A Blossom of Bright Light

by Suzanne Chazin

  Greco looked over to the other end of the blacktop where the car wash was located. Men in striped uniform shirts and rubber boots were hosing down vehicles before they went through the automated conveyor. Greco turned on his engine and began to back out of his parking space.

  “Where are we going?” asked Vega. “My car’s parked here.”

  Greco made a sharp right into the entrance for the Car Wash King. “I’m gonna talk to you, I want a dark tunnel where no one can see or hear us. You got three whole minutes to talk and I’ll listen.”

  “I can’t tell you everything in three minutes.”

  “People make babies in under three minutes, Vega. You can lay out your bullshit theories.”

  A rainbow-shaped sign welcomed them to 0THE CAR WASH KING. The cheapest basic car wash was eight dollars. Greco pulled between the orange cones and held his hand out to Vega. “I listen. You pay.”

  Vega dug a ten-dollar bill from his wallet. “That’s what Joy’s lawyer says.”

  “Yeah, but I come cheap. Eight bucks wouldn’t buy you pissing time with a lawyer.”

  The attendant beckoned Greco’s car forward until his wheels locked into the metal tracking. Greco shifted into neutral. He took his foot off the brake and his hands off the steering wheel. Then he popped open the glove compartment and offered Vega a Twizzler. Vega waved him away.

  “Still looks like wire insulation to me.”

  “Better wire insulation than—what’s that dish you Puerto Ricans eat? The lumpy, mushy one that looks like someone cleaned out their garbage disposal on your plate?”

  “You mean mofongo? Mashed green plantains, garlic, and pork crackling?”

  “Yeah. That’s the one.”

  “I love mofongo,” said Vega. “It’s like Puerto Rican stuffing. My mom used to make it all the time when I was a kid.” He wished his mom were still around to make it for him now.

  “I’ll stick to my Twizzlers, thank you.” Greco pulled one out of the package and bit off an end. The attendant swabbed suds across the Buick’s windshield, obscuring their vision.

  “So talk,” said Greco. “You’ve got three minutes.”

  The track began to pull the car forward into a maze of brushes and long, soft strips of yellow cloth that batted against the windows. Vega had a vivid memory of the first time he went through a car wash. He must have been about five. It was in the Bronx on one of those rare occasions his father came by to visit. Orlando Vega was a bass player in a Dominican merengue band, but to earn money, he did a variety of odd jobs from handyman to house-painter to limo driver.

  His father must have been working as a chauffeur at the time because he had a big Lincoln Town Car with him. He offered to take Vega for a spin. Vega had only been in a car once or twice before that, and he thrilled, as all boys would, to the speed of the vehicle, the smell of the fine-tooled leather, the purr of the engine. Add to that the sheer showiness of his good-looking father in a sharp suit behind the wheel of this big flashy car cruising along Tremont Avenue. It was the sort of day Vega had always wished for, the sort of day he should have been able to recall with warmth and fondness.

  Then his dad decided to take the vehicle through a car wash. Looking back, it was probably part of the reason Orlando Vega was driving the car around in the first place. Still, the noise and darkness terrified Vega. It was probably all of three minutes, but he cried the entire time. His father yelled at him for smearing the windows with tears and snot. He called Vega a miedoso—a coward. By the time they were out the other side, Vega just wanted to go home.

  When he thought back on that day, he wanted to remember the breeze on his skin through the open windows, the smell of new car leather, his dad’s sharp suit and Brut aftershave. But what he really thought about was the dark, noisy car wash and that sense of failure when his dad called him a coward. He didn’t see his father for a long time after that. By the time they moved to Lake Holly when he was eleven, he didn’t see him at all.

  Vega tried to shake those thoughts from his head. He knew he didn’t have much time, so he told Greco about Gupta’s findings that Zambo had ingested hydrofluoric acid.

  “Where did it come from?”

  “That’s just it. None of the bottles or cans you and Hammond found match up. HF can only be stored in plastic. I think somebody gave Zambo a swig of something—maybe some cheap vodka in a plastic bottle—and then took it away.”

  “Whoa. Hold on,” said Greco. “How do you get from Zambo being poisoned to Zambo being murdered? The guy was a homeless alcoholic. He’d drink paint thinner if he thought he could get off on it. You’re talking about an industrial solvent that could have come from anywhere.”

  “Not anywhere. HF is an ingredient in wheel rim cleaners. You’re driving through the very business that uses it all the time. And who owns every car wash in the area?”

  Vega gestured through the windshield of the Buick. Great vacuums were sucking up fat amoeba-shaped droplets of water from the glass. The noise sounded like a jet engine.

  Miedoso . . . Miedoso . . .

  Vega felt foolish for letting his five-year-old self come back to haunt him.

  “You know how ridiculous you sound?” asked Greco. “Zambo would have sucked down lighter fluid if he thought he could get drunk on it. I’m not surprised he’s dead. I’m surprised he didn’t die sooner.”

  “You’re not even the least bit curious why someone would poison him?”

  “Because I’m not convinced it wasn’t accidental! Look, Vega, I know what you’re trying to do. But you make an accusation against people like the Gonzalezes—and by extension, Schulman—you better be sure you’re right and have all the evidence to back it up. Not to mention the blessings of your own department. What do you have? Some vague ramblings from a drunk who easily could have been the source of his own demise? A mentally retarded teenager’s sketchy ID? You have absolutely nothing. You go after the Gonzalezes with any of this, you’re guaranteed to embarrass everyone: your department, my department, Adele. Hell, if I were her, I’d walk away from you after this.”

  As soon as the track let them off on the other side of the car wash, Vega hopped out of the car. He dug through his pockets and handed the guy drying down the car a $5 dollar tip.

  “I can do that,” said Greco.

  “Yeah. Sure. You’re great at giving tips.”

  Vega slammed the door and began walking back to his car at the 7-Eleven. No one wanted to listen to him. Then again, if roles were reversed, would he? He sounded like the panicky father he was, grasping at anything that might clear Joy once and for all of any involvement.

  Nothing could ever clear him. He’d have the guilt of what he’d done to this baby on his conscience forever.

  From the corner of Vega’s eye, he noticed a round figure huffing toward him. It was Neto Rivera. He was in his car-wash uniform with a rag in his hand. His little dachshund was trailing behind him. Vega figured he just wanted to ask about the police siren again. Then he saw the young man’s face. Neto was crying.

  “Mr. Detective! Mr. Detective! I just heard that the police—they arrested my papi!”

  “I’m not involved in the case, Neto. You need to speak to—” Vega searched the lot, but Greco had just turned onto the roadway, headed for home. Puñeta! Greco had just said to back off. And here he was, drawn right back in. “—I think it’s best if you talk to your mother and grandmother about this.”

  “I called Mami and Abuelita. They didn’t answer. Papi is a good man. Not bad. Why the police put him in jail?”

  A dumpy little Spanish guy came out of the office in front of the wash tunnel and yelled at Neto in Spanish to get back to work. Neto tucked his rag in his back pocket and palmed his eyes. Vega felt bad for the kid. The dog seemed to sense it too. He danced around Neto’s feet.

  “Look, Neto, why don’t we go talk to your boss and see if he can give you some time off to speak to your family? I can give you and your dog a lift to your grandmother’s market,
okay?”

  Neto agreed, and Vega walked the teenager over. The little dachshund trailed behind them. Vega was surprised the dog had never gotten run over with so many cars going through this place. At the sight of Vega, the supervisor immediately disappeared into the office. He was on the phone when Vega entered. Clearly, he didn’t want to get between Neto and a cop.

  “Why the police want Papi?” asked Neto. “Why?”

  “The police just want to ask him some questions.”

  “Then Papi can go?”

  Vega didn’t know how to answer that, so he drummed his fingers on the countertop, hoping the supervisor would finish his call so Vega could get out of there.

  The car-wash office was like the counter of a rental car agency: clean, sparse, and cheap. There was a cash register, a placard that said “Ask about our monthly maintenance program,” plaques testifying to membership in the chamber of commerce, and posters in support of various local sports teams.

  In the middle of all of this was a framed color photograph of a stocky young Hispanic man in a car-wash attendant’s uniform. The picture had that blurry, yellowish tint of older photographs before everything was digitalized. The man was wearing a baseball cap, possibly to hide the first traces of a thinning hairline. He had a broad, hopeful smile. Who could have guessed that Charlie Gonzalez would go from that to all of this? Vega supposed it was both an inspiration and a source of frustration to his employees that Gonzalez had done what they could only dream of doing. Maybe that’s why people call it the American Dream. For most, it will always be just that.

  Neto was mouth-breathing loudly next to Vega. The supervisor was still on the phone.

  “Why the police arrest Papi? Why?” The teenager was becoming a broken record. Vega tried to be patient.

  “I don’t think they’ve arrested him yet, Neto. They just want to ask him some questions.”

  “Like you asked me? About Mia?”

  Vega blinked at the teenager. He had no idea how close he’d come to the truth.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Papi doesn’t know Mia.”

  Maybe yes. Maybe no, thought Vega. That’s what the DNA was going to find out. Vega cleared his throat, trying to catch the supervisor’s attention.

  “Papi doesn’t know Mia!” he said more forcefully. Vega was losing his patience.

  “Look, Neto, at this point nobody knows Mia. Except you.”

  Neto pointed to the photograph above the cash register.

  “He does. Mia lives with him. In the birdhouse.”

  Chapter 28

  Steve Schulman’s campaign headquarters was in a former car dealership a short walk from his law offices in Broad Plains. The building—a large one-story showroom with floor-to-ceiling plate-glass windows—offered the unusual advantage of being both a command center for the campaign and a walking billboard. All the windows were filled with posters of Schulman looking robust and commanding. He was ten years older than his opponent, John Sawyer, and his habit of hunching his shoulders made him sometimes appear scholarly and disengaged—like more of an observer than a doer, though that really wasn’t the case.

  Schulman wasn’t expecting Adele, but she knew he’d be here this evening, running through his speeches for tomorrow night’s gala. She knew Charlie Gonzalez would be here too, working the phones and conferring with Schulman’s biggest supporters in the Hispanic community. She could have called to talk to Schulman, but then she’d have had to run the gauntlet of assistants and college interns. This request was too important not to deliver in person. So she’d asked the mom of Sophia’s good friend and soccer teammate to take the girls for pizza after practice. Sophia grumbled that she wanted to go home instead. But a man’s life was on the line. Sophia couldn’t understand why that trumped her needs. Adele hoped one day she would.

  A perky young college intern met Adele at the front door of the campaign headquarters and thrust a flyer and button into Adele’s hand. It took Adele ten minutes to convince the intern that she really, really needed to see Schulman and nobody else would do. It took another ten minutes and five more people before Schulman finally appeared, saw that it was Adele, and ushered her into his temporary office.

  He had a big hopeful smile on his face. “You came all the way over here tonight to give me your answer?”

  “Um, no.” She had no excuse—no excuse at all. But she tried for one anyway. “I’m sorry, Steve. I can’t yet. This whole situation with Manuel Serrano has been occupying my mind nonstop. I’ll be able to think much more clearly when it’s resolved.”

  “I thought it was,” said Schulman. “Not to our satisfaction, mind you. But . . .” He spread his hands.

  “I thought so too. But I have good news.”

  Schulman walked over to the door of his office. “Mind if I bring Charlie in? He’ll want to hear this.”

  “Absolutely. He can share it with Manuel’s children.”

  Schulman leaned out his door and collared another perky intern. A different one, Adele thought. But she couldn’t tell. They all looked like fresh-faced Mormons at their first missionary event. There was something Adele could only describe as religious fervor in their eyes.

  A few minutes later, Gonzalez appeared in the doorway.

  “Doña Adele! What a pleasant surprise.” He shot a quick glance at Schulman, who gave the slightest shake of his head. Adele read their unspoken exchange. Clearly Gonzalez too had thought she’d stopped by to accept the position.

  Gonzalez closed the office door. He and Adele took seats while Schulman sat behind his desk, stretching a rubber band between his fingers. Adele realized she was taking up valuable campaign time. She’d try to make it brief.

  “I’ve spent the better part of the last two days working through friends and former colleagues to secure a personal contact at the Board of Immigration Appeals,” said Adele. “About an hour ago, I finally got a call back from Judge Quentin Hallard.” She read a look of concern pass between Schulman and Gonzalez. “Don’t worry. I didn’t involve Steve’s candidacy in any stage of the process.”

  “That’s good,” said Gonzalez.

  “But see, the thing is”—Adele addressed Schulman with her words—“Judge Hallard has Manuel’s case on his desk. He’s willing to read the whole thing and render an opinion right away. But he says he wants to speak to Steve first—”

  “Adele, no,” Gonzalez interrupted. “Steve can’t do that—”

  “Off the record.” Adele felt as if the room were filling with fire, as if she had just seconds to break the glass and vent the smoke or she’d be consumed. She ignored Gonzalez and focused entirely on Schulman—her mentor, her support in those early years when she’d needed it most. “Judge Hallard promises confidentiality. He just wants reassurance from Steve that John Sawyer won’t get into office and find a way to punish him. He’s not even promising he’ll intercede on Manuel’s behalf. But he’s willing to look at the case. It’s Manuel’s only chance. Once he goes back to Mexico, who knows what anyone can do? Even Steve. Even from the position of an elected senator. Manuel’s still on U.S. soil. All Steve has to do is make the call.”

  Schulman removed his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. “It’s past six p.m., Adele. On a Friday night. By Monday, Serrano could already be in the process of being deported across the border.”

  “Judge Hallard realizes that. So he gave me his cell number. He’s leaving the country Saturday night on a two-week trip to China. He told me if you can call him by nine tomorrow evening, he could probably get one of his assistants to put together the paperwork Sunday and rush it over to the jail in Pike County first thing Monday morning. The sooner you call the better, since Judge Hallard has to look over the case and make phone calls, and he can’t very well do that from the plane.”

  Schulman looked up from his hands and sighed. “Adele—maybe this is one we have to let go—”

  “No!”

  “But why Serrano? Why him?”

  �
�Because . . .”

  Because of Luna. When Adele looked at Luna, she saw herself, the girl she had once been, the daughter of undocumented immigrants who placed all their hopes and dreams on their oldest and most serious child. Luna read voraciously, just as Adele always had. She got straight As in school. She dreamed big. She worked hard. She gave her heart to her family. She kept her feelings to herself. If ever there was a girl who brought back every hope and fear of Adele’s adolescence, it was Luna Serrano.

  But there was something else, too. Something more basic. No matter how well intended everyone tried to be, the simple fact was, children need their parents. Where would Adele be today if her parents hadn’t been there to guide and support her?

  “Those children need their father, Steve. He’s all they’ve got left. You talk in your campaign about the importance of family. Well, here’s a family. They need your help. I need your help.”

  Adele waited. Schulman twirled a rubber band between his fingers. He and Gonzalez exchanged glances. Outside the office, phones rang, copiers churned, and televisions blared with campaign commercials. Schulman shot the rubber band into the garbage like a little kid scoring a three-point basket. He nodded to himself as if there were two people inside of him having an argument. Then he held out a hand.

  “You have Hallard’s cell?”

  Adele was so excited; she walked around the desk and hugged him. She probably would have agreed to the job in D.C. right then and there if he’d asked. But he didn’t, and for that, she was grateful. She handed him the slip of paper with all the contact information neatly typed out.

  “Thank you, Steve. I owe you.” She turned to Gonzalez and swept him up in her gaze. “I owe you both.”

  She started for the door. “Adele?”

  She turned. Gonzalez grabbed a campaign envelope and a sheaf of papers on Schulman’s desk. “Can you do us a favor?”

  “Anything.”

  Gonzalez folded the papers, inserted them into the envelope, and licked the envelope shut. Then he handed it to her. “This is the section of Steve’s speech for tomorrow night that deals with his position on immigration. Can you look over the wording and see what you think?”