The Dying Ground (20 page)

“Who, Felicia’s brothers?”

“Hell yeah! They looked like straight penitentiary-ass killas. I hope they getting the fuck out of here soon. You know, Charlie resurfaced looking beat down!”

Holly and I looked at each other. “When was that?” I asked.

“About an hour ago while everybody was at your spot. The man was butt naked, ribs cracked, face all swoll’ up and shit.”

“Got damn.” Holly shook his head. “He say who did it?”

“Everybody know who did it, but Charlie wouldn’t talk. You almost felt sorry for his crazy ass. The man got clowned.”

“Who saw him?”

“Not too many folks. Emmet’s boys found him and now they ready to rumble. It ain’t like they got love for him, but the Bay got a rep to uphold. Can’t have tricks coming from L.A. and trying to run shit.”

“I heard that.” Holly’s eyes were vacant. He’d already chosen sides.

“You hear anything else?”

“Nope. Felicia still ghost, huh?” He directed the question at me.

I nodded. He grinned at me slyly. “What’s up with Chantal’s sister? Girl is fine, with that big ass and them Chinese eyes.”

“Japanese,” I corrected, before catching myself. Holly looked at me like I was crazy. Jeff smiled like a fool.

“Man, did you hit it already? Maceo got game!” He yelled the last of it out to the passing crowd.

“It ain’t like that” was my feeble attempt at damage control. If Black Jeff heard it, it was already in the street.

“Maceo ain’t got no game.” I turned to see Crowley approaching. He slid up to the car with a lyric ready: “I hold the microphone like a grudge/B’ll hold the record so the needle don’t budge.”

Holly finished with “I hold a conversation ’cause when I invent/I nominated my DJ for president.” Crowley smiled as Holly chastised him. “Rakim fool, you sleepin’. Give me something hard. Everybody know the master.”

“Just lettin’ you off easy, Black man.” Crowley gave Holly a pound, then turned to me. “Maceo ain’t got game unless you talking ’bout baseball.”

Black Jeff hit him in the chest. “He got more game than you, nigga. He hooked up with Chantal’s sister.”

“Like that?” Crowley’s eyebrows were raised in astonishment. “Damn! Maceo! How you pull all these fine chicks with your short ass? Must be the Sammy Davis factor.”

“George Jefferson!” Jeff shouted. The two of them dissolved in laughter while Holly and I watched.

Crowley finally calmed himself down enough to lean into the car. “Jeff told y’all about Charlie?”

We nodded.

“They fucked him up.” He threw a few air punches. “Beat the man like he was a slave.”

“Hey, dawg.” Jeff tapped Crowley. “I heard they tried to iron him.”

“Word?”

“Word.”

Crowley shivered. “That’s messed up. Los Angeles should be burned down, if you ask me. Anybody try to fuck with that
place come to ruin. I heard Billy was trying to move in down there. He hooked up wit’ some Mexicans that was giving him a good price.”

“Mexicans?” Holly’s interest was piqued. “When you hear that?”

“At the funeral. Y’all know that Mexican from Vallejo. The one wit’ the pit bulls.” He snapped his fingers, trying to remember. “Damn, what’s his name? He got the dogs and the scar above his lip. One of his dogs bit him in the face.”

“Oh, you talking about Jorge!” Black Jeff said. “Got that Rico Suave accent.”

“Yeah, that’s him. Apparently, Jorge hooked Billy up wit’ some of his cousins.”

“No shit? Billy kept that on the under. I always wondered why he had such cool prices on dope.” Holly hid his anger and amazement well.

“That’s why, my man. He was hooking up wit’ the source. Fuck the Colombians in the nineties. A brother need to get wit’ the Mexicans.”

Black Jeff tapped Crowley on the head. “But you know, dawg, Jorge isn’t a Mexican.”

“Ain’t his name Jorge the Mexican?”

“Yeah, but that’s ’cause niggas ignorant about nationalities.”

“What’s the difference?”

“History. Countries.”

“No, I mean what difference does that make to me? To how much money I make or how I sleep at night?”

“None.”

“Alright then.” He turned back to Holly. “Jorge
the Mexican
got all kinda hookup. You should check wit’ him. Might know more than what’s been said.” He offered a pound by way of an exit. “I’m out.”

“See ya.”

Crowley slid away from the car as Black Jeff balanced on his board. “Alright, y’all. Time for me to get in the cut.” Slipping on a Rastafarian knit cap, he skated away, jumped a bus bench for our benefit, and headed off into the campus.

I pulled Felicia’s house keys from my pocket. “One more time?”

Holly nodded, and we headed west.

“Nice to see you again, Jonathan.”

Holly and I were stopped on the cramped staircase leading to Flea’s apartment by Blakenhorn and Sullevich. Regina stood behind them at the top of the stairs looking shaken.

“What happened?” I spoke to her as if the two officers were not there.

Blakenhorn answered for her. “Looks like there was some sort of break-in while she was out today.” He tilted his head to the side. “Would you know anything about that?”

Holly pushed his way past, his lips locked like a safe. Sullevich grabbed his arm and yanked him back down the steps. Holly lost his balance, which gave Sullevich the advantage. Holly was bent over, his arm at an unnatural angle, but he didn’t let the anger show in his face.

“Lost your balance there, son?” Sullevich yanked up on the bent arm and Holly grimaced. “Don’t mean to cause you any pain—”

“Sullevich!” The sharp command came from the bottom of the staircase. Déjà vu. For the second time that day Noone arrived to put his officers in check. I didn’t believe for a moment it was a coincidence.

Sullevich didn’t miss a beat. “I was just helping him up.
The kid stumbled. Uncoordinated.” He turned to Blakenhorn. “The other one’s the athlete, right?”

Blakenhorn nodded. “Baseball or something.”

Noone made his way up the stairs as Holly shook himself loose and walked up to Regina and into the apartment. Noone hurried after him.

“That’s a crime scene. Don’t touch anything.”

In the apartment I was shocked at the chaos. The couch was slashed open, the marrow scattered over the front room. The television lay on its side; cabinets and drawers were pulled out and emptied. The kitchen had also been overturned, with dishes broken and the refrigerator on its face, the contents piled against a counter like discarded garbage.

In the hallway paintings had been pulled from the wall and the frames splintered open. Regina’s room was the first one at the top of the hall. I looked in to find nothing out of place. The bed was still made, pillows propped nicely, nothing discarded on her desk or dresser.

“They didn’t touch my room at all.”

“When did you get here?” I asked.

“Just a little while ago. I came by to pick up some more clothes. I asked my neighbors if they heard anything, but no one was home.”

I doubted that and so did she. Most of them probably remembered the savage beating Charlie had received just days before.

Sullevich and Blakenhorn stomped into the apartment behind us. “The neighbors, of course, didn’t hear a thing.”

Noone looked at the three of us. “Maceo, you still keeping quiet? You can’t tell me this isn’t all related. Billy’s murder, Felicia’s disappearance”—he pushed open the door to her bedroom—“the specific way this apartment was ransacked.”

Felicia’s room was a direct contrast to Regina’s. Nothing was left untouched. Her mattress and box spring had been pushed against a window—which had cracked from the pres-sure—and slashed open. The comforter, sheets, and pillows were spattered with blood, as were the papers and books from her overturned desk.

Noone pushed Holly and me back. “I’ll need you both to leave the apartment.”

Regina spoke up. “I’d feel more comfortable if they stayed.”

“I understand that, ma’am.” Noone’s voice was patient, though his nose twitched with irritation. “They don’t have to leave; they can stay in the hall. But I do need them to leave the premises.”

Regina joined us in the hall out of earshot of the police.

“Where do you think the blood came from?” I asked.

“There’s broken glass under the bed. I think the blood was an accident but they were looking for something that had to do with Flea. They didn’t even touch my room.”

“Do you remember Flea and Billy going to L.A. recently?” Holly shot a look my way.

“They went all the time, at least twice a month,” Regina answered.

“What for?”

She shrugged. “Vacation. Flea wanted to see her Aunt Venus. She’s been sick.”

“Do you have her number?” I asked.

“I spoke to her yesterday. I called earlier to see if she’d heard from Flea, but she hadn’t. At least she said she hadn’t. Flea could have been there, for all I know.”

“Her brothers would have said something if she was.”

“I doubt that,” Regina answered. “Venus doesn’t speak to Reggie and Crim.”

“When was the last time they went to L.A.?”

“The weekend before Billy got killed.”

“Damn,” Holly muttered from across the hall. I thought his words were a reaction to Regina’s, but he was looking out the window. “Speak of the devils.”

A few minutes later Reggie and Crim appeared at the bottom of the stairs. “Y’all heard anything?” Reggie started up the stairs toward Holly.

He held up his hand to stop them. “The police are here.”

Reggie stopped in his tracks. “They find my sister?”

“Naw, somebody broke into the apartment.”

“For what?”

“Don’t know, but the place tore up. Y’all heard from Flea?”

“Nope.”

Regina spoke up. “I talked to your Aunt Venus, and she hasn’t heard anything either.”

“When did you talk to her?” Reggie looked back toward Crim with a raised eyebrow.

“Yesterday.”

“We heard that Billy and Flea were going down to L.A. a lot,” I said.

Both Reggie and Crim looked at me as if I’d farted.

“L.A.?” Reggie asked, his eyes wide in disbelief.

“Yeah. Regina said Flea told her your Aunt Venus was sick.”

“W-w-wa-what?” Crim was blinking furiously in bewilderment. “S-s-sick?”

“Yeah. Flea and Billy drove down at least twice a month.”

Reggie and Crim looked at each other. The news seemed a complete surprise to both of them. Holly decided then to play the trump card. “We heard on the street Billy was trying to move into the L.A. market with some Mexicans.”

Reggie stepped back toward the door. There was no mistaking his fury. “Where you hear that?”

“Everybody was talking about it at the funeral. Billy kept it on the under, but he had cool prices so it makes sense.”

“Who hooked him up wit’ the Mexicans?”

Holly shrugged. “Wish I knew.”

Behind Reggie, Crim looked frantic. It was the first time I’d seen either of them at such a loss. Reggie wasn’t as big as he thought if Billy and his own sister bypassed him in order to enter the L.A. drug market.

“L-l-let’s get the f-f-fuck up outta here!” Crim pulled Reggie back toward the door.

As they stepped through the threshold, Reggie turned to me and Regina. “If y’all hear from Flea, tell her to call home.”

“You do the same,” Regina said, but I could tell from Reggie’s expression that he didn’t expect to talk to his sister.

I sat down on the top stair, which gave me a perfect view of Charlie’s Bronco. When Reggie reached for the door handle I saw a white bandage wrapped roughly around his hand. It was hard work beating the shit out of someone. Reggie’s injuries were probably minor compared to Charlie’s.

Holly dropped his voice. “Sounds like your girl was living foul.”

Though I didn’t want to believe it, the evidence was starting to say otherwise. In my heart and mind, Felicia was nothing but innocent, but her mysterious actions and sudden disappearance threw suspicion on her recent activities.

Regina spoke my fears. “Y’all think Flea was involved in this?”

I refused to answer.

Holly told it like it was. “Without a doubt.”

J
orge the Mexican looked more like an Indian than anything else. He wore his hair in a long ponytail with gold pirate hoops in each ear. He cultivated a Raul Julia accent and suave
bolla
mannerisms but sported a big nasty belly that shot it all to hell.

Jorge’s house, which he liked to call the Compound, was made up of two lots on a dead-end industrial street in Vallejo. The front structure was made out of stone blocks with a slanted stucco roof to cap the second story. It looked primitive, as if it had been built by crackheads working for extra credit. I always expected to see chickens and pigs in the backyard.

Behind the main house was a large converted garage where Jorge held court and entertained wannabes and his crew. As we approached we could see a few of them playing cards on a rickety table. The open space on the far side of the yard housed three pens of snarling dogs. Underneath a tarp,
treadmills were lined up in a row. I watched as a man from Jorge’s crew ran one of the muscle-bound dogs at full speed.