choice was not an option. I went out of duty, that was the truth, but for the first time in my life I questioned it.
The girl must have been beaten half-dead. Her face was swollen to twice its normal size. There were cuts on her upper arms and her breasts, as if someone had beaten her with a wire. Her hair was matted with blood, one eyed closed completely due to the swelling of her cheek. Her buttocks were the same, and around her lower stomach and the tops of her thighs there were marks as if ropes had been used to burn her.
‘These are police photographs?’ I asked.
Ten Cent nodded.
‘And how did Don Calligaris get them?’
‘He has friends in the New York police department. He had them send copies.’
‘And there were no questions as to why New York would need them?’
‘His friend in New York told the LAPD that he’d heard of the case, that he believed there may have been a link between this and some outstanding investigation there. They didn’t ask questions. They just sent them, and Don Calligaris gave them to me to show you.’
‘His name?’ I asked.
‘Richard Ricardo is the name he uses,’ Ten Cent said. ‘It is not his real name, but that is the name he uses, the name he is known by.’
‘And he lives where?’
‘He lives in an apartment not far from Hollywood Boulevard, the third floor of a building on the corner of Wilcox and Selma. The apartment number is 3B.’
I did not write down the address. My memory was good for small details, and carrying written names and addresses was never good practice.
‘Tell Don Calligaris that this matter will be very swiftly resolved,’ I said.
Ten Cent rose from his chair. ‘I will, and I know he will be appreciative, Ernesto.’
‘You are leaving already?’ I asked.
Ten Cent nodded. ‘There are many things I have to do before I leave Los Angeles. It is late. You must see to your children.’
Once again the dichotomy of my life; black and white, no shades of gray between.
I saw Ten Cent leave. I held his hand for a moment at the door.
‘We will meet again soon,’ he said quietly. ‘Give my best wishes to your family, Ernesto.’
‘And mine to yours,’ I replied.
I watched him walk down the steps to the street, walk to the end of the block. He did not turn back, he did not glance over his shoulder, and I closed the door quietly and locked it.
That night I could not sleep. It was the early hours of the morning when Angelina stirred and woke, perhaps sensing my internal disturbance.
She lay there quietly for a moment or two, and then turned and snaked her arm across my chest. She pulled me tight and kissed my shoulder.
‘Your friend,’ she said. ‘He has something for you to do?’
I nodded. ‘Yes.’
She did not speak for a minute. ‘Take care,’ she said, ‘Now you have not only yourself to think of.’
And she said nothing more, and when morning came she said nothing of Ten Cent, nothing of the business that he had brought for my attention. She made breakfast as always, tending to the children – all of seven weeks old, innocent and wordless, wide-eyed and wondering at the ways of this new world they had entered – and in my heart I felt for them, felt for who I had become, and what they would feel if they ever knew.
I left that evening. It was dark and the children were sleeping. I told Angelina I would be no more than a few hours, and for a while she held me close, and then she reached up and kissed my forehead. ‘Take care,’ she said once more, and stood at the door to watch as I walked down the street. At the corner I glanced back. She stood there, illuminated in silhouette from the light inside the house, and I felt something in my heart, something that should have pulled me back, but I did not slow or stop or retrace my steps with second thoughts; I simply raised my hand and waved, and carried on my way.
I took the subway as far as Vine. I made my way down Hollywood Boulevard and the Walk of Fame, turned left on Cahuenga, right onto Selma, and there at the corner of Wilcox I found the building of which Ten Cent had spoken. I could see lights right across the third floor, also the second below, and I could hear the faint sound of music coming from the windows.
Entrance was easy. I went in through the back exit out of which the garbage and tradesmen would come. I found the base of a narrow stairwell that appeared to climb the height of the building, and up I went – silently, two risers at a time – until I reached the third floor.
I stood silently in the doorway at the top of the well, held it open no more than an inch or two, and it was there I heard the music louder. It came from the apartment facing me, from behind a door with 3B clearly visible on it, and I stayed there for some minutes ensuring that there was no coming and going along the hallway. When I was sure there was no-one entering or leaving any of the upper apartments I crossed the hallway. From my inside jacket pocket I took a thin sliver of metal and eased it between the door jamb and the striker plate. I nudged it down until I felt it touch the latch, and then with silent hair’s-breadth motions I started to wedge the blade into the lock. The lock sprang without difficulty. I turned the handle and the door gave way. I inched it open a fraction and waited for any sound inside. I heard nothing but the music, louder now, and realized that whoever was there would not have a hope of hearing me as I entered.
The hallway carpet was thick and dark. Along the walls hung black-and-white photographs, some of them clearly identifiable as images of cityscapes from many years before, others more abstract and undefined as to subject matter. I closed the door behind me, slid the chain across and flipped the deadbolt. Richard Ricardo evidently believed that once he was within the confines of his own home he was safe. Nothing, but nothing, could have been farther from the truth.
I went along the hallway without a sound. My breathing was low and shallow, and when I reached the end and pressed myself against the corner of the wall I could tilt my head and see into the main warehouse apartment.
Through a half-open door on the other side of the room I could see the end of a bed. The figure of a man, apparently naked, flitted across my line of vision and I shrank back. I waited for a second and then looked again. I could see no-one.
I stayed close to the wall and went into the main room, pressing my body against the plasterwork and circumventing the entire width until I came around on the other side and stood at the rear edge of the bedroom door. I could hear voices, at first one and then a second, and with my heart thundering in my chest I withdrew my.38 from the waistband of my pants.
The sight that greeted me as I peered around the doorframe and looked into the room surprised me. There were two men, both naked, one of them lying back on the bed with his hands cuffed to the stead. The second man was kneeling between the spread-eagled man’s legs, his head going up and down at a furious rate. I watched them for a little while, my mind turning back to Ruben Cienfuegos and the men we had robbed in Havana, the death of Pietro Silvino, the things he had said to me before I killed him.
The man lying down was moaning and writhing. The second man continued energetically for some thirty seconds or so, and then he kneeled back on his haunches, pulled the other man’s legs together, and then sat astride them. Shuffling forward he moved upwards until he sat across the man’s chest, and then using his hand to hold the cock of the man beneath him he gently eased backwards. I watched as the man’s cock slid inside him. The two of them were laughing together, and then the man on top started to rock back and forth, gently increasing his speed as he went.
I stepped away from the wall, crossed the room behind them, and with a single swipe of the gun handle I swept the music player off the table. The music stopped dead. The two men stopped also.
‘What the hell-’ the upper man exclaimed, and then he turned, and then he saw me standing there with a gun in my hand, and there was an expression in his eyes that said everything that could ever be said without a single
