Hard Exit, page 11
“No, I haven’t. I’m sorry. And, yes, we’re almost like friends. I don’t know where that came from.” But that was a lie. I knew exactly where it came from. We’re products of our upbringings.
I drove toward the 7-Eleven I’d stopped at earlier.
“I miss Jami, my friend was murdered, Amanda’s drinking, and I’m disappointed in myself. I’m not dealing with any of it well. Again, I apologize.”
“We cool. Kinda know what it like. Terrell and Lawrence gone. Make you do crazy shit sometime.”
I pulled into the 7-Eleven parking lot. A Latino man wearing torn, dirty, tan dress pants and what was once a gray overcoat—but no shirt or shoes—was lying to the left of the front door. When I parked the car in a space near him, he saluted us from the ground. I got out, returned his salute, and walked inside. I bought a burner phone, then went outside.
The unhoused man pulled himself nearly to a seated position, then raised his arms to protect himself as I approached.
“No, my friend. I’m not here to hurt you. You can relax.”
He looked relieved, then smiled. Up close, he was much younger than I’d thought he was from a distance. Maybe twenty-eight. The last few years appeared to have been very difficult. Maybe all of them.
“What’s your name?”
“Enrique Acevedo. What’s yours?
“Jack Drake.”
“Like a duck.”
“Yes, like a duck.” My surname derives from the Old Norse word dreki, meaning dragon, but I didn’t think Enrique was up for a discussion of etymology. Or maybe I wasn’t.
“I’d like to do something for you, Enrique.” His happy expression changed to one of apprehension. There’s always a catch, a scam, a hustle. He knew at least one of them was coming.
“No, don’t worry. I’m not asking you to do anything but take care of yourself, treat yourself well.”
His expression changed to confusion. Had to be a catch because there’s always a catch, especially when some white dude in a BMW starts telling you how to live at 4:30 in the morning.
“No drugs. If you have to buy booze, buy only as much as you usually drink every day.”
“Okay. Whatever you say. I don’t do drugs anymore.”
“That’s good. Break the large bills in a bank, not in front of other customers in here,” I said, pointing with my chin to the 7-Eleven.
“Got it.”
I turned away from him and the entrance, took out my wallet, folded five one-hundred-dollar bills in half, then folded a twenty around them. Before leaving the house, I had grabbed cash I’d stashed because I didn’t know who I’d have to bribe—or have to tip far too much—when I found Amanda in the middle of yet another self-induced disaster.
I palmed the bills and handed them to him as I shook his hand, attempting to conceal my action from the clerk who was glaring at us from inside the store.
“This is a gift, Enrique. Open your hand after we’ve left and when that clerk isn’t looking at you. Remember, treat yourself kindly.”
I stepped back and saluted him. He transferred the money to his left hand and returned my salute.
When I got back in the car, Game said, “You know, maybe you should talk to somebody ’bout this Jami thing. I mean, she died a long time ago.”
“I know. She’s not usually this present. Amanda brought her up, and suddenly it’s as though she never died. Or died yesterday.”
I looked up the number on my phone, activated the burner, then dialed. A husky voice said, “Oakville Police Department.”
A thought was rattling in my head, but I couldn’t make it come together. I needed to buy time, so I told Game to follow the Porsche in the BMW until we found an open restaurant where we could talk. The business I found, a few blocks from the park, was a 24-hour taco joint that only had outdoor seating. Good enough.
We waited for our orders as dawn broke. I asked Game if he’d called his mother, and he said yes. She was glad he was safe, and she missed him. He was amped up, buoyed by his gangland success, and he rambled about the women he’d been with, although he didn’t use that noun, about his proficiency as a point guard—he knew he could play college ball if he wanted to—and how rich he was going to be. I wasn’t really listening but was grateful for the company.
Between bites I said, “You didn’t answer my question,” interrupting a story about his friend Reggie and a pair of fine twins.
“What question?”
“The one that made you ask if I was an especially dumb white person.”
“What question?”
“Why didn’t you off the guys cuffed to the pole? They were in the middle of a vacant park, a couple hundred yards from the nearest house, defenseless in the dark. No reason to worry about the sound of gunshots in that neighborhood, but if that was your concern, you could have slit their throats before they even had time to scream—or pistol-whipped them. You were obviously tipped they were there, so you could’ve picked up whichever weapon you preferred, then escaped in any direction. Of course, my car left on the scene would’ve blown things for you, but you could easily have driven it away and abandoned it anywhere.”
“You through?”
“Yes.”
“It a business transaction. Called the barter system. They had something we wanted—we had something they wanted. We ain’t savages. We businessmen, just like everyone else trying to make a buck. But when we bring in the green one key at a time, it called possession with intent. When we put our heads together to seize opportunity, it called conspiracy. White folk do it, they called bankers and brokers and lawyers and politicians. You know, pillars of society. All the same green, Jack, just different ways to grab it.”
I didn’t acknowledge he’d spoken, just kept eating a chicken taco. In my peripheral vision I could see he was staring at me.
“What?” he finally asked.
“You’ve never killed anyone. Never even shot anyone. That’s not a criticism, just an observation.”
He didn’t respond, and both of us watched as a patrol car passed slowly.
“Man, you don’t know what I—”
“Don’t. You say we’re friends. Or almost friends, so don’t lie to me.”
He hesitated for about five seconds, then said, “Awwwight.”
“Trading two members of da Uptown Posse for two others doesn’t gain the MLKs a thing. Yes, the shooters will soon be in custody, but having justice served through legal channels isn’t high on bangers’ list of priorities, I’m guessing. Not much is likely to happen legally, anyway. While I was standing on the court—looking at breathing, beaten shooters—I knew something didn’t wash. And then you jumped down my throat when I asked why they were alive. Don’t ever take up poker, by the way.”
“Dominoes my game.”
“Good, keep it that way. The MLKs had to get something out of the trade, especially because you guys started this latest skirmish by ripping off the drug deal. You got the money and the drugs, so they came out blasting. They did it like idiots, but I understand why they felt things weren’t square between the two gangs after the rip off.”
“You asking something?”
“No. Uptown could’ve negotiated a truce, one that would be honored only if the shooters were allowed to live. That’s a possibility. But why would the MLK’s agree to a truce? Are you outmanned, outgunned? Have you been outsmarted? I don’t believe either of the first two is true, and the rip-off disproves the outsmarted part.
“I understand trading two knights or bishops for two pawns, Original Gangsters for low-level shooters. That part makes sense. And for a few minutes I wondered if the ripped-off drug money or the drugs played into the trade, but again, why would the MLKs even entertain that option? It would be like handing the football back for a do-over after recovering your opponent’s fumble. Makes no sense. The rip-off was a business transaction, albeit one involving weaponry, and you guys had the money and the drugs. The MLKs are the ones who got fired at and killed. You guys have no reason to negotiate.”
“Maybe you really a investigator.”
“Driving to Oakville tonight, I wondered if the shooters were alive because murdering people in a public park can’t be good for business. Doing so would bring unwanted police attention, and, as you guys believe, you’re all just businessmen pursuing the green. I thought da Posse might clean up its own mess, take care of the shooters themselves. I couldn’t stop contemplating the motives, wondering.”
“You wonder pretty good.”
“Age has a few advantages. More wrinkles and creaking joints, true, but we’ve had many more years to observe human behavior.”
“All those years tell you anything?”
“That da Uptown Posse and the MLKs were told to cool it.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Game wanted to go home so he could sleep in his own bed. Doing so seemed safe because the truce between the two gangs, if it was honored, would guarantee no retaliatory strikes. I told him that when we reached Amanda’s house, he should call his mom to let her know it was safe to go home and that I would drop him off at her house later, after we got some sleep. But right then, I needed him to drive the BMW to Amanda’s.
“Race ya,” he said, indicating he was okay with the rest of my plan.
“Right. You have about as good a chance to blow through Malibu without getting pulled over as I have of rooting for USC.”
“Not a Trojan fan, huh?”
“Rather root for Al-Qaeda.”
As Game followed me toward the Coast Highway, I debated stopping by Loews to check on Amanda, but I simply wasn’t up to it. The issues that she and I needed to discuss would require her to be sober, so I skipped that stop.
I drove up the incline that skirts Pepperdine University and wondered who’d told the gangs to make peace. Despite Game’s belief that the MLKs and da Uptown Posse had two different suppliers, I believed the two gangs probably had two different distributors but the same supplier, and the supplier didn’t like the heat that warfare would bring. So, he likely threatened to cut off their supplies, and their livelihoods, if they didn’t let the drug-deal hijacking and the park shooting go. The threat wasn't necessarily idle because the supplier could likely afford to take the monetary hit more than the gangs could, or he could find others willing to sell his cocaine without shooting each other. I was only speculating, but it was easier to speculate than it was to worry about Amanda or to mourn my friend Chris.
By the time I pulled into the driveway and watched Game pull up beside me, I believed my theory about the gangs and their supplier was solid, although lacking specifics. And I was certain Chris wasn’t a drug dealer and hadn’t killed himself. He never even used drugs recreationally—a rarity at Hollywood parties. He and I had that in common, among many other things.
Something gnawed at me throughout the drive home. I’d tried to coax the thought out, but it wouldn’t take shape. I put the key in the front door, opened it, and saw Jennifer sitting on the couch. She looked up and smiled as Game and I walked in.
“Hello,” she said.
“Chris’ death and the park shooting are related,” I said.
“Um, okay, and it’s good to see you, Jack.”
She wore black sweatpants and a tight, navy-blue women’s T-shirt with the word Nothing written in script across it. Her feet were bare. She stood, stuck out her hand, and said, “Hello, I’m Jennifer.”
“I’m Game. Nice to meet you.” They shook.
“What are you reading?” he asked, nodding toward the book in her hand.
“Tender is the Night, by Fitzgerald—one of my all-time favorites.”
“One of mine, too,” I said. “I’m sorry. How are you, Jen? And, yes, it’s good to see you, too.”
“A little distracted, are we?” she asked, stepping close and draping her arms around me, the book still in her hand. “My place was feeling very lonely, so I came over here, but no one was around. This is your copy. I’m finding it fascinating to see which passages you underlined.”
“It’s from college. Who knows if I underlined them or if the professor told me to?”
“I do because you wrote Prof next to some of the passages, then P thereafter. The underlined passages without a P are yours, and they’re more intriguing.”
“If you say so.”
She went back to the couch and sat down. From beside the lamp, she hoisted a giant wine glass that sat next to a three-liter jug of wine. Jennifer knew that Amanda and I kept no alcohol in the house. She probably knocked, found no one home, decided to use her key to let herself in, then figured that because Amanda wasn’t home, she could retrieve her bottle and settle into the lonely warmth of inebriation.
While Jen refilled her glass, Game got my attention and shrugged his shoulders, lifted his palms outward, and made a shocked expression that I took to mean something along the lines of, “Holy shit! She’s fine!”
I nodded, smiled, and sat on the huge couch opposite the huge couch Jen sat on. Game sat next to her, at a polite distance.
The three of us made small talk until the sixteen-year-old in Game couldn’t take it anymore and excused himself by saying, “It Sunday morning. Gotta be a game or something on TV.”
“How’s your shoulder?”
“Fine,” he said, walking away.
“Let me take a look at it, please. Make sure it’s not infected.”
He reluctantly allowed me to peel the medical tape off and inspect the wound. It looked fine. I pressed the tape down.
“You done playin’ Nurse Ratchet?”
“Uh, oh, Jen. He’s making literary references. Have we ruined him?”
“I just met him, but it appears you may be rubbing off.”
“Ain’t neither of you. We read Cuckoo’s Nest this year. Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Who would do it otherwise?” I asked.
Game shook his head and walked away, and Jen said, “I would, if I thought it would help.”
“I need a lot more than flattery.”
Jen stood, took my hand, and led me to the couch she’d been sitting on.
“Are you okay?” she asked. “You look awful, and you’re obviously stressed.”
“I took a nap after being up all night but found both Amanda and Game gone. I tracked her down—she’s at Loews—though I didn’t check on her. I found Game in Oakville, in the middle of some serious shit. My friend Chris Cerveris is dead, and something tells me these last two problems are related.”
“Horrible. I’m sorry. How?”
“Supposedly suicide, but that’s bullshit.”
“Come here.” She patted her left shoulder, instructing me to place my head on it. I moved closer and leaned against her. We said nothing for a while, then she asked, “Okay, which dilemma do you want, or need, to talk about first?”
“Did Jason Gilson mention Chris the other night?”
“No.”
“You said he was acting oddly, as though he was trying to establish an alibi.”
“Well, I may have been a bit dramatic.”
“But something was different, right?”
“Right.”
“It could’ve been unrelated or just a coincidence, but he was nervous when he saw me at the gas station, too. What if he knew something was going to happen to Chris? Or maybe he just suspected something would? Gilson’s the softest, most-spineless man I know.”
“Be nice, Jack.”
“I’m not trying to be mean—maybe spineless is too harsh—but soft and gentle and not overflowing with testosterone-fueled aggression. Is that accurate?”
“Fair enough. What’s your point?”
“He wouldn’t have anything to do with hurting Chris. He’s not the type. But he could’ve known about the possibility of Chris getting hurt, maybe overheard something, and he wanted to distance himself somehow. He felt he needed to establish an alibi, however absurd that is.”
Jennifer drained her glass and set it down.
“Well, he established he was with me, so whether he needs an alibi or not, I’m it. Aren’t I lucky?”
“Spectacularly so—if only because you have me in your life.”
“Yeah, that’s it, you jackass.” She refilled her glass. After setting the bottle down, she drained half the glass, then waited about ten seconds before downing the rest.
She scooted off the couch and settled at my feet, facing away from me, slowly twirling the stem of the glass. I gently stroked her hair.
“Are you drinking at something, Jen, or just drinking?”
“Just drinking.”
“From my subjective point of view, you appear to be going a little hard. Or am I hypersensitive because of my living arrangement and its restrictions?”
“Probably drinking too much lately.” She was quiet for a minute, then said, “Okay, there’s no probably about it. I’m using a glass here only for appearances. I’ve been swigging straight from the bottle at home.”
“Do you want me to take you to a meeting? Or give you the name of a counselor?”
“You know I see a therapist.”
“What’s her take on your drinking?”
“The same as mine. I’m lonely.”
“I know, Jen, I know.” She stood unsteadily, sat next to me, and rested her head on my chest.
“Yes, you do, but you won’t discuss it or act on it—or on anything.”
“I’ve always been there for you, and I’ll always continue to be.”
“Don’t—”
“After I get some sleep, and after all this other stuff settles down, we can have this discussion. I give you my word we will, and you know my word is good. But now isn’t the right time for a few reasons.”
“Not the least of which is because you think I’m drunk.”
“Not drunk. Let’s say emotionally fragile, as I am. But I’m also confused as hell, trying to figure out what I should do—or if I can do anything—to help Amanda. I’m trying to keep a kid alive as a favor to a friend—and because he’s a kid, and kids shouldn’t get killed. And one of my best friends was just found dead, and I know he didn’t kill himself. Because he was my friend, I’ll find out who killed him and why, and I’ll get him justice.”
