The Pallbearers

Chapter 22

As we drove, I told Vargas that I didn't really have anything solid except for a strong feeling that Rick O'Shea was a strange choice to be running the nonprofit that owned Huntington House.

As I talked, Vargas had his BlackBerry out and was typing the information onto an e-page.

"I'll run him when I get back to the office," he said. "I've got some good sources."

"I already ran him. Nothing major. But trust me, the guy's slime."

Sabas nodded.

The address on Lupine Lane turned out to be a very large, new, Spanish hacienda-style house on about two acres with a front fountain and cobblestone drive located in an expensive new development. It looked like a hell of a lot of house for a guy who ran a charitable nonprofit corporation. The maroon Escalade I'd seen in the parking lot at Huntington House was parked out front.

"Maybe hes independently wealthy," Sabas said, reading my thoughts.

While we waited for O'Shea to leave his house so we could tail him, Sabas worked quietly on some legal documents in his briefcase. Occasionally, his BlackBerry would ring and he would speak softly to somebody in Spanish. The calls all seemed to involve a gang drive-by where he was defending two of the shooters.

He kept instructing the person he was talking to on which discovery motions he wanted filed first. He wasn't aware that I spoke Spanish. He thought he could have conversations in another language without my understanding. Maybe I could use that misconception to learn something that would come in hand}' clown the line.

At about ten o'clock, it started to get warm in the car so I turned on the engine and the AC.

"Y'know, if we'd been both paying closer attention, mavbe you and I coulda stopped this from happening," Sabas finally said, looking over at me.

"Right." I focused on the house, trying to keep his gaze out of mine. I didn't want him to see the pain I was hiding.

He was quiet for a minute, then he said, "You're right about my juvie record. I was at Huntington House in the early sixties. Twelve years old when I arrived. Already had a righteous one-eighty-seven on my yellow sheet. Back then I was working for a Latin Kings drug crew. I started out as a lookout at six years old. My set liked to use pee-wee G's for payback murders. It was how you got jumped in. The added benefit was, if one of us got caught, we'd only get juvie time.

"When I was nine it was finally my turn. I popped a Sureno over by one of our drug houses. The vato was only sixteen, but he hadda go cause he was doing corners on one of our blocks. The flute I used was a piece of rust. I'm amazed now it even fired. My cousin, Arturo, gave it to me, and cause I never owned my own burner, like an idiot I ditched it in my backyard. I wanted to keep it. Took the cops about ten minutes to find the damn thing.

"After I did my juvie CYA time, the courts assigned me to Huntington House. I found out later that Pop heard about my case and rigged that for me, got me out of the sheriff's honor rancho two years early. Once Pop was on a mission, there was no ducking him. He kept hammering on my juvie judge until she placed me there."

It was a familiar story. I'd heard different versions from other Huntington House grads.

Sabas went on. "When I arrived at Huntington House, I got put in Harbor Elementary. I had lotsa little homies in that escuela. With my bad-ass murder rep I was an instant big deal. A leader. I was down for my boys. But Pop was having none of it. As soon as he found out, he wouldn't let me see any of those kids, then he put me into a new school in Long Beach where I didn't have any vato brothers. Drove me all the way over there each morning himself. Pop got me out of my old set by force of will."

Vargas stopped his story and sat there thinking about it for a moment. "Y'know, I never got that dead Sureno off my conscience. It's been half a century and I still dream about that kid."

The overactive BlackBerry was now off and forgotten in his scarred hands. He turned to face me.

"Since he died, I've been seeing Pop in my memory, remembering him like he was back then. You ever do that?"

"All the time."

"He take you surfing?"

"Yeah."

"Losers on parade, right? I got to go a lot because I couldn't get out of my own way back then. Once we were alone, out beyond the break, Pop would be working to convince me I should take a better path. Nothing I did got him off my back. The man was on me like gel coat.

"I can still see him paddling out on that big ol' gun he used, that rhino chaser. Catchin' a pipe ride, getting vertical on his log, riding it 'til the curl collapsed. Then afterward, all of us on the beach having Cokes and sweet rolls. Me wondering what the fuck I'm gonna do with myself. How I'm gonna get through tomorrow. Wishin' someone would just save me the trouble and take me off the count." He stopped for a moment before he added, "Walt kept me alive. He got me all the way from there to here."

"Pretty much says it," I answered softly.

We sat there in silence, both dealing with separate memories.

Half an hour later the front door opened and Rick O'Shea came out. He was dressed in workout gear, carrying his gym bag. His muscles rippled.

"Yeah, this pendejo definitely came off the wrong bus," Sabas said, watching as Rick O'Shea got into his car.

I let him pull away, then I put the MDX in gear, dropping in about a block and a halfback. We followed the maroon Escalade onto the 118 and then all the wav into downtown L. A.