American Bruja: The Los Angeles Cauldron

Chapter 11. Ben Salvia

Saturday, August 6, 2011, 11:00 a.m. Los Angeles

I know I said no detail is unimportant, but I'm not writing about the boring trek across the reservoir. Me and George see the two kids following Fernando. We hang back, stay out of sight and track his movement through binoculars. Soon as we figure he's heading for a hill in the middle of the reservoir, we circle round and approach from the east. Just as we crest the hill, Fernando makes eye contact, touches an index finger to the brim of his hat and disappears.

What a cluster fuck.

Thrumming LAPD helicopter blades prompt me and George to duck behind some boulders. Sweatdrips into my eyes. The thwap-thwap-thwap sound slows, then stops.

A sharp bark brings my attention to the eastern-most boulders, where a yellow Husky-looking dog covered in dried mud pops out from between two rocks. A rancid smell hits my nose as the dog bolts toward the hillside.

Keeping low to the ground, me and George creep round to the west and flatten ourselves against the rocks. I peek around to find two cops, a redheaded man and that blonde punk squawking over a skinny girl laying on the hillside.

Heat rushes to my face. I elbow George. "Fernando baited those kids into following. Why?"

My youngest brother shakes his head.

We listen, hoping to hear something useful. It's a whole lot of blah blah blah until the blonde kid shouts something about his mom speaking to Ken at work, so he couldn't be the guy they followed. No shit, pendejo.

I exchange a glance with George. His face scrunches into a frown. My chest tightens. Just last week we chased the blonde douche bag and his punk-ass friends off our property. One twerp had a metal detector. Treasure hunting pricks.

George confirms my suspicions. "That little shit knows something."

The girl rises to her feet. Me and George stay quiet as the retreating helicopter kicks up a dust cloud. Saints be praised.  The cops fly west and away from our position.

We hang by the rock until LAPD disappears over the horizon. The kids, dog and redheaded dude wearing cargo shorts and a short-sleeved button-down make their way down the steep hillside. Total dad uniform. I wait until they're at least a quarter mile away.

Motioning to George, we follow. After another half-mile,  we pause when the trio stops to huddle. Within a few minutes they're on the move, heading toward the old house at the western end of the reservoir.

Turning north, we walk to where our truck is parked by the road. In the half-hour it takes to cross, we're drenched in sweat.

George reaches behind the back seat to retrieve a couple of clean shirts. Our old truck doesn't have AC, so we'll change when we reach the house.

My brother takes shotgun as I shift into gear. The drive to Peppergate Ranch is short. After a mile, we reach an open gate and a long driveway winding up Lizard Hill. I stop at the opening and nod to George as we strip our sweaty shirts in exchange for clean t-shirts.

I shift into low gear. When we near the top of the hill, loud voices speaking rapid-fire Spanish float through the open windows.

Movers stand around a tall, broad-chested man in his early thirties. Despite the heat, he's wearing tailored black pants, matching suit jacket and crisp white shirt. Gesturing to a moving pod and furniture strewn on the driveway, the dark-haired man speaks in heavily accented Russian.

"Such nonsense," the Russian snorts. "Only little girl afraid of bogeyman."

That busty blonde realtor whose face is plastered on every bus bench steps out from inside the moving pod, a black teen by her side. I recognize this asshole as one of the little bastards snooping around our property. He's a beanpole next to the realtor's short, round frame.