It was really a charming place filled with warm, caring people. I waxed sentimental.
I glanced at the abundant arrangement. I suspected the flowers came from someone’s winter garden, maybe a few gardens, and that made them all the more touching. Even Ed, the repairman from the gas station, had towed my car free of charge to a body shop in San Mateo, so the trunk could be repaired. As soon as I could, I would have to drop by and thank him, maybe even slip him another fifty. I might even look up this Captain Fred Anderson. Anyone who made Lila roll her eyes and Richard finds “cool,” I had to meet.
The door opened and Mom came sailing into the room. She was dressed for work and looked spectacular, as usual, in a moss green, double-breasted suit with matching overcoat. Her eyes sparkled even though her mouth was set in a grim line.
“Liana, I can’t stay long because there are a million things to do at work. I just wanted to bring you some things.” With that, she dumped the contents of a large Nordstrom’s shopping bag at the foot of the bed.
“Oh, thanks, Mom,” I said a little taken aback at the fast pace and energy exuding from the woman. I had to constantly remind myself the world still went on as I lay in bed recuperating.
“It’s freezing outside,” commented Lila, shivering a little and removing her coat.
Underneath the jacket, she wore her favorite long-sleeved, white chiffon blouse. The usual pearl pin decorated the neckline. She looked fabulous, and it wasn’t even seven-thirty in the morning.
“Now, I’ve made arrangements for Enrico to come and style your hair the day after tomorrow at around eight in the morning.”
“Oh, that’s great because...” I began with a smile.
“I hope you’re prepared for how short it is. I ran into the doctor outside, and he told me he told you,” said Lila, interrupting me as she arranged the contents of the shopping bag on the bed. “Never mind though, because I have a feeling you will look quite gamine with short, wispy hair.”
“Gamine?”
“By the way,” Mom went on. “Now that visitors can drop by to see you, I’ve brought some choices in bed jackets and short robes for you. I like this one,” she stated, holding up a royal blue chenille bed jacket decorated at the neck with green and pink flowers. “It suits your coloring. I also brought your make-up kit and several scarves, in case you want to put one over the hideous bandage on your head.”
I had been reaching out for the bed jacket, but as her last words struck me, I put my hands to my head. I was beginning to feel overwhelmed.
What do I have, a mother or a whirling dervish?
“Mom! Can we slow down? I can’t keep up with you this morning.”
“Oh, I’d love to, darling, but I can’t,” she responded as she glanced at her wristwatch. “It took me forever to get here — I left at six-thirty — and I have to rush back for a nine a.m. appointment with Ms. Davidson.” Lila stressed the woman’s name, especially the ‘Ms.’ and I felt the tightness start in my stomach.
“You remember the merger? It’s all going to take place in three months time, providing a couple of allegations can be cleared up. We’ve got two agents on it, plus Richard. It’s been chaotic.”
“Well, don’t let me keep you from your merger,” I said peevishly, kicking at the scarves and bed jackets at the bottom of the bed. I lay back and crossed my arms over my chest. Mom looked at me in surprise.
“You know, I’m short one valuable agent, so I have a lot of extra work to do,” she said, touching one of my feet with her hand lightly. “That’s in addition to having my daughter in here.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Mom,” I said in a frustrated tone. “But I feel the world rushing by, and I’m here stuck in this bed.” I smiled or, rather, tried to. My mother leaned forward, and I smelled Bal a Versailles as she brushed a kiss on my cheek and sat down on the side of the bed. She studied my face and reached some sort of decision.
“Liana, I know that this is a difficult time for you, but let me tell you, it has not been easy for your family, either. Mateo is not a young man. Aside from the obvious stress of what happened on that horrible night, the poor man had to have several stitches in his right hand from forcing the trunk of your car open so we could get at the receiver. He has also been taking care of that stupid cat of yours as if it were the Virgin Mary.”
“Mom, I…”
“Let me finish,” Lila said, obviously just warming up. “Your brother has been functioning on three or four hours sleep a night. He comes here each evening, while carrying a sixteen to eighteen hour workday. This is after having been up for over twenty-four hours at your bedside in the first place. I don’t think he’s ever made up that lost sleep.”
“I know, Mom. I…”
“I don’t need to tell you what it’s done to me or do I?” Lila went on as if I had not spoken. “If you hadn’t gone off like that, risking your very life, none of this would have happened in the first place, and you wouldn’t be in here behaving like a spoiled brat!” she added, as the grand finale to her speech.
“Mom, everything you say is true,” I admitted meekly. “I can be a spoiled brat sometimes. I’m really sorry, and you’re right. All of this is my fault,” I added.
“Well see that it doesn’t happen again. I lost one of my best pairs of shoes when I climbed up the side of the Feng Shen, not to mention having a brand new blouse completely ruined!” she said seriously, but then winked at me and burst out laughing.
“Your face, Liana, your beautiful face, so serious, so contrite. My impetuous, exasperating, beautiful daughter, what am I going to do with you? But how can I ever stay mad at you when I love you so much?” She bent down and hugged me hard. I held onto her gratefully.
“I was only trying to do what I felt was right. He died on my watch, Mom. Mr. Wyler died, and maybe it was because I didn’t do enough. I’ll never know,” I whispered into her soft hair. I broke free, glanced into her eyes, and then looked away, ashamed of the admission.
“We all feel that way sometimes, Liana, as we try to get through life. ‘Should I have done that? Should I have done this? Did I do enough? What would I do differently if I had it to do over again?’ It comes under the heading of ‘what might have been.’ It can tear you apart or you live with it, and you go on. But you don’t do stupid things to compound it, understand?”
I nodded and lay back suddenly feeling a lot older but not very much wiser.
“I have to go, sweetheart, but I’ll be back later on this afternoon. By the way, just so you know, I’m finding I enjoy having someone else around the house. It’s less lonely. I think Mateo and I are going to do just fine.” Mom retrieved her coat from the bed and started for the door.
“Mom,” I called to her. Lila stopped in the doorway and turned back to me. “If I haven’t said it before, thanks for saving my life.” She blew me a kiss and closed the door.
After lunch, I decided to wear the blue bed jacket my mother selected, admitting to myself it was pretty and did make me look healthier. I eschewed wrapping the scarf over the bandage. After trying it out and viewing the results in a mirror, all I needed was some fruit on top for a nifty imitation of Carmen Miranda. Even though I’ll watch her every time That Night in Rio is on — a great film classic — I don’t particularly want to look like her. I put on a touch of lipstick and leaned back, ready for visitors, should anyone come. Most everyone I knew had already called or sent cards. I reviewed the recent phone calls in my mind, smiling. There’s nothing like feeling loved.
Aside from the usual friends and loved ones, there had also been the young man, Grant, from the concert of several weeks ago. The newspaper listed the name of the hospital I was in, and he called to wish me well. Naturally, there had been Frank, who managed to stave off his “I told you so” speech for at least five minutes into the call. As Captain of the PAPD, he wanted to use his pull to have me transferred to Stanford General, so I could be taken care of by the ‘best doctor in the world,’ his daughter, Faith. Putting
aside she is a pediatrician, I wanted to stay right where I was, the Pacific Coast Hospital. Tío usually called or came around nine a.m., starting with an account of the kitten, but always anxious to know how I had done the night before. Richard generally called when he could and dropped by every evening.
Mom was right, I reflected. My family has spent a lot of time here. And, they’re yawning a lot, too. I need to think more about them and less about me. I am a spoiled brat.
Victoria came first, dropping by for a chat about everything and nothing. She’s an auburn-haired sweetie, mid- to late-twenties, with intelligent green eyes and a slight overbite.
“Hello there, you,” she said brightly, as she strutted into the room carrying a stack of magazines and a small vase of flowers. Victoria struts very well. She has a distinctive fashion style, in that she likes flowing shawls, short skirts over colored, textured stockings, and the highest platform shoes or spike heels known to man. I have never seen her without some sort of hat, and that day, she topped off her look with a red felt beret encrusted with small, colored glass replicas of different types of dinosaurs.
“Hello, yourself,” I answered. “How about a hug?” She rushed over, put down the flowers and kissed me on the cheek with gusto. All the while, I studied the assortment of terrible lizards on her cranium. “Wow, what a hat!”
“Oh, you like?” she asked, as she shook her head and about one hundred tiny dinosaurs noisily came to life. “I designed this myself,” she actually admitted.
Victoria owns a millinery shop, a thriving establishment called “The Obsessive Chapeau,” where similar lids sell for something slightly less than the national deficit. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, it’s amazing what people will pay good money for.
“I can order you one, wholesale,” she offered. I managed not to shiver in repulsion.
“You know, Victoria,” I said, as sincerely as I could. “I’m really not a hat person, but thank you so much, anyway.”
“Aw,” she said with disappointment. “Well, not everyone is. It’s a question of pizzazz.”
“I think it is.”
“If you ever change your mind, just let me know.”
“I’ll do that.” I smiled.
“Look what I’ve brought you, Lee,” she said, as she thrust the magazines in my hand. “I just bought every magazine they had in the gift shop. I wasn’t sure what you’d like.”
“I like that you came to visit me,” I said, throwing the magazines to the foot of the bed. “Sit down and tell me everything in your life that’s new and different.”
She did and for over a half an hour we laughed, told secrets, and I marveled once again at what a perfect match she was for my brother. Both were weird but wonderful.
After she left, I had just settled down with an article on money management in one of the magazines when John Savarese walked in, bold as brass, and said hello. I was shocked. He was wearing solid black and looked good enough to eat, but I was on a diet. I stared at him with what I hoped passed for mild disdain, when all the while I couldn’t wait to let him have it. Maybe I would even call the police and have him arrested for something, anything, after I told him off.
“What are you doing here?” I asked in as civil a tone as I could muster.
He was surprised by my tone of voice and raised an eyebrow. “Well, I thought I would drive down and see how you’re doing. How are you doing?”
“Listen, you,” I blurted out. “Just who the hell are you? You’re not a policeman because I called Homicide, and you’ve got a lot of nerve passing yourself off as one. I’ve got a good mind to report you. It’s against the law to impersonate a police officer!” With that I threw my Time magazine at him. So much for mild disdain.
“What?” he stared at me, baffled then the realization hit him right after the magazine did. “Ow! Oh, that!”
“’Oh, that?’ That’s all you have to say, ‘Oh, that?’”
He came to edge of the bed and smiled at me. “Look, I really am a policeman.”
“Oh, yeah? Where’s your ID, Bub?”
“Here’s my identification.” He reached inside his pocket and pulled out his wallet. Attached to it was a badge. He flipped the wallet open and pointed to the ID. “I’m with the Department of Immigration and Naturalization.” I snatched the wallet out of his hand and scrutinized the official document, as he continued speaking.
“If you remember, I never actually said I was with Homicide. You jumped to that conclusion at the warehouse, and I let you think it. I figured it would carry more weight if you thought I was investigating Wyler’s murder instead of his illegal activities. Besides, I didn’t want to tip my hand. At that time, we didn’t want anyone to know we were dealing with a ring of illegal immigration. I’m sorry I had to deceive you.”
“So am I,” I said, calming down a bit. “For a while there, I thought you were one of the bad guys.”
“Well, I’m not. I’m a good guy.”
He stared at me with his intense blue eyes, and I suddenly felt uncomfortable. I started babbling, as I am wont to do when I’m embarrassed.
“So Wyler was smuggling illegal immigrants into the country! All this time, we thought he made his money in real estate. How long had he been doing it? How did Grace Wong get involved with him? What has she got to do with it?” I asked.
“Wait. I’ll tell you everything from the beginning.” He smiled. “Since you helped break the case and found one of the drop off points, I owe you that much.” He went over to a chair and settled himself comfortably.
“Several months ago, we heard a rumor of a fairly sophisticated operation of illegal immigration in the Bay Area.” He looked at me questioningly and asked, “How much do you know about this problem?”
“Nada,” I answered quickly, anxious for him to get on with it.
“Well, to sum it up, the United States has a quota saying no one country can send more than seven percent of the total worldwide immigration each year, translating to roughly twenty-five thousand allotments per country, per year. You can see this system puts large countries at a disadvantage; the quota is the same for India and China with a billion people each, as it is for some place like Nauru, with approximately ten thousand people. Unfortunately, hundreds of thousands apply every year from Mainland China and many of the surrounding islands. Most will wait a lifetime and never make it.”
“That’s terrible,” I remarked. “I had no idea.”
“Many are willing to pay upwards of twenty thousand dollars to get into the country any way they can, legally or illegally. Do you have any idea how long it takes some of these people to save that kind of money?”
I shook my head numbly.
“An entire village of people will work, steal, sell whatever they possess, for years so just one member of the community can get to the States. Once a person is here, he or she works and saves money, sending it back home for the next person to come over. Then those two work and save for the next person and so on until everyone is here.”
His voice took on a harder edge. “That’s their plan, anyway. But once they’re able to scrape together the required money, then they’re at the mercy of coyotes like Portor Wyler or his partner, David Chen. They herd people into ships that travel from one remote village to another drumming up business. When they get enough, sometimes as many as sixty or seventy on a vessel meant to hold only ten or twelve passengers, they cross the Pacific, forcing these people to endure hideous living conditions, for ten days to two weeks. A few don’t even live through the ordeal.”
“That’s the most horrendous thing I’ve ever...wait a minute,” I interrupted myself. “At twenty thousand dollars a pop, that’s…” Pausing to get a pencil, I added up all the zeros on the back of the magazine. “That’s over a million dollars a crossing!”
“At least.”
“And you say it was done twice a month for years?”
“Illegal immigration can be a very lucrative business, if you have th
e stomach for it.”
“I don’t know many people who do,” I said quietly. I lay there for a minute, hardly able to wrap my mind around it all. “But once they were here, how did Wyler and Chen get them into the states?”
“The San Francisco warehouse, which was owned by those two jointly, was the first stop. Ready-made women’s clothing was unloaded and stored in the warehouse for one or two days until it could be shipped by land to a small chain of low-end department stores. That part was completely above board. What Chen and Wyler would do, however, was disguise the illegals, one by one, as workers already ‘green carded’ and on the payroll. At the right time, the substitute would carry a bundle of clothing from the ship to the warehouse. When instructed, he or she would hide in the concealed room in back of the office, waiting until the dead of night when the pier was deserted. Then they would be trucked off to wherever.”
“Unbelievable! This was going on under everyone’s noses?”
“Yes. By the way, Watch Line played a part in this, too. That was one of Wyler’s other businesses, we just found out. He paid a couple of the guards to look the other way or even help out from time to time.”
“How many people were in on this?”
“About a dozen or so, but they were only paid chump change. Once they got to the states, Wyler needed people to drive the ‘new arrivals’ to other drop sites via cars or trucks. Some drivers were no more than indentured slaves to Wyler and Chen and did as they were told, like Grace Wong.”
“As we now know, San Francisco was only phase one,” John said, grimly. “After dark, the ship would begin its journey back to China hugging the coastline and pausing, for lack of a better word, for an hour or so in the waters off Princeton-by-the-Sea. Remember, the Feng Shen had no legitimate reason for being there. If the Coast Guard stumbled on them, Chen could say they were having engine trouble or some such. They had compartments in the floorboards, where they could hide people in such an event,” he added.
Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries Boxed Set: Books 1-3 (The Alvarez Family Murder Mysteries) Page 16
