PLANNING AND SCHEMING

Early the next morning I crawled out of bed, the light from the torn newspaper and the sunrise behind it illuminating the room. Monica didn't stir, and I tried not to wake her. I pulled on a new pair of jeans and a new shirt, buckling the belt.

I quickly wrote her a note:

Monica,

Had to go to work. Let yourself out, help yourself to whatever is in the fridge. I had a good time. Hope to see you again soon.

I pulled up the time.

San Tadeo, California, 08:21 Friday March 13, 2020

Safe House: The Orange House

Walking in the Shadows

The coffee shop would just be opening when I arrived, but that was fine. Even if the boys weren't up yet, there was a ton of work to do. Zeke, selling the weed, meeting with Brass Lee, raising money for my rent, it was a lot. That wasn't even an exhaustive list; I was sure I'd forgotten a few things.

I hesitated for a moment before going down to the basement, opening up the panic room and pulling out a vacuum-sealed kilogram of weed. My bankroll wasn't as small as it had been the day I turned up in Martin's basement, but it was still far smaller than it needed to be. I had lots of money that needed to go out, and this was the only source of it that I had. At worst, I could just go back to what I'd been doing before and sell it myself. That wouldn't work in the long-term, or even the short-term, but it would raise some cash.

I tucked the weed into a plastic shopping bag I found in the kitchen and walked out to my car, closing the door behind me. The new locks were set up to latch themselves when the door closed, so I made sure I had everything before I left. It would be embarrassing to creep out on Monica and then wake her up with a doorbell because I'd forgotten my keys.

The door latched behind me, and a moment later I was behind the wheel of the Comet. The familiar smell of the vinyl interior greeted me, making me smile. That, and the slight whiff of gasoline as I started it were both good smells.

"Smells like freedom," I muttered to myself.

The gates of the LSS shop were closed, as I expected, so I parked on the street nearby. The Ball and Bean was open and Miguel had a table ready for me. I sat down and a few moments later he deposited a café con leche and a plate with a potato tortilla on it. I nodded gratefully and dug in.

Once I'd finished my coffee and tortilla, I caught Miguel's attention again.

"Excuse me, Miguel. I'd like to get into the shop, but I know Hondo and Flattop are probably still sleeping."

"Yes. But I can wake them. They both live nearby."

I thought about that for a second. It seemed like a dick thing to do. I wasn't their uncle. And I sure as hell wasn't their boss. I was just a new member of their gang, without even the official sign-off from the real leader in prison. Waking them up seemed like a stupid idea.

"No. It can wait. There's just some stuff we need to do, and I've got some product that needs to be processed, if you know what I mean."

The product in question I'd left in the locked trunk of the car. It made me a bit nervous. But since I could see the Comet at all times from my table, it wasn't that bad.

Miguel, somehow, understood exactly what I was talking about, it seemed, and nodded.

"We don't have anything to process it with here. The LSS never was into that. You're going to have to buy some, or borrow some equipment. Flattop can help," Miguel replied.

"I can let you into the shop, if you want."

Without scales or a vacuum sealer or even little baggies, we couldn't divide up the weed to sell it. Manny had had that stuff, supposedly in his backyard shed, but I had no idea where that was. With the way we'd left it, it seemed unlikely that he was ever going to come back, despite him also being in the Brass Lee debt. Maybe he'd just do what he threatened, which was to leave the shadow and never come back. I wasn't sure if that was something he could do or not. He'd seemed to like being a gangster, despite how serious things had gotten.

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"Yeah, that'd be good," I said, answering Miguel.

He nodded. "You need to get that stitched up, it's still bleeding," Miguel said, pointing at my face.

I touched the bandage I'd almost forgotten and my fingertips came away faintly tinged with blood.

"Shit, yeah. Where can I do that? Is there a free clinic or something around here?"

"Si, but no need. Go to the shop and I'll send someone by to fix your face, she's good with a needle and thread," he replied.

That seemed a little bit ominous, some random woman was going to stitch up my face, but who was I to complain. For all I knew, if I didn't get it stitched up, I would look like a monster for the rest of my life, a real-life Scarface.

A few minutes later, Miguel crossed the road and unlocked the smaller door for me, motioning me over. Once I got there, he handed me the key without another word and went back to work.

The trust felt good, I'm not going to lie. It felt good to be part of something bigger than myself, of having people trust me, that I could trust as well.

The shop was as I'd seen it the other day, except with the tarp back on the Jag. I went in and sat down on the ratty couch in the office, trying to figure out what the next step was. It boiled down to Zeke. We had to get to him, and get him to tell us who The Hip were selling to. But since the last time I'd seen him, I'd shot him and then proceeded to kill most of his friends, it seemed unlikely that he would help.

It was at that point that not having my phone in my pocket felt like a real lack. Back in my old life, I'd be performing web searches like, "is truth serum actually a thing" and "can a hypnotist make you spill secrets" or "how to trick someone into telling you their greatest secret," shit like that. That or watching torture videos. It might come to that.

The idea made me a bit sick to my stomach, but not as much as it should have. For some reason, the idea of hurting Zeke just to get something I needed out of him didn't seem like it was completely beyond the pale anymore. Who was this new Frank? Was it still me? I didn't know, and I really didn't care. Whoever he was, I was starting to really like him, for the first time that I could remember.

I heard a loud knock on the side of the garage, near the door before the door opened, and a short Latina woman bustled in. She had her long brown hair up in a ponytail, and was wearing blue scrubs with the top covered in cartoon animals. I identified her.

Wendy Mendoza, Registered Nurse (E2) Mutually Allied With: Lyle Street Soldados

"You Mack?" she asked.

"Yes, hi," I replied, standing up.

She nodded and started pulling things out of her extremely large purse. A sewing kit, a bottle of isopropyl alcohol, cotton swabs in a roll, et cetera. She laid them all down on the table in the office and then looked at me sternly, and pointed to one of the hardback chairs beside the table.

"Sit there, chico," she ordered.

I sat.

With gentle but firm hands she removed the bandage from my face and tisked as she saw the state of the wound.

"This isn't good, you should have had this stitched up when it happened. Not let it bleed. This is going to hurt a bit, you a big strong gangster or not?" Wendy asked.

Well, there was only one answer to that, of course, so I nodded.

I wasn't that big or that strong. Cleaning out a half-healed wound with isopropyl alcohol and cotton swabs hurt like hell, a lot more than getting cut had. A few minutes later though, she was done, and I hadn't embarrassed myself as far as I could tell. She had the needle and thread sterilized and ready to go in what seemed like seconds. She pinched the flesh on my face together and quickly stitched it up. The poke of the needle and thread was nothing compared to what she had just done, only feeling a little odd. She was done more quickly than I had expected.

"That's going to leave a scar, chico. It won't be too bad, you'll still be pretty," she said, lightly patting the unscarred cheek with her hand, and giving me a friendly smile.

"Thanks, Wendy, do I owe you anything?" I asked, reaching for my roll.

"Nah, LSS is family. Just keep Hondo and Flattop out of jail, will you? They're good boys, they don't need to end up like their dads."

I nodded. I wasn't sure I could keep myself out of jail, but what could I do but say yes. "Yeah, I'll try."

"Good boy," she replied.

A few seconds later she'd packed up her stuff and bustled back out the door, leaving just a whiff of antiseptic, alcohol and perfume in her wake.

I tried not to touch the newly stitched up wound on my face and instead of running out the door and trying to find something productive to do, I forced myself to sit still and think and write. At first it was hard, much harder than it ever had been for me in my past life. I had always been writing things down and planning and thinking, but my new life here in San Tadeo had seriously de-emphasized that kind of thing. It took a while to shake the rust off.

Despite my lack of recent practice, 40 minutes later when Flattop came into the garage, I was ready. The Plan was ready.

"Hey, homie, good to see you. A little early, but I think I'm starting to get used to that. You made quite an impression on Sharp and the Blades," Flattop said as he flopped down onto the couch.

"Yeah, they seem like good guys. And I had fun," I replied.

"Yeah, I bet you did, Homey," he replied with a big grin.

"What's all that?" he asked, pointing to the pile of papers.

"I've got some plans. We need to go see Zeke, right now," I said.