They looked at each other, unsure what to do. They didn’t want to be bullied, but they didn’t want their leader to die, either. Their thug status was disappearing as reality turned them into scared kids.
“Deacon’s over at Biddly’s, man,” Reg finally said, his voice a little higher than before.
I relaxed my grip slightly on Carlos’s throat. “Keep talking.”
“It’s a liquor store,” Reg said quickly. “Down on Euclid, past the school.”
“Shit,” Rudy whispered, clearly worried about the repercussions of giving up Deacon.
“He hang out there every day,” Reg said, unable to stop himself now. “In the parkin’ lot.”
I looked back down at Carlos. Tears were running down his face. His chest fought for air beneath my knee. The fury that I’d seen in his eyes had been replaced by terror.
“You are one lucky fuck,” I said to him.
“You two on the ground,” Carter said. “Now.”
Reg and Rudy dropped to the street on their stomachs. Carter walked over to them, removed their guns, and had them place their hands behind their backs. He dropped the small pistols in his pocket and walked back to me.
I took my hand off Carlos’s throat, but kept my knee in his chest. “If I ever see you again, Carlos, I will finish this.” I looked him right in the eye. “You understand?”
He couldn’t stem the tears, but he gave a slight nod and turned his face away from mine.
I reached under him, removed the small handgun from his waistband, and stood up. “Roll over and place your hands on your back.”
He did as I said.
Carter and I backed up quickly, not taking our eyes off them as we backpedaled toward the Jeep. The longer we stuck around, the bigger targets we became.
“I take it back,” Carter said. “You are good at your job.”
As we neared the Jeep, I saw Malia Moreno’s face in the front window of the Moreno home. She was staring at us, her eyes wide in surprise.
I looked back down the street. None of the boys had moved, their faces still pressed to the asphalt.
I took a deep breath, trying to exhale the adrenaline and anger that had taken over my body. The fingers that I had wrapped around Carlos’s throat tingled.
“Let’s go find Deacon,” I said as we reached the Jeep. “Before he finds us.”
Twenty-seven
The perspiration on my back glued my T-shirt to my seat as Carter and I drove to Biddly’s.
“Think they’ll try to beat us to Moreno?” I asked.
Carter shrugged. “Maybe, but probably not. They’ll have to come up with a story about what happened first. They aren’t gonna just tell him we took them down without a fight. On their street.” He shook his head. “They’ll just wait and hope Moreno kills us.”
“Well, that makes me feel better.”
“I’m like a living, breathing Hallmark card.”
“Just like.”
We turned left on Euclid. Half-empty strip malls lined the street, the traffic whizzing by them as if they didn’t exist.
“Moreno won’t be alone,” I said.
“Not a fucking chance.”
“Probably won’t be as easy to shake as the teenyboppers.”
He pulled out the guns he’d taken off of Rudy and Reg. “But, gosh. We have all these.”
I glanced at them. “Yeah, those should do the trick.”
They were old, small pistols that resembled cap guns and were capable of doing about that much damage unless you had them stuck in someone’s ear. I didn’t think we’d be able to get that close to Deacon Moreno.
“You wanna dump these?” Carter asked.
I shook my head. “Not yet. Put them in the glove box. We’ll toss them later.”
He opened the box, slid them in, and shut the flap.
He tucked his own gun into the back of his waistband. “If Moreno was involved in the thing in front of the Dune, and I think we just learned he was, he’s not gonna be surprised to see you.” He paused. “If they set up that hit in Mission Beach and missed, they’ve probably been doing a little checking up on you.”
I leaned forward, peeling the back of my shirt from the seat and letting Carter’s observation settle into my gut like a sucker punch. It didn’t feel good.
“So let’s just ask him your questions,” Carter said. “If we don’t get the answers, we leave and figure out another way.”
“Simple enough,” I said, pulling the Jeep to the curb and knowing this was going to be anything but simple.
Biddly’s was an old-time liquor store. A giant neon marquee hung over the street, the yellow and orange bulbs looking dim and faded in the daylight. A small parking lot separated the sign from the store by about a hundred feet, a rectangular building with bars on the windows that didn’t hide the signs of the beer distributors. A pay phone and two newspaper bins stood to the right of the entrance. Just to the right of those was a metal sign proclaiming NO LOITERING. Sitting below the sign were three black guys in beach chairs, all in a row.
I got out of the Jeep and walked around to the sidewalk, next to Carter. The guy on the right end pulled out a cell phone, hit a button, stood up, and walked into the store.
“You gotta be kidding me,” Carter said, staring at the two remaining guys.
“What?”
He blinked once, as if he were trying to confirm what he was seeing. I looked at the two in the chairs. They hadn’t moved.
“What?” I repeated.
He shook his head. “Nothing. Tell you later.”
“Okay,” I said, puzzled.
Neither of the men stood up as we approached, just watched us as we moved closer. The one on the left was about six feet tall, thick with muscle. A thin scar ran across the bridge of his nose, white against his dark skin. Thin braids dangled from underneath a skintight black skullcap. Long arms extended from a dirty wife-beater tank and denim shorts covered most of his stretched-out legs, Nike running shoes on his feet. A plastic straw worked its way back and forth between his lips.
At first glance, he seemed barely awake. But even though his eyes were only half open, I could see the pupils working back and forth in sync with the straw. Then his eyes shifted to Carter and stayed there.
The one on the right chuckled softly. “Well, well. Mr. Private Eye Man.”
His acknowledgment of who I was didn’t surprise me because I knew he was Moreno the second I saw his eyes. They were the same amber color as his sister’s. Maybe a year or two older than his sister. His braids were similar to the other guy’s, just fatter and shorter, with nothing else on his head. He was wearing a bright yellow Ralph Lauren button-down, tan slacks, and stark white Adidas high-tops. An expensive-looking watch hugged his wrist and an even more expensive gold chain hung off his neck.
But he didn’t look worried.
“Moreno, right?” I said.
“Mr. Moreno to you,” he said with more amusement than malice.
“Got some questions for you.”
The door to the store opened and the kid who had gone in when we’d arrived stepped out. He looked at Moreno, gave a quick nod, and went back inside the store.
Moreno turned back at me and tilted his head to the side. “I’m not taking questions today.”
“What day, then?”
“Not really sure.”
