The McCone Files (36 page)

“It matters to Tommy Dragón, for one.”

She dismissed the accused man's life with a flick of her hand. “Like I said, the Dragon's a killer. He might as well die for Reg's murder as for any of the others. In a way, it'd be the one good thing Reg did for the world.”

Perhaps in a certain primitive sense she was right, but her offhandedness made me uncomfortable. I changed the subject. “About the threat to Mrs. Angeles—which of the
Kabalyeros
would be behind them?”

“All of them. These guys in the gangs, they work together.”

But I knew about the structure of street gangs—my degree in sociology from U.C. Berkeley hadn't been totally worthless—to be reasonably sure that wasn't so. There is usually one dominant personality, supported by two or three lieutenants; take away these leaders, and the followers become ineffectual, purposeless. If I could turn up enough evidence against the leaders of the
Kabalyeros
to have them arrested, the harassment would stop.

I asked, “Who took over the
Kabalyeros
after Dragón went to jail?”

“Hector Bulis.”

It was a name that didn't appear on my list; Amor had claimed not to know who was the current head of the Filipino gang. “Where can I find him?”

“There's a fast-food joint over on Geneva, near the Cow Palace. Fat Robbie's. That's where the
Kabalyeros
hang out.”

The second person I'd intended to talk with was the young man who had reportedly taken over the leadership of the Victors after Dawson's death, Jimmy Willis. Willis could generally be found at a bowling alley, also on Geneva Avenue near the Cow Palace. I thanked Madeline for taking the time to talk with me and headed for the Daly City line.

The first of the two establishments that I spotted was Fat Robbie's, a cinderblock-and-glass relic of the early sixties whose specialties appeared to be burgers and chicken-in-a-basket. I turned into a parking lot that was half-f of mostly shabby cars and left my MG beside one of the defunct drive-in speaker poles.

The interior of the restaurant took me back to my high school days: orange leatherette booths beside the plate glass windows, a long Formica counter with stools, laminated color pictures of disgusting-looking food on the wall above the pass-through counter from the kitchen. Instead of a jukebox there was a bank of video games along one wall. Three Filipino youths in jeans and denim jackets gathered around one called “Invader!” The
Kabalyeros
, I assumed.

I crossed to the counter with only a cursory glance at the trio, sat, and ordered coffee from a young woman who looked to be Eurasian. The
Kabalyeros
didn't conceal their interest in me; they stared openly, and after a moment one of them said something that sounded like “tick-tick.” And they all laughed nastily. Some sort of Tagalog obscenity, I supposed. I ignored them, sipping the dishwater-weak coffee, and after a bit they went back to their game.

I took out the paperback that I keep in my bag for protective coloration and pretended to read, listening to the few snatches of conversation that drifted over from the three. I caught the names of two: Sal and Hector—the latter presumably Bulis, the gang's leader. When I glanced covertly at him, I saw he was tallish and thin, with long hair caught in a ponytail; his features were razor-sharp and slightly skewed, creating the impression of a perpetual sneer. The trio kept their voices low, and although I strained to hear, I could make out nothing of what they were saying. After about five minutes Hector turned away from the video machine. With a final glance at me he motioned to his companions, and they all left the restaurant.

I waited until they'd driven away in an old green Pontiac before I called the waitress over and showed her my identification. “The three men who just left,” I said. “Is the tall one Hector Bulis?”

He lips formed a little “O” as she stared at the I.D. Finally she nodded.

“May I talk with you about them?”

She glanced toward the pass-through to the kitchen. “My boss, he don't like me talking with the customers when I'm supposed to be working.”

“Take a break. Just five minutes.”

Now she looked nervously around the restaurant. “I shouldn't—”

I slipped a twenty-dollar bill from my wallet and showed it to her. “Just five minutes.”

She still seemed edgy, but fear lost out to greed. “Okay, but I don't want anybody to see me talking to you. Go back to the restroom—it's through that door by the video games. I'll meet you there as soon as I can.”

I got up and found the ladies' room. It was tiny, dimly lit, with a badly cracked mirror. The walls were covered with a mass of graffiti; some of it looked as if it had been painted over and had later worked its way back into view through the fading layers of enamel. The air in there was redolent of grease, cheap perfume, and stale cigarette and marijuana smoke. I leaned against the sink as I waited.

The young Eurasian woman appeared a few minutes later. “Bastard gave me a hard time,” she said. “Tried to tell me I'd already taken my break.”

“What's your name?”

“Anna Smith.”

“Anna, the three men who just left—do they come in here often?”

“Uh-huh”

“Keep pretty much to themselves, do they?”

“It's more like other people stay away from them.” She hesitated. “They're from one of the gangs; you don't mess with them. That's why I wanted to talk with you back here.”

“Have you ever heard them say anything about Tommy Dragón?”

“The Dragon? Sure. He's in jail; they say he was framed.”

Of course they would claim that. “What about Mrs. Angeles—Amorfina Angeles?”

“…Not that one, no.”

“What about trying to intimidate someone? Setting fires, going after someone with a gun?”

“Uh-huh. That's gang business; they keep it pretty close. But it wouldn't surprise me. Filipinos—I'm part Filipina myself, my mom met my dad when he was stationed at Subic Bay—they've got this saying
kumukuló ang dugó
. It means, ‘the blood is boiling.' They can get pretty damn mad ‘specially with men. So stuff like what you said—sure they do it.”

“Do you work on Fridays?”

“Yeah, two to ten.”

“Did you see any of the
Kabalyeros
in here last Friday around six?” That was the time when Isabel had been accosted.

Anna Smith scrunched up her face in concentration. “Last Friday…oh, yeah, sure. That was when they had the big meeting all of them.”

“
All
of them?”

“Uh-huh. Started around five-thirty, went on a couple of hours. My boss, he was worried something heavy was gonna go down, but the way it turned out, all he did was sell a lot of food.”

“What was the meeting about?”

“Had to do with Dragon, who was gonna be a character witness at the trial, what they'd say.”

The image of the three I'd seen earlier—or any of their ilk—as character witnesses was somewhat ludicrous, but I supposed in Tommy Dragón's position you took what you could get. “Are you sure they were all there?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And no one at the meeting said anything about trying to keep Mrs. Angeles from testifying?”

“No. That lawyer the Dragon' got, he was there too.”

Now that was odd. Why had Dragón's public defender chosen to meet with his witness in a public place? I could think of one good reason: he was afraid of them, didn't want them in his office. But what if the
Kabalyeros
had set the time and place—as an alibi for when Isabel was to be assaulted?

“I better get back to work,” Anna Smith said. “Before the boss comes looking for me.”

I gave her the twenty dollars. “Thanks for your time.”

“Sure.” Halfway out the door she paused, frowning, “I hope I didn't get any of the
Kabalyeros
in trouble.”

“You didn't.”

“Good. I kind of like them. I mean, they push dope and all, but these day, who doesn't?”

These days, who doesn't?
I thought.
Good lord
…

The Starlight Lanes was an old-fashioned bowling alley girded by a rough cliff face and an auto dismantler's yard. The parking lot was crowded, so I left the MG around back by the garbage cans. Inside, the lanes were brightly lit and noisy with the sound of crashing pins, rumbling balls, shouts, and groans. I paused by the front counter and asked where I might find Jimmy Willis. The woman behind it directed me to a lane at the far end.

Bowling alleys—or lanes, as the new upscale bowler prefers to call them—are familiar territory to me. Up until a few weeks ago my favorite uncle Jim was a top player on the pro tour. The Starlight Lanes reminded me of the ones where Jim used to practice in San Diego—from the racks full of tired-looking rental shoes to the greasy-spoon coffee shop smells to the molded plastic chairs and cigarette-burned scorekeeping consoles. I walked along it, soaking up the ambience—some people would say lack of it—until I came to lane 32 and spotted an agile young black man bowling alone. Jimmy Willis was a left-hander, and his ball hooked out until it hung on the edge of the channel, then hooked back with deadly accuracy and graceful form. His concentration was so great that he didn't notice me until he'd finished the last frame and retrieved his ball.

“You're quite a bowler,” I said. “What's your average?”

He gave me along look before he replied. “Two hundred.”

“Almost good enough to turn pro.”

“That's what I'm looking to do.”

Odd, for the head of a street gang that dealt in drugs and death. “You ever heard of Jim McCone?” I asked.

“Sure. Damned good in his day.”

“He's my uncle.”

“No kidding.” Willis studied me again, now as if looking for a resemblance.

Rapport established, I showed him my ID and explained that I wanted to talk about Reg Dawson's murder, He frowned, hesitated, then nodded, “Okay, since you're Jim McCone's niece, but you'll have to buy me a beer.”

“Deal.”

Willis toweled off his ball, stowed it and his shoes in their bag, and led me to a typical smoke-filled, murkily lighted bowling alley bar. He took one of the booths while I fetched us a pair of Buds.

As I slid into the booth I said, “What can you tell me about the murder?”

“The way I see it, Dawson was asking for it.”

So he and Dawson's wife were of a mind about that. “I can understand what you mean, but it seems strange coming from you. I hear you were his friend, that you took over the Victors after his death.”

“You heard wrong on both counts. Yeah, I was in the Victors, and when Dawson bought it they tried to get me to take over. But by then I'd figured out—never mind how, doesn't matter—that I wanted out of that life. Ain't nothing in it but what happened to Benny Crespo and Dawson—or what's going to happen to the Dragon. So I decided to put my hand to something with a future.” He patted the bowling bag that sat on the banquette beside him. “Got a job here now—not much, but my bowing's free and I'm on my way.”

“Good for you. What about Dragón—do you think he's guilty?”

Willis hesitated, looking thoughtful. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering.”

“…Well, to tell you the truth, I never did believe the Dragon shot Reg.”

“Who did, then?”

He shrugged.

I asked him if he'd heard about the
Kabalyeros
trying to intimidate the chief prosecution witness. When he nodded, I said, “They also threatened the life of her daughter last Friday.”

He laughed mirthlessly. “Wish I could of seen that. Kind of surprises me, though. That lawyer of Dragón's, he found out what the
Kabalyeros
were up to, read them the riot act. Said they'd put Dragón in the gas chamber for sure. So they called it off.”

“When was this?”