Nuestra Rara. NR forever. The tattoos on Roddy Rodriguez’s hands…
.
I thought of Rodriguez’s masonry yard, shut down, cleaned out, and padlocked.
The flight from the house on McVine prepared well in advance.
Evelyn had entertained me in her backyard, as her husband’s homeboys honed their shanks.
Making an appointment for Wednesday, then going into the house with her husband and changing it to Thursday.
Twenty-four more hours for getaway.
Hurley Keffler’s debacle at my house made sense now, as did Sherman Bucklear’s nagging. Prison rumblings had probably told the Iron Priests what was brewing.
Locating Rodriguez might have forestalled the hit or, if the deed had already been done, given the Priests instant payback.
Payback.
The same old stupid cycle of violence.
Burglary tools and a quick shove out a eight-story window.
A corpse on a garage floor, a little boy baby never to be.
Two little girls on the run.
Were Chondra and Tiffani in some Mexican border town, being tutored in Fugitive lA with more care than they’d ever been taught to read or write?
Or maybe Evelyn had taken them somewhere they could blend in. On the surface.
But, suckled on violence, they’d always be different. Unable to understand why, years later, they gravitated toward cruel, violent men.
Static dripped out of the speakers–a barely comprehensible voice announcing something about boarding. I got up and took my place in line.
Six thousand miles in less than twenty-four hours. My mind and my legs ached.
I wondered if Shirley Rosenblatt would ever be able to walk again.
Soon, I’d be three time zones away from her problems and a lot closer to my own.
The flight got in just before midnight. The terminal was deserted and Robin was waiting outside the automatic doors.
“You look exhausted,” she said, as we walked to her truck.
“I’ve felt perkier.”
“Well, I’ve got some news that might perk you up. Milo called just before I left to pick you up. Something about the tape. I was just out the door and he was running, too, but he says he learned something important.”
“The sheriff who was working on it must have picked up something.
Where’s Milo now?”
“Out on some assignment. He said he’d be home when we got there.”
“Which home?”
The question threw her. “Oh–Milo’s house. He and Rick took really good care of us. And home is where the heart is, right?”
I slept in the car. We pulled up at Milo’s house at twelveforty. He was waiting in the living room, wearing a gray polo shirt and jeans. A cup of coffee was in front of him, next to a portable tape recorder.
The dog snored at his feet, but woke up when we came in, gave out a few desultory licks, then collapsed again.
“Welcome home, boys and girls.”
I put my bags down. “Did you hear about Donald Dell?”
Milo nodded.
“What?” said Robin.
I told her.
She said, “Oh. ..”
Milo said, “Nuestra Rara. Could be the father-in-law.”
“That’s what I figured. It’s probably why Evelyn postponed her appointment with me. Rodriguez told her they had to leave Wednesday.
And why Hurley Kefffler hassled me–where is he?”
“Still in. I found a few traffic warrants and had one of the jailers lose his paperwork–just another few days, but every little bit helps.”
Robin said, “It never ends.”
“It’s all right,” I said. “There’s no reason for the Priests to bother us.”
“True,” said Milo, too quickly. “They and the Rara boys will be concentrating on each other now. That’s their main game: my turn to die, your turn to die.”
“Lovely,” said Robin.
“I had some Foothill guys drop in on them after Keffler’s bust,” he said, “but I’ll see if I can arrange another visit. Don’t worry about them, Rob. Really.
They’re the least of our problems.”
“As opposed to?”
He looked at the tape recorder.
We sat down. He punched a button.
The child’s voice came on.
Bad love bad love. Don’t give me the bad love.
I looked at him. He held up a finger.
Bad love bad love.
Don’t give me the bad love. .
Same flat tones, but this time the voice was that of a man.