Robert Crais - The Two Minute Rule

“I’m federal release, homes. It’s not like a state parole. They don’t say who I can roll with.”

Chee looked doubtful.

“No shit?”

“Up.”

Chee was clearly mystified and impressed at the vagaries of the federal system.

“C’mon back here, we’ll get away from this noise.”

Chee led Holman behind the counter into a small office. These same offices had once been the center of a chop shop Chee managed for his uncles, breaking down stolen cars into their component parts. Now, older, wiser, and with his uncles long dead, Chee ran a mostly legitimate body shop employing his sons and nephews. Holman made a show of looking around the body shop office.

“Looks different.”

“Is different, homes. My daughter works here three days a week. She don’t wanna see titty pictures on the walls. You want a beer?”

“I’m sober.”

“No shit? Well, good, man, that’s real good. Goddamned, we’re gettin’ old.”

Chee laughed as he dropped into his chair. When Chee laughed, his leathery skin accordioned with acne craters and tattoos from his gang days. He was still White Fence, a certified veterano, but out of the street life. Chee’s weathered face grew sad, staring at nothing until he finally looked at Holman.

“You need some money? I’ll front you, homes. You don’t even have to pay me back. I mean it.”

“I want a homeboy named Warren Alberto Juarez.”

Chee swiveled in his chair to pull a thick phone book from the clutter. He flipped a few pages, circled a name, then pushed the book across his desk.

“Here you go. Knock yourself out.”

Holman glanced at the page. Warren A. Juarez. An address in Cypress Park. A phone number. When Holman looked up, Chee was staring like Holman was stupid.

“Homes, that why you came down here, cash in on the reward? You think he’s hidin’ in a closet down here? Ese, please.”

“You know where he went?”

“Why you think I’d know something like that?”

“You’re Little Chee. You always knew things.”

“Those days are gone, bro. I am Mister Moreno. Look around. I ain’t in the life anymore. I pay taxes. I got hemorrhoids.”

“You’re still White Fence.”

“To the death and beyond, and I’ll tell you this-if I knew where the homeboy was I’d nail that fifty myself-he ain’t White Fence. He’s Frogtown, homes, from up by the river, and right now he ain’t nothing to me ’cept a pain in the ass. Half my boys called in sick today, wantin’ that money. My work schedule’s in the shitter.”

Chee showed his palms, like enough already with Warren Juarez, and went on with his rant.

“Forget that reward bullshit, Holman. I tol’ you, I’ll give you money, you want it.”

“I’m not looking for a loan.”

“Then what?”

“One of the officers he killed was my son. Richie grew up to be a policeman, you imagine? My little boy.”

Chee’s eyes went round like saucers. He had met the boy a few times, the first when Richie was three. Holman had convinced Donna to let him take the boy to the Santa Monica pier for the Ferris wheel. Holman and Chee had hooked up, but Holman had left Richie with Chee’s girlfriend so he and Chee could steal a Corvette they saw in the parking lot. Real Father of the Year stuff.

“Ese. Ese, I’m sorry.”

“That’s his mother, Chee. I used to pray for that. Don’t let him be a fuckup like me; let him be like his mother.”

“God answered.”

“The police say Juarez killed him. They say Juarez killed all four of them just to get the one named Fowler, some bullshit about Juarez’s brother.”

“I don’t know anything about that, man. Whatever, that’s Frogtown, ese.”

“Whatever, I want to find him. I want to find out who helped him, and find them, too.”

Chee shifted in his chair, making it creak. He rubbed a rough hand over his face, muttering and thinking. Latin gangs derived their names from their neighborhoods: Happy Valley Gang, Hazard Street, Geraghty Lomas. Frogtown drew its name from the old days of the Los Angeles River, where neighborhood homies fell asleep to croaking bullfrogs before the city lined the river with concrete and the frogs died. Juarez being a member of the Frogtown gang wasn’t lost on Holman. The officers had been murdered at the river.

Chee slowly fixed his eyes on Holman.

“You gonna kill him? That what you wanna do?”

Holman wasn’t sure what he would do. He wasn’t sure what he was doing sitting with Chee. The entire Los Angeles Police Department was looking for Warren Juarez.

“Holman?”

“He was my boy. Someone kills your boy you can’t just sit.”

“You’re not a killer, Holman. Tough motherfucker, yeah, but a man would do murder? I never seen that in you, homes, and, believe me, I seen plenty of coldhearted killers, homies stab a child then go eat a prime rib dinner, but that wasn’t you. You gonna kill this boy, then ride the murder bus back to prison, thinking you done the right thing?”

“What would you do?”

“Kill the muthuhfuckuh straight up, homes. Cut off the boy’s head, hang it from my rearview so everyone see, and ride straight down Whittier Boulevard. You gonna do something like that? Could you?”

“No.”

“Then let the police do their business. They lost four of their own. They’re gonna take lives findin’ this boy.”

Holman knew Chee was right, but tried to put his need into words.

“The officers, they have to fill out this next-of-kin form at the police. Where they have a place for the father, Richie wrote ‘unknown.’ He was so ashamed of me he didn’t even claim me-he put down that his father was unknown. I can’t have that, Chee. I’m his father. This is the way I have to answer.”

Chee settled back again, quietly thoughtful as Holman went on.

“I can’t leave this to someone else. Right now, they’re saying Juarez did this thing by himself. C’mon, Chee, how’d some homeboy get good enough to take out four armed officers all by himself, so fast they didn’t shoot back?”

“A lot of homies are coming back from Iraq, bro. If the boy tooled up overseas, he might know exactly how to do what he did.”

“Then I want to know that. I need to understand how this happened and find the bastards who did it. I’m not racing the cops. I just want this bastard found.”

“Well, you’re gonna have a lot of help. Over there outside his house in Cypress Park, it looks like a cop convention. My wife and daughter drove by there at lunchtime just to see, a couple of goddamned looky-loos! His wife’s gone into hiding herself. The address I gave you, that place is empty right now.”

“Where’d his wife go?”

“How can I know something like that, Holman? That boy ain’t White Fence. If he was and he killed your son, I would shoot him myself, ese. But he’s in with that Frogtown crew.”

“Little Chee?”

Witnesses at two of the bank jobs had seen Holman get into cars driven by another man. After Holman’s arrest, the FBI had pressured him to name his accomplice. They had asked, but Holman had held fast.

Holman said, “After my arrest-how much sleep did you lose, worrying I was going to rat you out?”

“Not one night. Not a single night, homes.”

“Because why?”

“Because I knew you were solid. You were my brother.”

“Has that fact changed or is it the same?”

“The same. We’re the same.”

“Help me, Little Chee. Where can I find the girl?”

Holman knew Chee didn’t like it, but Chee did not hesitate. He picked up his phone.

“Get yourself some coffee, homes. I gotta make some calls.”

An hour later, Holman walked out, but Chee didn’t walk with him. Ten years later, some things were the same, but others were different.