Paul Levine - Illegal

Do their mothers teach them this shit or is it in their genes?

Maybe it was the intoxicating aroma of the fruit or even the memory of banging the girl's mother back in the Reagan years.

In the same barn.

Over a different bale of straw.

Slam, bam. Gracias, ma'am.

Back then, Beatriz had just arrived from Chihuahua and looked as if she'd walked the whole way. But she had the wide hips, the slim waist, and the pendulous breasts that Rutledge favored. Humping el jefe got Beatriz out of the melon fields and into the shade. She probably thought the same magic would work for Ana or Anita or Angelita.

"She's only sixteen and a virgin, jefe."

"Sure, Bea, and I'm the King of Siam."

But he took the bait. The girl had the same round breasts and oversize nipples as her mother. Same big ass, too. In twenty years, with five kids, she'd have to turn sideways to make it through the doorway of the double-wide.

Now the girl was wriggling her butt and tightening her pussy, trying to get him to come. But his mind was elsewhere and his dick felt as if it had been anesthetized.

His cell phone rang, and he plucked it from his shirt pocket while squeezing the girl's ass with the other hand. Enrique Zaga. Shit. Now what? Did Chitwood kill another pollo?

Rutledge slid out of her. She looked back over her shoulder."?Una segunda vuelta, jefe?"

He hadn't come, but she was offering seconds. With as much passion as a waitress refilling your iced tea.

"Give it a rest, chica."

She bounced up and walked naked to a refrigerator by the stalls. Rutledge hoped she knew the difference between lemonade and horse semen. He pulled up his jeans and sank back into the bale of straw.

"What's the problem, Z?"

Zaga apologized for bothering him, then said flat out, "We had some visitors in Hellhole Canyon."

"Chitwood's asshole friends?"

"Worse, Sim." He summarized Chitwood's confrontation with a lawyer from L.A. and a Mexican kid looking for his mother.

"I don't think they'll cause trouble, Sim," Zaga said, "as long as we get the boy back with his mom."

"Fine. What's her name?"

"Marisol Perez."

"Shit."

"What, Sim?"

"She's training at the club."

"So?"

"I'm the one breaking her in, and she ain't exactly a volunteer."

"Jeez, Sim. Still thinking with your dick at your age."

Rutledge silently cursed himself. "You're right, Z. Dammit, you're right."

The men had known each other all their lives. Raced horses at the county fairgrounds. Got drunk together. Banged the same girls. Zaga was his most trusted employee.

Rutledge knew there were plenty of women who took to the indoor work at the Hot Springs Gentleman's Club. Some gave rub-and-tugs. Some sucked and fucked a select group of lobbyists and legislators who drove down from Sacramento. If you sensed a woman was trouble, you could ship her to the Midwest to pick sugar beets. Or throw her in the back of a truck and drop her off in Tijuana. Once in a great while, you'd come across some pain-in-the-ass who wouldn't let it go. Rutledge remembered a Honduran girl, a blow-job artist who worked at the club for six months before deciding she'd been coerced. She'd come after him with a carving knife. Her carcass ended up fertilizing a cornfield.

"Damn stupid of me," Rutledge confessed. "All the willing panocha around here, and I gotta rassle me some."

"Aw, shit, Sim. Like your daddy used to say, what's done's done, and what ain't ain't."

Sometimes, Rutledge thought, Zaga admired Jeremiah Rutledge more than he did. Jeremiah had been many things. Philosopher. Philanderer. Poker player. And one vicious S.O.B. when riled or drunk, which was six days out of seven, Sundays being reserved for Church, followed by humping a couple migrant girls. In some ways, Rutledge thought, maybe the peach didn't fall too damn far from the tree.

"Forget about letting the woman see her kid," Rutledge said. "Especially with a lawyer involved. Last thing I need now is some rape charge."

"I hear you, Sim."

"I don't suppose that idiot Chitwood got the lawyer's name."

"Got his card. J. Atticus Payne. Office in Van Nuys."

Rutledge thought a second. "I met a lady cop named Payne down in L.A. She's with that asshole Cullen Quinn."

"Small fucking world."

"Tell Javier to get everything he can on the lawyer."

"I dunno. Javier's been taking that chief-of-police shit real serious lately. Not into personal favors."

"Just tell him it's for me. I need a full background check and risk assessment."

Zaga chuckled over the phone.

"What now, Z?"

" 'Risk assessment.' I was just thinking, if it was your daddy talking to mine, he woulda said, 'Amancio, git your shovel and dig a hole in Levee Five. Ah got some varmint to bury.' "

"Times change." Rutledge echoed his lawyer's words without completely believing them. "Soon as you can, let me know what Javier finds out. And Z…"

"Yeah, Sim?"

"You keep your daddy's shovel handy, okay?"

Sharon exited the Parker Center. The 1950's glass shoe box was named after the former police chief best remembered for running a department long on corruption and short on civil liberties. On the other hand, Chief William H. Parker did a fine job making sure the Dragnet scripts polished the L.A.P.D.'s image.

Leaving the cop shop on the Los Angeles Street side, Sharon avoided looking at The Family Group, an angular bronze sculpture depicting a man, woman, and son. A reminder of her lost life, the artwork as subtle as an arrow to the heart.

A strange thought then. If Jimmy didn't find Tino's mother, if the boy was left without a parent, did her ex think he could keep him like some stray cat? And something else. Did he think that Tino was the key to recreating the family, to getting back together with her?

She could picture Jimmy saying it.

"He's got nobody but us, Sharon."

To Jimmy, there was still an "us." Something else he hadn't come to grips with.

Sharon had walked a block when she heard, "Detective Payne!"

She turned to find Rigney on her heels, jabbing at her with an index finger. She hated finger jabbers. Rigney wore a regulation wrinkled brown suit with a mismatched tie.

"You hear about your ex?" Rigney's tone as nasty as a rabbit punch. "The feds picked up his Lexus coming from Tijuana with eighty kilos of coke."

"So why don't you go down there and check it out?"

Rigney hawked up a wet laugh. "Why would I do that? We both know it's bullshit."

She stopped at the Temple Street intersection, waiting for the Don't Walk to change.

Rigney moved closer and whispered, "Payne dumped the Lexus in Mexico, and it ended up with some narcotraficante."

"I wouldn't know."

"Really? How was lunch today?"

Sharon tried to read the look on his face but couldn't get past the smirk.

"California Club, right?" he said. "Your TV star fiance is a member."

"Wow. You've been playing detective again."

"I got a waiter who puts Quinn at table nineteen, dining with a tall woman with reddish-brown hair. The woman used the private phone booth in the dining room. Want to take a wild guess who called the club from some diner at 12:38 p.m.?"

"I'm impressed, Rigney. Maybe someday you'll pass the sergeant's exam."

"Where's he headed?"

The light changed, and she headed up Temple toward City Hall. "Who?"

"Royal Fucking Payne! You're helping him, and we both know it."

"If you can prove that, take it to Internal Affairs."

"I'll take it to the D.A. I'll throw the going-away party when they ship you to Chowchilla."

"You know what I think, Rigney? I think you're taking a lot of heat because you ran a sting that got a judge killed. The more blame you can shift to Jimmy, the better off you are. And as long as you can't find him, why not pick on me?"