Read Online The Renegades by T. Jefferson Parker - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: T. Jefferson Parker
Tags: Charlie Hood
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breath and nod solemnly. I’ve just closed a deal that will earn each of us around seven-plus grand a week for eight hours of work. That’s thirty grand a month, tax free, month after month after month. And if things go the way I figure, if Herredia’s bloody cartel continues to prevail in the wars, and its market share of the U.S. craving for drugs continues to rise, the paycheck will only get bigger and bigger. I look at Laws. He’s pale, but he’s smiling.
“Then Herredia stands, and in one motion he tosses the Daiwa power-assist reel into the air over my head and shoots it with the Desert Eagle. The sound wave alone almost knocks me over. Bits of metal rain down on my head. There are holes in the ceiling. My ears are roaring but through it I can hear Herredia laughing, and the old man laughing behind him.
—You bring me a reel for fags! yells Herredia.
“Laws’s face is bruised and his eyes are wide but I can see that he’s deliriously relieved, almost happy. Herredia slides the fifty-caliber automatic into a holster on his belt, and points to the door.”
The boy looks at me with a skeptical frown. He says nothing for a few moments, then he shakes his head and the frown melts into a smile.
“Sweet,” he says. “Thirty a month for a Mexican holiday once a week.”
“Depending on what you consider a holiday.”
“You’ve got rocks, Coleman. And luck.”
“We stayed for dinner that night,” I say. “Herredia insisted. The old man joined us. His name was Felipe. The dining room in the house was nothing like Herredia’s office. The walls were adobe brick, with exposed beams of Douglas fir running the span of the ceiling. The floor was walnut, spar-varnished to a thick resinous glow. The window casements were walnut, too, and during the dinner they stood open for the warm Baja air. It was the best Mexican food I’ve ever had—ceviche tostados and chile rellenos and carnitas and bowls of pico de gallo.
“We drank California wine and Mexican tequilas. After dinner we went to the poolside cabana where four young women were waiting. They were beautiful and expensively dressed, relaxed and eager for conversation.
“When I woke up late the next morning, my companion brought me strong café con leche and a copy of the Los Angeles Times . Her name was Meghan, a California girl. She missed Redondo Beach. My ears were still ringing from the Desert Eagle. But I saw that I had died and gone to heaven, and I couldn’t wait to do it again and again and again.”
8
Laurel Laws opened the door of her San Fernando home that morning and Hood held up his shield. She looked at it while Hood looked at her: a twenty-something blonde in a black satin robe over long black pajamas tucked into shearling boots against the cold. She held a big mug of coffee. Her fingers were slender and her diamond was large. Standing beside her was a black pit bull with a dinged face.
Hood followed her down the foyer, past a living room and a dining room. The home was ranch-style, open and light, with cool olive walls, trimmed with crisp white moldings, and pale maple floors. The paint and flooring looked new. There were paintings on the walls and wooden shutters on the windows. The dog stayed on her left, nails clicking on the hardwood floors. Laurel said the dog had been rescued by Terry, and his name was Blanco.
The kitchen itself was a darker green, and the appliances were all new and white. An interior wall was partially demolished, the drywall stripped off and the studs exposed.
“Remodels never end,” she said.
She pushed a button on an elaborate contraption that ground and brewed and dispensed for Hood a cup of very good coffee.
They sat in a sunny breakfast room. She said Terry was a beautiful man, inside and out, and that her heart was fully broken. They’d been introduced by friends. At that time, she’d been divorced for two years from an abusive producer. Terry and his first wife had divorced four years
“Then Herredia stands, and in one motion he tosses the Daiwa power-assist reel into the air over my head and shoots it with the Desert Eagle. The sound wave alone almost knocks me over. Bits of metal rain down on my head. There are holes in the ceiling. My ears are roaring but through it I can hear Herredia laughing, and the old man laughing behind him.
—You bring me a reel for fags! yells Herredia.
“Laws’s face is bruised and his eyes are wide but I can see that he’s deliriously relieved, almost happy. Herredia slides the fifty-caliber automatic into a holster on his belt, and points to the door.”
The boy looks at me with a skeptical frown. He says nothing for a few moments, then he shakes his head and the frown melts into a smile.
“Sweet,” he says. “Thirty a month for a Mexican holiday once a week.”
“Depending on what you consider a holiday.”
“You’ve got rocks, Coleman. And luck.”
“We stayed for dinner that night,” I say. “Herredia insisted. The old man joined us. His name was Felipe. The dining room in the house was nothing like Herredia’s office. The walls were adobe brick, with exposed beams of Douglas fir running the span of the ceiling. The floor was walnut, spar-varnished to a thick resinous glow. The window casements were walnut, too, and during the dinner they stood open for the warm Baja air. It was the best Mexican food I’ve ever had—ceviche tostados and chile rellenos and carnitas and bowls of pico de gallo.
“We drank California wine and Mexican tequilas. After dinner we went to the poolside cabana where four young women were waiting. They were beautiful and expensively dressed, relaxed and eager for conversation.
“When I woke up late the next morning, my companion brought me strong café con leche and a copy of the Los Angeles Times . Her name was Meghan, a California girl. She missed Redondo Beach. My ears were still ringing from the Desert Eagle. But I saw that I had died and gone to heaven, and I couldn’t wait to do it again and again and again.”
8
Laurel Laws opened the door of her San Fernando home that morning and Hood held up his shield. She looked at it while Hood looked at her: a twenty-something blonde in a black satin robe over long black pajamas tucked into shearling boots against the cold. She held a big mug of coffee. Her fingers were slender and her diamond was large. Standing beside her was a black pit bull with a dinged face.
Hood followed her down the foyer, past a living room and a dining room. The home was ranch-style, open and light, with cool olive walls, trimmed with crisp white moldings, and pale maple floors. The paint and flooring looked new. There were paintings on the walls and wooden shutters on the windows. The dog stayed on her left, nails clicking on the hardwood floors. Laurel said the dog had been rescued by Terry, and his name was Blanco.
The kitchen itself was a darker green, and the appliances were all new and white. An interior wall was partially demolished, the drywall stripped off and the studs exposed.
“Remodels never end,” she said.
She pushed a button on an elaborate contraption that ground and brewed and dispensed for Hood a cup of very good coffee.
They sat in a sunny breakfast room. She said Terry was a beautiful man, inside and out, and that her heart was fully broken. They’d been introduced by friends. At that time, she’d been divorced for two years from an abusive producer. Terry and his first wife had divorced four years