Cholo

I’d never been confined to a hospital bed before, but then again, my list of nevers had diminished significantly in the last few days.

While I prepared to tell another part of my tale, detective Watson came through the door.

I looked at Crip. He nodded his head once and patted me on the shoulder.

“Thought they had a limit on visitors in these places,” Watson said.

“They do,” Crip said snidely. “And with you, we’re over the limit. Make your visit quick, cop.”

“Take it easy, Navarro,” the detective said, his tone flat. “I come in peace.”

Watson glanced around, grabbed the chair from the corner of the room, and sat down. After opening his notepad, he looked up.

“As you might suspect, I’ve got to take a statement. I read your admission form, and I’ve seen the doctor’s reports. I need a sworn statement from you.”

“I’m on a morphine drip,” I said. “But I think I’m ready.”

He lifted his pen to his mouth and tapped it against his lip. “Is your name Adam Wesley Downey?”

“It is.”

“Do you reside at 42031 N. 14^th Ave., in Oceanside, California.”

“I do.”

“Can you describe to the best of your ability, in detail, the events that transpired which led to your being hospitalized?”

“I can do my best.”

He stopped tapping the pen. “Begin.”

“I was in bed asleep, and something woke me up. By the time I got my eyes adjusted, some fucker was asking me where his money was. I had no idea what he was talking about, and tried to explain myself, but he pistol-whipped me and took me anyway.”

“Took you?” he asked.

I nodded. “Kidnapped me. Abducted me. Whatever you want to call it.”

“Continue.”

“They took me to a building, duct-taped me to a table, then burned me, pulled my teeth with pliers, and then smashed my toes with a fucking hammer.”

“Jesus.” He winced. “Over the course of how much time?”

I looked at Alexandra.

“Roughly forty-eight hours,” she said.

He let out a long sigh. “Continue.”

“Well, he reached a point that he realized I didn’t have his money, and he told the other two to shoot me, and then--”

“He being whom? He realized you didn’t have his money. Who is he?”

“Don’t know what his name was, but I called him ‘Tattoo.’ You know, in my mind.”

“Why did you call him that?”

“He had a number 18 tattooed on his neck.”

“Front or back?” he asked.

“Huh?”

“On the front or back of his neck?”

“Front.”

“Continue.”

“So. Let’s see. He told them to kill me, and I closed my eyes. Then, I heard some sounds. Like, pop, pop, pop. I opened my eyes, and that’s when I saw him.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Tattoo?”

“No, a different him. A Hispanic male I didn’t recognize. Someone new. He had a rifle in each hand, and he was shooting at my captors. In the shootout, Tattoo pulled a pistol and shot the guy who I didn’t recognize in his leg. He fell to the floor, fired one last shot, and killed Tattoo. As Tattoo fell, the pistol discharged, shooting the guy in the other leg.”

“The man you didn’t recognize had two weapons?” he asked.

“Yep.”

“One in each hand?”

“Best that I could tell, yes.”

He coughed a laugh. “Sounds like a Quentin Tarantino movie.”

I cocked my head to the side and smiled. “Seemed like one.”

“What happened next?”

“Well, I realized the gun was out of his grasp, and somehow I got up. After kicking the weapons into a pile, I stumbled outside the building, and out into the street.”

Alexandra squeezed my hand.

Shit.

“No, wait,” I said. “After I kicked the weapons into a pile, I called 911 and reported the crime. Then, I stumbled out into the street. Then everything went black.”

“So, during your time in captivity, you had a phone?”

“No. I used the phone on the table beside Tattoo.”

He nodded. “When the police arrived, you were gone. How were you transported here?”

“I came out of my unconscious state when a guy was loading me in the backseat of a car.”

“Another Hispanic male?”

“Nope,” I said. “White dude. Executive type. Dressed in a suit and driving a BMW sedan. He brought me here. In fact, he signed the admission form.”

He flipped through his pad, eventually stopped on a page, and then studied it for a moment.

“Jay Parsons?” he asked.

“Sounds right.”

He chuckled. “Jay Parsons, as in the Jay Parsons?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Who’s the Jay Parsons?”

“Attorney to the movie stars,” he said. “Millionaire extraordinaire, Jay Parsons. The one who represented that pro basketball player who was accused of killing his maid. Remember? His wife was screwing the other basketball player and tried to frame him? The Jay Parsons that sued LAPD for wrongful death when they choked that kid to death by accident and won a $50,000,000 settlement? The same Jay Parsons who obliterates everyone who opposes him in court. That Jay Parsons.”

“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t make the connection.”

“Sounds like a hell of a story.” He sighed and closed his notepad. “Well, I’m glad you made it out alive.”

“Makes two of us, detective.”

“On another note. We found one Hispanic male in a building by the pier, and he’d been shot in each leg. The pistol used in the shooting was confirmed to be the weapon we found beside Jose Sanchez-Guiverra, who, in case you are unaware, is...” He paused and raised his index finger. “No, was, the local leader for Calle 18. He’s the one you called ‘Tattoo’. And, for what it’s worth, we found his fingerprints were on the frame of the pistol, and we found a partial on the trigger.”

I raised my eyebrows in false interest.

“Two other deceased Hispanic males were found on the scene,” he said. “They were later identified as being Sanchez-Guiverra’s henchmen. The firearms used in the crime were stolen from a navy SEAL armory years ago, and were listed as stolen weapons in the National Database.”

“I’ll be damned,” I said.

“The only living Hispanic male suspect, however, swears that he didn’t do it. The man who was shot in each leg by Sanchez-Guiverra.”

“They all say that, don’t they?” I asked. “That they’re innocent?”

“Crazy bastard says the US Marines did it, and that he was set up.” He looked right at Crip and grinned a sly grin. “Surprised he didn’t say it was the Navy SEALs.”

“Never know with those gangbangers,” I said.

He stood up. “Can’t trust ‘em, if you ask me.”

He glanced at each of us, nodding his head as he made eye contact. “Navarro, Peanut Butter, Miss Hart, Downey. Have a nice life. My Calle 18 case is closed, and I’m on to bigger and better things.”

He walked to the door, opened it, and then hesitated. “Funny thing, you know…”

“What’s that, detective?”

“The money they were looking for,” he said, still facing away from me. “We didn’t find it on the scene. Or, anywhere, for that matter.”

We hadn’t either, but we were far from done looking.

“Can’t trust those gangbangers, detective. Hell, they probably never had any.”

Without turning around, he responded, “You’re probably right.”

He held the door open, stepped into the hallway, and then turned to face the room.

“Gentlemen, keep up the good work,” he said.

And then, he walked away.