Desperado

by Manuel Ramos

  The trunk lid of Inti’s car popped open in the crash. Four suitcases filled the trunk. When the police opened the luggage they found bags of heroin, cocaine, marijuana and money, and a box of handguns and bullets.

  The fast food manager gave the Durango vaquero a free Big Breakfast and three Happy Meals for his kids. The cowboy drank coffee, talked with the police and waited for a tow truck.

  22

  Ihad too much to think over in the days following the shootout. The death and blood and terror turned me into a thinker, something no teacher ever accomplished. I felt responsible for what Corrine and Isabel had gone through and for the mess I made of Jerome’s life. Hell, I felt sorry about Manuel—he did what he could to help and all it meant for him was an epitaph for another dead cartel thug.

  My sick conscience bothered me most about Misti Ortiz. As far as I knew she was alive, even if she had to live with her crazy brother. She gave us hope when it looked like we were finished, and though her motive may have been simple—blood simple—she took a risk for us without any expected pay-off except the slim chance that one of us might kill her brother. Had Lorenzo figured out that she’d slipped us a gun? Was she paying the price for the totally screwed-up outcome of his outrageous plan? Was there something I should do for her?

  I played around with the idea of calling her or trying to see her, but it didn’t take long to conclude that was a dumb move, for her and me. I stalled and my guilt trip ended where it started, nowhere.

  I tried to hide out after my release. I knew Lorenzo Ortiz would come after me. He needed his payback the way other men needed water, and I seriously thought again about running away.

  Shoe helped with that problem. He stopped by the shop. I hesitated before I finally let him in the back door.

  “I guess you can relax now,” he said.

  “Really? Why’s that?”

  “Ortiz has left the building. Word is that he’s back in Mexico, running from the feds, his old gang, even the pope’s cops. No one’s heard from him since the mess at the Majestic. His club and restaurants are closed. All of his real estate deals are canceled. No one is taking care of business. He’s gone, Gus. He’s probably dead by now. He double-crossed the wrong people and it finally caught up to him.”

  “I won’t believe it until I see him stretched out in his coffin.” Shoe laughed and eventually he convinced me that we should at least get a beer to celebrate. I agreed, but I didn’t feel all that good about it.

  We walked a couple of blocks over to Pirandello’s, a bar we hadn’t visited in years. During the walk we talked about the North Side.

  I told him I resented the new people, the new buildings, the increased traffic and the expensive restaurants. I cursed everything and everyone that was new. I felt bitter and suspicious. I could blame that on Lorenzo Ortiz.

  “You know, I think I like it, Gus,” Shoe said.

  I let it go. There was nothing I could do about it and Shoe had a right to his opinion.

  “You can take me out to dinner one of these nights. Show off the new North Side.”

  He laughed and we walked into the bar.

  We couldn’t remember why we stopped drinking at Pirandello’s. The best we came up with was something to do with too many karaoke nights, not that we remembered the nights in that much detail. We finally agreed that it didn’t matter.

  The bartender looked like she’d seen better days, back when Reagan was president. She asked what we wanted, not with words but with her eyes and wrinkled forehead. She did not smile when we ordered. In fact, she didn’t say a word to us the entire time we were seated at the bar. Again, I told Shoe that it did not matter.

  The place ebbed and flowed with the dynamics of the neighborhood for decades. It offered decent Little Devils—sausage sandwiches with green chile strips. The beer was always cold. We recalled nights when beer pitchers flew across the room and drunks punched each other in the restrooms. We talked about those nights for a few minutes. At the time, we regretted being on the scene. That afternoon, Shoe and I made it sound as though those flying pitchers and toilet wrestling matches were some of the greatest memories two guys from the North Side could have.

  I was relieved when Shoe finally made it to his point. He said how he couldn’t even begin to imagine what I had gone through. “Surreal,” he said. “The Virgin thing, kidnapped and the way you were forced to try to steal it, and those maniac Mexicans. Surreal. Surrealistic. They should make a movie out of your life, Gus. You have to tell me everything.”

  I did—most of it, anyway. Some details I’d never reveal to Shoe, or anyone else. Only Jerome and I would know. Shoe shook his head and pounded the bar with his hand.

  When he finally tired of asking for more about the shooting and the guys who were killed, and how Jerome and I survived, I asked him about what I wanted to know.

  “What are people saying about me now that most of the story’s gone public?”

  “Well, everyone’s surprised by Corrine, you can guess that. But then, no one is, if you know what I mean.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I know what you mean. That’s Corrine.”

  “An original, one-of-a-kind. Only on the North Side.” We raised our glasses to Corrine.

  “How about me?” I asked. “Anyone say anything about the mess I made of things, about how I almost got my sister killed?”

  Shoe looked at me over the rim of his glass of beer. “You’re kidding, right? No one talks like that. Least, no one I know, or anyone who knows you. You did what you had to do. Those guys were insane, crazy insane. I think most people believe you handled it pretty good, Gus. You and Jerome. Some of the boys told me they didn’t think you had it in you. They mean it in a good way.”

  “I don’t know why I even care. But I’m tripping on what people think. I should get over it.”

  “That’s right. Move on, bro. You and Corrine and Jerome made it out alive. Isabel, too. Now, that’s someone you should make amends to. Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  All those years she doesn’t have any contact with you, then she hooks up with you for one night, and the next thing, she almost ends up shot and who knows what else by cartel hitters. You ought to deal with her, Gus. That would be my recommendation.”

  Shoe was right. We finished a few more beers, then he took off. I walked back to the shop where I thought about Isabel for a long time. Isabel suffered the brunt of Lorenzo’s brutality and all because of a one-night stand that we both forgot about almost before the night was over.

  The next day I gave her a call and she agreed to meet me for a late lunch, reluctantly, for sure, but she said that we needed to wrap things up. She used the word “closure.” I began to believe that Lorenzo Ortiz was gone from my life and I could do things like lunch dates.

  She picked Gaetano’s and that was okay with me. I could always be talked into sausage, peppers and spaghetti.

  The restaurant had a colorful, but seedy history. The Smaldone family had owned the place for years and used it as a center for illegal gambling. According to Denver tradition, the Smaldones were one of the few crime families operating out of Denver, back when “crime family” meant La Cosa Nostra, wise guys and goodfellas. That part of the story was over, but the place still looked like a mobster’s clubhouse. Dark woods and fancy wallpaper covered the walls. Italian love songs or opera solos played in the background. Frank, Dino and Sammy smiled from the walls. A sign near the cash register glamorized Rat Pack culture. The menu hadn’t changed in decades.

  Isabel looked good, considering all that she had been through. She always bounced back from whatever teenaged trauma she endured as a kid. The security and confidence were still there. My luck with women had been nothing but bad, so spending time with one of my high school dream lovers was an unexpected but pleasant surprise. At least it looked that way after the fact. She rushed out of my bed in the morning like the mattress was made of nails, and we didn’t have any contact since then except for the fo
rced association we endured because of Lorenzo Ortiz. Even so, she smiled when she saw me sitting in the corner booth.

  The meeting started off awkward with me stumbling over apologies and questions about how she was doing. She responded with more patience than I deserved. I thought she had every right to rip into me, but she didn’t go there. During the meal she tried to minimize the harm she suffered at the hands of her kidnappers. She kept talking, and by the time our tiramisu arrived, she quietly cried and leaned against my shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, Isabel. It’s my fault. I dragged you into this.”

  “Those animals weren’t going to let anything get in the way of what they were after. If it hadn’t been for Corrine . . . ” She didn’t finish her sentence. The idea of what could have happened to her and Corrine was still too frightening, too raw, for her to talk about.

  “Yeah, that’s always been the way with my sister. I owe her a lot, too many times. It turned out for the best that you ended up with her. She’s the only person I know who could have done what she did to that guy in the McDonald’s drive-through.”

  That image made her laugh. A small, almost silent laugh, but still a laugh.

  “One good thing,” she said. “I’m writing like crazy. I can’t stop the poems. I’m learning the near-death experience makes a good muse.”

  I hugged her tighter and we rested on one another and let everything else slip away. We didn’t speak or move. After a couple of minutes she scooted away and drank some wine.

  “It’s funny,” she said. “We’re talking about our nightmare with gangsters in this place that used to be a Mafia hangout.”

  “Yeah, if you say so. I just like the food. Always have. But even this place will transform. It has to clean up its act for the new North Side. I mean Highlands. Excuse me.”

  She ate a bit more dessert but finally she put down her fork. She finished her glass of wine.

  “I should go, Gus. I have a meeting to get ready for the start of school. Thanks for doing this. It means a lot. I appreciate that.”

  She stood up. I grabbed her wrist.

  “I want to see you again. I’ll call?”

  She looked out the large window onto the street.

  “I can’t. Not now. Let me catch my breath, get on with my normal life.” She moved her hand away from mine. “I’ll call, Gus. One of these days.”

  It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

  That week turned out to be my time for tying up loose ends.

  When I showed up at Linda Baca’s fancy front door, her face told me all I needed to understand. She didn’t know I was coming over and I had to be the last person she expected.

  Her voice hid what her face revealed.

  She let me in the house and said, “Gus. So happy you came by. I’ve been meaning to call you. I heard about all the trouble. Your arrest. What a horrible thing. Corrine—is she okay?”

  “Yeah, Corrine is fine. You know her. Strongest one in the family. She saved Isabel Scutti’s life.”

  She nodded. “Yes, I’ve always admired Corrine.”

  That sounded strange since Linda and Corrine moved in completely different circles—people, events and situations that would never intersect.

  “The last time we saw each other,” she said, “at the new condos. I need to explain. That was so messed up.”

  “That’s one way to look at it. Messed up, with me thrown out because you and your friend didn’t want me asking questions.”

  “You have to understand, Gus. I didn’t know what you were saying, or doing, or why you were acting like that.”

  I looked around the room that could cover Sylvia’s shop and then some. “You alone?” I asked. “No Ray Olivas?”

  She tried to smile but she didn’t quite succeed. She still projected strength and control, but her eyes blinked too many times and her words came out too quickly.

  “No, I mean, yes. I’m here with the kids and my mother-in-law, but Raymond isn’t here. Why would he be?”

  I didn’t hear any sounds from other rooms—no TV, music or people talking. I doubted that the kids and grandma were really in the house.

  “Just a hunch.”

  She sat down on the leather couch and made a motion with her hand for me to sit on a multi-colored recliner.

  “You want a drink?”

  “No, not now.”

  I waited. She seemed lost in her thoughts without any intention of starting the conversation. She forced her attention back to me.

  “Raymond is, was, Artie’s partner,” she said. “I told you that, didn’t I?”

  I nodded. “And your lover.”

  She started to stand up, but her body sagged and she slumped back on the couch.

  “I guess there’s no need to lie to you about that. Enough people know the truth. You might as well, too.”

  “I don’t care what kind of marriage you and Artie had, or really anything about your personal life.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Your boyfriend broke into my home. He was looking for something, me I assume. I thought you could explain that before I tried to get an explanation from him. Since you and I are old friends and everything.”

  “I told him that was a mistake. He never should have done that. He could have been hurt, or someone else, or you. He even took a gun. He wasn’t thinking. He could have been arrested. It was all for nothing.”

  “I don’t get it. What do you two think I have that you could possibly want? It can’t be anything about Artie. Like you said to the cops, we hadn’t been close for years.”

  She grabbed a glass of dark liquid that sat on the coffee table and took a hurried drink.

  “Those days just before Artie was killed were strange. A lot of weirdness. Artie told me that Lorenzo Ortiz tried to get in on our business, that he wanted to be an investor, as he put it. I told him to stay away from Ortiz, but Artie never said he severed whatever ties he had to that man. So some of what Ray did came from that.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” I said.

  “Like I said, those few days were so crazy.”

  “But there’s more to why Olivas broke into the shop, isn’t there?”

  She took another drink.

  “Yeah, okay.” Another pause. “We were worried that Artie had set up something to block me from getting my share of the company, especially with Ortiz possibly forcing his way in. We thought he wrote me out of the business. When you told me that Artie wanted you to check on me because I was having an affair, I didn’t believe you.”

  I shrugged. I had made up my story on the spot and hadn’t expected much from it.

  “Artie didn’t care enough that he would actually spy on me,” she continued. “Raymond wasn’t so sure. He believed Artie knew about us, and that you were part of a plan to cut out both of us, Raymond and me.”

  I shook my head.

  “I know, I know,” she said. “For Raymond, it was about the money and the business. It had to be, in his mind. He thought Artie planned for an advantage in a divorce, and he wanted to learn all he could about Ortiz and his involvement. I told him I had plenty on Artie, that he could never have any so-called advantage. Ray couldn’t let it go. He told me that Artie might have given you something that could be used against us, or maybe you had photographs, or recordings, I don’t know what. He wanted to find it, to be prepared, he said. I told him we should leave it alone.”

  “That’s so wrong. By the time he broke into the shop, Artie was already dead. What could he do to you?”

  “With Artie gone, Ray thought you might try something.”

  “What? Me?”

  “We were both out of control. I told you, it was all crazy. Artie had been killed. A gangster threatened to move in on the business.

  You said Artie hired you to check up on me. We didn’t think through any of it. Ray just acted.”

  “If there had been anything, if I had found something, Artie would have confronted you directly. Or he would have g
one straight to Olivas. He wouldn’t have sat on it.” I remembered how quickly Artie’s plan unraveled. “If he had time to act.”

  She shook her glass and her drink swished around the bottom. “Frankly, Gus, I didn’t think you were a threat. Ray was uneasy, nervous, and he decided he needed to talk to you. That’s what he told me. He thought he could get the information from you. When he didn’t find you that night, he realized his mistake and we let it go. I argued that he should stay away from you. He eventually agreed. What could we do anyway?”

  “You could have asked me, Linda. I told you I decided not to do anything for Artie. You should have believed me.”

  “Yes, you’re right, of course.” She looked at me. “What can I do about it now?”

  “Nothing.” I was finished with her. “That night at the condo party, you both should have leveled with me then.”

  “I’m sorry about that, Gus. We shouldn’t have treated you that way. I was overwhelmed when you accused Raymond. I was confused. I didn’t know what else to do. I only wanted you to be gone so that we could go on. We had a lot riding on that project. I was afraid that . . . ”

  “That I would embarrass you and ruin it for you and Olivas? Is that it?”

  “Something like that.” I stood up to leave.

  “Now that Artie is dead,” I said, “you’ve learned that he didn’t do anything to jeopardize your share of his business, or what Olivas should get as his partner. Lorenzo Ortiz made his move but Artie kept him out. You learned that directly from Ortiz the night at the reception for the Don Quixote building.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Artie and I go back a long way, before you, remember? One thing he always talked about was family. That meant something to him, at one time.”

  She sunk deeper into her couch.

  “In fact, and I’m guessing again, I’d say Artie took pretty good care of you and the kids. Right?”

  She looked at me and reluctantly nodded. She finished her drink and clumsily slammed the glass on her coffee table. She and Artie had been together for years. That was really all I had to know.