Through the rolled down window, Gail smiled up, telling Frank she had a lovely evening.
"I'm glad it was just dinner. It's nice getting to know you."
"Yeah," Frank agreed, oddly touched by their candor. She quickly scanned the doc's streetlit features. Angular shadows accentuated the high cheekbones, the narrow, emerald eyes, and the pert, upturned nose. Her complexion was ethereal in the twilight. A part in her bangs revealed two creases. Smaller lines parenthesized her mouth and radiated from her eyes. Frank wondered what it would be like to touch them, realizing she'd never gotten that chance with Maggie.
Frank straightened, slapping the Pathfinder's roof.
"Look. You be careful driving home. I'll see you next week."
Frank left Gail staring behind her.
Chapter Seventeen
At the cemetery, Frank spotted Bobby standing a discrete distance from Placa's funeral.
"What are you doing here?" he murmured.
"Thought I'd take in the action," she whispered back.
"Shoot, if I'd known you were coming I'd have stayed home. It would have saved me grief with Leslie."
"How's she doing?"
"All right," Bobby smiled, then blurted out, "She might be pregnant."
"No way."
"Yeah. She's going to the doctor on Tuesday."
"Hey, I hope it works out."
Bobby's wife had miscarried twice before. They wanted lots of kids and were in the process of adopting a little boy.
"Anybody around?"
"Not yet. I thought for sure I'd see a couple Playboys by now. I hate these gang funerals. It's like waiting around for sharks to find a school of bleeding fish."
Frank took a look at the assembled crowd. She recognized some of the older folks, the Estrella relatives, but most of the mourners were kids Placa's age. They were all dressed in their finest, the boys in large shirts with sharply pressed baggies, and the girls in divulging tops over skintight skirts. Tattoos were as common as pimples and Frank watched two groups of boys greet each other with bold hand signs, openly announcing their gang affiliation.
Several ranflas slowly cruised the street, no doubt Playboys or another set waiting and watching. The sharks were beginning to gather. Propping herself casually against Bobby's car, eyes and ears wide open, Frank told him about Claudia's reaction when Frank had mentioned dealing junk.
"Maybe it wasn't a Playboy," Bobby said, eyeing the crowd behind his dark glasses. "Maybe it was a deal that went bad. A kickdown."
"Maybe. We need to get with Narco, see if we can't pin down exactly what sort of action they're into."
"Okay," Bobby said, his eyes lingering on a knot of young men smoking at the entrance to the cemetery. Their tats identified all of them as Kings. Frank recognized some of them and Bobby asked, "Want to hit 'em up?"
"May as well. Why don't you take Rojo and I'll take my namesake over there."
"Roger."
The cops walked toward the boys, watching blunts get flicked away.
"Hmmm. Smells good over here," Bobby said.
"Yeah," Frank said, "and most of you are probably on parole, aren't you? Hey, Frankie. Walk with me a minute."
A thick-set older boy did as he was told, but not happily. Frank walked with him, close enough that her shoulder brushed his heavy arm. She stopped and crowded him.
"Okay. I know you're a smart guy. You wouldn't come to a funeral without protection, right?"
He didn't want to answer that, and Frank said, "Don't make me prone you in front of everybody. Just show me what you're carryin'."
Frankie sighed and looked sideways, lifting his long shirt-tail. A nickel-plated Tech-9 rode in his waistband.
"Nice. Now let me ask you some questions. You tell me something I can use, I don't talk to your parolie, okay?"
"Wha' you wanna know?"
"What's the word on Placa? Who hit her?"
"Seem like a Playboy."
"Yeah? Who's claimin' it?"
"Ain't nobody I know of. I heard some people say it was Ocho Ruiz. The ride that pulled on her was like his but ain't no Playboys ownin' it."
"And nobody else is. Don'tcha think that's kinda funny? Now if a King did this, you wouldn't be telling me that either, would you? Kinda makes me wonder if this was inside, you know what I mean?"
Frankie stopped walking, eyes hard and dark on Frank's.
"Wasn't no King done it," he warned.
"How do you know?"
"I just know. Placa was down. Ain't nobody'd have the guts to do it. And Placa was like, loca, man. You jus' didn't mess with her. She put a hex on a dude I knew. Made him think he was a chicken. You didn't mess with Placa 'cuz if she didn't put that freaky malojo on you then her sister would. That whole family's crazy. They's like witches or somethin'."
"Really? You believe that?"
"Yeah, man! I saw that vato get on his hands and knees and start eating dirt. He was just like a chicken."
"I'll be damned," Frank murmured. "All right, Frankie. I'll believe you. But if I find out it was a King, I'ma come find you and you'll be back at the Hall before you can kiss your mother goodbye. No es mentira. You change your mind, or you hear somethin' before I do, call me. Don't lose this," she said slipping her card into his hand.
Frank turned around and said, "Okay. Who's next? Shadow. How 'bout you?"
A skinny little kid, with bones where muscles should have been, whined, "Why me? I ain't done nothin'!"
Frank just wiggled her finger and Shadow threw his hands up.
"Aw, man."
"Come on," she coaxed, "take it like a man."
"Pero, mierda, I ain't done nothin'."
He was shorter than Frank and she wrapped an arm around his ropey neck.
"Okay. Frankie showed me that pretty Tech-9 he's got, now I want to see what you're holding."
"Nothin'!" Shadow protested.
"Hey, easy, easy. I'm not on your case, man. 'Sides, if I was, I could probably get you for associating already, and that ain't air freshener I'm smellin'. I could take you in on just that."
"I'd be out in an hour," the kid bragged.
"Not if I pat you down and find you're holdin'. You don't want me to do that, do you?"
Frank twisted her head, "Besides. Aren't you sixteen now? Bust you this time you're going to County with the big boys. I hear they got a whole new block full a skinheads." She grinned, "I bet they'd love some puto-ass homeboy coming in on possession. Hm-hm," she said licking her lips.
"Fuck that," Shadow spat. He pulled a snub-nose .38 out of one pocket and a .22 out of the other.
"Man, what are you a Boy-Scout? You come prepared. Okay."
Frank gave him and another King the same spiel, getting much the same answers. Bobby's tack was different but he ended up with what Frank did. Zip. Nobody had heard anything.
Propped against Bobby's car again, Frank said, "Okay. Tell me what this means."
Bobby picked a leaf off a tree and started folding it into what looked like an origami shape. Frank was about to add, "Before I get gray hair," when he said, "Well. It could mean a number of things. Could be a Playboy not claiming because he's afraid of payback. Could be a King not claiming for the same reason, somebody trying to rise in the clique. But that'd sure be a way to make a name for yourself. If it's one of those, somebody'll talk sooner or later. That kind of stuff doesn't happen alone. It could be a completely different clique, different gang. Maybe Lydia did it alone. Maybe it was getting too dangerous, or maybe Placa was playing her."
"With who?"
Frank waited patiently, then Bobby lit up.
"The guy who left the sperm in her."
Frank smiled, and Bobby said, "Ocho?"
"Could be. Maybe she was playing them both."
"Pretty dangerous, and for why?"