The Cocaine Chronicles Read online

  “Anything new?” Bobby asked.

  “Like what?” When Bobby couldn’t think of what to ask, Foster said, “See you in the morning.”

  Bobby was prepared for the worst when he arrived at the impound garage. Foster and the younger cop were waiting for him. Bobby was surprised to see the car mostly intact. The entire driver’s side window was gone. The techs had cleaned it out, Foster told him. When he opened the door, he saw the small round holes in the seats where the bullets had lodged.

  There were dark spots on the seat—blood stains that hadn’t been entirely erased—and there was a strange smell Bobby couldn’t place. He looked at the two cops.

  Foster shrugged. “Techs use all kinds of compounds, liquids to secure evidence. It’ll go away eventually.”

  Bobby walked around the car. On the passenger door there were some minor dents and paint scrapings from when Morales had sideswiped a car or a telephone pole or something else in his attempt to get away.

  “Why didn’t he just, you know, give up, instead of trying to shoot it out?”

  The two cops exchanged glances and shrugged.

  They handed him some papers to sign to release the car and gave him copies. Then they watched him get in the car and adjust the seat. Morales must have been short—the seat was closer to the wheel than Bobby kept it. He nodded at them, backed the car out of the garage, and drove off. In the rearview mirror, he caught them watching him till he turned the corner.

  He pulled into the first gas station and filled up. He used the Yellow Pages to find a glass repair shop and jotted down the address of two not far away. Ed’s Auto Glass was the first.

  “We can do it while you wait,” the man at the desk said. “What happened? Somebody try to break into your car?”

  “Something like that,” Bobby said. “It was stolen.”

  “Wow, and you got it back. Lucky,” he said, sliding a clipboard across the counter so Bobby could initial the estimate form. “Give me an hour.”

  Bobby went for a walk, bought a Coke at a convenience store, and smoked, thinking about Raymond Morales dying in his car. He pictured the car, out of gas, skidding to a stop, Morales throwing the door open, hiding behind it, firing at the cops, the glass shattering, bullets embedding in the seat, and then falling backwards as a bullet struck him in the chest. He couldn’t get the vision out of his mind. All for some cocaine. How much? What was it worth? His life?

  He got home before Lisa and examined the car’s interior inch by inch, not knowing what he was looking for but unable to let it go. He felt under both seats, up in the springs, in the channel the seat slid back and forth on. He even lay under it with a flashlight, knowing the cops had already done this but not trusting their thoroughness.

  He opened the hatch, raised the flap where the spare tire was kept, took the tire out and felt around the compartment, shined the flash everywhere, but it was no go. The car was clean.

  The only evidence of the incident were the holes in the seat and the dark stain. Raymond Morales’s blood.

  “Hey, you got it back,” Lisa said, getting out of her car. Bobby hadn’t even heard her drive up.

  “Yeah.” He shut the hatch and locked it, as Lisa walked all around the car.

  “Looks okay,” she said.

  He nodded and shrugged at her look. “No horn.” He opened the driver’s side door and showed her the bullet holes in the seat, the dark stain.

  She just stared. “Jesus, kind of spooky, isn’t it?”

  Bobby got on Lisa’s computer and went to the Los Angeles Times website to check on obituaries. He skimmed through starting with the date after his car was stolen and found it five days after:

  Raymond Morales, 1974–2004. Beloved son of Angela Morales. Survivors include his sister Gabriela. A memorial service will be held Wednesday, May 15 at …

  Bobby jotted down the date and time and glared at the photo of Raymond Morales, obviously taken a few years before his death. It was almost like a high school yearbook photo. Just a nice looking kid, three years younger than Bobby. He told himself he was only going out of curiosity, maybe to see if someone had any information about the horn, but he knew it was more than that.

  He drove into Inglewood Park Cemetery and found the site easily. There were at least thirty or more tricked-out lowrider cars and a single limo parked along the curb. A plain tan sedan Bobby recognized as Foster’s car was also there.

  Bobby parked as close as he could and got out. A ways in on the lawn, among the hundreds of tombstones, he saw the small crowd gathered around the grave site. Foster and the younger cop were standing behind the fringe of mourners. Foster turned as Bobby walked up.

  “Interesting,” he said to Bobby. His younger partner turned and smiled.

  “What are you guys doing here?” Bobby asked.

  “Routine,” Foster said. “We know Morales ran with some of these dudes. We’re just compiling some information.” Foster looked at him. “What about you? Car spooking you?” This made the other cop smile again.

  Several of the young guys turned and glared at Bobby and the two cops. They were all slicked-back hair, ponytails, sunglasses, sharply creased chinos, and black shirts. A couple started moving toward them but were held back by others. Bobby moved away to stand alone.

  At the center of the gathering, two women sat by the casket as the priest finished. Bobby guessed they were the mother and sister. The younger woman raised her eyes briefly and looked at Bobby, then touched her mother’s hand.

  Bobby turned to look back at the cops as they walked toward their car. He took a deep breath and wondered if this was such a good idea. As the service ended and started to break up, the young guys walked past, stared at him curiously with hate in their eyes, and went to their cars. Soon the loud sound of souped-up engines and glass-pack mufflers filled the air.

  Bobby stood still, hands clasped in front of him, not sure what to do next, when Raymond Morales’s mother and sister walked by. The sister looked at Bobby strangely as her mother stopped and also looked at Bobby.

  “You were a friend of my son’s?” she asked, studying his face.

  “Well, no, not really,” Bobby said, surprised that she spoke to him. “I, ah …”

  “High school,” the sister said. “Taft High School. I know you. Bobby Ware.”

  “Yes,” Bobby said, taken aback.

  “I’m Gabriela.” She smiled briefly. “You played a saxophone solo at the school assembly. I was a freshman when you were a senior.”

  Bobby let his mind travel back ten years. He’d been in the marching band and the jazz ensemble, and he had played at the senior assembly. “Well, yes. I didn’t think anybody remembered that.”

  “Come, Gabby,” Raymond’s mother said, starting toward the car, already losing interest in Bobby.

  Gabriela followed her mother, then stopped and turned. “That was your saxophone, your car, wasn’t it?”

  Bobby stood mute, realizing she knew everything, watching her dig in her purse for a pen and a slip of paper. She scribbled quickly and pressed the paper in his hand. “Call me,” she said. Then was gone.

  Bobby waited for the mourners to clear out. He saw one group of three guys pause at his car and stare, then look over at him, before they got in a black Chevrolet and drove off.

  The next morning Bobby dialed the number. “Barnes and Noble,” a voice said. “How can I help you?”

  Bobby thought it had been a home number she’d given him but quickly realized she wouldn’t have done that.

  “Can I speak to Gabriela Morales, please?”

  “Let me see if she’s in,” the voice said.

  Bobby was suddenly listening to canned music as he was put on hold. It sounded like Dave Koz or David Sanborn, one of those R & B saxes, vamping relentlessly over the same tired chords.

  “Hello?”

  “Miss Morales? This is Bobby Ware.”

  “I guess you want to talk to me.”

  “Well, if it’s not conve
nient I can …”

  “I have a lunch break at 12:30. There’s a coffee place here in the store. We can meet there. This is the big one, on Ventura Boulevard.”

  “Yeah, okay, that would be fine,” Bobby said.

  After a pause she said, “This is strange.”

  “Yes it is.”

  He got there early and took a cup of coffee to an outside table so he could smoke. Gabriela appeared a few minutes later.

  “Oh, there you are,” she said. She was dressed in dark slacks and a white blouse with a plastic B&N name tag pinned to her blouse. Her hair was raven black and framed her face. Very pretty, Bobby thought as he stood up.

  She put her hand on his shoulder. “No, don’t get up. I’m just going to grab a sandwich. I’ll be right back.”

  She came back quickly and sat opposite Bobby with a sandwich on a plate and a bottle of water. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m on till 6. If I don’t eat now, well …”

  “No problem,” Bobby said.

  She took small bites of the sandwich and studied him. “You don’t remember my brother at all, do you?”

  “No,” Bobby said. “I’m sorry … about what happened.”

  She nodded and looked down. “He had a lot of problems and it’s not so uncommon. Raymond was lost a long time ago,” she said, finishing her sandwich. Gabriela looked at Bobby’s cigarettes on the table. “Can I have one of those?”

  “Sure,” Bobby said, offering her one. He lit it for her and watched her take a deep drag and cough a little.

  “Wow, it’s been awhile. I quit about a year ago.”

  “Yeah, I’ve quit a couple of times myself.”

  “I had quite a crush on you,” she said, “after I saw you play at the assembly. I used to see you in the halls, by your locker, and I started going to the games to see you in the marching band.”

  “That was a long time ago.” Bobby looked away, thinking of the early morning practices, the drilling, the music.

  “You still play, right?”

  “Yes, I’m working a gig not far from here on weekends.”

  “That’s good. You were talented.” She paused. “I remember Raymond wanting to be in the band but it wasn’t cool, you know that macho shit, so he never pursued it. Maybe if he had he would …” Her voice trailed off.

  “Look,” Bobby said, “I don’t want to bother you, I just, I don’t know, it’s been bothering me. I just had to—”

  “See who Raymond was?”

  “Yeah, I guess. Since I got the car back, I keep having these visions.”

  “And there’s the horn.”

  “Well, yes, that too.”

  She nodded. “I have it in my car. Raymond came home that day, said he’d borrowed the car from a friend. I knew he was lying, but he brought the horn in the house, didn’t want anything to happen to it.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, I think he still thought about playing.” She stubbed out her cigarette and glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to get back to work. C’mon.”

  He followed her to the parking lot. She opened the trunk of her car. Bobby looked inside and saw the case. He flipped the latches and lifted the lid, and it was like seeing an old friend. He shut the case and took it out of the trunk.

  “Thanks, thank you very much.”

  “Where’s your car?”

  Bobby hesitated. “Oh, a couple of rows over but you probably need to go and—”

  “I want to see it.”

  They walked over to his car. Bobby unlocked the door and put his horn in the back.

  “Do you mind?” She looked inside.

  “No.”

  Bobby watched her run her hand over the seat, her finger tracing the bullet holes. Bobby shivered. She stepped back, her eyes moist now. “It’s kind of closure or something,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “I understand.”

  She managed a smile. “Well, I guess that’s it.”

  “Would you like to come hear me play?” he blurted.

  She smiled. “I don’t know if that would be such a good idea.”

  Bobby nodded. “Sure, I understand.”

  She looked away, then back at him. “But hey, why not. High school crush makes good.” She had a beautiful smile and she gave it all to Bobby.

  Bobby gave her the address of Gino’s and they shook hands. She pressed her hand in his. “Thank you,” she said, then turned and walked back to the bookstore.

  On the way home, Bobby drove by a deserted warehouse with a huge fenced-in parking area. He slowed, then pulled in the open driveway and drove around to the back of the building. He sat for a moment, the car idling, then slammed his foot on the gas pedal. The car shot ahead. He got up to fifty, then hit the brakes and turned the wheel hard. He threw open the door, stood up, crouched down, stood up again, then threw himself back on the seat, trying to feel the bullet that killed Raymond Morales.

  Eyes closed, leaning back, Bobby circled behind the singer on “Lover Man,” looking for his openings yet not getting in her way. She finished her chorus and Bobby shuffled toward the microphone and played what he could till the bridge. He stepped aside and saw Gabriela Morales at a table to his left.

  She was leaning forward, her chin resting on her hand, gazing at him with what he guessed was memory. Trying to remember that high school assembly? They finished the set with “Just Friends,” and Bobby scorched the small audience with two choruses that got him a phony smile from the singer that said, Hey, I’m the star, remember?

  He sat his horn on its stand and walked over to Gabriela’s table. “So, you made it,” he said.

  She smiled. “You’re much better now than in high school.”

  “Come outside with me,” he said. “I need a cigarette.”

  “Me too.” She picked up her purse and put a napkin over her glass.

  They walked up Ventura Boulevard a ways, not talking much, just getting used to each other. Finally, they stopped and she turned to look at him.

  “So where do you think this is going?” she asked. Her eyes were so dark and deep.

  He moved in closer and kissed her lightly on the lips. She didn’t resist, and when he pulled back, she opened her eyes and looked at him again. “That’s what I wanted in high school.”

  “And now?”

  She looked away. “What is this? You want to fuck the kid sister of the guy who was killed in your car?”

  “What? No, I—”

  She waved her hand in front of her as if she was shooing something away. “I’m sorry. I don’t know where that came from. Really, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I came. It’s just, I don’t know, a connection with Raymond. Does that sound crazy?”

  “No,” he said. “I think that’s why I came to the service. I wanted to see what your brother was about, what his family was about. I don’t know if I can keep the car now.”

  They turned and started walking back toward Gino’s. “Raymond was a gangbanger, a cocaine dealer, and he lost. He got in over his head and couldn’t get out, except the way he did. I loved my brother but he gave my mother endless grief and worry. End of story.”

  “And you?”

  “This isn’t a good way to start. There must be a girlfriend somewhere, right?”

  Bobby nodded. “I live with someone. Two years now.”

  “Are you in love with her? Are you going to marry her?”

  “I don’t know,” Bobby said. “I thought so.”

  “I’m not going to be your girlfriend on the side.” A glimmer of fire in her eyes now.

  “I know,” Bobby said.

  She got quiet again, but her hand slipped into his. “We’re both here for the same reason,” she said.

  Bobby knew immediately what she meant. They had both been touched by death and they were connected by it in a way only the two of them could understand.

  “It’s maybe the one good thing Raymond did,” Gabriela said.

  “Yes,” Bobby said. “Maybe it is.”

>   BILL MOODY is the author of seven novels and a dozen short stories, and hosts a weekly jazz show on KSVY-FM. A working jazz musician for over forty years, Moody has toured and recorded with Jon Hendricks, Maynard Ferguson, and Earl “Fatha” Hines, among others, and continues to perform in the Bay Area. His latest novel, Fade to Blue, was published in 2011.

  serving monster

  by jervey tervalon

  The interview for the position of personal chef for Monster Stiles was going to be at the Trump Plaza at this overblown, over-hyped restaurant that only idiots thought anything of.

  Bridget, Asha’s girlfriend, was a thin blonde who wore a short skirt, even as the first flurries of snow fell from the gray sky.

  “I hate New Jersey,” I said.

  Bridget laughed. I didn’t mean for it to be funny.

  “So, you had that cute restaurant in the Village?”

  I smiled. “I don’t know about it being so cute.”

  “I loved that place,” she said.

  “I did too, but not enough.”

  “Really? How so?”

  “When I think about it, maybe I didn’t care for it.”

  Bridget nervously tapped a fork against her water glass.

  “Gibson is a fantastic cook,” Asha said. She glanced at me and probably could tell I was near tears.

  “What happened?” Bridget asked.

  I shrugged, and Asha took over. She leaned over and began to whisper to Bridget. Asha wore this loose-fitting, burnished-gold tunic. Her dark skin and hair looked even richer against the paleness of Bridget’s skin and hair. As Asha whispered, whatever resistance Bridget had toward me faded. Bridget was totally smitten with Asha and when Asha took her hand, she was transported.

  I was almost embarrassed to see how much she was taken with Asha.

  “Listen,” Bridget said, loud enough for me to hear, “I’ll tell you the bottom line. We have a hard time getting quality people up on the mountain.”

  “Why is that?” I asked.

  “It’s a tough job, the type of job for a particular person who wants to be in a beautiful place and needs privacy. It’s very private there.”