Cause to Run

“Get the fuck out, cop!”

There were a lot of ways Avery could have handled the situation. The man was carrying a gun and she guessed it was loaded and had no license. He also seemed ready to engage despite the fact that nothing had actually occurred. That, combined with the empty counter, led her to believe that something might be going on in a back room. Drugs, she guessed, or they have some hapless store owner back there and are beating him to a pulp.

“All we want is a few minutes with Desoto,” she said.

“Bitch!” the man snapped and stood and pulled his gun.

Ramirez instantly drew.

The two older men continued to drink their coffee and sit in silence.

Ramirez called out over the barrel of his gun.

“Avery?”

“Everybody calm down,” Avery said.

A man appeared in a cooking window behind the main counter, a big man by the look of his neck and round cheeks. He seemed to be leaning into the window, which gave him a foreshortened height. His face was partially hidden in dim shadow; a bald, light-skinned Latino with a humorous glint in his eyes. A smile was on his lips. In his mouth was a grill that made all of his teeth look like sharp diamonds. No outward display of malice could be observed, but he was so cool and calm given the tense situation that it made Avery wonder why.

“Desoto,” she said.

“No weapons, no weapons,” Desoto mentioned from the square window. “Tito,” he called, “put your gun on the table. Cops. Put your guns on the table. No weapons here.”

“No way,” Ramirez said and kept his gun pointed at the other man.

Avery could feel the short blade she kept attached to her ankle, just in case she ran into trouble. Also, everyone knew they were headed to Desoto’s place. We’ll be all right, she thought. I hope.

“Put it down,” she said.

As a show of good faith, Avery gently pulled her Glock out with her fingertips and put it on the table between the two older men.

“Do it,” she said to Ramirez. “Put it on the table.”

“Shit,” Ramirez whispered. “This is no good. No good.” Still, he complied; placed his gun on a table. The other man, Tito, then put his own gun down and smiled.

“Thank you,” Desoto said. “Don’t worry. No one wants your cop guns. They’ll be safe right there. Come. Talk.”

He disappeared from view.

Tito indicated a small red door, practically impossible to notice given its location behind one of the booths.

“You first,” Ramirez said.

Tito bowed and entered.

Ramirez stepped through next and Avery followed.

The red door opened into the kitchen. A hallway moved further back. Directly in front of them were basement stairs, steep and dark. At the bottom was another door.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Ramirez whispered.

“Quiet,” Avery whispered.

A poker game was being played in the room beyond. Five men, all Latino, well-dressed and strapped with guns, went silent on their approach. The table was packed with money and jewelry. Couches lined the walls of the large space. On numerous shelves, Avery noticed machine guns and machetes. One other door was visible. A quick glance at their feet revealed that none of them had shoes large enough to match the killer.

On the couch, arms splayed wide, and with a huge smile on his face that exposed the grill of razor teeth, sat Juan Desoto. His body was more bull than man, pumped up and chiseled from daily workouts and, Avery guessed, steroids. A giant even though seated, he might have stood to nearly seven feet tall. His feet, similarly, were huge. At least a twelve, Avery thought.

“Relax, everyone, relax,” Desoto commanded. “Play, play,” he urged his men. “Tito, get them something to drink. What would you like, Officer Black,” he said with emphasis.

“You know me?” Avery asked.

“I don’t know you,” he replied. “I know of you. You arrested my little cousin Valdez two years ago, and some of my good friends in the West Side Killers. Yes, I have many friends in other gangs,” he said at Avery’s surprised look. “Not all gangs fight each other like animals. I like to think bigger than that. Please. What can I get for you?”

“Nothing for me,” Ramirez said.

“I’m fine,” she added.

Desoto nodded to Tito, who left the way he’d come. All men at the table continued to play cards except one. The odd man out was a spitting image of Desoto, only much smaller and younger. He muttered something to Desoto and the two of them had a fiery conversation.

“That’s Desoto’s little brother,” Ramirez translated. “He thinks they should just kill both of us and dump us in the river. Desoto is trying to tell him that that’s why he’s always in prison, because he thinks too much when he should just keep his mouth shut and listen.”

“Sientate!” Desoto finally shouted.

Reluctantly, his little brother sat down but he glared hard at Avery.

Desoto took in a breath.

“You like being a big celebrity cop?” he asked.

“Not really,” Avery said. “Gives guys like you a target in the police department. I don’t like to be a target.”

“True, true,” he said.

“We’re looking for information,” Avery added. “A middle-aged woman named Henrietta Venemeer owns a bookstore on Sumner. Spiritual books, new age, psychology, things like that. Rumor has it you don’t like the shop. She was being harassed.”

“By me?” he noted in surprise and pointed to himself.

“By you or your men. We’re not sure. That’s why we’re here.”

“Why would you come all the way into the devil’s den to ask about some woman at a bookshop? Please, explain this to me.”

No recognition of Henrietta or the bookstore appeared on his face. In fact, Avery thought he was insulted by the accusation.

“She was murdered last night,” Avery said and paid careful attention to the men in the room and how they reacted. “Her neck was broken and she was tied to a yacht at the marina on Marginal Street.”

“Why would I do this?” he asked.

“That’s what we want to find out.”