CHAPTER 10
RICK DEL RIO lived in a one-bedroom house on the Sherman Canal, one of four parallel canals bounded by two others at the ends, a whimsical interpretation of Venice, Italy.
The houses were small but expensive, built close together, fronting the canal, backed by little alleys. Rick drove down one of those alleys, lined with garbage cans, telephone poles, garage doors, and the occasional row of shrubs along a back fence.
Del Rio’s garage door was painted green. He pointed the remote, the door opened, and he drove in.
“I don’t have much in the fridge,” he said.
“That’s okay.”
“Half a chicken. Some beer.”
“Thanks anyway.”
We went up a few steps, through the door in the garage that led to the kitchen.
Del Rio said, “No one knows you’re here. Go into the living room. Try to relax.”
I’d been here before. The three-room, cabin-style house was pristine inside. White walls, dark beams, every chair and sofa down filled. Centered amid the furnishings was a coffee table made from a wooden boat hatch, polyurethane-protected against beer and scuff marks.
I collapsed into a chair wide enough for two, put my feet up on the table, and hoped to hell the world would stop spinning.
I heard Del Rio puttering in the kitchen and just closed my eyes. But I didn’t sleep.
I thought about a night seven years before. I’d been flying a CH-46 transport helicopter to Kandahar, fourteen marines in the cargo bay, Rick Del Rio in the seat beside me, my copilot.
It had been a bad night.
A rocket-propelled grenade fired from the back of a 4x4 hit our aircraft, taking out the tail rotor section, dropping the Phrog into a downward spiral through hell. I landed the craft upright, but the bomb had done its work.
Men died horribly. A lot of them. I knew them all.
I was carrying one of the barely living out of the cargo bay when a chunk of flying metal hit me in the back.
It stopped my heart—and I died.
Del Rio found me not far from the burning wreck and beat on my chest, brought me back to life.
I was out of the war after that, worked for a small PI firm out in Century City. Then my crooked, manipulative bastard of a father sent for me.
He grinned at me through a Plexiglas wall at Corcoran, still giving me the business, but this time literally. He handed me the keys to Private and told me that fifteen million dollars was waiting for me in an offshore account.
“Make Private better than it was when it was mine,” he said.
A week later, having been shanked in the shower, he died.
Rick didn’t have a rich father. He was fearless and knew how to use a gun. After his tour, he came back to LA. He did an armed robbery, got arrested, convicted, thrown into jail. When he was released early for good behavior, he came to work at Private and I bought him this house.
I knew everything about Rick. I owed my life to him, and he said he owed his to me.
My friend came into the room, saying my name. I looked up, saw the face only a bulldog’s mother could love. He’s five foot eight inches in his bare feet, an ex-con and a highly trained former US Marine. He was carrying a tray—a tray. Like he was a nurse, or maybe a waiter.
He kicked my feet off the table and put the tray down. He’d made sandwiches out of that leftover half chicken, spread some tapenade and honey mustard between the long slices of a baguette, thrown in a few leaves of romaine. And he’d brought two bottles of beer and a church key.
“Eat, Jack,” my wingman said. “You take the room upstairs. Don’t fight me on this. It’s dark up there, and if you try, you can sleep for nine hours.”
“I can’t take your room.”
“Look,” he said. He opened the lid of an ottoman. It folded out into a bed. “Take the bedroom. You’ve got a full day tomorrow.”
“Colleen.”
“Colleen for sure. And you got my text? You’ve got an appointment first thing. Carmine Noccia is coming to see you.”