Anything for Charity

By OughtaKnowBetter

Usual disclaimer: they own everything, I own nothing.

Warning: this piece is rated R for adult situations. If you prefer not to read about such things, you are warned.

Author's note: sorry that this took such a long time to put out. Life intervened, and the plot wouldn't gel for a bit, and I'm one of those people who refuses to post until I'm reasonably certain that I can offer you a complete story. I have too much respect for you, as a reader, to drop a story in the middle and never resolve it. That just seems wrong. So I hope that this was worth the wait...


Not good.

Getting called up to your boss's office on short notice was never good. Don tried to think of what it might be: the Nelson case was going fine, ought to be closed up and ready for the D.A. within the week. The Santino murder was a done deal and had been for the last month. All there was left to do was to go to court and testify, unless Santino's lawyer persuaded the guy to cop a guilty plea and do five to ten instead of life.

The St. Augustine racketeering gig, that must be it. One of the hotshots in the criminal ring thought that they could shoot a hole in Don's case by harassing the agents involved, which meant that Don et al would have to defend themselves against false charges of witness intimidation or some such before the case could ever go before a judge. That had to be it; it was the only thing that made sense. Not good; Don or one of his team or maybe even all of them would end up on suspension while Area Director D'Angelo investigated and exonerated them. Damn. That would set him back another week on the Nelson case, maybe lose the suspect altogether when Nelson fled to some island where the FBI couldn't touch him. Maybe there was some way that he could keep some of his team uninvolved and on Nelson's tail. Megan, that was it. She'd been doing some work in Washington, been out of town for a week. Maybe he could set her up to keep Nelson from escaping scott free.

D'Angelo's secretary barely acknowledged him as he entered the anteroom, merely waving him through without so much as a smile. Don's heart elevated itself by two inches to sit throbbing in the back of his throat. He swallowed hard. Damn. Damn, damn, damn. Maybe if he said it enough in his mind, someone would notice and take pity on him.

Area Director D'Angelo was staring out through the window at the vista of Los Angeles shrouded in smog, the sun a cheery bright ball of fire in the afternoon haze. His back was to Don. Don coughed uncertainly. "You wanted to see me, sir?"

D'Angelo turned around. "Sit down, Eppes."

Here it comes. Do I offer my resignation now or after the circus?

Don sat. He perched on the edge of the chair, the easier to make an escape. D'Angelo too seated himself behind his desk, the director's chair far more comfortable than the fake leather job offered to office guests. D'Angelo leaned forward on his elbows, steepling his fingers together. The light from the window behind made it difficult for Don to discern his features. Was the Area Director smiling or frowning? Don feared it was the latter. D'Angelo spoke. "When was the last time you played ball, Eppes?"

Okay, pick up my jaw and put it back where it belongs. Don nearly choked, turned it into a genteel cough. "Ball, sir?"

"Baseball, Eppes. You remember? It's the game where you hit a little ball with a stick and then run around the bases and slide home in the mud?"

"Yes, sir." Don's brain seemed stuck on freeze. Yeah, he remembered baseball. Remembered that at one point it was going to be his life, until the light bulb went off and let him know that the major leagues were out of his ball park, pun intended. One of those 'life turning points' that everyone talked about. For Don it had led to the FBI and a far more satisfying career.

Of course, there was always that little sniggering thought that had refused to go away for the last decade: what if I really had been good enough? What if I didn't really give it a chance? What if I just didn't try hard enough?

Naw. Deep down inside, Don knew better. Didn't he?

"Baseball, sir?" he asked politely.

"Baseball, Eppes." D'Angelo leaned back in his chair, listened to it creak in protest under his weight. "You're familiar with the 'friendly' little game we have going with the LAPD every few years?"

"Uh, no, sir." Don couldn't remember hearing about that.

"Last one must have been just before you transferred in. Friendly little game, do it for charity, for the underprivileged. Raises cash to buy computers and internet access for needy kids, helps 'em learn more and develop some skills to make a better life for themselves instead of dying in the streets. You interested?"

"Yes, sir." And puzzled. The typical call for players was to tack a sign up sheet on the bulletin board by the front elevator and in the employee lounge. An invitation by the director could only mean…

"That's right, Eppes." There was a reason that D'Angelo had made it to the top of this office. He read every thought going through Special Agent Eppes' mind. "Police Chief Williams and I have a running bet going, a bet that he's won the last three times. I'd like to reverse that trend, Eppes. I have as much pride as the next man in this organization but even more than that: I'm losing money! How about it, Eppes?"

Like I'm going to say no to the boss?


Charlie walked into the house—my house now, not Dad's. Still feels odd to say that—and dumped his book bag on the kitchen table. Oops, not on the kitchen table but on the one kitchen chair left empty, mostly because the kitchen table and the remainder of the chairs were filled not with edibles but with a small housing project. Miniature house parts sat on the fringes of the table with additional pieces—was that a roof?—perched on the chairs that surrounded the project. Charlie goggled at the scene.

"Dad?"

"Good, I left that chair for you. You always dump your bag on the table."

"Hi, Dad."

"Hi to you too, Charlie. Home early?"

Charlie automatically glanced at his watch, then at the clock on the wall. "No. It's almost six."

Alan Eppes frowned over the small building, all but ignoring his youngest. "For you, that's early." He rubbed at his chin, peering at the building project.

Charlie looked, tried to see what his father was working on. "I take it this means pizza delivery?"

"Uh-huh. Unless you want to cook."

"I'll pass." Charlie started to get interested in his father's project. There seemed to be some real art to it. It was hard to see with the building and surroundings in smaller pieces, but he could swear that it had the flavor of a Spanish hacienda. The grounds had been painted a dusty brown with a palm tree or two along the tall gate that enclosed the environs, and the building itself appeared to be made of a miniature adobe with a slanted roof to guide imaginary raindrops into a gutter and then into a rain barrel. It wouldn't take much to pretend that a burro and his sombrero-wearing master were walking in through the main gate, ready to offer their poor wares to the lord of the hacienda. "I thought you weren't sure if you wanted to go to work for Stan Fischer. This sure looks like a planning project to me."

"With, Charlie. I'd be working with him. Partners." Alan continued to stare at the miniatures. He picked up the roof, replacing it onto the topless hacienda. "This isn't for Stan."

"Whatever it is, I like it." Charlie could see the artful symmetry in the building. Where ever the real life one was, it had been a glorious home in its day. Care had been taken to curve the roof just so, to plant a tree there to soften the lines and add a window where it would take advantage of the cool ocean breeze drifting in from the bay. An oversized pool had been interred into the back lawn with three small cabanas along one edge.

"Good, because you're going to help." Alan took the roof back off, putting it carefully back onto the kitchen chair. The attic inside the 'house', now uncovered, was empty.

"I am? Dad, I'm kind of busy right now—"

"It's pro bono, Charlie," Alan explained, a sly smile creeping over his face. "Charity work. When was the last time you gave something to charity?"

"Just yesterday. I was very charitable toward a student that I should have flunked."

Alan dismissed that with a wave of his hand. "Not good enough. I need your help. You remember Dr. Maria del Castillo?"

Charlie frowned. "From CalSci? Isn't she in the Foreign Languages department? I seem to recall the name."

"The very one." Alan gave his youngest a withering look. "But she's in the Sociology Department, not Languages. She remembered you well enough, Charlie. What's the matter, you're not paying attention to the ladies? I eventually want grandchildren. Sooner, rather than later, if you don't mind."

"Dad!" Charlie protested. "Dr. del Castillo is fifty years old."

"Forty nine, thank you very much. She's a nice lady, and single. I just met her today; I may ask her out myself if you're not interested." There was just enough twinkle in Mr. Eppes' eye that Charlie knew that he was being teased. Half-teased; Alan Eppes really did want grandkids. "She called me up and asked me to take a look at this place." Alan indicated the project on the table. "This was her grandfather's estate. He was a descendant of one of the original land barons in the area, and this hacienda has been in the family for generations."

"Where is it?" Charlie found his interest caught, as Alan knew it would be.

"Surprisingly enough, in the middle of Los Angeles. Still intact, more or less, but not in the nicest of neighborhoods. Elena and I plan to go down there this evening, before the sun goes down. Want to come along?"

"Elena? Who's Elena?"

"Dr. del Castillo. What, I can't call her by her first name? She calls me Alan."

"Her first name is Maria."

"Yes, but her second name is Elena, and that's what she goes by. She tells me that a lot of the girls in South and Central America are named Maria, and most use their second names to keep from getting mixed up. Keep up, Charlie."

"Okay." Charlie was thinking that things were going just a little fast for him. It was an uncomfortable feeling. He usually engendered that in others. To have the tables turned, and especially by his father, was just a bit off-putting.

"So, are you coming with us or not? Having another body along in that neighborhood would be a good idea."

"Sounds good. Did you ask Don?"

Snort. "Him. Some sort of stakeout, he said. And then told me not to go until it was broad daylight, maybe the weekend when he could go with." Another snort. "Like I was going to wait on him. I've been doing this sort of thing all of my adult life, Charlie," Alan said indignantly. "This is city planning. This is my career."

Charlie maneuvered the discussion back around to the topic at hand. "So what does Dr. del Castillo—Elena—want you to do?"

Alan warmed to his subject. "Like I said, she inherited this estate from her grandfather. She hasn't been there in years. Her grandfather stayed with her for the last few years of his life, wasn't able to stay by himself. His mind wandered too much. And then there were some problems with executing the will, and what with one thing and another, she hadn't seen the place for more than five years. She drove by it last week. Needless to say, she was more than a little upset. Told me that she used to play there, growing up."

"And your job is—" Charlie prodded.

"Oh, didn't I tell you that part? Elena wants me to come up with suggestions on how best to use the hacienda for the neighborhood. Like I said, the neighborhood has gone down hill in the last decade or so. She'd like to try to renovate it, wants ideas on how to refurbish the place, maybe improve the area a bit. She's thinking a hotel of some sort to bring in some local income and jobs, but I think we can be more creative. A community gathering place, maybe, with some local stores run by the community. Might even think about a farmer's market as part of it, with a youth center."

"Sounds good, and pretty ambitious," was Charlie's comment. "Is there money to do that?"

"Of course," his father scoffed. "All you have to do is look in the right places. Which I happen to know," he added with a grin. "Your old man isn't dead yet." He jerked his thumb at the refrigerator. "Grab something quick if you're hungry, and then we'll go. We can have something more substantial on the way back. And make it something healthy," he admonished his son. "That fast food will rot your insides."


Don refused to let the semi-pleasant expression flee from his face as he gathered his troops. "'Nother case, guys. Fairly substantial. Cancel the week end trips to the Bahamas."

"Tell me that we didn't get dumped on," David moaned, the dismay apparent. "Not that one?"

"Which one?" Colby wanted to know. He looked from Don to David to Megan and back again, puzzled. "What am I missing?"

Score one for Sinclair. The man kept his ears open, listening to the gossip not only on the streets but in the office as well.

Megan too had a gift for small talk. "Not the Rivera case," she groaned. "Don, that's a mess!"

Colby's eyes flashed in alarm. He hadn't put two and two together, but he did know a dump job when he heard it. "Oh, no. Tell me…"

"Yup." Don waved the inches-thick file at his team. "Border Patrol formally handed this over less than two hours ago. Don Juan Esteban Rivera's drug route runs straight through L.A. and we are the lucky sons—and daughter—elected to remove that blot on our fair city."

"Can we refuse it?" David was only half-joking.

"What did we do to get this kind of punishment?" Megan wanted to know. "What deity did we sufficiently annoy that we have to suffer this sort of plague? Nothing human could have visited this calamity upon us."

"I tried all those excuses, and a few more besides." Don tossed the file onto his desk. It landed with a far too heavy thump. "If anyone asks, David, you haven't seen your sister in over a year."

"I saw her last week, boss."

"Oh. Maybe that's why that lie didn't work." Don got serious. "Preliminaries, guys. Dig into the file. Rivera is a traditionalist, likes the good old standby of cocaine. Easy to get, easy to cut, and easy to sell for a big profit even when you count the percentage the local dealers get. Our Mexican counterparts tell us that Rivera's people appear on the Mexican side of the California border and then they disappear until their runners appear on L.A.'s streets. Some of the stuff the Border Patrol has been getting suggests that our cousins in Frisco are getting about half of what moves in and out of L.A., and the rest is distributed to the cokeheads right here. Don Juan keeps himself clean; we've never been able to nail him with any of the coke or any real links to it. He puts several layers between the runners and dealers and himself, lets his lieutenants do the dirty work while he sits back and romances whatever lady takes his fancy."

"Hence his nickname," Megan murmured. "How original." She flipped open the file. An eight by ten glossy of handsome middle-aged Hispanic stared out at her, perfect white teeth gleaming. It looked more like a Hollywood casting agent photo than a mug shot. "Is that hair for real?"

"Only his hairdresser," David said under his breath. "Look at this: he's got a place in the mountains, the High Desert. Anybody try staking it out?"

"Right here," Colby replied, looking at another chunk of file. "Says they tried three months ago, and came up with nothing. Phone taps, likewise. Somebody tried to suggest that he had a plant feeding him information from the Patrol but nothing ever came of it."

"Here, this is something." Don picked up a slender section. "One of the suspects apparently tried to rip Don Juan off but got picked up by our side before Don Juan could take him out. Said that there's a safe house somewhere in L.A., inside the city limits, where the mules drop the stuff. It then gets divided and dispersed through most of the usual routes."

"And—?" Megan prodded.

"That's all."

"That's it? Nothing more? Didn't they question the suspect any more?"

Don frowned. "Couldn't."

"Because?"

"Dead. Jailhouse rumble. The suspect got taken out before they could talk to him again. Dead end, literally."

"Why does that not sound like a coincidence?" Colby grumbled. "Anything else? That's a pretty thick file."

"They're working on fifty ways to say 'I failed'," David said, perusing his section of the tome.

Don leaned back in his chair, pushing his hair back over his forehead, discouraged before they'd even started. "Okay, let's split up. David, Colby, you two hit up the Border Patrol. Find out what didn't get into the report: the guesses, the unsubstantiated rumors; you know the drill. Megan, your job is Don Juan himself. I want the book on him, everything we ever wanted to know about him but were too disgusted to ask. I'm hoping that you'll come up with a disgruntled employee that we can persuade to go into a Witness Protection Program, maybe a former girlfriend or some such."

"And you?"

"Me?" Don grinned, the smile not making it to his eyes. "Me, I'm going to hit the streets." He paused. "Hard."


All right; what do I call her?

A colleague; I call her by her first name. An older woman that my father would like to date: I start with formality. But then I sound stuffy. Or make her sound old. Or—

Dr. Maria Elena del Castillo stuck out her hand. "Dr. Eppes. I've seen you around campus but have never had the opportunity to speak with you. A pleasure to meet you. Call me Elena. Everyone does. Except for a few students who think working hard is not part of their immediate future."

"Charlie." Charlie took her hand gratefully. One hurdle crossed. "I understand you've hired my father to help you with a project? It sounds interesting."

"'Interesting' is one way to put it," Elena said grimly, sobering. Older, sure, but Dr. del Castillo was definitely an attractive woman. An inch or two shorter than Charlie himself, dark hair and warm brown eyes to match. She'd dressed in sensible pants and flats with a blazer, something that running around in an abandoned estate wouldn't ruin. No ring on her finger, either, Charlie noted. Way to go, Dad. "I wish you could have seen King Street twenty years ago. 'Calle de Los Reyes' we used to call it. People weren't rich, but we cherished what we had and we were happy." She sighed. "Now the place is overgrown with weeds, and people are afraid to go out at night." The next expression contained more than a sigh; it contained grim anger. "One of the people that I grew up there let me know that a gang has started cock-fighting matches on my grandfather's old estate. Yes, I think it's time that I put an end to that sort of amusement." She looked around. "Your father is coming with us? I'd like to get over there and back before the sun goes down."

As if summoned, Alan Eppes appeared at the door, bustling out to the car, notebook in hand. "Hi, Elena. I see you've met Charlie already. You sure you've never met him before? I didn't think that CalSci was that big. Get in the car, people; I'll drive."

"I'm sure we've run across each other at some point, but the Sociology department doesn't exactly have much in common with math, Dad."

"Actually, Charlie, you may not believe this, but it's because of you that I called your father," Elena mentioned. "You remember Raul, from Maintenance?" The roads ambled by, turning from upscale L.A. to a part of the city that showed a lot less care and upkeep.

Charlie's face froze. "Yes," he lied. He tried not to think about how often the men and women from Maintenance had scolded him for the mess he invariably left in his office. No, my office does not look like that trash heap on the corner we just turned on.

"We got to talking, I mentioned that I needed someone to help me with this project and he let me know that your father was a city planner. A few phones calls later, and I'm on the road to restoring the old neighborhood." Elena gestured toward an overgrown tall fence. "We're here. You can pull over onto the side. I don't think we'll be able to get the gate open wide enough for the car."

"Is the car going to be all right?" Charlie looked around nervously. Both his father and Elena had been entirely too accurate in their assessment of the neighborhood. They were going to be lucky to walk back out to an intact car once they were finished. That the hubcaps would be gone was a foregone conclusion. Graffiti covered the brick walls of the surrounding buildings, and the dirt in the gutters couldn't be seen under the weeds growing there. A flock of chickens clucked behind the low fence of a house down the street. One of those birds had a very real possibility of turning into Sunday dinner, Charlie thought uncomfortably. Which one? The white one or the brown one? Maybe the speckled chick, plucking at its feathers?

"It'll be fine." Elena called to a few youngsters shooting hoops with more enthusiasm than accuracy. There was a rapid fire exchange of Spanish, and she turned back. "They'll keep an eye on it."

"Should we give them some money?" Charlie asked uncertainly.

"Not yet. Wait until they do the job. They'll do fine," Elena reassured him. "Carlos' mother is a friend of mine. We grew up together. I'd like for Carlos to be able to swim in the same swimming pool that Nina and I did," she added wistfully.

"We'll see if we can't make that dream a reality," Alan told her.

No matter what, it would take a lot of time and effort. Even Charlie could see that, and he was no expert on rehabbing old properties. The estate was large, especially by current Los Angeles standards. Elena could probably sell the property and be a millionaire several times over even in this neighborhood, he reflected. Bulldoze the place down and build some expensive condominiums.

Not the plan. Alan and Elena began to make notes and sketches, Charlie as always amazed at his father's skill at drawing. 'Have to be able to describe it' was how his father put it, pulling out a measuring tape.

Charlie himself wandered around the grounds, admiring what used to be. The weeds had overgrown everything, vines wrestling the azalea bushes into the dirt. The trees had managed to remain intact but only through their tall access to the sunlight. The estate was surrounded by a thick brick wall that had been whitewashed many times throughout the decades but none at all, it seemed, during the last five years. Paint chips flaked away, revealing reddish brown mud dried into an adobe cement equivalent.

The back lawn was immense; Charlie had a hard time believing that such a large parcel of land still existed in Los Angeles, untouched by land tycoons. Elena was truly sitting on a property worth millions. The pool had long since been drained of water, a mottled blue bottom covered with dirt and chips where the lining had been pushed up by the roots of the palm trees growing around the edges. Birds chirped gleefully at him, daring him to clear away the undergrowth that they lived in. One of the cabanas, soiled copies of the pristine ones in his father's model, had collapsed several years ago. Charlie resolved not to attack that edifice without a heavy set of gloves and solid boots against the new residents of the reptilian and insectoid persuasion who would doubtless object to Charlie's attempts at renovation. A bulldozer wouldn't be out of line.

The house itself had been beautiful. Built along the lines of a Spanish hacienda, the red roof cascaded down a gentle slope to drip water into barrels now overturned and dumping the meager moisture onto the dusty ground. Adobe walls pushed back the heat with windows carefully positioned to take advantage of the breeze from the Pacific Ocean when available. Most of the house was a single story, but on one end it rose to two levels with a bell tower perched on top of that. Charlie couldn't see any bell in that tower; he supposed it too was long gone, the remnants of a more gracious era.

He could see why Elena—and his father, to be honest—would want to restore this gem. Anyone could arrange for condominiums, and that would probably raise the standard of living in this run down neighborhood to the point where the original inhabitants couldn't afford to live here any more. But turn this place into a community center, and all of L.A. would benefit. Most of the people living here grew vegetables in their back yard; selling those would add needed pennies to the family coffers. It wouldn't be hard to arrange for some of the eastern California farmers to drive some produce here every few days, either. A place for meetings, for teens to hang out instead of joining gangs; Charlie approved. A day care center would probably be welcome.

"C'mon, Charlie," his father called. "We're going to check out the inside."

Charlie obediently followed them in, helping Alan to wrench open the door that was already half off of its hinges. Elena winced at the sound of metal tearing out of the wall. "This used to be so beautiful," she said, running a finger along the carving in the wooden door. An artisan had spent many hours creating that door, it was clear. "I can't believe how run down it has become in so few years. My grandfather would be ashamed."

Alan set the heavy door against the wall with a certain reverence. "This is something that we'll try to salvage," was his only comment. "I'm sure there'll be more treasures inside. Watch your step; some of the floor may be rotting through."

It was. They circled around a hole in the floor of the entryway: the heavy fountain that originally greeted visitors had found a new home in the basement. Alan leaned over to look. He tightened his lips. "That's a loss. Sorry, Elena."

"There was a better one in bronze out back," she said. "Maybe we can move that forward."

Maybe. Charlie didn't remember seeing it, wondered if the bronze fountain hadn't been carried off by someone desperate for money.

"Hey, what's this?" His father's voice drew him back to reality. "Someone been camping out here?"

'This' was the remnants of dirty dishes and leftover food tossed into the sink. The kitchen in the back of the house was a mess, and the mess had been created recently. The trio followed the trail and found that not only had Goldilocks been using the kitchen, but had tried out three of the bedrooms upstairs. The rooms had been left unattended when Elena's grandfather had been unceremoniously hauled off to the hospital before moving in with Elena, and no one had bothered to return to close the house down. The bed linens had been shredded by small animals, but that hadn't stopped the people who had invaded. It was a bed, and it was softer than anything they'd used in a long time, and cleanliness was not part of their mindset. Yet another thing to be cleaned up.

"Step one: salvage," Alan decided. "We'll rent some storage space to store anything worth keeping. How about the furniture, Elena? Did you want to try to keep any of that?"

Elena shook her head. "I took what I wanted when Abuelito—my grandfather—moved in with me. The rest is nice, but let's use it to start funding the community center."

Alan nodded. "I'll get an antiques expert in to evaluate everything for potential. I don't know a lot about this, but some of it looks pretty valuable on the open market." He glanced around. "We'd better get going; the sun is going down. Elena, I'll come back in the morning and get started. You have class?"

"In the morning," she confirmed, "but I'm free tomorrow afternoon. I'll come back then?"

"It's a date." Alan smiled. Charlie carefully ignored the line. Three's a crowd, he thought. Do you really want me here, Dad?

It took only seconds for that answer to turn into an unequivocal and resounding yes.

"Lose your way, gringo?" an unfamiliar voice asked. Several sniggers accompanied the question.

They were adolescents, but the dangerous type. Charlie rarely encountered toughs like these; these were kids who didn't cherish education, didn't see it as a way up and out of the barrio. Going to CalSci was out of their reach. None were even as tall as he but that didn't matter. What did matter was that the group, as a whole, had put in as much time building muscles in their arms as he had building his own mental muscle with numbers. Bandannas, chains, and torn jeans: that aptly summed up this group. And there were six of them. And only two Eppes. Is that a knife I see on that kid's belt? I thought carrying those things in the open was illegal. Like that matters.

And one Maria Elena del Castillo. She cocked her head. "Rodolfo?"

The kid in front narrowed his eyes. His voice was openly insolent. "Do I know you, chica?"

"I should hope so, Rodolfo. Your mother and I grew up together. Tell me, your sister Teresa; is she still in school, I hope? Getting her degree in teaching?" There was a little more in Elena's words than mere pleasantries. There was a hint of steel. There was a hint of do I need to have a conversation with your mother, young man? Despite the fact that this was almost a man.

Rodolfo's eyes fell. His face froze. No more fun with the gringo's. This was someone that was part of his family, part of the barrio, someone that he'd need to treat politely if he didn't want to get grounded at seventeen. He went from swaggering gang member to nervous kid in seconds, taking the rest of the kids with him. He scuffed his foot in the dirt on the floor. "She finishes this May, Dr. Elena. The public school district has already offered her a job."

"That's good to hear, Rodolfo," Elena said primly. "And your mother? Doing well, I hope?"

"Yes, Dr. Elena."

"Good. And you? Studying hard?" Staying in school, as your mother told you to?

"Yes, Dr. Elena." It was a lie, but it came hard.

Elena wasn't fooled, but she allowed it to pass. "Good. These are friends of mine: this is Mr. Eppes, and his son, Dr. Eppes. They're here to help me look at Grandfather's old estate. I'm thinking to turn it into a community center." She paused artfully. "I'm also thinking that there might be some good money in it for weekend and after school work, helping to get this place back in shape. Know anyone around who might be interested in some honest work making honest dinero?"

"Maybe." Rodolfo wouldn't meet her eyes, but several of the kids behind him murmured to each other, nudging shoulders.

Alan picked up the ball. "I'm going to need help moving some of this stuff into storage. I'll need some muscle, and frankly, boys, I'd like to see if I can cut a deal with some of the grant people. Offering jobs to locals such as yourselves will go a long way toward getting the money. I'll see that you get your fair share."

"Right. Minimum wage. Chump change for chumps," Rodolfo muttered.

"Get real," Alan told him. "I'm not asking you to flip burgers. You know how much moving men make? They ain't cheap, let me tell you."

More nudging from behind Rodolfo. "We can do this, man," one hissed. "Might be fun," muttered another. "Safer," came from another.

Alan upped the ante. "I'll throw in pizza on Saturday. You boys know a place that delivers around here?"

Deal made: signed, sealed, and delivered with the pizza.


"Dammit, don't run!" Don snarled.

His target apparently believed that complying with the FBI agent's heartfelt request was not in his best interests. One look, and the man jack-rabbited off around the nearest corner, dust flying.

"Go! Go!" Don yelled at the tagalongs he'd brought, just in case. "West on Covina!" Don himself broke into a flat out run. Don't need this part of my work out today, he thought. Remember, keep the hands intact. Gotta remember the Director's 'friendly' little baseball game.

His wind came easily, and Don allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. Endurance wasn't going to be an issue. Little bit of sprinting here, let's pretend that I've got to beat the ball to first base. He put on a burst of speed, just enough to corner the suspect in the alley. "Gotcha!" He hauled the man off of the chain link fence, preventing the snitch from crawling over and escaping into the night. He slammed him against the wall. "Spread 'em, Turk. Why'd you run? I just want a little friendly conversation." He patted the man down, checking for concealed weapons.

Found 'em, too. Don pulled a revolver from Turk's belt. "Why, Turk! What do you need this for? Are you into something that I don't know about? And isn't this a parole violation? Naughty, naughty."

Turk's reply was unprintable. And non-verbal. And ugly. Fists came up.

Watch the hands, watch the hands! Can't break a finger now. Don blocked. Where's my back up? Blocked again, Turk's blow stinging against his forearms. "Mulligan!" he yelled, calling for the agents around back. "Miranda!" Director D'Angelo's gonna kill me if I break a finger and that damn game only a week away. "Mulligan!"

Enough of this. He's gonna break my ribs, let alone my fingers. Don moved in. Block, return strike. It landed, Turk surprised that Don was finally fighting back. Another parry; block, grab the wrist and twist.

Turk yowled. Don turned the man's arm around, wrapping it behind Turk's back and effectively immobilizing the man. He slammed him against the brick wall of the alley to quiet him. "Settle down!" he scolded. "All I wanted was a nice little chat. Now I'll have to bring you in for assaulting an officer of the law."

More unprintable verbiage, in more than one language.

Mulligan and Miranda puffed up, guns drawn, eyes scanning and assessing for more threats.

"What kept you?" Don wanted to add a few more choice terms to the tagalongs. Not in front of guests, Eppes.

"Alleyway was blocked in the back," Mulligan replied, annoyed, glaring at Turk as if the suspect were personally responsible for the delay. "Had to climb over."

"Whatever." Don turned his attention back to his prey. "You don't seem to eager to talk to me, Turk."

"You been hassling everybody, Eppes." Turk spat. The wad landed carefully on the ground; not, Don noted, on his shoes. Good. That meant that Turk was scared, and ready to cooperate. Didn't want to piss off the FBI agents, just had to make it look good for anyone who might be watching.

"And you figured it was just a matter of time before I got around to you." Which was pretty close to the truth. Don squeezed a little tighter, put pressure on the arm shoved up behind Turk's back. The yelp that Turk let out sounded a little forced, a little over the top for what Don was offering, reinforcing Don's suspicion that there were others watching from behind darkened windows. "So make it easy on yourself. Tell me what you know." And, almost as an after-thought, he added, "if it's good enough, I might even let you go."

"I don't know anything."

"Not the right answer." Don glanced over to Mulligan and Miranda. "Agent Mulligan, what outstanding warrants do we have on friend Turk?"

"Possession of an illegal firearm," Mulligan recited obediently, well-primed by Don from earlier. "Resisting arrest. Wanted in connection with the hold-up of Century Bank on La Cienega and—"

"I had nothing to do with that!"

"Convince me," Don said into Turk's ear. He kept his tone mild, almost amused. "Talk to me about Don Juan Rivera."

"He'll kill me, man!" This time Turk really did sound scared.

"Not if he can't find you."

"He can find anybody!"

"It'll be even easier for him to find you in the joint," Don pointed out. "Isn't that how that last informant died? While he was locked up?"

Turk tried to look around, a tough proposition with his cheek hugging the cold brick wall. "What do you want, man?"

"Just tell me about Rivera, Turk. Where he is, how he runs the stuff in and out of L.A. Don't worry, he won't know that it's you," Don told the man. "I've been questioning lots of people. It could have come from anyone of you. He can't kill you all."

"Wanna bet, man?"

"Where's the central location, the drop off spot when it comes in?" Don pushed.

"Somewhere in L.A."

"L.A.'s a big city. Try narrowing it down."

"He'll kill me!"

"I'll lock you up and let him do it," Don assured him. "Great big bull's eye on your back. I'll put the word out that you spilled the whole deal unless you talk to me. Where?"

"Don't got no address."

Yes! "Try a general location."

"Calle de los Reyes," Turk whispered. "East L.A. Big place. Lots of action."

"Then how come I haven't heard of it?"

"'Cause Don Juan keeps it clean," Turk said to the brick wall, his cheek smashed up against it, keeping it looking good. "He puts 'em up there for a night or two, then sends 'em up north. He sends a car for them, checks them out before he passes them on."

Don frowned. "'Passes them on?' What do you mean, Turk?"

"He passes them on, man." Turk looked at Don as though he were crazy. "What, you thought Don Juan only did coke? How you think he got his name? He's dealing in people, man!"

"He's running a border-crossing operation." Don struggled to understand.

Turk laughed, a short bark of something less than amusement. "Man, he's a slave runner! The young ones, the girls and the boys, he separates them out, makes sure they're clean, and sells them to the highest bidder! The dirty ones, the ugly ones, they go to the streets until they're killed. Yeah, he runs a border operation, but it's not to help people cross the border. What, you didn't know that? How stupid are your people?"

Good question. This hadn't been in the Border Patrol's dossier. Why not?

Next step: call David and Colby.