The Renegades

35

“Hector’s arena on fight night? Pure insanity. Gangsters everywhere, and not only Mexican. Every Eighteenth click for miles around is there. Cadres of Crips and Bloods and Gangster Disciples. I see stone-faced Eme captains and smiling MS-13 killers and Aryan Brothers and Nazi Lowriders and Asian gangs. And not just gangs-the arena is filled with unaffiliated freelance horribles of every size, shape and color. Talk about a good place for people-watching.

“There are athletes I recognize from the papers-football players, boxers, a recent NBA draftee. Some spectators have brought dates. Every imaginable drug is being used right out in the open, washed down with every imaginable drink, topped off by joints and bongs and pipe loads and tobacco. The smoke hangs in a cloud high up in the ceiling. I figure that if any ten of these people had been gathered in any other place on Earth, there would be multiple homicides and epic mayhem. But fight night is different. It’s a boiling cauldron of L.A. bad guys out for good clean fun. No business is done. All are equal. Affiliations mean nothing. Everyone there is having a great time.

– Look at these fucking people, says Laws.

– That’s the only thing they’re not doing.

– Yet. Let’s get the money and get out of here.

– Hector wants us to stay.

– I’m not staying. You can.

– We’re a team.

– We’re way outnumbered, partner.

“So we climb the stairs to the luxury box as usual. We go in. Rocky and three of his shotgunners stand guard at the windows while Camilla locks the sliding glass door and Hector begins pouring shots of something from a dark blue bottle with no label on it.

“They want to party and Terry and I just want to get the money and get the hell out of there. But the luggage is right where it’s supposed to be, and the unloading and weighing and vacuum sealing and repacking go smoothly. Four hundred and eight thousand dollars-an all-time high. Avalos predicts that Herredia will give us all a bonus, yes, yes, yes, a bonus grande! He’s drunk as I’ve ever seen him, and still lucid.

“I stand behind the sliding glass door and look down on the action. I wonder if God feels this way, gazing upon Earth. What a world: a brindle pit bull is tearing into a smaller, black dog, and the two factions of the crowd are bellowing against each other as if their lives are in the balance. High up in the bleachers someone collapses and they load his limp body down the crowd but nobody bothers to stand, they just pass him along hand to hand like a big bag of beans. When he gets to the bottom a couple of young vatos drag him into a walkway between the bleachers, then hustle back to their seats.

“Now the brindle has the black dog by the throat and the smaller dog is tight to the brindle’s leg but both animals are so exhausted they can only lie there, breathing hard. Did you know that dogs in combat sometimes sleep for several minutes right in the middle of a fight, an instinctive symbiosis before mustering their energies again to kill each other? Well, they do. Then the black dog lets go of the leg and the brindle is able to stand and bore its bloody head into the throat of the smaller dog. And then he starts that savage shaking that pit bulls do. I have to squint it’s so hard to watch, being a dog man myself. I whistle something. The crowd is screaming for death but the black dog’s owner finally throws in a white rag, then two men wearing elbow-high welder’s gloves jump the pit walls and force apart the dogs.

“Laws pulls two of the rolling suitcases to the sliding glass door, then comes back with two more. Below, the black-dog faction is booing and the brindle faction has gone bonkers, throwing their drinks and cheering. Some approximation of a doctor makes a show of examining the limp black dog with a flashlight. He wears welder’s gloves, too.

– There’s no way, says Laws.

– No way what?

– No way to see this and not die.

– Ignore it.

– That’s what I mean. You have to be dead to ignore it.

– Steady, Terry. Five minutes and we’re out of here.

“Rocky and his three men escort us down the steps. It’s much louder outside of the private box, and a wild musky smell cuts through the drug and tobacco smoke. The whole arena feels ready to ignite. Single file, Terry and I each push one suitcase and pull another, all of which bounce precariously down the steps until the rollers hit the floor. They draw plenty of looks but nobody is inclined to contest four stubby combat shotguns holding eight rounds each.

“Suddenly Laws veers off to the fight pit. He parks the suitcases upright and hops into the ring, and I think for sure this is the beginning of the end.”

“You’ve said that before,” says Bradley. “Laws has gotten you to the brink at least twice before, with Herredia.”

“I didn’t know what a brink was until now. I stop and watch Terry. I figure he’s going to strangle or maybe even shoot the dog handlers or the doctor. His big body blots out the sight of them. I can’t really see what he’s doing. I let go of one suitcase and rest my hand on the pistol under my sport coat. The shotgunners, who are supposed to be protecting the money, all lower their weapons at Terry.

“But the crowd sees what I can’t see, and it goes quiet for a long beat. Then all of a sudden there’s a drunken roar. And when Terry climbs back out of the pit, he’s got the defeated black dog in his arms and a martyr’s calm on his face. The dog is wrapped in a Mexican blanket. The ring doctor jumps the wall and stuffs a handful of something in Terry’s jacket pocket and Terry says something to him and the doctor says something back. But Terry doesn’t even break stride. Rocky takes one of Terry’s suitcases and one of his gunmen takes the other, and the six of us and one mostly dead dog proceed to the exit. We proceed to the exit!

“I steer my VW Touareg south on Interstate Five. In the rearview I see Terry back in the second row of seats, holding the animal on his lap. The car smells of blood and fear, and Laws is talking to the dog in a low voice, telling it that things will be okay, you’re going to be just fine, hang in there, amigo.

– The doctor said his name is Blanco, says Laws.

– He’s black, not white.

– That doctor helped us out. He really did. There’s scissors and butterfly stitches here, and a bunch of antibacterial ointment and swabs and gauze and a roll of white tape. Laurel will love this innocent warrior.

– He’s probably going to die, Terry. You have to figure he’s going to die.

– Don’t tell me what to figure, Coleman. There are figurers greater than you.

– I’m saying the dog can die.

– Blanco will not die.

– Keep the blood off the leather, Terry.

– It’s all in the blanket. Good dog. Good Blanco. You hang in there, my friend.

“The dog is still alive two hours later when we come into San Ysidro and join the line of traffic heading for the border. Laws and I both know that getting an American dog in and out of Mexico is much harder than smuggling large sums of drug money, so we take Blanco to a twenty-four-hour emergency veterinary clinic. Laws badges the employees and pretty much tells the truth about Blanco and what happened to him. He gives them his credit card and agrees to an estimated twelve hundred bucks for treatment and boarding charges, just for the night. The young vet says that Blanco’s chances are “fair.” Terry tells the doctor that the dog will live. I’ll tell you, something in the tone of Terry’s voice really got my attention. I’d never heard that tone from him. The young doctor, he turns kind of pale, and he nods and looks away.”

I watch Bradley Jones as he puts the flame to a fresh cigar.

“So,” he says. “Laws has found his heart and lost his mind.”

“Approximately.”

“Near the dirt road that cuts off from Mexican Highway Three, I hit the brights and look for the small pile of stones that marks the turnoff. Terry still has the dog on his mind and that almost sad, almost content look on his face, like he’s bound for heaven or something.

– It’s important that Herredia has confidence in us, I say.

– What’s that supposed to mean?

– There was the falling-in-the-swimming-pool incident. Then the passing-out-in-his-chair incident. He worries about your religious conversion, Terry. He worries that it will interfere with our work.

“Laws goes quiet while I guide the SUV off the asphalt and bounce it across the shoulder to the dirt road that leads to El Dorado. Dust rises in the headlights and the beams straighten into the desert.

– You told me all that before, Coleman.

– Stay focused, Terry. Stay calm. Choose life.

– I’ve murdered for profit. I’ve been forgiven by God. I see no contradiction in that. I see no reason why God should interfere with our work.

– God is not our employer. Herredia is.

– Then I will render unto El Tigre.

– Terry, keep your God and your jokes to yourself. You should know that by now. I can’t cover for you much longer.

– Don’t worry. Be happy.

– I worry and I am not happy.

– Blanco is going to be fine.

I order a bottle of good Brunello and we choose two more cigars. The night is still young and the Sunset Strip is just now beginning to find its mood. When I first moved from Jacumba I rented a place on Horn, just a few blocks from here, but I could only afford to keep it for two months. I had a business to build. But I found myself a Sunset girl, and we had more than our share of moments. Excessive women are easy to identify-they have a visible aura, as excessive men have known for centuries.

I taste the wine and nod, and the waitress pours.

“So, we make El Dorado shortly after midnight. We’re escorted in, as usual. It’s a moonless night and I can feel tension in the air. A helicopter circles steadily high above. Laws is a bloody spectacle, but luckily, he always traveled with a change of clothes. He excuses himself to change. The American women are not to be seen, and Herredia is preoccupied. Felipe keeps his one good eye extra close on me.

“But the unpacking and weighing go smoothly. Felipe weighs and repackages our share. Laws doesn’t say much, and neither does Herredia. We eat a light meal, and six hours later we’re back at the animal hospital.

– Blanco is doing very well, says the vet. He’s stabilized and resting. I think he’s going to be okay.

– What did I tell you? asks Laws.

“The doctor nods and looks at Blanco asleep in the crate. Laws signs off on the fourteen-hundred-dollar charge and carries the crate to the Touareg. I get the bag of pills and ointments and I see the vet’s relieved expression as we walk out.

“San Ysidro is hazy and slow in the winter dawn. I look out the window and see something beautiful in this place. And a feeling tries to come to me that I haven’t felt in a while-not since Terry had made a fool of himself after the fishing trip. The feeling is that everything is going to be okay. Okay. What a sound that word has, when you hear it clearly and you believe it. I look over at Terry and of course he’s got Blanco on his lap and a peaceful gaze on his face as he looks down on the thing. Madonna and child, whatever, I think, whatever happens next is going to be okay. And as soon as you tell yourself that everything’s going to be okay, that’s when the gods choose to demolish your hopes, right? So get a load of this. Here’s what Terry says next.

– Do you ever feel like confessing to all this? Just putting it all down, in words or on a tape in your own voice? Not necessarily so anybody could hear it. Just to relieve your soul.

– No, Terry. I’ve never, ever thought that. Not even for one second.

“The adrenaline hits me like lightning. I truly cannot believe what Terry is saying, though I hear it very clearly. A confession!

– You haven’t done that, have you, Terry? Made a tape, or written something down?

– Maybe.

– You either have or you haven’t.

– I haven’t. I was kidding.

– But Terry, if you were going to confess, how would you do it?

– DVD. That way it’s me, my voice, my face. My whole visible and audible being. And there wouldn’t be any doubt that I was coerced or framed. It would be the truth. I’d start with Eichrodt and work my way forward.”

– And what about me, Terry?

– What about you? You’re my partner, and we did most of this together. I’d take half the blame for Vasquez and Lopes. Just because I didn’t have the balls to shoot him doesn’t mean I’m less guilty than you. But I’d have to include you. This is about truth. You have to put in the whole truth or it’s just another facet of a lie. Right? See what I’m saying?”

I pour another glass of wine for each of us. Bradley is studying me with new eyes because he now sees that I had one more reason to kill Terry Laws. But he knows I did not kill Terry, because I am not Londell Dwayne, or whoever Hood saw that night. So Bradley is wondering, as is all of L.A., who killed Laws? And why? Of course, I know the answer to both of those questions. And I’ll tell them to Bradley when I think he’s ready to crash through the next wall of truth.