Robert Crais - The Watchman

Bud turned forward again to keep an eye on Frank’s limo.

“You and everybody else. Me, too. The little drawing they have on the package, the Latin guy with the bushy mustache? That’s Mr. Garcia forty years ago. These kids out here-Frank used to be one of them. That was before he went to work making tortillas for his aunt. Used to make’m in her kitchen, that whole family recipe thing. Turned those tortillas into a food empire worth, what-?”

Bud glanced at Pike, but Pike ignored him.

Cole said, “Five, six hundred mil.”

Pike wished they would stop talking, but Bud turned to Barkley again.

“Not your kind of money, but nothing to sneeze at. Thing is, he never forgot where he came from. He’s paid a lot of doctor bills down here. He’s paid for a lot of educations. He gives back. There are men in prison-and, by the way, I put some of those bastards there-Frank’s been supporting their families for years. You think those boys wouldn’t do anything for him? He’s rich now, and he’s old, but they all know he was one of them and didn’t turn his back when he made it.”

Frank’s limo stopped, nose to nose with the Hummer. The front doors opened, and two nicely dressed young men popped out, one Frank’s bodyguard, the other his assistant. Pike knew them both from visits to Frank’s house.

Barkley said, “How do you know him, Pike?”

Bud said, “Joe almost married his daughter.”

Pike pushed open the door and got out, wanting to get away from Bud’s story. Pike had met the Garcias when he was a young patrol officer, still riding with Abel Wozniak. Years later, when Karen Garcia was murdered, Pike and Cole found her killer.

Pike waited as Frank emerged from the car. Frank Garcia looked to be a hundred years old. His skin, burnished as dark as saddle leather, had the crusty texture of bark, and his hair was a silver crown. He was frail, and had to be wheeled through the endless rooms of his Hancock Park mansion, but he could walk a bit if someone steadied his arm. When his bodyguard was unfolding his chair, Frank waved it away. He wanted to walk.

A craggy smile cracked his face when he saw Pike, and he clutched Joe’s arm.

“Hello, my heart.”

Pike returned his embrace, then stepped away.

“Carlos inside?”

“Abbot spoke with the people who could make it so. He will not know why he is here. I thought that best. So this man Vahnich could not be warned.”

Frank Garcia was a sharp old man, and so was his attorney and right-hand man, Abbot Montoya. They had grown up together, Montoya like Frank’s little brother. They had been White Fence together, and risen above it together as well.

The bodyguard and the driver took the old man’s arms and the four of them crept up the walk, moving at an old man’s pace. The front door opened almost at once, revealing a burly man in his middle forties. He was short but wide, with a weight lifter’s chest and thin legs. His face was round, and pocked so badly he looked like a pineapple; his arms were covered with gang tats and scars. He studied Pike, then looked at the old man and held his door wider.

“Welcome to my home, sir. I’m Aldo Saenz. My mother, Lupe Benitez, was married to Mr. Montoya’s wife’s cousin, Hector Guerrero.”

Frank shook his hand warmly.

“Thank you for your indulgence, Mr. Saenz. You do me an honor today.”

Pike followed Frank into a small living room not unlike the Echo Park house, with furniture that had seen much use but was clean and orderly. This was a family home, with photographs of children and adults surrounding a crucifix on the wall. The pictures showed children of different ages, one of a young man in a Marine Corps dress uniform.

Including Aldo Saenz, Pike counted six men, two in the dining room and four in the living room. Their eyes hit Pike the instant he entered, and two of the men appeared nervous. Saenz gestured impatiently at the men in the dining room.

“Chair. C’mon.”

One of the men hustled a chair from the dining room for Frank.

Frank said, “Please sit. Don’t let an old man keep you on your feet. I must introduce myself-Frank Garcia. And may I introduce my friend-”

Frank waved Pike closer and gripped his arm. Pike was always surprised how strong the old man was. Hand like a talon.

“When I lost my daughter-when she was murdered-this man found the animal who took her. And now, now he is my heart. This man is a son to me. To help him is to help me. I wish you all to know this. Now, may we speak with Mr. Maroto?”

Saenz pointed at one of the men in the dining room. Maroto was a younger man, maybe in his early thirties, and now he tensed as if he was about to be executed. Powerful people had ordered him to be here; people who might end his life without hesitation. Every man in the room was watching.

Frank said, “Carlos Maroto of Mara Salvatrucha?”

Maroto’s eyes flicked around the room. He was afraid, but Pike could see he was thinking. He had been told to be here, so he was here, but now he was preparing himself to fight if he had to fight.

Maroto said, “I am.”

Frank once more clutched Pike’s arm.

“This man, the son of my heart, he is going to ask something of you. Here, in front of the other members of our home. Before he does, let me say I understand these are sensitive issues, that business arrangements of long standing between individuals and groups might be involved. What we ask, we do not ask lightly.”

The old man released Pike’s arm and made a little wave.

“Ask.”

Pike looked at Maroto.

“Where can I find Khali Vahnich?”

Maroto narrowed his eyes to show he was hard, and slowly shook his head.

“No fuckin’ idea. Who’s that?”

It occurred to Pike that Maroto might not know Vahnich by his real name. He took out the page with Vahnich’s picture and held it out. Maroto did not take it, which told Pike Maroto knew him.

“Your crew is in business with Esteban Barone. Barone asked you to take care of him and some boys from Ecuador. You’re helping a friend. I get that.”

Saenz said, “Answer him, homes. No one is on trial here.”

Maroto was angry and feeling on the spot.

“What the fuck? Yeah, that’s right, why is this anyone’s business?”

Pike said, “I want you to give him to me.”

Maroto shifted again, and now he wasn’t looking at Pike. He was looking at the others.

“What is this? We don’t know this fuck. For all we know, he’s a cop.”

Aldo Saenz crossed the big arms, and Pike could see he was trying to control himself. When Saenz spoke, his voice was a low rumble.

“You are here as my guest. I treat you with respect, but do not insult Mr. Garcia in my home.”

“I meant no disrespect to Mr. Garcia, but my clique has business with Esteban Barone. A long-standing and profitable business. He asked a favor, we do it. What do you want me to say?”

Pike said, “Khali Vahnich is Barone’s friend, but that isn’t all he is.”

Pike passed the Interpol sheet to Saenz.

“Read to the bottom of the page.”

Pike watched Saenz reach the bottom of the page, then saw him frown.

“What does this mean? Terrorist watch list? What is this?”

Frank clutched Pike’s arm again and pulled himself to his feet.

“It means he is my enemy. He feeds the people who want to kill us, and arms their lunatics, and now-right now while we are standing here in this house-he is in Los Angeles-our barrio ! And I want that motherfucker!”

Saenz was motionless except for the rise and fall of his massive chest. His face creased like layers of slate, with a fierce tic in his cheek. He passed the sheet to the nearest man, then stared at Maroto.

Maroto grew pale and shook his head.