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  “I got it, bitch.” Alfonso executed the turn onto Nueces before the light turned red, still a couple of cars behind the Cadillac. “I’m a pro at this, Tomas. Make sure you tell Boss Man that.”

  “Absolutely. Boss Man said we got to pick our spot carefully—you know, like a panther tracking its prey,” he said, scratching his fingernails on the dash and cackling.

  “You don’t sound like no panther. You sound like a fucking hyena.”

  “Just drive, douche bag. We can’t afford to screw this up. Know what I’m sayin’?”

  “I’m all business,” he said, chugging more of his beer. “Which is why I need to stay calm, keep my focus, man.”

  Traffic moved along at the same basic pace. The blue Cadillac took another right on 11th, running east, just south of the state capitol. A red light had stopped about ten cars, including the one they were following, at the intersection with I-35. Alfonso stared at the red brake lights of the old Nissan just in front of his Monte Carlo. For a moment, his thoughts went back to the night he’d made the decision to change the course of his life forever: when he took the life of that man in the alley. He had no idea what the man had done to deserve to die, but Alfonso wasn’t the judge or jury, merely the executioner. He was damn good at carrying out orders. Danger to him was nothing more than a challenge of his willpower over the elements of evil, the suffocating oppression that was always trying to knock him down, to lessen his role in this world.

  The prison, his life since then…all of it had stripped Alfonso of almost everything that made him a man. He knew Lupita wasn’t going to accept this new path, not at first. Hell, she might even come after him with a knife. She had an epic temper. But in the long run, she would eventually come around. She’d have to. It was all about the money. If he could pull off this job, gain the confidence of Boss Man, then he might be put on… What did Tomas call it? Retainer. That was it. Consistent pay, even if a small percentage went to the crew. Enough to change their lives. He could move the family into a neighborhood where they wouldn’t worry about the girls running outside to play. And if anyone even thought about endangering his girls, he’d make them pay.

  He knew how the game went. He’d seen it with his own eyes. It didn’t make a damn bit of difference if the players were thumbing each other’s nuts while wearing two-K suits in some fancy boardroom, toasting their latest acquisition. Everyone played the same ass-kissing, ego-stroking game. He and Tomas…they were keeping it real. No fancy suits. No bullshit games. And if or when something hit the fan, their crew would have their backs.

  “You lost in your Schlitz world?” Tomas said, smacking Alfonso’s arm.

  Alfonso jabbed the gas pedal. The eight-cylinder engine launched the Monte Carlo forward, squealing the tires.

  “Dude, we can’t be drawing attention to ourselves,” Tomas hissed. “Where’s your head at?”

  “Hey, man. I got this. No need to hit the alarm. I’m cool as a cucumber.”

  “That ain’t what your momma told me,” he said, laughing uncontrollably, grabbing his crotch.

  Tomas and his momma jokes. Normally, Alfonso would hit back, one-up that prick. But he had to rise above, keep his focus on the blue Caddy. “He should be turning left up ahead, right?”

  Tomas nodded. “As long he doesn’t make some unexpected booty call or gets sentimental and wants to head back out to the burbs or shit. He’s in the artsy-fartsy part of the city. You ready with your piece?”

  Alfonso reached under his seat and gripped the Ruger. He lifted it from the floorboard and placed it on the seat next to him. The weight of the weapon gave him a blood rush.

  Just then, lights flashed in his rearview.

  “Fucking cops, dude.” Tomas sunk in his seat, then peeked over the front seat to look out the back window. “We’re fucked, man. The booze, your fucking gun. Dammit!”

  Alfonso tried to swallow, but his throat had clamped shut. His mind hit the panic alarm; it was all he could do not to pee in his pants. He was doomed. In mere seconds, he’d be on his way back to prison.

  Back to being someone else’s bitch.

  22

  The Cadillac was just three years old—a gift from Dad when I joined the firm. At the time, I believed it was just the beginning of greater things. I’d be crowned partner of Novak and Novak, the in-waiting top dog. The Cadillac, as it turned out, was a gift for putting in the work—grinding it out through one of the toughest law schools in the country and then passing the bar exam. The message of what type of privileges, or lack thereof, would be bequeathed to me because of my surname was never completely delivered, at least not in a timely, definable action.

  Perception and desire, I’d learned, can often have no resemblance to reality. Dad probably needed to teach me some lessons in humility—given my expectations that had never been doused during my years of schooling—although I think I would have responded just as well to a sit-down discussion over a couple of Heinekens. But given how I couldn’t undo the past, including Dad’s untimely death, I’d never know how I would have responded to a frank discussion about his expectations of me and the firm he’d built from client number one.

  As I slowly accelerated on 11th, heading under the I-35 bridge, I spotted a police car with its lights flashing in my rearview.

  “Crap!” I lowered the volume of my car stereo—I’d been trying to chill out to some old Texas folk music by Robert Earl Keen.

  Just my luck. The police car had probably been tucked away in one of those dark parking lots just off the highway and had seen the tiny spare tire on the back of my Cadillac. It was actually the backup to the backup of the real tire. I’d rolled over nails in the neighborhood twice in the last few weeks. New construction was a part of everyday life in Austin and its sprawling suburbs.

  Before I had a chance to put on my blinker, the police car pulled to the side of the road behind a brown car, a lowrider of some kind.

  My shoulders relaxed. I wasn’t really sure why I’d freaked out. I would have shown the officer my license and proof of registration and…

  My mind wandered then. The cop might have asked me where I was heading, and then I’d have to explain how I’d taken up temporary residence at Tito’s place in East Austin. No big deal there, although that would have led down the path of sharing the nauseating information about my separation from Nicole. That was just painful, not illegal.

  Unless, somehow, Nicole had found out about me sneaking into our home and reading that note from her shit-stick lover, Mr. C. Or was it Dr. C? Whatever. Was it possible that she’d had cameras installed? I didn’t see any cameras outside or inside the home, but I knew a camera could be on the spine of a book or the frame of a picture. She could have seen everything I’d done. And she would be pissed, possibly vindictive.

  She could have called in a favor with a friend or colleague at the APD—she was in marketing, and it seemed like she had contacts all over the private and government sectors—made up some crazy story about her lunatic husband who was harassing and threatening her, shown them the video footage of me breaking into our home, all to convince them that I’d stolen the Cadillac.

  In other words, why not pour gas on me and light a flame, then step back and watch me burn to death? It would be hilarious to the evil twin sister of Nicole to see me homeless, moneyless, and carless.

  My line of thinking was becoming more radical by the day, but in this new life, this new normal, as Brook and I had called it, I had no real foundation. And it was about as much fun as a daily proctology exam.

  The fluorescent image in the road reached my brain just in time for me to jab my foot on the brake. My tires squeaked as the car stopped on a dime. It was a construction worker, holding out an arm as a lumbering bulldozer made its way across the street.

  “Sorry,” I said while holding up a hand. Of course, he couldn’t hear me. In fact, his facial expression told me he was pissed. I got it. In his job, if someone wasn’t paying attention for just a split second, he could
very well end up as roadkill.

  As the bulldozer creeped along at the pace of a snail, I picked up the note and read it again.

  Your dad died for a reason. You will, too, if you don’t stop snooping.

  Now in a more relaxed mindset, I wondered why I hadn’t called Brook, let her team come and process the scene. My eyes looked up and saw the construction worker still standing guard, his jaw set, his hand defiantly pointing in my direction. I connected with his disposition. I didn’t like anyone trying to threaten me or even intimidate me. It made me want to fight back. By changing my own tire and leaving, it was my way of saying, “Screw you and your veiled threats.”

  Just replaying the whole ordeal in my mind caused my heart rate to skyrocket, my body to tense up. I wanted to take action. Now. But as pissed as I was about the note, there was no definable enemy. To a degree, the person who wrote the note was like my own personal domestic terrorist. They were trying to scare me.

  With the bulldozer nearing the edge of the road, I picked up my phone and considered calling Bowser to demand that the FBI release more information about Dad’s investigation.

  But you know what that will get you, Oz. Squat, that’s what.

  I took a breath. I would let Brook know, but what would that get me? I’d probably erased any fingerprints on the note. Or maybe there were no prints to be found. This person wasn’t stupid. My thoughts circled back to when I’d started this day: I had to find out whom my dad was working for and why. While Brook might be on the fence about whether or not he was murdered, I was convinced he had been. If I found the person he was working for, then I would probably find the person who wrote the note.

  Ray. He was my best hope. Unlike Brook, he wasn’t shackled to following the letter of the law. Then I recalled that he wanted access to Dad’s personal email—if Dad had a personal email account. I punched a button on my steering wheel and said Arie’s name. A few seconds later, his line rang. He picked up on the second ring. He sounded like he’d either been asleep or was on his fourth after-dinner drink. The discussion lasted no longer than sixty seconds. He claimed he had no idea if Dad had a personal email account. Then he summarily dismissed me, saying he was working night and day to sell off the company assets, including the Novak and Novak client list.

  With my agitation level nearing the red zone, I wanted to push back—strongly—to convince him this wasn’t really what Dad would want. I knew Dad better than anyone, and I knew he would prefer the firm to live on, with me helping to run the show.

  Thankfully, I somehow stopped myself from saying a word. It would be useless and would only increase my anxiety that much more. Arie, like any strong attorney, had the document in hand that gave him all the power he needed to execute the plan of dismantling the company. I’d been excommunicated—not by Arie, I had to remind myself, but by my dad.

  The construction worker moved off the road and waved traffic on through. As I passed by him, I took another opportunity to wave at him in apology or appreciation, whatever, but his sights were on the cars behind me.

  As I increased my speed, out of nowhere an idea came to mind about Dad’s personal email. Stacy, my admin—well, former admin—knew everything about everyone. If she didn’t know it, it didn’t exist. With an extra burst of positive energy, I called out her name and heard the phone ring.

  I was certain I was about to hit pay dirt.

  23

  Alfonso wondered if he was having a heart attack. His chest throbbed, he was sweating profusely, and his mind was scrambled, as if he’d smoked two massive joints.

  “Chill, dude. Don’t move a muscle.” Tomas sat as straight as a mannequin in the passenger seat, his eyes looking straight ahead.

  Looking into his side mirror, Alfonso saw the officer approaching the window, one hand on his gun. He kept his hands on the steering wheel, hoping, praying that the officer wouldn’t smell the booze on his breath. If that happened, the cop would ask him to step out of the car; he’d find the empty beer cans and then the gun. Alfonso would be toast.

  Two knocks on the glass to his left. Alfonso cranked the window down.

  “Hi, Officer. I wasn’t speeding, was I?”

  With his hand still on his sidearm, the officer twitched his oversized nose. He had gray in his sideburns and a pair of deep lines on either side of his mouth. This was no rookie cop.

  “License and proof of insurance, son.”

  “Yes sir. I’m going to reach into my back pocket.” He knew it was best to tell the cop what you’re doing. Don’t give them any excuses. “Yo, Tomas. Get out the insurance card from the glove compartment, will ya?”

  “Sure thing, Alfonso.”

  The second Tomas’s hand touched the glove compartment, the cop yelled out, “Stop right now!”

  Both froze.

  The cop bent over to where he was eye level with Alfonso, but spoke to Tomas. “Put your frickin’ hands on the dash.”

  “Sir, I was just—”

  “Don’t back-talk me, boy.” The officer glared at Tomas. “How do I know you don’t have a weapon in there?”

  Tomas opened his mouth.

  “That’s called a rhetorical question, boy. I guess you don’t know the difference.” His nose twitched again, and then his deep-set eyes scanned the car, stopping on the floorboard for an extra-long pause.

  Alfonso had his hand at his back pocket, but he dared not move. “Sir.”

  “Hold on.” The officer lifted up and used his free hand to speak into the radio mic attached to his shoulder. He was calling for backup.

  “Crap,” Tomas whispered. “We’re fucked, Fonso. We’re totally fucked.”

  He was right. If more cops showed up, they’d be taken out of the car, given breathalyzer tests, which they would likely fail. Then, the cops would find the gun. They’d probably have a way of connecting the gun back to the shooting of that man in the alley.

  He closed his eyes as horrific memories from his time in prison pinged his mind. Ironically, it wasn’t the handful of beatings he’d suffered that stayed with him. It was the never-ending reminders that he was enclosed in a cage full of vultures, and it all centered around one central theme—fear. The nightly catcalls, the toxic smell of body odor, the threatening glares, and so much more. If there was a way to punch a hole in his psyche, that place could do it. His self-worth exploited incessantly, to the point where he thought he might want to end his life rather than endure another hour in prison.

  He couldn’t go back. Not now, not ever. He’d lose every bit of freedom. He’d never see his girls grow up. His life would cease to exist.

  A tear bubbled in the corner of his eye. He looked up at the officer as his mind sent a signal to his arm.

  Pick up the gun and shoot the cop. If you don’t, your life will end.

  His heart felt like it might explode, as if a force from within was slamming an iron wedge into his chest wall.

  It’s now or never, Alfonso. Grab the gun, take control of your own life. Don’t leave it to chance.

  He leaned forward, his eyes glued to the cop. Slowly, he inched his right arm lower.

  A loud squawk followed by a screaming voice came over the cop’s radio. He snapped back against the seat and listened. Something about an officer being down. The cop quickly replied, then put his hand on the door. “I got no time for you two screwups. I gotta run. Stay out of trouble, hear me?”

  He ran off before they could respond.

  Alfonso held his breath until the police car screeched off with its sirens blaring away.

  “Ho-ly shit, dude.” Tomas smacked his arm. “Damn, that was dope. We live to fight another day.”

  Alfonso emptied his lungs, wiped his face.

  “Did you hear me? We got out of it!”

  Drained as if he’d just run a marathon in the middle of an Austin summer, Alfonso turned his gaze to Tomas.

  “What you looking at me like that for?” Tomas sneered.

  Alfonso’s mind had so many thoughts an
d emotions flinging around, but he didn’t say a word. He wasn’t sure what he thought.

  “Just because of one hick-ass cop, you’re not going to get religious on me or anything, are you?”

  “No.”

  Tomas studied Alfonso for an extra second. “Don’t play me, man. I saw your hand dropping down to pick up the gun. You were going to shoot that motherfucker. He deserved it, for treating us like we’re second-class citizens. We pay our taxes just like everyone else,” he said, holding up a hand like one of those loud-mouth politicians.

  “Dude, don’t play me. I ain’t stupid. When’s the last time you even paid taxes? You make money from selling drugs and doing jobs for people like Boss Man.”

  Tomas frowned, and he appeared ready for a fight. But just as quickly, his lips turned up at the corners. “Look at us, fighting like a couple of bitches. We should be thankful. Hell, I’m thankful. How about you?”

  “Yeah, I’m thankful.”

  “So, dude, that’s a sign. A sign that we’re untouchable. A sign that we’re meant to do this job and many others just like it.”

  Alfonso rocked his head up and down.

  “Why should everyone else in this world get paid except us? We deserve to get paid. That’s it. Bottom line. And in the process, we’re going to make these fuckers respect us.”

  Alfonso could feel that fire burning in his belly. The one born from being disrespected by so many people, and the pathetic paycheck he’d been earning from flipping burgers.

  “Do we still have time, you think?” Alfonso asked, turning on the engine.

  “We could. We know his destination. Let’s go check it out and see if we can make something of this night after all. Given our luck, we might hit that jackpot.”

  Alfonso steered away from the curb and zipped down 11th Street.

  24

  As I eased the Cadillac into the parking lot at Tito’s complex, I slowed to a crawl. The ten-foot-wide pothole was as deep as Lady Bird Lake, or so it seemed, knowing I had a little donut for a rear tire. I braced myself for the impact.