something into his IV line. “Demerol,” she told Decker.
“Is it going to put him back to sleep?”
“It might.”
Decker waited. Gil closed his eyes and opened them several times. After about ten minutes, he managed to look at him with lids halfway closed. “Do I know you?”
“Lieutenant Peter Decker of LAPD, Mr. Kaffey. I’m investigating what happened at the ranch. How do you feel?”
“Shit.”
“I’m sorry.”
As he pulled up a chair, Didi the nurse said, “Did you clear this with Dr. Rain?”
Gil said, “Leave him … leave him.”
“Just a few minutes,” Didi told Decker. “Just because he can talk doesn’t mean he should.”
“I won’t tire him out,” Decker said.
“You’re … the head?”
“I’m leading the investigation, yes. We have a lot of people working on this, and anything you can tell me might help.”
“I feel … real … shit …” His head bobbed. “Shit.”
“It hurts to be shot …”
Eyes opened and stayed that way. “You ever …”
“Yes, I’ve been shot. It hurts.”
“Burns like shit.”
“Yes, it does.”
Gil’s head bobbed. “They said sí, sí … I heard it.”
Decker took out his notepad. “The men who attacked you spoke Spanish?”
“Yeah … sí, sí.”
“Do you speak Spanish?”
“No … just sí, sí.”
“Did you recognize any other words?”
“It happened … fast.”
“I’m sure you were in total shock. How many people attacked you?”
Silence.
Decker said, “Sometimes it helps if you close your eyes and view it like a movie or a photograph in your head.”
He closed his eyes. “I see one … two …” He was counting them in his foggy brain. “Three …” His face, pale to start, went ashen. “Flashbulb in my eyes … then bang … Bang, bang, bang!”
Beep, beep, beep went the monitor. Gil’s heartbeat started to race.
“So fucking loud! Hurt my head!”
Didi, the nurse, said, “You’re exciting him. You’re going to have to leave!”
Gil was still talking, his eyes moving rapidly under closed lids. “Happened like …” He tried to snap his fingers and his eyes popped open. “My heart … pumping. I’m running away … I feel fire … I fall.”
Didi was about to inject him with more Demerol, when he said, “Stop!”
Both she and Decker were taken aback. Gil spat out, “Get the … bastards!”
“We have the same goal, Mr. Kaffey,” Decker said. “What about their faces? Can you describe any of them?”
The eyes closed partway. “One … two … three of them.”
“You remember three people attacking you.”
“Three people …”
“Can you describe them?” Decker asked.
Tears formed in Gil’s eyes. “Bastards … the one with the gun … I saw the arm … he had tattoos.”
“What kind of tattoos?”
“Beeexcel …” His eyes blinked, and the tears ran down his face.
“Pardon?”
“The letters … B … X … L … L.”
Decker thought a moment. “Could it have been B-X-I-I with a capital I?”
“Maybe.”
The Bodega 12th Street gang contained nasty, nasty men, most of them with origins from El Salvador and Mexico. It had originated in the Ramparts division years ago but had spread like a cancer into just about every state in the union. They numbered around fifty thousand loosely organized criminals. There were men at the top, but most of the bastards were drug runners and hard-core felons. It was one of the most violent gangs in the country.
Gil was one lucky sucker.
“He had B-X-I-I tattooed on his arm,” Decker said. “Can you tell me which arm?”
Gil was breathing shallowly. “Right-handed. On his right arm.”
“His right arm was exposed then?”
Gil didn’t answer.
“He was wearing short sleeves?”
“Black T-shirt.”
“Good,” Decker told him. “Any other tattoos?”
“Black cat … with Spanish words. Something negro.”
“Negro is black in Spanish. Can you close your eyes and see that arm … tell me the other word?”
Gil closed his eyes. “G … A …” He shook his head.
“Could it be G-A-T-O? Gato means cat. So gato negro would be black cat.”
No answer. Gil’s lids were closed with eyes moving underneath them.
“Do you see the man’s face, Mr. Kaffey?”
“I … more tattoos …” He touched his neck. “A snake … B … 1 or something.”
“B12?”
Gil opened his eyes. “You know tattoos?”
“I know a few gang tattoos. B12 and BXII are two of them.”
“Gangs … Why?”
The most likely answer was that someone hired hit men from the Bodega 12th Street. But no assumptions. Not yet. “That’s what we need to figure out. Did your parents keep a lot of valuables in the house?”
“There were … guards.”
“Some of the guards are missing.”
“Who?”
“Rondo Martin and Denny Orlando. Maybe others as well.”
“Not Denny.” A long pause. “Dad liked Rondo.”
“Did you know the men?”
“Denny’s good … Rondo is cold.” Gil raised a tube-injected hand to his face. “Cold eyes.”
“Good to know.” Decker tried to keep him on track. “The tattoos are a big help. You saw the neck … can your eyes go up a little bit more to the face?”
Gil closed his eyes and was quiet for such a long time, Decker thought he had fallen back asleep. His voice was very soft. “Dark eyes … a rag on his head.” A big exhale. He touched his chin. “A soul patch …” Another long period of silence. Tears were falling down his cheek. “Then the flash and my father …” More tears. “I started to run … I’m very tired.”
Gently, Decker patted his arm. “We’ll talk again when you’re feeling better.”
He closed his eyes. Decker waited until Gil was asleep. Lord only knew the dreams that awaited him.
As