“After twenty-five years being a Mexican cop in a Cuban town, I deserve to do nothing,” he told his friend and former partner Dick Radek over the phone one day. He was kidding but he meant it, too. Only Dick, who had served beside him for twenty years in patrol and as a detective, understood both the humor and the serious side of the statement. Discrimination had many layers. Cubans, who were often snubbed by whites, rarely missed the opportunity to harass the Mexican cop for nothing more than doing his job.
Dick was a private investigator now, making big money with some hotshot lawyer in Vero Beach. They usually talked once a week. They had watched each other’s backs and saved each other’s lives too many times to lose contact at this point.
“I’m going to be like your ex-wife,” Dick told Joaquir when he retired. “You’re never going to be able to get rid of me.”
Joaquin laughed. “Don’t sell yourself short, my friend. You’re much better-looking than she was.”
From time to time, when Dick needed help on a job, he called Joaquin. He called him ten minutes after Tracey gave him the Bass Creek assignment.
“Hey partner, wanna make some extra change?”
“Not really. Working as an executive for Exxon for all those years, retiring with that multimillion-dollar severance, I don’t need the money. But humor me—do I get to spy on the wife this time? Is she decent-looking? Does she have bamboo curtains?”
Dick started howling at that one. He’d hired Joaquin to work a domestic case years before when Tracey had experimented for a time representing the rich and famous in their marriage dissolutions. Joaquin’s assignment was to follow the stunningly beautiful wife, who the husband believed was cheating on him. For some unknown reason she had decorated her bathroom with bamboo curtains. They looked nice but at night when the lights were turned on, they were, well, pretty much transparent. Joaquin called Dick first thing the next morning.
“I’m in love,” he crooned.
“What happened?”
“You mean after she did a striptease in front of the bathroom window?”
“You’re shittin’ me.”
“I shit you not. Come by yourself tonight. I’ll buy the popcorn.”
That night Dick and Joaquin took turns sharing binoculars in the bushes watching Mrs. Jane Ashland prance around her bathroom buck-naked. They felt like teenagers seeing a naked woman for the first time.
“This assignment isn’t so rosy,” Dick remarked, bringing them both back to the present.
“Don’t be cagey with me, Dick. What is it?”
“Have you read anything about a murder a month ago in a little town called Bass Creek?” Dick already knew the answer. Being a former homicide detective, Joaquin read about every murder that hit the papers and he was undoubtedly familiar with the details.
“The woman whose throat was slit in her bed? Didn’t they just arrest the kid who worked at the convenience store?”
“You mean our client.”
“Our client. I see. Okay, you got me—what do you need me to do?”
“The murder was in the barrio. Tracey wants me to go over there and hang out and find out everything I can, basically redo and expand the police investigation. I just got their report. As you can imagine, it’s pretty flimsy. Those yahoos couldn’t find a hippopotamus in an ant farm.
“Anyway, I figured I would stick out like a sore thumb but you wouldn’t.”
“You mean there’s a difference between me and you other than the fact that I’m much better-looking?”
“Yeah, you’ve been out in the sun a lot more than me. Whaddya think? It’ll probably take a couple of weeks.”
“I’m not working in the fields.” It was Dick’s turn to laugh. Talking to Joaquin was good for him, the only time he laughed anymore.
“You can’t work in the fields, Joaquin. You’re too old. Nobody would hire you. Just find the local hooch joint and hang around. Get to know the people in the neighborhood. We need to find more witnesses.”
“Are you telling me how to be a detective?”
“Nothing more than I did for the last twenty years.”
Four days later, a Monday, Joaquin and his boat arrived in Bass Creek. He rented an efficiency at the Skyline Motel for two weeks. If anybody inquired, Joaquin was a retired truck driver in town for a couple of weeks of fishing. And he intended to fish. He hadn’t been on this side of the big lake in a long time.
Joaquin spent his first evening hanging out in the barrio, getting the vibe. He’d already studied the police report and written down the names of streets and witnesses. His first stop was the convenience store where Rudy worked. Benny Dragone was behind the counter. Joaquin picked up some Red Man chewing tobacco, some Cokes and a bag of chips.
“What’s biting these days?” he asked Benny.
“Not much of a fisherman myself, sorry,” Benny said as he rang up the items.
Joaquin plowed ahead. “Any decent place around here I can park my butt for a couple of drinks?”
Benny didn’t even look up. “Rosa’s is two blocks down. It ain’t much, a beer and wine joint.”
“That’ll do. Ain’t lookin’ for nothin’ fancy. Much obliged.” Joaquin walked out, intending to head next for Mercer Street and the scene of the crime. He’d wanted to pick the grocer’s brain a little more, but Benny hadn’t exactly been a scintillating conversationalist and had even seemed a little wary of Joaquin. He decided to play it safe and turned instead for the motel—just in case Benny was watching.
Benny was. He followed Joaquin’s progress from the window, saw him walk the two blocks to the Skyline. Saw the boat outside on the trailer. Only then did he relax. He didn’t know why, but he was distrustful of just about everybody these days.
That night Joaquin took a short walk that ended at Rosa’s. Benny wasn’t lying; it wasn’t much—a hole in the wall with a few stools at the bar, a dartboard and some tables in the back. Bob Marley was playing on the jukebox. Joaquin pulled up one of the stools and ordered a cerveza from the middle-aged woman behind the bar, who seemed about as chatty as Benny. He drank quietly for a half hour or so until the bar started to fill up. Rosa seemed to pick up when the crowd did.
“Another cerveza?” she asked him.
“Sure.” Some of the patrons who had just come in eyed him suspiciously. Joaquin knew it was time to get his story out. He struck up a conversation with the man sitting next to him, a fisherman himself of sorts.
“I catch frogs,” Geraldo Martine told him after a couple of beers. “Sell them to the big restaurants. They’re what you call a delicacy.” Some way to make a living, Joaquin was about to say, but he knew Geraldo would take it as an insult so he kept it to himself.
“So how do you catch them?”
“Gotta go out in the dark, along shore. You can hear ’em and even see their eyes. They glow, you know.” Joaquin didn’t know. He also didn’t know if Geraldo was making it up as he went or not. He just nodded, trying to appear as interested as possible. “Then you shine your flashlight right into their eyes. It freezes ’em. And you stab ’em with a long pole. You gotta be quick and you gotta be fast.”
Joaquin nodded again. “I’d love to see you do that sometime.”
“Be at the boat dock at four in the mornin’, any mornin’, and I’ll take you out.”
“I just might take you up on that,” Joaquin assured him, then he nonchalantly unloaded his story about being retired and coming to Bass Creek to fish. After that, he paid for his two beers and left. He knew Geraldo would tell the others.
It seemed safe now, so Joaquin took a detour down Mercer Street on his way home. He walked by Pilar Rodriguez’s house—whose lawn Rudy had fertilized with the contents of his stomach a few weeks before. The house was dark. He proceeded farther down the street to Lucy Ochoa’s trailer, which was also dark and looked abandoned. Joaquin knew it was going to stay that way for a long time. He walked on to Ray Castro’s place, hoping he might find him and José Guerrero sitting on
the stoop drinking a beer. There were lights on inside but nobody outside he could casually chat with. He stood there for a moment, looking back in the direction of the abandoned trailer. He couldn’t actually see it because it was set back, but the path to it was less than a hundred yards away. After reading the police investigation, Joaquin had become convinced that the key to breaking this case was somewhere in the mix between Ray Castro, José Guerrero and the mysterious Geronimo guy the two of them had mentioned. He could smell it from the report itself: These guys weren’t telling the truth. And why did this Geronimo suddenly disappear? If he could find a connection between Lucy Ochoa and Ray, José or Geronimo, that would be a good start. He then had to make up those hundred yards and put one of them in the trailer the night of Lucy’s murder.
He decided to fish only in the morning. In the late afternoon he’d take a walk, maybe meet some of the neighbors, strike up a chat about Lucy—who her friends were, that sort of thing. He didn’t plan on re-interviewing Ray or José or Pilar until he had picked up as much information as he could. Of course, if he ran into them during his sauntering, he’d try to steer the conversation in the right direction.
At four o’clock the next morning he was standing at the boat ramp waiting for Geraldo, who didn’t show up until almost five. He’d taken Geraldo for a talker. Maybe, just maybe, out on the lake in the early morning hours, he might learn something about the characters he was pursuing. Geraldo didn’t notice him at first; he was busy setting his small boat in the water. Joaquin came up behind him.
“Told you I’d take you up on your invitation,” he said almost in a whisper. Geraldo, who was in his own little world, almost jumped out of his shoes.
“Jesus, you scared me,” he said with no look of recognition in his eyes. Joaquin picked up on it right away.
“I’m Joaquin. We met at Rosa’s last night. You invited me to come out on the boat with you.”
Geraldo hesitated for a moment, wondering if he was going to end up as a distant memory washed up on shore if he took this guy out with him. Then a very dim light went off in his brain and his suspicions ebbed.
“Oh yeah, I remember now,” he replied. “Let me just get my pole and my flashlight and we’ll head out. Sorry I’m late.”
“No problem.”
They set out on Geraldo’s rowboat, which was fitted with a fifteen-horsepower motor. It took about twenty minutes to reach the lake. Geraldo made a quick left turn and cut the motor, pulling it out of the water. He then set his oars and began to row in towards shore.
“The motor scares ’em,” he whispered. “Gotta be real quiet.” They were the first words he’d spoken since they left the dock. Close to shore, Geraldo pulled in the oars and let the boat drift. His left hand grabbed his flashlight, his right a long pole with a pointed end like a spear. He looked in at the shoreline with an intensity that surprised Joaquin.
Joaquin was used to being out on the water before dawn, just drifting, listening, hearing nothing but the occasional splash of a wave or a fish jumping—but this experience was quite different. There was no moon. The lake behind them was a vast black canvas of nothingness, the shore like a jungle. A cool breeze was blowing across the water, making it much chillier than the sixty-degree temperature. Joaquin, in a short-sleeve tee shirt, was hugging himself. The shore was alive with the sound of scurrying creatures. Frogs were burping and crickets were droning. It made the experienced old detective a little jumpy. He half expected the Swamp Thing to rise out of the murky water at any moment and devour the two of them. Just then, Geraldo snapped his flashlight on and lunged with the long pole at something on the shore.
“Got ’im,” he whispered. “First of the day.” He pulled a fairly large frog into the boat and slid it off the pole into what appeared to be a shoebox. He repeated this procedure about twenty more times before light started to break on the horizon. Then, without a word, he moved the motor back in position in the water, started it and headed for home. At no time during the entire trip did Joaquin see any frog’s eyes—or any frog, for that matter, before Geraldo had it skewered. And at no time, including the ride back, did Geraldo utter a thing other than “Got ’im.” Apparently, the man saved his conversation for Rosa’s.
At the dock, Geraldo packed up quickly. “Gotta sell these babies to the restaurants so I can get to Rosa’s at a decent hour.” And then he was off, leaving Joaquin standing there trying to figure out how much Geraldo could possibly make from this business.
By the third night of his trip, the suspicious stares had disappeared and Joaquin started to settle in at Rosa’s. Geraldo was now his best friend. Apparently somewhere out there in the chilly darkness they had bonded. Geraldo had no useful information for Joaquin but he introduced him to everybody. Joaquin now had a routine: In the late afternoon he would walk the streets near Mercer making idle talk with the neighbors and hoping to pick up some useful tidbits. At night, he was a fixture at Rosa’s. He’d seen Pilar a few times during the first week but never had an opportunity to speak to her. Ray and José were nowhere to be found. It wasn’t until Wednesday of the following week that Joaquin’s routine produced anything worthwhile.
His name was Pablo Gonzalez. He was one of Rosa’s regulars, a tall, heavyset man with a wide face, thick lips and a flat nose. He usually sat at the opposite end of the bar from where Joaquin made his nest. Joaquin had caught Pablo staring at him from time to time. It wasn’t a pleasant look, either: Joaquin was an interloper in Pablo’s lair. But on this Wednesday night, Pablo came in and sat right next to Joaquin, who was already nursing his first of the day. Pablo didn’t say anything at first but after a couple, his tongue started rolling. He was from Cuba, a baseball player in his youth but now a Dolphin fan.
“That Billy Purcell, man what a pitcher he would have made,” Pablo said with a slight shake of his head. Joaquin nodded. He was a fan of the Dolphin quarterback himself. “One of these days he’s going to win the big one,” Pablo continued. Joaquin agreed again. Eventually, after a few more beers and shared sports stories, when the alcohol had taken hold enough to make them believe they were friends, Pablo told Joaquin about his trip across the ocean to America. It had been the man’s defining moment.
“We left just after dark, a moonless night,” Pablo began. “Those bastards always lie to you when they’re taking your money. You’d a thought we were taking an excursion on a damn yacht, not forty of us on a boat that fit ten. It was cold and the waves were high. The boat was a piece of shit and the motor kept quitting. I knew we were never going to make it. Just before dawn, a storm hit and the boat capsized. We were miles offshore, how many I couldn’t tell. I grabbed one of the tires that had been lashed to the side of the boat and so did four others. We just started to kick in the direction the boat had been heading. And we prayed. At least, I did.” At that moment Pablo put his hand on Joaquin’s arm. “My friend, I tell you I was sure I was going to die that night. I was waiting for a shark to rip my legs off. But we made it through the night and the blistering hot sun the next day and the next night. By that second night I didn’t care anymore. The sea, the sharks—whoever wanted to could have me. We hit shore at dawn the next day. Dehydrated. Exhausted. Only three of us were left. The other two simply drifted off into the night. I didn’t know them at all but I think about them every night. I see them in my dreams. I know every detail of their faces although I didn’t when they were alive. I still keep in touch with the others.” He was silent after that, as if the story had drained the life out of him all over again. Joaquin was silent for a time, too. He knew about these things. Now it was his turn.
“We didn’t have an ocean to cross, just a little river that could be treacherous in parts. I’d heard of people stepping in a hole and never being seen again, taken under by the current. We had woods and open fields to cross and border guards who would pick you off like a wooden duck in a sharpshooting contest. I made it okay. Some of my friends didn’t.” Pablo squeezed his arm when he was finished. They wer
e both silent for a long time after that, praying to their beers.
“Now we live like kings, eh?” Pablo laughed. “More like paupers.”
“You’re right,” Joaquin replied. “But what’s the alternative? Cuba? Mexico?” Pablo just nodded, his head low. He loved his country but he knew he could never go back.
“Yep. I guess that’s the best we can say about America: What’s the alternative? But it’s getting worse—crime and drugs everywhere, even a small town like this.” There it was, hanging out there—an opportunity. Joaquin took it slow.
“I heard about the murder here a few weeks ago.”
“Right around the block,” Pablo said, nodding toward the door. “A young gal—they slit her throat. You want to catch the bastard who did that and strangle him with your bare hands, know what I mean?” Joaquin nodded.
“Thank God they did catch the guy,” he prompted Pablo, who didn’t need much prompting.
“They caught shit. Those idiots couldn’t catch the right guy if he bit ’em in the ass. They locked up this kid because he’s stupid.”
“What?” Joaquin asked, trying to look surprised. He hated playing this game with Pablo but he convinced himself they were both after the same thing.
“Yeah.” Pablo was excited now. “They locked up this retarded kid—I guess he’s not retarded all the way but he’s slow. Nice kid—wouldn’t, couldn’t, hurt a fly. He works at the convenience store right down the block. They go in—Frick and Frack, Bass Creek’s finest—and browbeat this kid until he supposedly confesses. Meanwhile, the real killer is miles away.”
The Mayor of Lexington Avenue Page 10
