Stephen Cannell - Vigilante

“What you want?” a man’s voice called out.

“We’re here to see Carla Sanchez,” I said through the solid wood door.

“’Bout what?” the man challenged.

“Is she in there? Open up! Police business.”

“You got a warrant?”

“We just want to talk,” I said. “There’s no need to turn this into an incident.”

A moment later the door opened a crack. A huge bald veterano, about thirty years old, with a large black WF tattooed on the side of his shaved head, glared out at us. Both arms were fully sleeved with elaborate gang ink. He took a menacing stance, placing his bulk in the threshold, and blocked our way.

“You can talk to me,” he said.

“Who are you?”

“Carla’s old man. Julio. What’s the trato ?”

“We’re here to talk to Carla,” I said. “We can get a warrant and come back with a SWAT team and have the talk in custody, or we can all sit down and have a friendly chat right here. Your call, Mr. Sanchez. But if we come back with SWAT, the ABGs on the roof will go nuts and this building will become the Dead House, and that’s the trato. ”

He swore softly in Spanish.

“Is that a ‘yes’?” Hitch asked.

“Let them in, Julio,” a woman’s voice said from behind him. Then she pulled the door wider and we got our first look at Carla Sanchez. She was large as Chava had said, maybe three hundred pounds, but only a little over five feet tall. She wore a lightweight long-sleeved white sweater over a tank dress that only came to her knees. She had large, corpulent arms and thick legs with ankles that looked like brown tube socks stuffed with sand. Her black hair was cut short. Because of her girth she looked uncomfortable just standing there.

“How about doing what the lady says,” I suggested to Julio, who was still blocking our way.

He picked up his cell phone from the charging dock by the door and hit a number, then spoke a short sentence to somebody in Spanish. I understood enough to know Julio was getting some muscle to come over and stand in the hall. Hitch caught my eye and we traded a look as Julio finished the call.

“Suit yourself,” Julio said, putting the phone back in the dock and finally stepping aside.

We walked into an overfurnished apartment. It was neatly kept, but none of the pieces coordinated. Late-morning sun was streaming through the windows.

Hitch moved to my right to check out the back hallway, looking into each bedroom. A moment later, he returned to the living room, caught my eye, and nodded. The apartment was clear. I turned my attention back to the Sanchezes.

Then I saw it.

Sitting on the coffee table in front of the sofa was the missing ceiling fan.

The fan wires had frayed and were hanging out of the fixture. They matched the ripped-out wires I’d seen hanging from Lita Mendez’s ceiling. I looked at Hitch, who nodded. It was physical evidence corroborating Edwin Chavaria’s story. “Can I sit down?” I asked, trying to ease the tension.

Carla nodded, anxious to get off her feet. She moved painfully on swollen ankles over to a large chair, which, I noticed, had six stout legs to support her prodigious weight. When she eased herself down, she and the chair both groaned. Julio remained vigilant, standing by the door as I settled onto the sofa across from Carla. Hitch took a spot behind me where he covered my back.

“Tell us about your relationship with Lita Mendez,” I began.

“I got no relationship with that rulacho. Last week she rented the apartment I used to live in. I hadda get outta that barrio ’cause Evergreen put a check on me.”

“A check” was gang slang for a murder contract. If a rival set had put a contract out on this woman, it indicated she was a lot higher in the food chain than just some random gang chica. She might be what they called la mas chingona, one of the rare gang females who were strong enough in the set to merit the title of shot caller.

“Did you see Lita yesterday?”

“I know the bitch is dead,” Carla said. “If you’re over here tryin’ to put me behind that murder, you’re wastin’ your time. I got an alibi. I was with Julio, right here, all last night.”

“She was with me,” Julio said predictably.

“If you were here, how do you know she’s dead already? The body was only discovered a few hours ago,” Hitch said.

“Don’t tell me they don’t got no jungle drums in your old hood,” Carla said, turning to Hitch. “ Torrones invented that shit. Ten minutes after you found her it was already old news.”

This was a very hard woman. She’d been down twice. She’d survived the gangs in Tehachapi Prison. Her sheet showed she’d had her share of write-ups for violence on the inside. She held my eyes, never looking away.

“We know you were over there last night. We have a witness who saw you at her house in a loud argument at around eight or nine. He got your license plate. Stop playing us or you’re gonna get arrested and we’ll finish this with you in custody. I’m trying to cut you some slack here.”

She looked at Julio, then back at me.

“Yesterday … yeah, okay, so now I remember. Yeah, I saw her yesterday. But like you said, it was early.”

“Tell us. Don’t leave anything out and start at the beginning.”

“Bitch had my ceiling fan.” She nodded at the fixture on the coffee table. “I used to live in that apartment. Like I said, it’s Evergreen turf. I was only on those blocks ’cause my tia lived there. She rented five years ago before Evergreen took over the block. She was too sick to move. I was caring for her, but then she decided to go back to Mexico to be with her sister in Durango. As soon as she left, I knew I hadda get out.”

That sounded like BS to me. If Carla was a shot caller for White Fence, living on an Evergreen block was a short step up from suicide. It seemed more likely to me that she was probably only there occasionally and the house on North Savannah was an outpost that she rented to help her White Fence drug traficantes encroach on Evergreen turf. When it got too dangerous, she ended up withdrawing.

“Besides, I wanted to move back here once Julio got off state paper,” she continued. “Leasing agent was Vanessa Valente. She rented my aunt’s place to that puta, Lolita Mendez, but some of my belongings didn’t get moved. I was supposed to get my fan, which I bought with my own money, and a primo area rug I got from Crate and Barrel and some other stuff. Bitch wouldn’t give my property. Said it was hers now.”

“So what happened?”

“What happened was I drove over to get my stuff back. I asked her nice and she stands there and fuckin’ disrespects me. Calls me a fat cerdo, so we had words.”

“Words.”

“Yeah, I got in the bitch’s face; then she knees me and slams the door.”

“If she wouldn’t give your fan back, then how come it’s here?”

“That’s ’cause a Julio,” Carla said, looking fondly at her husband. “He got mellowed out in jail. Tells me to stop bangin’ with the bitch and just buy the damn thing.”

“You bought it?” I looked over at Hitch.

“Yeah, she bought it,” Julio said from the door. “You think we’re animals? That we’d kill over a stupid fan?”

That’s exactly what I thought, but I didn’t say it.

“Explain what happened next,” Hitch said.

“I called her on the phone,” Carla went on. “Was about ten, ten thirty that same night. I’m a big woman. I’m always too hot. We ain’t got no air in this building, so I told her I needed my fan back. I had it installed over there with my own money, but she’s saying it’s attached and it goes with the apartment. I finally offered her twenty dollars. After giving me a buncha shit she says okay, if I’ll pay her twenty-five. So me and Julio drove over about eleven. I went in and bought my damn fan back while he sat in the truck and covered my back.”