“Let’s go make some money, bro. I’m smellin’ green.”
Pike’s low voice came back.
“You speak Korean, right?”
“ Juh nun han gook mal ul mae woo jal hap ni da, moo aht ul al go ship eu sae yo? ”
Jon saying he spoke Korean perfectly, and asking what Pike wanted to know.
“How about Korean organized crime?”
Jon had spent time in both South and North Korea, and could read Hangul, the modern Korean script. But coming out of the blue like this, the question made Jon wary.
“Depends. Here or in Korea?”
“I’m watching a place on Olympic. The people I’m on could be OC.”
Stone tried to sound noncommittal. He knew Koreatown well. Liked the women. Liked karaoke. The Koreans were big on noraebang.
“I might know something. I’d have to see.”
“You know something or not?”
“Maybe.”
“You good with Arabic?”
Bam! Out of left field, and now Stone was smiling. There were many Arabic dialects, from Moroccan Arabic with Berber words which often did not even sound Arabic, to the aristocratic Arabic spoken by the Saudi royal family, which was different from the Arabic spoken in the streets.
“ enta bethahraf aina be naifham kuiais. eish auzanee le olak bel logha arabeia. ”
Jon answered in street Arabic, saying Pike already knew he was fluent, and asking what he wanted translated.
Jon Stone was fluent in English, Arabic, Korean, Chinese, Spanish, Russian, and French. He could get by in Farsi, Japanese, German, and three different African dialects. He had studied only English and French in school.
Pike said, “Copy the address. Come down and see.”
“I didn’t hear a ka-ching.”
“Come down.”
“I’ve been away, man, c’mon.”
Pike didn’t respond, and Stone knew Pike was waiting him out.
“Twenty of the last twenty-one. I still smell like camels.”
“You miss it already.”
Stone stared at the faint eastern light and admitted Pike had him. Eighteen hours at home, and he already wanted to go.
“What about the money?”
“No money. It’s Cole.”
“That lame-ass turd works for shit. Why you waste your time with that guy?”
“If you can’t help, you’re gone. I’ll owe you a favor.”
Now Stone perked up. Pike’s favors meant money. He made a big deal of sighing, as if doing it was some monstrous pain in the ass, but he was already committed.
“Okay. All right. Where are you?”
Pike gave him an address.
Stone didn’t bother writing it because he would not forget it. Jon Stone never forgot anything, and never had. He could still recite junior high textbooks, operating and maintenance manuals for the M249 SAW light machine gun and twenty-seven other personal weapons systems, and both volumes of Mastering the Art of French Cooking, by Julia Child. Every word. Every word of every document, book, newspaper, and article he had ever read. School had been easy. Delta had been hard. Jon liked it hard.
“Be there in thirty.”
Stone placed his phone back on his belly. Far to the south, a line of bright lights descended toward LAX. Eighteen hours ago, he was strapped inside one of the lights.
Jon cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted as loudly as he could.
“KISS MY ASSSSSS!”
Far in the canyon below, another voice answered.
“Shut the fuck up, asshole!”
Jon Stone laughed, naked there in his backyard overlooking a golden city, then went inside to dress for the day.
Part 2
Elvis Cole: three days before he is taken
21
Thomas Locano phoned me at six the next morning, so early the canyon behind my house still held the fading threads of yesterday’s fog. I had slept on the couch.
“I didn’t expect to hear from you so quickly. Is everything all right?”
“My apologies for the hour, but I told you I might phone early.”
“Yes, sir, you did. This isn’t a problem.”
“Can you meet me in Echo Park by seven?”
I rolled off the couch, and went to the kitchen. This black cat who lives with me was waiting by his dish, but he wasn’t waiting for me to feed him. He had brought his own. A fourteen-inch piece of king snake was on the floor by the bowl. It was still twitching. Maybe he wanted to share.
I said, “You found something about the Syrian?”
“I found someone who knows of this man. We will see him together if you will meet me, but it has to be now. He has other obligations.”
I took the snake outside and dropped it over the rail. The cat let out a long, low war growl, then slipped off the deck after his kill. He would hold it against me.
I checked the time.
“I’ll be out the door in fifteen. Where do we meet?”
“On the east side of the lake, where they rent the paddle boats? You will see me.”
I shaved, changed shirts, and was making a fast cup of instant when Joe Pike called.
He said, “Jon’s in. He knows these people. Come down, he’ll fill us in.”
“Locano called first. I’m heading out now. He may have a line on the Syrian.”
“We’ll stay with the Beemer. Come when you can.”
I tossed the phone on the couch, locked the door, and followed the Hollywood Freeway south toward downtown Los Angeles. It was exactly the same route I drove when I first met Nita Morales, but this time I dropped off the freeway at Echo Park, an old and long-established community built around a decorative lake. The lake is encircled by a narrow green area split by a bike path. In the early days of Los Angeles, the silent film industry was centered in Echo Park before it moved to Hollywood, and the nearby Elysian Hills and Angelino Heights neighborhoods were home to the rich and famous. The makeup of the area has slowly changed since the film people left, and is now mostly home to working-class immigrants from Asia and Central America.
I made my way to the east side of Echo Lake, parked on a nearby street, and hurried to the boathouse. Even at this early hour, joggers and walkers circled the lake, and short brown women pushed baby carriages in schools like fish or stood talking to friends with their carriages parked like cars at a demolition derby.
Thomas Locano stood between two palm trees at the edge of the water, and wasn’t alone. A skinny Latin kid wearing white pants and a white T-shirt was with him. The kid was bald, maybe five four, and couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred ten pounds. He was also sleeved out and necklaced with gang ink, and couldn’t have been more than fifteen years old. They watched me approach, and Mr. Locano spoke first.
“Mr. Cole, this is my friend Alfredo Munoz. Fredo, this is my good friend Mr. Cole. He is also close to another good friend, Nita Morales.”
“Hey, Fredo. Good to meet you.”
“Uhn, yeah, you too.”
Fredo met my eyes, then glanced away as he offered his hand. His grip was limp, as if he was vaguely embarrassed. Up close, I saw a fine dusting of white powder on his face and neck and upper arms. Flour. His hands and forearms were clean, but he hadn’t washed above his elbows. Locano went on with his introduction.
“Fredo works as a baker’s apprentice here on the next block. Every morning from five to seven, then school by eight.”
I nodded, trying to look encouraging.
“Man, that’s early. That’s some schedule you have, Fredo.”
Fredo glanced away.
“Uhn. It’s okay. It’s good. Mr. Locano set it up.”
I stared at Locano, my expression asking why we were here with this boy, but then the boy spoke again, and when I looked back he was staring at me.
“That Syrian guy killed Raoul. I know about that guy. I tell you what I know.”
I blinked at him, then looked at Locano again.
“Raoul was Fredo’s brother. Raoul and Fredo were born here, but their parents weren’t. I represented them in a deportation hearing.”