the deck after his kill. He would hold it against me.
I checked the time.
“I’ll be out the door in fifteen. Where do we meet?”
“On the east side of the lake, where they rent the paddle boats? You will see me.”
I shaved, changed shirts, and was making a fast cup of instant when Joe Pike called.
He said, “Jon’s in. He knows these people. Come down, he’ll fill us in.”
“Locano called first. I’m heading out now. He may have a line on the Syrian.”
“We’ll stay with the Beemer. Come when you can.”
I tossed the phone on the couch, locked the door, and followed the Hollywood Freeway south toward downtown Los Angeles. It was exactly the same route I drove when I first met Nita Morales, but this time I dropped off the freeway at Echo Park, an old and long-established community built around a decorative lake. The lake is encircled by a narrow green area split by a bike path. In the early days of Los Angeles, the silent film industry was centered in Echo Park before it moved to Hollywood, and the nearby Elysian Hills and Angelino Heights neighborhoods were home to the rich and famous. The makeup of the area has slowly changed since the film people left, and is now mostly home to working-class immigrants from Asia and Central America.
I made my way to the east side of Echo Lake, parked on a nearby street, and hurried to the boathouse. Even at this early hour, joggers and walkers circled the lake, and short brown women pushed baby carriages in schools like fish or stood talking to friends with their carriages parked like cars at a demolition derby.
Thomas Locano stood between two palm trees at the edge of the water, and wasn’t alone. A skinny Latin kid wearing white pants and a white T-shirt was with him. The kid was bald, maybe five four, and couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred ten pounds. He was also sleeved out and necklaced with gang ink, and couldn’t have been more than fifteen years old. They watched me approach, and Mr. Locano spoke first.
“Mr. Cole, this is my friend Alfredo Munoz. Fredo, this is my good friend Mr. Cole. He is also close to another good friend, Nita Morales.”
“Hey, Fredo. Good to meet you.”
“Uhn, yeah, you too.”
Fredo met my eyes, then glanced away as he offered his hand. His grip was limp, as if he was vaguely embarrassed. Up close, I saw a fine dusting of white powder on his face and neck and upper arms. Flour. His hands and forearms were clean, but he hadn’t washed above his elbows. Locano went on with his introduction.
“Fredo works as a baker’s apprentice here on the next block. Every morning from five to seven, then school by eight.”
I nodded, trying to look encouraging.
“Man, that’s early. That’s some schedule you have, Fredo.”
Fredo glanced away.
“Uhn. It’s okay. It’s good. Mr. Locano set it up.”
I stared at Locano, my expression asking why we were here with this boy, but then the boy spoke again, and when I looked back he was staring at me.
“That Syrian guy killed Raoul. I know about that guy. I tell you what I know.”
I blinked at him, then looked at Locano again.
“Raoul was Fredo’s brother. Raoul and Fredo were born here, but their parents weren’t. I represented them in a deportation hearing.”
“One outta two, that ain’t so bad.”
Locano looked embarrassed.
“Their father was relocated, but we made arrangements for their mother to stay.”
“He got her a work visa. That ain’t so bad.”
Mr. Locano cleared his throat.
“Raoul worked with Sinaloa here in Los Angeles and in San Diego. So did Fredo.”
Fredo said, “Uhn. Eastside Kings.”
The Eastside Kings were a Latin gang with ties to the Mexican Mafia.
I studied Fredo.
“How old are you?”
“Uhn. Don’t let that fool you, but I’m done with all that. I’m looking to the future.”
Locano filled in the blanks again.
“The different cartels have members all through the United States. They form partnerships with local gangs for the manpower and connections. One such partnership was with the Eastside Kings here, and a Kings affiliate in San Diego. Raoul and the other Kings were drivers. They brought marijuana and cocaine north up through San Diego.”
“I made that trip lots of times. I coulda been with him that day. Uhn.”
I stared at Fredo, and decided he was a million years old.
“Have you met the Syrian?”
“No, uh-uh. Uhn. I wanted to, though, I tell you that, but now I wanna get right.”
“Then how do you know about him?”
“The shot callers told us what happened, and these Sinaloa Mexicans came up. Two of our guys got away, and the Sinaloas wanted to hear it firsthand. They said it was him, this Syrian dude and his crew. They popped Raoul and this dude Hector, double-tap right here-”
Fredo touched his head, not even slowing.
“-and took the truck, and that was two hundred pounds of cocaine, that’s what they say, I never saw it. Jesus and Ocho, they got away. Those Sinaloa pricks, they thought Jesus and Ocho was in on it or some crazy shit, tol’ the Syrian where to find the truck or some shit, and those Sinaloas fucked’m up real good. They cut off Ocho’s fingers, uhn. Those Sinaloas, they said how did he know which truck? He had to get the information from somebody, and they put it on Ocho. I watched that shit happen. That’s when I’m gone, dude, uhn. I don’t need some dog shootin’ my back. My mama, she called Mr. L here, and he’s helpin’ me get right. He tryin’ to get my father back in, too. That ain’t so bad.”
Locano nodded when Fredo finished, and thoughtfully crossed his arms.
“When you mentioned the connection to Sinaloa, I remembered Fredo and Raoul.”
I stared at Fredo, then Locano, then went back to Fredo who looked like a child.
“Jesus and Ocho personally knew the Syrian? They recognized him?”
“The Mexicans had this picture-”
He held up his hand as if he was showing me a picture, and pointed at air as if he could see it.
“-this him? This dude took you down? Jesus and Ocho, they both say yeah, that was him, who in hell is this guy? Those Sinaloa Mexicans, they called his name, said he used to work with them.”
“He worked for the Sinaloas?”
“With, not for. He was a coyote, uhn, whatever they call it in Syrian, over there on the other side of the world. He brought people from over there to Mexico, and got’m where they wanted to go, but I know what happen- they took his bitch-ass business, and he said fuck you, I ain’t workin’ for you, so he started stealin’ their shit. Not just them. The Bajas. The Pacific Cartel. Whoever runnin’ stuff up. That Sinaloa, he said what we got is a rogue coyote, and we gonna put his ass down.”
I thought it through, and wondered if the Sinaloas had been right about Ocho and Jesus.
“So how did he know where to find your brother’s truck?”
Fredo glanced at Locano, then back, and smiled.
“Only one way that flies. He buys the intel. The Sinaloas got that part right, they just ain’t right about Ocho and Jesus.”
“The Syrian pays for tips?”
“That’s what they do, the bajadores. You can’t steal something ’less you know where it is, uhn. They pay. I met this dude, Wander, he say the Syrian pays better than anyone else.”
Locano fixed his eyes on me, and nodded.
“This was not long ago, after Fredo left the Kings. This is recent information.”
Fredo nodded, hanging on Locano’s every word.
“This dude, Wander, he works over here. He used to be Latin Blades, but he jumped out, too. When he heard
