Guilt By Degrees

54

We were fifteen minutes late getting to Les Sisters, which meant we were still way ahead of Luis. The New Orleans-style restaurant in Chatsworth, at the northern tip of the San Fernando Valley, had been around for twenty-five years. Famous among those in the know for serving up some of the best Southern-style cooking this side of the Mason-Dixon Line, it would fit the bill for us in more ways than one. Aside from the killer food, the prices were reasonable, the people were great, and it was way off the beaten path, so we wouldn’t risk being seen together, which would’ve been bad for the shot-caller of a gang and not so great for a prosecutor either.

We took a table against the window in the tiny café and picked up the menu. Fried chicken, chicken creole, crawfish jambalaya, baby back ribs…I wanted to eat it all. Watching the waitstaff bring out steaming-hot plates heaped with all of the above didn’t help. We ordered the “hush pups” and Cajun popcorn for appetizers, and I told myself I’d order only a green salad for dinner. I tell myself things like that a lot.

I was on my fourth hush pup when Luis swaggered in and shuffled over to our table with a lazy grin. Dressed in a black leather coat, baggy jeans, and skull-stud earrings, he appeared more debonair than usual. Which wasn’t to say he didn’t look like a gangbanger-just one who was slightly more upscale.

“Hola, Ms. Prosecutor, Ms. Policía,” he greeted us, folding himself into the padded metal chair and stretching out his legs.

Luis always managed to look like he was kickin’ it in his living room. Even when he was cuffed in the back of a squad car.

The waitress’s smile told me it hadn’t been long since Luis was last here. So did his order. Without even looking at the menu, he ordered the rib combo with corn muffins, black-eyed peas with rice, and another plate of hush pups.

Bailey got the fried chicken and creamy slaw, and I ordered a green salad…and the fried chicken. Screw it, I was under stress.

“You still working on your GED?” I asked.

“Finished it.” Luis sniffed with pride. “Got into Los Angeles Community College. Startin’ in January.”

“That’s fantastic, Luis,” I said, truly impressed. I’d known he intended to earn his high school diploma and get into college, but sometimes intentions and reality don’t mix.

“Din’t think I could do it, huh?” he asked, his head tilted back, looking down his nose at me.

“Oh, I knew you could do it,” I replied. “I just didn’t know if you would.”

I smiled at him and raised my glass of water. He and Bailey lifted theirs, and we all clinked. “Congratulations,” I said. Luis looked pleased with himself as he nodded, then took a sip of water.

“So does this mean you’re not in the life anymore?” I asked.

Luis looked away, then back again. “Don’ you think it’s a bad idea for me to be talkin’ to you about that?” he said, an eyebrow raised.

“Usually,” I admitted. “Though if I was going to make something of it, I wouldn’t do it in this place, would I?”

“Hard to say what you might do.” Luis looked at me out of half-closed eyes.

I couldn’t tell whether his pose was meant to be seductive, threatening, or wary. I decided it didn’t matter.

“You have any connects with PEN1?” I asked.

This time both eyebrows shot up, and Luis pulled his head down into his jacket and leaned forward. “Why you wanna talk to them”-he sighed with exasperation and corrected himself-“I mean those…pendejos for?”

“We’re trying to find someone who might’ve hired them to do a hit,” I replied. “This person might still be using them.”

Luis snorted. “Usin’ ’em as what? A piñata?”

“As protection,” I said.

“Huh,” Luis said derisively. “Mus’ be un gilazo, usin’ a skinhead for somethin’ important like that.” He shook his head in disgust.

I looked at him impatiently. “Anyway…”

“I don’ know nobody in PEN1, but I got a connect with the Low Riders. Guess I could hook you up.” Luis turned back to me. “You sure you wanna meet with that pinche fool?”

A Nazi Low Rider could still work. He might be able to give us the leads to get to someone higher up in PEN1. And it wouldn’t take long. They all swim in the same cesspool.

“I don’t want to marry the dude, Luis,” I said. “I just need some information.”

“Whatever…,” he replied.

The waitress brought our food, and we all dug in. Between wolfing bites of ribs, Luis gave us the name and description of the “pinche fool.”

We’d finished dinner and walked out to Bailey’s car when Luis asked, “How’s your ride?” His grin was wide.

My car had been severely vandalized during the case that’d caused our paths to cross. Not only had Luis put my car back together, but he’d spiffed it up with a midnight-blue-sparkle paint job, new rims, and, among other amenities, a slamming sound system.

“It’s still way out of my league,” I said, smiling. “But I’m loving it.”

“You lemme know if you have any pra’lems, right?” he said earnestly.

“I absolutely will,” I said. “And thanks for the hookup, Luis.”

He muttered something that included pinche cabrón as he rounded his freshly polished green Chevy. He paused to wipe the chrome on the side-view mirror with his sleeve, then got in, fired up the engine, honked, waved, and slowly pulled away.

I waved back and couldn’t help smiling.

“He is one of a kind,” Bailey said, a little smile on her face too.

“Which is a good thing,” I replied. “One of him is plenty.”