by Manuel Ramos
I wandered through Artie’s house and jealousy got the better of me. We were the same age, we had graduated from the same high school, neither one of us had gone to college. He lived in one of the nicest houses in a very nice neighborhood. I camped out, literally, in the back of a second-hand store. Men and women with money and influence appeared upset at his death and their grief looked genuine. I couldn’t get a half-hearted “good morning” from my ex-wife. Artie enjoyed the good life with a beautiful wife and handsome kids and enough money to afford paintings or sculptures or jewelry from any Santa Fe gallery. I had no kids, I drove a used and noisy Subaru, and any extra cash I managed to hold onto at the end of the week went for a few beers at the Holiday or another dive just as bad.
Then I remembered that I was alive and able to check out Artie’s house while lucky Artie relaxed in the warm earth, minus critical parts of his heart. I told myself again that I did feel bad about Artie. I turned off the envy.
I settled in on the back patio among a group of people who attended North High with Artie and me. I didn’t recognize most of them but two were too familiar—running partners from the years when one of the most important decisions I made involved picking my friends.
“Yo, Gus, how the hell are you, old man?” Tony said, or Shoe, depending on the mood of the evening. Tony Vega managed to be something of a star on a basketball team that couldn’t win more than two games a season.
“Shoe, good to see you.”
We semi-hugged and patted one another on the back.
“Too bad it’s under these circumstances, eh?” he said. “Real sorry about Artie. What a trip, eh?”
“You mean that he was murdered and the cops don’t know shit about what happened?” Ice said. Every mob had an Ice back in the day. David Zamarippa, legendary music man—he could sing, play the guitar and dance like Michael Jackson when that meant something. I liked Ice, even though he was an Oakland Raiders fan—I never understood that—but he’d left town to find fame and money in the music business. I heard that he returned and now worked for the City and County of Denver, taking care of parks in the summer and driving a snow plow in winter, when he wasn’t on furlough. The City struggled with a budget crisis and guys like Ice paid the price with fewer hours and thinner paychecks.
Ice and I followed through with the same hugging, backpatting ritual.
“The cops will nail someone for this,” Shoe said. “Artie is, was, a player. Look at this house.”
“Player is right,” Ice said. “You know how he ended up with this? He played suckers in the housing racket. He had a perfect in with his real estate license. He arranged loans that people couldn’t pay from lenders who didn’t care as long as they made a quick buck. Then they foreclosed. That’s what happened here. Artie had the inside track.”
“He picked up the house for a song?” I said.
“Oh yeah,” Ice said. “He did that kind of favor many times for his pals downtown. When the housing shit hit the fan, Artie was one of the guys who made money. Him and his friends.”
“They can’t let his murder go without an arrest,” Shoe said. “Now if it was you, Ice or Gus there, well . . . ”
“Or you, pal,” added Ice. “Far as I heard, you ain’t caca either.”
“Whoa, man. I got it made, you ain’t been told?”
“No, I ain’t,” Ice laughed. “How about you, Gus? How you been? We never see you anymore.”
“I don’t get out much. Can’t afford it. In case you haven’t noticed, the economy sucks.”
They both nodded and their faces turned all serious for a sec.
“Somebody told me you work for Sylvia. How’s that going?” Shoe asked me and he must have thought he was sly, but a smile crept into his words.
Tony dated Sylvia before she settled for me. I’d assumed he’d taken her out after our divorce, maybe before, for all I knew. He had to be wise to all the dope about Sylvia and me and our current arrangement. One thing I did know was that there was plenty I didn’t know about Sylvia and the breakup of our marriage. Except that I screwed up.
“It’s all good. Meaning I don’t have to see Sylvia that much. I manage her shop, supervise sales, keep the books, handle the marketing, take on extra help when we need it. I keep busy, that’s most important to me.”
Shoe and Ice glanced at each other and it was obvious we all knew I was full of it. But these guys were my homies—they didn’t say anything. They’d been through their own hard times, and one thing we didn’t do was kick a brother when he was down, unless it involved a woman, of course. That goes without saying.
Shoe brought the conversation back to Artie. “What do you think happened? I mean, for Artie to get shot like that and then dumped like he was a sack of garbage? That’s hard core. Someone really had it in for him.”
“Artie was into funky stuff, so it don’t surprise me,” Ice said.
“Yeah, the guy jammed people,” Shoe said. “I don’t want to speak bad about the dead, so I won’t. This isn’t the time or place. I’ll just say I’m not surprised either. You remember what Artie was like in school? Add a dozen years to that, a lot more money, and a lot more attitude, and you can see why someone might want to shoot him.”
“I wanted to shoot him at North High,” Ice said. He looked around in case someone else heard him. “That’s harsh,” I said. We let it drop.
I explained how a pair of policemen visited me about Artie, and they didn’t miss a beat.
“That’s what cops do,” Ice said.
“It’s you, bud,” Shoe said. “The notorious Gus Corral. Reason enough right there for the cops to stop by.”
We asked about classmates. I mentioned that I had seen Isabel Scutti. They both shrugged. Isabel meant nothing to them.
Ice brought up the mess in Mexico City surrounding the theft of the holy shawl of the Virgin Mary. “Had to be an inside job,” Ice declared. It was my turn to shrug.
“The animals are running the zoo,” Shoe said. “But if this doesn’t get the Mexicans to do something about the gangs, nothing will.”
When Shoe predicted great things for the Rockies and Broncos and Nuggets, I knew it was time to leave. I said I had to bounce. They also decided to leave.
Shoe and Ice agreed to call me to set a time to hang out in lighter circumstances. Shoe really did want to speak ill of the dead and I figured it would take only a few beers to loosen his lips.
Just before we were about to part, I asked, “You guys ever hear of a shorty named Misti Ortiz?”
Ice shook his head and left.
Shoe thought for a few seconds.
“The name is familiar. There’s a Mexican family with a daughter that goes by Misti. I use the term family loosely. Bad news. Mexican OGs—the dark side for sure. The daughter is too young for you, dude. Why you asking?”
“Nothing, really. Sylvia asked me about her.” I didn’t want to open up the can of blackmail worms to Shoe, especially at Artie’s funeral. “She owes her some money, something like that, and now she can’t find her.”
“Syl owes Ortiz money, or the other way around?”
“Syl owes the money. For some stuff for the shop.”
“Not good. You don’t want to owe the Ortiz family any money. That can be unhealthy. But this must be somebody else. Like I said, the Misti Ortiz I heard about is young.”
“Too young to sell second-hand clothes to Sylvia?”
“Well, no. But that’s not something I think a teenager would do, especially one related to the Ortiz clan. They don’t need to sell their clothes. They got other ways of making money.”
“Yeah, I guess,” I said.
We did an old-fashioned, regular handshake. Shoe left.
I looked over the crowd for Linda to say goodbye but I didn’t see her. Many people had stopped by to honor Artie Baca and the house had taken on an awkward and out-of-place party atmosphere. Artie would have liked that, especially the fact that he had a good turnout.
I did see th
e mother, who sat in a recliner with a wet towel wrapped around her forehead. She mumbled to herself. I steeled myself and approached.
She whispered a jumbled prayer, in Spanish. When she opened her eyes I extended my hand. I wanted to make my exit quick and painless.
“Hijo!” she screamed.
I jumped backwards and tripped against a coffee table. I lost my footing on a throw rug that covered a portion of the waxed hardwood floor and fell flat on my back. The mother stood over me, crying and praying.
“Hijo!” she screamed again.
I held up my hands. “I’m not your son.”
Linda appeared at her side. “Carlota, cálmate. That’s not Arturo. He’s gone. Calm down. Go to your room and rest. Take a nap.”
Linda’s son grabbed the old woman’s hand. “Grandma, let’s go. Come with me. It’ll be all right.”
The grandmother quieted. She hugged her grandson and let him lead her away.
I struggled to my feet, breathing again.
“I’m sorry, Gus. Carlota thinks she sees Artie everywhere. Any man the same age—any Mexican-looking man. She’s having a hard time. Artie was her favorite.”
“I never thought I’d be mistaken for Artie. Must be the haircut.”
She didn’t laugh, not even a smile.
“I’m the one who’s sorry. I just wanted to pay my respects and say goodbye. I was leaving.”
“Let me walk you to your car. We haven’t had a chance to talk.”
“Sure.” I assumed she wanted to make amends for the mother’s antics.
“We should talk, Gus. About Artie, of course. There are some things I want to ask you.”
“Whatever I can do, Linda.”
She grabbed my arm and we walked across her precisely xeriscaped yard: neat bushes, flowering cactus, clumps of grasses with hints of red and yellow, a path made of blue and charcoal concrete pavers that zigged and zagged around flowers, plants and insects. I liked that yard. In a way, it reminded me of my mother’s garden and the hours I spent with her working the dirt, pulling weeds and moving the hose. Linda was nothing like my mother. Her pricey landscaping bore no resemblance to my mother’s hard work, but I tricked myself and let the longing take over.
“I hadn’t seen Artie for a while, you know.” I decided to clear that up at the jump.
“That’s what I thought. Then the police told me they found a check on Artie made out to you. That’s one of my questions.”
She dropped my arm and stopped in the middle of her front yard. Bees darted in and out of brilliant purple sage. A hummingbird flitted around a feeder.
“Why was Artie going to give you a thousand dollars, Gus?”
That damn check. Money I didn’t want. Payment for a job I quit before I started. More trouble than it was worth. A thousand dollars of questions and suspicions from cops and a widow.
“Artie stopped by Sylvia’s shop a few days before he, uh, he was . . . ”
“He did? To see you?”
“Yeah. He wanted me to do some work for him. I said yes, but then later I changed my mind.”
“He hired you? Doing what? Whatever it was, it couldn’t have been any good. We both know he wasn’t a boy scout. I hope he didn’t drag you into one of his schemes. You changed your mind?”
“Yes. I decided I didn’t like what he asked me to do. So I was going to tell him he should get someone else. But I never got the chance.” Then I lied. “I didn’t know he had already written a check for the job. Not until the cops told me.”
She looked at me hard, doubting, not believing. Too many details didn’t sit right. First Artie Baca hired Gus Corral—unlikely. Second, I had doubts about the deal after I had agreed to do it for a thousand dollars—even more unlikely. Third, she didn’t know anything about the arrangement—did Artie let her in on all of his plans?
“What was it, Gus? What did Artie want with you?”
“Ah, Linda, I don’t feel good about this. I don’t want to cause any trouble. Artie’s gone. Can’t we just leave it there?”
A bee buzzed near my ear and I jerked away. Linda swayed backwards in reaction to my sudden move. I grabbed her and supported her until she found her balance. She wobbled, but under my touch her strength returned.
“Tell me, Gus. Don’t I have a right to know? The police are looking at you. They think there might be a connection between that check and Artie’s killing. I know that’s crazy. I told them that. But they won’t let it go. You may be in trouble. I can help, if you need it. I just want to know what Artie was up to. I’m his wife, you have to tell me.”
Her voice had gradually reached a higher pitch. She bit her bottom lip and then chewed on the fingernail of her left little finger. Tears filled her eyes.
“All right, all right.” I gave in. “But remember I had decided not to do the job. I couldn’t go through with it.”
She waited in the sun for my explanation. Then I lied again.
“Artie wanted me to spy on you. He wanted me to watch you for a few days, without you knowing. He wanted me to learn if you were having an affair. I guess he thought you were seeing someone else.”
She puckered her lips then coughed into her fist. The cough turned into a snort, then a laugh. She laughed quietly, but she didn’t say anything. She wouldn’t stop laughing but the laughter was silent, kept within herself.
I left her like that. Then I heard a loud and harsh laugh coming from her. For the second time in a few days, a woman had laughed at me when I walked away.
10
Iendured a sleepless night. I blamed my tossing and turning on the heat. That wasn’t the reason but I grasped at anything other than the truth. I couldn’t get the memory of Artie’s funeral out of my head. The sorrowful images of his mother, his kids and his wife picked at me. The scents of dying flowers, dead insects and an old woman’s shawl penetrated my dark room.
Around three in the morning, I recalled a small electric fan sitting on a shelf near the entrance. I hated to get out of bed because I could lose any chance of falling to sleep. The promise of air, however stale, circulating in the cramped back area nudged me. I wrenched myself from my cot and shuffled into the shop.
My face felt slick and warm and the skin around my nose and ears itched. Moonlight and streetlight shone through the front windows. I didn’t flip on the lights.
I saw the fan at the same instant I heard the alley door creak open. I stooped down to the floor. A high-pitched whine filled my ears. Blood rushed from my heart to my brain. I had the sensation of seeing every used gadget, useless trinket and rusted memory in the shop, but I couldn’t hear.
I strained for more sounds that would confirm what I thought happened—someone opened the back door of the store in the middle of the night, someone who did not knock or announce himself, someone who did not rush in after prying the door open.
I crawled to the entrance that separated the back room from the shop. The door remained open and I laid my face near the opening at floor level. I scanned as best I could. I saw my shoes near the legs of the cot and the trash can leaning next to the alley door. A slim ray of light cut across the floor.
The intruders’ athletic shoes moved slowly from side to side. My eyes traveled up his dark pants and shirt. As best I could without moving my head, I tried to see his face. He moved about an inch to his left and hunched down. The light from the front and rear of the store framed him and I clearly saw his clenched jaws and a pencil-thin, neatly trimmed mustache. In his right hand he held a gun.
He shook his head, looked around the room once more and backed out through the doorway. The door closed. My hearing improved enough to hear footsteps along the back of the building. I ducked under my work table where I was out of the light but I could see through the front plate glass.
Several minutes passed before I saw him again. He walked to the front of the store, too casual. He brazenly stared into the picture window. He cupped his eyes and stayed like that for several minutes. Then he disappeared f
rom view. I released my held breath and stood up. My back tensed from the awkward position I’d maintained under the table.
Headlights lit up the street and I fell to my knees. A car sped down the street.
I checked the back door for evidence of the intrusion but it looked the same—easy to jimmy open by anyone who understood the basics of cheap locks.
I shut it and locked it again. I moved a box of Life magazines against the door and felt relatively secure that the box would slow down the next intruder and give me a few seconds warning.
I crawled back on my cot. I had forgotten about the fan, my nightmares and Artie’s funeral. I wouldn’t sleep any better, but I knew that the guy wouldn’t return, not that night anyway.
When the ringing phone woke me, I wasn’t sure if I had dreamed about the mustachioed man with the gun, not until I saw the box of magazines propped against the door.
“Hello,” I said, still not completely awake.
“Gus,” Jerome said. “I have to talk to you. I found out a few things about the Ortiz girl. I’ll be over in a half-hour. You gonna be there, at the shop?”
I hesitated. Jerome sounded too eager.
“Gus? Okay? We need to talk. Today.”
“Why don’t I come to your place? I could use a cup of coffee. I didn’t sleep right.”
“No, man. I can’t talk here. I’ll come to you, and I’ll bring you some coffee. Laters.”
He hung up.
The whine in my ears returned.
I paced around the shop for several minutes. I speculated on what Jerome wanted to tell me and whether he was somehow connected to my visitor from the night before. That was crazy. The intruder could have been anyone, a run-of-the-mill burglar, but my logic quickly crumbled into dust—the guy had been looking for me, he hadn’t stolen anything from the shop when it looked like it was empty. He had to be tied in somehow with Artie.
