by Dianne Emley
It was a plain brown sedan that seemed selected to be so plain and nondescript that it virtually shouted “law enforcement.” It cruised off the ramp leading from the parking level above, turned right, its fat tires squealing against the smooth concrete floor, and headed straight for the Triumph.
Iris didn’t think she’d been spotted. She slinked to the far side of the square structure that housed the elevators and peeked around the corner.
The gears thudded as the driver slid the automatic transmission into park. Ron Cole got out, leaning his head down to keep from hitting it on the low roof. He looked at the wheel lock, saw the crumpled note on the ground and reached to pick it up.
The doors of one of the elevators opened.
Cole glanced up and Iris ducked back around the corner. She had a few seconds to decide before the elevator closed automatically. Should she stay where she was and hope he didn’t see her or leave?
She left. She flew around the corner to the door, which had started to slide closed.
When Cole saw her, he broke into a run.
She frantically thrust her hand into the opening just as the doors almost closed. They shot open again. She got inside and pounded the Close Door button but there was a few seconds’ delay. Finally, they began to slide together, but not fast enough.
She smacked the alarm button. A bell started loudly ringing.
Cole forced his arm into the opening, but the alarm system had frozen the doors. She cowered in the corner and tried to dial out but the cellular phone wouldn’t connect. Cole had wedged his shoulder between the doors and was flailing his arm, trying to reach her. She was beyond his grasp but he was slowly forcing the doors apart.
The alarm didn’t seem to have attracted any attention. She thought she’d heard the doors to the other elevator open, but apparently no one dared exit. She couldn’t count on anyone bringing help in time or at all. She was on her own. There was a phone above the button panel, but she’d put herself within Cole’s grasp if she went for it. She went for it. She grabbed her keys in her fist like a dagger and lunged at him, stabbing furiously.
He easily grabbed her arm and began pulling her through the opening, which had been too small for him but wasn’t for her. When he reached to grab her around the waist, she swung her free hand up and stabbed him in the eye with the antenna of her cellular phone.
He yelled, clutched his eye, and staggered backward.
She pulled on the alarm button, disengaging it. The doors closed.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The American Legion Hall was on the corner of a busy intersection in El Sereno, looking even dingier than the rest of the dingy neighborhood. The street corner was crowded with people. Some were there for the debate, some were drawn by the bus stops flanking each corner, and some were just hanging out on the broad sidewalks that were unbroken by trees or scraps of greenery. The preponderance of waiting people gave a sense of too much time and not enough to do. That alone was enough to make the place look impoverished.
The old marquee announced the debate with mismatched plastic letters that appeared to have been culled from different sets.
CANDIDATES DEBATE TO-NITE!!
Gil Alvarez & Thomas Gaytan DeLacey
Vans from local radio and television stations lined the street in front of the hall. Thick black electrical cords snaked across the sidewalk and created a perilous mess in the hall’s old lobby. A steady stream of people filed past the wooden double doors, pausing at tables set up inside to pick up bumper stickers, buttons, letter openers, key chains, and other campaign paraphernalia being handed out by volunteers from both sides.
Iris missed the first half hour of the debate. She’d waited in the lobby of her office building for the police to arrive before she dared return to the Triumph. After the two uniformed officers had discussed where the wheel lock had come from and why it had been put on and whether it needed to be on, she finally got them to call the people who could take it off. While they were discussing the lock, she snatched and read the new note she found on the windshield. It was short and sweet. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
It was the last straw. Since her presence at the debate seemed to be as anxiously sought after as Princess Di’s at a charity function, she decided to give her public what they wanted.
“Don’t have the guts to finish what I’ve started, huh, Thomas?”
After the Triumph was free, Iris just barely squeaked into the bank before it closed to retrieve the will. She couldn’t think of a safe place to put it. She didn’t want to put it in her car or purse since they could be easily taken from her, so she shoved it inside her panty hose, where it chafed uncomfortably against her belly. It was still far from the most uncomfortable thing she’d even worn, though. Any little number from her X-rated lingerie drawer would win hands down.
She drove to El Sereno as fast as she could through the relentless traffic. A vanity license plate on a car in front of her taunted: GIVE UP.
She entered the hall and walked down the aisle between rows of metal folding chairs. There didn’t seem to be a single empty seat.
On the stage were two beat-up wood podiums angled toward each other. Thomas Gaytan DeLacey stood behind one and Gil Alvarez was behind the other.
Between the podiums were a steel table and chair where the moderator sat. Iris recognized a thin older woman with carefully coiffed blond hair and wearing a brown tweed suit as Mrs. Webster, her high school history teacher. A large glass fishbowl full of small slips of white paper was on the table.
Gil Alvarez was speaking. “I am against breaking up the L.A. Unified School District for the very reason that Mr. Gaytan DeLacey supports it.” He stood with his hands resting on the podium, his expression convivial and relaxed, his demeanor confident. “Neighborhoods would gain more control over determining the direction of their local schools. However”—he paused dramatically—“this means the wealthier neighborhoods with a larger tax base will gain at the expense of poorer neighborhoods like those of the Fourteenth. For that reason, as your councilman, I have always opposed the breakup and will continue to do so.”
There was scattered applause.
Mrs. Webster warned, “Audience, please hold your applause until the end.” She turned to Thomas. “Mr. Gaytan DeLacey, your rebuttal.”
Iris finally found an aisle seat three rows from the front near the side closest to Thomas. She sat behind a woman whom she recognized as a reporter from a local TV news program. The reporter was jotting notes on a small pad.
Both Alvarez and Thomas had spotted Iris. Alvarez continued smiling, but she felt his gaze coolly follow her. Thomas almost gleefully raised his eyebrows at her, apparently assuming that he’d won her over. His reaction caused the reporter sitting in front of her to turn around to see who was eliciting this response.
Once seated, Iris assessed the scene. Bill DeLacey and Junior were in the center of the front row. She was seated too far to the right to see backstage on that side but had a clear view of backstage left. There she saw Jeff Rosen glancing at a clipboard, checking his watch, and pacing nervously. She figured that Sylvia Padilla couldn’t be far away.
Thomas sipped from a glass of ice water hidden in the podium, then smiled engagingly for a photographer at the foot of the stage. “I’m afraid my opponent has again oversimplified a complex issue. The possible dissolution of L.A. Unified merits more than Mr. Alvarez’s typical knee-jerk response about haves and have-nots.”
After shaking his head, as if to himself, Alvarez settled back on his heels and regarded DeLacey with haughty amusement.
Thomas balled his fist. “Decentralization of our public schools means that all children in all neighborhoods benefit.” He punched the air. “If the Fourteenth is at a financial disadvantage, it’s your councilmember’s job to get the necessary funds. Instead of wringing our hands and moaning about the unfairness of life, why don’t we ask ourselves what we can do to effect change in our schools? We citizens of the Fourteenth m
ay be disadvantaged but we are not powerless.” Thomas pounded the podium, causing a shock of his dark hair to fall onto his forehead.
There was resounding applause.
Thomas scraped his hair back. He was out of breath. He glanced in Iris’s direction.
She gave him a thumbs-up.
He beamed at her.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Mrs. Webster pounded the steel table with a gavel. “Please.” In spite of her protestations, she seemed delighted by Thomas’s speech. “Save your applause until the end so we can have more time for the candidates.”
Alvarez raised his hands above the podium and applauded Thomas as well, thereby drawing the crowd’s attention to himself. He nodded appreciatively. His mugging elicited scattered laughter.
“I would like to…” Thomas tried to shout over the noise. “I would like to close my comments…”
The audience settled down.
“I would like to close my comments by pointing out a man who has taught me a lot about prevailing in the face of adversity.” Thomas held his palm to indicate the front row. “My dear father has spent his entire life overcoming adversity. Now in the twilight of his years, he has been forced to endure assaults upon his character by my opponent. But I know that in spite of his various health problems, he will prevail. And that’s the same can-do attitude I’ll bring to City Hall if I’m elected.”
There was more applause. Some members of the audience leaped to their feet.
The reporter in front of Iris shot from her chair. “Mr. Alvarez, please comment on your accusations about the Gabriel Gaytan murder.”
Jeff Rosen ducked from backstage and urgently talked into Alvarez’s ear. They seemed to reach agreement about something. Rosen slapped Alvarez on the back, then disappeared backstage.
Alvarez regarded Thomas and nodded knowingly. “I would like to address that issue.”
There were shouts of, “Let’s hear it!” and “Who killed Gaytan?”
Sylvia Padilla slipped from backstage right and urgently talked into Thomas’s ear. Both of them nodded eagerly before she disappeared backstage.
Mrs. Webster banged the gavel. “Order! Order, please.” She fluttered her hands and then waved a sheath of papers. “That is not a discussion topic for this debate.”
Thomas spoke. “Well, Mrs. Webster, maybe it should be. The public has a right to know.”
There was applause and shouts of agreement from the audience.
Thomas again caught Iris’s eye. She guardedly smiled at him.
“Gentlemen,” Mrs. Webster pleaded. She dug her hand into the fishbowl. “The next question goes to Mr. Gaytan DeLacey.” Her voice betrayed her nerves. “As you know, these questions have been compiled by the Friday Morning Club, our local ladies’ group, which meets to discuss issues of the day.” She pulled out a slip of paper, her hand trembling.
Alvarez ignored her. “There’s someone here tonight who has solid proof that Bill DeLacey killed Gabriel Gaytan to get his hands on Las Mariposas.”
More people leaped from their seats. Some in the back stood on their chairs in order to see. Reporters called out, demanding to know the identity of the mystery person and the nature of the proof. Camera lights scanned the crowd. The audience was growing increasingly restless. Iris’s face burned and her heart began to pound. Alvarez hadn’t yet singled her out but she knew her moment in the spotlight was coming. She knew she should just stand up and speak out. Just stand up and proclaim, “I’m Iris Thorne and I have something to say,” and have the truth about Humberto’s beating and Gabriel’s will out in the open. That was why she had come, after all. But the edgy energy of the crowd alarmed her. There were too many things that she should have talked about too long ago and she suspected that revealing her prolonged silence wouldn’t play well in this audience. She’d had her reasons for keeping her mouth shut about the events in 1971, but it would be hard to explain her position while she was being confronted by a mob. She’d talk, but not here. It had been a mistake to come. She should have heeded her first instinct. Paula had always said she was a sissy. Fine. She could live with that.
Sylvia Padilla was now standing next to Thomas. Jeff Rosen appeared at Alvarez’s side.
“You want to talk about my grandfather’s murder and Humberto’s arrest?” Thomas asked Alvarez. “You’d better be sure you want the truth heard.”
Alvarez sneered, “You wouldn’t know the truth if it bit you on the ass.”
Thomas walked closer to Alvarez and jabbed his finger toward him. “Iris has a few things to say that’ll make you change your tune.”
Alvarez swatted Thomas’s hand away. Thomas pushed Alvarez’s shoulder. Before Alvarez could fully draw back his fist, Rosen grabbed him from behind and Padilla jumped between Alvarez and Thomas, holding her arms out to separate them.
Mrs. Webster tried to read her question over the pandemonium, apparently thinking that if she ignored it, it would go away. In a hesitant voice, she began: “Due to budgetary problems, the city has cut back on many basic…”
The crowd had caught the reference to Iris and it flew through the hall like wildfire. People were glancing around, trying to find Iris. Others were encouraging Thomas and Alvarez to have it out. Still others were demanding to hear the truth about Humberto and Gabriel.
Iris slid down in her chair and looked for an escape route. There were enough people and confusion that she thought she could slip out one of the side exits through which people were already beating a retreat in a steady stream.
She stood and started to drift to the side of the hall closest to her, thinking she’d just be pulled along with the flow, when someone grabbed her wrist. She turned to see Ron Cole.
His eye was bright red. She must have burst a blood vessel when she poked him with the cellular phone antenna. He leaned close and said, “You’re not going anywhere, cupcake. You’re too dangerous to be left on your own.” He twisted her arm and pinned it behind her back.
Reporters, photographers, and TV cameramen had crept close to the stage. An inadequate number of frightened security guards tried to keep them and the audience members back. The noise and energy escalated.
“Somebody call the police!” Mrs. Webster cried. She then fled backstage.
Thomas and Alvarez were shouting at each other around Padilla and Rosen, who seemed to be losing their battle to keep them apart.
Bill DeLacey got up from his seat and stood still as the crowed swirled around him. He angrily shouted at the people who jostled him, apparently trying to restore order. Junior remained seated, clasping his arms tightly across his chest.
The stage was bathed in white-hot light from the TV cameras. Thomas and Alvarez had retreated behind their podiums, where they were each arguing with their managers who appeared to be trying to get them to leave. Padilla threw up her hands and stormed backstage and was soon followed by Rosen. Thomas and Alvarez leaned against their podiums and stared at each other. Neither wanted to be the first to go, not while the TV cameras rolled.
Scattered people had made it past the security guards and onto the stage, where most of them disappeared into the wings, looking for a back exit. Others were enjoying the spotlight, mugging for the TV cameras and saying hello to Mom at home. Others in the audience had started chanting, “Two murders! No justice!”
One of the security guards signaled to his buddy. They left their posts, hopped onto the stage, and retreated into the back. Alvarez yelled at them but they either didn’t hear or didn’t care. The remaining guard put one more call in to the police, then scooted backstage as well.
Cole was still holding Iris’s arm pinned behind her back as they were pulled along with the crowd pressing close around them. Her purse strap was still on her shoulder but the handbag was suspended somewhere behind her. Her feet had been trampled time and again. She felt Cole’s hot breath on her neck. She tried to spit out the hair of a woman in front of her. Finding it hard to breathe in the crush of people, she turned her face up and g
asped sweat-filled air.
She twisted her arm and felt Cole’s grip slipping. Just when she thought she could break free, he plunged forward, stepping on the people who separated them, grabbed her with both arms, and clutched her against his barrel chest.
“You want to leave?” he whispered into her ear, his lips unnecessarily touching her. “We’re gonna leave.” He plowed through the crowd, pushing and shoving with her in front of him, moving slowly toward the exit. Iris thought she would burst from the pressure of the bodies around her.
She screamed and dug her fingernails into his hand. She turned her head, the only thing she could easily move, and tried to bite him. None of it mattered. Her gyrations were lost in the pandemonium. But something about her struggle drew Thomas’s attention to her.
He’d been scanning the crowd for her, as had Alvarez. When she screamed, he spotted her, almost buried by Cole. “Let her go!” he yelled into a microphone. “You’d better not hurt her.”
The cameras soon found Iris and Cole. Someone extended a microphone on a pole in front of them.
“He’s trying to kill me,” Iris yelled. She wasn’t certain whether that was Cole’s intention, but this wasn’t the time for subtlety.
“I’m just escorting her to safety,” Cole droned. “This is the candidate’s girlfriend.” He changed direction and started shoving Iris toward the stage. People turned their heads to gawk at her.
Cole lifted Iris onto the stage where she ungracefully clambered to find her footing. Thomas grabbed her and pulled her into his arms.
“I’m so glad you’re safe,” he murmured.
Cole stood on the auditorium floor at the foot of the stage and pointed two fingers at his eyes, then at her, letting her know he was watching her.
Iris leaned against Thomas and tried to regain her balance, still feeling as if she were among the crowd. Television lights blinded her and she blinked to try and see. She shielded her eyes with her hands and looked at the crowd. People were in constant motion, like a wheat field in a breeze. Half the crowd was pushing to get out and the rest were clustered in groups, standing on folding chairs and in the aisles, stomping and yelling, “Two murders! No justice!”
