The Darker Hours Read online

  She picked up her beer and saluted him with it.

  Little Joe was still shaking his head. “Son of a bitch.” Then he had a thought. “Hey, I’m clean. I report in every week. I ain’t done nothing to break parole.”

  Boyce smiled at him. “Yes, you’re clean, Little Joe. But we could use your help.”

  Little Joe was staring at her, then he turned to look at Jackson. “Who the hell are you?

  “Jackson.”

  “Jackson what?”

  “Just Jackson.”

  45

  “Man, you had us fooled,” Little Joe said, smiling.

  “I’m glad there are no hard feelings.”

  “None for me, there ain’t. Maybe there should be but there ain’t.” He picked up his shot and downed it. He leaned forward, putting the shot glass down and leaning on his elbows. “Tell you the truth, I am glad to get away from those guys. I mean, the money was great, and you could have all the blow you wanted. But after a while I was just waiting for one of those guys to go batshit crazy. I mean those guys were nuts. Even Cicero was nuts. They had priors on Wally Chen and they sent him away for a long time. He was a paranoid s-o-b. He even followed you back and forth to your boarding house.” He shook his head, grinning. “Shit, I can’t believe how you had us fooled.”

  “How about Peggy?” Jackson said.

  “You know he was queer,” Little Joe said. Jackson smiled. “He got sent to Florence and got in a lovers quarrel and somebody shivved him in the yard.”

  “Dead?”

  “Colder than a popcorn fart.”

  “You ever hear of a guy name Marcelino Torres. People call him Mookie.”

  “Yeah. Small time punk. He was on the payroll. He wasn’t one of mine, but I had to speak to him one time when, shall we say, his math didn’t add up.”

  “Any idea where we can find him?” Boyce said.

  Little Joe looked at her, then looked at Jackson.

  “So, you are a cop.”

  Jackson shook his head. “Nope. Not a cop. Detective Boyce is a friend of mine. I was just helping her out. Just like now.”

  Little Joe leaned back against the booth. “What’s this Mookie punk got to do with it?”

  “We think he was involved in a drive-by that killed a friend of mine,” Boyce said.

  Little Joe nodded. “Yeah, he could do that. Didn’t have the balls for hard work.”

  “Do you know where we can find him?”

  Little Joe shook his head. “It’s been a while. I have no idea.”

  “Do you know the Pistoleros?”

  He nodded. “Mookie was a Pistolero. Head dude used to be Frankie Valero. Except for the one time I had to slap Torres around, Valero was the only one I had to deal with.”

  “Valero was one of Cicero Paz’s guys?”

  “More like, for hire. Anyone could buy Pistolero services for the right price.”

  “Gang for rent,” Jackson said.

  Little Joe grinned, “Yeah, like that. You know I missed your jokes and shit. You used to crack me up. You remember when you shot the cigarette?”

  Jackson smiled.

  Boyce looked at Jackson. “Shot the cigarette?”

  “Yeah, it was great,” Little Joe grinned. “We were bracing this dude that had the same accounting problem that Mookie had, and Wally and Peggy didn’t like Jack because Paz did. So they got on his ass about not being a good shot. Jack said if the dude flipped his cigarette, he would shoot it. Peggy said he’d bet a hundred dollars that Jack couldn’t hit the cigarette and Paz took the bet.”

  “You hit a cigarette in the air?” Boyce said, looking at Jackson.

  “Nobody said anything about it being in the air,” Jackson said.

  “Yeah, that was great. So, the dude flips his cigarette and when it lands on the ground, Jack goes over and shoots it twice.” He was laughing. “I miss that shit. Them other guys didn’t have a sense of humor for shit.”

  Boyce shook her head. She looked at Little Joe. “You know where we can find Frankie Valero?”

  Little Joe shrugged. “Unless they changed it, the Pistoleros had a safe house in Guadalupe.”

  “Guadalupe where?”

  “I don’t know. McClintock, Rural. One of those. I ain’t good with addresses.” He thought a second, then looked at Boyce. “I remember how to get there. I could, maybe, show you if you can help me out.”

  “Help you out?”

  “Yeah, like talk to Bernie, my parole guy, and see if I can’t cut some time off it. You know I got out early for good behavior. So, maybe like that.”

  Boyce slid out of the booth and stood up. “You help me catch Torres and I’ll do everything in my power to get your time reduced.”

  Little Joe looked at Jackson. “She straight?”

  “If she says it, she’ll do it,” Jackson said. “She keeps her word.”

  “Okay, then,” Little Joe said, sliding out of the booth.

  46

  Little Joe sat in front with Boyce. He was just too big for the back. He directed and they ended up wandering around a bit before they found it. It took forty minutes. It was south of Guadalupe Road and east of McClintock Drive. It was a lower economic neighborhood but not trashy. The house itself was on a large lot. The building, when new, had probably been one of the better homes in the area. That was several years ago. It was stucco with pieces missing on the corners. The roof was terra cotta tile. Several tiles were missing. A three-foot-high stucco fence bordered the front yard. Two cars were parked on the street, but they could have been for the house across the street. A motorcycle was in the front yard. The cars and the motorcycle were in much better shape than the house. The back was a large, fenced dirt lot with a free-standing building in a back corner.

  Boyce pulled to the curb a block away and they watched two young girls sitting on the front fence share a doobie. The girls had very short cut-offs and black tee shirts.

  “That back building is their playroom. Pool tables and foosball and shit,” Little Joe said. “The last time I was here, Valero and his woman lived in the house. The others used the back building.”

  “Either one of those girls Valero’s woman?” Boyce said looking at the two girls on the fence.

  He shook his head. “Nope. At least not the girl I remember. Never saw these before.” He shifted around to look in the back at Jackson. “I don’t want no trouble with no Pistoleros. I told you I’d show you where Valero was but if they see me with a cop,” he paused, “well, let’s just say I’d rather not.”

  “What you want to do?” Jackson asked Boyce.

  She shrugged. Finally, she said, “Let’s watch a while. Maybe we’ll get lucky. If not, we run Little Joe back and put a surveillance on this.”

  Little Joe said, “I don’t think you’ll see much during the day. They’re usually out hustling. Nighttime is when they gather up and party.” He looked over at Boyce. “I wasn’t expecting to be out here this long. I’m losing money.”

  “That lucky, huh?”

  “Luck ain’t got nothing to do with it.”

  “He’s right,” Jackson said. “Let’s come back later.”

  Forty minutes later they dropped Little Joe at the Red Pony.

  At nine PM Boyce, Jackson, Danny Rich and Nacho were in Nacho’s old Jeep and were cruising the Pistolero’s neighborhood. Because Boyce’s city ride had identifiable city plates, Jackson had asked Nacho to borrow his Jeep. When Nacho had insisted on knowing why and Jackson told him, he had insisted on coming along. He said his presence would give them camouflage. He was right. If Nacho being along bothered Danny Rich, he didn’t show it.

  Nacho had dressed like he normally dressed. Boyce had cut off a pair of jeans. She had cut the arms off a button-down shirt and wore it open with a sports bra. She had her Glock tucked into the back of her shorts. Jackson and Danny Rich had on sleeveless tee shirts and low-slung jeans. They had ganged-up by wearing ball caps backwards.

  Nacho had laughed when he saw them
. “Is it trick or treat time already?”

  “Not all of us were born with prison tattoos,” Jackson said.

  Nacho smiled. “It’s still too early,” he said.

  “I agree,” Jackson said. “Let’s go find a place to get a beer. Wait for the party to get going.”

  “Get far enough away we don’t accidently bump into one of them,” Danny Rich said.

  Nacho headed north then east on Broadway Road. After a while he pulled into a Mexican restaurant. “They got good tacos,” he said. “We can eat in the bar if you’re hungry.”

  “You hungry?” Boyce said.

  “I’m always hungry,” Nacho said. He parked toward the back and they filed inside. The bar was a separate room to the right. There were several booths, but Nacho sat at the bar and they sat beside him. A waitress came by and sat two bowls of chips with salsa on the bar for them.

  “I love this about Mexican restaurants,” Jackson said. “Come in, get a beer and eat a bowl of chips.”

  “You’re just cheap,” Boyce said.

  “I don’t have job,” Jackson said. Boyce just looked at him.

  The bartender took their drink order. They all got a beer.

  “I’d love to have your life,” Danny Rich said. “Lounge around on a houseboat all day, drink beer. Catch a fish every once in a while.”

  “Life of Riley,” Nacho said.

  “That’s me,” Jackson said. “Good ole’ Riley.” He looked at Danny. “Matter of choices,” he said. “You could do it if you wanted to.”

  “Not me,” Danny said, taking a drink of beer as soon as the bartender sat it in front of him. “I got kids and a mortgage.”

  “Kids, huh?” Nacho said.

  “Two of them. Girls.” He pulled his wallet, “Here, take a look.” He pulled pictures out of the currency part of the wallet. “Ages three and five.”

  Nacho took the pictures and studied them. He passed them to Jackson. “I love little girls,” Nacho said.

  “So did W.C. Fields,” Jackson said. “He liked them boiled.”

  “Who?” Boyce said.

  “Never mind. Is it time yet?”

  “Yeah, I’m ready to kick somebody’s ass,” Nacho said.

  “We’re not there to fight,” Boyce said. “We’re there to apprehend.”

  “You take all the fun out of it,” Nacho said, looking at Danny’s daughters. He handed the pictures back to Danny.

  “Let’s wait just a little longer,” Jackson said.

  Boyce said, “In the meantime, here’s a picture of Valero. Just so you know.” She handed them each a small headshot. Typical sullen mugshot.

  They nursed their beers and munched the chips. The waitress had to replace the bowl of chips twice.

  Forty minutes later they pulled into the Pistolero neighborhood. They had to park a block away, there were so many cars.

  There were a dozen young men and women mingling around the front, sitting on the fence and porch. They all carried red plastic solo cups. Boyce had Nacho lead the way. The first impression is always the most important. No one paid them much mind as they slowly wandered through the crowd, around to the side and into the back.

  There was a keg set up on concrete blocks. A large pickle jar was next to it. It was half filled with currency. It was mostly fives and tens. Nacho looked at Jackson and Jackson looked at Boyce and Boyce turned to Danny Rich. Danny Rich shook his head and dug into his pocket. He put a twenty and a ten into the jar. He took a cup off the stack and filled it with beer.

  “Camouflage,” he said to Boyce. Nacho filled a cup and handed it to Boyce. He filled another and handed it to Jackson, then he filled one for himself.

  “Dude’s not here,” Boyce said, taking a sip.

  “Not yet,” Danny said.

  “Mingle around. See if we can pick up something on the Mookster,” Jackson said.

  “What if someone asks who we are?” Nacho said.

  “Tell’m we’re with Little Joe’s crew.”

  “What if they don’t know Little Joe?”

  “They all know who Little Joe is,” Boyce said.

  Boyce wandered back to the front. Jackson moved nonchalantly to the playroom and looked in. Two guys playing pool. Ten-dollar bills on the table. Some girls were sitting around, smoking, talking.

  Jackson stepped in and moved to the side, feigning interest in the game. Danny Rich came in and leaned on the wall beside him. No one seemed to notice. After a while they moved back out again.

  47

  Boyce came back to the backyard and stood to the side. Close enough to a group of guys and girls to look like she was included. She didn’t think Marcelino Torres would recognize her. Not in this place, and she had laid on the eye make-up and lipstick to where she almost looked clownish. She never wore hats on duty, so tonight she wore a ball cap, her hair in a ponytail sticking out the back.

  After a while Danny Rich sidled up beside her.

  “Notice that we’re the only white people here?” he said in a low voice.

  “Jackson,” Boyce said.

  “Jackson’s white?” he said.

  Boyce smiled. “You see Valero?”

  “Probably inside.”

  Boyce watched Jackson and Nacho talking to a group of girls. They were all sharing a joint. They offered it to Jackson. He shook his head and said something. They all laughed. One of them had taken a shine to Nacho, taking his huge arm and holding it tight against her breast.

  Suddenly, there was some loud shouting from inside the playhouse. A young man came out then turned and shouted something back inside. The loud music obscured what he had shouted but it was in Spanish anyway, so Boyce wouldn’t have understood it. He was not tall but was heavy in the chest and thighs. He wore a red bandana. His bare arms were sleeved in tattoos. Another man came out, pointing at and shouting at the bandana guy. Immediately, bandana attacked the other guy swinging wildly. The other guy was taller but wasn’t any heavier than bandana. They started swinging at each other without causing much damage. Brawling without style. Bandana grappled with the taller guy, hitting him in the back.

  The taller guy was trying to hit the shorter man in the head but was only connecting with the top of his head. Good way to break a knuckle, Boyce thought. They wrestled around, kicking up dust and the others gathered around, shouting encouragement. Finally, they went to the ground and rolled around, trying to beat on each other. The tall guy tried to get bandana in a head lock and bandana bit him on the arm. This brought screams and laughter from the circle of girls surrounding the two men. They were loud in enjoying the entertainment. The other men stood back and watched. Finally, the combatants broke off and jumped to their feet. Bandana reached into his back pocket and pulled a knife. With the flick of his wrist he snapped it open. Evidently the other guy didn’t have one. He stood with arms spread, hands empty.

  Now another guy came into the circle of women. He pointed at bandana and shouted for him to put the knife away.

  “Valero,” Danny Rich said, leaning over to Boyce.

  Bandana was reluctant, but he folded the knife and put it away. As quickly as it had started, the fight was over. The two guys stood glowering at each other. With the entertainment over, the rest went back to what they were doing. Valero was talking earnestly to the two guys. He motioned toward the playhouse. They reluctantly turned and went back inside. Nacho and Jackson came up to Boyce and Danny Rich.

  “I told those girls,” Nacho nodded toward the girls he had been talking to, “I owed Mookie a hundred dollars on a football bet. One of them said he was out front. Just got here.”

  “Let’s take him,” Boyce said.

  “You hang back,” Danny Rich said. “He knows you.”

  “I want the son of a bitch,” Boyce said.

  “Yeah, I know. But we don’t want to spook him. Especially with all his buddies around.”

  “He’s right,” Jackson said.

  Boyce shrugged.

  “Let Nacho lead,” Jackso
n said.

  As casually as they could, they slowly wandered back through the gate, out into the side yard, then toward the front. There were a dozen men and women gathered around. The smell of marijuana was heavy in the air.

  Torres was sitting astraddle a motorcycle, smoking a joint and talking to two guys and a girl. His back was to Boyce.

  “Wait till he gets off the bike,” Jackson said to Boyce.

  Boyce moved over and sat on the steps to the porch, half turned away from Torres. Jackson said something low to Nacho. So low Boyce couldn’t hear it. Nacho nodded then casually walked over to Torres.

  “Nice bike, dude,” Boyce heard him say. “What is it?”

  Torres turned his head to look at Nacho. “Harley Fat Boy,” he said.

  “Man, it’s a beauty,” Nacho said. “Mind if I take it for a spin?”

  Torres looked at him, surprised. “Nobody rides my bike,” he said. He looked over Nacho’s shoulder and saw Boyce. His eyes widened and Nacho punched him. He connected on Torres’s neck, behind his ear. Torres went off the bike, sprawling. He was quick. He rolled and scrambled. Nacho was on the wrong side of the bike. He came around reaching for Torres, but Torres was moving. He came up on his knuckles and the balls of his feet and took off like a sprinter.

  Jackson and Danny Rich went after him. Boyce burst off the porch, running hard. Torres had a head start and he was fast. He flew down the street, away from them, then dodged between two parked cars and between two houses. A dog started barking. Jackson and Danny Rich raced after him. Jackson ran remarkably well for a guy with a prosthetic foot. Boyce stopped to call for support.

  The backyard of the house was fenced. Torres was not in sight. Jackson jumped, grabbed the top of the fence with one foot halfway up. He vaulted over. The dog was inside the yard and charged him. Danny Rich pulled up short. Jackson raced across the yard, the dog nipping at him with a frenzied yelping. In one motion he was over the back fence. He found himself in an alley. Torres was not in sight. Jackson had two choices, left and right. He went right. He raced as hard as he could, hoping to get lucky. He didn’t. He burst out on a side street. There were streetlights a block down in each direction. No one in sight. The dog was in a frenzy behind him. No one came out of any of the houses to see what the ruckus was about. This kind of neighborhood, you minded your own business.