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  “Not Oprah, man,” the driver said. “She give us a new car maybe.”

  “Let me tell you about Oprah,” I said. “She had a guy on who wrote a book about his life. A real heart tugger it was, about how he got his life together after being on drugs and all that. Sold a whole bunch of copies. Only problem, he made most of it up. When Oprah found out, she made him come back on the show and ripped him on national TV.”

  “So?” the driver said.

  “So don’t pretend to be something you’re not. Somebody’s gonna find out.”

  Backseat laughed.

  “Tell me how he does it,” I said. “How he takes you guys off the street and turns you into the fine, upstanding citizens you are today.”

  “He gonna show you, man,” the driver said with a smile. “He gonna show you good.”

  112

  THE TRIUNFO RANCH was located somewhere north of Lancaster, off the 14 Highway. It’s in the Antelope Valley of L.A. County, though the antelope don’t roam on this parched, dusty chunk of the Mojave Desert. While the Lancaster area has boomed in recent years—young couples looking for affordable housing—the outlying areas are still best left to gila monsters.

  Or private facilities for the rehab of gangbangers. If you were looking for a tougher place to whip bad boys into shape, you’d be hard-pressed to find it.

  The ranch was actually at the foot of some hills that would have been a great location for a fifties’ movie about Mars. It was marked with a simple sign and a locked gate. The backseat guy got out and unlocked the gate. The car came through. He locked the gate and got back in.

  We drove up a flat, dusty, windy road. The hills to the right had nothing growing on them. The grounds had nothing but dirt and rocks. And everything was being baked by a sun that seemed a million miles closer to the earth out here. It was an Al Gore dreamscape.

  Finally, we got to a dirt parking area that had three or four pickups scattered around. On three sides were white, ranch-style buildings. The main building was a pretty good-looking, two-story job. Didn’t look more than ten years old. The buildings on the sides were bunkhouses or dorms. No doubt for the tender little kiddies who came here to get their lives turned around by Rudy Barocas.

  My two hosts led me into the main building. In the lobby was a reception area done up in Mexican flag colors. A large poster of a glaring guy in a sombrero was framed above the reception desk.

  “Not very friendly,” I said to my driver and nodded at the poster.

  “That’s Zapata, man,” he said.

  “Emiliano Zapata,” Backseat said.

  “Doesn’t look anything like Brando,” I said.

  The two said nothing.

  “It was a movie,” I said. “Marlon Brando. You guys like Brando?”

  Apparently not. They pushed me along a corridor, past double doors with windows that looked into a mess hall.

  A couple of teenagers with ’tude passed us coming the other way. Everybody grunted at each other. They were like the humans in Planet of the Apes. At the end of the corridor the driver knocked on a door and somebody said, “Come in.”

  It was a pretty fancy office for such an out of the way place. Especially for a guy with that teardrop tattoo under his left eye.

  “Welcome to Triunfo Ranch,” Teardrop said.

  “Vargas, isn’t it?” I said.

  He blinked. “That’s good. You do homework.”

  “Kills time.”

  “Mr. Barocas thought it would be good for you to take a look at what he does for the community.”

  I said nothing. Vargas nodded for my hosts to leave. They obeyed like a pair of Cub Scouts.

  “Two years ago,” Vargas said, “those guys were running with the Second Streeters in Pacoima. Very bad. Cousins. It was a two for one deal. Court sent ’em here, and look at ’em now.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “They handle guns real nice.”

  “Guns? What guns? We don’t allow that.” He smiled. “Mr. Barocas, he took a personal interest in them. In two months out here they were straight. No drugs. Nothin’ but hard work.”

  “What a great story for the papers.”

  “Come on, I show you more.”

  He stood up and came around the desk. He was dressed in a pullover black shirt, tight on his muscled body, and jeans and boots. He opened the door, motioned me out.

  For the moment I had no other choice but to play along. I had no idea if I’d ever get any other choice. If I did, I knew I’d take it. Without question.

  We went out a back door into a large courtyard. Across the yard were a couple of barns, doors wide open. No hay in the barns. Or cows.

  Cars. And a couple of pickups, young men working on them. It was a garage outfit.

  “Strong automotive program here,” Vargas said. “A lot of our boys go to good jobs the first day they’re out. You own a car, Mr. Buchanan?”

  “I look like I don’t?”

  “What kind?”

  “An old Ford.”

  “You bring it out here, we fix it up nice for you.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  I followed him to the first open barn, which had a concrete floor and hydraulic lifts. A full-service garage. A kid in greasy overalls was working under a Firebird. His legs stuck out. Vargas tapped him on the feet with his boot. The kid shimmied out on a roller and stood up like he’d been ordered to.

  He looked me up and down.

  “How long you been here?” Vargas asked.

  “Four months,” the kid said. He was about sixteen.

  “What would you be doing now if you weren’t here?”

  “Bustin’ it up.”

  “You here because of that?”

  “Vato loco.” He smiled.

  “When you get out, what’re you gonna do?”

  The kid jerked his thumb toward the car.

  Vargas nodded. “You gonna run with the same crowd?”

  Kid shook his head.

  “Why not?”

  “Family is destiny.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Mr. Barocas.”

  Vargas put his fist out, and the kid tapped it with his. Then Vargas indicated I follow him farther on.

  He paused at a workbench and picked up a large crescent wrench. Hefted it. “Somebody could do a lot of damage with this,” he said. “You know, one of our boys could say he didn’t like the way he was looked at, take this, and bam—” He slammed the edge on the workbench. It echoed throughout the garage.

  “Very impressive,” I said.

  “Everything Rudy Barocas does is very impressive, don’t you think?”

  “I haven’t seen everything.”

  “Maybe you will. Come on.”

  In back of the barn-garages was a bungalow, one that was almost hidden from the rest of the ranch. Unless you were looking for it you’d miss it. Vargas went up the wooden steps and opened the door. I stayed where I was.

  “Come on,” he said.

  “I’ve seen enough. Where’s Barocas?”

  “Matter, you don’t trust me?”

  “Have him come out here.”

  “It’s hot out here, man. Come on in where it’s cool.”

  I didn’t move. Then the door opened some more, and Rudy Barocas himself stepped out. He was dressed in business casual by way of GQ and Brite Smile. He even winked at me. “How you doing, Buchanan? Come on up.”

  Behind me, something moved. Turning, I saw the kid from the garage, staring at us. Sending a vibe. I wasn’t to go anywhere.

  Except into the bungalow.

  113

  “YOU WENT TO a lot of trouble to get me out here,” I said, looking around. The place was wood paneled and set up as an office with a desk and a couple of chairs. The walls had a number of framed pictures. From what I could tell they were all Rudy Barocas shaking someone’s hand.

  “There’s me with Magic Johnson,” Barocas said. “And you see who that is?”

  I looked. “George W.
Bush.”

  “George Freaking W. Bush! Back in ’04. And he’s shaking the hand of a kid who escaped from Cuba and made good. Doesn’t that make you feel great?”

  Funny, his book jacket said he was born in Miami. “You could have sent me your press clippings. Why drag me out here?”

  “No substitute for the real thing.”

  “I can’t do you any good. I’m not good ROI.”

  “Return on investment! I got that in my book. Let me show you something.”

  He went to his desk and turned around a Mac laptop. It was some website. I recognized the seal of Los Angeles. The one they took the cross off of a couple years back because it offended the ACLU and four other people in the county.

  “This is an official page about Triunfo. The page is sponsored by a Los Angeles County supervisor. Think about that.”

  “Leland Rich?”

  “Hey, you know! You’re a pretty smart guy. How’d you get into so much trouble?”

  “Maybe you could help me out a little on that.”

  “Now.” Barocas wagged his finger at me. “I think maybe you have a wrong idea. I think maybe you think I had something to do with killing that reporter.”

  “The thought’s crossed my mind.”

  “If I did, you think you’d be breathing right now?”

  “I always try to breathe.”

  “I don’t go around killing people. You don’t do that and get ahead in America.”

  “That’s not what Michael Corleone thought.”

  He waved his hand. “That’s the movies. Movies about wops don’t do it for me. So I’m telling you, I had nothing to do with the death of that reporter.”

  “Had she contacted you?”

  “I think maybe you turned her onto me. You said some things to her maybe and got her going after a hot story or something.”

  “Why should that worry you? You’re such a great success.”

  “Did I say I was worried? No, my friend. That’s not what worries me. What worries me is people like you, all tight inside, confused. I’d like to try to help you. You could become a Triunfo success story.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Sure.”

  “And then maybe do commercials for you, like Kirstie Alley does Jennie Craig.”

  He smiled a little too broadly. “Now you’re talking.”

  Vargas just stood there. Stone face. I kept thinking what it would be like to blow that face up. Dynamite it like Mount Rushmore.

  “Hey, can I get you something?” Barocas said. “Coke? Beer?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “No,” he said. “I don’t think you are. I think you got a lot of anger and worry, and you’re sweating just being here, aren’t you?”

  “What do you want me to say? You yank me out here. Guy with a gun threatens me.”

  “Guy with a gun?”

  I chuffed.

  “What I need to tell you, Buchanan, is you can’t do anything to me or Triunfo. It’s all too big, too important. We do good work. And if you say things like some guy with a gun made you get in a car and come out here, well that’s just not gonna fly with anybody. You’re all alone, is what I’m saying.”

  “Okay. I’m alone. Can I go now?”

  “Not just yet. Listen. What the mind of man can conceive and believe, the mind of man can achieve.”

  I just looked at him.

  “Do you believe that?” he said.

  “No.”

  “That’s your problem. That’s why you’re there, accused of murder, and I’m here, making life better for kids and young men and living in a big house with a view. It’s why you’re small. You haven’t got it up here. I’d like to help you change that.”

  “How are you going to help me there, Rudy?”

  He smiled. “I’m going to show you how we do it out here, when we first get a vato who has an attitude problem, and that’s all of them. A little discipline. That’s all you need. That’s why I’m your best friend.”

  It was only then I noticed that Vargas was still holding the crescent wrench. I guess I’d forgotten all about it. Maybe he’d had it up his sleeve all this time, waiting.

  “That’s it?” I said. “You’re going to beat some sense into me?”

  “Why should I do that?” Barocas asked. “All you need to do is tell me a couple of things.”

  “Okay.”

  He looked surprised.

  I said, “The capital of North Dakota is Bismarck. And studies show if your parents didn’t have children, you won’t either.”

  Barocas stopped smiling. “Buchanan, don’t make this hard on yourself. One of the big secrets to success is always to treat with respect those who can help you. Or hurt you. I can do either one.”

  “Cats have thirty-two muscles in each ear.”

  Barocas sighed and nodded at Vargas. He lunged. I flinched. My left leg went out from under me, pain exploding just below the back of my knee.

  I hit the floor. A river of liquid fire spread up and down my leg.

  “Not so hard,” Barocas said in mock rebuke. “You have to use a little love in your discipline.”

  I made no move to get up. Didn’t see the point in it.

  “Now Buchanan, I think you’ve been talking to some of the wrong people, and I’d like to know about that. Here at the ranch we tell our boys to always speak the truth. At least to me.”

  Vargas grunted what sounded like a laugh.

  “Get him up,” Barocas said.

  Vargas pulled me up by my shirt with one hand, as easily as he would a mattress. Barocas indicated a chair. I can’t remember if I sat or Vargas pushed me onto it. I was thinking only about killing them both.

  “You doing okay now?” Barocas said. “You want to make another joke now? We got all night.”

  I said nothing. Imagined what my leg would look like in many colors.

  “So I understand you’ve talked to federales,” Barocas said. “Maybe you think there’s something going on that shouldn’t under the Triunfo umbrella.”

  I shook my head.

  “Maybe you think drugs or some other kind of bad stuff, huh?”

  Said nothing.

  “Tell me what you think, Mr. Buchanan.”

  Silent. But I watched his eyes. They flicked to Vargas again. He hit me in the face. It was his fist, but it felt like cinder block. He must have been holding the crescent wrench in that hand.

  Tiny flares in my head. The right side of my face felt caved in. I thought about dying and didn’t care that I thought about it. I just wanted to take these two with me.

  “You need to be more forthcoming, friend,” Barocas said. “Trust is earned, not given.”

  “I got a question for you first,” I said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Why’d he have to kill her?”

  Barocas didn’t change expression. “Who killed who?”

  “Your boy here. Why’d he have to kill the girl?”

  “You know what he’s talking about?” Barocas said to Vargas.

  “No way,” Vargas said.

  “You think we go around killing people?” Barocas said.

  “Have it your way,” I said.

  “I always do. You want to tell me what you know now?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Buddy Rich was the greatest drummer of all time.”

  Barocas shook his head, made a motion to Vargas.

  He whacked me on the other side of the face.

  “Now?” Barocas said.

  I said nothing.

  “You have something belongs to me maybe,” Barocas said. “You know Gustavo.”

  “Who?”

  “You’ve met him a couple times.”

  “I meet a lot of people.”

  “People are your greatest natural resource,” Barocas said. “But you got to dig your well before you’re thirsty.”

  “I’ll tell you one thing, you got the clichés down real nice.”

  Vargas slapped the back of my head.
/>   “Talk, Mr. Buchanan,” Barocas said.

  “Inch by inch anything’s a cinch,” I said.

  “Well,” Barocas said, “I tried.”

  That’s when the fun began.

  114

  NEXT THING I remember I was bouncing in a box in the dark. The trunk of a car. I couldn’t remember blacking out. My body reminded me.

  Vargas had worked me, starting with the ribs. He drew back just enough not to crack bone. He was trying to inflict pain and keep me from passing out.

  It didn’t work. At some point I passed over into black.

  Now, almost suffocating, all I knew was I was being transported.

  My hands were tied in front of me. My nose was stuffed, probably with dried blood. My head felt two sizes larger. I didn’t know if my eyes were open, or could open.

  Then I saw a crack of faint light. Had no idea what time it was. Only was sure of one thing, that I wasn’t being delivered anywhere. I would soon be dead.

  My body told my mind not to stress about that. Just give it up, it’s time, what are you doing hanging around here? You can’t win against people like this. There’s too many of them, and they’re too powerful. Living here isn’t what you thought it’d be. Try dying. Maybe you’ll find that white light. Maybe Jacqueline will be there waiting for you.

  My mind didn’t fight back.

  I may have blacked out again.

  The trunk popped and orange light fell in. A figure was silhouetted there. I knew it was Vargas even before he told me to get out.

  I didn’t move. Didn’t know if I could. Heard myself groan.

  He grabbed me by the shirt and pulled me to the lip of the trunk, hanging me over it like a bag of clothes. He got his hands on my pants and jerked, and I rolled over and hit the ground on my back.

  The last of the air left my lungs. Before I could suck in more Vargas kicked me in the side and told me, once more, to get up. I rolled on my side, drawing breath through my mouth, getting some dirt, coughing. I had no idea where we were, but the ground was hot.

  Slowly I got to my knees.

  Vargas said, “You got one more chance to talk.”

  All I could do was wheeze.

  “Or you stay here,” he said. “I got no problem either way. I think maybe leaving you out here’s best thing. Get up.”