The Innocents

by Richard Barre

  Wil strapped on the .45, put on his coat, and left for East L.A.

  ELEVEN

  Hibiscus Place was a pothole-scarred orphan that dead-ended at the freeway, surrounded by a neighborhood in full retreat.

  Wil got out of the car to a barrage of traffic noise and looked around. Tired weeds waved surrender through split sidewalks; dirt long ago had overrun the lawns. Wood siding on the houses begged for paint. Eaves and porches sagged.

  Five-forty-two was just up from the dead end, its exterior a faded urine color, the molding a long-ago eggshell. On the porch a child about two gnawed a chicharron that had been dropped more than once. The child eyed Wil suspiciously as he approached.

  Wil knocked, waited, knocked again—this time louder than the game show playing at high volume inside. In the gloom past a dusty screen door, springs creaked.

  “Told you people I don’t talk to no fuckin’ cops.”

  “Not a cop,” said Wil.

  “The fuck you want then?”

  “Justice for Sonny Pacheco.”

  Somebody won the bonus round, and a large shape became just visible through the screen. Yellowish shirt over worn jeans, part of a bulging stomach the shirt refused to cover—a woman, about thirty-five, Wil guessed.

  She said, “What do you know about Sonny?”

  “One, that he was cut by a man named Bolo Zavala. Two, that Zavala is still out there.”

  A foot kicked open the door, nearly hitting him. Instinctively his hand went under his coat, relaxed as the door banged harmlessly.

  “Donna Pacheco Ybarra?” He could see her better now: big and gone to seed; pretty perhaps, in a coarse way, with deep dark eyes. Some of her hair was up in pink rollers. She held a pistol-grip spray bottle as though ready to shoot him with it.

  “Maybe. Who in hell are you?” Despite her bulk, her voice was raspy, asthmatic almost, reminding him of gravel being raked around.

  “Name’s Hardesty. I was in the neighborhood.”

  “Yeah, like the cops. Funny how everybody’s all of a sudden taking an interest in some guy I used to know.” She picked up the baby, who had made a beeline for her legs. “What kind of justice you talkin’ about? My brother’s been dead a long time.”

  “We talk in there? Might be quieter.” Wil gave her his card.

  She sized him up a moment, then grunted and turned away. “Shut the screen behind you,” she said.

  He took a seat on the couch across from a patched recliner; a TV tray held more pink rollers. Under a painting of the Sacred Heart, fiesta dolls in ruffled skirts pranced on a table surrounded by orange-and-chrome chairs. In the corner was a scattering of toys that the child went for; charging full tilt, she fell and began to howl.

  Donna turned off the TV, put the sprayer on the tray, bumped it as she sat down. A roller fell off onto the floor. Getting no attention, the child shut up.

  “One more time,” she said. “What’s your interest in my brother?”

  “I’m looking for the man who killed him, Donna. For a friend of mine who believes Bolo Zavala murdered his son.”

  “So?”

  “So he wasn’t much older than your baby. Maybe you heard about it: six other kids found with him, buried in the desert. Their throats cut.”

  Donna shifted in the recliner.

  Wil went on. “I need your help. Everybody says Zavala is dead, but no one’s seen a body. I think he’s out there laughing at us.”

  She eased out of red plastic sandals, moved her feet under her. “I told the cops. He’s dead, stabbed in a fight.”

  “You mean you heard he’s dead. What if he’s not? What if that’s just a story he wants you and everybody to believe so nobody will look for him?”

  A cuticle caught her interest, and she picked at it.

  “That would mean he’s still out there, Donna. Still killing.” Wil gentled his voice a notch. “Look, you knew him. What would it hurt just telling me about it?”

  She chewed the nail. “Bolo Zavala didn’t kill no kids.”

  “He killed Sonny, and you’re Sonny’s sister. How can you not help me find him?”

  Wil waited for her reaction; at first he thought it was a cough. Her laugh rumbled around her throat then died.

  “Hot stuff, ain’t you?” she checked his card “Hardesty. ‘A’ for effort. But you’re full of it. My brother deserved what he got. Yeah, that’s right, Bolo Zavala did him, so what? He ratted on Bolo, nearly got him killed.”

  Wil sat silent, not moving as she began to warm to it.

  “My brother was pinche cabrón, no-good trash. Dumped us up here and left us. The cops said Bolo hooked my sister on drugs. That’s shit. Sonny hooked Lucinda, then when she died, used her as an excuse to turn on Bolo because he wanted Bolo’s share of the business.” She glared at him, her eyes and tone defiant. “Not how you heard it, huh? Listen, Sonny was the devil. Bolo just sent him back to hell.”

  As she glared, he thought about it: she was a grenade with the pin pulled, ready to go off and blow something out. “True enough,” he said. “That wasn’t how I heard it.”

  “Damn right. What do you think now?”

  He shrugged. “Still leaves me with no Zavala.”

  “I told you he was dead. And I just know, that’s all.”

  “When was the knife fight?”

  She gathered a clump of hair, sprayed it, began to wind it around a roller. “Years ago. Eighty-three.”

  “What happened?”

  Hesitation; a breath, then, “They were Colombians. The dealer’s bodyguard pulled a knife. Bolo must have been juiced, or the guy would never have got him. He was real good with a blade.” A thin smile crossed her face, then was gone. “He cut the other guy, but it was too late. They dumped him somewhere.”

  “Where? Who told you about it?”

  “Fuck you. What do you care—you have no idea what he was like. Didn’t kill no kids, I can tell you that.”

  She was all defenses. A thought came to him, and he went with it—nothing to be gained by silence. “You loved him, didn’t you.”

  “That’s none of your fuckin’ business. He wasn’t nothing like you say. Bolo was kind to me even though he was with Lucinda and I was young. He was nice. Not many were.”

  “Donna, he killed people in Mexico. He shot up three border patrolmen. Now it looks like he murdered seven children. Help me understand how nice he was.”

  Instead of answering, she went to the kitchen, came back with two cans of malt liquor, and handed one over. She popped the tab on hers, gulped some down.

  Wil eyed his, conscious of an ache spreading in his throat.

  “Nobody gave him spit—ever,” she said, “just beat on him. Then he got fast and hard and people stopped beating on Bolo Zavala cause he beat back harder.” She raised her eyes. “Yeah, maybe he’s done bad. And maybe they had it coming.”

  “My friend’s boy was six.”

  “No way. Bolo Zavala may do a lot of things, but he ain’t no child killer. You tell your friend that.” Her eyes began to fill in frustration.

  “How can I tell my friend that, Donna? How do you know?”

  “He’ll kill me,” she said finally.

  “Who will? Zavala?”

  Her eyes darted to the door and back. “My old man. He’d be here now except for his overtime. Frankie’s all right when he’s sober, but…” She put a hand on her throat. “He gimme this voice—among other things.”

  “Look, I’m sorry, Donna. He’s bad when he drinks. But why would your husband want to kill you?”

  “Not husband, old man.” She sighed. “Bolo’s why. About three years ago at Angel’s Bar. We went out a couple times. Frankie never knew.”

  “So Zavala didn’t die after all?”

  Her head moved side to side as if it might fall off. “He came to my house, back before Frankie. I didn’t recognize him at first. Been twelve years, but there he was. Like I said, the Colombians tried.” She stopped for another swallow.


  “I didn’t think he was gonna make it. His gut was split and his face—hell, surprised me he got here at all. In time he got well. Then he left.”

  “And three years later you saw him again at the bar.”

  “More like four. Frankie was working late, and I was out with a girlfriend. We’d get together once in a while after that.” Her eyes dropped. “Friends, he said.”

  “He is alive, then.”

  “You leave him alone. I told you, he’s not like that. Bolo Zavala don’t kill no kids, no way. Couldn’t of, I know.”

  He tried to ask, but she cut him off.

  “You don’t get it, do you, Mr….Whatever? You don’t get nothing. Now leave us alone.” Suddenly the can was off the arm of her recliner and on the floor, malt liquor foaming at her feet. As he watched her scramble for it, his eyes drifted across the braided rug to where the answer hit him. It was playing in the corner with a pile of Legos, chewing some, snapping some together. The answer had freckles and a shock of curly orange hair. Unlike Donna’s. Wil glanced from child to mother.

  Donna saw him looking. “He’s good with her,” she said without sharpness. “Rough with everybody else, me included, but good with her. It’s how I know.”

  Wil handed her his untouched malt liquor; she took it but barely noticed.

  “In Hermosillo, Bolo used to hang out with my brother, but sometimes we’d come along. I remember this walk once. A man was beating his kid with a switch. Bolo freaked and knocked him down, told him the only reason he didn’t kill a worthless piece of shit like that was because he was the boy’s father, and if he ever hurt him again, he, Bolo, would find the guy and finish the job.”

  Wil said it quietly: “Donna, if Zavala isn’t dead, where is he? Have you seen him?”

  Her face flushed. “No, and I ain’t telling you no more. You leave him alone, you and your stories. You tell your friend that Bolo Zavala maybe killed his share, but he don’t kill no kids.”

  They’d brought out the Christmas tree, a green-needled artificial one, and were decorating it when Wil walked in.

  “All the poinsettias today got me in the mood,” Paul said. He took a gold ball from Raeann. “How’d it go?”

  Wil went through it. “She’s Ybarra now, has a kid—with red hair and freckles.” He watched Paul’s eyes widen. “You got it. Said Zavala’d seen the baby, which puts him in L.A. within the last two years. And she mentioned a bar, Angel’s.”

  Paul got a pile of phone directories from the den and thumbed through them. “At least we’re not looking for a ghost anymore.” He made notes on a pad. “Four,” he said at length. “The Valley, East L.A., South Bay, San Gabriel. Start with East L.A.?”

  Wil saw Raeann’s look. “Paul, I’m going this one alone.”

  Paul straightened.

  “You know this guy, what he’s done,” Wil said. “Let me take it from here.”

  “Man, I was shootin’ and gettin’ shot at before you knew which end of the gun the goddamn bullets come out—if you remember.” He jabbed a finger at Wil. “This bozo’s bad as they say, you’re gonna need the help.”

  Raeann went to him, rigid and glaring. “Listen to him, Rodriguez. I didn’t spend thirty years with you so you could run around after some hoodlum in your golden years. We know you can handle it, baby, we’re just asking you not to.”

  He pushed her out to arm’s length. “How many baskets, Rae? How many little chores we make sound important?” His tone relented, but still he held her. “You’re busy, hon, but I’m making work. This is my life, too. I’m not ready for it to end yet.”

  Tears came. Paul drew her in; over her shoulder he said, “Look, man, I’m not trying to make trouble here. But this Angel’s is probably a Mexican place—even if they speak a little English, they’ll stop the second they see you. No comprendo. Then what?”

  Wil said nothing.

  Paul said, “Trust me: You go to Angel’s, I stay in the car. When you’re ready, you signal and I read these guys like a book. What do you say?” He smiled hopefully.

  Feeling like shit, Wil said it. “Sorry, amigo. We’re a long way from the Mekong Delta.”

  The Christmas tree stood abandoned; Raeann was lying down, Paul self-exiled to the garage. Incompletion hung in the air like the haze after a burn. Wil used their phone to reach Mo Epstein, ran through the Pacheco-Ybarra visit, the Zavala connection, Angel’s Bar.

  “Fuck,” Mo said, “all she gave us was bad language. Probably looked in those Irish eyes of yours and couldn’t help herself. Real sweetheart, huh? The yellow rose of cactus.”

  “Yeah,” Wil said absently. “This Angel’s might be something. Are you in?”

  “Lemme check with Vella, but I don’t see why not. Should have an answer by late tomorrow.”

  “Reach me at home then. And see if you agree: East L.A., South Bay, San Gabriel, then the Valley—assuming it goes that far.”

  “Such an organizer.”

  “Just tell Freiman I’m cooperating like crazy.” He hung up, decision made; cops or no cops, he was going. In the garage, he found Paul at his workbench, struggling with a broken lawn chair.

  “Thanks for everything, Jefe,” he said. “I’ll let you know what’s going on.”

  Paul kept working.

  “Look, I love you for trying, man. I’d do exactly the same thing. Friends?”

  Paul looked up, forced a smile. “Por supuesto,” he said. “Of course, friends. Sheeit, this is me, remember? Whatever you need, you got. You want me to stay out of the way, I stay out of the way.”

  Back late, up early, his breath preceding him in the morning cold.

  Wil eased down the stairs and headed for one of La Conchita’s tunnels—four feet high, eight feet wide, half a football field long—that ran under the railroad tracks and the highway. He stooped his way through, pausing on the rocky revetment that shored up the roadway on the ocean side. At high tide, water came almost to the base of the rocks. Sometimes when the waves were big, he and Lisa would come watch. Once, during a storm, blanket-wrapped, they’d made love.

  He clambered down to packed sand, started an easy pace toward the Rincon—with the tide out, there’d be beach most of the way, the sea calm and flat and slate-colored under overcast. He passed only two people, a girl in sweats like he was and an older man running a pair of black Labs. Gulls fought over a dead man o’war. A flock of pelicans skimmed the water.

  Wil smiled at how much Devin used to like this run. Just the two of them dodging incursions of surf, Dev laughing delightedly when they misjudged it and the foam surged over their feet. His son was turning—had turned—into quite a runner. Couple of ten-K’s completed; youngest entrant in a half-marathon Wil encouraged him to enter.

  He’d taken to surfing, too, Dev had. Better coordinated than his pals, better certainly than his father had been starting out.

  Fearless.

  Wil watched the Labs chase a stick into the water and realized he’d slowed to a walk, conscious now of the stitch in his side. The whole thing with Dev was like a movie. Beginning, middle, end—a little slice out of your life and afterward not wanting to leave the theater because the story moved you to tears. What he desperately wanted was to change the ending from what it had become back into what it should have been. Get it on course again, fix how it all came out. Especially his role in it.

  Hero to fool.

  Wind chilled the tracks on his face. The beach was deserted now. Identifying with Ignacio Reyes, another fool who by his own hand had lost his son and whose sorrow would never cease, Wil started back toward the house.

  Lisa was just coming out of the shower. Wil followed her in and afterward joined her in front of the window where she’d set a tray with the carafe and their mugs on it. He filled his, stirred in half-and-half.

  “Penny?” she said.

  “What?”

  “For your thoughts. You’re wearing out the spoon.”

  “Sorry, Leese. This thing with Bolo Zavala,” he lied. �
�What I told you about.”

  “Like what specifically?”

  “Like why he’d murder seven kids younger than Devin. What’s frustrating is knowing that he’s out there somewhere. Alive and with the answer.”

  She was quiet so long it prompted him to ask why.

  “I was just thinking,” she said. “About how incredibly distant all that is from what I do. From what most people do.” She sipped coffee. “Then there’s Gringo. You know that he and Pam split up?”

  “No. When?”

  “I don’t know exactly. They were talking about it at the store.”

  “Not hard to see that one coming,” Wil said. “The guy just has an awful time committing.” He poured them more coffee, saw her look. “Christ, Lisa, you’re not serious.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “It’s not as though you aren’t committed. It’s that I don’t know what you’re committed to anymore.”

  He felt a familiar tightening in his throat. “Loving you is what I’m committed to.”

  “That’s what hurts, Wil. You remember how long it took to conceive Devin? The goddamn endless tests, the things we tried? Then the doctor telling us to quit trying so hard, maybe it was that?”

  He nodded as she went on.

  “Suddenly there he was. You remember how it felt? Like all the Christmases you’d ever had rolled into one. Well, that’s what I want again. And it’s tearing me apart thinking you don’t want the same thing.”

  He saw her tears forming, put down the mug, and held her.

  “I know.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said into his robe. “You loved Devin…”

  Gently he held her away from him. “I did, I do, and I will, Lisa—every day as long as I live. But you know how I feel.”

  She choked back an angry sob. “Still blaming yourself. Goddamn godlike Wil, no accidents allowed in his life.”

  “Look,” he said, “maybe what we need to do is what we did before. Quit trying so damned hard.” He held her again until she broke from him and got up off the couch.