The Boys from Santa Cruz

2

Asmador had arrived in San Francisco around two o’clock in the morning and parked the Beemer just down the street from Epstein’s building. He’d climbed in back to catch a few hours of sleep, which was all he really needed, and awoke with the sun. Pissed into a plastic milk jug. Broke his fast with a Snickers bar. Waited and watched Epstein’s door from the front seat, absentmindedly fingering the gun in his pocket.

Gradually the street had come to life. Female human walking a dog. Chronicle truck spitting out rolled-up newspapers that thud and thump against doors, onto walkways, into hedges. Garage doors opening, disgorging single-occupant vehicles. Little humans skipping or plodding off to school by twos and threes.

Epstein’s building was two stories high, beige stucco with dark brown trim. Asmador’s attention had been focused on the front door, waiting, watching, willing it to move, when someone tapped on the car window. Startled, Asmador had pressed his nose against the tinted glass and seen a meter maid rapping the window with her summons book, then pointing to the alternate side of the street parking sign, and giving him the thumb-g’wan, get outta here.

And of course, no sooner had Asmador pulled away from the curb than he spotted a white Buick backing out of the garage of Epstein’s building and driving away. With an oath, he’d started up the BMW, pulled out without signaling, and tromped down on the accelerator. At the end of the block he’d almost plowed into the back of the Buick, which had stopped for a light, and had to slam on the brakes.

Asmador had to wait a few seconds for Epstein’s car to pull away, then followed it at a discreet distance until it disappeared into the maw of a basement parking garage on Buchanan Street, with a sign that read PARKING BY PERMIT ONLY. Seeing no empty parking spots on either side of Buchanan, Asmador turned right into the Safeway lot and parked the Beemer head-on in an angled stall directly across the street from the underground ramp. Then he settled back to watch and wait, his hands folded across his chest and his eyes half-closed.

One hour later, almost to the minute, spotting the white-on-white grille of the Buick emerging from the darkness of the exit ramp across the street, Asmador starts up his engine, throws the Beemer into reverse-and nearly backs into some old beater of a Chevy that’s blocking him in. He jams on the brakes, hits the horn, sticks his head out the window. “Out of my way! Get out of my way!”

The driver, a forty-something female, smiles and holds up a polite wait-a-sec finger, points to the car backing out in front of her. Meanwhile the Buick is turning left on Buchanan, heading toward the bay. Asmador sounds the horn. The woman gives him a helpless what-can-I-do? shrug. Asmador pounds the steering wheel in frustration as the Buick turns left again onto Marina Boulevard.

When the way finally clears, Asmador burns rubber backing out. But when he reaches the Marina Green, the Buick is nowhere in sight, so he buys a Croissan’wich and coffee at the drive-thru window of the Burger King on Bay Street, then returns to Francisco, parks across the street from Epstein’s building, and settles in for what he expects will be another long wait.

But only a few minutes later, a Hispanic-looking woman in a green maid’s uniform shows up on Epstein’s doorstep and lets herself in with a key. Asmador gobbles down the rest of his Croissan’wich, then slips the gun, with the safety off and a round in the firing chamber, into the back of his jeans before crossing the street and ringing Epstein’s doorbell.

“Jess?” says the cleaning woman, opening the door.

Only nine days ago, Asmador had found himself stammering helplessly at the grandparents’ door, unable to remember the little speech he’d memorized. When the old man tried to slam the door in his face, he’d had to bull his way in and kill them both immediately to keep them from calling for help. And even though the vultures had eventually feasted, or at least snacked, on their bodies, all in all, the Council had not been pleased.

And only two days ago, although Asmador had successfully memorized the speech he’d prepared for his meeting with Judge Brobauer, his delivery had been so awkward it had alerted both the old man and his caddy.

But somehow, in the intervening forty-eight hours, Asmador’s communication skills have improved exponentially. “Hello there. Hola! I’m an old friend of Mr. Epstein-he said it’d be okay if I wait for him here until he gets back.” Without waiting for an answer, he shoulders his way past her into the hallway, baring his teeth in what is intended to be a reassuring smile. “It’ll be all right, I promise. I’ll take full responsibility.”

“Hokay, but joo wait here. I call Mr. Skeep, tell heeng joo here.”

“Actually, I was hoping to surprise him.”

“Surprise heeng?” the woman parrots uncomprehendingly.

“Yeah, you know, like this.” Asmador draws the.38 from behind his back and shoots her twice, once in the chest as she backs away with both hands raised, and again in the head as her body lies twitching on the hardwood floor.