JF Gonzalez - Fetish.wps (3 page)

“Okay.” Daryl didn't reholster his gun. He crossed in front of the gang members, drew the makeshift coffee table over and sat on it, facing them. Steve stood behind the gang members, his gun trained on them. “You know why we're here, don't you Rudy?"

Rudy feigned toughness, his chest thrown out, a snarl on his face. “Why the fuck should I care?"

Daryl backhanded him suddenly and ferociously. The force of the blow rocked Rudy's head back and he almost toppled into Frankie, who was suddenly looking scared.

Before Rudy could gain his senses, Daryl grabbed him by the throat and sat him back up straight. He brought the gun up to Rudy's face, which was rapidly turning deep red. “I'll ask you one more time and I don't want to hear any more smart-assed answers. You know why we're here,
don't
you Rudy?"

Rudy opened his mouth as if to answer, then closed it. His eyes flicked to Daryl's, then down to the floor as if trying to find an escape route. He mumbled unintelligibly.

“What?” Daryl asked, leaning forward, gun still trained on Rudy's face.

“I said, no,” Rudy said, softly. He glanced up at Daryl then back down at the floor again. The right side of his face, from just below his right eye down to his jawline, was a crimson red from Daryl's blow.

“No,” Daryl repeated, gaze still trained on Rudy. The gang member managed another glance at Daryl's face and averted his eyes again, as if afraid of something. It was the behavior of a guilty man.

“Well let me tell you something, mister macho-fucking gangster,” Daryl whispered, still training the gun on Rudy's face. “I think you
know
why we're here tonight.

I think you very well know why because you're behaving like a guilty man,
señor
. A very guilty man."

This seemed to snap Rudy out of his self-incriminating behavior. “But I didn't do anything, man! What the hell—"

“Didn't do anything, huh?” Daryl glanced up at Steve who was standing behind the gangsters with his piece trained on them. “Steve, why don't you tell these two young worthless pieces of shit what brought us into their pathetic lives today."

“Forty minutes ago there was a drive-by shooting off Lancaster Drive and Alameda,” Steve said, his voice a monotone, as if he had recited similar crime statistics before. “Two suspects with descriptions matching yours drove by in an old Camaro and fired at a group of kids playing in the front yard of a house. One of the shots went through the window of one of the houses and killed a five-year old girl instantly. None of the targets of the shooting were hit.” He smiled sickly. “None of the targets were even gang members."

“Yeah...” Rudy exclaimed. Daryl could almost imagine what the gang member was about to say before Rudy thought wisely and shut his trap.
Yeah, so fucking what?

Instead his voice trailed off and he lapsed into silence.

“Yeah,” Daryl resumed, picking up where Steve left off. “Strange that none of the targets were gang members. We know that area is not your territory, it's Tortilla Flats turf, but we found it ironic that the border to your territory is only six blocks away. And we found it an odd coincidence that witness descriptions of
both
the cowards that committed this act, and the vehicle they were in, match you and your friend to a T."

Now Rudy looked nervous. He glanced quickly at Frankie, who was looking like he was going to pass out. Rudy licked his lips and tried to weasel out of it again. “Listen, man, it wasn't me. My brother had my car tonight. He and his friend Carlos were out cruising earlier and—"

“I find that it's an odd coincidence as well that our star witness said that the shooter had a large tattoo of a woman over his right chest,” Daryl said. “A woman with long, flowing black hair. Just like yours.” He motioned toward Rudy's tattooed chest and grinned. “
Exactly
like yours."

Rudy stammered, as if his mouth was ahead of his brain in coming up with an excuse. Daryl reached into his inner coat pocket and extracted a handgun. He reholstered his own police issue nine-millimeter and held the gun he pulled out of his inner pocket.

He brandished it for the two gangsters. “See this? This is an Interarms Firestar Plus nine millimeter with a thirteen round magazine. A shitty little gun in my opinion, but then a bunch of these were stolen during shipment while on their way to a gun shop in Van Nuys. This is one I acquired a few years ago from a gun dealer. The serial number has been filed away from the barrel and it's untraceable.” He smiled and pulled the slide back on the weapon, chambering a round. “If you don't do what I tell you to do, my fingerprints won't be on this gun at all. But
yours
will."

Rudy opened his mouth to protest. “Wait, man, you don't know what's happening.

Listen—"

“I'll listen,” Daryl said, leveling the barrel of the gun at Rudy's face. “Tell me where you were forty minutes ago, Rudy."

“Wh-wh-we were here, man!” Rudy exclaimed, his breathing coming fast and heavy. He turned to Frankie, who had lost all the color in his face. “Weren't we, Frankie?

We were here the whole time watching TV and drinking some brews."

Steve spoke up from behind them. “That's really interesting, considering there aren't any empty cans or bottles to be seen in this pig sty."

Rudy began to protest again, and now Daryl brought the barrel of the gun closer to Rudy's face. “Where were you forty minutes ago, Rudy?” His tone was direct and commanding.

“I-I-I—” Rudy stammered.

Daryl pushed the barrel of the gun to Rudy's mouth, gently prodding it open. Rudy made a muffled
mmmppphhh
sound as Daryl pushed the barrel of the gun deep into Rudy's mouth. “Now we can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way. The hard way is going to be a mess, for everyone involved. We'll have to fill out more fucking paperwork and Steve will have to waste a bullet on your friend Frankie. But mostly it's going to be a mess for the crew that will have to come in here and clean your brains off the walls. Your mother might cry over you and I really don't care, but if you have a family that gives a shit about you it'll be harder on them. Please don't make me resort to putting down in my report that I tried to stop you from blowing your brains out and failed, only to have Frankie here lunge at us, resulting in us killing him too. It won't be worth it.” He leaned forward and smiled. “So. What do you say we do this the easy way, Rudy? Tell us where you were forty minutes ago and I promise that if you do it'll be easy on you."

The stench of urine invaded the room, and Daryl glanced to Frankie and grinned.

The young gang member was squirmy on his knees, the crotch of his dark baggy shorts now a darker stain. He chuckled. “Come on, Rudy. Tell us what we want to know before your friend here shits his pants."

Rudy nodded, sweat running down his face. Daryl eased the gun slowly out of Rudy's mouth, letting the barrel kiss his lips. Rudy stammered. “I-I ... w-w-we did it,” he blurted.

“Oh my God,” Frankie murmured, and Daryl smiled. He had cracked these two little sociopaths. As tough as they liked to make themselves out to be, they would die for their homies. When faced with Mr. Death they were pussies.

“Are you saying that you and your friend Frankie were involved in the drive-by shooting I just mentioned?” Daryl asked, an inflection of sarcasm creeping into his voice.

Rudy nodded, his face sweaty and tear stained. He looked like a little bald baby for a minute, crying and shaking. “Y-yes ... I-I—did it,” he said, breathing heavily. “We drove by and did it, me and Frankie, we did it."

“
Fuck you, pendejo
!” Frankie yelled. “
Just shut the fuck up, you shot them, you
did it
!"

Daryl looked up at Steve and smiled. Frankie yelled at Rudy, telling him that he was a
pendejo
, a
hoto
for telling the goddamned pigs and ratting on them like that, that it was T-Flats they had shot at, not some stupid little kids like these pigs said it was and—

Daryl pulled the gun away from Rudy's face and replaced it within his jacket pocket. “Thank you for being honest with us, Rudy. But now there's one more thing we need to get squared away before we head down to the station."

“Okay,” Rudy said, sniffling. His eyes were cast down toward the floor again.

Daryl rose to his feet, standing over the two gangsters with a smug look on his face. He turned to Steve, who had replaced his own firearm, and nodded.

Rudy didn't have time to see the foot Daryl lashed out at him. The kick connected solidly with Rudy's ribs, doubling him forward into the fist Daryl smashed into his face, snapping his head back. Steve grabbed Frankie from behind the neck and hauled him up to his feet as the young gangbanger's legs began kicking wildly. Steve threw Frankie onto the coffee table, splitting it in two. He was on the young gangbanger in an instant, pummeling him with his fists as Daryl hauled Rudy up by the throat and slammed him into the wall. “What happened is that we had to subdue you and Frankie by force because you were resisting arrest. Got me?” And he slammed Rudy back into the wall to emphasize his point. Rudy nodded, crying and spitting up blood.

“Good.” Daryl threw Rudy back down on the floor as Steve hauled Frankie to his feet. Frankie's face was bloody and now
he
was crying.

“One more thing,” Daryl said, pulling the unregistered nine-millimeter out of his inner coat pocket. He pulled out the magazine, which he placed on the dusty TV, and ejected the lone cartridge from the chamber. Then he wiped it down with a white handkerchief Steve handed him. With the gun encased completely in the handkerchief, he stepped behind Rudy and put the gun in Rudy's hands, which were still handcuffed behind his back. “Here. Grab this and get a good hold of it.” As he did this, Steve stepped in front of him with his gun drawn, barrel sighting down on Rudy's left eye.

This time, Rudy was the one who pissed his pants.

Daryl placed the gun in Rudy's sweaty palms, forcing it into the gangster's grip.

He smiled as the gangster's hands closed around the weapon, palm encasing the grip, fingers wrapped around the trigger guard. “That's my man,” Daryl said softly as he extracted the gun from Rudy's grip. He wrapped the gun in the handkerchief, along with the magazine, and placed both of them in a plastic evidence bag that Steve produced.

With the evidence bag sealed tight and resting in Steve's coat pocket, it was time to call it a night.

They herded the gang members to the front door and before they went out, Daryl turned to Rudy and Frankie. “You two know what you did was wrong. Firing a gun into a crowd of children is an unspeakable act, and you deserve to die a slow, painful death because of it. But thanks to bleeding heart liberal lawyers and judges, the most you'll probably get is twenty-five years in prison and both of your sorry asses will be out in ten years for some bullshit reason. I really don't give a shit what happens to you. What I don't want to hear is any ... deviation from what happened here tonight. We followed up on a lead that the cowards who killed that little girl might be Rudy, the both of you became belligerent during questioning, and Rudy produced a handgun during our arrest and Frankie attacked Steve. That's what happened."

Steve chuckled. “Yeah. And don't tell your fucking lawyer unless you want a size twelve asshole in prison."

Daryl grinned at Rudy. “You have a sister, don't you? A homegirl in Los Compadres?"

Rudy nodded, too afraid to even answer.

“I'd take Steve's advice very seriously,” Daryl mentioned. “You know how I feel about gang members. I hate all you fucking cockroaches. You say anything to anybody that is different than what we just told you and I will personally kill your slut of a sister.

But first I'll give her the best fuck she's ever had. I'll fuck her till she bleeds. And then maybe I'll kill your mother, too. I'd be doing the world a favor."

At the mention of the threat of violence to his family, Rudy's eyes narrowed in hate. His face twisted in a grimace of anger, and he looked ready to unleash with a fury of his own, but he didn't. He simply gave up. He knew what was best for him. All the homeboys knew that Detective Daryl Garcia was nobody to fuck around with. It was Detective Garcia you thought of when you thought about the LAPD; a man who would fuck you up just because he felt like it.

But there was more to it than that.

Daryl Garcia hated gang members with a passion. It was his hate of them that kept him going in his line of work. It was his hate that got him up every morning, ready to face another day. And it was his love of humanity in general, of a good life where one should be entitled to live free from the fear of gang violence and crime that drove him to do his work. For Detective Daryl Garcia, the work of a homicide detective was intensely personal. It pained him to see the broken, bleeding bodies of innocent victims of gang warfare. It pained him more to see the grieving of the families; the mothers, fathers, sons, and daughters of those that had been taken in such senseless violence. But more important, it was the victims of such crimes who were children that kept him going.

Detectives Daryl Garcia and Steve Howe herded Rudy “Psycho” Montego and Frankie a.k.a. “Flaco” past the few tenants who had come out of their apartments to gather along the sparse lawn of the building to gawk. They cast furtive glances at the detectives as they escorted the gang members into the back of the unmarked sedan, and for Daryl it was all in a good days work to know that he had gotten another thug off the streets of L.A.

Chapter 2

September 13, 1996 4:30 P.M.

Los Angeles, CA

“This one makes number seven."

Detectives Daryl Garcia and Steve Howe were at the foot of a section of the Los Angeles River in the City of Commerce, which was just west of East Los Angeles. Two dozen plainclothes detectives and uniformed officers scoured the concrete banks of the river and the sandy bottom for clues, while above dozens of journalists stood poised behind the chain link fence designed to keep trespassers out of the river. Los Angeles was currently in the midst of another late summer heat wave; at four-thirty in the afternoon it was still one hundred degrees at the civic center. Thank God this stiff had washed up now and not next week when it would have been positively reeking.