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I gave her the twenty dollars. "Thanks for your time."
"Sure." Halfway out the door she paused, frowning. "I hope I didn't get any of the Kabalyeros in trouble."
"You didn't."
"Good. I kind of like them. I mean, they push dope and all, but these days, who doesn't?"
The»se days, who doesn't? «I thought. «Good Lord…»
The Starlight Lanes was an old-fashioned bowling alley girded by a rough cliff face and an auto dismantler's yard. The parking lot was crowded, so I left the MG around back by the garbage cans. Inside, the lanes were brightly lit and noisy with the sound of crashing pins, rumbling balls, shouts, and groans. I paused by the front counter and asked where I might find Jimmy Willis. The woman behind it directed me to a lane at the far end.
Bowling alleys-or lanes, as the new upscale bowler prefers to call them-are familiar territory to me. Up until a few years ago my favourite uncle Jim was a top player on the pro tour. The Starlight Lanes reminded me of the ones where Jim used to practice in San Diego-from the racks full of tired-looking rental shoes to the greasy-spoon coffee-shop smells to the moulded plastic chairs and cigarette-burned score-keeping consoles. I walked along, soaking up the ambience-some people would say the lack of it-until I came to lane 32 and spotted an agile young black man bowling alone. Jimmy Willis was a left-hander, and his ball hooked back with deadly precision. I waited in the spectator area, admiring his accuracy and graceful form. His concentration was so great that he didn't notice me until he'd finished the last frame and retrieved his ball.
"You're quite a bowler," I said. "What's your average?"
He gave me a long look before he replied. "Two hundred."
"Almost good enough to turn pro."
"That's what I'm looking to do."
Odd, for the head of a street gang that dealt in drugs and death. "You ever hear of Jim McCone?" I asked.
"Sure. Damned good in his day."
"He's my uncle."
"No kidding." Willis studied me again, now as if looking for a resemblance.
Rapport established, I showed him my ID and explained that I wanted to talk about Reg Dawson's murder. He frowned, hesitated, then nodded. "Okay, since you're Jim McCone's niece, but you'll have to buy me a beer."
"Deal."
Willis towelled off his ball, stowed it and his shoes in their bag, and led me to a typical smoke-filled, murkily lighted bowling alley bar. He took one of the booths while I fetched us a pair of Buds.
As I slid into the booth I said, "What can you tell me about the murder?"
"The way I see it, Dawson was asking for it."
So he and Dawson's wife were of a mind about that. "I can understand what you mean, but it seems strange, coming from you. I hear you were his friend, that you took over the Victors after his death."
"You heard wrong on both counts. Yeah, I was in the Victors, and when Dawson bought it, they tried to get me to take over. But by then I'd figured out-never mind how, doesn't matter-that I wanted out of that life. Ain't nothing in it but what happened to Be
"Good for you. What about Dragon-do you think he's guilty?" Willis hesitated, looking thoughtful.
"Why you ask?"
"Just wondering."
"… Well, to tell you the truth, I never did believe the Dragon shot Reg."
"Who did, then?" He shrugged.
I asked him if he'd heard about the «Kabalyeros» trying to intimidate the chief prosecution witness. When he nodded, I said, "They also threatened the life of her daughter last Friday."
He laughed mirthlessly. "Wish I could of seen that. Kind of surprises me, though. That lawyer of Dragon's, he found out what the «Kabalyeros» were up to, read them the riot act. Said they'd put Dragon in the gas chamber for sure. So they called it off."
"When was this?"
"Week, ten days ago."
Long before Isabel had been accosted. Before the dead dog and shooting incidents, too. "Are you sure?"
"It's what I hear. You know, in a way I'm surprised that they'd go after Mrs. Angeles at all."
"Why?"
"The Filipinos have this macho tradition. 'Specially when it comes to their women. They don't like them messed with, 'specially by non-Filipinos. So how come they'd turn around and mess with one of their own?"
"Well, her testimony would jeopardise the life of one of their fellow gang members. It's an extreme situation."
"Can't argue with that."
Jimmy Willis and I talked a bit more, but he couldn't-or wouldn't-offer any further information. I bought him a second beer, then went out to where I'd left my car.
And came face-to-face with Hector Bulis and the man called Sal.
Sal grabbed me by the arm, twisted it behind me, and forced me up against the latticework fence surrounding the garbage cans. The stench from them filled my nostrils; Sal's breath rivalled it in foulness. I struggled, but he got hold of my other arm and pi
Bulis placed the tip of the knife against my jawbone, then traced a line across my cheek. "Don't want to hurt you, bitch," he said. "You do what I say, I won't have to mess you up."
The Tagalog phrase that A
I wet my dry lips, tried to keep my voice from shaking as I said, "What do you want me to do?"
"We hear you're asking around about Dawson's murder, trying to prove the Dragon did it."
"That's not-"
"We want you to quit. Go back to your own part of town and leave our business alone."
"Whoever told you that is lying. I'm only trying to help the Angeles family."
"They wouldn't lie." He moved the knife's tip to the hollow at the base of my throat. I felt it pierce my skin-a mere pinprick, but frightening enough.
When I could speak, I did so slowly, phrasing my words carefully. "What I hear is that Dragon is i
Bulis exchanged a look with his companion-quick, unreadable.
"Someone's trying to frame you." I added, "Just like they did Dragon."
Bulis continued to hold the knife to my throat, his hand firm. His gaze wavered, however, as if he was considering what I'd said. After a moment he asked, "All right-who?"
"I'm not sure, but I think I can find out."
He thought a bit longer, then let his arm drop and snapped the knife shut. "I'll give you till this time tomorrow," he said. Then he stuffed the knife into his pocket, motioned for Sal to let go of me, and the two quickly walked away.
I sagged against the latticework fence, feeling my throat where the knife had pricked it. It had bled a little, but the flow already was clotting. My knees were weak and my breath came fast, but I was too caught up in the possibilities to panic. There were plenty of them-and the most likely was the most unpleasant.
«Kumukuld ang dugo.» The blood is boiling…
Two hours later I was back at the Angeles house on Omega Street. When Amor admitted me, the tension I'd felt in her earlier had drained. Her body sagged, as if the extra weight she carried had finally proved to be too much for her frail bones; the skin of her face looked flaccid, like melting putty; her eyes were sunken and vague. After she shut the door and motioned for me to sit, she sank into the recliner, expelling a sigh. The house was quiet-too quiet.