Chapter Nine
After I left Venita's, I decided to go and sniff around before I went to the doctor in Westwood.
I called and scheduled the so-called quack doctor's appointment for later that afternoon, but I wanted to check out a few leads. First, I planned to go to the jungle. I decided to contact F-Loc since he was an OG who kept his ear to the pulse of the streets.
It was noon by the time I drove up Crenshaw Boulevard, heading for the jungle, which was off Martin Luther King Boulevard. Driving along, I took in the L.A. sights and sounds. The feel of an open African market was palpable. Black Muslim brothers from the Nation of Islam sold the
Final Call
magazine and the famous bean pies. Vendors had set up on street corners selling incense, cheap paintings, imitation Oriental rugs, and various goods. A few local authors were even selling their books from stands they set up on the corner. I couldn't knock an honest hustle though.
This was a neutral territory. First, you have to understand something. L.A. has an invisible grid covered with gangs. You have to know the streets, and the terrain, to know which territory you're in or you could wind up in a world of trouble. Just one street in the wrong direction could mean your life. Thank goodness, I knew Bloods' territory, Crips' territory, and the different Mexican gang areas. You even had Asian gangs to contend with in L.A. Many of the foreign gangs started out as protection groups because they were immigrants, but they grew into gangs and cartels once the drug trade became involved. Each gang had its own loyalties, its own turfs to protect. Most of the turfs were to be protected for money and for commerce.
Then you had the other 95 percent of working stiffs, people who, like me, lived out their lives in relative peace until a member of their family was killed or got on crack. This is how I became a PI in the first place: when Trayvon was murdered.
Thank goodness, I knew the invisible map of L.A. like the lines in the palms of my hands. I learned some of the gang territory from growing up in it, some more of it as an LAPD officer; then, later, I learned the rest as a private investigator of the hood.
F-Loc had unofficially become part of my street team, my off-the-record CIâconfidential informant. Each person was like his own little CIAâcentral intelligence for the streets.
I gazed up at the pigeons squawking and filling the sky as I entered the jungleâthe place in L.A. they say has only one way in, and one way out. The pigeons or tumblers were being flipped as an announcement of my presence. Although I hadn't been a policewoman in a couple of years now, the denizens still considered me “one time.” This was a game but also an announcement of a potential legal arrival.
The smell of the large Dumpsters wafted in the air. Welcome to the jungle.
I called F-Loc on his private cell phone number as I sat outside his gated apartment building. “Loc.”
“What it be?”
“Z, here. I need your help again. I'm out front.”
“Let me come down.”
Unlike in the past when he was always accompanied by his muscle, F-Loc came down alone. He had learned to trust me over the past two years and never brought his boys with him. He used to bring his bodyguards and frisk me for a wire. He'd learn that I would use information, but his name never got put up in the mix. He trusted that I could get jobs done.
Once he came down, he plopped down in the car seat next to me. I got straight to the point. “My brother's been kidnapped. You know anything about this?”
“Yeah, the streets is buzzin'. Sorry to hear about Mayhem. You know he was always a stand-up dude.”
I panicked. “Why are you talking about him in the past tense? Have you heard anything? Is he still alive?”
“No, I don't know. You know these Mexican cartels are beginning to kidnap and take over territory. They pretty ruthless.”
“Does that have anything to do with his kidnapping ?”
“Naw, but this war on drugs does.”
“What do you mean?”
“This war on drugs is a bunch of bullshit. The government don't want to get rid of no drugs. This is an international business. Almost every industry is run through some form of drug money that's been laundered. Rap, the car industry, guns, you name it. Not to mention the crooked cops and the different cartels who ain't gon' get paid if this stuff ever ends.”
“So what is your point, F-Loc?”
“It's getting harder and harder for the brothers to make money in L.A. The Feds have cracked down on the border. Business is being conducted out the country now. They've even cracked down on the Colombians.”
“And?”
“Word on the street is that a big crime family in Brazil was cutting a deal with Mayhem and this was going to be his new connect. Some of the Eses got mad and felt he was undercutting them. He sent wifey, who used to be one of his mules, to do the deal; plus, she's from Brazil and can speak that Portuguese. Anyhow, she's being held hostage there with the money. Your brother was making some big moves since he got out last year, and somebody didn't like it.”
“Do you know anything about his strip club?” My job was like being part of the CIA of the streets. You had to get out there to get information.
“It's cool. I slid through there a few times.”
“What's the name of it?”
“The Kitty Kat Koliseum.”
“What street is it on?”
“Hollywood Boulevard.”
“So it's in Hollywood?”
“Yep.”
“How about a tattoo with a snake on a pole?”
“Those could be any of the Mexican gangs, but I think it's mainly part of a family.”
“Which tattoo parlor do they use?”
“The main one the Eses use is in the barrio. It's called the Innovative Tattoo Shop.”
Someone knocked on my car window on the rider's side and I almost leaped out my skin. It's not always a safe place to be sitting in a car in the jungle.
“F-Loc.” I glanced up to see someone who looked like a typical crackhead. Chapped lips. Knotted hair. Dirty. Shaking. “Give me a nickel bag. I swear I'ma pay when I get my GR check first of the month.”
“Look, nigga. Do I look like government cheese sittin' up in here? I ain't givin' a nigga a free nothin'. This ain't the welfare. You see me talkin' business. Get yo' ass away from this car before I break my foot off in your ass.”
Then, F-Loc turned back to me as if nothing had happened. “Sorry 'bout that. Like I said, shit is dryin' up. I used to could break a nigga off, but not no more. Times is tough out here on the street. I ain't givin' out nothin' but tombstones and ya got to be dead to get those.”
I suppressed my laugh, so that he would know I was serious about my business. “Okay, thanks, Loc.”
We bumped fists, and he climbed out of my car. Shaking my head, I drove off. I'd worked in the male culture so long as a policewoman, I'd picked up a lot of their ways. That's why I was still trying to detox from all that swearing like the proverbial sailor. It's not ladylike, and whenever I'm around Romero, he treats me like I'm fine china, so now I notice I don't even want to curse.
I didn't know who to believeâF-Loc or the so-called agents. I bet the truth is probably somewhere in the middle.
Chapter Ten
On a hunch, I jumped on the San Bernardino Freeway and drove out to the Innovative Tatto Parlor on Cesar Chavez Avenue. It was when I pulled up in front of the turquoise adobe-looking shop that I decided what I would do. I flashed my badge, quickly, the same way the Feds did to me at the Academy Awards that night.
“Inspector Saldano.” I decided to pretend to be an inspector and I spoke with authority. “Who's the owner?”
The shop only had a half dozen patrons in it. Five men and one woman sat in chairs lined up against the wall, waiting patiently, as if they were waiting for a barber. Everyone was speaking Spanish, but I knew the language, which was an advantage. My father taught me Spanish before he died and Chica had taught me a lot of the language when we were growing up together.
Some tattoos were frivolous, but many told a story. I'd read of a case where one man was arrested because he had the murder scene tattooed on his chest, and this scene got him life.
“I am.”
“What's your name?”
“Pedro Garcia.” A short Hispanic who sat in a stool working on a client looked up and held his drill in midair.
“We had a complaint from the health department.”
“Oh, no, senora.” I could see the fear in his eyes. I wondered if he even had a business license or whatever was required to have a tattoo parlor. I looked around on the wall and didn't see one on display.
He was working on another Latino man, who had more tattoos on his face than Lil Wayne. “I'd like to see the tools you're using.”
He showed me his tattoo gun.
“Do you clean it after each person?”
“
SÃ.
”
“We had a complaint from people who had a tattoo that like looks like a snake on a pole. Could you show me a picture of this tattoo?”
He pointed to his wall which had different customers poising with their tattoos. I took a picture of the tattoo with my cell phone.
“I haven't done that one but once. They're common though.”
“Do you know who belongs to?”
“It belongs to Bonzo.”
I spoke in Spanish. “Do you have an address or phone number for him?”
“No.”
“Okay, I'm going to give you a chance to clean this place up. Get your business license, too.”
I decided not to press the issue and left. I wrote the name Bonzo down in my cell phone and left. I e-mailed the picture of the tattoo to Chica, who was getting pretty good as a bounty hunter in tracking people down.
Chica called right back. “Where are you,
mija?
” She sounded worried sick. “Are you all right?”
“I decided to try to help my brother.”
Chica let out a sigh. “I'm glad you're going to do it, but be careful.”
“Did you get the e-mail?”
“
SÃ.
What do you want?”
“Do you know which gang sign this tattoo this belongs to?”
“I'm not sure, but I can find out.”
“See if you can find a gang member with a street name Bonzo in your database. He would be part of a Mexican gang.”
Chica had gotten really good at setting up our own private databases, which I had found to really come in handy as we built our businesses.
“When are you going to go home? Romero even called looking for you. That was a first.”
“What do you mean?”
“He sounded a little jealous, too. I'd never heard that in his voice before.”
“He had to leave last night on business. I understood. He should understand now that the shoe's on the other foot. Besides, he knows this is the kind of job we both have.”
“So you're working?”
“Yes.”
“I guess he was just worried because he hadn't heard from you. Keep me posted if you need me.”
Chica dropped the subject. She was so happy to be working and standing on her own two feet for the first time in her adult life, she often deferred to my decision. “I appreciate you mentoring me,
mija.
You're really showing me how to work the streets. ” She laughed, I guessed recalling her days of prostitution. “I mean, working the streets in a good way. I feel good about myself when I bring in these bail jumpers.”
I pulled out my phone and typed down what I could reenact of the abduction.
Chapter Eleven
As I looked over my presumably forged passport, I vacillated between my instinct of fight or flight. I really didn't know what to do. Did I really want to go down this road? These people didn't play. I had no idea what I was going to be going up against. I really didn't want to get involved with his wifey, Appolonia, either, because for one, I didn't know her and, for two, she really wasn't my concern. I guessed she was as my nephews' mother, but I resented that I would have to help her in order to help free my brother. This was a package deal. In order to free my brother, I was going to have to find her to even get the money.
I looked up an Appolonia Silva, and I couldn't find any record for her online. I also checked databases that I'd learned how to hack from Okamoto, who was a geek/hacker. I tried the Department of Motor Vehicles and checked the Department of Justice databases. I wondered if she was in the country illegally. The Appolonia Silva I did find only had a record in the last twelve years. Before that, her life seemed murky. She was like a female Adam. Just appeared on earth. At least Eve was taken from Adam's rib.
I went online with my phone and looked up Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. Before I could get into the politics, the war on drug problem, the rainforest, my phone rang. I glanced down. It was Romero.
“Where are you?” His voice sounded like controlled anger. At the same time, it cracked with anxiety. I'd never heard him that upset. “Are you okay? Where have you been?”
“You wouldn't believe what has happened.” I couldn't even muster up the courage to tell him what I'd been through.
“Yes, I had a bad night too, but when I got back home I expected to find you here. You all right?”
“I left you a message. I've been working all night too. How about if I come by there after I go to the doctor?”
“What doctor? Are you okay?”
“Long story. I can't tell you.”
“When are you ever going to trust me?” Romero implored.
I changed the subject. “Did you settle your case?”
“Not quite. Just some leads we had to follow up. We've busted a big methamphetamine lab in a white collar neighborhood. We got a lot of suspects in custody. Be surprised the people committing crimes these days. But y'know with plea bargaining how things are.”
“Yeah, that's true. Even Orange County is having a series of bank robberies committed by white dudes. People are desperate with this unemployment. Well, I'll be over there.”
“Say no more. I'll have the tub ready when you get here.”
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I passed Pink's, the famous hot dog stand in Hollywood near Melrose, and stopped and picked up a chili dog. The hot dog stand was on my way to the doctor's office, which was located near Westwood. The doctor, who was supposed to be an epidemiologist of sorts, seemed a little shady, but judging from all the actors' pictures on his wall, everyone uses these types of doctors to get out of work and on sick leaves to pursue their acting dreams. After getting inoculated with my ten-year tetanus shot and yellow fever shots, I got the prescription for Lariam.
An hour later, I picked up the prescription, then drove to Silver Lake to see Romero. I didn't want to tell him anything. I just wanted to fall into the flannel warmth of his embrace. Within his arms, I always felt comfort. Maybe I could feel normal again, a sense of safety.
When I arrived, I found Romero asleep on his sofa. His mouth was wide open and he sounded like he was sawing logs his snores were so loud. “Poor baby,” I whispered, kissing his forehead.
To keep from waking Romero, I tiptoed to the bathroom. He had already run my bubble bath and the water was sitting in his old-fashioned tub with the lion claw feet. I tested the water with my index finger, and it had grown cool. I let some of the tepid water out, then put in fresh hot water. I climbed in the tub and before I knew it I was out like a light.
I woke up to Romero gently soaping my back, and I smiled. I was surprised at how much time had passed. I could see through his bathroom window that it was dark outside.
“You were zonked out,
mamacita.
Bad case?”
I nodded. “Wound up working all night.”
“Me, too.” I could see Romero's five o'clock shadow. I guessed he hadn't slept until he dropped down for his nap on his sofa. He usually stayed clean shaven.
My mind was on my brother and I wasn't really feeling the lovemaking like I usually would. My mind kept spinning as Romero kissed me up in bed.
“What's wrong, baby? Not in the mood?” he asked, raising his torso from between my legs and scooting over. I could tell he was disappointed, but he was not the type to push the issue.
I shook my head. My mind was spinning. I was torn. Should I tell him about my brother's kidnapping? How could I tell him I was going to go out the country? I guess Romero sensed my withdrawal and he just scooted behind me, spooning me, his arms wrapped around my waist. I fell asleep, and so did he. We'd both had a long night.
It was after ten-thirty when I woke up. I jackknifed up, determined to make my escape. I wanted to get back out to the street before I left the country.
I slid out from under Romero's arm and leg he had thrown over me. He must have already been awake, because he grabbed my left hand as soon as I placed one foot on the floorboard. He didn't say anything, but in his touch I felt his strong need and desire. I paused. I wanted him, but I also wanted to see if I could find out any leads on my brother's kidnapping. Feeling conflicted, I thought about what Shirley had said.
Listen to your heart.
Suddenly it hit me. I didn't know when I'd hold my man in my arms again. Without giving it another thought, I slid back under the covers.
I laced my fingers into Romero's, then climbed on top of him and began deep kissing him. I loved to kiss Romero because it always reminded me of our first kiss at a Starbucks and because he was such a good kisser. His hands slid up and down my body, and I just surrendered to the moment. I didn't want to think. I didn't want to worry about my problems. I just wanted to feel and enjoy the golden pleasure my man was giving me.
“Are you sure?” he asked, referring to the fact he didn't have on a condom. “Do you want me to pull out?”
I don't know what I was thinking; my mind was a blank and I didn't answer. My periods were irregular, so I assumed I wasn't that fertile. I was thirty-five and had never been pregnant before. I generally took birth control pills, and used condoms, but I'd gotten relaxed with Romero and only used the condoms. Plus, our relationship was exclusive. How did I know? When Romero wasn't at work, or with his daughter, he was with me, and vice versa. Totally the opposite of the one I'd had with the late undercover cop, whoremonger Flag.
I continued riding on a crest, a hot wave sweeping into my belly. All I knew was I had to leave my man satisfied. I felt like I was on a magical sea, being buoyed and tossed about by a wave. I was drowning in such sweet pleasure, nothing seemed to bother me. I had only intended to satisfy Romero, not myself. It was going to be a testament to all the kindness he'd shown me, to all the good times we'd had over the past year. I wanted to thank him with my body and soul for showing me that love was still a possibility.
Instead of my just pleasing Romero, as the pressure mounted, I exploded in cauldron of sheer ecstasy myself. I wound up crying and screaming out his name at the same time of our mutual orgasms. Afterward, I clung to him, my toes curling up, as if he were the Holy Grail. I burst into tears.
“I love you,
mamÃ,
” Romero said, kissing my lips, then my shoulder as we both panted, spent. He kissed my tears as they rolled down my face. “Baby, I'm sorry I didn't pull out. I'm so sorry. You just felt so good. I couldn't ...”
“Shush.” I put my finger to his lips. I wasn't worried about anything. “I don't even know why I'm crying. I just thought of what my life would be like without you.”
I continued crying into Romero's shoulder and he patted my shoulder. “It's okay,
mamacita.
Everything is going to be okay.”
I felt like I was drowning and these would be my last words. I tried to imagine my life without Romero and it made me sob even more. When I met him, I didn't believe love even existed anymore. Now I knew what it was like to see the light shine on a man's shoulder and know love. I knew what early spring flowers looked like when you saw them through the prism of love.
I loved the way Romero loved his daughter, Bianca, from his first marriage. I loved how he was born poor in El Barrio, was part of a crime family, but refused to let that define him. I loved the way he left his leader status as a gang member behind when he was young and put himself through college. I loved how he was a straight cop, who was liked by his peers and even respected by a lot of the hoods on the street.
Romero was the first man who pointed out the Big Dipper to me. I didn't know when I first knew I loved him, but he always said he loved me from the first time he met me, during the L.A. riots, when he rescued me from a hostage situation. For the first time, I answered, “I love you, Romero.”
Romero kissed me passionately in return. “I know I once said I'd never do this again, but Z”âhe pausedâ“will you marry me?” He reached under the pillow.
I was shocked. “What did you say?” I couldn't believe my ears.
“Will you marry me?”
I let out an “ahh” breath as if I'd been hit in my solar plexus. Finally, I spoke up. “Baby, it's too soon.” I didn't say anything, but I liked how things were between us. Comfortable, warm, and happy. Why did he have to go ruin everything with this marriage talk? I told him I was not marriage material. My previous marriage and annulment had been hell.
“Soon?” Romero protested. “I've loved you since the first time I saw you, standing up to those three thugs, like, âHey, bring it on.' I knew back then there was something special about you. Since we hooked back up, you've been more than I could imagine. I'm so proud of the way you've rebuilt your life and remained sober. I saw you go through hell last year after Trayvon's death and yet you landed on your feet. You're a good friend to me and to others. You're a good detective. A good lover.
“When you're in something, you'll see it through all the way. I've seen you put your life on the line for your dead nephew. I just love how you love with all your heart and soul. And I'd be proud to have you as my wife.”
“Wow!” I didn't see this coming.
“Reach under the pillow, babe,” Romero said.
I reached under the pillow and searched until my fingers felt a box. Puzzled, I opened the box. Inside was a beautiful platinum Marquise diamond ring.
I gasped. “Oh, Romero, you shouldn't have.”
“Is that a yes or a no?”
I heaved a deep sigh. I couldn't answer him, I was so overcome. I said a resounding yes in my heart, but I couldn't commit now. Now I was even more conflicted since I had this issue to deal with my brother.
“I'll keep the ring on the dresser for you. It's your call.”
“Let's just go back to sleep,” I said, pulling the duvet covers up over us. Romero wrapped his arms around me and snuggled up. I lay still and listened to his breath until I felt him dozing off into sleep. Afterward, I untangled my limbs from his, then took a quick shower. I found a dressy black leather pants set and tall boots which folded at the knees that I'd left at his house and slipped into them. I was on a mission. If I didn't get away from the comfort of Romero's love, I'd never be able to go through with what I had to do. I grabbed my purse, which had my Glock in it.
Romero's eyes flew open just as I tried to creep past his bed. “Where are you going,
mija?
”
I paused. “I've got to leave, baby.”
“Why?”
“I can't tell you. This is family business.”
“Sure you've got to go? Why don't you spend the night?”
“I've got to go.” I was insistent.
“We've gotten so close. Don't you trust me?”
“I don't know who to trust anymore.”
“That's cold. Didn't you just tell me you loved me?”
“I meant it.”
“Well, tell me something.”
“Shoot.”
“We've been together over a year and you still don't trust me?”
“Talking about trust. Do you ever tell me about that family of yours?”
“I told you that's my past.”
“What is the name of your family's gang?”
“Out of family loyalty, I can't tell you.”
I thought about his crime family. Were they a part of Mayhem's kidnapping? What was his family's name? It really didn't matter. All I cared about was whether they were the ones who had Mayhem. Would blood be thicker than mud, in this case? I didn't know. But one thing I knew for sure. I had to do this by myself.