I looked at him, sitting so low he was almost parallel with the ground. Swallowed up by junkie-slumber. His mouth was open and he snored loudly. The radio played "Daddy's Home."
Raquel hazarded another look at him, men whipped her head away, disgusted. She wore an expression of noble suffering, an Aztec virgin steeling herself for the ultimate sacrifice.
I put my hands on her shoulders and she leaned back in my arms. She stayed there, tense and unyielding, allowing herself a miser's ration of tears.
"This is a hell of a start," she said. Inhaling deeply, she let out her breath in a breeze of wintergreen. She wiped her eyes and turned around. "You must think all I do is weep. Come on, let's go inside."
She pulled the screen door open and it slapped sharply against the wood siding of the house.
We stepped into a small front room furnished with old but cared-for relics. It was warm and dark, the windows shut tight and masked by yellowing parchment shades--a room unaccustomed to visitors. Faded lace curtains were tied back from the window frames and matching lace coverlets shielded the arms of the chairs--a sofa and love seat set upholstered in dark green crushed velvet, the worn spots shiny and the color of jungle parrots, two wicker rockers. A painting of the two dead Kennedy brothers in black velvet hung over the mantel. Carvings in wood and Mexican onyx sat atop lace-covered end tables. There were two floor lamps with beaded shades, a plaster Jesus in agony hanging on the whitewashed wall next to a still life of a straw basket of oranges. Family portraits in ornate frames covered another wall and there was a large graduation picture of Elena suspended high above those. A spider crawled in the space where wall met ceiling.
A door to the right revealed a sliver of white tile. Raquel walked to the sliver and peeked in.
"Senora Cruz?"
The doorway widened and a small, heavy woman appeared, dishtowel in hand. She wore a blue print dress, un belted and her gray-black hair was tied back in a bun, held in place by a mock tortoiseshell comb. Silver earrings dangled from her ears and salmon spots of rouge punctuated her cheekbones. Her skin had the delicate, baby-soft look common in old women who had once been beautiful.
"Raquelita!"
She put her towel down, came out, and the two women embraced for a long moment.
When she saw me over Raquel's shoulder, she smiled. But her face closed up as tight as a pawnbroker's safe. She pulled away and gave a small bow.
"Senor," she said, with too much deference, and looked at Raquel, arching one eyebrow.
"Senora Gutierrez."
Raquel spoke to her in rapid Spanish. I caught the words "Elena," "policia," and "doctor." She ended it with a question.
The older woman listened politely, then shook her head.
"No." Some things are the same in any language.
Raquel turned to me. "She says she knows nothing more than what she told the police the first time."
"Can you ask her about the Nemeth boy? They didn't ask her about that."
She turned to speak, then stopped.
"Why don't we take it slowly? It would help if we ate. Let her be a hostess, let her give to us."
I was genuinely hungry and told her so. She relayed the message to Mrs. Gutierrez, who nodded and returned to her kitchen.
"Let's sit down," Raquel said.
I took the love seat She tucked herself into a corner of the sofa.
The senora came back with cookies and fruit and hot coffee. She asked Raquel something.
"She'd like to know if this is substantial enough to would you like some homemade cfcon'zo?"
"Please tell her this is wonderful. However if you think my accepting chorizo would help things along, I'll oblige."
Raquel spoke again. A few moments later I was facing a platter of the spicy sausage, rice, refried beans and salad with lemon-oil dressing.
"Much as gracias, senora." I dug in.
I couldn't understand much of what they were saying, but it sounded and looked like small talk. The two women touched each other a lot, patting hands, stroking cheeks. They smiled, and seemed to forget my presence.
Then suddenly the wind shifted and the laughter turned to tears. Mrs. Gutierrez ran out of the room, seeking the refuge of her kitchen.
Raquel shook her head.
"We were talking about the old times, when Elena and I were little girls. How we used to play secretary in the bushes, pretend we had typewriters and desks out there. It became difficult for her."
I pushed my plate aside.
"Do you think we should go?" I asked.
"Let's wait a while." She poured me more coffee and filled a cup for herself. "It would be more respectful."
Through the screen door I could see the top of Rafael's fair head above the rim of the chair. His arm had fallen, so that the fingernails scraped the ground. He was beyond pleasure or pain.
"Did she talk about him?" I asked.
"No. As I told you, it's easier to deny."
"But how can he sit there, shooting up, right in front of her, with no pretense?"
"She used to cry a lot about it. After a while you accept the fact that things aren't going to turn out the way you want them to. She's had plenty of training in it, believe me. If you asked her about him she'd say he was sick. Just as if he had a cold, or the measles. It's just a matter of finding the right cure. Have you heard of the curanderost"
"The folk doctors? Yes. Lots of the Hispanic patients at the hospital used them along with conventional medicine."
"Do you know how they operate? By caring. In our culture the cold, distant professional is regarded as someone who simply doesn't care, who is just as likely to deliver the mal ojo--the evil eye--as he is to cure. The curandero, on the other hand has little training or technology at his disposal--a few snake powders, maybe. But he cares. He lives in the community, he is warm, and familiar, has tremendous rapport. In a way, he's a folk psychologist more than a folk doctor. That's why I suggested you eat--to establish a personal link. I told her you were a caring person. Otherwise she'd say nothing. She'd be polite, ladylike--Cruz is from the old school--but she'd shut you out just the same." She sipped at her coffee.
"That's why the police learned nothing when they came here, why they seldom do in Echo Park, or East L.A." or San Fernando. They're too professional. No matter how well-meaning they may be, we see them as Anglo robots. You do care, Alex, don't you?"
"I do."
She touched my knee.
"Cruz took Rafael to a curandero years ago, when he first started dropping out. The man looked into his eyes and said they were empty. He told her it was an illness of the soul, not of the body. That the boy should be given to the church, as a priest or monk, so that he could find a useful role for himself."
"Not bad advice."
She sipped her coffee. "No. Some of them are very sophisticated. They live by their wits. Maybe it would have prevented the addiction if she'd followed through. Who knows? But she couldn't give him up. I wouldn't be surprised if she blames herself for what he's become. For everything."
The door to the kitchen opened. Mrs. Gutierrez came out wearing a black band around her arm and a new face that was more than just fresh makeup. A face hardened to withstand the acid bath of interrogation.
She sat down next to Raquel and whispered to her in Spanish.
"She says you may ask any questions you'd like."
I nodded with what I hoped was obvious gratitude.
"Please tell the senora that I express my sorrow at her tragic loss and also let her knew that I greatly appreciate her taking the time during her period of grief to talk to me."
The older woman listened to the translation and acknowledged me with a quick movement of her head.
"Ask her, Raquel, if Elena ever talked about her work. Especially during the last year."
As Raquel spoke a nostalgic smile spread across the older woman's face.
"She says only to complain that teachers did not get paid enough. That the hours were long
and the children could get difficult."
"Any particular children?"
A whispered conference.
"No child in particular. The senora reminds you that Elena was a special kind of teacher who helped children with problems in learning. All the children had difficulties."
I wondered to myself if there'd been a connection between growing up with a brother like Rafael and the dead girl's choice of specialty.
"Did she speak at all about the child who was killed. The Nemeth boy?"
Upon hearing the question Mrs. Gutierrez nodded, sadly, then spoke.
"She mentioned it once or twice. She said she was very sad about it. That it was a tragedy," Raquel translated.
"Nothing else?"
"It would be rude to pursue it, Alex."
"Okay. Try this. Did Elena seem to have more money than usual recently? Did she buy expensive gifts for anyone in the family?"
"No. She says Elena always complained about not having enough money. She was a girl who liked to have good things. Pretty things. One minute." She listened to the older woman, nodding affirmation. "This wasn't always possible, as the family was never rich. Even when her husband was alive. But Elena worked very hard. She bought herself things. Sometimes on credit, but she always made her payments. Nothing was repossessed. She was a girl to make a mother proud."
I prepared myself for more tears, but there were none. The grieving mother looked at me with a cold, dark expression of challenge. I dare you, she was saying, to besmirch the memory of my little girl.
I looked away.
"Do you think I can ask her about Handler now?"
Before Raquel could answer, Mrs. Gutierrez spit. She gesticulated with both hands, raised her voice and uttered what had to be a string of curses. She ended the diatribe by spitting again.
"Need I translate?" asked Raquel.
"Don't bother." I made a mental search for a new line of questioning. Normally, my approach would have been to start off with small talk, casual banter, and subtly switch to direct questions. I was dissatisfied with the crude way I was handling this interview, but working with a translator was like doing surgery wearing garden gloves.
"Ask her if there is anything else she can tell me that might help us find the man who--you phrase it."
The old woman listened and answered vehemently.
"She says there is nothing. That the world has become a crazy place, full of demons. That a demon must have done this to Elena."
"Much as gracias, senora. Ask her if I might have a look at Elena's personal effects."
Raquel asked her and the mother deliberated. She looked me over from head to toe, sighed, and got up.
"Venga," she said, and led me to the rear of the house.
The flotsam and jetsam of Elena Gutierrez's twenty-eight years had been stored in cardboard boxes and stuck in a corner of what passed, in the tiny house, as a service porch. There was a windowed door with a view of the backyard. An apricot tree grew there, gnarled and deformed, spreading its fruit-laden branches across the rotting roof of a single car garage.
Across the hall was a small bedroom with two beds, the domicile of the brothers. From where I knelt I could see a maple dresser and shelves constructed of unfinished planks resting on cinder blocks. The shelves held a cheap stereo and a modest record collection. A carton of Marlboros and a pile of paperbacks shared the top of the dresser. One of the beds was neatly made, the other a jumble of tangled sheets. Between them was a single pine end table holding a lamp with a plastic base, an ashtray, and a copy of a Spanish girlie magazine.
Feeling like a Peeping Tom, I pulled the first box close and began my excursion in pop archaeology.
By the time I'd gone through three boxes I'd succumbed to an indigo mood. My hands were filthy with dust, my mind filled with images of the dead girl. There'd been nothing of substance, just the broken shards that surface at any prolonged dig. Clothing smelling of girl, half-empty bottles of cosmetics-reminders that someone had once tried to make her eyelashes look thick and lush, to give her hair that Clairol shine, to cover her blemishes and gloss her lips and smell good in all the right places. Scraps of paper with reminders to pick up eggs at Vons and wine at Vendome and other crypto grams laundry receipts, gasoline credit-card stubs, books--lots of them, mostly biographies and poetry, souvenirs--a miniature ukulele from Hawaii, an ashtray from a hotel in Palm Springs, ski boots, an almost-full disc of birth control pills, old lesson plans, memos from the principal, children's drawings--none by a boy named Nemeth.
It was too much like grave robbing for my taste. I understood, more than ever, why Milo drank too much.
There were two boxes to go. I went at them, working faster, and was almost done when the roar of a motorcycle filled the air, then died. The back door opened, footsteps sounded in the foyer.
"What the fuck--"
He was nineteen or twenty, short and powerfully built, wearing a sweat-soaked brown tank top that showed every muscle, grease-stained khaki pants and work boots coated with grime. His hair was thick and shaggy. It hung to his shoulders and was held in place by a thonged leather headband. He had fine, almost delicate features that he'd tried to camouflage by growing a mustache and beard. The mustache was black and luxuriant. It dropped over his lips and glistened like sable fur. The beard was a skimpy triangle of down on his chin. He looked like a kid playing Pancho Villa in the school play.
There was a ring of keys hanging from his belt and the keys jingled when he came toward me. His hands were balled up into grimy fists and he smelled of motor oil.
I showed him my LAPD. badge. He swore, but stopped.
"Listen man, you guys were here last week. We told you we had nothin'--" He stopped and looked down at the contents of the cardboard box strewn on the floor. "Shit, you went through all that stuff already. I just packed it up, man, getting' it ready for the Goodwill."
"Just a recheck," I said amiably.
"Yeah, man, why don't you dudes learn to get it right in the first fuckin' place, okay?"
"I'll be through in a moment."
"You're through now, man. Out." I stood.
"Give me a few minutes to wrap it up."
"Out man." He crooked his thumb toward the back door.
"I'm trying to investigate the death of your sister, Andy. It wouldn't hurt you to cooperate."
He took a step closer. There were grease smudges on his forehead, and under his eyes.
"Don't "Andy' me, dude. This is my place and it's Mr. Gutierrez. And don't give me that shit about investigating. You guys aren't never gonna catch the dude who did it to Elena 'cause you don't really give a fuck. Come bustin' into a home and going through personal stuff and treatin' us like peasants, man. You go out on the street and find the dude, man. This was Beverly Hills, he'd already 'a' been caught, he do this to some rich guy's daughter."
His voice broke and he shut up to hide it.
"Mr. Gutierrez," I said softly, "cooperation from family can be very helpful in these--"
"Hey, man, I told you, this family don't know nothing about this. You think we know what kind of crazy asshole do something like that? You think people around here act like that, man?"
He squinted at my badge, reading it with effort, moving his lips. He mouthed the word 'consultant' a couple of times before getting it.
"Aw, man, I don't believe it. You're not even a real cop. Fucking consultant, they send around here. What's Ph.D." man?"
"Doctorate in psychology."
"You a shrink, man--fuckin' headshrinker they send aroun' here, think someone's crazy here! You think someone in this family is crazy, man? Do you?"
He was breathing on me now. His eyes were soft and brown, long lashed and dreamy as a girl's. Eyes like that could make you doubt yourself, could lead a guy to get into some heavy macho posturing.
I thought the family had plenty of problems but I didn't answer his question.
"What the fuck you doin' here, psychin' us out, man?"
&n
bsp; He sprayed me with spittle as he spoke. A balloon of anger expanded in my gut. Automatically my body assumed a defensive karate stance.
"It's not like that, I can explain. Or are you determined to be pigheaded?"
I regretted the words even as they left my mouth.
"Pig--goddammit man, you're the pig!" His voice rose an octave and he grabbed the lapel of my jacket.
When the Bough Breaks Page 21
