Cole’s eyebrows went up when he realized what Pike was thinking.

“Frank Garcia. Frank could make this happen.”

Bud said, “The Frank Garcia?”

Pike checked the time.

“Let’s do it. I’ll call him from the car.”

Cole and Bud headed for the door. Pike started after them, but stopped to look at Barkley.

“I’ll call you when we know.”

Barkley said, “I’m coming with you.”

“Mr. Barkley, this is-”

Barkley turned a deep red.

“She’s my daughter, and I want to be there. This is what fathers do.”

Pike thought Barkley was getting ready to hit him. Pike’s mouth twitched.

He said, “After you, sir.”

Pike followed him out the door.

42

THE DIRECTIONS led them to a narrow street on the border between Boyle Heights and City Terrace, not far from the Pomona Freeway in East L.A. Stucco houses with flat roofs lined the street like matching shoe boxes, separated by driveways one car wide; most with yards the size of postage stamps. American cars lined the curbs, bikes and toys had been abandoned in the drives, and more than one yard sported a deflating swimming pool, wilted and lifeless in the nuclear heat.

Bud let the big Hummer idle down the street; Pike rode shotgun, Cole and Barkley had the back.

Conner Barkley leaned forward to see.

“Where are we?”

Bud said, “ Boyle Heights. You should buy it. Build a big fuckin’ mall.”

Pike knew Barkley was nervous, but Bud was nervous, too.

Bud said, “You see him? I don’t see him.”

“He’ll come. He said wait in the car until he gets here.”

“I’m not getting out whether he’s here or not, these friggin’ punks.”

Bud eased on the brakes as they reached the address, stopping outside a small home identical to all the others except for a boat in the drive and an American flag hanging from the eaves. A yellow ribbon was pinned to the flag, and both the flag and the ribbon had been there so long they were bleached by the sun. More than one of the homes they passed were hung with similar ribbons.

Hard-looking young guys were sitting in the parked cars or standing in small groups as if they were impervious to the heat. Most wore white T-shirts and jeans baggy enough to hide a microwave oven, and most were heavily tattooed. They eyed the Hummer with studied indifference.

Bud read their gang affiliations by their ink.

“Look at these guys-Florencia 13, Latin Kings, Sureños, 18th Street-Jesus, 18th Street and Mara kill each other on sight. They friggin’ hate each other.”

Barkley said, “Are they gangbangers?”

Cole said, “Pretend you’re watching TV. You’ll be fine.”

Pike said, “Frank.”

A black Lincoln limousine appeared at the far end of the street and rolled toward them. Its appearance rippled through the young gangbangers, who got out of their cars, craning to see. Barkley saw their reactions and leaned forward again.

“Is he the head gangbanger?”

Cole laughed.

Pike thought that was funny, too. He thought if he lived through this, he would tell Frank, and Frank would also laugh.

Pike said, “He’s a cook.”

Bud smiled at Pike. When he realized Pike wasn’t going to say more, he twisted toward Barkley to explain.

“You eat Mexican food? At home? I know you have cooks, but maybe it’s late and you want something fast, you keep tortillas in the house?”

“Uh-huh.”

“The Monsterito?”

“Oh, sure, that’s my favorite.”

Pike thought this was a helluva thing to be talking about.

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 Benítez, 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.