Hailey's War (27 page)

“Then he'll have your phone number,” Serena said.

“That's fine with me,” I said. “If you're thinking he can track my signal, he can't. The cops could, but not a private citizen.”

I climbed up on the fence and Serena got up next to me, close enough to hear. I pulled up my directory of saved numbers on my cell and found the one for Skouras's lawyer.

“Good morning, Costa and Fishman, how may I help you?”

“I need to speak to Mr. Costa immediately,” I said. “My name is Hailey Cain, and it's urgent.”

“He's in a meeting right now. Can I get your phone number?”

“I'm afraid not,” I said. “Listen, no matter how important his meeting, if you walk in there and say Hailey Cain is on the phone and
wants to talk to him about Tony Skouras's grandchild, I guarantee you he'll get up and walk out of that room.”

There was a beat of silence, then her voice was stiff as she said, “Please hold.”

And I did, for quite a while. A horse whinnied in the distance. Sweat started to trickle along my spine, under my shearling-lined jacket. Truckee's part of the Sierras had wide dips between its frigid nights and warm days, and besides, Serena and I were in full sun.

“Miss Cain, this is Nicolas Costa,” a man's voice on the line said. “You've been leading everyone on quite a chase.”

“Had to,” I said.

“Actually, that's not true,” he said, his voice more animated. “That's the funny thing about all this. Nobody on our end can figure out how you got involved. You have no discernible link to Nidia Hernandez or anyone else in this matter.” When I didn't say anything, he prodded, “You have no response to that?”

“It wasn't a question,” I said. “Mr. Costa, I'm calling to ask you a question: What's it going to take for Nidia and her baby to be allowed to live together? She's the mother. She has a right to that. There has to be a way that can happen.”

When he didn't answer right away, I added, “This line's not tapped, and I'm not recording this conversation for anyone, if that's what you're worried about.”

“I never thought you were working with law enforcement,” Costa said. “Your unorthodox methods make it clear that you're not. In fact, I think you have no better position here, in terms of the law, than we do. You came into a private home with guns, assaulted one of our employees, and took a defenseless young woman away with you. And then, if I'm reading news reports correctly, you tried to kill a California Highway Patrolman.”

“That wasn't me.”

“Let's stop wasting time here,” he said. “You called to find out what it's going to take for Skouras to give up on having his grandchild. The
answer is, nothing. Our position is completely nonnegotiable. We will call with instructions for where you can bring Miss Hernandez, and in exchange, you and she will be allowed to live. If we have to track her down ourselves, Miss Hernandez will be killed, as will you. Quentin, the young man you unwisely taunted in Gualala, has expressed some interest in spending some private time with you, and Mr. Skouras has already given his approval for that.”

Next to me, I felt Serena stiffen.

Costa said, “You do understand the implications of the words ‘private time,' don't you?”

“Yeah, it's a rape threat,” I said. “Excuse me if I don't worry about it too much. He and I spent a little time together that day in Gualala, and he came out of it second best.”

“Spare me the youthful bravado. You're in over your head, firstie. I'll call in twenty-four hours with instructions. If you don't accept them on receipt, the mother's survival and your survival are off the table.”

He hung up.

“Holy shit, Insula,” Serena said.

“Yeah.” I jumped off the fence. “Well, we've got a little time to think.”

As we were heading back down to Julianne's trailer, she said, “Why'd that guy call you thirsty?”

“He didn't,” I said. “He was calling me a ‘firstie.' It's a fourth-year student at West Point, or a cadet first class. It's a good thing I didn't wash out in my third year. I'd be stuck at ‘cow.'”

“No fucking way,” Payaso said
.

We were back at the trailer, on the porch, and I'd just let him in on my conversation with Costa, including the callback in twenty-four hours with further instructions. Payaso's face was again a mask, but an angry mask, not the least bit clownish. Iceman was sitting nearby. It was another war council.

“We're running out of options,” I said. “Nidia wants to keep her child; Costa says Skouras will never stop coming after her, and furthermore, if we don't at least agree to give up the baby when he calls back tomorrow, the stakes go up. Nidia's life and mine are going to be forfeit.”

Payaso was still shaking his head. “He's not getting the kid.”

“My question, though,” I said, “is how we're going to deal with him. We can't just throw Nidia and the baby on a Greyhound and hope for the best. She's not capable of protecting herself and her child.” My throat felt dry from so much talking, first with Costa, now here. “And we can't keep guarding her and the kid around the clock, long-term.”

Everyone was silent. We could hear the faint throb of music from inside Julianne's bedroom, where Nidia was with Cheyenne, like yesterday. I said, “Nidia should be a part of this conversation.”

“No,” Payaso said. “She's pregnant and under a lot of stress. I don't think she should have to think about things like this.”

Serena said, “It's her baby and her life. If Nidia shouldn't have to be in on this, who the hell should?”

Payaso ignored her. “You said that she and the baby would have to be separated until the old man dies, right?” he asked me.

“Yeah,” I said. “And who knows, that could be soon.”

“What if it was really soon?” He smiled slyly. “Like, extremely soon.”

Iceman smiled. Before that, he'd been as impassive as an Easter Island statue.

I had to swallow before I could speak. “You mean an assassination.”

“You saying he doesn't deserve it?” Payaso asked. “You know he does. If you want to keep your hands clean, Trece and I can TCB on this. You wouldn't have to be involved, except in the planning, like you did with finding Nidia. But not in the actual—” He made a gun of his thumb and finger and mimicked shooting.

He was making a good point, in his way. If Trece went after Skouras and succeeded in killing him, it wasn't like the old man wouldn't have brought it on himself. Everybody knew what happened when you lived by the sword.

But there was a problem. “I doubt you could get near him,” I said. “He knows a Hispanic gangbanger was involved in the mission in Gualala. He'll spot one of your homeboys a mile away. You guys aren't gonna blend in, not in Skouras land.”

“Guys? Maybe not.” Another sly smile. “But a nice innocent Mexican girl, dressed like a maid or a janitor? One of Warchild's homegirls could walk right up to him and blast away. Some of them are as good with a gun as my homeboys.”

Serena shot me a look that, in anyone else, would have appeared to be mild consternation. In her, it was alarm.

I said what she was undoubtedly thinking. “They could get in to do that, sure. But could they get out?”

Payaso didn't look like he had considered this, but he lifted a shoulder. “Under the right situation, yeah, I bet they could.”

Finally Serena spoke up. “She'll have other kids.”

“What?” Payaso said. “What are you taking about?”

“Nidia will have other kids,” she repeated. “And the old man doesn't want to kill this one, he wants to
raise
it.”

Payaso started to speak, but Serena didn't let him: “Listen to what
we're saying. We're talking about
killing
someone, with one of my homegirls doing the shooting, and maybe not coming back, and for what? All so Nidia can raise this kid instead of giving it up? It's too high a price.” She jumped off the porch railing. “I'm going to get her. I want to hear her say it's worth one of my homegirls' lives for her not to have to give up her baby.”

“No,” Payaso said. “She doesn't need to be in on this decision. This is gang business.”

“No, it's not, Payaso,” she said. “That's what we've been pretending so that we can tell ourselves we can handle this, but it's not. In case you didn't notice, we're like five hundred miles out of our territory, the
enemigos
are rich white guys we didn't use to ever have to think about, and she's”—Serena gestured toward me—“not really even one of us, like Trippy was saying. This isn't just Trece business, and Nidia needs to be in on it.” She headed toward the back door of the trailer.

When Payaso stepped in front of her, I thought it was just to block her way, until his hand whipped out and he slapped her face.

I understood why it had happened. Serena was as tall as Payaso was, five-nine. She was smart. She used to run with the guys. She wasn't like the other females, whose anger and opposition he could have blown off as girlish pique. A challenge from Warchild was a challenge. He couldn't have backed down and not lost face in front of Iceman.

So he hit her. Not a hard slap, just enough to remind her of how things were. In case she'd forgotten. Which I guess she had, because she was staring at him in shock, and he was looking back at her with a cold, impassive expression, not moving out of her way.

I said, in a low voice, “Let's take a break, okay? This isn't getting us anywhere.”

They were still staring at each other.

I went to Serena's side, playing the soothing girlfriend. “Let's go into town, okay? Everyone needs to cool off, and we didn't really eat a lot of breakfast. We'll get something to eat, all right?”

“Yeah,” Serena said, her voice muted. “Okay.”

I looked at Payaso. “Can we take your car?”

We'd barely gone two miles, me driving, when Serena leaned forward, head
in her hands lowered almost to the dashboard, and started to cry.

“God damn him,” she said, sniffling.

I recognized what a good time this would be not to say anything glibly comforting, and didn't.

We were silent the rest of the way into town, except for Serena's brief spasm of tears, which dried quickly. We went to a diner and ordered garlic fries and cream-cheese jalapeños and Cokes and found a table in the back, where we could talk without being overheard. The infusion of sugar and grease seemed to have a calming effect on Serena. She watched through the window as a stellar jay splashed and bathed in a parking-lot puddle. I watched, too, but I was thinking of the problem at hand.

By the time we'd finished our food and were sitting idly sipping our Cokes, I said, “I think you're right.”

“About what part?” she said dully, sitting with her chin in her hand.

“Skouras has to die,” I said.

She raised her head. I'd surprised her. She wasn't used to hearing me sound so bloodthirsty, and in so flat a tone.

I explained: “This isn't going to be over until Skouras's got the baby or he's dead. I'd say that it's okay for him to get the baby—hell, I'd offer to
bring
the baby to him, except that Nidia will never stop trying to get the kid back. Maybe she'll go through the courts or even go to the media, but somehow she'll make an annoyance of herself, and he'll have her killed. He might have her killed anyway,
preventively, and Costa's warning about ‘if you don't cooperate' was bullshit from the start. For all I know, if I arrange a meeting to hand the baby over, he might have his guy say, ‘Thank you very much,' and put a bullet in my head, just for knowing about the whole thing. And for wasting his time and punking his guys.”

Serena said dully, “You want us to do what Payaso said, have one of my girls dress up as an office cleaner and get close to him?”

I shook my head. “I'm not letting one of your homegirls do this,” I said. “That wouldn't work very well, either. The problem with an assassination in his home or his office, for one of your sucias, would be getting out safely. But there's another option. Skouras has to get around, and San Francisco has horrible traffic. That's why bike messenger services are so successful there. Bikes cut right through the traffic.”

“Are you saying
you
want to do it? On your bike?” Serena said.

“It's a variation on a drive-by,” I said. “They do it a lot in foreign countries, on motorcycles. I'd be almost unrecognizable as a bike messenger, dressed like one, wearing a helmet. If I pull my hair down low enough, it'll obscure a lot of my birthmark. And I could probably even dye my hair dark.” The details were coming to me fast. “I'm wearing a half-open jacket over a shoulder holster with the gun under it. I pull up alongside Skouras's car, blast away, I'm gone. One of you could be waiting for me somewhere nearby. I cut through an alley or a parking garage, dump the bike and the helmet, get in a car with you, and we're gone. Skouras's guys will know who it was afterward, but they already know who I am. No one's at risk who wasn't before.”

Of course, it was possible that it wouldn't work, that Skouras's guys would kill me, either on the spot or later. That possibility was part of my calculations. I do X, he does Y, I get killed. It was still weird to me that I could think so dispassionately about my own death. I'd learned not to talk about it that way, though, not even in front of someone as jaded as Serena.

“I don't like it,” she said.

“We'll refine the details as we go,” I said.

But she was shaking her head, looking out at the hills and the horizon. “This is a detail that can't be refined away,” she said.