Rachel drove while Felix navigated, guiding her up to North El Monte. It's not far from the San Gabriel Mountains; the hills were starting to roll, and the scenery beat the south side by a mile.
Up here, the good neighborhoods were pricey and well-kept. Passing one upscale tract, Felix noticed how clearly a professional had laid it out—like a spiked mace: one main road with short side streets branching off, each about six meters wide. The houses were all different shapes, staggered for privacy. Looked like a very comfortable place to live.
Frank's neighborhood, by contrast, was basic. A not-so-large plot crammed with over a hundred cookie-cutter houses. No real design language. Owners had to paint crazy colors just to recognize their own place coming home. You could hear the neighbors argue word for word at night—but hey, still better than a real slum, where houses sit so close you can smell the fart next door.
At least the road layout here worked; every home could get out without dead-ends.
Frank lived at the very end of a cul-de-sac, which meant extra space all around—clearly he'd paid more for that. Behind the house rose a small, tree-covered hill—basically a bonus park for walks and kids.
Frank, his wife, and the kids were waiting out front.
Felix hopped out and hugged him. "Sorry, Frank—almost forgot about tonight."
"No worries. You're here." He gestured. "This is my wife, Jenny. Jenny, this is Felix—my good partner."
"Hi, Jenny. You're beautiful."
That wasn't just flattery. By Felix's standards, she really was a blonde knockout. No idea how Frank pulled that off.
"Thank you. You're handsome too, Felix."
Felix turned to Frank. "Your wife's very charming."
Frank grinned. "Naturally."
(He'd heard Americans like it when you praise their wife—reflects well on the husband, supposedly.)
"And this is my girlfriend, Rachel."
Rachel shook Frank's hand and offered a gift. He unwrapped it and laughed. "Shafer Hillside Select—love it. Thank you, Rachel."
She handed out Jenny's and the kids' presents. The kids whooped and ran off. Jenny beamed and dragged Rachel inside to try the lipstick.
Frank led Felix in. It was a classic wood-frame single-family. The nice thing with wood houses: if it looks big outside, you pretty much get that much livable space inside—no massive concrete walls stealing square footage. Plan the zones right and add a tasteful interior, and it's a great place to live—money permitting. Otherwise, you adapt to the house, not the other way around.
Frank's layout was decent—no absurd mega-living room needing a DIY wall, no kitchen abutting a toilet, none of that "eat here, poop there" genius.
Downsides? Not great in quakes, fire, or high winds, and bullets chew them up. Upside? Cheap and fast to build. Brick and concrete cost way more—fine for the mansions, not regular folks.
Out back, Rick and Antrim lounged at the table with sodas while Mark and his girlfriend, Jessica, fussed over the grill. The yard backed straight into woods; open flames were a no-go, so they used propane. Mostly Jessica cooked while Mark just sweated—still traumatized by the Great Durian Feast fiasco.
Felix greeted Rick and Antrim, set a bottle of Luzhou Laojiao on the table, took a Coke from Rick. "You guys got here fast. Why no beer?"
"Calm before the storm," Rick said, shrugging. "Schedule flipped to nights. They sent us home to rest."
"Ops tonight?"
"Sounds like they ID'd a few suspects from last night's warehouse shooting. We're grabbing them. Lots of bodies pulled off other details, so day shift's covering patrol at night."
"Quick work."
Antrim picked up the Luzhou Laojiao, curious. "Chinese baijiu?"
Felix's eyes lit up. "Yep. Top shelf. Smooth, no hangover. Want a hit?"
"Can't. Night shift."
Felix yelled toward Mark, "Keep grinding tonight—double OT!"
Mark flipped him the bird.
After much fumbling with the grill, not a single finished cut of meat came off—until Frank took over. Then everyone finally ate.
He'd prepped a spread: lamb racks, pork ribs, big beef skewers, piles of drumsticks and wings, and the obligatory national dishes—burgers and hot dogs. He claimed he was a Texas boy who moved to California for love—hence the pitmaster chops. Whether or not that was tall talk, the meat was legit: charred outside, juicy inside, probably helped by fresh ingredients.
After dinner, the women drifted off to chat shows and family stuff; the men squeezed in a few quiet minutes of talk.
"Mark, still doing OT tonight? Not afraid of dropping dead?"
Mark shook his head. "Nope. Admin cut me off—hit my hours cap for the week. Can't stand seeing us make money."
"You're not married. What do you need all that cash for?"
"None of your business."
"Frank, nice house. How much?"
"Just under eight hundred grand."
"You're loaded?"
"Mortgage. Almost paid off. Eleven years on the force adds up."
Antrim sighed. "Man, I envy you."
Frank clapped his shoulder. "It'll get better, brother."
Felix nudged Mark—what's his story?
Mark whispered back: Antrim used to be a sergeant. A few years after pot went legal in California, he and some partners tried to start a grow. Leased land, built greenhouses—then ran into licensing. The requirements were brutal; they couldn't get permits. They gambled and planted anyway. Just as the crop was ready, LAPD raided—confiscated everything.
They lost it all and went deep into debt. Antrim, just an investor, wasn't charged, but he got demoted from sergeant to officer. Lately he's been clawing back—night OT, some money into a fund, supposedly doing okay.
No wonder the guy carried a permanent cloud.
Felix switched topics fast. "Rick, still no girlfriend? Aren't you getting up there? Chop-chop."
Rick rolled his eyes—about to retort—when shots cracked in the distance.