Immortality Is the Suck (5 page)

at it, I suggest you stay on the freeway and just keep driving until you get to

San Diego.

For years Boyle Heights was agricultural land. Acres of frequently flooding

“flats” and the small lump of Mount Washington on the east side of the Los

Angeles river isolated, in the early years, from the growing urban west side.

Recent immigrants and minorities lived there until Boyle and Hollenbeck

bought up the whole thing and developed it. The mayor of Los Angeles built

bridges and for a while the area was opulent and pretty. Those people moved

on, leaving behind crumbling mission-style houses and a new population of

poor and immigrants.

“The Flats” has the highest gang crime rate in Southern California. Here,

the tagging is a serious form of communication and rarely does anyone argue

that “it's an art form.” As I rolled off the ramp, I noticed that the “Mosca”

inscribed on the stop sign there had been sprayed over with a cross and the

name “Charra.” Either a threat or a brag. Charra had either taken down Mosca

or intended to in the near future.

I pulled off the freeway a little north, in the slightly more affluent Mount

Washington area, and let the Caddy roll slowly along the road that skirted the

base of Mount Washington. Stepping-stone residential blocks climbed, one

beige and pink stuccoed square after another, up to the more imaginative

buildings pitching off the top of the mound of earth that gave the area its

Immortality is the Suck

27

name. Due to erosion and bad building codes, those homes teetered overhead

like something from a Dr. Seuss illustration.

I saw no motorbikes, no one wearing colors, and kept to the back streets,

passing though Lincoln Heights, then west on Mission past the medical center

and the county morgue, under the freeway, skirting the RTD and Amtrak bus

yard so that I could creep up on my old stomping grounds.

I could see no one on the streets and most of the homes were dark. A cat's

eyes flashed green as the Caddy startled it from its hiding place under a

pimped-out Silverado with extended shocks that made it loom over the pocked

asphalt like a dinosaur. I slid in behind it just a couple houses down from

where Freeway still lived with his mama.

Freeway had grown up on this block. He'd been one of those skinny boys

with long limbs and liquid dark eyes you'd see in a Mercado parking lot.

Practicing flips and slides on a skateboard covered with stickers. Worn clothes

kept clean by a stout mama whose vigilance and fierce love were nevertheless

not enough to keep Leonard safe on streets where poor, one hundred forty

pound boys, with no older brothers or cousins, were regularly pounded into

hamburger meat.

He'd allied himself with bigger boys, boys with guns. Joined
Las Serenos
,

an impressively violent Latino street gang. Spent his high school years banging,

freebasing, and skateboarding, until he got good enough at the last to compete

and surprised his whole neighborhood by winning a few contests.

He was then nineteen and that was probably the high point of his life. He

used the money he won to buy himself a bright blue Harley with ape hangers

that no doubt made him feel bigger and meaner than he had in his entire life.

He'd told me once that he drove that bike off the dealer's lot and straight over

to the local Mongol hangout, presenting himself as a prospect.

“
Sure,” they'd said. “Here's what you gotta do…
”

And that is where Freeway's and my paths had crossed.

28

A. M. Riley

He'd been holding ten grams of ice, and a crate of assault rifles had been

found in his mother's garage. The officer who'd busted him had perceived

immediately that Freeway was in over his head. And when I went to talk to him

I saw right away that Freeway wouldn't make it through the five to ten he'd

probably get for possession with intent.

He'd been beaten, buggered, and probably threatened with more. He

already had RFFN tattooed on his knuckles, standing for the Mongol motto

“Respect Few Fear None,” and he had the visage and attitude of a newly

recruited martyr. But he was still scared spitless.

I saw the prospect patch on the leather vest he wore. It was the same

biker gang I was trying to infiltrate. So we'd chatted about the advantages of

working with the good guys. Good being open to interpretation. Then I spoke

for him before sentencing and he got out with time served.

A week later, he introduced me to Ruben Cavaso, president of the Mongols

OMG.

Freeway and I had what I would have termed a good working relationship.

We'd both profited and, I thought, even become friends.

I pulled out the prepaid cell phone and texted a three-digit number to

Freeway.

He'd not recognize the caller number, but the code was a Mongol's

members signal to another member to call them. Freeway might have been

keeping his head down since the bust, but he'd find it hard to resist the call.

Sure enough, a second later, my cell phone rang.

“
Que
?” said Freeway crisply.

“Freeway,
hermano, que onda
?”

A stunned silence. I swore I could hear the loud, adrenalized beat of

Freeway's terrified heart. “
Quién como es éste
?” he asked, voice wavering.

“Don't you know my voice, Freeway? It's Snake.” My Mongol brothers

called me that on account of my bright green eyes.

Immortality is the Suck

29

I thought I could hear Freeway wet his lips. “Snake
es muerto
,” he

whispered.

“Not yet,” I said. And the cell disconnected. I didn't redial. I sat back and

watched the house and waited.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, white flashed in the small backyard

behind and uphill from Freeway's mama's house. I put the car in gear and

waited until I heard the belch and roar of Freeway's motorcycle, then pulled out

from behind the Silverado in time to see Freeway taking the corner at the end

of the block at an extreme forty-five, heading south.

I followed. He expected me to follow. I saw his face, like a death's head

grimace of fear, in the tall mirrors on either handlebar; he didn't recognize the

Caddy at first, probably expected me on my chopper, but when he saw that I

was hobbled by four wheels, he took a screaming left and went straight up a

narrow alley.

I took my time getting to the corner and following a parallel path. The

thing was, Freeway couldn't go anywhere on the bike that I wouldn't be able to

hear from miles away. Those pipes were like the roar of a train. I figured it

would take him a few more blocks to figure it out, though.

Sure enough, like a fox going to ground, he was heading south now,

toward Hollenbeck Park. I swung the car around lazily pulling a u-ey in the

middle of the abandoned boulevard and was surprised by the single
bloop
of a

police siren and the dancing lights of a black-and-white in my rearview mirror.

God fucking damn it.

I weighed my options for all of two seconds. On the one hand, I knew that

if these officers called in the car's tags, they'd make a courtesy call to Peter

before they took any further action. Of course, I couldn't predict how Peter

would react to that call. That man had become as moody as a menopausal

woman lately. He might even tell them to arrest me.

30

A. M. Riley

On the other hand, if I gave them reason to chase me, the damned car

would be all over the morning news, followed by my ugly mug as they dragged

me from the vehicle. You ever try to outrun the LAPD, my friend? Well, don't.

Thing was, my only key to what had happened to me was rapidly getting

away. And I knew for a fact that, since he used this car for undercover and

surveillance work, Peter kept it in tip-top condition. I had the one advantage of

having spent five years as an outlaw in this neighborhood, so I thought I had a

good chance of outrunning the black-and-white, turbo eight engines or no.

It took me two seconds to make my decision. I slowed as if to slide up to

the curb. At the last minute, as the uni slowed also, I gunned the engine and

surged forward, going up the curb and onto the grass. Five yards down, a long

alley, barely wide enough for the Caddy's broad body and I hung a hard right

into it.

A second later, sirens screaming, the black-and-white was in pursuit.

They turned up the alley behind me, but I'd already crashed through trash

cans and headed south on the next block up. The tumbled trash containers

slid and rolled behind me, creating a small obstacle course that slowed my

pursuers just a bit as I hung a left up another alley and this time went left

across a series of backyards, the two-ton steel body of the Cadillac demolishing

a low wooden fence and a clothesline as it went.

I knew the neighborhood well enough to know that if I took the next right,

a left, and went down the side yard of a small house there, I could straddle and

cross a ravine that led to the back of a Ralph's parking lot, where a crowd of

brightly colored Harleys were parked in neat rows in back and a few young

Hispanic men leaned against the building.

The Caddy hurtled past the bikes in fourth gear and a few men came

running from the building at the ruckus. As I caught air and bounced back

into the street, I could see the uni, behind me, getting tangled up in the

interference of a bunch of angry bikers.

Immortality is the Suck

31

Some of the bikes made as if to follow me for a few minutes, but they

quickly lost interest, circling and looping back to go check out the altercation

their pals may have been having with the police in the space behind their

clubhouse.

I kept going, crashing through lights and stop signs, occasionally glancing

back and thinking with half a mind about what I'd just seen. From the number

of bikes and the presence of guards it appeared that a meeting of the Boyle

Heights chapter of the Mongol MC was taking place. Since Mongol “church” is

held every Tuesday, this must have been about something else. Possibly

something to do with a recent shoot-out in a certain Marina warehouse. The

Mongols would be woofing and snarling at each other over a meth distributor

no one had known about. The latest sting would have set the entire paranoid,

gun-slinging, outlaw motorcycle club on edge.

Over the years, Freeway and I had indulged in a lot of mutual hand

washing, as they say, and he'd made full patch in just two years. Freeway was

now the munitions president for this particular branch of the Mongols. I hadn't

seen his bike while barreling past my brother Mongols so, when I was sure I

was no longer being followed, I cruised down Louise to Hollenbeck Park. There

was a good chance I'd find Freeway at one of the club's “munitions” bunkers.

Hollenbeck Park was closed at dusk, of course. But I found a secluded

spot for the Caddy, within sight of the building where Freeway stashed arms.

I tried Freeway's number again. No answer. I found a sagging point in the

Hurricane fencing and clambered over it with surprising ease. Then I skirted

the skateboard park and came up to the back door of the equipment offices.

Just outside the equipment bunker I stopped and listened. Now, I've

always been an adrenaline junkie, I suppose. The thrill of the hunt and all that.

It's what I call “the zone.” But tonight my senses seemed even keener than

usual. Honed. I could smell the eucalyptus and jasmine drenching the night

air. Lingering tobacco smoke from a cigarette someone had smoked back here

could be hours ago. The smell of the tar paper on the shed roof, some wood

32

A. M. Riley

molds close to the windowsill, and very faintly but very definitely, the smell of a

sweating human body.

I dialed Freeway's number again and heard a cell phone ringing inside the

equipment shed.

I put my phone on vibrate and pocketed it. Sure enough, seconds later, it

started to buzz next to my hip as Freeway did a callback. I slid around to the

back of the shed where the dented aluminum door was ajar, allowing a scant

inch of golden light to outline the rough stucco of the exterior wall.

I could hear Freeway moving around inside, but I figured there was no

way I was getting that bent old door open without a hell of a lot of racket, so I

squatted down and waited until I heard him definitely heading toward me,