The McCone Files Read online

  The young Eurasian woman appeared a few minutes later. “Bastard gave me a hard time,” she said. “Tried to tell me I’d already taken my break.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Anna Smith.”

  “Anna, the three men who just left—do they come in here often?”

  “Uh-huh”

  “Keep pretty much to themselves, do they?”

  “It’s more like other people stay away from them.” She hesitated. “They’re from one of the gangs; you don’t mess with them. That’s why I wanted to talk with you back here.”

  “Have you ever heard them say anything about Tommy Dragón?”

  “The Dragon? Sure. He’s in jail; they say he was framed.”

  Of course they would claim that. “What about Mrs. Angeles—Amorfina Angeles?”

  “…Not that one, no.”

  “What about trying to intimidate someone? Setting fires, going after someone with a gun?”

  “Uh-huh. That’s gang business; they keep it pretty close. But it wouldn’t surprise me. Filipinos—I’m part Filipina myself, my mom met my dad when he was stationed at Subic Bay—they’ve got this saying kumukuló ang dugó. It means, ‘the blood is boiling.’ They can get pretty damn mad ‘specially with men. So stuff like what you said—sure they do it.”

  “Do you work on Fridays?”

  “Yeah, two to ten.”

  “Did you see any of the Kabalyeros in here last Friday around six?” That was the time when Isabel had been accosted.

  Anna Smith scrunched up her face in concentration. “Last Friday…oh, yeah, sure. That was when they had the big meeting all of them.”

  “All of them?”

  “Uh-huh. Started around five-thirty, went on a couple of hours. My boss, he was worried something heavy was gonna go down, but the way it turned out, all he did was sell a lot of food.”

  “What was the meeting about?”

  “Had to do with Dragon, who was gonna be a character witness at the trial, what they’d say.”

  The image of the three I’d seen earlier—or any of their ilk—as character witnesses was somewhat ludicrous, but I supposed in Tommy Dragón’s position you took what you could get. “Are you sure they were all there?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And no one at the meeting said anything about trying to keep Mrs. Angeles from testifying?”

  “No. That lawyer the Dragon’ got, he was there too.”

  Now that was odd. Why had Dragón’s public defender chosen to meet with his witness in a public place? I could think of one good reason: he was afraid of them, didn’t want them in his office. But what if the Kabalyeros had set the time and place—as an alibi for when Isabel was to be assaulted?

  “I better get back to work,” Anna Smith said. “Before the boss comes looking for me.”

  I gave her the twenty dollars. “Thanks for your time.”

  “Sure.” Halfway out the door she paused, frowning, “I hope I didn’t get any of the Kabalyeros in trouble.”

  “You didn’t.”

  “Good. I kind of like them. I mean, they push dope and all, but these day, who doesn’t?”

  These days, who doesn’t? I thought. Good lord…

  The Starlight Lanes was an old-fashioned bowling alley girded by a rough cliff face and an auto dismantler’s yard. The parking lot was crowded, so I left the MG around back by the garbage cans. Inside, the lanes were brightly lit and noisy with the sound of crashing pins, rumbling balls, shouts, and groans. I paused by the front counter and asked where I might find Jimmy Willis. The woman behind it directed me to a lane at the far end.

  Bowling alleys—or lanes, as the new upscale bowler prefers to call them—are familiar territory to me. Up until a few weeks ago my favorite uncle Jim was a top player on the pro tour. The Starlight Lanes reminded me of the ones where Jim used to practice in San Diego—from the racks full of tired-looking rental shoes to the greasy-spoon coffee shop smells to the molded plastic chairs and cigarette-burned scorekeeping consoles. I walked along it, soaking up the ambience—some people would say lack of it—until I came to lane 32 and spotted an agile young black man bowling alone. Jimmy Willis was a left-hander, and his ball hooked out until it hung on the edge of the channel, then hooked back with deadly accuracy and graceful form. His concentration was so great that he didn’t notice me until he’d finished the last frame and retrieved his ball.

  “You’re quite a bowler,” I said. “What’s your average?”

  He gave me along look before he replied. “Two hundred.”

  “Almost good enough to turn pro.”

  “That’s what I’m looking to do.”

  Odd, for the head of a street gang that dealt in drugs and death. “You ever heard of Jim McCone?” I asked.

  “Sure. Damned good in his day.”

  “He’s my uncle.”

  “No kidding.” Willis studied me again, now as if looking for a resemblance.

  Rapport established, I showed him my ID and explained that I wanted to talk about Reg Dawson’s murder, He frowned, hesitated, then nodded, “Okay, since you’re Jim McCone’s niece, but you’ll have to buy me a beer.”

  “Deal.”

  Willis toweled off his ball, stowed it and his shoes in their bag, and led me to a typical smoke-filled, murkily lighted bowling alley bar. He took one of the booths while I fetched us a pair of Buds.

  As I slid into the booth I said, “What can you tell me about the murder?”

  “The way I see it, Dawson was asking for it.”

  So he and Dawson’s wife were of a mind about that. “I can understand what you mean, but it seems strange coming from you. I hear you were his friend, that you took over the Victors after his death.”

  “You heard wrong on both counts. Yeah, I was in the Victors, and when Dawson bought it they tried to get me to take over. But by then I’d figured out—never mind how, doesn’t matter—that I wanted out of that life. Ain’t nothing in it but what happened to Benny Crespo and Dawson—or what’s going to happen to the Dragon. So I decided to put my hand to something with a future.” He patted the bowling bag that sat on the banquette beside him. “Got a job here now—not much, but my bowing’s free and I’m on my way.”

  “Good for you. What about Dragón—do you think he’s guilty?”

  Willis hesitated, looking thoughtful. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just wondering.”

  “…Well, to tell you the truth, I never did believe the Dragon shot Reg.”

  “Who did, then?”

  He shrugged.

  I asked him if he’d heard about the Kabalyeros trying to intimidate the chief prosecution witness. When he nodded, I said, “They also threatened the life of her daughter last Friday.”

  He laughed mirthlessly. “Wish I could of seen that. Kind of surprises me, though. That lawyer of Dragón’s, he found out what the Kabalyeros were up to, read them the riot act. Said they’d put Dragón in the gas chamber for sure. So they called it off.”

  “When was this?”

  “Week, ten days ago.”

  Long before Isabel had been accosted. Before the dead dog and the shooting incidents, too. “Are you sure?”

  “It’s what I hear. You know, in a way I’m surprised that they’d go after Mrs. Angeles at all.”

  “Why?”

  “The Filipinos have this macho tradition. ‘Specially when it comes to their women. They don’t like them messed with, ‘specially by non-Filipinos. So how come they’d turn around and mess with one of their own?”

  “Well, her testimony would jeopardize the life of one of their fellow gang member. It’s an extreme situation.”

  “Can’t argue with that.”

  Jimmy Willis and I talked a bit more, but he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—offer any further information. I bought him a second beer, then went out to where I’d left my car.

  And came face-to-face with Hector Bulis and the man called Sal.

  Sal grabbed me by t
he arm, twisted it behind me, and forced me up against the latticework fence surrounding the garbage cans. The stench from them filled my nostrils; Sal’s breath rivaled it in foulness. I struggled, but he got hold of my other arm and pinned me tighter. I looked around, saw no one, nothing but the chill face and high board fence of the auto dismantler’s yard, Bulis approached, flicking open a switch-blade, his twisty face intense. I stiffened, went very still, eyes on the knife.

  Bulis placed the tip of the knife against my jawbone, then traced a line across my cheek. “Don’t want to hurt you, bitch,” he said. “You do what I say, I won’t have to mess you up.”

  The Tagalog phrase that Anna Smith had translated for me—kumukuló ang dugó—flashed through my mind. The blood is boiling. I sensed Bullis’ was—and dangerously so.

  I wet my dry lips, tried to keep my voice from shaking as I said, “What do you want me to do?”

  “We hear you’re asking around about Dawson’s murder, trying to prove the Dragon did it.”

  “That’s not—”

  “We want you to quit. Go back to your own part of town and leave our business alone.”

  “Whoever told you that is lying, I’m only trying to help the Angeles family.”

  “They wouldn’t lie.” He moved the knife’s tip to the hollow at the base of my throat. I felt it pierce my skin—a mere pinprick, but frightening enough.

  When I could speak, I did so slowly, phrasing my words carefully. “What I hear is that Dragón is innocent. And that the Kabalyeros aren’t behind the harassment of the Angeles—at least not for a week or ten days.”

  Bullis exchanged a look with his companion—quick, unreadable.

  “Someone’s trying to frame you,” I added. “Just like they did Dragón.”

  Bullis continued to hold the knife to my throat, his hand firm. His gazed wavered, however, as if he was considering what I’d said. After a moment he asked, “All right—who?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think I can find out.”

  He thought a bit longer, then let his arm drop and snapped the knife shut. “I’ll give you till this time tomorrow,” he said. Then he stuffed the knife into his pocket, motioned for Sal to let go of me, and the two quickly walked away.

  I sagged against the latticework fence, feeling my throat where the knife had priced it. It had bled a little, but the flow already was clotting. My knees were weak and my breath came fast, but I was too caught up in the possibilities to panic. There were plenty of them—and the most likely was the most unpleasant.

  Kumukuló and dugó. The blood is boiling…

  Two hours later I was back at the Angeles house on Omega Street. When Amor admitted me, the tension I’d felt in her earlier had drained. Her body sagged, as if the extra weight she carried had finally proved to be too much for frail bones; the skin of her face looked flaccid, like melting putty; her eyes were sunken and vague. After she shut the door and motioned for me to sit, she sank in to the recliner, expelling a sigh. The house was quite—too quite.

  “I have a question for you,” I said. “What does ‘tick-tick’ mean in Tagalog?”

  Her eyes flickered with dull interest. “Tiktik.” She corrected my pronunciation. “It’s a word for detective.”

  Ever since Hector Bulis and Sal had accosted me I’d supposed as much.

  “Where did you hear that?” Amor asked.

  “One of the Kabalyeros said it when I went to Fat Robbie’s earlier. Someone had told them I was a detective, probably described me. Whoever it was said I was trying to prove Tommy Dragón killed Reg Dawson.”

  “Why would—”

  “More to the point, who would? At the time, only four people knew that I’m a detective.”

  She wet her lips, but remained silent.

  “Amor, the night of the shooting, you were standing in your front window, watching for Isabel.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you do that often?”

  “…Yes.”

  “Because Isabel is often late coming home. Because you’re afraid she may have gotten into trouble.”

  “A mother worries—”

  “Especially when she’s given good cause. Isabel is running out of control, isn’t she?”

  “No, she—”

  “Amor, when I spoke with Madeline Dawson, she said you were standing in the window watching for ‘sweet Isabel, like always.’ She didn’t say ‘sweet’ in a pleasant way. Later, Jimmy Willis implied that your daughter is not…exactly a vulnerable young girl.”

  Amor’s eyes sparked. “The Dawson woman is jealous.”

  “Of course she is. There’s something else: when I asked the waitress at Fat Robbie’s if she’d ever overheard the Kabalyeros discussing you, she said, ‘No, not that one.’ It didn’t register at the time, but when I talked to her again a little while ago, she told me Isabel is the member of your family they discuss. They say she’s wild, runs around with the men in the gangs. You know that, so does Alex. And so does Madeline Dawson. She just told me the first man Isabel became involved with was her husband.”

  Amore seemed to shrivel. She gripped the arms of the chair, white-knuckled.

  “It’s true, isn’t it?” I asked more gently.

  She lowered her eyes, nodding. When she spoke her voice was ragged. “I don’t know what to do with her anymore. Ever since that Reg Dawson got to her, she’s been different, not my girl at all.”

  “Is she on drugs?”

  “Alex says no, but I’m not sure.”

  I let it go; really didn’t matter. “When she came home earlier,” I said, “Isabel seemed very interested in me. She asked questions, looked me over carefully enough to be able to describe to the Kabalyeros. She was afraid of what I might find out. For instance, that she wasn’t accosted by any men with guns last Friday.”

  “She was!”

  “No, Amor. That was just a story, to make it look as if your life—and your children’s—were in danger if you testified. In spite of what you said early on, you haven’t wanted to testify against Tommy Dragón since the very beginning.”

  “When the Kabalyeros began harassing you a month ago, you saw that as the perfect excuse not to take the stand. But you didn’t foresee that Dragon’s lawyer would convince the gang to stop the harassment. When that happened, you and Isabel, and probably Alex, too, manufactured incidents—the shot-out window, the dead dog on the doorstop, the men with the guns—to make it look as if the harassment was still going on.”

  “Why would I? They’re going to put me in jail.”

  “But at the time you didn’t know they could do that—or that your employer would hire me. My investigating poses yet another danger to you and your family.”

  “This is…why would I do all that?”

  “Because basically you’re and honest woman, a good woman. You didn’t want to testify because you knew Dragón didn’t shoot Dawson. It’s my guess you gave the police his name because it was the first one that came to mind.”

  “I had no reason to—”

  “You had the best reason in the world: a mother’s desire to protect her child.”

  She was silent, sunken eyes registering despair and defeat.

  I kept on, even though I hated to inflict further pain on her. “The day he died, Dawson had let word out that he was going to desecrate Benny’s space. The person who shot him knew there would be fighting and confusion, counted on that as a cover. The killer hated Dawson—”

  “Lots of people did.”

  “But only one person you’d want to protect so badly that you’d accuse an innocent man.”

  “Leave my mother alone. She’s suffered enough on account of what I did.”

  I turned. Alex had come into the room so quietly I hadn’t noticed. Now he moved midway between Amor and me, a Saturday night special clutched in his right hand.

  The missing murder weapon.

  I tensed, but one look at his face told me he didn’t intend to use it. Instead he raised his arm and
extended the gun, grip first.

  “Take this,” he said. “I never should of bought it. Never should of used it. I hated Dawson on account of what he did to my sister. But killing him wasn’t worth what we’ve all gone through since.”

  I glanced at Amor; tears were trickling down her face.

  Alex said, “Mama, don’t cry. I’m not worth it.”

  When she spoke, it was to me. “What will happen to him?”

  “Nothing like what might have happened to Dragón; Alex is a juvenile. You, however—”

  “I don’t care about myself, only my children.”

  Maybe that was the trouble. She was the archetypal selfless mother: living only for her children, sheltering them from the consequences of their actions—and in the end doing them irreparable harm.

  There were times when I felt thankful that I had no children. And there were times when I was thankful that Jack Stuart was a very good criminal lawyer. This was a time I was thankful on both counts. I went to the phone, called Jack, and asked him to come over here. At least I could leave the Angeles family in good legal hands.

  After he arrived, I went out into the gathering dusk. An old yellow VW was pulling out of Benny’s space. I walked down there and stood on the curb. Nothing remained of the shrine to Benny Crespo. Nothing remained to show that blood had boiled and been shed here. It was merely a stretch of cracked asphalt, splotched with oil drippings, littered with the detritus of urban life. I stared at it for close to a minute, then turned away from the bleak landscape of Omega Street.

  THE LOST COAST

  CALIFORNIA’S Lost Coast is at the same time one of the most desolate and beautiful of shorelines. Northerly winds whip the sand into dust-devil frenzy; eerie, stationary fogs hang in the trees and distort the driftwood until it resembles the bones of prehistoric mammals; bruised clouds hover above the peaks of the distant King Range, then blow down to sea level and dump icy torrents. But on a fair day the sea and sky show infinite shading of blue, and the wildflowers are a riot of color. If you wait quietly, you can spot deer, peregrine falcons, foxes, otters, even black bears and mountain lions.