Frank thought about the question.
"The kid had just seen his whole family butchered. He was petrified. Hunt's got about as much compassion as a bullet. He wouldn't have understood if I'd told him anything else."
Gail returned her attention to a fading cut on Barracas' forearm.
"Why?" Frank quizzed.
"Because what you said was so cold. I didn't want to believe you could be so heartless."
Charlie came back.
"No gloves," he said. Without looking up from her work, the doc thanked him, her eyes crinkling in a smile. Frank almost smiled too, realizing that Gail knew damn good and well there weren't any gloves around.
Chapter Three
Frank was summoned to the Estrella's at 9:47 PM on Sunday night. By 7:00 PM Tuesday she and her detectives had worked around the clock, through the most critical hours following a homicide. They were beat, and Frank sent everyone home. That's where she should have headed to, but she was working her way to the Alibi on surface streets. The freeway might have been faster but Frank wanted the comfort of the old roads. It pleased her to pass a Rexall that used to be a jazz club where Duke Ellington played. A little farther down the block she'd made her first collar. Two streets down, she and Noah had responded to a domestic and almost been knocked out by a charging 400-pound woman. At the corner of Avalon and 51 she slowed to admire a brand new strike. It was so fresh the paint still glinted.
Old English letters, four feet high in blue and orange, cryptically announced "W52K-R213." As dusk lowered around the swirling letters, their highly-stylized tips seemed to twitch and flicker like flames. Frank didn't need to stare long to know who'd done the strike.
Passing the next side street, she caught the artist's familiar, bad-ass shuffle half way down the block. Placa Estrella, revered OG of the 52nd Street Kings, was deep into Playboy territory. Taking out an old gangster like Placa would be a hell of a coup for an up and coming rival. Frank pulled up alongside her, watching Placa's hand move to her waist. The girl braced, waiting for the gun barrel to come poking out the window. Frank rolled ahead so Placa could see who she was. Only then did she roll the window down.
"Aren't you in the wrong neighborhood?" she called, driving beside her.
"I got a right to be here."
"Playboy's might not agree with you," Frank countered. Placa shrugged, kept walking.
"Want a ride?"
Placa shook her head, her long braid like an anchor to the sidewalk.
"Okay. I asked you nice, now I'm telling you to get in."
Placa planted her feet and glared.
"What I gotta get in for? I ain't done nothin'."
"Bet you're strapped. Want me to pat you?"
"So? I still ain't done nothin'."
Frank pushed the door open, moving slowly, and told Placa to get in. Placa protested feebly but got in. She slunk down in the seat so no one would see her.
"What I done?"
"Nothin'. But there's been enough blood spilled in your family lately. I don't want to be the one to have to tell Claudia I left you here and some Playboys capped you."
"Yeah," Placa snorted, "you'd be all tore up."
"I would," Frank insisted, "and your sister'd kick the shit outta me then put a hex on me."
She was pleased to see the corner of Placa's mouth twitch. As they waited for the light to change, they both watched a Baby Playboy cross the street on a bike.
Frank teased, "Bet he stole that off a King," and Placa immediately shot back, "That bitch wouldn't be walkin' if he stole that off a King."
Moving through the intersection, Frank asked "How's your mom doin'?"
" 'Kay," Placa shrugged.
"How about Tonio and your sister?"
" 'Kay."
"And your Uncle Luis?"
"I don't know."
"When was the last time you saw him?"
"I don't know."
"See him Sunday?"
Placa shook her head.
"Since then?"
Again her head shook.
"You always were talkative," Frank said. "You do that tag down the block?"
"Tagging's illegal," Placa responded ambiguously.
"Since when's the law ever stopped you?"
Placa didn't answer and Frank asked, "Still in school?"
"Sometimes."
Frank nodded. They'd come into 52nd Street territory, and Placa put her hand on the door handle.
"How about Rolo? How's he doing?"
That earned Frank a sideways glance.
"Why you wanna know for?"
"Just wondering," Frank shrugged. "He's your dog, ain't he? Heard he took a knife a while ago."
That wasn't all Frank had heard. Rolo had lost a lung in that fight and word was he couldn't fight anymore. Placa still used him for drive-bys and for peeping when they hit a liquor store or Quik Mart, but she was getting a lot of shit from the other Kings. They said he was too slow, that he couldn't take care of himself and that somebody'd get hurt having to rescue him someday.
Placa said proudly, "He's okay. He just needs to get his strength back."
Pulling onto Placa's street, Frank slowed in front of her house, studying the dark windows.
"Where is everybody?"
Placa just offered another shrug. Frank pulled a card out of her pocket and pressed it into Placa's hand.
"You need anything, you call me. Claro?"
No one ever looked a cop in south-central squarely in the eye so when Placa gave Frank her full attention she was taken aback by the intense scrutiny.
"Is that all?" Placa asked.
"You want me to tuck you into bed?"
"Naw, I just..."
Placa suddenly found the seats ripped upholstery fascinating. It was the opening Frank needed.
"What's going on?"
Placa plucked a piece of foam then glanced at the street. There was a naked flash of pain, then it was gone.
"Nothin'."
She jumped out of the car before anyone could recognize her in the strange company of the law. Frank waited until Placa was inside before accelerating through the quickening night. Fatigue and memories wrapped her in a thick fog. She'd watched Placa come up from toddler to feared gangster. It was a deep bloodline.
Her father and her uncle Julio had been OGs in the Westside Kings and her brother Chuey had claimed for 52nd Street after the Kings splintered into three fractious gangs. Claudia had been a revered Queen, but lost her standing when Placa's father was shipped off to Chino for twenty-five years. Before she had her babies, Placa's sister Gloria had been a fierce 52nd Street Queen. Frank remembered a rookie who rode with her when she was a field training officer. He'd sliced his finger to the bone patting Gloria's hair down. While he was bleeding and wondering what the hell to do, Frank had suggested he check Gloria's mouth to see if she had razors in there too.
Like a lot of bangers, Placa started her rise to ghetto stardom by spraying her gang's name on anything that didn't move. Her artwork was bold and inspired. It pleased the Kings and they made her a Baby Queen, but that insulted Placa. She'd already seen how the Kings treated Queens and she didn't want any part of that abuse. She told the 52nd Street homeboys that she wanted to be jumped in like her brother Chuey. She would stand with them as a King or she would stand against them. The OGs had laughed, but they'd given her missions. Frank picked her up on a break-and-enter the day after her tenth birthday and that was only one of many infractions.
Placa's reputation grew in proportion to her juvenile arrest records and on her twelfth birthday she was jumped into the Kings. She'd since risen steadily and Frank knew that the 52nd Street vatos didn't make decisions without Placa's council. That had happened once and the next day two Kings ended up at King/Drew with concussions and multiple compound fractures.
Frank was glad when she got to the Alibi that there was an empty booth. She snagged it, noting Johnnie already at the bar, an empty shot glass and a beer in front of him. He was arguing with Hunt, and Frank swore if he got into a fight she wouldn't help him. Even as she thought it, she knew her promise was empty. Johnnie could be a pain in the ass but at least his intentions were good. Frank had no such faith concerning Hunt. She was glad to see Nancy approach her booth. She and Frank had been flirting since Frank was in Homicide. Nothing ever came of it, Frank made sure of that, but it was an amiable routine.