The Pallbearers

Chapter 15

As I drove toward the six o'clock meeting in Boyle Heights, I checked in with Sally Quinn. She wasn't there so I left her a message to call me. I was going east on Whittier Boulevard, heading deeper and deeper into East L. A. Tagger art announced the gang blocks. MS-13's graffiti gave way to East Side Surenos, then 18th Street Locos, and finally to Latin Kings. The letters were angry black slashes made from thousands of Home Depot spray cans.

If you're uninitiated, this jagged tagger script can be almost impossible to read, but after a few weeks in a squad car, you get pretty-good at it. Driving the East L. A. ghetto was a little like riding through hostile Indian country in an open wagon. If you didn't want an arrow in the back, you'd better scan the rocks for signs of danger.

Since many of these Hispanic gangs had different countries of origin, their cultural differences tended to define their behavior. Knowing which bunch you were up against could affect your survival.

I finally pulled up in front of the address Seriana had given me. I had been expecting an office building, but instead found a small, badly maintained Spanish-style bungalow in the middle of six blocks tagged as Latin Kings turf. I looked at my watch. It was still early, and I didn't see Jacks Harley or any other car I recognized from before. I figured I was the first to arrive, so I sat at the curb and cased the run-down block and house. A small sign propped in the window read:

SABAS VARGAS

ATTORNEY AT LAW

A few minutes later, I saw a white woman dressed in a tailored cream-colored pantsuit, carrying an expensive-looking, oversized shoulder bag, walking up to a porch six houses away. She looked completely lost.

I watched as she knocked, waited for the door to open, then spoke for a moment to somebody inside. The door was abruptly slammed in her face.

I knew even before she turned that it was Vicki Lavicki walking around down here in her summer suit and sensible shoes like a Jehovah's Witness who drew the short straw.

Then a lowrider with four young thugs inside glided by, pulling to a stop where she was standing. She stupidly crossed to the lowered Chevy and started asking for directions.

The four teenaged vatos in the lowrider didn't seem to be paying much attention to what she was saying. They were busy taking inventory of her jewelry.

They got out of their axle-dragging mother ship and surrounded her on the sidewalk like a pack of wild coyotes about to shred a defenseless poodle.

I couldn't hear what was being said, but Ms. Lavicki didn't seem to appreciate the danger she was in. She had one hand in her purse fishing around for a pen or something, while four Latin Kings in black and gold head wraps were fanning out, going into attack mode.

"Shit," I muttered and got out of my car, pulling my badge, while moving quickly up the block toward her.

"Hey, Vicki!" I called out to distract them, holding up my creds as I ran. The four vato thugs spun to check me out, trying to decide whether to add me to the party or just roll on. I pulled back mv jacket as I ran, showing them my sidearm in its clip-on holster. Because they were just teenagers, I didn't want to draw down on them. I was pretty sure they were all packing but was trying not to initiate a gun-fight. I kept my right hand near my gun and my left holding the creds high as I ran to let them know they'd be firing on a cop.

They hesitated for a minute, decided they didn't want that kind of trouble, got back into their lowered hood mobile, and pulled slowly off. They took the corner at the end of the block at an insolent five miles an hour.

"My hero," Vicki said dryly as I approached. "Very John Wayne, but I had that handled."

"You were seconds from getting unzipped," I told her, but she waved this off as she glanced clown at an address in her hand.

"I must ve gotten the wrong street number from Diamond," she said. "Where the hell is Vargas's office?"

"Listen, Ms. Lavicki, in the future it might not be such a good idea to wander around down here alone."

Her hazel eyes cut holes in me. "I was okay. You were the one causing the problem."

"You were not okay. Those guys were packing."

"Me too." Then she pulled her right hand out of the purse. The whole time she'd been holding a snub-nosed. 44 caliber Charter Arms Bulldog with a wood-checked grip, aiming it at them from inside her purse.

"You're supposed to be a damn accountant. What kind of adding machine is that?"

"It subtracts to six, but there were only four, so you do the math," she said. Then, because I frowned deeply, she added, "Get over it, Scully. I sometimes carry cashier's checks for my firm. I have a permit."

"You were gonna shoot them?"

She stuffed the Bulldog back into her purse and smirked at me. "That was just a little chest bump. Those guys were only sniffing."

"And you re some kind of expert on street action," I shot back.

"Before I got put in Huntington House, I was raised in South Central," she replied. "I was the only white face on my block. The shit jumped off in that hood almost every night. We didn't have bars in our windows, we had MAC-lOs." She seemed tired of discussing this and abruptly changed the subject, showing me the slip of paper in her hand. "You know where Vargas's office is? These all look like houses. I was expecting a building."

"I'm glad you're not doing my taxes. This three should be an eight." I pointed to the bungalow half a block away.

Alexa had called Vicki a brass cupcake, and she was right. I now had a tough-talking pistol-packing CPA and ex-South Central hood rat from Kinney and Glass to worry about. I got my briefcase out of the MDX, and we walked up the path to the front door of Vargas's bungalow and rang the bell.

A minute later, a tough-looking male teenager opened up. He was dressed in Latin Kings colors, wearing a black and gold New Orleans Saints football jersey, a hairnet, and four-hundred-dollar Air Jordans. He also had a big LK emblazoned on the side of his neck and two teardrop tattoos under his right eye, indicating that, despite his tender age, he'd already lost two homies in the street.

The man-boy stared at us insolently but made no move to step out of the way. His attitude wasn't going to do much for the walk-in trade.

"We're here for the six o'clock meeting," Vicki said, not wavering under his malevolent stare. "You wanta go tell Mr. Vargas we're here or just stand there acting like a dickhead?"

Jesus… I thought. But he just stepped aside and let us in.

I followed Vicki into the house. The bungalow looked to be entirely devoted to Sabas Vargas's legal practice. There were several hard-looking Hispanic women in their mid-twenties to thirties typing legal documents on computers and answering phones. Most of them also had teardrop tattoos. It wasn't like any law office I'd ever been in before. This staff looked like a bunch of parolees. Then one of the chica warriors stood and confronted us.

"What is it?" the tall, angry presence demanded.

"We're here to talk to Sabas." I fished out my trusty badge again. She glared, shrugged, then turned and, without a word, left us there, heading into the back.

"Put that thing away," Vicki whispered. "Nobody cares."

A moment later, Sabas came down the hall in shirtsleeves. Without the jacket and with his cuffs rolled up, I could see that he was heavier than I had originally thought. A roll of fat pressed at his belt line, a faded marine tattoo decorated one forearm.

"I'm just wrapping up a client conference," he said, and I noticed a very slight Mexican accent that I'd somehow failed to detect at the reception. "Some of the others are already gathered in the conference room. Follow me." We headed toward the back of the house.

I could see into the guest bedrooms that opened off the hall. They were full of records and supplies. One was outfitted with a copy-machine and file cabinets. He led us into a den, which looked out over a small weed-choked backyard that surprisingly contained a cracked and empty kidney-shaped swimming pool. Then he left us, heading back down the hall to finish his meeting.

The room contained a fold-up conference table and ten metal chairs. Jack Straw was lounging in one, tipped back insolently. Seriana Cotton was sitting with rigid military posture in another. Diamond Peterson hadn't made it yet.

"I didn't see the Harley out front," I said.

"We both parked around back in Sabas's driveway," Straw replied. "You'd have to be brain dead to leave your ride out front."

I had a sudden mental image of my MDX jacked up, missing all four tires, radio, and airbags.

"This is quite a setup," I said, indicating the reception area out front. "I could probably make my arrest quotas for the week by just running this guys office staff."

"Sabas told us he takes a lot of pro bono cases," Seriana explained. "His clients and their families work in the office to settle out their legal expenses."

Before I could respond, Sabas Vargas came into the den and closed the door behind him. "Let's get started," he said, taking control of the meeting. "I just talked to Diamond and she said she had some inventory lists to take care of at Huntington House and will be a little late."

He pulled up his chair and sat at the edge of the table. "Okay, lets talk about how we go about proving Pop didn't kill himself so Huntington House can get this life-insurance check." He looked directly at me. "Shane, why don't you start by giving me a police take on that."