The Sentry - By Robert Crais Page 0,16

Marisol, Marisol, Joe.”

Marisol raised a hand in greeting without interrupting her conversation. She was trying to convince a local restaurant to donate their leftover food to a shelter for abused children. Pike noticed a pearl of sweat running down the side of her face before she brushed it away. The house was not air-conditioned.

Artie led him to what was once the master bedroom, though it now served as Artie’s office. Every window was open and a couple of fans moved the air, but it was still hot. The cool ocean breezes rarely ventured this far from the sea.

Artie dropped into a secondhand chair behind a cast-off teacher’s desk.

“Sit. What can I do for you?”

“Venice Trece?”

“All right. They’ve owned the Westside for years. Which clique are we talking about?”

“Malevos Pacificos.”

“Pacific Gangsters. They’re at the end of the boulevard, right by the water.”

“I want to speak with the jefe.”

Each clique had its own boss, known as the jefe.

Artie arched his eyebrows and leaned back.

“Speak as in talk, or speak as in someone won’t be speaking again?”

“As in talk. If I wanted the other thing, I would not have involved you.”

Pike explained the situation about Mendoza and Gomer, and the vandalism that had occurred. Pike understood bangers from his days as an officer. He could make them dead, but he could not make them listen. Only their jefe had that power. If their boss told them to leave Smith alone, they would leave Smith alone. A reasonable request. Made in the spirit of cooperation.

Artie said, “Mm. So you want to make a personal appeal.”

Pike nodded, and Arturo leaned back again.

“I don’t see why not. They have a new kid over there. Miguel Azzara. Goes by Mikie. This kid will surprise you.”

Pike nodded again. Mikie.

“You have a relationship?”

“I talk to all these cats, man. V-Thirteen sets, the Culver City and Santa Monica gangs, the Shoreline Crips. They don’t all like me, but they know I’m trying to do right. They all have little brothers and sisters.”

Artie tapped the desk for a moment, thoughtful, then studied Pike.

“You want him to know who he’s dealing with?”

“Whatever you think is best.”

“He won’t respond to a threat.”

“This isn’t a threat.”

Artie thought about it for another moment, then shrugged.

“I can reach out, ask as a favor to me. He’s a bright guy. Not what you expect.”

Pike said, “Good.”

Art laughed as he picked up his phone.

“Give me a minute, okay? I’ll see what I can do.”

Pike took the hint and stepped out to let Art speak in private. A few minutes later, Art emerged with the answer. Miguel Azzara agreed to meet Pike at three o’clock that afternoon.

6

Mikie Azzara met Pike at a coffee shop on Abbot Kinney Boulevard, not far from the Venice Canals. The afternoon sky there near the beach was clear and blue, and the temperature was in the mid-seventies. Pike was surprised when Artie told him where Azzara wanted to meet. Abbot Kinney was an upscale area of restaurants, designer shops, art galleries, and bars, and now here at the coffee shop, seated outdoors, he was surrounded by attractive affluent women who went well with the surroundings. Most were tanned, and most were between their twenties and forties, and most were fit. Most wore light summery dresses or shorts and sandals, and none of them smoked. It wasn’t a place a V13 veterano would frequent.

Pike arrived early, and sat outside as had been agreed, sipping black coffee. The coffee was weak, but he didn’t care.

At three-oh-five, a black Prius pulled to the curb on the opposite side of the street. A man in his late twenties got out, checked for oncoming traffic, then strolled across to the coffee shop. He wore a lightweight Hugo Boss sport coat over an AC/DC T-shirt, tailored jeans, and huaraches. He was fit, clean-shaven, and handsome enough to be a Esquire model. The women seated around Pike watched him approach.

The man searched the crowd when he reached the curb, saw Pike, and came to the table. He smiled as he offered his hand, flashing perfect teeth and dimples.

“Mr. Pike? Michael Azzara. Father Art told me I’d spot the arrows. May I sit?”

Pike nodded, noting he had introduced himself as Michael, not Mikie or Miguel. He was slick, clean, and as different in appearance from the street-dog veteranos at the body shop as the Prius was from a candy-red ’56 Bel Air. Miguel Azzara looked like a frat boy from USC, built strong, though, as if he had been a pretty good