T Parker - The Renegades

– There was the falling-in-the-swimming-pool incident. Then the passing-out-in-his-chair incident. He worries about your religious conversion, Terry. He worries that it will interfere with our work.

“Laws goes quiet while I guide the SUV off the asphalt and bounce it across the shoulder to the dirt road that leads to El Dorado. Dust rises in the headlights and the beams straighten into the desert.

– You told me all that before, Coleman.

– Stay focused, Terry. Stay calm. Choose life.

– I’ve murdered for profit. I’ve been forgiven by God. I see no contradiction in that. I see no reason why God should interfere with our work.

– God is not our employer. Herredia is.

– Then I will render unto El Tigre.

– Terry, keep your God and your jokes to yourself. You should know that by now. I can’t cover for you much longer.

– Don’t worry. Be happy.

– I worry and I am not happy.

– Blanco is going to be fine.

I order a bottle of good Brunello and we choose two more cigars. The night is still young and the Sunset Strip is just now beginning to find its mood. When I first moved from Jacumba I rented a place on Horn, just a few blocks from here, but I could only afford to keep it for two months. I had a business to build. But I found myself a Sunset girl, and we had more than our share of moments. Excessive women are easy to identify-they have a visible aura, as excessive men have known for centuries.

I taste the wine and nod, and the waitress pours.

“So, we make El Dorado shortly after midnight. We’re escorted in, as usual. It’s a moonless night and I can feel tension in the air. A helicopter circles steadily high above. Laws is a bloody spectacle, but luckily, he always traveled with a change of clothes. He excuses himself to change. The American women are not to be seen, and Herredia is preoccupied. Felipe keeps his one good eye extra close on me.

“But the unpacking and weighing go smoothly. Felipe weighs and repackages our share. Laws doesn’t say much, and neither does Herredia. We eat a light meal, and six hours later we’re back at the animal hospital.

– Blanco is doing very well, says the vet. He’s stabilized and resting. I think he’s going to be okay.

– What did I tell you? asks Laws.

“The doctor nods and looks at Blanco asleep in the crate. Laws signs off on the fourteen-hundred-dollar charge and carries the crate to the Touareg. I get the bag of pills and ointments and I see the vet’s relieved expression as we walk out.

“San Ysidro is hazy and slow in the winter dawn. I look out the window and see something beautiful in this place. And a feeling tries to come to me that I haven’t felt in a while-not since Terry had made a fool of himself after the fishing trip. The feeling is that everything is going to be okay. Okay. What a sound that word has, when you hear it clearly and you believe it. I look over at Terry and of course he’s got Blanco on his lap and a peaceful gaze on his face as he looks down on the thing. Madonna and child, whatever, I think, whatever happens next is going to be okay. And as soon as you tell yourself that everything’s going to be okay, that’s when the gods choose to demolish your hopes, right? So get a load of this. Here’s what Terry says next.

– Do you ever feel like confessing to all this? Just putting it all down, in words or on a tape in your own voice? Not necessarily so anybody could hear it. Just to relieve your soul.

– No, Terry. I’ve never, ever thought that. Not even for one second.

“The adrenaline hits me like lightning. I truly cannot believe what Terry is saying, though I hear it very clearly. A confession!

– You haven’t done that, have you, Terry? Made a tape, or written something down?

– Maybe.

– You either have or you haven’t.

– I haven’t. I was kidding.

– But Terry, if you were going to confess, how would you do it?

– DVD. That way it’s me, my voice, my face. My whole visible and audible being. And there wouldn’t be any doubt that I was coerced or framed. It would be the truth. I’d start with Eichrodt and work my way forward.”

– And what about me, Terry?

– What about you? You’re my partner, and we did most of this together. I’d take half the blame for Vasquez and Lopes. Just because I didn’t have the balls to shoot him doesn’t mean I’m less guilty than you. But I’d have to include you. This is about truth. You have to put in the whole truth or it’s just another facet of a lie. Right? See what I’m saying?”

I pour another glass of wine for each of us. Bradley is studying me with new eyes because he now sees that I had one more reason to kill Terry Laws. But he knows I did not kill Terry, because I am not Londell Dwayne, or whoever Hood saw that night. So Bradley is wondering, as is all of L.A., who killed Laws? And why? Of course, I know the answer to both of those questions. And I’ll tell them to Bradley when I think he’s ready to crash through the next wall of truth.

“Four nights later, a Tuesday, we’re patrolling the desert out of Lancaster substation. It’s cold. I’m still stunned by Terry’s idea of confessing. These are the most dangerous words he’s ever spoken to me. He’s my friend and I’m the only thing standing between him and Herredia. But now I see that I might not be able to save Terry from himself. I feel as if I’ve had a judgeship forced upon me, that Herredia’s prosperity and Laws’s life and my own future have been melted into heavy slag and poured into my lap.

“I look out at the new strip mall and the off-brand gas station and the young black dude in the lowered red Nissan with the brindle pit bull in the front seat beside him sticking its thick blunt snout into the wind.

– That’s Londell Dwayne, says Laws.

– It’s not Londell’s car.

– I didn’t know he had a dog.

– He probably just stole them both.

– That’s what I was thinking.

“So we follow the red Nissan for two blocks up Twentieth Street, then flash him and hit the siren once and the Nissan cuts across the dusty shoulder and comes to a stop. Laws is out first. He marches to the driver’s side of the Nissan. He’s not moving with his usual hulking amble, but a purposeful stride. I walk around the back of Londell’s car to the passenger side, rest the big four-battery flashlight on my shoulder and aim the beam through the front side window. No passengers except the dog. There are two unopened twelvers of Rainier on the backseat. No other cargo or obvious contraband. Just Londell Dwayne, looking up as he talks to Laws, and the dog looking at me through the glass. It’s bigger than the brindle that tore up Blanco at Hector’s last Friday night. It looks healthy and groomed but parts of its ears are missing and there are old scars on both sides of its muzzle. I turn off the flashlight and watch Laws over the roof of the car.

– Nice ride, Londell. Where did you steal it?

– This car is a loaner, my man. Lattie’s friend’s brother.

– Let’s see the paper and your license.

“I watch Londell dig out a wallet and hand his license to Laws. Then he reaches across to the glove box and I pop the holster strap and set my hand on the butt of my gun. The pit bull shifts its front feet and what’s left of its ears seem to stiffen. Londell looks up at me with his usual sleepy wiseass expression, then opens the glove box and fishes around for the registration slip, and hands it over to Terry.

– Tell me about Lattie’s friend, says Laws.

– His name is Keeshawn and he’s a good dude. Keeshawn’s visiting from L.A. He lent me this ride so I could get us some beer. You will find that exhibit in the seat behind me, not getting colder, by the way.