and Cherish Daney. No phone logs were kept.”
“What put Nestor Almedeira in Chaderjian?” I said.
“He knifed two other kids to death in MacArthur Park when he was fifteen. Served six years for manslaughter and got out.”
“Two dead kids is manslaughter?”
“It is when they’re packing blades themselves and their sheets are as bad as the guy who did them. Nestor’s P.D. claimed self-defense and got it pled down.”
“And Nestor promptly went freelance in prison,” I said.
“So what else is new? Bartender said Nestor was a very bad boy. Short fuse, everyone thought he was nuts. I guess that squares with the way Troy got done.”
“Nestor have a drug connection?”
“Heroin.”
“If Malley was selling, they could’ve known each other.”
He ambled back to the fridge, retrieved the milk carton, finished it.
I said, “Heading over to Westlake soon?”
“I was thinking now. Nestor got himself a job at a food stand on Alvarado. Ain’t that a pretty thought? Bloody hands stuffing your chimichangas?”
An L.A.-bound tourist plugging “Westlake” into one of those computer-map services could get confused.
There’s Westlake Village, on the far western edge of the Valley, a wide-open bedroom community of meticulous industrial parks, high-end shopping centers, tile-roofed vanilla houses perched prettily on oak-studded hills, and multiacre horse ranches. People with money and scant interest in urban pleasures move to Westlake Village to get away from crime and congestion and smog and people not like them.
All of which abounds in the Westlake District.
Set just west of downtown and named after the man-made water feature created from the swamp that was once MacArthur Park, Westlake has the population density of a third-world capital. Alvarado’s the main drag and it’s crammed with bars, dance halls, check-cashing outlets, discount stores, and fast-food joints. A few of the once-grand apartment buildings erected in the twenties remain, sprinkled among the hideous postwar instaboxes that pushed out history and architecture and destroyed Westlake’s identity as a high-rent destination. Some of the structures had been sectioned and resectioned into dorm-style rooming houses. Official residency statistics didn’t begin to explain things.
For a couple of decades after its birth, the park was a pretty place to go on Sunday. Then it became as safe as Afghanistan, overrun with dopers and dealers, strong-arm specialists and pedophiles and wild-eyed people who talked to God. Wilshire Boulevard bisects the green space and a tunnel connects the halves. Walking through the gray, graffitied conduit used to be life-threatening. Now murals have covered the gang braggadocio, and the mostly poor Hispanics who populate the district picnic near the water’s edge after church on Sunday and hope for the best.
Milo had taken Sixth Street from its inception at San Vicente. He made a left and traveled south onto Alvarado. The thoroughfare was crowded, as it always is, intersections teeming with pedestrians, some purposeful, some aimless. Better to be outdoors, sucking in grimy air, than sitting alone in the single, fetid room you share with eight strangers.
The unmarked crawled along with the traffic. Spanish on the signs, cut-rate merchandise hawked on the sidewalk. Plastic bags of fruit and bunches of carnations dyed in unnatural tones were displayed by small, cinnamon-skinned men who’d bargained with death to get over the border. Behind us was the park.
Milo said, “Is it melting in the rain?”
“Not much rain in awhile,” I said.
“Melting in the smog, then… well, look at that.” He cocked his head toward the passenger window.
I turned and saw nothing out of the ordinary. “What?”
“A heroin deal just went down in front of that photography studio. Lowlifes not even bothering to hide it- okay, here we are.” He pulled up in the red zone. A line of people curled at the takeout window of Taqueria Grande. The building was blue stucco chipped white at the corners. An expansion would’ve made it the size of a single-car garage.
Milo said, “I’d like to see Taqueria Pequeña,” adjusted his harness holster, slipped on his jacket, and got out.
We waited in line. The smell of pork and corn and onions blew through the window and out to the curb. The prices were good, the portions benevolent. Customers paid with soiled dollar bills and coinage and counted their change carefully. Two people worked the stand, a young man at the deep fryers and a short, round, middle-aged woman handling the public.
The fry cook was twenty or so, thin and sharp-chinned. He wore a blue bandanna on his head. What was visible of his hair was clipped to the skin and tattoos explored his arms. All around him, grease arced and spattered. No screen guards, and I could see airborne specks land on his arms and face. It had to hurt. He worked steadily, remained expressionless.
The customer in front of us collected his tamales and rice and agua de tamarindo and we stepped up. The round woman had her hair pinned up. The makeup she’d put on that morning was doing battle with sweat. Her pencil poised without looking up. “Que?”
Milo said, “Ma’am,” and showed her his I.D.
Her smile was slow to settle in. “Yes, sir?”
“I’m looking for Nestor Almedeira.”
The smile closed up instantaneously, like a sea anemone reacting to being prodded. She shook her head.