SUNDAY, APRIL 21, 2002
THE MOJAVE DESERT, CA
THE MOJAVE DESERT AT 3 A.M. WAS NOTHING BUT BLACKNESS AND abandoned history. Hollowed-out mining towns; darkened mountain ranges and dormant volcanos; skeletons of World War II military installments. The Mojave used to prepare the troops for duty in North Africa, airfields carved into the desert floor, left behind like petroglyphs, old bases marked by obelisks in the dirt and faded bronze plaques.
Baghdad. Fenner. Cádiz. Siberia.
The Dead Mountains.
The Devil’s Playground.
The Amboy Crater.
The Camp Ibis memorial.
Now, in the air between the marine base in Twentynine Palms and Fort Irwin, flying low: An Apache helicopter. An F-16. A bomber. Making training routes in the darkness, lights off, and then suddenly above you. The Mojave lousy with known and unknown training bases, still, preparing to attack this or any desert. Could be Afghanistan tonight. Could be Iraq. Could be Kuwait.
And then: nothing. Just a two-lane road off Highway 40, cutting through the desert, no lights forward, no lights coming from behind, David thinking, knowing, understanding: You could die out here. Look at this place. And then a sign, to spur hope: Salt Lake City 599 miles. Yuma 280 miles. Los Angeles 192 miles.
“You come out here every time?” David asked. They’d been driving for three hours, since Ruben picked David up in the parking lot of the Bagel Café, the safest spot he figured he could leave his Range Rover and Matthew’s belongings in case he didn’t make it back. David spent most of those hours thinking about what he learned from Matthew’s notebooks, but also doing nothing but staring into the vast nothingness. If he was a man prone to metaphor, he’d really be fucked.
“Mr. Savone says it’s been used by the families forever,” Ruben said.
“Ever bring anyone with you?”
“Depends who I’m meeting. If it’s someone I know, I might bring my kid to keep me company.”
“What about Miguel?”
“He’s not ready for it. I mean. He can handle himself. But he just got married, you know? He should get his life established first.”
“So he’s got something to lose?”
“Less likely to fuck up,” Ruben said. He wasn’t wrong. Ruben hit the brights. “Not much longer now. You see a boulder painted pink, that’s where we turn.”
They were in the hearse SUV, a retrofitted black Ford Expedition that could hold up to six caskets, and in the back were three bodies. David did some research online, figured out that the fat guy with Aquafreddo across his back was probably Lester Aquafreddo, judging from the photos in the Los Angeles Times and NY Post, when he was younger, skinnier, and had all of his head. He’d been out in LA for years, first as a porn producer, which just meant he was washing money through X-rated films, then as a gaming consultant for Native American tribes opening up bingo parlors, which just meant he was washing money through old lady’s bingo cards, then as general manager of a night club in Palm Springs called Freddo’s, which just meant he was washing money through his fucking bar, and then, finally, as a consultant, again, to a tribe in Palm Springs going full Vegas-style gaming. Whenever he appeared in the paper, he was always called a “reputed Gambino crime figure,” but he never did any time and never sued anyone for defamation, which meant he didn’t want to enter discovery on that shit.
The other two, the Zanguccis, were local muscle to Palm Springs. Chaz and Kiki. Fraternal twins. They ran a gym called PowerHaus that seemed mostly to be a front for selling steroids, at least according to the arrest blotter in the Desert Sun. David doubted they were even made, despite their tattoos. Probably did whatever Aquafreddo wanted, but who knows. Maybe all three were keeping omertà in the trunk of a tricked-out Ford Expedition.
If David was right, Peaches killed them as part of the Native Mob’s expansion into California, but also because he wanted to learn about The Family’s network for laundering bodies, in light of what happened to Ronnie’s wife and kids. David had no idea if Peaches would be at the drop-off tonight, but he had to hope. Because he had a little something for him.
Plus, the only reason Jennifer and William would seek protection was if Peaches threatened them. He knew that. No one in The Family would have ever stepped to Jennifer, even with Ronnie out of commission. They knew she could have them all arrested with one phone call. They knew if Sal ever came home, they’d be met with prejudice. If they were smart—which was a big if—they’d figure out that Peaches set up Matthew Drew to take Ronnie out by getting him hired to run security for the Chuyalla casino, where Peaches knew Matthew would absolutely get a chance to take the motherfucker down.
Ever since this Peaches showed up, shit turned upside down. David admired the efficiency with which Peaches worked. Game respects game and all that, but that didn’t mean David wouldn’t put two in the back of his head and another two in the front.
“We get there,” Ruben said, “let me do the talking.”
“It’s your show,” David said. “I’m just here to watch.”
“You say that,” Ruben said, “but you’re the one holding two guns and a knife.”
“You don’t got a gun?”
“That’s not the point,” Ruben said.
Up ahead, the headlights caught a glimmer of pink in the darkness. The road bent into the desert, and the pink was gone. “We’re close,” Ruben said, and twenty seconds later, the boulder came into full view, on the left-hand side of the road. Ruben turned across the two-lane road into the desert, the road paved by use but not anything else.
“The fuck is this place?” David asked.
“Ragtown,” Ruben said. “Used to be a mining village. Southern Transcon ran through here back in the day.”
“How the fuck do you know that?”
“I listened in school,” Ruben said. He ran his finger in a circle. “Everything out here, all the mountains, was gold and silver and bronze. Used to camp here in the winter with Boy Scouts. We’d go exploring all the old mines. It was cool. Brought my sister to look for gems, found some, too. Plus arrowheads and seashells and shit.”
“You were some kind of Boy Scout?”
“Homie,” Ruben said, “you don’t know shit about me but what you see with your eyes.”
The dirt road took a dip down and they were moving across what David thought might be a dry riverbed. David peered out the side mirror and the road was gone, they were in total blackness, and yet Ruben knew exactly where they were going. They swept south and then climbed before coming to a plateau, David making out structures in the distance. An old barn? A couple lean-tos? And then, parked among the Joshua trees, parking lights on, was another black hearse SUV, this one smaller.
“We work with another funeral home?” David asked.
“Naw,” Ruben said. “We did so much business with the Native Mob, we gave it to them. As a thank-you. Less chance any of us get caught.”
Made sense. No one ever pulled over a hearse for speeding, or any other reason. You could dump two thousand pounds of cocaine in a coffin and a cop would need a court order to open it. The only better cover was driving a cop car or fire truck.
“This what you were expecting?” David asked.
“Yeah, all kosher,” Ruben said.
David couldn’t tell how many people were in the other hearse. They were supposed to be dropping off one body, but they didn’t know three were being returned in the process, which David assumed might be a problem. There could be fifteen guys in the back of that hearse, each with an AK-47, all with an opinion on the situation, in which case this might be David’s last stand, though Ruben seemed calm. David took down his window. The air was cool, maybe 60 degrees, the high-desert climate cooler than Las Vegas, which is why David had changed into a black hoodie and jeans. He smelled damp creosote, exhaust, and weed smoke.
“Pull into the clearing,” David said. “Make them come to us. They get pissed off about us giving back the bodies, we’ll want a clear exit.”
“Only one way in and out,” Ruben said.
“Then we want to be in front.”
Ruben made a clicking sound in his mouth, thinking. “This is going to tell them something is different.”
“Fine,” David said. “Let them worry about it.”
RUBEN PARKED THE HEARSE IN THE OLD TOWN SQUARE, LEFT THE ENGINE running. In the headlights, David made out the ruins of a church—not much more than a cross and the frame of a building—with a well, surrounded by a three-foot-tall rock wall, directly in front of it. To the left of the church were the remnants of smaller buildings, dilapidated walls and exposed foundations encircled by hitching posts. The field of Joshua trees extended back and to the right of the church, dying in the blackness of the hills.
“What now?” Ruben asked.
“You said you wanted to do the talking,” David said. “Talk.”
Ruben reached into the glove box, took out a Glock, checked the magazine. “I only got fifteen.”
“You think there’s twenty guys in that hearse?” David asked.
“Could be motherfuckers coming down the hills.”
Shit.
David gave him one of his two extra magazines and then both exited the SUV. Stood in the glow of the headlights, let whoever was in the other hearse see them. Across the dark expanses of desert, the driver’s side door opened, and a man walked out, headed toward them, hands open, arms loose at his sides. He was about six feet, wore a black Adidas sweat suit. David still couldn’t make out who was in the passenger seat.
They headed toward him. Friendly. Normal night.
“You recognize him?” David asked, quietly.
“Guy I’ve been dealing with was half his size,” Ruben said. “This is the OG I told you about.”
“What’s his name?”
“Lonzo,” Ruben said.
Shit.
“You sure?”
“Could be Alonzo, but yeah.”
Ronnie’s Gangster 2-6 triggerman, now working for this Peaches fool. Was Ronnie’s guy on the streets for years. Middled every deal they made since the early 1990s, took care of any street business that Sal was too busy to take on. A pro. A good guy, in David’s estimation, who still would have killed Ronnie’s wife and kids, would have had no trouble putting Matthew Drew’s kid sister to sleep or signing up to work alongside Peaches. Followed the money.
David tugged his hood low on his face, looked down.
“What up, dog,” Lonzo said.
“Chilling,” Ruben said. “Where’s Mike at?”
“You’ll be dealing with me now. Mike is out of the picture. In fact, he’s in the box.” Lonzo motioned over his shoulder to his hearse. Just one of those things. “You got a problem with that?”
“Can’t say I do,” Ruben said. “But look. This is gonna be our last run for a bit. We’ve got some heat on us, so we gotta take a hiatus.”
“How long?”
“Could be three months.” Ruben making shit up as he went along.
“What kind of heat?”
“Yo,” Ruben said, “I’m just driving.”
“All right, all right,” Lonzo said. “No worries.”
“Another thing,” Ruben said. “Mike gave us some bad cargo last time. You gotta take it back.”
“The fuck you mean?”
“We don’t put New York families from an open city into the ground. Rules are rules. Your boss knows them.”
“Rules?” Lonzo said and started laughing. “You out here in a hearse, in the middle of the desert, talking to me about rules. How about this, bossman, you do what you’ve been paid for, we all keep quiet.” Not apologizing, David noticed.
“It’s the principle,” Ruben said. “I got cash in the car to pay you back right now on the three bodies; we’ll take the one you got on credit. And then we’re square. You got a problem, take it up with my boss.” He pointed at David.
“Who the fuck are you?” he asked David.
“I’m the rabbi.” His hands were inside the front pocket of his hoodie, guns in each.
“You make the rules?”
“No,” David said. “I enforce them.”
“Last time we had a big order, it somehow ended up in Portland and on the fucking evening news,” Lonzo said. “If my boss doesn’t like this shit, it’s beyond my control,” he said. “I’m being real level with you both.” He kicked at something on the ground between them.
“This isn’t a negotiation.” David took down his hood. Stared at Lonzo straight in the eyes. Let him get a good look. Then he shot him twice in the chest. Walked up two paces, said, “This is for Ronnie’s kids,” and put two more in his face.
“What the fuck!” Ruben screamed. Lonzo was bent back grotesquely, snapped at the knees, which would hurt if he wasn’t already dead. “Why the fuck did you do that?”
“It’s what I do,” David said. “Stay down.”
David didn’t wait for Ruben to respond. He stalked across the desert, toward the other hearse about fifty yards away, guns in both hands, body crouched, moving in the space between the two lights. When he was within twenty-five yards, he started shooting at the hearse, until the windshield was gone. Did no good to shoot at the body of a car. It wasn’t like TV. They didn’t blow up. You just fucked up a car.
Five yards in front of the hearse, David didn’t see anyone in the front seat, just a shitload of broken glass, the jacketed hollow points doing some work. Could be Peaches was shot dead and was now slumped under the glove box, oozing brains. Could be he was about to pop up with an AR-15 and put a hundred rounds into David. Could be it didn’t matter, because this was going to be the day for one of them.
David slid around the front of the SUV, then popped up in the driver’s side window.
Empty.
Except for half of an ear—the bottom—which was a mangled bloody mess on the passenger seat.
So he did hit him.
David peered through the back of the hearse. There was a single coffin in the back, spattered with blood, and there was a bloody handprint on the side window, too, and the rear hatch of the SUV was up, another bloody handprint on the window. So that’s how he got out.
Peaches couldn’t be far.
David was surrounded by the grove of Joshua trees, a thousand men with their hands up in the darkness. Maybe two thousand. Peaches might come out from behind one of them, try to get a shot, but it wouldn’t be clean. He’d need to get bullets that could bend around trees.
David bent low, looked at the dirt, found what he was looking for.
Blood. It led away from the hearse, toward the abandoned church, David following the drips and smears in the sand, moving slow, both guns out, ready, when he heard two gunshots in rapid succession, then: an almost inhuman yowling, a sound that came from deep inside a wounded animal, wordless, atavistic, and unmistakable throughout time. Pain. Profound pain. David sprinted out into the clearing, hugged the well for cover, stopped.
Peaches Pocotillo stood beside the driver’s side of the SUV, staring straight ahead, gun in his left hand. He must have made a dead run as soon as David started shooting. Ruben Topaz was splayed against the rear driver’s side wheel, directly at Peaches’s feet. He was missing the left side of his face, most of his jaw blown off. Must have turned his head at just the last moment. If David wanted to shoot Peaches, he’d need to shoot Ruben, too.
“Your friend got shot,” Peaches said. “Gonna need some dental work.” Peaches wore a white linen suit that was now covered in blood, his and Ruben’s. The right side of his face looked like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. His ear was gone but so was a good part of his cheek. Must have been grazed, which sounds like nothing until you get grazed in the fucking face. His right arm didn’t look great, either. Like a chunk of his bicep was missing. He’d tied his belt around it. Ruben tried to crawl away. Peaches stomped on his leg. That scream again. “Good news. He’s still alive.” Another scream. A coyote, somewhere in the distance, answered. If Ruben could just slouch one more inch, David would have a shot.
Maybe.
“Your friend is already dead,” David said. They were about twenty, twenty-five yards apart. Not a good distance for a gunfight.
“He wasn’t my friend.”
“He was Ronnie’s,” David said. “You’re gonna need to answer for that.”
“I don’t answer to anybody.”
“Gangster 2-6,” David said, “don’t quit. I were you, I’d stay out of Chicago. State prisons, too.”
Peaches cocked his head. “So it is you,” Peaches said. “Don’t know if you saw, I blew up your house.”
He loved that fucking house. If he got the chance, maybe one day he’d rebuild it just so he could bury this motherfucker in the foundation.
“You should call 911. Get that award money.” Another moan from Ruben, then a high-pitched whine, like air leaving a balloon. “How’s my guy?”
“Breathing,” he said. Then: “You really remember every face you’ve ever seen?”
“That’s right,” Sal said. He had no idea if that was true. He doubted it.
“So you know me.”
“Did you used to have two ears?”
“Joey the Bishop,” Peaches said.
“The fuck is that?”
“You killed him,” Peaches said. “House in Batavia, 1990. Tried to pin it on me.”
Sal barely remembered. Joey B. was a bookie The Family used a million years ago. Must have been seventy years old. Had literally been around when fucking Capone was in business. Ronnie sent Sal to take him out, so he did. Didn’t remember this fucking guy involved with it. Sal had never tried to frame anyone. He claimed his kills.
He worked his mind. A detail from the news reports showed up. “You were hiding in the closet,” Sal said.
“That was his wife,” Peaches said. “We had a whole conversation. I was working for your cousin. Delivering luggage. Then you fucking set me up.”
Sal said, “If someone tried to pin that murder on you, it was Ronnie. I was doing work for my family. If all this shit is about something you think I did to you twelve years ago? Homeboy, I tell you, I do not recall it.”
“I’m the boss of your family now.”
Ruben lurched forward; his legs started to twitch. Maybe cardiac arrest? He couldn’t let Ruben die. Not like this.
“You can have The Family.” Sal held up both of his guns. He hadn’t gotten this close to getting out just to die in a fucking Old West shootout. “Way I see it, we both have a pretty good chance of dying out here tonight. You prepared for that?” Peaches didn’t respond. “You might kill me,” Sal said. “Then what? I die, so what? I’m already dead.”
Peaches leaned forward. Listening.
“Say in the process, best case, Ruben dies in the next twenty seconds, and I run up on you and your bitch ass runs away and I put two in your spine and now you’re in a wheelchair for the rest of your life. Plus whatever is going on with your arm and your face. You think Sugar is gonna take orders from some motherfucker can’t even stand up to piss? Can’t hear unless his head is turned just so? He’ll push you off a fucking dock. You’ll be dead by Christmas. Because if we don’t come to some kind of accord, I’m going to open on you, and the odds are, I’m going to fill you up. And then all this shit, everything you’ve been working for, will mean nothing. That what you want?”
Peaches said, “What kind of accord?”
“My guy alive?”
Peaches looked again. “My experience,” he said, “he’s got an hour.”
Ruben screamed. His actual voice. Not some animal. Sal pretty sure he heard the word, “No!”
“My experience,” Sal said, “you’re gonna lose that arm you stay out here much longer. I wouldn’t fuck with that ear, either. So, you start walking east,” he continued, “I get my friend and drive west. Thirty minutes, you walk back this way, get your car, find a clinic that takes your insurance.” When Peaches didn’t respond, Sal said, “Maybe see if Kirk Biglione knows first aid.”
“He’s been more trouble than he’s worth.”
“Yeah,” Sal said, “not a guy to trust.”
“And you are?”
“Gotta have faith in the game.”
“Then what?”
“Then maybe one day you catch me slipping,” Sal said. “But that’s not today.”
Peaches said, “You really don’t remember me?”
“I told you.”
Peaches shook his head. “You will now,” he said and fired a shot into Ruben’s leg, and then he disappeared into the darkness, Sal running toward Ruben now, but by the time he got to the hearse, Peaches was gone, somewhere in the ruins, or in the Joshua trees, or maybe he was never there to begin with, Sal beginning to think he was out here fighting ghosts.
Ruben was splayed on the ground, the left side of his face blown off, blood pulsing from where his jaw used to be. His tongue was gone. His left eye was ruined, but his right was wide open. It darted back and forth. His right leg gushed blood from the thigh. Shit. Probably the femoral. Fuck. Blood everywhere now, rushing like a river in the sand. They were two and a half hours from a hospital.
Rabbi David Cohen took Ruben’s left hand. Held it. Tried to calm his noises, the convulsions.
The Talmud teaches that a man does not tell lies in the hour of death, so David said, “The wheel always comes full circle, Ruben, for all of us. You were always going to die. I do not know if it was always going to be like this, but know, Ruben, you will see the face of God and he will already have forgiven you.”
Ruben blinked. Tried to turn his head to face David, what was left of his mouth attempting to make some sound, but nothing was happening, no sound was coming, just the wheeze of air and blood in his esophagus.
David kept hold of Ruben’s left hand, said, “Look into my eyes, Ruben.” He did. “You are the righteous. And the righteous are greater in death than they can possibly be in life. You do not need to suffer. Please,” David said, “let me relieve you of the pain.”
Ruben reached out and touched Rabbi David Cohen’s face, gently, and David realized he was already somewhere else most likely, that this world was almost gone to him, but still, any second of pain he could spare him was a gift.
“Close your eye,” Rabbi David Cohen said, and then he shot him once, in the back of the head.