by Dianne Emley
Just then one of the men she was walking next to cut across her path, apparently not anticipating someone standing so close to him. He brought his large wingtip-clad foot down the length of her shin. She stumbled and the duffel bag slid from her shoulder onto the street. The car that had been steadily creeping into the intersection rolled onto the edge of the bag, the driver barely slamming on his brakes in time to avoid hitting her.
She pulled the strap but the duffel bag was hopelessly caught underneath the car’s tires. She bared her teeth at the driver. “Back up!”
He shook his fist at her. “Why the hell don’t you watch where you’re going?”
“I have the right of way,” she snarled.
The man who had stepped on her was holding his hands out, trying to placate everyone. “Let’s just calm down. Sir, if you back up…”
Iris looked up and saw Angus and Bobby running across the street toward her through the oncoming traffic. She yanked on the bag’s strap. “Back up! Back up! Those men are after me.”
The driver spotted Angus and Bobby. “I don’t want to be part of this.” He backed his car up and the duffel bag popped free.
Iris looked for the man who had been helping her with the driver but he was long gone. She pointed at Angus and Bobby and yelled, “Help! They’re after me.”
She slung the duffel bag over her shoulder and started clumsily running down the street in her pumps and suit, the heavy bag slapping and swinging around her. “Help! Help!”
Pedestrians cut her a wide swath, but no one offered assistance. The heel of her pump broke and she stumbled, falling onto her hands and knees on the sidewalk. Grasping the broken shoe heel, she scrambled to her feet. They were close behind her. She tossed the heel in her hand.
Instead of running, she stood steadfastly, although unevenly, in the middle of the sidewalk and glared at Angus and Bobby. She muttered, “Damn two-hundred-and-thirty-dollar Anne Klein pumps.”
Once they noticed that Iris had stopped running from them, Angus and Bobby slowed to a quick walk that grew less certain as they neared her.
“Why were you chasing me?” she demanded.
“Why were you running from us?”
“Because you were chasing me.” She displayed her broken heel. “Look!”
Angus regarded it dispassionately, the significance lost on him. He mustered his bluster, took a step back, as if getting his footing, and demanded, “Where’s Paula?”
“I don’t know.” It wasn’t a complete lie. Iris didn’t know where Paula was at that exact moment.
Angus absorbed the information and thrust again. “Where’s the money?”
“Paula has it.”
“Where’s the will?”
“I have it.” She began to speak excessively slowly, insinuating that he couldn’t understand normal speech patterns. “I gave Paula the money and Paula gave me the will. It’s called doing a deal.” She fully expected him to smack her but she couldn’t stop herself.
“What’s in the bag?”
“My gym clothes.”
“So where’s the will?”
“In a safe place.”
Angus glanced at Bobby as if to confer, but he shrugged cluelessly in response. Angus returned his attention to Iris, making a swipe at the air with his hand. An important point seemed imminent.
“You know, we could sell that will to this Gil Alvarez for two hundred thousand dollars, you know?”
Iris gaped at him. “Gil Alvarez knows about the will?”
“Yeah. I figured Paula took your money, then took the will and went to him. Thought for sure she was double-dipping. We just came from City Hall. Alvarez really wants it.”
“I’ll bet. Tell him it’s not for sale.”
“Why not? Two hundred grand is pretty awesome change.”
“Because it’s mine and it’s not for sale.”
He and Bobby exchanged a glance. Bobby was bobbing his head up and down as he looked around the street, seeming to approve of everything he set eyes on.
“Look.” Angus dug his index finger inside his ear. “We’re staying with some buddies in Hollywood. You know the crib got burned up.” He examined his finger and wiped it against his jeans. “Here’s the number where we’re staying.” He dug in his jeans pocket and took out a crumpled piece of paper. “If you see Paula, tell her that’s where I am, will you?”
A shadow crossed his face when he mentioned Paula. Iris almost felt sorry for him. She took the paper and started to hobble away on her uneven shoes. Angus stopped her.
“Hey, you couldn’t spot us a few bucks, could you? Everything got burned up, you know.”
Iris reached in her purse and gave them all the bills she had. Twenty-three dollars.
Angus thanked her reticently.
She made sure they weren’t following her before she continued to her destination.
She hobbled up the Great California Bank’s worn marble steps and pulled open the heavy glass doors. The old bank, decorated with dark polished wood and brass, was dim and cool inside.
Iris walked to the door of the high-walled cubicle where safe-deposit box transactions were conducted and waved to Howard, the bank teller, who was occupied helping a customer. Weak-chinned, sweaty-palmed, turtle-bellied Howard always watched Iris with great interest, motivated by his unflagging, unrequited love.
Howard walked to the opposite side of the counter from where Iris stood and hit a hidden buzzer. Iris pushed open the tall door and entered the cubicle. She gave him her key and he returned with a large metal box.
The transaction had been blissfully wordless and Iris prayed it would remain that way.
No such luck.
Howard smiled at her in a way that perhaps was intended to look impish. “I’d give anything to be a fly on these walls and see what you put into and take out of that box.”
She smiled politely at him.
“You seem to lead a very exciting life,” he continued. “Much more exciting than mine.”
“Don’t let looks deceive you. I’m home every night by seven o’clock, reading Bible stories.” Her polite smile turned tense as she waited for him to leave. As soon as he did, she unzipped the heavy duffel bag that rested on the floor by her feet.
First she layered in the three hundred thousand dollars, give or take a few bucks, that remained of her dirty money. Then she folded Gabe’s will on top. She took out the small metal box she’d taken from Bill DeLacey’s desk. From it she retrieved a gold wedding band. She read the inscription again: Gabriel y Isabella 14 Junio 1934.
She started to put it in the box, then changed her mind and shoved it into her skirt pocket. She closed the safe-deposit box, put Bill DeLacey’s empty metal box inside the duffel bag and zipped it. She signaled Howard that she was finished and left.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Iris went to the shoe repair shop, had her heel fixed, then drove the Triumph to Azusa. Azusa had been enthusiastically named by a founding father who saw everything from A to Z in the USA in this community at the base of the San Gabriel Mountains.
Her Thomas Brothers’ Guide led her to the address she wanted. She parked the Triumph next to the curb in front of a modest house in a middle-class neighborhood, not unlike the one where she had grown up. She gazed at the house, examining its lawn and flowers and the contrasting trim painted around the windows and all the other little details. She was looking for something—but she didn’t know what. A common thread. Something that linked her to this house in some way other than the most obvious one.
She stopped musing and focused on the task at hand. She combed her hair and fixed her makeup in the rearview mirror with firm, no-nonsense motions. She was going to get to the bottom of this DeLacey business. That was why she was here. That was what she was going to come away with. She didn’t seek or expect anything more.
She was about to get out of the car when she spotted two young teenage girls walking down the street. They were talking animatedly to each other,
probably gabbing about boys and best friends and dances and school and parties. A bit of life had been revealed to them, just enough to make them feel as if they knew everything and were qualified to speak of it with authority, cockily punctuating their words with dramatic hand and facial gestures.
Iris watched them, wistful for bygone days of walking home from school with friends, days when everything had seemed so complicated but in reality was deceptively simple. While she was watching them, she detected something eerily familiar about one girl, something that she couldn’t quite put her finger on but was indelible. She suspected she knew the reason.
The girls split up and the familiar one walked up the path leading to the house in front of which Iris was parked. She cast a glance at Iris, one of curiosity more than suspicion, then eyed the Triumph. Before she reached the front door of the house, she dashed off the side of the lawn onto the driveway, as if she’d forgotten something.
“Daddy,” she yelled. “I’m home!”
A man responded. “Okay, sweetheart.”
Iris didn’t know what made her do it. She had her questions to ask, her things to do all organized, but she found herself cranking the Triumph’s engine for all it was worth. As soon as it turned over, she floored the accelerator and barreled down the street without looking back at her father’s house.
Iris parked the Triumph in front of the Gaytan DeLacey for City Council headquarters. From her purse she pulled several cosmetic compacts, opened each one in turn, jammed their applicators into the different vats, and wiped the colors onto her face. She squeezed drops into her eyes, pulled a brush through her hair, and freshened her lipstick. She got out of the Triumph, smoothed her suit skirt, put on her jacket, and marched into Thomas’s campaign office as if she had every reason to be there, as if she owned the place, as if someone had died and made her queen. The best defense is a good offense. She did everything she could to disguise the fact that she’d been crying.
She walked up to the first desk inside the door and asked the sweet, young, female campaign volunteer in a tone of voice that took no prisoners, “Thomas Gaytan DeLacey?”
“He’s not here right now.”
Iris sank. She spotted Sylvia Padilla, Thomas’s campaign manager, avidly flipping through sheets of green-bar computer paper. She had half a mind to leave and go home and crawl into a Sara Lee butter pecan coffee cake with a chardonnay chaser. But her home was not her own right now—Paula was there—and Iris and Thomas did have a date. She would simply put her stupid emotional outburst behind her and follow through with her evening plans.
Iris stepped over to Padilla, hoping her repaired heel didn’t break. She wondered how to address her: Ms., Miss, or just Sylvia. She opted for political correctness, assuming it would find a welcome reception here.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Padilla.”
Padilla looked up through her thick glasses, which had slid down her nose. She reseated them with a push of her middle finger. A glimmer of a smile crossed her lips, as if she didn’t want to smile but didn’t recognize this intruder and didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot.
“I’m Iris Thorne, a friend of Thomas’s.”
Padilla remembered, also remembering that this was no one whom she had to impress. The glimmer faded and she seemed to be anxious to get back to work. “He’s walking the district with a reporter from the L.A. Times. I’m not sure when they’re going to be back.”
Iris glanced at her watch. “We had plans to meet at six.”
“This interview came up suddenly.” It was unstated: this more important than his date with you.
“How have you decided to handle Alvarez’s accusations about the Gabriel Gaytan murder?”
Padilla released the page she was looking at and set down her pen. She warmed to this topic. “They’re the wild ravings of a desperate and possibly unstable man. Alvarez has run this district like his own fiefdom for years. This is the first time he’s had any real competition. Now the public has the chance to see what he’s really made of.”
“You don’t think the allegations have any merit.”
“Of course not. We’ve gone over the Police Department’s file on the Gaytan murder with a fine-toothed comb. The only thing we’ve found that merits investigation is Humberto de la Garza’s death, which was clearly caused by police brutality.” She said the term with relish. “Unfortunately there wasn’t a witness. Thomas’s father is prepared to make a statement that Humberto appeared to have been beaten.”
“Why didn’t he say something when it happened?”
“It was a very traumatic time for Mr. DeLacey with the murder and his wife’s subsequent illness. And, as a citizen, it didn’t occur to him to question the police.”
Iris nodded. “What if Alvarez produced evidence that implicates Bill DeLacey in Gaytan’s murder?”
“Evidence? There isn’t any evidence.”
Either she didn’t know about the will or she was a damn good liar.
Padilla continued, “If Alvarez’s accusations had any merit, Mayor Riley wouldn’t have given Gaytan DeLacey his endorsement today.”
“He got the mayor’s endorsement? Fantastic.”
“It’s unusual for a first-time candidate. The mayor could have remained silent on the issue. The fact he didn’t shows the strength of this campaign.” Padilla looked behind Iris and said, “Junior, just stack those against the wall. Thank you.”
Iris turned to see Junior DeLacey rolling a dolly that was piled high with boxes. She was going to excuse herself from the conversation, but didn’t need to: Padilla was again absorbed in her report. Iris walked outside, trailing Junior, who was pushing the dolly toward his red pickup truck parked at the curb.
“Hi, Junior.” She attempted a friendly smile.
There were beads of perspiration on his forehead and dotting the top of his moustache. He uttered “Hi” without looking at her.
She didn’t know how to begin.
He didn’t dance around the issue. While continuing to move boxes from the truck to the dolly, he mumbled, “So now you’ve got that will, you think you can tell us what to do.”
“How do you know I have it?”
“Two guys at the house said Paula sold it to you.” He still wouldn’t look into her eyes.
“I’m not sure it’s authentic. It could even be an old version.”
He was panting. He didn’t seem to be working that hard. Maybe the human interaction was taxing him. His small eyes were almost buried within his fleshy lids, and watchful, as if sensing danger lurking nearby, danger visible only to him. He didn’t say anything else.
She tried another tactic. “I’m sorry about your mother.”
He furrowed his brow and climbed onto the truck bed.
She sensed she’d struck a nerve, so she continued pressing. “It was wonderful how you took care of her all those years. I didn’t realize you were so devoted to her.”
He hoisted a box to rest on his shoulder. His slack face grew compressed as if he were drawing into himself, as if the thing that was churning inside him were sucking him dry.
“Did she give any indication that she was suicidal?”
Iris ducked when the box sailed past her head. Astonished, she staggered backward to get away from him.
He still stood on the truck bed, clenching his fists. “Don’t blame that on me.”
Thomas and another man rounded the corner. Thomas appraised the scene but quickly banished the concerned look that passed over his face and continued talking. “Alvarez can’t handle the fact that my campaign war chest books are open for audit. My father’s contributions are well within the legal limit.” He nodded at Iris and she gave a quick wave in greeting as she walked well away from the truck.
Junior rolled the dolly to the box on the sidewalk, loaded it, and went inside the office. Thomas continued, “DeLacey Gardens is a fine enterprise that will bring not only a much-needed facility to the community but many jobs as well. The fact that Alvarez oppo
ses it demonstrates that he does not have the community’s best interests in mind. He’s acting out his private agenda against the DeLacey family.”
The reporter said, “The election’s only two weeks away and the latest polls show you and Alvarez neck and neck. You’ve risen ten points since the last poll, which seems to indicate that Alvarez’s accusations haven’t had any effect.”
“In fact, they’ve had the opposite effect. They’ve only made him look desperate.”
“The debate next week ought to be interesting.”
Thomas ran his hand through his thick, wavy hair, smiling broadly. “It’s a good forum for the public to evaluate the candidates.”
The reporter shook Thomas’s hand. “Mr. Gaytan DeLacey, it’s been a pleasure. Or should I say Councilman Gaytan DeLacey?”
Thomas laughed disarmingly. “Let’s not count our chickens…”
He waited until the reporter had gotten into his car and driven away before he walked up to Iris. “Hey, sweetness.” He gave her a searching look. “Something wrong?”
Junior was still inside, out of earshot, but Iris whispered anyway. “I asked Junior whether Dolly had been suicidal and he flew off the handle and threw a box at me.”
Junior came outside. He made a correct assumption about what they were talking about. “It just slipped out of my hands. Tell her to stop acting like she’s part of the family.” He got in the truck and drove off.
Thomas sighed, suddenly looking very tired.
Iris straightened the strap of her purse on her shoulder and pulled herself up. “I know we made plans tonight, Thomas, but I just…”
He gave her a look that was so sad and lost and lonely that it broke her heart. “Don’t go.”
