“No.”
“What did you say?”
“No, sir.”
“You gonna give me trouble?”
“No, no trouble.”
The man held Jack by the back of his neck with a grip like pliers. He pushed Jack out of the living room, down the hall, and into the bedroom. He stopped in the open doorway, holding Jack as he stared at Krista. He was very close. His teeth were so jagged and crooked they looked like the teeth carved in a pumpkin. He looked from Krista to Jack, then leaned so close the warmth of his breath tickled Jack’s ear.
“I got my eye on her. You give me bullshit again, we see what happens, huh?”
The man shoved Jack hard into the room, then slammed the door. The lock bolt thudding home sounded like a headsman’s ax hitting the block.
Jack tried to make it to the bucket before he threw up, but didn’t.
Elvis Cole: four days before he is taken
16
The police stayed with the Sanchez brothers as the day settled into darkness, and the cooling air grew silky. I bought a Diet Coke and two chicken tacos while I waited. The tacos were Mexico City style. Two small corn tortillas wrapped around chicken, onions, and cilantro, with a generous helping of fresh jalapeno and salty green tomatillo sauce. No beans or cheese. Beans and cheese were for sissies. The tacos were hot and juicy, and the heat increased as I ate. So good I ordered two more. Delicious.
I saw movement in the office from time to time, but my angle was bad to see more. Eighteen minutes after I ate the last taco, the red-haired cop came out to their car. He took a briefcase from the back seat, took out a folder, then put the briefcase back. He started back to the office, but abruptly stopped and studied the street as if he sensed someone watching. I stepped farther behind the taco stand, watching him through the sliver of space between the stand and a telephone pole.
My phone buzzed in my pocket, but I did not move.
He did a slow three-sixty until his eyes settled on the taco stand. A middle-aged Latina was ordering food. The red-haired cop was forty yards away, but I still saw the lines that trapped his eyes like spiderwebs.
The phone buzzed like an insistent alarm clock. I worried the woman would hear it, and turn from the window to look. I covered the phone with my hand, and waited.
He stared at the stand for eight or ten years, then abruptly returned to the office.
I checked the call, and found a message from Carol Starkey.
“Dude. What the fuck? Call me.”
Starkey talks that way.
I called her back.
“It’s me.”
“Are you trying to fuck me, you moron?”
She didn’t sound happy.
“What’s up?”
“I had the Feds in here, man. ICE. The Immigration police? They pinged my search on your boy, Sanchez. They wanted to know my fucking interest.”
“What did you tell them?”
“Oh, are we worried now? Are we scared I ratted you out?”
“I know you wouldn’t rat me out, Starkey. What’s the fallout on you? What did you tell them?”
“The name came up in a Green Light hit I’m working in Hollywood. Told’m I ran the name for due diligence, but my Rudy Sanchez lives in Venice, not Coachella. He wasn’t my guy.”
Green Light hit meant Mexican Mafia. La Eme. Dropping their name lent credibility to her search for a Spanish surname.
“Good dodge.”
“Did you know he was a coyote?”
“Yeah.”
“You asshole.”
“I wanted to find him, Starkey. What difference is it the kind of criminal he is?”
“Yeah, well, ICE was all over this fuckin’ criminal. He was involved with the Sinaloa cartel. Is there anything else you should tell me?”
“Who killed him?”
“If they know, they didn’t tell me. You got an idea?”
“Did they mention Korea or gangsters from Korea?”
“What are we talkin’ about here, the U fuckin’ N? Do you know something about this?”
“Not yet. I gotta go, Starkey. Thanks.”
“Don’t leave me hanging.”
“Gotta go.”
The three officers came out to their car as I put away the phone. I thought they would bring one or more of the brothers in handcuffs, but the brothers stayed in the office. Twelve minutes later, the youngest brother, James, came out, mounted a motorcycle parked beside the office, and buzzed through the gate. Eight minutes later, Eddie and Rudy Junior came out together, but went to separate cars. Eddie drove away first. Rudy J eased through the gate, but stopped in the street, pulled the gate closed, and locked it with a padlock. By the time he locked the gate and got back into his car, I pulled around the side of the taco stand, and turned out behind him.
Three-quarters of a mile later, Rudy Sanchez Junior pulled into the Ralphs where Pike had waited for me. Coincidence.
He was out of his car and heading inside when I pulled up alongside him.
“Get in.”
He started around me, so I tapped the gas, cutting him off.
“I’ll be here when you come out, Rudy. Get in.”
“I’m not getting in there with you.”
“All we’re going to do is talk.”
He started the other way, but I squeaked the rear end, cutting him off again.
“Talk, Rudy. I’m not going to lump up your face or arrest you. I might be able to help.”
He studied me.
“You’re not a federal agent?”
“I’m looking for Krista Morales.”
“I don’t know who she is.”
“That’s okay. It’s enough that I know. C’mon. Get in the car.”
Rudy stared at me for five heartbeats, then walked around the front of my car and got in. I drove to the far side of the Ralphs, and parked in a pool of shadow. He sat quietly, staring straight ahead as if an enormous weight was crushing him and he didn’t know how to stop it.
“Are you and your brothers part of this?”
He shook his head.
“No. The old man kept us out. It was his thing, not ours. He didn’t want us involved.”
“Bringing people north.”
“Yeah. North. He started when he was a kid, bringing up his cousins. He was born here. They weren’t. I guess he liked doing it.”
“Who were the Korean guys?”
“People with guns.”
“Gangsters?”
“Jesus, look at my face. I don’t know who they are. I never saw those guys before a few days ago.”
“Did they kill your father?”
“Not them. They paid to have people brought up, and their people didn’t get here. Two hundred thousand dollars. Two hundred. Now they want their money or their people, and they sure as hell aren’t paying a ransom to get them.”
I flashed on Nita Morales, getting the ransom demand.
“The people your father brought up that night were kidnapped?”
“That’s what bajadores do. They steal people, then milk their families. The old man was hijacked.”
“How do you know a bajadore took them?”
“Some cartel assholes came to see us. They told us a bajadore ripped off the pollos.”
The feds had told Starkey Rudy J’s father was involved with the Sinaloa cartel.
“He worked for Sinaloa?”
“How’d you know that?”
“I know stuff. I’m a swami.”
“Not by choice, man. Those Sinaloa pricks stole his business.”
This fit with what Thomas Locano had told me.
“So he wasn’t a freelance coyote? The Koreans gave their money to the Sinaloas?”
“Hell, yeah. Shit, we didn’t even know the old man went out that night. Then some kids found him in the lake. That’s when Spurlow and Lange came to see us. That’s how we found out. Then the Sinaloas came around and told us the bajadore got him-some guy called the Syrian.”
Starkey was right. It was beginning to sound like the United Nations.
“A Syrian from Syria?”
Rudy J rubbed his face with both hands.
“Who the fuck knows? They made it sound like this guy rips them off all the time. Mostly, they told us they’d kill us if we talked to the police.”