6
M
ikie Azzara met Pike at a coffee shop on Abbot Kinney Boulevard, not far from the Venice Canals. The afternoon sky there near the beach was clear and blue, and the temperature was in the mid-seventies. Pike was surprised when Artie told him where Azzara wanted to meet. Abbot Kinney was an upscale area of restaurants, designer shops, art galleries, and bars, and now here at the coffee shop, seated outdoors, he was surrounded by attractive affluent women who went well with the surroundings. Most were tanned, and most were between their twenties and forties, and most were fit. Most wore light summery dresses or shorts and sandals, and none of them smoked. It wasn’t a place a V13
veterano
would frequent.
Pike arrived early, and sat outside as had been agreed, sipping black coffee. The coffee was weak, but he didn’t care.
At three-oh-five, a black Prius pulled to the curb on the opposite side of the street. A man in his late twenties got out, checked for oncoming traffic, then strolled across to the coffee shop. He wore a lightweight Hugo Boss sport coat over an AC/DC T-shirt, tailored jeans, and huaraches. He was fit, clean-shaven, and handsome enough to be a
Esquire
model. The women seated around Pike watched him approach.
The man searched the crowd when he reached the curb, saw Pike, and came to the table. He smiled as he offered his hand, flashing perfect teeth and dimples.
“Mr. Pike? Michael Azzara. Father Art told me I’d spot the arrows. May I sit?”
Pike nodded, noting he had introduced himself as Michael, not Mikie or Miguel. He was slick, clean, and as different in appearance from the street-dog
veteranos
at the body shop as the Prius was from a candy-red ’56 Bel Air. Miguel Azzara looked like a frat boy from USC, built strong, though, as if he had been a pretty good high-school wrestler.
Azzara sat, laced his fingers, and looked at Pike with an innocent curiosity.
“I love Father Art. He does so much for our community.”
Pike nodded, and waited for Azzara to continue.
“How can I help you?”
Now, seated, Pike noticed the skin on the side of Azzara’s neck was mottled with faint blemishes. When he was fourteen or fifteen, he had the ink, but sometime between then and now, he’d seen the laser. Small scars laced the knuckles of his left hand and split the line of his left eyebrow. Maybe he hadn’t always looked so different from the men at the body shop.
Pike lifted his cup.
“Want something?”
“That’s all right, thank you. How can I help?”
“You speak for
Malevos
?”
Azzara checked to see if the nearby women were listening. A woman in her late thirties saw him glance over, and smiled. Azzara smiled back, and looked like a movie star.
“Hey, how’re you doing?”
She blushed and turned back to her friends, pretending she wasn’t drooling. Azzara turned back to Pike.
“That’s why I’m here, yes. How can I help?”
Third time he’d said it—how can I help?
“Reuben Mendoza and Alberto Gomer.”
“Those guys are idiots. Mendoza was just arrested.”
“You know why?”
“I know I had to cover his bond. Is this about that?”
“I’m the man who put him down. Is that going to be a problem with us?”
Azzara looked surprised.
“Depends on what you want. If you want money for some reason—say, a payoff so you’ll refuse to testify—then, yes, it’s going to be a problem.”
“Nothing like that.”
“I didn’t think so. Not with Father Art vouching for you.”
Pike went through the events exactly as he had with Hydeck, Button, and Artie Alvarez. He told Azzara that Wilson Smith was a friend, and that now, early that morning, someone had vandalized his shop.
Azzara listened with a thoughtful frown, nodding occasionally in the way people do, and did not speak until Pike finished.
“Uh-huh, okay. I get it. These people are your friends. You don’t want them hassled.”
“That’s right.”
“Done.”
Pike waited, thinking there would be more, but there wasn’t. After a few moments, Azzara realized Pike wasn’t going to say anything, so he explained to fill the silence.
“This nickel-and-dime stuff is bullshit. It draws heat, pisses off the CRASH units, and for what? So an idiot like Mendoza can bag a free sandwich or shake down some dude for twenty bucks? Is it worth twenty dollars, that kind of trouble, me sitting here with you? Please.”
“
Trece
will leave Mr. Smith’s shop alone. No more vandalism. No trouble.”
Azzara shifted, irritated he had to deal with small-time stuff like this.
“It’s done. This nonsense with the paint? What are they, in the sixth grade? Look, I don’t know if it was Gomer or whoever—this is the first I’ve heard of it—but I’ll find out, and this will stop. I don’t want these
vatos
out doing things like this. I mean, this is the lesson right here—me and you, right here right now, wasting our time. This is absurd.”
Pike said, “Thank you.”
Azzara checked the time, sighed, then studied Pike for a moment. Pike wondered why he hadn’t left. They were finished. Miguel Azzara could leave.
Then Azzara leaned forward and lowered his voice.
“The Father told me you’re a dangerous man. I said, Art, what are you, crazy? Is this guy trying to front me off?”
Pike shook his head.
“I’m not fronting you.”
Azzara raised his palm.
“Art covered that. He specifically said you told him this wasn’t a threat, and you told him to make sure I understood. I’m cool with that. These matters of respect are important.”
Pike knew more was coming, and waited it out.
“He says to me, listen, I just think you should know, and then he tells me some things. I don’t know if he’s making these things up, but he tells me these crazy things about you, and I don’t know if he wants me to be scared or what, so I tell him to stop.”
Azzara made a big show of holding up both palms this time, reliving his conversation with Art.
“I say, what are you saying here, Art, this man will go to war with me? I don’t give what he wants, he’ll come for me, me and my homes, all of the
Trece
?”
Pike waited for it to pass.
“And Art, he says no, no, no, nothing like that, he just felt obligated because he was putting us together, so this wasn’t coming from you. The Father wanted me to know who I was getting involved with. Can you imagine that guy?”
Azzara paused for a response, but Pike didn’t respond.
“You don’t say much.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“You don’t have to say anything. But if there are things I must understand, then there are things you must understand, too.”
Azzara leaned forward, and now he stared.
“You look dangerous. You look like everything Art said, but looking is different from being. I know what I
look
like, too.”
“Is there a problem?”
“I want things clear between us. I understand you’re not threatening me. You’re coming to me like a man, asking me to help your friends.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not going along with this because of an implied threat.”
“I understand.”
“You know
La Eme
?”
“Of course.”
“Then you understand why I have no fear.”
La Eme
was the Mexican Mafia, so strong in numbers they controlled the drug trade in the southwestern United States and virtually owned the prisons in California and Arizona. They were an existing criminal army within the borders of the U.S.
“I understand.”
Azzara flashed the dimples and stood.
“Man to man, you ask. Man to man, I answer. It’s done. Tell your friends to relax. I’ll talk to my homes. This will never happen again.”
Pike glanced across the street.
“You like the Prius?”
“Love it. It’s important to be environmentally conscious. What do you drive?”
“Jeep.”
“Go green, Mr. Pike. The planet needs love.”
Azzara flashed the dimples, once more offered his hand, then made his way to his car.
One call. Simple. It’s done.
It should have been finished, but wasn’t.
7
W
hen Pike returned to the sandwich shop, the air was warm with a silky inland breeze. The glass people had finished their job, and now a new glass window was in place. A CLOSED sign sat in the door, but Pike saw someone moving inside.
Pike went around to the back entrance. A large fan sat in the door, blowing out. Dru was on her knees by the counter, scrubbing the floor with what looked like a large towel. The two little tables were against the far wall with their chairs upended on top and their legs thrust up like antlers. The shop was heavy with the smell of turpentine. She had probably spent the morning cleaning the floor, and now was trying to scrub away the turpentine.
Pike watched her. She was faced away from him with her butt in the air, bearing down on the towel with both hands. She was barefoot even though the floor had been covered with broken glass that morning. Pike watched the play of her back as she pushed and pulled on the towel, coming up and down on her heels. Her tan was deep. Even the soles of her feet were tanned.
Pike stepped around the fan, then rapped on the wall—knock, knock.
She casually glanced over her shoulder, then went on with the scrubbing. She smiled as if she had expected him, and liked it that he had returned.
“Hey. How’s it look?”
“Looks better.”
“The wall is okay, but this floor is ruined. See how the paint worked down in the cracks? Those creeps ruined it.”
Pike saw she was right. The paint had seeped into the seams between the Marmoleum squares and would be there until the floor was replaced.
Pike said, “They won’t be back.”
She paused again, then stood, pushing a rope of hair from her face. Her eyebrows arched, and Pike saw humor in her eyes, as if she already knew how his story would end and wanted to have fun with him.
“And you know this how?”
“These people in a gang, they have a leader like in any other organization. I spoke with the person they answer to.”
She studied him for a moment, then deepened her voice, trying to sound like Marlon Brando.
“You made him an offer he couldn’t refuse?”
Pike wasn’t sure what to say, so he drifted past her to peer out the new window. The street appeared normal.
“You got your uncle to go home?”
“He’s not going to stay in bed. He gets dizzy when he stands, but he won’t listen. That’s just how he is.”
Pike glanced at the tables, waiting to return to their places.
“Help with the tables?”
“That’s okay. I’ve got it.”
Pike nodded. He had done what he could, let her know she wouldn’t have any more trouble, and now there was nothing to do except see if Azzara was good at his word. They were finished, but, like the day before, Pike didn’t want to leave.
“You did a good job.”
“We won’t win any beauty prizes.”
Pike drifted past her to the counter, and saw that his phone number was tacked to the order board.
“Okay. You need anything, call.”
She said, “Ring.”
He turned back, and saw her smiling.
“That was me calling.”
She dropped the towel into the bucket, and appraised herself.
“I’m wet, hungry, and I smell like turpentine. I want a beer. How about we go have a beer? There’s a great little place right over here, the Sidewalk Cafe. How about it? My treat.”
Pike said, “Okay.”
The Sidewalk Cafe was everything Wilson’s tiny takeout shop wasn’t, with a large bar, indoor and outdoor seating, and a spectacular location on Ocean Front Walk. The outside area was already crowded with regulars come to enjoy the sunset, but the waitress recognized Dru and smiled them to a table. Joggers, skaters, tourists, and beach people flowed past on the sidewalk between the café and a row of vendors and performers. A manicured grass park, swaying palms, and a deep expanse of sand lay beyond. Directly across from their table, two street performers painted silver pretended to be mechanical men, locking and popping in unison. An open briefcase at their feet held a cardboard sign: CONTRIBUTIONS WELCOME.
Dru knew what she wanted and waved off the menu.
“I’ll have a hamburger and a Blue Moon. They have the greatest hamburgers here, really thick and juicy. You want a hamburger?”
“Don’t eat meat.”
The waitress flashed a sparkling grin.
“Me, neither. The veggie nachos are killer, and I
love
the Corita salad.”
“Beer’s fine. Corona.”
As the waitress left, Dru slumped back in her chair and grinned.
“Dude. You totally look like a carnivore.”
Pike checked the vendors and the people strolling past. Checked the beach and the people beyond the palms. Habit. He checked Dru Rayne. Round face, one front tooth overlapping the other, a scar on the bridge of her nose that matched the lines beginning to cut the corners of her mouth. Not a kid, but still in her early thirties. Ten feet away, bikini-clad skater chicks, hard-bodied swimsuit models, and beach bunnies out for the sun flowed past, but Dru Rayne held him like a magnet.
She touched his arm.
“Thanks. For helping Wilson, and the rest. Really, thank you.”
Pike nodded. When he offered no conversation, she filled in the gap.
“I’m curious—what is it you do? For a living, I mean?”
“Businessman.”
Dru burst out laughing, then held up a hand, apologizing as she laughed, and covered her mouth with her free hand.
“I’m sorry. Laughing is bad. I shouldn’t be laughing.”