Shadow Boys (6 page)

- CHAPTER EIGHT -

Mason Burnett debated the tools at hand: an ASP retractable baton or the more traditional billy club.

The gangbanger with the teardrop tattoos on his face stood before him at the foot of the swayback bed, arms crossed, giving Mason the stink eye.

They were in the second-floor bedroom of a boardinghouse a few blocks south of Jefferson Boulevard in Oak Cliff. One of Mason’s SWAT officers stood in the doorway, keeping any curious residents at bay.

The gangbanger’s stink eye demonstrated a lack of respect, something that Captain Mason Burnett had never put up with during his long career.

“You hablo English?” Mason decided to go with the billy club. It became a classic for a reason.

“Whatchoo want with me, homes?” The gangbanger was about twenty-five. His skin was the color of roasted walnuts, greasy black hair held down by a bandana tied around his head.

“The
botánica
on Jefferson,” Mason said. “You hit it?”

The boardinghouse was old, built in the 1940s, wood-framed. The windows were open since there was no air-conditioning, and the warm air wafting through the room did little to cut the smell of marijuana and stale sweat. This odor was preferable to the stench of urine and mold in the hallway.

“What the fuck is this?” Gangbanger looked at the man in the door and then back to Mason. “You guys aren’t real cops. You’re dressed like soldiers or some shit.”

“We’re SWAT,” Mason said. “And yeah, we are real cops.”

“I want my lawyer.” The hood cocked his head to one side. “You feel me, mister SWAT man?”

Mason popped him in the forehead with the end of the billy club. Not a hard blow, just enough to get his attention.

The hood swayed on his feet but didn’t fall.

“The fuck you doing?” He rubbed his skull.

“Who you banging with?” Mason asked. “Is it gonna be old homie week when you go back to the joint?”

The tats on the hood’s arms indicated he was affiliated with an offshoot of the Mexican Mafia, or La Eme, originally a prison gang.

The hood shook his head several times, blinking, clearly trying to focus. After a moment, he appeared to recover. He gave Mason a sneer and a hand sign—thumb, index, and middle finger pointed down.

“You do that again, I’ll break your fingers off and grind ’em up into taco meat.”

Mason tried to look as angry as he sounded. Despite being a clusterfuck, the chief’s new anti-crime initiative—putting SWAT officers in high-crime areas—was actually pretty fun. He was on the street, busting up punks like the old days.

The hood shook his head. “I ain’t robbed no
botánica
.”

Mason sighed. He was having a grand time rousting beaners, but this particular incidence, the aggravated robbery of a
botánica
, was causing him something of a dilemma.
Botánicas
were stores that sold herbs and potions for use in Santeria rituals and other voodoo mumbo jumbo. In Mason’s mind, if a store that sold devil shit got robbed, who really cared?

Unfortunately, the owner was injured during the course of the robbery, which meant Mason and his people had to act like they gave a shit. Also, a video camera at a nearby business had a pretty clear image of the suspect, a punk who looked a lot like the gangbanger with the teardrop tattoos.

“The old guy at the
botánica,
” Mason said. “You busted him up pretty bad. Why’d you gotta go and do that, huh?”

“Voodoo shit they sell there,” the hood said. “Gives me the creeps, yo.”

“You broke his arm.”

Gangbanger shrugged, an indifferent look on his face.

A quarter century on the force, Mason Burnett knew an admission of guilt when he saw one.

“I didn’t break nothing,” Gangbanger said. “Didn’t rob nothing neither.”

Mason swung his club, striking the hood just above the elbow on the arm he’d raised to protect himself. Mason used more force this time, and the hood fell back on the bed, clutching the arm and bellowing.

From the doorway came the sound of a police radio, a voice asking for Mason’s location. Mason looked at his SWAT guy and nodded an okay. Then he turned his attention back to the hood.

“Where’s the money . . .
homes
?” He swatted the gangbanger in his kidney with the club.

“Leave me alone.” The hood was frantic. “I’m not resisting or nothing.”

“Here’s how it’s gonna go, ass-munch.” Mason grabbed the man’s ear, pulled him from the bed. “You don’t tell me about the robbery, I’m gonna rip off your head and skull-fuck you.”

“Owww.”
The gangbanger scrambled to follow Mason as he was pulled toward the windows.

The street was narrow, lined with other old homes, junker cars, and unkempt yards. Mason’s Suburban was parked in front near a pair of SWAT officers milling about.

A similar Suburban turned the corner, idled down the street, and stopped behind Mason’s.

Raul Delgado got out.

What in the hell? The appearance of Commander Warm-and-Fuzzy sent a spike of anger surging through Mason’s system.

“Where’s the money?” Mason walked the hood toward the largest of the open windows.

“Fucking-a, man. You’re gonna pull my ear off.”

“No. You weren’t listening. I’m gonna pull your head off,” Mason said. “Or you can tell me where the money is.”

The man was by the open window now, the backs of his knees pressed against the sill.

“Alright-alright-alright. The cash is in the closet.” He pointed to a door in the corner.

Out the window Mason could see Raul Delgado talking to his officers. Why the hell was a deputy chief on the street anyway? Trying to get in touch with his
people
or some shit, no doubt.

In the bedroom, Mason’s SWAT guy opened the closet and pulled out a paper bag. He looked inside and then nodded to Mason.

“Please,” the gangbanger said. “Let go of my ear.”

“Okay.” Mason did as requested.

The gangbanger sighed in relief, rubbed the side of his head.

Mason gave the hood’s chest a hard shove and watched him tumble out the window.

Screams followed by the sounds of branches breaking from the hedges lining the building.

Mason leaned over the windowsill and looked down, a feeling of satisfaction welling in his chest. The gangbanger lay in a tangle of twisted limbs and broken branches. He was clearly alive but not in the best of shape. Probably wouldn’t get to play on the prison basketball team or anything.

Deputy Chief Delgado was staring up at Mason, aghast.

“Hello, Rah-ool.” Mason smiled.
“Cómo estás?”

Delgado hated when people mispronounced his name. It was also a breach of protocol to not address him by rank in this type of circumstance. Which was why Mason did both.

“What the hell happened here, Captain Burnett?” Delgado called up to him.

“Suspect appeared to be high on angel dust. Thought he could fly.” Mason shook his head. “What a dumbass.”

Delgado pulled a two-way radio from his belt, called for an ambulance.

“We’re all okay, by the way,” Mason said. “No officers were hurt.”

Delgado stared at him for a long moment.

“In case you were wondering,” Mason said.

Below him the gangbanger groaned and tried to roll out of the bushes.

- CHAPTER NINE -

After the DOJ-mandated counseling session with Piper, I bought some tacos at a place on Mockingbird Lane and headed toward White Rock Lake in the eastern section of the city.

The wind had picked up as the day had waned, and the surface of the lake rippled, a blanket of tiny waves that glistened in the afternoon sun like so many shards of broken glass.

Jogging trails surrounded the lake, a thin ribbon filled with young, attractive people walking and running.

Beyond the trails lay a series of expensive homes owned by people who sought a view of the lake and the illusion of coolness that the proximity to water provided.

I turned into the driveway of a large stucco home, an old Spanish colonial with whitewashed walls and arched windows.

The structure sat atop a bluff, overlooking a lawn the size of three or four football fields. I steered the Lincoln up the gravel drive, parking in front of the house next to a late-model Toyota Camry. A large Ford van with handicap plates was in the attached garage.

Up close, the home appeared in a state of mild disrepair, like the owner had lost interest. The tiles on the front patio were cracked, missing in a few spots. Weeds filled the flower beds. Grass spiked through the rocks in the driveway.

I got out—the container of tacos under an arm—took the steps two at a time, then rang the bell to one side of the carved wooden door.

A few moments later the door opened and a woman in her late twenties appeared. She was maybe five foot six, pretty like the hostess at a mall restaurant. She wore a caregiver’s uniform—baggy white pants, matching top, and a pair of Nike running shoes.

“You must be Jonathan,” she said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“You’re the new nurse?”

“The agency sent me over a couple of weeks ago.” She stepped to one side. “Please, come in.”

I entered the foyer. Terrazzo tile covered the floor. The plaster walls were the color of old bones. The air smelled like a hospital—rubbing alcohol and disinfectant.

“The judge is in the parlor.” She took the tacos off my hands and pointed to a cavernous room to one side of the entryway.

Bradshaw Landis Clark, the third named partner at Goldberg, Finkelman, and Clark.

He was a descendant of a man who arrived in Texas with Stephen F. Austin in the 1830s, one of the original settlers of the state. Retired from the federal bench ten years ago after a drunk driver hit his Jaguar head-on and left him paralyzed from the waist down. He’d been with Goldberg and Finkelman ever since.

Judge Clark sat in his wheelchair by the front window, staring at the lake.

He was in his midsixties, hair thick and gray, left long so it brushed the collar of his shirt.

“Hello, Jonathan.” He spoke without turning around.

“I brought dinner. Tacos.” I sat in an easy chair by the window. “
Carnitas
and
barbacoa.
”

The view was spectacular but sad at the same time, considering the condition of the man in the wheelchair. Sailboats slicing through the scalloped waves, people running along the jogging trails, others riding their bikes. Judge Clark had been a marathoner and a mountain climber until his accident.

“I wasn’t expecting you.” He cut his gaze my way.

His eyes were unblinking, a deadpan expression perfected after twenty years on the bench.

“I was in the neighborhood.”

Before becoming a judge, Clark had defended my father, a sheriff in a nearby county, against charges of drug trafficking. He’d been a family friend and mentor ever since.

“You want a drink?” I stood, walked to the bar on the far wall.

Clark didn’t reply.

I took that as a yes and poured two fingers of Glenlivet into a crystal highball. No ice, no water. I returned to the window and handed him the glass.

“How is everything at the office?” he said.

I shrugged but didn’t speak.

Clark took a sip of scotch. After a few moments, I told him about Tommy Joe Culpepper. I didn’t say anything about the lawyers clustered around the hallway, watching me. That didn’t matter, however. The judge could read between my lines.

“The other people at the firm,” Clark said. “You think they don’t like you, don’t you?”

I didn’t say anything. I’d given up a long time ago caring what other people thought about me.

“That’s because they need you but don’t want to admit it.” He paused. “And because of that, they fear you.”

We were silent for a while.

“Do you know who Raul Delgado is?” I told him briefly about my meeting with the deputy chief and his request that I locate the missing teenager, Tremont Washington.

“Thirty years later, I still remember the TV reports.” Clark grimaced. “Little Raul Delgado, his face covered in his brother’s blood.”

“What do you think he wants with a kid from West Dallas?” I said.

“Everything he does is for one reason.” Clark swirled the scotch around his glass.

“And that would be?”

“He wants to wipe away the blood and bring his brother back.”

“How about in the short term?” I said. “Like, say, in this lifetime.”

Clark drained his glass. “He has a future in politics. People talk about him running for mayor. Or even governor.”

I stared out the window. That was more than enough reason for Theo Goldberg, my boss and the managing partner of the firm, to want eyes and ears on the man.

“He’s a charismatic person,” Clark said. “Plus he’s Hispanic, which fits the current demographic shift in Texas nicely.”

“And he’s an underdog.” I nodded thoughtfully.

“Risen from circumstances that would have broken lesser men,” Clark said. “Embraced the very organization that destroyed his family.”

“Like a made-for-TV movie.”

Clark chuckled.

Before I could say anything else, the nurse entered the room, carrying two plates of tacos. She’d changed into Lycra running shorts and a skintight tank top that stopped just above her belly button. Her stomach was ripped, a sinewy six-pack.

“Anybody hungry?” She handed us each a plate.

Judge Clark and I sat in silence, staring at her.

“I’m gonna take a run.” She tapped a rectangular bulge between her hip bone and shorts. “I’ve got my phone with me if you need anything.”

She left. We watched her stretch on the front patio, then jog down the driveway.

“Where do you get nurses like that?” I said.

“My friend owns the agency.” Clark craned his neck to follow her progress. “He supplies employees who fit certain criteria that I specify.”

“Doesn’t that drive you nuts? Since—” I didn’t finish the sentence.

Since you can only look.

“And how is Piper?” Clark picked up a taco. “Speaking of things that drive me nuts.”

The judge hated Piper. Thought her crass and uncouth. Which she was, bless her heart.

I took a bite of my food.

“Why don’t you stay the night?” he said. “The upstairs guest room is made up.”

I was renting a townhome in North Dallas. A one-bedroom unit decorated with a big-screen TV and a plastic ficus tree. All the modern conveniences, but an empty abode.

“We could take a drive,” he said.

I could smell the loneliness in his voice.

“Sure, I’ll shack here tonight.” I smiled.

The least I could do. The man had saved me from prison.

Dallas, Texas

1984

Three years after the racist cop blew his brother’s head off, Raul Delgado, fourteen years old, again found himself in a squad car, this time in the front passenger side.

He was not handcuffed.

And this was not his first time in this particular vehicle. But today the texture of the vinyl seats and the crackle of the radio brought back unpleasant memories of that summer afternoon when everything about his life changed.

Bobby, the lieutenant with the kind eyes, was driving. Bobby’s eyes weren’t very kind right now. They were angry.

They’d spent a lot of time together these past few years, and Raul knew Bobby as well as any person he’d ever met, maybe even better than his brother or mother. Raul saw anger in the man, but he also saw sadness draped over him.

But mostly there was the anger.

They were leaving the fairgrounds just east of downtown Dallas.

It was October and the state fair was in session.

Carny barkers on the midway, stuffed animals for prizes, roller-coaster rides, and a giant Ferris wheel. People having fun.

Bobby drove down a pedestrian esplanade past the booths selling corny dogs and cotton candy. The squad-car lights were on, flashing red and blue, but the siren was off.

Fairgoers moved out of their way, staring at the squad car that contained a gringo cop in his forties and a teenage Hispanic boy riding with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face.

Raul wished he gave a shit how Bobby felt, like he used to, but he didn’t.

He still liked him—the man saved Raul from those in the DPD who would have crucified an eleven-year-old boy for merely being a Mexican American—but he realized Bobby was also part of the problem.

Bobby worked for an organization of oppression, according to speakers Raul had heard at the Chicano Liberation Center on Oak Lawn Avenue. The Dallas Police Department was a tool of the white man, designed to enforce the imperialist policies of the federal government.

Why everyone didn’t acknowledge this was beyond Raul Delgado’s comprehension. It was all so clear if you knew where to look.

“You really stepped in it this time,” Bobby said.

Raul didn’t speak.

“Nearly broke that boy’s jaw.”

Raul pointedly turned away from his mentor and stared out the passenger window.

“You wanna tell me why?” Bobby stopped to let a woman push a stroller across the esplanade.

A few moments passed.

Raul said, “He called me a wetback.”

The boy whose jaw might or might not be broken—Raul didn’t really care one way or the other—was from North Dallas, the most racist part of the city. He was a symbol of all that is wrong with the system. The boy was a
preppy.
Dressed in a pink knit shirt with a tiny lizard on the breast, khaki pants,
Top-Sider
boat shoes.

The preppy had been a few years older than Raul. He’d been drunk, of course. Many gringos had issues with alcohol, according to the books Raul had read.

The problem started when the preppy had made a remark about Raul’s Che Guevara T-shirt, and Raul had decided to teach him a lesson.

“If more Chicanos stood up for themselves,” Raul said, “then perhaps the mistreatment of my people will lessen.”

“Your people?” Bobby cut his eyes to the passenger seat.

“The Latino has been denied a place at the table.” Raul tried to keep his voice from rising. “Texas was settled by Chicanos hundreds of years before the white man came.”

Bobby sighed. “Son, I’m all for you getting in touch with your roots—”

“Then why did they stop me?”

“Aw, c’mon.” Bobby shook his head. “They had to stop you.”

Raul didn’t reply.

“You were beating that kid’s ass into the ground,” Bobby said. “Has nothing to do with you being Mexican.”

The Dallas police maintained a large presence during the state fair. Several officers had pulled Raul away from the preppy kid before he could do any permanent damage. The officers had learned Raul’s name and knew enough to call Bobby.

Bobby was an important figure in the Dallas Police Department, and he had made it known that if anything concerning Raul Delgado occurred, he was to be notified immediately.

This fact infuriated Raul for several reasons.

One, he was nearly fifteen and perfectly capable of taking care of himself.

Two, Bobby was a kind, decent man and should not be working for an organization of oppression.

And last but certainly not least, the motherfucking Dallas Police Department killed his brother.

Bobby said, “You got to let the anger go, son. It’ll eat you up if you’re not careful.”

“I am not your son.” Raul spoke the words with icy deliberation.

Bobby didn’t reply. He continued driving.

Raul’s father had been deported. His mother was an invalid. A stroke felled her when she’d heard the news about her eldest child, Carlos. She was cared for by the extended family in their neighborhood in Little Mexico.

Raul pretty much came and went as he pleased, very little adult supervision.

Except for Bobby.

Raul was sorry for what he’d just said to the man, the way he was treating him. For the past three years Bobby had been a constant in his life—taking him to school, buying him clothes and little gifts, coming by to make sure he was doing okay.

They left the fairgrounds, and Bobby turned off the squad lights. They were on Haskell Avenue, a street of dingy bars, washaterias, and pawnshops.

Bobby used the radio to notify dispatch that he was going to get some lunch.

Raul had spent so much time in the company of police officers, Bobby and his friends, he recognized the codes and even the dispatcher’s voice.

“You want to get some pancakes?”