“C’mon, you can tell me. She’s hot.”
Duarte pointed to a small stand-alone building and said, “Pull in to the side so he can’t see us coming.” It was enough to keep his large partner off the topic of his personal relationships.
His cousin kept a calm expression on his face as he buzzed the two ATF agents in to his pawnshop. Tony D’s Pawn and Gun had been a staple of the north-end business district for fifteen years. His cousin Tony was proud of the fact that he had only been arrested three times for trafficking in stolen goods and twice for illegal firearms sales, and that all charges had been resolved prior to him getting a record. Duarte wasn’t sure what that meant, but his cousin was able to retain his federal firearms license, and seemed to make a ton of cash through the store. Legally or otherwise. There were, however, consistent rumors that Tony had a good, exotic firearm connection and distributed nontraditional firearms for the right price. If Duarte could ever prove that allegation, his blood ties to Tony wouldn’t change a thing.
The short, bald man stayed behind the glass counter with dozens of cheap handguns and one nice nickel-plated Luger. “What have I done now?”
Duarte said, “I can’t just visit?”
“Have you ever before?”
“I suppose not.”
“I got nothing to hide anymore. Even your self-righteous old man can’t look down on me as a crook.”
Duarte stared at him. “Don’t talk about my pop like that.”
“Jesus, sorry. What? Did Frank get all the sense of humor for you two?”
“No, but I’m on duty. I don’t have time for laughs.”
“On duty. For Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms? That should be a convenience store, not a government agency.”
Chuck grinned at Tony’s quip.
Duarte got to the point. “Look, Tony, this is important or I wouldn’t bother you. I need to find Alberto Salez.”
“Still? I thought you were looking for him last week.”
“I was.”
“Maybe he’s not around anymore.”
“I think he’s here.”
“What he do that’s so bad?”
“He escaped from me, but the real reason is that he knows who’s been setting some bombs, and he knows why. I also believe he might be a victim if I don’t find him soon.”
His cousin smiled. “So you’re just looking out for him, right?”
Duarte shrugged.
“Most cops say something like that and I think they’re full of shit. You say it and I know you mean it. It’s sad you wasted your life as a cop. You’d have made a fine priest.”
Chuck leaned in on the conservation. “His sex life wouldn’t be much different.”
Tony looked at him and laughed. “Always this one has been too serious to chase girls. He’s missing one of the great pastimes God ever created.”
Duarte said, “I hate to break this up, but do you know anything about Alberto Salez?”
The small man sighed. Then he had to mash a button to let in a tall, very thin black man with a lawn mower and chain saw balanced on top of it.
The man said, “What can you give me for this fine mower and matching chain saw?” His smile revealed a mouth of gold bridgework and filling.
Tony looked at Duarte, then the man, and said, “Twenty bucks, if you start the mower outside and show me how it works.”
“Twenty bucks,” the man said loudly. “How ’bout forty?”
“Forty is too much. I said twenty. But if they’re in good shape, I’ll go twenty-five.”
The man shot him a harsh look. “You crazy or just a crook? This here is a three-hundred-dollar mower, and the chain saw is worth two bills, easy.”
Then Tony cut his eyes to Duarte and Chuck. “How ’bout I introduce you to these policemen here? Maybe they’ll give you a better price.”
“No, twenty is good.” The man started to back out of the store. “I’ll come back for the cash when you’re not so busy.” He slipped out the door and was headed down the street before anyone said a word.
Tony said, “Maybe you do have some use.”
“Maybe you do too. If you can get a line on Salez for me.”
“What’s in it for me?”
Duarte shook his head. He didn’t want to turn his own cousin into a paid informant. “What do you want?”
“One of your inspection guys is after me for some tax issues on some Tokarev pistols I had brought in. Can you clear that up?”
Duarte hesitated, and said, “I can look into it if you can find Salez for me.”
“Make it go away.”
“I can’t make that promise and you know it.”
Tony nodded. “All right, you’re no welcher. If I come through, I know you’ll do your best.”
“You have my cell. Call me if you hear anything at all.”
“I promise you’ll be getting a call if I ever hear anything about Salez.”
Mike Garretti was supremely annoyed at his situation. He had done exactly as he had been instructed and it didn’t work out, so now he was forced to wait here in Los Angeles until they decided what to do. The initial call was to wait a week or two, then stage a simple accident where Oneida Lawson was killed. Garretti didn’t mind that option because he could go home and come out here on a weekend and not miss any more of his day job. Now he was in limbo. He had a buddy covering for him, so no one even knew he was off the base right now. Working in personnel made it easy to disappear, and if he bought a few rounds of drinks and a couple dinners everyone was more than happy to look out for him.
He had checked into the Hilton, right next to the CityWalk. Since all his expenses were covered, he didn’t mind running up the tab. He’d rarely gotten to live so comfortably. Besides, he could keep better tabs on Oneida from here in L.A. He had spent the day conducting checks on Oneida’s activities. The big carpenter had come back to work, and everything looked like it was running as usual at the Universal Studios. The tour Garretti took that day made no mention of the blast several days before. Workers were back at the same set like nothing had happened. He had followed Oneida to the high school where he coached football and then back to his dreary house without incident. The big man knew what had happened and what it meant. He had to; he was no idiot. He just didn’t seem to care. At least he hadn’t run right to the cops. Garretti would’ve gotten a call about that. He just went about his business.
The newspaper had covered the blast, and had even included a line about a labor dispute. The LAPD wasn’t saying anything. They maintained that it could’ve been an accident and that they were investigating. Garretti thought it was funny that no one on any TV channel or in the newspaper made any mention of the bum who had been shot in front of the studio the night before the blast. One paper covered the shooting, calling it a “drive-by,” and suggesting it had to do with drugs. He wondered if the cops had put it together.
He took the bus nearest his hotel to Rodeo Drive and Beverly Hills. He never knew L.A. had such an efficient mass transit system. He intended to make the most of his time out here, even if he’d rather be home in Texas.
Caren Larson felt like she was about to be interrogated. Roberto “Bob” Morales sat behind his desk, and FBI agent Tom Colgan was to one side, leaning on a library table and cleaning his manicured fingernails with a small nail clipper.
Caren had just summarized the interviews and progress she and Alex Duarte had made on the case during her trip to the West Coast.
Morales looked across his clean desk and said, “So you decided to traipse down the coast from Seattle to L.A.?”
“It seemed to be the smart move.”
“You couldn’t call us first?”
“I’m sorry, sir. It just sort of happened.”
“Did Agent Duarte learn anything of value?”
“Not that he discussed with me. The last victim being involved in labor issues seemed to strengthen our hypothesis. He felt that he had to see if Salez was still in Florida.” She considere
d asking about the origin of the labor theory, but the setting didn’t seem right. Especially with Bob Morales staring her down from across his wide desk.
Colgan laughed out loud. “He wanted some of that woman’s snatch down there.”
Caren turned. “Excuse me?”
Morales added, “Tom, I don’t believe there is any reason to speak like that.”
Colgan cleared his throat. “Sorry, sir. I just mean, I saw a photo of the teacher from the migrant camp. If I had the chance, I’d hotfoot it down there too.”
Caren felt her face flush and hoped no one else noticed. “If you mean Maria Tannza, I think you’re off base. She’s grieving the loss of her son, and Alex, I mean Agent Duarte, doesn’t think that way.”
“You mean he’s gay? I knew it. That son of a bitch was just too neat all the time.” Colgan slapped his own hand.
“That’s not what I mean. And before I forget: Tom, you’re a pig.”
Morales brought the conversation back around to the case. “Caren, dear, are you certain the ATF man is with us on our theory for the bombings?”
“I think so.”
“Will he keep you in the loop on his search for Salez?”
“Yes.” She paused and added. “On anything he finds.”
“What do you mean? I thought he was only looking for Salez.”
“He’s on the case. He doesn’t strike me as someone who gives up too easily. For instance, he spoke to a witness in L.A.—another carpenter who saw the blast—and he’s convinced the guy knows something. He can’t let it go. He’ll follow up at some point.”
Morales nodded his head like he knew others with the same habits. “I see. Very industrious.” He stood behind his desk. “Good job, Caren. You understand that we may need you to go down there at some point and help Agent Duarte.”
“Any time, sir.”
“Good. Good attitude. I’ll let you know.” As she left, she got the feeling they were waiting for her to close the door before they were going to speak.
23
ALEX DUARTE SAT AT THE DINNER TABLE WITH HIS MA, pop and brother, and felt the exhaustion building in him. The table was set like a birthday celebration, with courses of food and two cakes. Even though his ma claimed that it was nothing special, she was obviously thrilled to have her youngest son home again after his trip. Duarte ate as if he had not been fed for a week, and felt some of his strength returning. His father sat impassively as his brother explained the complexities of a recent case.
Frank said, “No, Ma, it’s not whether the lady was really hurt at the Wendy’s; it’s if they were doing the right thing to prevent the injury.”
Duarte’s father said, “If she wasn’t hurt, there was no injury.”
“But Wendy’s doesn’t know that. Besides, it’s only some franchisee, not a corporate store. If it was the corporation, I would have had to back off because they can outspend me in court. They’d have worn me down.”
“It’s a simple question,” started the elder Duarte. “Was she hurt in the fall?”
“It’s not that simple.”
Cesar Duarte threw up his hands and let his head sag. “Dios mio, who has taken my son’s place?”
“C’mon, Pop, welcome to the twenty-first century. I’m an attorney; this is what I do.”
Cesar Duarte shook it off and looked at Alex. “You don’t look so good. Too tired. Too thin. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, Pop. Just a little jet-lagged.”
“You solve that case?”
“Not yet.”
“I think maybe you work too hard.”
Frank looked up and said, “You never say that to me.”
“When you work hard someone has to pay. Alex, he works because it’s his duty.”
Frank shook his head. “So I’m no good because I charge for my time. Alex coulda gone to law school too. He could be something other than a government sap.”
Duarte didn’t acknowledge his brother’s dig. He never did. Since they were kids he learned that by ignoring Frank or any other loudmouth he got his own dig in.
Then he saw where he had learned it, as his father looked back at Alex, not answering his oldest son’s comment. “What’s got you traveling so long and working so late? The same problem you talked about last week?”
“Yes, sir. I haven’t fixed it yet.”
Cesar Duarte smiled and sat back. “Good man. You’ll go far.”
The dinner proceeded smoothly with Duarte’s mother graciously accepting compliments on the carne asada, plantains and other assorted dishes she had labored over all afternoon. The fifty-five-year-old woman had found her calling in raising a family and helping her husband find a place in the community. Only twenty-one when she came to America with her husband of only one year, she had found a balance between her heritage and the demands of her new country. Only now could Duarte fully understand how well she had integrated into the culture. She had been to every PTA and Cub Scout meeting that Duarte could remember. She helped at the church with everything from bookkeeping to feeding the homeless. By every standard Duarte could think of, his ma was a smashing success, but he knew that some people might look at her as nothing more than a housewife or a nice “Spanish” lady. After his little encounter with the Seattle cop, he now wondered a little more about how people might view him too.
As they each sat picking at pieces of cake and sipping coffee, Duarte looked at his father and realized he knew little of what the owner of a small plumbing company did at work besides answer the calls of desperate homeowners with various issues involving their pipes.
“Hey, Pop,” he started, searching for the right way to ask the question. “You ever join a union?”
“For work?”
Frank laughed and said, “No, Pop, for credit.” He laughed at his lame joke, but the other Duartes ignored him.
Alex continued. “Yeah, as a plumber.”
“When I started out as an apprentice, I had to join briefly. Since I always worked in Florida, and it’s a right-to-work state, I didn’t join. I attended meetings as an apprentice and it seemed like the men there were not as interested in good work as ways to cause mischief. I decided it was better to mind my own business and just concentrate on work and feeding you two.”
Duarte considered this. He had always worked for the government in one way or another and never felt the need to be an active member of a union. The loose union that covered his current position as a special agent with the ATF was really an association, and had no power to demand or strike or even interfere in the day-to-day decisions of management. He could see where ordinary carpenters or plumbers could be taken advantage of if they didn’t band together. His pop was very smart and strong-willed. He probably wouldn’t have been bullied by an employer, but what about others? Duarte was starting to understand some of the reasons for a union and what might cause violence around one.
His father said, “This case you’ve been working, it has to do with a union?”
“Maybe.”
“How so?”
“Well, the last man killed, in California, was an organizer for the union out there. The attorneys with the Department of Justice think that all the bombings in the case revolve around labor issues.”
“To scare off organizers?”
“Not exactly. They think that one organization is discouraging other labor groups from organizing so that they can swoop in and gain more members themselves. At least that’s how the theory goes.”
His father considered these facts and seemed to withdraw as he contemplated the information. Duarte, looking at his father, realized just how much he had learned from him. He wondered if people saw the same thing when he withdrew to mull over problems.
Finally Cesar Duarte looked at his son and said, “What purpose would killing a carpenter serve?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”
“But what have you asked yourself? Does it discourage others from organizing?”
Dua
rte hadn’t considered the motives of the attack like that.
“Does it create a position for someone else to fill?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Or does it distract you from the real reason for the bombing?”
Alex Duarte stared at this father. His plumber father, who had just hit on an idea that no one on the case, including himself, seemed to have considered. Distraction. Was the labor issue a sham used to throw him and Caren Larson off the track of the real reason for the bombings? If it was true, what was the link he needed? The victims? The locations? The companies? He had everything at his office. Files, interviews, even maps, if he needed them. Tomorrow would be a long day.
Alberto Salez walked into the Belle Glade Sports Club as if he had never left. The thin bartender nodded to him, obviously not realizing he was a fugitive and the target of the bomb that had ripped the labor camp to hell a few weeks back. He let his eyes search the open space of the bar and billiard room and saw a group of his old friends.
Walking over, he noticed one had his arm in a cast, one had his hands bandaged, and Raul, his closest friend in the group, had his nose taped and fingers splinted. His nose had been flat before, but now the way it just folded into his face was really creepy.
“Raul, what happened to you?” he said, walking up on the group.
Two of the men flinched at the sight of Salez and backed away.
“What’s wrong with you guys?”
Raul looked at Salez. “You’re wanted, man. You made a lot of bad shit happen around here.”
“What’re you talking about?”
“The bomb in your car killed the teacher’s son, then a cop came around here looking for you.”
“What cop?”
“The tall one, with a good-looking white girl. He made us tell him where you had been living.”
“He made you? All of you? How?”
“Look at us, bro. He was like a kung fu hurricane, man.”
Salez lifted a hand to his ear and recalled how quick the ATF man, Duarte, was. Maybe he was meaner than he looked after Salez had escaped. He said, “One man did all that to you guys?”
Field of Fire Page 18
