The Killing of the Saints

by Alex Abella

  "No, I'm sorry. You go through the channels. I don't do that kind of stuff."

  "But it's the key to Oggún, so he won't be harmed!"

  "Don't worry about him, I'm sure he'll be fine."

  Ramón was insufferably happy when I visited him at County Jail, slapping five with other inmates, whistling, smiling, in all, looking like a man who saw things coming his way.

  "His testimony just convicted you. You couldn't shake him. He says you were the one who did it. Why are you so happy?"

  "Don't you see? He said I didn't mean it!"

  "Yeah, but that you still did it anyhow. Phyllis is going to argue that you were perfectly aware of what the consequences would be if you went to the store armed like you did. She'll say that you had every intention of stealing those jewels, because since you can't prove otherwise, that's exactly what you were doing according to the law, no matter what you may have thought you were doing, whether claiming it for Oggún, Mohammed or Jesus Christ, that's still robbery. And you killed those people. You're a goner, Ramón. Listen, you can still cut a deal."

  "A deal?" Ramón leaned back, as surprised as if I'd slapped him hard across the face. "A deal? Are you crazy? What are you talking about?"

  "I'm talking about living, man, that's what I'm talking about. You will face life without parole or the gas chamber and by the looks of it, you're going to be saying hello to your god sooner than you expected. Phyllis is offering straight life. You'll be eligible for parole in twenty."

  "Twenty years in prison for something I didn't do?"

  "Everybody says you did it and all the evidence is there that you did it. Even your cohort has accused you. What else do you want?"

  "No deals, Nitty."

  "What?"

  "Elliot Ness. What kind of Cuban are you, you don't know Elliot Ness. No deals, Frank Nitty."

  "Ness was the cop, Ramón. You are Nitty."

  "Really? Well, still, forget it. No deal. I didn't do it."

  "Right. My mother did it."

  "No. Your father."

  Chills coursed up and down my spine, goose bumps like someone had scratched a nail on glass. The lights seemed to waver and the walls undulated for just a moment.

  "What did you say?"

  "Just kidding. Oggún, he's our father."

  "Not mine."

  He grinned wolfishly. "What makes you so sure?"

  I hesitated for an instant, then I asked him, point-blank, "Did you ever have me investigated?"

  "Me? Why would I want to do that?"

  "The guy who you tried to hire told me. He also said Kelly may have done it but since Kelly's retired by now, I don't know. I do know he was sleazy enough to have done it. So why did you do it? What did you hope to gain?"

  Ramón shook his head reprovingly. "Your problem, Charlie-"

  "Stop telling me my problems! I am fucking well aware of them. I want to know why the hell you're sending an investigator to look into my fucking life when I'm the only man who's trying to make sure you get a decent shake out of this fucking system. Just who the hell do you think you are?" I rose to my feet, screaming. Ramón didn't budge. He just stared into my eyes and said softly, "I never did such a thing."

  Two deputies rushed over to our booth, blackjacks in hand.

  "Any problems, Charlie?"

  I shook my head. "Just the usual. Ungrateful scumbag."

  "OK, Valdez, let's go. Interview's over."

  A deputy unshackled Ramón from the chair. Ramón stood up, in his most dignified manner, then looked me coldly in the eye. "I wanted to but I didn't. The county wouldn't approve it."

  19

  "y'all must be kidding me!"

  Judge Reynolds looked up from the motions at us, as bewildered as a hound fooled by a possum playing dead. He grabbed the long yellow notepad pages printed neatly by Ramón and shook them in the air, as though wanting to get rid of some noxious roach. He had chosen his chambers to go over the motions informally before making his ruling in public with Ramón present in court. But right now, sitting on his hunter green leather couch, staring at the commendations from the U.S. Attorney's office, the Sheriff's Department and the Tuscaloosa Volunteer Fire Department Association, it did not seem as though Ramón was going to get his request.

  "You are asking this court to pay for the transportation expenses and lodging of an expert all the way from Florida?"

  "Judge, she's the most prominent figure in the field in the entire country."

  "Why the hell can't you call someone a little closer, like San Francisco or Sacramento?"

  "That's where most Cubans live, Judge, and that's where those studies are conducted. Ethnological surveys of the type de Alba conducts are not even done on the West Coast. Besides, she literally wrote the book on the comparative study of Santería to other religions. She's a crucial witness to the case."

  Something I said must have struck home for the judge's angry astonishment now turned to an attitude approaching perplexity, a strange emotion for someone paid to have an opinion about everything. Reynolds picked up his pipe, his latest attempt at controlling the temper that so often threatened to run off with him. He lit the pipe, puffed out signals of vanilla-scented smoke.

  "What do you think, Phyllis?"

  Dressed in white and beige, Phyllis slid her silver bracelets down her wrist.

  "It's a judgment call, Judge. No pun intended. As you know the prosecution cannot get involved in matters like this. But, in general, Itend to agree with you. We don't see the need to bring in someone from three thousand miles away. I'm sure there are perfectly good ethnologists at USC and UCLA."

  "They're not the same," I said. "They're not Cuban, they don't have fifty years of research behind them."

  "I hope you are not saying that only people of the Hispanic race-"

  "Hispanic is not a race, it's an ethnic group."

  "Whatever. That only those people can study it."

  "That's not at all what I'm saying. What I'm saying is that we're entitled to the best."

  "At county expense?"

  "You pay your consultants two hundred fifty dollars an hour for drunk driving cases. Why are you worrying about this?"

  Reynolds put down his pipe. "I think I've heard enough."

  "Before you reach your decision, Judge, I want to remind you again that the prosecution is inalterably opposed to this kind of evidence. We feel Santería and religion have no bearing on this matter and we are opposed to the introduction of such as a defense. "

  I couldn't let that pass-even though I fleetingly saw images of gods vanishing in and out of the white walls.

  "Judge, that's the heart of the defense. Valdez' position, as he has explained it to me, is that the events can only be understood if viewed within the religious context. Valdez is an active member of the cult, a priest, in fact, and the jewels that were taken were presents to the god."

  Reynolds reached for his pipe again. "That raises a very interesting proposition, Charlie. Does that mean he's suggesting that anyone whose sacred objects are taken from him-whether justly or unjustly-has the right to murder the person who took them?"

  I paused, thought quickly on how to respond. The cross of the Jesus Saves church glistened in the distance.

  "Judge, that's implying that these deaths were a deliberate act of punishment against the perpetrators of that hypothetical crime, which is not the case at hand. However, on a historical note, I should point out that in fact millions of people have done just that and with the sanction of the highest religious figure in Christendom. It was called the Crusades and we had four of them."

  Phyllis sneered. "You're not going to compare some voodoo- hoodoo mumbo jumbo with the faith that is the ideological under-pinning of our society."

  This was easy to counter, though not necessarily to be believed.

  "True, but that was a mere accident of history. Christianity was only one of several cults prominent in the Roman Empire around the time of the Caesars. If not for Nero and Tiberiu
s, who united the Christians because of their persecution, we might be on our knees before the sun symbol of Zoroaster or the bull of the Mithraic cult."

  "Charlie, your knowledge is impressive but like my momma used to say, it ain't worth spit here."

  "I'd say it's worth more than that, Judge. This cult, religion, whatever it is you choose to call it, is at the same stage as Christianity was at the time of the Emperor Valerian."

  "Who?" asked Reynolds.

  "A hundred years before Constantine made it official. Its followers are strong-minded zealots, not unlike Saint Paul."

  "I never read in the Bible that Saint Paul killed innocent women and children," countered Phyllis.

  "Maybe not, but old Jehovah did a thing or two to Sodom and Gomorrah as I recall-not to mention Pharaoh and the Egyptians."

  Phyllis was going to argue some more but Reynolds cut her off.

  "Charlie, I'm impressed. I'm going to add another credit to your list, theological prevaricator. I will let the evidence in. This is the kind of thing a jury should decide."

  "Excuse me, but I thought that already had been settled. What about the fee?"

  Reynolds sucked on his pipe. "Unfortunately that I cannot authorize. She's not on our list of approved experts. I'll tell you what, get yourself a local expert. Or better yet, maybe your boy can tell us all about it when he takes the stand. Though maybe you should, you probably know more about it than he does."

  The address was on Bonnie Brae, a few blocks away from MacArthur Park, in the kind of neighborhood that has to be barricaded and turned into a prison camp patrolled by the men in blue before neighbors can walk outside. A row of banged-up aluminum garbage cans overbrimming with refuse was lined up in front of the building. From an open window came the brassy sounds of salsa music, the aural counterpart to the smell of decay and cat piss. A handful of jivey vatos drinking beer on a stoop eyed me briefly as I stepped into the vaulted entryway leading to the inner courtyard. A crisscross of balconies rose before my eyes for eight stories. This looks familiar, I thought, as I climbed the stairs to the fifth floor, the steps and landings covered with tiny black and white tiles. The moment I knocked at the door I remembered. This was where Lucinda and Ramón had moved after Pasadena, this was where I had slipped my card under Lucinda's door, looking for her so long ago.

  It was the last door at the end of a darkened hallway. From inside the apartment I could hear a guitar and a violin playing a sad Mexican tune. A small woman with a three-colored rebozo opened the door. Brown, round faced, with buck teeth, she seemed an exotic but friendly type of rodent.

  "Who is this who knocks at the house of Ramo in this hour of happiness?" she queried in the musical Spanish of southern Mexicans. I could smell the pulque on her breath.

  "Buenas tardes. I am looking for the family of Pedro Ramo."

  "Please step forward, sir. You have found the house you were looking for. May the great happiness descend on you on this great day."

  She stepped aside and ushered me inside. About fourteen people were crammed into a small room no bigger than twenty by twenty, drinking beer, tequila and spiked hibiscus flower punch. A gigantic pyramid-shaped altar took up the far wall of the room. Decorated with brightly colored foil and divided into shelves, the altar was set with offerings-faded photographs in tin frames, beeswax candles, fruits, flowers, cones of brown sugar and chocolate, sweet Mexican breads, cigarettes and liquor.

  In the middle of the room, the guitar player and violinist played their tune to the object of the ceremony, the aim of the spectacle-a dead boy in a pine coffin. About four years old, the child was dressed in a little brown suit, his bulging eyes closed, a cowlick of jet black hair still standing from the crown of his head. The guitar player sang:

  "Goodbye, my loved ones

  I go to sad oblivion

  Goodbye, my dear home,

  where I was laid to rest.

  Goodbye, my dear house

  where once I roomed

  I beg of all my loved ones

  Not to forget I once was.

  From this world all you will gather

  No matter how much gold you have

  Is a poor man's death box

  In which you will depart."

  A short dark-skinned man, his eyes rimmed red from tears, came up to me. "Whoever you are, stranger, welcome to this day of great happiness to us."

  I didn't know what to say-what kind of unorthodox custom had I chanced upon that would celebrate death with joy?

  "You are Pedro Ramo?"

  "Yes, but on this day I am the proud father too of Leonardo, who has gone over the mountains to join the chorus of little children in the valley of the moon. Drink to our happiness, por favor, join us!" He pressed a can of Tecate on me.

  "I am sorry."

  "No need for that. We tried to keep him with us but the music over there was too sweet."

  "I am here because I am the court-appointed investigator on the case of Ramón Valdez."

  "Who?" His face creased into puzzlement.

  "Ramón Valdez, a black Cuban. He said you know him."

  "Allow me to question my wife. I do not remember him."

  Juan walked a few feet away to where his wife, the teary-eyed cook, was patting down a tortilla. I looked around the room and smelled sweet freesias, incense and beer, tequila and sadness.

  "I am sorry I had forgotten. My wife, she tells me you must mean the brujo, Don Ramón."

  "Yes, I suppose so."

  He stood firmly on both legs, thumped his chest.

  "I will be happy to lay down my life for Don Ramón. He came here and convinced my boy to stay with us on this earth last year, when he was so desirous of going over to the other side. Just tell me what I can do."

  "If you can come and testify for him in court that he's a man of good character."

  "Good? He's the best. No one here owes him a greater debt than I and I will always stand ready to pay it back. Here, take this, help us celebrate my son's departure." I lifted the shot glass and gulped down the fiery mescal.

  Juan's eyes filled with tears. "Tell Don Ramón we love him and that we will be there when he wants us."

  "Good. I will come for you then." I put the shot glass down on the table by the dead boy. "Tell me, did he charge you anything for your son?"

  "No," he said proudly, "he did it all, he said, for the love of God."

  My apartment was empty when I returned. Not empty in the physical sense, for all my furniture was there, the Tabriz rug on the hardwood floor, the Frank Romero painting of the freeways on the wall, the TV and the stereo and the answering machine, the leather couch and the cocktail table with a half-drunk bottle of wine, all those things were there. In the bedroom, too, the down cover on the bed, the old Philippine santo on the oak dresser, all the other details that spell domesticity were still there-all except for Lucinda and her things.

  Her closet was cleaned out, her suitcase gone, her cosmetics swept up or tossed into the garbage. Only a solitary hair barrette had been forgotten, hidden at the back of a bathroom shelf. In the entire apartment, the only other trace left of her was a picture of the two of us taken in front of Sleeping Beauty's Castle in Disneyland.

  Five o'clock. At first, when she had just moved in, at this time she would have been waiting for me, glass of Cabernet in hand, Vivaldi on the stereo, the garlicky, oniony smell of Cuban cooking greeting me from the kitchen. She would kiss me, dressed in a silk palazzo outfit that would feel cool against my fingers and I would slip the top off and we would fall into bed, while the overhead fan stirred the orange blossom air. But first the cooking stopped, then she would no longer run to me when I came home, then even the music ended. Lately all I had were her notes, in her childish scrawl, telling me she'd be working late at Enzo's again. Then, in the middle of the night, she would arrive reeking of garlic and wine, more than a little tipsy, waking me up with her laughter and her sudden desire for sex, which would find her passing out in the middle of the act,
face turned to the wall. In the mornings I would leave her still sleeping, white sheets draped around her tawny skin, gathered and enfolded like a babe in swaddling, tendrils of coppery hair falling off her brow like a madonna's.

  I searched the apartment for a letter or a note but found none. The green light of the answering machine blinked on and off. I played back the message. Lucinda's sparkling voice came through, against a background of rattling dishes.

  "Hola, Carlitos, how are you?" she said in Spanish. "You must have seen by now that my things are gone. Nothing has happened to me, I just moved. I am sorry but for a long time I have had the feeling that our relations were drawing to a close. I'm calling because I didn't know how to tell you all this in writing and I don't think I have the courage to tell you face to face. I don't know what happened. These things happen but I never thought it would happen to us too. I know it's not your fault but I don't think-" A buzz as the time allotted for an answer on my machine ran out.

  Another beep and the following: "Hola, it's me again. I guess I have to make this short. I'll be all right. I moved to an apartment around here that Enzo helped me find. He says he'll also increase my hours and my salary so I don't have to rely on your support. Well, I don't know, I guess that's it. God bless you for all you have done. We had some wonderful times together, Charlie, and you'll always be in my heart. I love-" The beep went off in the middle of the phrase and darkness fell over the fields like a hood over the head of the victim.