1

Saturday, May 7 17:05 HRS

"Six-three David to Central," I said.

"Central copy, Six-three David. Go ahead."

"Central, call us ten-seven at two-zero-two First Avenue."

"Central copy. Two-man unit out of service, 17:05 hours."

Gang Detectives had intel that LREC cholo Mad Hatter was throwing a Quinceañera for his oldest daughter.

Since their war with Shadow Posse began, LREC dropped five SP thugs killed or wounded. Although there hasn't been a Posse reply, this would be the perfect opportunity for a bloody payback.

To be safe, Major Case Gangs wanted our best to babysit the party as a deterrent against drive-by hits and a mass casualty event.

Detective Nieves deployed several MC Gangs unmarked RMPs to roam the surrounding area at a five-block radius. They moved mounted patrols from the beach areas and boardwalk to loop from Second to Fifth Avenue between the Boulevard and Central.

At 20:00 hours, our first-ever batch of twelve Class II Specials would pair with veterans and patrol Ocean Avenue and the boardwalk on foot.

I pulled into a parking stall across the street from the address given. I opened my tobacco and put it into my mouth. Maxine responded out of disgust for the first time.

"Blech," she said. With a smile and wrinkled cheeks, she shook her head. "Kelly, that really is a nasty habit. You're lucky I let you kiss me."

I smiled back and searched for my spit cup and cell phone.

"Oh, and yeah," she said. "No more Gatorade or Iced Tea bottles. I can't look at them anymore." She got out of the RMP and walked to the trunk. "Pop it," she said.

Following her command, I watched the black trunk open and screen the rearview mirror from what she was doing.

I heard her rustling through the posse bag and waited in anticipation of what was coming next.

Today was a good day. Maxine and I went to Ray's Diner last night for dinner, and I picked her up at ten this morning and went to Ocean Avenue South in the Park. We had brunch and hung out on my uncle's boat before heading in for our watch.

Truth be told, the days with her got better and better. Even though she had gotten a ton of resistance from her father and the but-brothers Jeremy Hwang and Gary Fessenden, she still pressed into our budding romance.

When she returned to the RMP, she gave me a black gift bag with blue tissue paper.

She held a smug look and raised her eyebrows at me.

"Here," she said. "Because I love you and can't stand to look at your brown spit and discards anymore."

I pushed through the paper and took out an olive-drab-colored plastic container, which looked like a flask. I laughed as I read the label.

"The with a threaded funnel," I said.

"Yes. Now you have your own personal spit jar. And you can't share it with Keegan. It's yours."

"I'd kiss you, but, you know, we're on duty and. Yeah."

I took off the label and spat in my new spittoon as she patted my thigh.

2

The partygoers and invitees gathered outside in the front yard. Pinatas and the banners hung from the home, and poles were at the corners of the gate and chain-link fence. The DJ and several LREC thugs occupied the porch, no doubt armed and soon to be drunk.

A Metallic green nineteen-sixty Chevy Impala hummed to a stop. Mad Hatter tricked out the Metallic green nineteen-sixty Chevy Impala, with white flames running from fender to bumper, whitewalls, and smoked windows.

He and three others exited and went to the trunk.

Their baggy white t-shirts and knee-high dungaree shorts were the expected wear for today's banging fashion. What set LREC apart from their West Coast counterpart was their neck stamp and the Kansas City Royals baseball hats they wore.

"See that, Max," I said. "KC. Kings of the Coast."

She nodded and then smiled.

"Raza means King in Spanish. And we're on the East Coast. I got it."

As they struggled, taking three kegs from the trunk, Hatter's shirt pulled up, revealing the grip of a .9mm.

"Did you see that?" said Max. She was quick to reach for the door handle and readied for action when I stopped her by shaking my head.

"Not now, not today," I said. I spit into my new 4oz Mud Jug plastic pocket spittoon.

After adjusting my vest from the collar, I sniffled and turned to face her.

"I hate to say this, but he might need it later," I said. "I'm not sold out that mounted patrols and Class II Special Law Enforcement Officers are ready for anything that might kick-off."

This was a problematic teaching moment, but necessary. I wouldn't leave an innocent girl's coming-of-age celebration defenseless because her father is a piece of shit and a killer.

"What do you see, boot?" I asked.

Max stopped, her eyes squinting and brows raised.

"Boot now, is it, huh?" Her voice conveyed frustration. And while I understood it, she had to know the rules of the street.

I waited and watched her looking at the house, street corner, and down the block.

"I don't know," she said. "There's Hatter and his crew, the women are setting up, and kids are playing on the sidewalk."

"Right. And where are they setting up?"

Another question led to another pause as she stared at the house. I watched her scan the property line from the yard to the porch to the second story as she leaned across my shoulder to see.

"Um, the front yard and porch?" she said. The frustration in her voice vanished, her curiosity piqued.

"That's right. The FRONT yard," I said in exaggeration. "The backyard is tiny and can't hold a celebration. So, they move it to the front, which makes them?"

"Vulnerable to a drive-by or hit."

Max sighed and sat back. Pursing her lips sideways, she wrinkled her nose and eyes. Her humility at the moment showed her heart and nature for learning.

As much as it sucked to teach her a set of rules that violated everything she learned in the academy, she needed the lesson to survive this asshole rodeo she signed up for.

"And if it's a two-car job," I continued, "with automatic rifles and multiple shooters, there's only so much we can do. I'd rather them shoot back than take the full brunt of a frontal assault."

"Because if our presence doesn't deter the drive-by, the hitmen want blood and won't stop until they get it."

"And?" I said.

"The quicker they shoot back, the quicker it ends."

"And there's less collateral damage."

3

Two white vans, embossed with a gaudy Mexican Flag and a picture of a mariachi singer, stopped in front of the house.

Several children ran from the backyard, laughing and eager as the drivers got out.

A full mariachi band emerged with instruments in hand. Eight violinists, two trumpet players, and a vihuela and guitarron guitarists gathered on the sidewalk.

They looked amazing. They wore black leather boots with a double embroidered suit decorated with silver. Red flowers ornamented the legs and sleeves. A deluxe tie in red with silver embroidery accented their black sombreros.

"You gotta love Quinceañeras," I said. "Even when daddy's drug money pays for it."

After unpacking and the vans parked down the street, they gathered in Mad Hatter's front yard. The band readied as the leader stood before them, setting the tempo with his hand. The trumpets blared with a sixteenth-note flourish introduction as the joining violins cut through the air.

"Ay, ay, ay. Canta y no llores," I said, singing along with the leader.

The mariachi band's Cielito Lindo performance was powerful and soothing, exuding the expected sway. My attempt at singing in Spanish had the desired effect on Maxine. She smiled, laughed, and swayed with me in rhythm.

By the time they reached the second chorus, my ringing cell phone interrupted our little song and dance.

I took it from the center console, looking at the screen.

"It's my uncle," I said. I rolled the driver's side window up as I answered the phone.

"Nephew," he said. "We got it. DNA came back, and the kid rolled for a deal." Uncle Mike's voice pitched with excitement. I heard him rustling through papers on the other end before he spoke again. "Damn, you were right. Listen to this."

I turned to Maxine, covering the phone, and whispered.

"They got X-4's identity just before the kid rolled."

The sounds of the sirens and Central dispatch hastened his report.

"This is a great job, Nephew, seriously. The guy's name is Marcus Blackwood, thirty-eight-years-old." I heard my uncle skimming the report. The more he did, the faster he spoke. "Career Navy Corpsman...attached to two different rifle platoons in Afghanistan—And get this," he shouted. "He received a dishonorable discharge due to multiple allegations of sexual harassment and at least two or more accusations of date rape."

"What's his last known?" I said.

"Bay Head, according to his last debit card transaction. The Martin kid said he met him at the railroad platform. They made a deal that Blackwood would be on the text group, and the kid would choose who he wanted to have sex with, lure them out of the woods, and Blackwood would subdue them. Before killing them, the kid got his jollies off."

Across the street, the Mariachi played Viva Veracruz as the fiesta took on a new life.

Women folk dancers dressed in white, red, and green tapped along, their vibrant dresses flowing like a whirlwind as they spun and dipped. The rhythmic beats of their feet resonated through the air, creating a symphony of sound.

I lowered the window to listen and watch as a satisfied feeling overcame me. I couldn't help but feel a sense of awe and joy as I watched the mesmerizing performance.

I was content to be finished with Marcus Blackwood and where it went.

"Nephew, we're on the way right now with ESU. I'll keep you in the loop."

As he hung up, I took a deep breath through my nose and closed my eyes.

No sooner than I did, the coms lit up with a neighbor dispute.

"Central to an available unit. We have two noise complaints."

Max rolled her eyes and sighed. The persistent ghost call had been going on for two months.

"Two-zero-six Railroad. Three calls in the last twenty minutes. Complainant unknown."

There came the awkward delay as every RMP decided whether or not to take it. This was definitely not one of those calls I'd answer anymore. I hated chasing the radio at this point, but sometimes, it became necessary.

"Six-Three Charlie. Show us responding."

You could always count on Marcello to answer these unwanted radio assignments. He was always a bit anxious and having those moments of intense silence bothered him to the point that he'd answer to end the pressure.

As the Mariachi took a break and more visitors, friends, and family swarmed the sidewalk, the gathering spilled into the street. As luck would have it, we were prepared. I took the handset from the cradle and depressed the PTT.

"Six-three David to Six-Three Adam. Pick up your assigned walking patrol and block off the West side of the Two-Hundred block. Public Works has the barricades ready to be deployed."

Before Max and I could exit the RMP and see to our end and the barricades, my cell rang.

I picked up with a quick thumb swipe to see that Sergeant Guldbrandsen was waiting for me to answer.

"Now what," I said. I answered and put him on speaker.

"Kelly," he said. "I need you to break from that assignment. We have another body in Claire Woods and Mill Pond."

"One of X-4's—"

"No. It's a suicide. One of yours, Hillary Durkin." His disconnection of the call was abrupt as the sick feeling settled over my stomach and deep into my heart.

"Oh, man," said Max. She shook her head as her shoulders dropped, and her face became long and drawn. "Is this ever going to end?"

At that moment I realized that more was happening here than just Marcus Blackwood, Mister X-4. Something else was influencing the situation, and I suspected what it might be. But more importantly, I knew who.