Chapter 7

The crowd was a gathering of impressive proportions, maybe the largest in Ocean Park history. White, black, Hispanic, Asian, all were in attendance for the political event of the year—a fundraiser for Congressman Hector Diaz’s re-election. Samay stayed as close to Diaz as he inconspicuously could as the politician waded into a sea of constituents. Diaz hugged a fat old woman who wore eye-watering perfume. Her husband was next—fragrant stale breath and a hint of Ben Gay. Handshake followed with a middle-aged man with large, calloused hands and beer breath. Young woman with good cleavage next. The baby in her arm, a chubby infant who smelled of milk and talcum powder and dirty diaper, squirmed as if to defend his mother’s breasts.

The Hispanic Social Club, the largest hall in Ocean Park, was the unofficial headquarters of the Latin Kings gang. On this Friday night the club was the venue for one of Diaz’s campaign speeches, and its doors were open to every prospective voter in the city—including Asian Boyz. The congressman brushed past the long, elegant drapes alongside the tall windows, looked at his reflection in a wall mirror, and adjusted his red tie and pocket hankie. His pencil mustache danced when he smiled.

He crossed the hall, shaking hands, hugging, and complimenting everyone in his path. Heavy girl with a tight dress. Boy in a wheelchair. A rabbi. A nun. The politician swiveled from one vote to another as he made his way through the kitchen to the small club bar. Diaz left happy people behind, still talking about the speech he’d given, the promise of jobs, tax cuts that would somehow coexist with more services, and the silly drivel about progress that his opponent, Lisa Conley, was preaching. Everyone laughed with him.

Samay and Vithu followed into the crowded bar. The clack of pool balls interrupted the drone of a hockey game on the high television. The club bar was a place where gangbangers mingled with upright club members like Congressman Diaz.

Ramon, the Social Club manager, joined Diaz at a table along with a red-faced cop named Madigan. Ramon’s long hair and eyelashes would have made him look effeminate if not for his five-o’clock shadow, square jaw, and dark goatee.

A waitress brought them a bottle of tequila and glasses. Samay and Vithu found cue sticks and racked the balls at the pool table next to them. Diaz and his companions spoke softly, too softly to overhear in the crowded space—until they opened their second bottle.

“Tommy Lopez is dead,” Ramon said. “Someone fucked him up real bad.”

Break. Three-ball dropped in the corner pocket. Samay positioned himself with his back to them and pretended to study his next shot.

“Life’s not for everyone,” Diaz said. “Who killed him?”

“Fuck if I know,” the policeman said.

“We need to know.” Diaz poured himself a drink.

Vithu finally made a shot and contemplated his options. Samay circled slowly until he could see Diaz’s table.

Madigan reached into the pocket of his jacket and produced a packet of paper. He unfolded it slowly, slid the creased page across the table, and lifted his hand from a photo nestled inside. A young girl’s face was blurred but angelic, tilted upward to a dark-haired woman as they descended the steps from the Ocean Park police station, past two white cops and a black one. Samay recognized the girl from the River Street courtyard.

Diaz inspected the photo before he drained the rest of his drink.

“She knows who killed Victor,” the cop said. “She was there. Cambodian.”

“Cambodians,” Ramon said. “Cockroaches. What stinks more, the foul river they live near or their filthy tenements?”

“Why haven’t you made an arrest?” Diaz demanded.

Madigan shrugged. “State Police took over the investigation, and they ain’t sharing names.”

“Then ask her,” Diaz ordered Ramon and tapped the picture twice, fast, as if his fingertip would burn if left there too long.

“What?”

“Ask the girl.”

Diaz crumpled the paper into a ball, crushing it ever smaller with manicured fingers.

Ramon, still looking stunned, said, “I can use Tommy’s gang, but I’ll need a translator.”

Diaz nodded, then steepled his hands under his chin and issued a command to Madigan.

“Don’t respond to 911 calls on River Street. Keep your people away.”

****

“Now?” Samay whispered hours later.

“It’s time,” Vithu said.

They opened the closet door from the inside and stepped into the dark, quiet Hispanic Club kitchen. Samay retrieved the pipe cutter from his baggy pant leg. Dim moonlight poured in through the six-pane windows. Vithu flicked the light switch on and Samay climbed onto the wide industrial stove and braced himself across its hood. Legs dangling, arms and torso wedged between steel and wall, he fit the open jaw of the cutter on the copper gas pipe. Steel or black iron would have been difficult, but the tool cut through the copper after ten turns, and natural gas hissed. He righted himself. Vithu collected wet rags from the bar and wadded them under the doors to the bar and hall. The steady hiss of gas filled the room, along with a stink like sulfur. They closed the kitchen door, stepped into the dark hall, and paced the thirty-seven steps they’d counted earlier when they walked behind Diaz.

The deadbolt on the side door slid easily, as did the two high-quality Schlage locks. They stepped into the parking lot and eased the metal door closed behind them.

Vithu paused, turning to admire the impressive two-story building with stylish awnings over doors and windows. He ran a hand over the wall.

“Pon says the war begins today,” he whispered to the bricks. “Say goodbye to your castle, Hector.”

The moon was a bright coin, but dark factories and close tenements gave cover as they ran. Blocks later, they climbed the steep berm to the railroad tracks for the commuter train to Boston. Their legs pistoned the hill and a small avalanche of soil and coal tumbled down.

Vithu reached the top and slid his new SIG Sauer out of his holster. He planted the handle of the gun on the back of his left hand, pointing the barrel at the square target of light in the kitchen they’d just left. He squeezed the trigger and a fireball bloomed from the Hispanic Social Club. Windows shattered, car alarms crowed. He pulled Samay to the worn walking path between the rails and the fireball grew as they raced toward the river.