by Toni Andrews
“If Gus goes after Joaquin and there’s a fight, gunshots or something, maybe someone would call 9-1-1,” Jorge said. “It’s a long shot, but I don’t mind listening for a while.”
“Ay, Dios.” I turned to see Teresa clutching the wall. Apparently, Gus’s name and the word gunshots in the same sentence was too much for her. Several relatives hurried to prop her up.
“Take her back to bed,” Hilda fussed. “And don’t worry, Teresa, no one’s going to follow Mercy to that place—what did you call it?”
“Papi’s,” I said. “Look, my cell is on, and I’m going to try to keep reaching Tino.” I had a thought. “Teresa?”
The procession leading her back down the hall paused, and she turned to look at me. “Yes?”
“Do you think Gus could have gotten hold of a gun?”
She bit her lip. “I don’t think anyone in the Hombres is going to give him one right now, with Gordo in charge. Except Joaquin, and that’s who he’s going after.”
“Do you think he already has one? Hidden in the house?”
She shrugged, then winced, pain visible on her face. “It would have to be hidden pretty well, otherwise I’d have found it when I was cleaning.”
I thought about that spotless kitchen and nodded. “Even so, it might be worth stopping by, to see if he’s hiding out there. Do you have a key?”
“In my purse, in the bedroom.”
I followed the group down the hall to get the key. Once Teresa was reinstalled in the bed, she reached for my hand. I gave it to her.
“Remember what we talked about. Whatever you can do.”
You have no idea.
She quirked an eyebrow, and I wondered if she’d heard the thought. She released my hand, and I left.
“My cell will be on,” I called back to Hilda and crew from the front door. “Call me if you hear anything.”
I’d gotten an entire ring of keys from Teresa, including one that bypassed the security code on the front gate. Yellow police tape crossed the front and side doors, but I doubted there was an active crime scene investigation going on, since Teresa had identified her attackers.
I let myself in through the mud room, passed the laundry area and headed into the kitchen. “Gus?” I called. “Are you here?” Then, pressing, I added, “Answer if you can hear me.” I’d never pressed someone out of my line of sight, but it was worth a shot. The house remained silent.
A chair still lay on its side, and there was blood on the floor, a puddle near the counter, and then footprints and wheel marks, probably from policemen and ambulance personnel, and the gurney that had carried Teresa out. A sugar bowl was broken on the floor, its contents mixed with the congealed blood. It gave me a queasy feeling, and I turned toward the sink.
A glass and plate were sitting there, milky water half filling the glass. I couldn’t imagine Teresa leaving dishes to soak, even for five minutes, so they probably hadn’t been there at the time of the shooting. Gus must have been here. And, being a teenager, he’d taken time for a snack.
“Gus?” I pushed through a swinging door, finding myself in the small dining room I’d come through on my way from the front door on my previous visit. The living room was on the opposite side of the staircase leading to the second floor, and I only glanced around it before heading up the stairs. “Are you up here?”
The sunny front bedroom leading to the balcony was obviously Teresa’s. The bed was made, the inevitable sunflower bedspread immaculate, and everything looked undisturbed. Gus wouldn’t hide something in here—Teresa probably dusted it, including the back corners of the closets, twice a week.
There were smaller rooms on the opposite side of the hall. I opened the first door and found myself in a time capsule. Not one from a different century, but perhaps twenty years ago. Movie posters dominated the walls: Goodfellas, Pulp Fiction and Terminator 2. There was a bookcase with few books, and a stack of magazines sat in one corner—Low Rider and Classic Car. Some martial arts gear was on display as well—Chinese throwing stars and a ceremonial dagger.
Tino’s room, probably decorated when he was Gus’s age or a little older. I backed out.
Gus’s room was a more current version of Tino’s, with posters tending toward horror and military titles, most featuring lots of gore and half-naked women. The one commemorating Memento felt out of place. There were still some carryovers from little-boy days, a lampshade depicting Spider-Man, and an action figure—one of those that’s either a robot or a heavily armored alien or both—on his bedside shelf. The bedspread looked slightly rumpled, as if someone had been sitting on the bed. I would lay odds Teresa demanded hospital corners on sheets and smoothed any wrinkles out of the bedspread the moment she spotted them.
I opened the closet, which was far too neat for a teenager’s. Hell, it was far too neat for me, my own closet being relatively tidy only because it was less than half-full. I closed the door and turned around, embarrassed at this glimpse into someone’s private domain. I’m not a voyeur by nature, and, in any case, this was pointless. If there had been a gun hidden somewhere here, Gus had already retrieved it, snarfed down a sandwich and headed off.
As I turned to leave the bedroom, I noticed another poster next to the door. It was for a movie called City of God. The picture showed a dark-skinned boy of eleven or twelve, his body covered with sweat and his teeth bared, face contorted in ecstatic rage. He was pointing an enormous revolver at someone off camera, its muzzle glowing as a shot exited the barrel. I shivered.
Papi’s was almost empty, except for a couple of grizzled patrons who might have been carved into the furniture. Although it was not yet noon, half-filled beers and shot glasses sat in front of them. They would, I knew, nurse the drinks to make them last as long as possible, keeping enough alcohol in their systems so their hands didn’t shake, but never quite achieving the oblivion of a full-on drunk.
Men like this, with different accents but similar stories, had taught me to play pool in the barrooms of a city on another coast. Back then I skipped school, then used the press to convince bartenders and patrons that I was old enough to stay. The dimly lit, dusty environs were better than the noisy video arcades and malls, where I’d have to dodge truant officers and older kids. Libraries and bookstores had offered sanctuary, but well-meaning clerks and librarians asked questions, so I’d fled to pool halls and dingy, sour-smelling bars, where daytime patrons had little to say.
“Has Tino been here?” I asked Papi.
He stared at me, then shook his head, bulldog jowls quivering.
I sighed, wishing he would just tell me the truth without my having to force him, but no. I pressed. “Papi—” I started, then changed my mind about what I was going to ask. “Tell me your name. Your real name.”
“Eduardo.”
“So Papi’s just a nickname.”
He shrugged. “It came with the cantina. I bought it, people started to call me Papi. I don’t see no reason to stop them.” His English was heavily accented, but good. He’d just spoken more words that I’d heard from him in all my previous visits combined.
“Eduardo, tell me if you’ve seen Tino or any of the Hombres Locos this morning.”
“Tino was here about an hour ago. Gordo was with him, and some of the other Hombres.”
“Did you overhear what they were saying?”
He shook his head again. Annoyed, I realized I’d forgotten to press. “Tell me what you overheard,” I said, and he winced. I’d pushed harder than I’d intended.
“They were talking about Joaquin and Nestor. Who their relatives are, stuff like that. Places they might hide out.”
“Were they going to look for them?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where? Tell me.”
He grimaced, and I forcibly calmed myself. I was pushing way too hard.
“Gordo went with Jaime to a restaurant in Anaheim—Joaquin’s tío, his uncle, runs it. And Tino was going to some junkyard.”
Tino would h
ave chosen the most likely lead for himself. As I recalled, there were a lot of salvage yards in the area, many of them in a neighborhood not far from the train station. Tino and I had passed by one when we’d gone to pick up Gus. I remembered the sign warning trespassers about a vicious dog and wished I’d brought Cupcake with me.
“Do you know the name of the junkyard?”
“No.”
Damn. I picked up a bar napkin and pulled a pen from a cup next to the cash register.
“I’m writing down my cell phone number. If Tino comes back in here today, or Gordo, I want you to call me. Will you do that?”
“I’ll call you if Tino or Gordo comes in.”
“If they come in today.” I didn’t want to still be getting phone calls from Papi—Eduardo—six weeks, much less six months, from now. With luck, I would never have a reason to set foot inside this place again.
Back in my Honda, I called Hilda. “Can you look something up on the Internet for me?”
“I can try. Or maybe Lourdes can do it—she’s been on the computer a lot since she got here. Did you find out where they went?”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll get Lourdes to pick up the phone in my office. Lourdes!”
I listened to the indistinct buzz of voices for a moment—Hilda must be in the kitchen—then there was a click, presumably the office extension being picked up.
“Hello?” said an unfamiliar voice.
“Lourdes?” I asked.
“Yes. Hilda, I got it. You can hang up now.” There was a clunk, and the muffled voices were silent. “Hilda said you wanted me to find something on the Internet.” Lourdes had virtually no accent, and I could hear the click of fingernails on the keyboard.
“Yes, I’m looking for junkyards in Santa Ana, and maybe Orange or Tustin—something near the Santa Ana border.”
More clicking. “There’s a lot of them,” she said. “You didn’t get a name?”
“No, but I seem to remember there are a bunch of them all on one street. Tino’s in the Malibu, right?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Well, it wasn’t parked at Papi’s, and it’s pretty easy to spot. So I figured I’d head over to that street—”
“I got you. There’s Buzzy’s and Part Heaven on First Street, and then there’s a whole bunch over on Washington. You know where that is? Sort of behind the train station.”
“I remember seeing the area from the freeway, but I wasn’t sure how to get to it.”
“You near Papi’s? You know how to get to Main Street?”
“I’m almost there.”
“Turn left when you get there, go up to Santa Ana Boulevard, and you’ll see the signs for the station. Go on past it, and turn left on Lincoln, toward the freeway. There’s a tire place on the corner, I think.”
“Thanks, Lourdes. If I don’t see Tino’s car around there somewhere, I’ll call you back, and we’ll figure out where I should try next.”
“Okay.”
I was stopped at a light, so I punched in Tino’s number again, but it was still going straight to voice mail.
The Santa Ana Regional Transportation Center was an attractive building, built in the 1930s and restored in the 1980s, when it was expanded to become a hub for buses as well as trains. The blocks immediately adjoining it were respectable enough, but a couple of turns and I was on junkyard row. High walls topped with razor wire mostly hid the blocks of derelict cars from passing traffic.
The walls were occasionally punctuated by chain-link gates that exposed rows and rows of automobiles in various states of salvage. Squat buildings operated as storefronts, dotted with signs offering discounts for customers and threats to trespassers.
Perro Feroz signs appeared on nearly every business, many showing the outline of an angry looking canine with huge fangs. Signs advertising Pick Your Own confused me, until I remembered that many of these places simply directed visitors to a car of the desired make and model, and let them remove whatever parts they wanted. There were plenty of cars parked along the street, but I didn’t see any baby blue convertibles. I drove slowly, peering into alleys and side streets, with no luck.
I was circling back, trying to figure out if I’d missed anything, when my cell phone rang. I looked for a place to pull over but didn’t see anything convenient. “Hello?”
“It’s Lourdes. Jorge heard something on the radio.”
“On the radio?” I was momentarily confused. “You mean the police band radio?”
“Yeah. A report of shots fired on First Street somewhere.” She paused, and it sounded as if she had put her hand over the receiver, as she shouted. “Tío Jorge, did you get the address?” Then, to me, “He didn’t get it, but I thought—”
“Hold on,” I told her. “I think I hear sirens.”
“Are they close?”
“I can’t tell where they’re coming from. But I’m only a few blocks from First Street, so I’ll go that way. I should be able to see where the police cars are headed.”
I was back on Santa Ana Avenue, heading toward Main, when a couple of cruisers, lights flashing and sirens blaring, flew by on Main Street, still several blocks ahead of me. Before I made it to the intersection, they were followed by a paramedic unit. My heart rate increased. What the hell did they need paramedics for? I stamped down on the accelerator. No one was going to bother to pull me over for speeding with gunfire reported only a few blocks away.
I made the turn onto Main in time to see which direction the paramedic truck turned, but a red light and crossing traffic prevented me from catching up.
The enforced pause also gave me time to think. I couldn’t pull up into the middle of a police situation and start asking questions. Well, I could, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to. It probably has nothing to do with Tino and Gus, I told myself. This hopeful thought was shattered when I turned the corner and saw a huge sign in the shape of a tow truck pulling a wrecked car into a fluffy cloud bearing the words Part Heaven, maybe two and a half blocks down on my right. Gunshots at a junkyard—that couldn’t be a coincidence. Two police cruisers blocked the street, and I slowed down, uncertain what to do next.
I pulled into a tiny parking lot in front of an unoccupied building that used to be a motorcycle repair shop. It connected to a driveway that ran along the side of the building. Wondering if it led to the alley in the back, I pulled in, but found myself in a smaller lot behind the building, access to the alley blocked by a concrete wall. I pulled forward at an angle, preparing to make a multiple point turn, when something caught my eye through a narrow gap in the wall. Something baby blue.
I put the car in reverse and backed up until I was even with the gap. I could just make out about ten inches of shining blue car body and a chrome logo. Malibu. The rest of the car was hidden by two Dumpsters, but it had to be the Tino-mobile. It made sense that he wouldn’t park it in the street—the Santa Ana police would recognize a gang leader’s car.
I put the Honda into a space next to the building and got out. It was a tight squeeze through the gap in the wall, but I eased into the alley, then across and between the Dumpsters. Tino’s car was parked at the back of a building that must have faced Second Street, next to a door that said Manny’s Auto Audio—Employees Only. There were no other cars in the tiny parking area, and I stepped back to the edge of the alley and looked in the direction of the buildings where the police cruisers had blocked the street.
The alley continued for a couple of blocks, then dead-ended at a wall that was about ten feet tall, completely covered with layer upon layer of gang tags and topped with razor wire. While I looked, a police cruiser crossed the alley, coming from Second Street and heading toward First. I waited to see if any more vehicles followed—I could still hear sirens, but couldn’t tell the direction—then stepped into the alley, staying close to the backs of the buildings and their attendant Dumpsters.
I came up to the back of a two-story building on the First Street side, and saw that metal doors ha
d been rolled up to reveal the bays of an auto shop. I could see through to the street and, although I still hadn’t come parallel to the barricade, I could make out the reflection of the flashing lights in the windshields and paint of the cars parked inside. Men in mechanics’ jumpsuits were clustered near the front of the building, their heads turned in the direction of the action. Another cruiser crossed the alley, and I stepped quickly into the shelter of a bay. At the sound of the siren, one of the men turned his head toward me, making eye contact.
I’m none of your concern. I sent the thought toward him, feeling foolish. I had no idea if it reached him. Or if he spoke English. Or if that mattered. Pay no attention.
It might have worked, or it might not, but he turned his head back toward the street, resuming his conversation with the others, none of whom looked toward me.
I stepped back into the alley and continued toward the end, moving quickly as I passed an intersecting alley. I glanced back over my shoulder, just in case, but I didn’t see anyone. Undoubtedly all the commotion on the street drew more interest than an empty alley.
There was less cover on the next block, where the backs of the buildings featured back doors that didn’t look as if they got frequent use. I reached the dead end and found that a narrow walkway ran parallel to the wall in both directions, although the First Street exit was blocked by a chain-link gate with a padlock. Through it, I could see the cruiser barricade. The other way led through to Second Street.
I was trying to decide whether to go back in the direction of my car or down the walkway when my cell phone rang and I jumped, switching it quickly to vibrate. The caller ID displayed Hilda’s home number.
“Did you find them?” It was Hilda this time.
“Not yet.” Looking up at the wall, I got an idea. “Is Lourdes still on the computer?”
“Yes, she’s right here. Sukey’s with her. Do you want to talk to one of them?”
“Give Sukey the phone.”
After a short pause, Sukey came on. “What’s happening?”
“I’m in an alley between First and Second Streets, and the police have First Street barricaded. There’s a big wall between me and the junkyard. Or junkyards—I think Lourdes said there’s more than one down here.”
