Killing Cortez Page 20

  “Hey!” Let’s get rid of those Dicks,” Rosie sloshed her beer mug in the direction of JC. These words were pronounced with perfect balance of determination and sportiness. Like the 3-point shot or the end run, skill and risk-taking had a big upside. Fortified by beer, the ladies of the Red Tide Rugby Club rose to their feet, teammates and allies.

  “Sometimes,” said Rosie, “you have to wait your whole life to taste your dreams. That’s want my Mom says. You know what I say- it if smells good, why not take a taste?”

  “Hey bud” Rosie greeted JC, spilling her beer foam onto JC’s brown leather jacket. Why are you in this girl bar? Why don’t you go somewhere where you can find women who actually like boys because this is a lesbian bar? We like girls not boys. Comprendas?”

  JC turned, feeling the reassurance of his trusty Glock 19 9mm semi-automatic pistol in the interior pocket of his leather jacket. This big dyke had to be taught a lesson.

  He knew he needed some back up, and he motioned with his left hand. Three hefty men stood up from a cocktail table and flanked JC. JC muttered in Spanish and Jose lunged and twisted Rosie by her wrist. Rosie crashed down from pain. As she did so, JC was soaked by her beer. JC, encouraged by the overwhelming odds, backhanded Rosie across her face, slapping a large gold ring into her jaw.

  Rosie crumbled now on to the bar floor. “Call the police, call Border Patrol!” rang out from the crowd.

  Rosie did not get up, nor did she smart off with any further lesbian lip service. JC tightened his own grip on Carmen. “We are going there. You understand?” JC said to Carmen through barely parted lips. The female crowd stared from a distance of a few feet at the three large men, and JC forcing Carmen towards the Dangerous Sushi Dead Fish sign gleaming in bright pink at the entrance. JC looked around, and saw the bartender making her way to the telephone and pick up the red receiver and say: “Bar fight at Dangerous Sushi: woman down and bleeding: yeah she’s breathing,” the bartender said in an unperturbed Southern drawl. “Yeah, we are at the corner of 8th and University right next to Yummy Donuts- ya’ll should know that place they are open later than we are... Ok, can you hurry-,” the bartender said loudly staring directly at JC. “It looks like that the Dudes are leaving...you bet Ma’m - I’m staying on this damn phone and not getting off, if you hear the phone go dead you’ll know those bad dudes did it- please send a cruiser,” the bartender gripped the telephone receiver like a choke hold on a softball bat. With her right hand cocked like a gun, she growled at JC “Cops are on their way.”

  JC returned the glare of the barkeep and tugged Carmen by her left wrist as he wiped the dripping beer off his clothes. JC pulled Carmen with him toward the exit, trailed by the three men who had entered with him not 15 minutes before.

  Jo walked into the dim entry way to Dangerous Sushi. She smiled at the neon display sign of a bloated fish with an “X” over each eye socket and the caution “Dangerous Sushi!”

  JC charged forward, maintaining his grip, on Carmen as she slammed into Jo. Jo lost balance and paused. Immediately, she observed JC’s tight hand pulling Carmen away. The rugby captain in the back called for help from the rear of the bar “JO! Rosie’s hurt- I think she has a fractured jaw.”

  Just a moment was needed, and JC made it out the door to the waiting black Suburban. Jo made her choice in the moment, and pursued Carmen.

  JC pushed out the door, Jo followed five steps behind, and was staring down the sidewalk just in time to see a dark-suited man with dark glasses jumped out of a black Suburban and opened the rear car door for the departing couple. She ran closer as she saw a sinewy man release Carmen only to force her down into the back seat.

  “Hey, hey Carmen are you OK, hey Carmen come out!” Jo called. Jo dashed to the Suburban, but JC hopped in the car and slammed the door.

  The driver skidded out from the curb, flooring the gas pedal, as Jo stepped back, focusing on the make, model and year of the car. She grabbed a pen from her pants pocket and wrote the three final letters on her hand WXN.

  “’86 Black Suburban.”

  Jo stood silently on the busy sidewalk, and stared Carmen was swallowed into the tide of Hillcrest traffic.

  Jo hustled back into inside Dangerous Sushi. There she saw Rosie on the floor, holding a bag of ice against a swelling jaw. Jo came up, and put a palm softly on Rosie’s broad shoulder. “Hey- I am here for you lady.” Rosie just nodded. “How’s that jaw?” Rosie held up her fist and made a thumbs down. “OK, let’s get you to the ER.” The Veronica, which was how the Rugby Red Tide Captain demanded to be addressed, stepped forward. Red-headed, freckled, and bespectacled Veronica said, “Rosie, me and the team are going to take you to the ER now to get that jaw of yours looked at. That narco dude slammed you bad.”

  “Did you get the plates of the thugs that hit Rosie?” Veronica asked.

  Veronica tugged at Jo’s form-fitting knit black shirt. “Jo, you didn’t see this. I did. Those guys who hurt Rosie, they are the real deal. I think they are Mexican, and I am pretty sure I saw guns underneath their leather jackets.” Jo nodded. Veronica continued, “Look Jo, we are taking Rosie to get her jaw wired or whatever - I have seen worst things in Rugby- but you take those plates and your connections. You have to find out where those guys took that fine-looking woman.”

  Veronica and two other ladies eased Rosie up to a standing position. “Rosie, the team is taking you to the hospital,” Jo told her. “Did you see anything with Carmen tonight?” Jo asked. Through her tears, Rosie mumbled. “They dragged her I recognized her.” Rosie paused to grab her left jaw and nodded her head, “Then, boom, right in the face.”

  Veronica and the rugby team escorted Rosie to a teammate’s truck. Rosie hid her face in the bar-towel wrapped over ice and cried.

  33

  Out of Order

  The events of the day swirled through Jo’s mind. This loss was hitting her hard. She had grown accustomed to the callousness of the prosecutor who views crime, tragedy and calamity as career opportunities- not traumatic, life- changing events for the victims. Sure, her Dad was a cop, but as a teenager in the 1970s, it was the strategy, the competition that pulled her. Not the hand holding, not the hugs, not even the thank you notes from families. It was winning, beating the dude and watching him wither. As a girl with short hair and glasses, she liked to beat the crap out of bad guys with words, preparation and persistence. Today, those words had not been enough.

  Jo asked the bartender “So, you got a phone, I need to use your phone.” The bartender gestured with her hand. “You can’t use our phone. I am waiting for the cops.” She smiled suggestively, sizing up the tanned athleticism of Jo, set out with such style by her tight-fitting jeans. “They have a pay phone by Yummy donuts, if you need one,” said the bartender. Jo ran out the door to get help.

  Jo found the promised pay phone, and found loose change in her pocket. She pulled out two quarters and a torn bit of paper with the words “Jacobo “She read the number from the yellow legal paper in the light outside the 24-hour donut shop.

  “Jacobo” she announced definitively, as she pushed the buttons on the pay phone after hearing her two quarters register, and the chime of the dial tone. She bit her lip in annoyance as she heard the unmistakable beep of the Federal Pager Service. She peered at the pay phone and quickly punched the numbers, deliberately repeating them aloud to insure accuracy. She pressed the pressed the number sign to send the page. She looked at her watch and hovered near the phone. She waited. She needed his muscle.

  Jo looked at her watch again two minutes! Would Jacobo return a call to an unknown number? Jo watched the pre-weekend party scene from her sidewalk stance. Drunken gay boys staggered past. She stared at them fiercely, protecting the sanctity of what she now considered to be her pay phone. A woman dressed in a knit dress slowed down to gaze at the donuts visible through the window. She inhaled, “Ah, smells good. Ever have one of these donuts?” the woman asked Jo. Jo took a beat and glanced at her, did she know this lady?
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  “Amber?” Jo tentatively stated. “Amber Larsen?” Jo asked again. The woman in red flinched. Encouraged by this obvious recognition, Jo continued “you’re the new court reporter for McJust-, Jo snapped her fingers, I mean Judge Mack- “at first I didn’t recognize you with your hair down and without your glasses”

  “I get that a lot,” Amber said, tossing her long honey-blonde hair. “Well, I know you are so not celebrating,” Amber added directly with a faint smile.

  “Ya think?” was Jo’s playful response. “You got a thing for donuts?”

  Amber rejoined, “Ms. Gemma, I think I should turn that question on you as you are the person who is loitering on the premises of a Donut-ery.”

  “I’m waiting for a phone call and fighting crime- see that’s my day job and my night job.”

  “Josephine Gemma,” the court reporter flatly announced- “let me buy you a donut.

  “Until, I get that call, I am all yours.” Jo said as she held the heavy glass door open for Amber.

  “So, I never knew you were also a Thespian,” Jo said, waiting for a reaction.

  Jo stood close to Amber as she caught the eye of the thin middle-aged proprietor. “I’ll have the pink with rainbow sprinkles, and Madam Prosecutor?”

  Jo paused and chose -“That big, fat, oozing apple fritter, and a cup of Jo.” Amber chuckled and paid for the bounty.

  The two women sat down on a crumb-strewn table together. Jo chivalrously swept the assorted crumbs off the table and onto a napkin, which she then tossed into a waste bin.

  “What a day,” Jo declared. “Was it?” Amber answered.

  “Well, you do remember that verdict. I am not feeling terrific.”

  “Nothing like a donut to cheer you up,” Amber said. “And yes, I am very much a Thespian.”

  “A donut, correction, the right donut is the answer to the seeming futility of our efforts.” Amber held out her hand in the universal symbol of the traffic cop for STOP. As a court reporter, she had heard enough of long winded young lawyers.

  “I think you are reacting to the trial, the Not Guilty.”

  “Oh Amber, that hurt,” Jo said. “Maybe if I had a fair judge, they would have pulled the trigger.”

  Jo took a large bite of apple fritter, and of course, the payphone rang. Choking on fried dough and a canned apple slice, Jo sprinted to the phone.

  “Hello?” She shouted into the phone.

  “Jo?” came Jacobo’s pleasant tones. “Thank God it’s you!” Jo said with real appreciation.

  “How quickly can you meet at Yum-Yum donuts in Hillcrest?” She asked.

  “About twenty minutes, “he replied.

  “I’ll be here Jacobo, this is truly an emergency.” “In the meantime, can you run these plates, this model and make Suburban?” And Jo gave Jacobo what she knew about the black Suburban.

  Jo went back inside, “The Calvary is on it is way,” Jo explained.

  “In the meantime, then,” Amber said drolly, let’s enjoy our donuts. And share our Thespian interests.”

  34

  Suburban Crimes

  JC smiled in the back seat with Carmen. It was all going to be good, He had Carmen. Carmen had the Chevelle, and soon, El Chiño would have his Cocaine. And then, he would sleep with Carmen in Coronado, party on the beach, only A few things unexpected things had happened. But now, everything was good.

  He squeezed Carmen’s hand. She did not respond. She had the key to the Chevelle. He had his own key. But they needed the car. She gave the driver the directions, they were so close anyway.

  JC touched Carmen’s cheek. She pulled away. Annoyed, he grabbed her breast hard, and twisted.

  “Oh Carmen, you are mine,” he said for all to hear in the car. “Where is my gold medallion, chica? I don’t see it on your neck,” JC said.

  Coolly, Carmen answered, “I left the Jesus Malverde medallion with the cocaine for his protection and luck.”

  Carmen gave directions to the Chevelle, in the peaceful neighborhood. “Park here, it’s this house, the dark one, with the entry light.” Carmen surmised correctly that no one was home, as Rosie was at the ER with a broken face, and Jo was on a mad goose-chase to find this black Suburban. Carmen hoped she would soon be rescued from these brutal men.

  JC jumped out of the car as soon as the Suburban came to a stop in Jo’s driveway. He eyed the padlock on the manual garage door. “It’s not locked, just pull it off,” Carmen suggested.

  JC saw that she was right, and he swung up the old creaky single car garage door.

  It was dark, and he walked to the wall and flipped on the fluorescent light.

  She was beautiful and safe, thank God. He loved that incredible ‘66 Chevelle. She was there, he knew it, she had been waiting for him, sleek, clean and perfect. As JC stroked the car, he ordered, “Hold the girl.”

  JC pulled his key from his pocket, and turned the ignition. For the first time in a week, his asthma did not trouble him. JC took a deep breath of relief.

  “Leave her here,” El Chiño ordered. Carmen said nothing. Men, so arrogant, so sure they knew it all. JC gunned the powerful V-8. Finally, he was inside her. Carmen stepped aside.

  The Suburban backed out of the driveway, and El Chiño slid into the passenger side of the Chevelle. El Chiño withdrew his Colt Combat Commander and undid the safety with his thumb.

  “Follow the Suburban,” he said. JC obeyed.

  Carmen sat on the stoop and watched the two cars drive out of the cul de sac, and get lost into the foggy night. “Good luck, Cariño,” Carmen said to the departing Chevelle, not clarifying if she meant the car or the lover.

  The Suburban drove east for two miles, out of the quiet neighborhood, to the outskirts of the Marine Corps Training Center. Immediately outside the entrance to the Base, stood a series of train trestles. The railroad bridges hid much, and were host to hobos and homicides. The Suburban parked in the dark shadow of a large railroad train overpass. El Chiño, motioned for JC to get out of the Chevelle.

  “Friend, it is time to deliver. Pop the trunk and we’ll confirm delivery,” El Chiño said.

  JC swaggered to the rear of the Chevelle, placed the trunk key in the lock, and expertly revealed his treasure. At last, he could put these annoying days behind him. With business taken care of, he could turn to his attention to his many pleasures. He triumphantly ripped back the gold trunk upholstery expecting the tightly packed white bricks. He pulled up the felt with a stiff jerk, and saw a vacant chamber. His jaw went slack. This could not be. He ripped open the entire trunk area, and it was completely empty.

  El Chiño, despite his size, sprang out of the Chevelle. He slammed JC into the Chevelle side panel, denting the car, and causing blood to pour from JC’s newly disfigured cheek. Grabbing JC’s shirt collar, El Chiño simply said: “Where is it?”

  “A simple question, where is it?” El Chiño restated.

  Bleeding, and shaking, JC, for the first time in his life, told the truth. “Jefe, I don’t know.” JC held his breath in fear. Today he would be a man. He did not breathe a word about Carmen. He had no idea what happened to the cocaine. It might be with stupid sunburned gringo at the Tecate gas station. He would be the sacrificial lamb. JC bit his lip. The delicious sensation of grabbing Carmen’s breast flashed across his mind. Surely his uncle could buy just a few hours’ time to clear up this confusion.

  El Chiño smiled. JC smiled. JC lifted his hands up exposing his soft palms. All was good. He broadened his smile. El Chiño took out his shiny Colt Commander and shot the trembling man through the stomach.

  JC screamed in agony and horror. In this desolate place, the screams did not procure a helping hand. JC knew all too well what would come next. This knowledge was a greater torment than the pain that radiated throughout his bleeding body.

  El Chiño kicked JC in the stomach, and the fallen man whimpered and sobbed. More of JC’s blood marked the parking spot. “Maricon!” El Chiño spat down.

  “Throw him i
n the Chevelle trunk, “El Chiño grunted. They dumped the body in the faultless trunk. JC’s muffled cries continued.

  Jose’ jumped in the driver’s seat, gunned the V-8 engine, and blasted the radio. He enjoyed driving the lovingly restored ’66 Chevelle, even for such a short ride. JC did not lie; this car drove like a dream. The Suburban followed close behind.

  The two cars were across la linea in fifteen minutes. Five minutes later, they were parked in Tijuana Auto Repair. Both the body and the car were expertly processed by the same chop shop.

  35

  Better Than Donuts

  “We meet again,” Jacobo announced his arrival as obviously as possible. He figured, it wouldn’t be the last time he interrupted Jo on a date. Jacobo used police privilege to park in the red zone in front of the donut shop.

  “Do I have time for a donut?” He asked half in earnest. “Not tonight, Jacobo,” Jo said. Amber and Jacobo nodded recognition at each other. “No luck Jo,” Jacobo said to Jo’s questioning eyes. “Your partial plate info was not enough to get a match,” he said.

  “How about I drive you home?”

  Jo said her good bye to Amber, and climbed into Jacobo’s truck.

  “Where to ma’am?” Jacobo asked.

  “You can’t find that Suburban?” Jo countered.

  Jacobo shook his head “We can do a lot, but telepathy, and magic have not yet been mastered by the United States Customs service,” Jacobo said. “Yet.”

  “I wish we could find her, to maybe we could put a look out for Carmen Cortez.” Jo continued.

  Jacobo, kept his left hand on the big steering wheel, and pounded his big right fist on the dash. This made an impressive thud.