"See what's left? What the f**k, man? Who did this! Where did it go down?"
"I don't know who did 'em. But you know it's got to be bad, I'm telling you, if I agreed to come down to do the ID. I went to pick up Julio, Miguel, and Juan from their positions at the clubs we got alliances with on Santa Monica, they were all meeting up at the last one on the list tonight, the transactions up to then were smooth, but when I got there, it was off da hook. Cops everywhere, body bags ... You should have seen our boyz - they're f**ked up bad."
Carlos paused, silence strangling the digital line between the brothers. His mind raced through his organization's long list of adversaries and business deals pending, trying to quickly assess who in the mix could be sending a message, about what deal, about what part of his territory? His cousin and two best friends?
"Where were they shot?"
Again there was a long pause before Alejandro spoke.
"That's the thing. They weren't shot."
"Stabbed? What the f**k, talk to me!"
"Naw, bro ... more like half eaten."
* * *
"Glad you could finally come in here on your own recognizance, Rivera," Detective McKinsey muttered with a disdainful grin. "My partners, Malloy and Berkfield, will be so sorry they missed your visit."
"Cut the bullshit, man. My family is in there on trays." Carlos bristled as he waited for the slow process of gaining entry, the muscle in his jaw pulsing as his mind worked the puzzle of who would be bold enough to come for his inner circle like this.
"Yeah," McKinsey said with disgust, "we can have us a little conversation, later. I take it your enterprises will keep you in L.A. for a while, especially when you see what's left of your posse."
"I was there, man, when they came with the ambulances,"
Alejandro murmured to his brother, still stricken. "I don't need to see it again. I'll wait for you out here."
Carlos didn't respond to the comments from either of the so-called men standing before him. How many times had he seen one of his own on a tray, in a casket, on a sidewalk, whatever - it came with doing the kind of business he did. Pussies. In a war, there were casualties. Collateral damage, they called it on the news. In a war, there was a body count. In a war, there were soldiers, and some of them got shot. And in a war, there was territory gained and lost based upon who had the strongest men.
They left Alejandro where he stood and proceeded to the cold rooms. Carlos almost knew his way there by heart, just like he knew prison entry-and-exit procedures, and he waited while McKinsey got them through yet another layer of the system's security.
"Thought you should see this, Rivera, especially since a young artist died the same way not too far from your club, and not too long ago. Thought you might want to finally have a conversation about that, given the heat is now turned up and coming in your direction? If you bastards are duking it out in the streets for some new turf, we know that goes on all the time - but you all really have to lighten up on your style of doing hits. This bullshit causes media attention, now that drive -bys are old hat."
Carlos continued to ignore the fat ass**le beside him; the man's cheap polyester suit made him want to vomit.
"Just open the door," Carlos ordered in a low sneer. "If you guys can't handle it, I might know some people who know some people that can."
The two exchanged a glance of pure hatred as McKinsey pushed open the door.
"See if your people who know some people can handle that,"
the detective muttered, hailing the coroner on duty as they approached a table.
Frozen where he stood, all Carlos could do was stare at the gruesome remains of his cousin and best friend. Nauseating bile rose to burn his esophagus and coated his tongue.
"Chilling, ain't it?" McKinsey said with triumph. "Even for you, huh?"
"What the f**k ..." Carlos's voice had become a gravelly whisper, trailing off in horror as he made the sign of the cross over his chest.
"Throats ripped out, some instrument sliced down the center of the first victim's chest, halving it, cutting through the esophagus, aorta, and the hearts are - for lack of a better observation, eaten away. Frontal attack, though," the coroner said in a monotone voice. "The one over there has his left arm hanging by a thread of ligament and cartilage. The lacerations look like he tried to block his throat, but the victim's arm was apparently snatched away by a significant force before his throat and chest cavity were opened up. We found, of all things, something that looked like a huge animal claw lodged in it. We're running analysis now to determine if this was the weapon used, or if this was dropped on the body afterward as a little leave behind marker for this ritualistic killing,"
"Weapons fired everything in the clips," McKinsey added, his smile one of vindication. "Oh, your boys were strapped and went down with a struggle - full metal jacket type of shit in that alley. We found enough rounds back there to light up half of L.A., but of course, nobody heard or saw a thing - except Juan Dejesus. Alas, his tongue and the lower half of his jaw are missing, like somebody kissed him and decided to take a bite out of his face. He's in a coma, lost enough blood to flat-line him within the next twenty-four hours. So, suffice to say, we don't have a witness who can speak to the assailant's whereabouts - or give a description."
"I've seen enough," Carlos whispered, exhaling quickly, and only allowing a tiny sip of putrid air back into his lungs.
"Bet you have," McKinsey muttered, following Carlos's hasty exit from the dead room.
Carlos felt his body go hot and cold at the same time. Perspiration had formed beads on his brow; he could sense the moisture before he swiped at it. The detective leaned against the wall as Carlos bent and sucked in air with one hand bracing himself against the elevator door.