WALNUT PARK/FROGTOWN
Nate walked to the door of the Dew Drop thinking about how gunslingers die. Billy the Kid, Wild Bill Hickok, Jesse James. All three of those bad boys died without knowing it was coming. Wild Bill took a bullet in the head while playing cards. Jesse James took one with his face to the wall, straightening a picture. Billy the Kid died in the dark, asking who is it? to the man who murdered him. That’s how gunslingers died. Real life didn’t give you a showdown. Real life put a bullet in the back of your head.
At places like the Dew Drop.
Me for her.
He walked in the door.
The Dew Drop was a cowboy bar. Not dumb hats and country music. Cowboys as in operators. Heavies. Nick had called them life bars, as in for people in the life. Usually they were owned by ex-cons, guys who had come out the other side. Guys who weren’t in the life themselves anymore, but who knew guys and could make connections.
The Dew Drop had barred windows. Inside was dim, lit only by a couple of bulbs and a couple of neon signs. The pool table had a path worn down the middle by a thousand breaking cue balls. It smelled of old smoke that twenty years of a smoking ban could never scrub out.
The Dew Drop belonged to La Eme. The guy behind the bar was a classic cowboy, Mexi edition. Jail tats faded gray on his arms. He had canyons on his face and the eyes of a man who had been hunted once. You never lost the eyes, Nate guessed. Once you were hunted, you could never rest again.
Nate sympathized. He knew the war had changed him forever. He was so goddamn tired. He slept in snatches, small noises in the night waking him like cold water on his face. A gun under his pillow. He slept so little his dreams had started leaking into his waking life. Just in small ways—a creature moving in the corner of his eyes, but when he turned to see it there was nothing there, shit like that. Sometimes he heard noises, people calling his name. He didn’t think he was crazy, just tired. But he couldn’t be sure. How would he know?
He sat at the bar. The old hardcase walked over.
“Do you for?”
“Beer to start. Whatever’s cheap.”
The hardcase pulled a bottle from ice. Nate paid for it, pushed across a twenty.
“Keep that,” he said.
“Gracias,” the old man said, pocketing the twenty. “You just come home?”
“Susanville.”
The hardcase’s eyes danced over Nate.
“Did a bit there once myself,” the hardcase said. “Where were you?”
“B-71.”
“Hot as hell when you were there?”
“Only when it wasn’t freezing.”
The hardcase nodded like that’s right. It felt to Nate like the exchange of passwords.
“You got a name?” the old hardcase asked.
Nate dug into his pocket, pushed a thousand dollars across the bar like that’s my name.
“I need to talk to some carnales. I need someone close to the root. Someone who can get a ruling from La Eme.”
The hardcase left the cash on the table.
“Going to need more info than that.”
“I want to put somebody in the hat,” Nate said. “Somebody on the inside. A big name. That’s all I’m going to say for now.”
The hardcase eyechecked Nate. Nate let him look. You didn’t have to look mean. You just thought about where you’d been. Your eyes would do the rest.
The bartender took the money. Nate’s eyes had passed the test.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Round this time. I’ll scare somebody up for you.”
Polly and the bear poked their heads out from under the blanket in the back as Nate started the car.
“Did you find them?”
“Maybe,” he said. “Got to come back tomorrow.”
“You think it will work?”
“Yeah,” he lied.
They drove for a while, Nate turning it all over in his head. Polly played drums on the dash. She had the bear practice punches. Nate looked at her and felt his heart crawl up his throat.
Me for her.
He could have laughed at how fucked up life was. That soon as you found something to live for, you found something to die for too. But he guessed in the end it was a good trade.
He checked back in every day for three days. The hardcase just said wait. Nate waited. He trained with Polly. He watched Charlotte try to break through to the girl. Wondered how on earth she could be good enough for what he needed from her.
On the third night, they sat around the house post-dinner. Dodgers on the teevee. Polly on the floor, as far as she could be from Charlotte and still be in the room. She folded the bear’s legs into the lotus position.
“What’s he doing?” Charlotte asked. Polly mean-mugged her. Charlotte held the gaze.
“Come on, what’s he doing?”
“He’s meditating,” Polly said, that old are-you-going-to-laugh-at-me tone in her voice. Nate almost interrupted, worried that Charlotte would dig the trench between her and Polly even deeper.
“That’s cool,” Charlotte said. “He’s a good bear, huh?”
Polly placed the bear’s paws facing up on his lap. The yogi pose complete.
“He’s a ninja,” Polly said.
The bear put a paw on his snout like shhh.
“No shit,” Charlotte said. “Like an assassin?”
“He’s a good ninja.”
“What’s that mean?”
“He goes on missions. Like at night when we’re asleep. Like maybe he hears a kid crying, so he takes a bow and arrow, and shoots some ice cream into the kid’s mouth. That’s a good ninja.”
Charlotte laughed.
“I never knew that,” Nate said.
“You never asked,” Polly said. She and Charlotte shared a look and it felt to Nate like something twisted into place, something locked.
Maybe it would be enough.
The fourth day, the bartender put his beer down in front of him, gave a nod, and Nate knew right away the nod wasn’t meant for him. It was a signal. Nate heard steps behind him. He wondered if he’d feel the bullet if that’s what was coming.
A guy took the seat next to him. His wifebeater showed off the black-hand tattoo on his bicep. It marked him as La Eme for life. His eyes did the same.
“You been looking for us?” A voice dragged through the ashes of a thousand cigarettes.
“Yeah. Need work done.”
“I hear you, dog. Only you look the type to put in the work yourself, you know what I’m saying?”
“My name is Nate McClusky.” He saw how the man’s face didn’t change. He already knew who Nate was. “I need to put a name in the hat. Somebody on the inside. Somebody big.”
“Pay for your beer,” the man said. “We’re taking a ride, me and you.”
“My daughter’s in the car,” Nate said.
The man smiled.
“That’s the legend. My name’s Chato. Get your daughter, man. She’s safe on my mama’s name. We’re going to Frogtown. There’s a council waiting for you.”
Nate took the man’s measure. Nate didn’t know he had any choice but to trust him now. He hoped Chato loved his mother.
They drove a two-car caravan through the city. Chato drove fast. Nate ran red lights to keep up. It jangled his nerves. Made his cop paranoia redline. Polly sat shotgun and watched the world pass. She was growing like wildfire now. Like she moved through time faster than the rest of the world.
They parked by the big concrete canyon called the L.A. River. The smog-blurred buildings of downtown rose in the distance. Polly let the bear dangle from her hand as they walked. They walked into an apartment building courtyard, Nate and Polly two steps behind the man. A double handful of apartments ringed the courtyard, but no sounds of life emerged. No cooking smells, no music. No burble of children playing. This wasn’t an apartment complex. This was a fortress. They passed two baby gangsters not much older than Polly. They tried out their mad dogs on Nate. Nate let it slide. The bear in Polly’s hands didn’t. The bear waved at them. They got confused. They lost their mad dogs. Nate laughed. Gunfighter-death thoughts cut the laugh off early.
The apartment complex had a community center attached. Outside it, two young carnales. Their mad dogs were a significant improvement over the last pair. Chato opened the door to the community center. It stank of weed smoke and spilled beer, sweat and gunpowder. Nate knew if the room was empty, he was dead. He walked through the door anyway.
The room was full of full-tilt-boogie La Eme soldiers. The carnales were veterans. They were old school. They were dappled with shank scars and bullet wounds. They wore ink letters on their knuckles so their fists spelled out words. love/hate. fist/fuck. iron/will. They kept their jailhouse swole on. Seeing all these killers made Nate relax. They were going to listen to him. It meant he was going to live. For another five minutes, anyway.
The man in the center of them all radiated pure king power. El Hombre himself. Boxer Rios. Nate knew the stories. Boxer was the biggest La Eme soldier on this side of a prison wall. Aztec gods of war crawled over him. Warriors held bloody hearts aloft. The ink on his scarred knuckles spelled out stay/down. The ink looked old. He was the father of the style. Boxer studied Nate. His mad dog terrifying, nothing but empty rooms behind his eyes.
“So you’re the guy been giving the Steel fits, huh?” Boxer asked. His voice throat-cut raspy. “You and this little chica here. You a little outlaw, chica?”
“Goddamn right,” Polly said. The bear nodded like uh-huh. The carnales laughed.
“Little badass. Hear you’re real bad for whiteboy business.”
“Give it to him,” Nate said. Polly walked toward Boxer, fishing a brick of cash out of her backpack. Boxer eyeball-counted it as Polly moved back to Nate’s side.
“About five grand. What you trying to buy with it?”
“My life. My daughter’s life.”
“That ain’t mine to give,” Boxer said. “The greenlight on you, that’s straight whiteboy business.”
“I get it,” Nate said. “I want you to touch somebody I can’t touch.”
Boxer nodded at one of the carnales. They vanished the cash.
“So you want somebody put in the hat, huh? Maybe you tell me who that is.”
“Crazy Craig Hollington.”
Boxer smiled like whiteboy fucking loco.
“You say it like it’s no thing,” he said.
“I can’t touch him. You can. You want more than the five large, tell me what you want.”
He held back the last bargaining chip. The one he knew they’d take. The one he didn’t want to pay. But he would if he had to.
“I think,” Boxer said, “when it comes to taking out the president of Aryan Steel, I think it’s a seller’s market.”
“Word on the street is you and the Steel are in a cold war,” Nate said. “They’re cutting into your business a little more than you’d like. Maybe the next president will be more friendly to y’all.”
“You think I need some gabacho stickup artist telling me La Eme business? Don’t try to play above your weight, dog.”
“Name the price for Crazy Craig. Any price. If I can pay it, I will.”
“The cash, dog, we’ll call that payment enough that I let you walk out of here, don’t turn you over to the Steel myself. That’s what the cash bought you. But you and the little badass here, you ain’t got nothing I need.”
Here it was. The last chip.
“I got one thing,” Nate said.
“What’s that?”
Nate walked toward Boxer. Polly started to follow. Nate gave her a hold-back hand signal. She stayed. Nate got close to Boxer. He whispered his offer to Boxer.
“Respect,” Boxer said. “You got balls. But I’m going to pass. It’s too big, dog. Too big.”
Nate felt the world give way. This was the only shot he had. He couldn’t let it pass.
“Think about—” Nate said. Boxer cut him off.
“I told you, you don’t get to tell me how to play my game. Now you and your little girl, you leave—”
“I like your tattoos,” Polly said, and Nate almost jumped. Boxer looked at her like huh? She walked to his throne, Nate too surprised to think of stopping her until it was too late. She pointed at Boxer’s chest, over his heart. “‘Gracias Madre’ means ‘Thanks Mom,’ right?”
“That’s right, little badass.”
Under the words on Boxer’s chest, a cartoon drawing of a woman’s face. A tear in her eye. Polly reached forward and touched the drawing.
“Crazy Craig killed my mom,” Polly said. Tears wet down her voice. “She never did anything to anybody and she’s dead. She was my mom.”
Carnales traded holy shit looks. They traded little badass looks. Boxer reached for her with his stay/down hands. He took Polly by the chin. He mussed her watermelon hair. He nodded.
“Maybe there’s something, little badass. Maybe there’s something. But it’s too big for just me. I got to make a call. Got to check with the inside. But maybe there’s something.”
Polly turned around to Nate. The face she made, only for him, only lasted a split second. Ha ha, her face said. Fooled them, it said.
He’d never been so frightened of her.