Beware Beware (27 page)

Donnie stood half a head taller than his boss, and his head leaned in with a submissive tilt. I could tell they were talking, but couldn't make out a word with the doors and windows closed. After a few minutes, Young King pointed to the open garage door, and Donnie reached up and grabbed the hanging bottom edge. He pulled down and it rolled shut with a loud wooden rumble.

As Donnie worked, I saw Young King's hand go into his waistband. It was too quick for me to shout, but no warning would have saved him.

It happened in seconds. The gunshot was quiet, much quieter than the garage door. The door crashed against the concrete, there was a muffled whistling sound, then faster than I could process, Donnie went tumbling down.

I couldn't see him anymore, and after a minute, Young King crouched out of my field of view to join him. My heartbeat seemed to fill the whole car like a subwoofer, and I feared that it might remind the murderous King of my presence.

He stood up without looking at me and let himself into the house. False relief flooded my nerves, relaxing every tensed extremity. It didn't last.

The key was still in the ignition, but it was clear enough there was no garage door opener in the car. I thought of what I'd need to do to drive it out: get out of the backseat, step over Donnie, get back in the front seat, start the engine, and back over the dead or dying body. It was like a rigged version of some terrible children's game. I would never make it out without alerting Young King to the time-consuming effort. The idea of running over a human body, even a corpse, didn't appeal to me, either.

I wondered if Donnie could be alive. There was only one gunshot, and I didn't see where it got him. If he could talk, I might want to talk to him, if only to receive the last words of a dying man. I was already as fucked as I was going to be. If Young King hadn't been bothered by my presence five minutes ago, I was willing to bet leaving the car wouldn't change my situation.

I opened the door and stepped out into the garage, staying light on my feet. There was, after all, no need to draw attention to myself. The air smelled of sweat and blood, though the power of suggestion might have accounted for both. Donnie was on the floor, slumped into a pile of flesh and clothing that didn't inspire confidence. He wasn't moving.

I walked over, and I didn't have to check his pulse to determine his state. He'd landed with his head in profile, and there was a hole in it right at the temple. I closed my eyes and made a mask of my palm, breathing into it like it held all the oxygen in the room.

The light turned on and I jumped. Young King was at the entrance to the house, his hand on the switch. I hadn't heard him come back. He was either quiet as a ninja, or the blood pumping in my ears was loud enough to drown out all external sound. Both possibilities seemed equally likely.

I took in a sharp breath and felt my eyes twitch. Young King stood still, regarding me with a neutral expression that sent chills running down the length of me. Then he lowered his head and shook it, emitting a husky chuckle devoid of humor.

I couldn't see him clearly. I'd had no time to evaluate him before he became a murderer right before my eyes. My fear of him crowded out all other thought, until it was all I could do to remember his name—the false one, the code, the only one I knew.

When he finally spoke, it took me a long time to hear him, like we were separated by a well as deep as Earth, with me looking up from the bottom. “Did you want to help?” The words reached me at last like dropped stones.

I looked back at the body without meaning to. The garage was light now, and I wished I could pretend to explore its walls, catalog the various objects it held in storage. But there were only two points that summoned any amount of attention, and as my eyes fled from Young King they found poor dead Donnie on the ground.

The gore was new and bright, and a greasy splatter of head now decorated the old wood of the garage door. I felt a surge of bile but caught myself and managed not to vomit, my mouth filling with bitter air instead. I shook my head. I did not want to help.

“Then sit tight,” he said, and indicated the Corolla.

I climbed into the backseat and listened as Young King dragged Donnie's body across the floor and carried him into the house. It seemed like he was gone for a long time, but I didn't even think about the garage door, or the key in the ignition. I let myself scan the garage for a concealable weapon, but there was nothing there I could see, not a single sharp object I could bring into play.

I wondered if I was set to die in this anonymous place, surrounded by no one and nothing. Yielding to the self-indulgence, I started to imagine my funeral. I found the proceedings and crowd pretty lacking, but I saw the faces of the people who mattered. My mother, Lori, Chaz. Jackie and Cristina. For a moment, Jamie and Daphne. I'd spent the last year in a funk of self-pity, but I felt, for now anyway, that I had more than I needed to live for. It was a pretty realization, and I hoped it would prove useful in the future. I set my teeth and prayed to God I wouldn't die.

Young King came back in, and this time I heard him. He was wearing a new T-shirt and shorts, and his hands were clean. He reopened the garage door, then entered the car.

He sat next to me in the backseat and pulled out a cell phone. It was a bulky flip phone with a plastic body—it looked disposable. I heard the ring tone and a soft click on the other line.

“Clean up on aisle 13,” he said. And then he hung up.

He fished the handkerchief out of his shorts and tied it back around my head, knotting it with a forceful yank. As the black cotton took over my view, it occurred to me that Young King was likely to let me live. He'd bothered to blindfold me on my way into and out of the garage. He didn't want me knowing where it was, and that meant there'd be a time when I might try to disclose the location.

But he'd also specifically told me to remove the blind in time to witness the murder. He'd set me up in the theater box of his backseat, and put on a show I could never forget in a location I'd never visit again. His plan had an almost artistic design, but the intention must have been much more practical.

“I wouldn't bother calling the police,” he said, derailing my train of thought. “No one will even look for him.”

“Why did you do it?”

“Loose lips,” he said. “I've got a big ship.”

“Why did you bring me into it?”

“I wanted to show you what I can do. What I can get away with,” he said, without emotion. “I'd do the same to woman or child—and I know the ones you'd miss.”

I recalled Cristina's pudgy face resting on Jackie's shoulder and felt a physical protest inside my body.

“What is it you want from me?” I asked.

“Only peace of mind,” he said, and I felt his eyes on my face as my lips trembled. “And I've got that now.”

He dropped me off at my apartment, where he took back his handkerchief, gave me my purse, and wished me good night. He didn't need directions, and I never assumed he did.

*   *   *

I stumbled into the apartment in a haze of fear and trauma. It was a relief to be home, out of the direct company of a murderer, but the immediate release uncorked my bottled up panic, and I felt anything but safe.

Lori was home, and she called to me when I went in. I barely heard her as I stomped into my bedroom and submerged myself under the covers. She appeared in my doorway, and I looked up at her from my bed, with my hand over my chest, measuring the beat of my heart.

“
Unni
,” she said. “What's going on? Are you okay?”

She sat next to me and the bed creaked to accommodate her. “Feel,” I said, and guided her hand to my neck.

Her eyes went wide. “How long has it been like this? Do we need to call an ambulance?”

I shook my head. “Just stay here a minute.”

She stayed for much longer, and at some point, I fell into something like sleep.

 

Sixteen

The next morning, I went into work with no idea what I'd say to Chaz. I was on edge the whole drive to Koreatown. The cigarettes didn't smooth me out at all.

When I got to Lindley & Flores, Chaz was sitting in his office looking downright placid. He was sorting through this or that on his computer, like any family man working a nine-to-five.

“Doesn't it ever get to you?” I asked.

“Well, good morning to you. You look like shit.”

“I feel like shit.”

“What were you saying?”

“I asked, doesn't it ever get to you?”

He cocked an eyebrow. “What? This job?”

I nodded.

“Well, most of the time, this job isn't that stressful. You have a knack for picking the hard ones, I guess.”

“It's not like you haven't been in it,” I said. “I mean we witnessed a fucking murder together.”

“Yeah,” he said, with a cringe. “And I guess I never want to be in a place where something like that doesn't affect me. But I know that life goes on, and I like to think that I do some good to help it along.”

“Do I do anyone any good?” I asked.

“Why do you like Marlowe, Song? Is it 'cause he's a hero who swoops in and saves everyone?”

I shook my head.

“You should talk to Art sometime, about his time on the force. You think that was a pleasant job?” He chuckled. “But he stuck with it through the bad stuff, and it had its rewards, and he was fighting a good fight.”

“But what if I can't help anyone?”

“That's nonsense, girl. Our job is to help people, and you're damn good at it.”

I closed the door and sat down across from him. “It keeps piling up, Chaz. There's another fucking body.”

I told him what happened to Donnie, and he listened to my story with a sympathetic scowl. It was a relief to get it out, and I was confident telling Chaz was as good as telling no one as far as Young King was concerned. There were few people I trusted unconditionally, but Chaz I trusted with my life at least.

“What do I do?” I asked him.

“What do you want to do? You want to go to the police?”

“Maybe,” I said. “I don't know. Maybe I can just talk to Detective Sanchez. Find out if she knows anything about this guy.”

“You think he'd kill you for it?”

“Yes. I'm sure he would if he found out. ‘Loose lips.' That's what did Donnie in, or so he said.” I leaned forward and held my head in my hands. “And that isn't even all of it, Chaz. I think Young King killed Winfred Park.”

His eyes bulged. “What?”

“He had Donnie following him around maybe hours before he got shot.”

“But why? That doesn't make any sense.”

“I have no idea why, but I'll bet it makes perfect sense. Everything's converging, Chaz. All the evil in the city's closing in on us, and there's not one damn thing we can do to make it stop.”

*   *   *

I took time to regulate my breathing, then dialed Detective Sanchez's number.

“Did you want to waste my time again, Juniper Song?”

“I hope not,” I said. “That's never been my intention.”

“How goddamn polite. What do you want?”

“I wanted to ask about a person of interest in the Tilley murder.”

“You're upset your boyfriend's in the clink, huh?”

I pressed on, “What can you tell me about a Donaldo Perez?”

“You mean the one Donaldo Perez in all of Los Angeles?”

I ignored her sarcasm. “Doesn't ring a bell? He might have a record.”

“Juniper Song,” she said. “Do you have any idea how big my brain would have to be to know every name attached to a ‘record'?”

“Bigger than it is, I guess.” I hesitated. “How about someone who goes by the name ‘Young King'?”

“Young King…” she said, drifting into thoughtful silence. “Well, something's sticking. That alias sounds familiar.”

“Maybe a higher-up drug dealer, somehow involved in organized crime. Maybe Jamie mentioned him.”

“Ah,” she said. “I know who you're talking about.”

“Really?”

“If I give you this gemstone, will you stop calling me with nonsense?”

“I can try,” I said, committing to nothing.

“Alright, it's not much anyway. One of my colleagues in Narcotics is real curious about this guy, but no one knows a thing about him. He's like Kaiser Soze—his name just comes up once in a while, then disappears before you can attach anything to it.” She paused. “There's a little ditty about him, and honest to God it's the biggest piece of info we have.”

“What, a song? That's festive.”

“
Young King Cole was a scary old soul, and a scary old soul was he
…”

The tune gave me an eerie, tickled feeling. It looped in my head like a noxious jingle, in Detective Sanchez's stoic tones.

*   *   *

I spent the day in the office, happy to be in a familiar place with Chaz and Arturo nearby. Arturo was in and out as usual, but Chaz stayed at his desk, with occasional trips to my part of the office to talk about his kids, or show me funny videos on YouTube. It might have been a light day for him, but it was just as likely he was looking out for me. I accepted the kindness without pointing it out.

My big accomplishment for the day was a jag of Internet research on organized crime in Greater L.A. I scanned Wikipedia articles on the Rampart Boulevard Gang and the San Fernando Cobras, scrolled through lengthy department of justice reports. It was fascinating material, with details that seemed borrowed from the province of fiction: secret tunnels and child assassins, gangsters greased with lotion to slip away from police. But while the reading was educational, I had a hard time seeing the big picture. I'd brushed with crime in very real ways, but its structures seemed almost impossibly inscrutable. I could visualize the layer running beneath the skin of the city, flickering faint blue like ill-defined veins.