The War Whisperer: Book 1: Geronimo Read online

  The man named Jonny Brake was riding in the passenger seat and saying nothing. Instead he was watching what was happening on his side of the street. Nacho was doing the same on the left. Jonny was a little taller than Dylan, wiry thin, with eyes that revealed little. He wore distinctively worked white straw cowboy hat, faded jeans, and a dark blue shirt over a white tee both with the tails out.

  Dylan and I sat behind them as Nacho drove all of us to the North Calaveras Street Bridge, not much of a bridge over an almost dry stream bed Jonny said was named Alazan Creek that everyone local called “Shazam Creek.” Once there, we climbed out of the white air conditioned SUV into the morning heat, and Nacho continued north.

  The bridge looked like no more than a humped extension of the road with side rails. The stream bed was much narrower than the flood control basin behind UCH, its sloping sides thick with grass and brush. “See that ditch?” Jonny asked.

  Both Dylan and I nodded.

  “Alazan Creek. There was a battle here over two centuries ago when all this land belonged to Mexico. The fight was between the Republican army and Maximilian’s Royalist army. The Republicans won the battle and voted in the First Republic of Texas.” Jonny looked at me. “Lipan Apaches were in the Republican army. Many scalps. Lipans, Tonkawas, Townkans, Criollos, Mestizos, and Anglos from the U.S.”

  “You mean before the Sam Houston Republic?” asked Dylan. I was curious, too.

  “That’s right.” Jonny nodded. “Big lesson coming up. After they got their new republic, their army got a new general. The new general didn’t trust his Indians, see? So he segregated his army into Mexicans, Indians, and Anglos. Nobody trusted the general because of this, and nobody trusted anybody outside his own group. Next time they fought the Royalists, they were crushed and the four-month old First Republic of Texas was dogmeat.”

  “Is that why the Kings take all kinds?” I asked.

  “One reason.” Jonny pointed north where our territory was. “We also got all kinds in the ten. They our people; a part of our family. Nacho’ll tell you: You always treat people nice, they nice back and will help make you rich. You understand?”

  We both nodded.

  “Everybody feel safe here,” Jonny continued. “Feel safe with us—the Kings. You start picking and choosing who you like, who you don’t like, pushing people around, the support goes away, people start being afraid, they going to blame you, then they going to fight you. Always remember Alazan Creek.”

  The north end of the bridge was where our ten began, and Jonny pointed the way. We walked past a couple of homes on the left facing the first cross street, Arbor, a dead end on the left because of how the bed of the Alazan ran.

  On Arbor Street, the two homes looked in very good shape, fenced in with new chain-link, late model cars in the protected drives. Jonny told us the first house belonged to City Councilman Louis Franconia. This was his claim to represent District One on the City Council. He lived elsewhere, of course, but claimed this as his permanent residence.

  In the house next door was Louis Franconia’s number three bodyguard, Jobo Tinker. Jobo’s job was to maintain and guard Home Base Phony for the councilman.

  Jobo lived there with his mistress, Angelica Diaz. The man he worked for was dirty, of course, but Jonny said that Jobo and Angelica were good people. Jonny used to say hello and slip them a little discount blow for parties. After the do with the Reds, while Jonny was in the hospital recovering, Jobo sent a box of flowers. Inside the box was a beautifully tiny Glock 42 fitted with a silencer. Jonny pulled the tiny .38 from his back pants pocket and showed us the small semi-automatic. He put away the Glock and pointed across the street.

  The homes there were more modest, but apparently well cared for. And Jonny knew all of their names. Chavez, Pedersen, Flores, Diaz, another Diaz, but not related.

  “I been working this territory about four years leading a runner. Temporary lieutenant right now. They moving me up soon as I get you two broken in,” he explained.

  “Jonny,” said Dylan, “We going to have a lieutenant, only the two of us?”

  “It’s going to be only the two of you after I go, Dylan. No lieutenant right away. You hold it together, you get more soldiers, become a King and make lieutenant yourself pretty quick.”

  He looked down at the sidewalk for a moment, shook his head, then looked at Dylan. “See, when the SA Reds hit, I took care of a few with a knife.” He shrugged and looked down, his eyes sad. “Six of us working this ten back then, and a lieutenant named Cappy ran us. Cappy, had a runner named Franco. Funny kid. Eleven years old. Fast and full of jokes. Twelve Reds as near as I can figure. Twelve of them crossed Zarzamora, broke the peace, jumped all of us at the same time. Guns and more guns. They killed Cappy, Franco, my runner, Two Bits, and everybody else but me. I got three of the bastards with my knife before I got knifed myself and had to run away holding in my guts.

  Jonny lifted his shirt tail and showed the ugly scar from his left kidney to his bellybutton made from the wound, the glue they used to close him up still protected by a large clear plastic sheet, grainy looking patches of dried blood beneath the film. He dropped his shirttail and talked to us between naming the people in the various houses.

  “Mandy and Clay Fuller live in that house,” he said pointing to a white house with light blue trim, nice lawn, a couple of toys and a pile of lumber on it. “They got a fourteen month old baby girl named Betty, and Mandy is pregnant with their second. Just found out about the pregnancy three weeks ago and still haven’t decided on finding out for certain if it’s a boy or another girl. Clay manages a bodega in the inner loop and works long hours.”

  He turned and looked at us. “You know how to use tools?”

  “Sure,” said Dylan.

  “Carpentry tools,” I said. “Some plumbing and metal working.”

  “Great. You two going to help Mandy fence in this yard so her kids can’t run out on the road when they get to walking. They don’t want chain link. Want a picket fence. Wood. My runner and me was going to do it, but . . .”

  “Hey, man,” said Dylan after the silence grew awkward. “What’s the real story on the Reds? They coming back? I think we got a need to know.”

  Jonny nodded. “You do.” His face grew dark as he frowned. “You do,” he repeated. “SA Red motherfuckers got grass from Zarzamora all the way west to Acme. Been that way ever since I can remember. That was part of the original peace boundaries when they created the Council chaired by Boss Cañón’s father, Dante.”

  “Council of what?” I asked.

  “I get to that.” He looked up and studied a green painted house on the north side of Arbor. “See, the Reds, they got a new boss: Jimmy Toro. Very young, full of habanero peppers, and lookin’ for respect. Just took over from his old man who was apparently cleaning his knife, slipped, and cut his own throat.”

  “That sarcasm, right?” joked Dylan.

  Jonny smiled. “Just a touch. So Jimmy start testing his limits like a fucking two year old with a machine gun. He had his thugs kill Kings’ dealers, runners, and soldiers up and down Zarzamora like an old fashioned Nineteen thirties grass grab. Toro’s boys spill a lot of blood. We a business now, see? Blood no good for business. Toro don’t understand that. He think it all about power and respect, and he think he don’t have near enough of either.”

  Dylan raised his eyebrows. “So, what did the Kings do?”

  “We took out nine Reds in the attack and five more later—enough so Jimmy Bull he want a little sit down before his whole organization get cleaned. All the gangs and cops in this city run by the Council. The boss in each gang, each real gang, got a seat.”

  “Real gang?” I interrupted.

  “Sure. Players, eighty or more members, least a hundred million a year gross.” He grinned. “Ten thirteen year old punks down on the block puffin’ weed and tipping over gravestones ain’t a gang. Not in this town.”

  “The cops?” asked Dylan.

  “They just
another SA gang; Got one seat on the Council.”

  He looked at Dylan. “War not good for business, politicians, cops, nobody, and Jimmy Bull just about flat-ass declared war on the Kings when he crossed the Zees and killed some of our people.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “West Side King boss, Joaquín Cañón, he put it up in front of the Council. Council sit, talk about it, vote, and order the Reds back across Zarzamora an’ they owe the Kings a million for each King they killed. Half a million for each King wounded. Eleven and a half total.”

  “You ever get that half million?” I asked.

  “Fuck no,” he said with a laugh. “That all went upstairs.”

  “Is that fair?” I demanded. “You were the one cut.”

  Jonny looked at me for a long time. “Look kid. I got money in the bank—a lot of it—a woman who loves me, a house I love, and two beautiful kids that got futures because I’m a King and because I follow orders.” He nodded at me. “I give you orders you follow them, understand?”

  “I understand,” I answered.

  “Good. See, I don’t follow my orders or I tell Nacho, ‘Hey, man, this ain’t right,’ then old Joaquín going to the Council, they vote, next thing my brains’ll be splattered all over my portrait of Mescalero Chief Gómez.” He pointed a finger at me. “You don’t follow my orders, next thing you know you be talking to the worms.”

  “Is it okay now?” I asked.

  “SA gangs trying to maintain the old peace,” said Jonny as he looked at Dylan. “Keep an eye out for SA Reds, Dylan, and don’t ever cross Zarzamora yourself. Things still fucking tense and Jimmy Bull now light eleven and a half mill and he still got no respect.”

  “They coming again,” said Dylan.

  Jonny nodded, his expression grave. “They can’t do nothin’ else, man. That’s how I see it. Don’t know when, but you do nothin’ to provoke ‘em. You got customers from west of the Zees, you don’t do no house calls. I don’t care if they got half the city in for a Super Bowl party and they want a ton of rock. They come to you. Got that?”

  Dylan and I nodded.

  “We got any protection at all?” asked Dylan, a hand held out.

  “At the beginning, I’m it,” said Jonny Brake. “You got to earn your support from the ten. So, not much backup for awhile. When I leave, you got even less. Besides the Reds, Joaquín got some heavy shit goin’ down with the Sun Tong right now and he need all his muscle on the east side. This leave everybody west thin for awhile. That why they taking in new members and why your territory so big.”

  “What if it’s too much?” I asked.

  “Then you dead, hombre,” said Jonny. “But if you two can handle it, you gonna get rich and move up fast. Work your ten. You take care of them, they back you up when Toro comes at you.”

  He looked from Dylan to me. “Look, you two got each other, you got your ten, and you got me for awhile. You can street fight?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Did a lot of fighting in school.”

  “I’m not talking playground scrapes. We’ll work on that. I got a guy. Look, the two of you and me and my runner are working a territory eleven used to work. Backup coming later, but right now it just us. This mean a lot of money if we can stay alive. First thing, you learn your ten better than the back of your own hand.”

  “If the Reds come at us?” I asked.

  “Call it in and haul ass. Couple days we’ll get you phones. Call it in. We send up the flag, Nacho will get who he can down here to back us up. Meanwhile, you run. I hear you good at that.”

  “I am,” I said.

  “No guns. Let ‘em chase you all over your ten, cut ‘em when you can, but make sure the body is found on this side of the Zees. You got to be prepared. I won’t kid you. It’s some dangerous shit this close to Zarzamora, especially right now. Sooner or later Reds gonna cross the Zees. You still in?”

  “I am,” said Dylan.

  I nodded.

  “Okay. Good. Kings got rules about starters. I going to lead and run with my new runner Chino for about two weeks so we don’t lose so much demand. You two don’t sell nothin’.”

  “What do we do?” asked Dylan.

  “For those two weeks, you two learn the ten. You see what we do and how we do it. You walk all the streets in this ten with me and without me. I help you memorize the locations of every family, yard, culvert, abandoned building, house, outhouse, doghouse, street, alley, and pathway, and you memorize all the different routes from one to another. You also learn all the people. It’ll take a few days.”

  He nodded toward a small white house with red trim, a nice green lawn, all of it surrounded by chain-link. “Señora Pena and her nine year old daughter Luana live there. Father was a stone mason. He died two years ago attempting to prevent the abduction of his daughter. He prevented it, broke the neck of the shit who was trying to abduct his girl, and died from the five slugs in his gut the guy pumped in him before his neck broke. I delivered meals cooked by my wife until after the funeral and reception. Nacho threw in for the funeral, and he help Luana’s mom get a good job. I drop by once or twice a week and see if she need help.” He looked at Dylan. “Why?” he asked.

  “Because that’s what Kings do,” he answered.

  “That and I care about everybody in the ten. I care what happens to the Penas. So she cares what happens to me. She and a whole bunch of others come and see me in the hospital, and those who couldn’t come call, text, or send me ecards. Even got some handwritten letters. You see the turnout for ten’s funerals. Standing room only. And when things get hairy, that’s where you get your backup.”

  Between houses he said, “Okay, you two are gonna memorize the names of everyone who lives in this ten block area, and in which house they live. While you wander the blocks, make yourselves known and loved by all the locals. Also, I want you to find a place to rent near here, inside this ten block area close as you can to the middle. You be good neighbors, an asset to the community.”

  “What you mean?” asked Dylan.

  Jonny looked at him. “Say buenos días to them in the mornings, open doors for them, carry bags of groceries, help them move shit into apartments and out of garages, help grandma across the street, learn people’s names, and their kids names, and their kids’ pets names. Run down purse snatchers and return the purse, kick the shit out of muggers, and be respectful to the cops. You see some punk raggin’ on an old guy just ‘cause he can, you smack him in the head hard enough to make his balls clap. At night you say buenas noches to them. Give everybody your number, somebody call for help, let Nacho know, then go help.”

  “You mean like cops?” I asked.

  “Kings the only working cops in this ten, Jerry. City cops are our backup. We get a lot of support from the ten. That is the whole point of making these people our people. Across the Zees the Reds act like an occupying army squeezing the people there for all they can get. That’s why so many people move from their side of Zarzamora to our side.”

  He nodded toward the small green painted house trimmed with darker green. “The colonel, Luke Belton, live there all alone. Egypt vet, former colonel, lost a leg fighting in a shithole in the Nile Delta called Sintimay. The man know his guns but his music lame. You listen to this old scratchy jazz a hundred years old he plays, and he don’t use ear buds much. Has that old shit playing from his pocket.”

  Jonny pointed at the house. “Me and my runner help him put that paint on his house. He take us out for dinner, TV at his home some nights.”

  Our mentor looked down at the sidewalk, then up at us with narrowed eyes. “Night I got gutted by the Reds, Colonel Belton was who I ran to for help. I had five of the Red bastards close on my ass. The colonel shot and killed three of the fucks before the other two took off. He don’t say nothin’ about it. He call the ambulance and while we wait the colonel did some first aid on me, patch me up, stopped the bleeding. He save my life. Did that ‘cause I tell him good morn
ing, listen to his stories and old music, give him a ride to the VA every couple months, help him paint his house. I like him and he likes me. See?”

  Both Dylan and I nodded. I was beginning to see the difference between what I thought a gang was and what a business is.

  Jonny swiped his hand at the air, indicating the entire territory. “The way we do it, we make us part of this community—a good part. Nobody but junkies like drug dealers, and junkies don’t after they figure out they junkies. But, see, we aren’t drug dealers.”

  “No?” asked Dylan, slightly confused.

  He poked Dylan in the chest with his finger. “No. We are valuable and necessary members of this community who just happen to sell drugs, pussy, and run a few games. We don’t make loans, sell protection, or muscle people. When a local mama cries out about her poor junky son, we take the asshole to rehab if he wants to go. If he hangs in there, we remind him to go to meetings. He don’t hang in there, his mama can’t blame us. We do all that and the people here mostly overlook a couple local boys peddling a bit of snow.”

  “What about the feds?” I asked.

  “We don’t pay off feds.”

  “They too honest?” I asked.

  Jonny laughed. “Honest? You a riot, Jerry. Honest.” He shook his head. “Too many bosses, too many hands out, too many boots stepping on each other’s toes, no one really in charge. Feds got a bad organization; unreliable. So when they get a wild hair and come at you,” he said looking at me, “you run like the wind, and don’t lose even a dollar or a gram of product. Anything you lose you pay for.”

  “What about killing them?” I asked.

  “That is Council business. They vote dead, they get made dead. Not good for business.”

  “It’s all dollars and cents?” asked Dylan.

  “Without the dollars and cents, we can’t take care of nobody: us, the bosses, the tens. When everybody in the money, no hunger, no homeless, only sickos doing violent crime. ‘Prosperity is happiness,’ say old Dante Cañón, and ‘happiness is prosperity’.”