The Innocents

by Richard Barre

  “Being with you made me want a child, Wil, something I lost when Dev died. But if you understand nothing else, understand that feeling is back for me—no matter how much I try to rationalize it away.” She turned and walked into the bedroom, shut the door.

  He could hear her cries. Words that echoed and stung: No accidents allowed in his life. What the fuck was he doing—playing God, like she’d said? Wounding her to beat down his own pain? All his promises began to sound hollow and spin around him like mosquitoes eager for blood. Landing on him, sucking at his resolve—threatening to upset the delicate balance he’d created for himself.

  No!

  To be doing something, Wil hit the free weights in the basement, but they felt twice as heavy as normal, and after half an hour he quit and showered again. The rest of the day he and Lisa gave each other as much space as the house permitted, not angry so much as not talking. After Lisa left for a meeting, he called to update Reyes, leaving out the part about Zavala having a child, for no better reason than gut feel.

  At four Mo called, breathing hard.

  “Exercise bike, smog’ll kill you out there,” he said. “Okay, Vella bought in, so I’ll meet you downtown tomorrow at eleven. We take your wheels?”

  “Pick you up on the Broadway side,” Wil said.

  “Freeway close and a rose in my teeth. Mañana.”

  He waited a while then phoned Paul, the feelings from yesterday kept fresh by his sense of guilt. After talk that bordered on trying too hard, he tried a peace offering.

  “Papa Gomez, my treat,” Wil said. “Tomorrow after the last Angel’s so you can hear what we found out. Six o’clock, tell Raeann.”

  The voice on the telephone was no longer calm. “What cops?” It was shouting now. “When? Cuénteme!”

  “They were at her house,” Bolo Zavala said. “Asking about me. Luckily she told them nothing.”

  “Goddammit,” Leonardo Guerra exploded. “Sheep, you said, not to worry. Yet someone has involved the law—who else but her?” His fury subsided somewhat, replaced by thought. “Unless one of your sheep involved Hardesty and Rodriguez, and they informed the cops. That would explain…”

  “Maybe the real problem was telling them you knew me.”

  Guerra’s tone became impatient. “To live a long life you must love your friends but sleep with your enemies. Meeting them, I learned two things. The first is that they know nothing.”

  “And the second?”

  “Their client is a man—not much, but something.”

  Zavala was silent. He unwrapped a cheroot, lit it, tossed the burnt match into an ashtray. From the uneven buzz, he knew Guerra was pacing with the portable phone.

  “Think again,” Guerra said. “About the sheep, about some father or brother. You must remember something. What about the name on the medal?” The anger was rising again.

  He exhaled blue smoke. “How many times must I say it, the names meant nothing, Benito means nothing. They were ignorant peasants. As far as I was concerned they had no names.” On the other end, the buzzing stabilized; there was the creak of a chair, a glass set down.

  Guerra said, “Then we have no choice. We must assume Hardesty and Rodriguez talked to the law, Hardesty hoping for some kind of deal for his client. We must assume also that his client’s afraid to come forward, whoever it is could have done so without them. They are middlemen, these two, between your sheep and the cops. When we sever the link, the cops will have nothing, only hearsay. It is time for you to act.”

  Zavala took a long drag on the cheroot, passed the smoke through lips drawn tight. “My time for that is over, patron. Terminado!”

  Guerra’s laugh was without mirth, a snake hissing. “Poor Bolo. You have forgotten how many men there are still anxious to find you. Men who remember and wait, who oil and sharpen—men I know. Not stopping this foolishness now would be most unwise.” He paused.

  “And Bolo? Do something about the woman.”

  TWELVE

  The man in the ragged fatigue jacket sidled over to the white car and eased in. “Classy,” Wil said. “Explains the naked vagrant I saw back there.”

  Mo Epstein eyed Wil’s stained bomber jacket, jeans, and scuffed boots. “Go ahead,” he said, “spend all your money on clothes.” He examined the interior of the Bonneville. “Nothing sadder than a concours without d’elegance.”

  “You’d fit nicely in the trunk. What are those?”

  Epstein showed him a stack of photocopies: sketches of Bolo Zavala with an inset of the razor blade tattoo, his description, and a phone number. Wil glanced at one: odd seeing Zavala for the first time. The eyes looked right; mean eyes, Gilberto Reyes had said.

  “You packing?” Mo asked.

  Wil showed him.

  “Jesus, not the forty-five. Even the army’s retired that old warhorse.” Epstein rolled his eyes. “Bad enough to feel like Ahab inside Moby Dick. Now I’m in a time warp.” He unsnapped his hip holster, extracted the gun. “Beretta 92F—handles nice, shoots good, holds fifteen rounds. Name of the game these days.”

  “Will it stop a Jeep?”

  “Forty-fives stopping Jeeps was always more myth than fact.”

  Wil patted the bulge under his jacket. “Yeah, but mine doesn’t know that.”

  Epstein stowed the nine millimeter, shook his head. “Goddamn dinosaur,” he muttered as Wil grinned.

  The East L.A. Angel’s was glass-brick-fronted and smelled like cigarette butts and Lysol through the open door. Wil entered, felt the place enter him. Bleary patrons sat hunched over their drinks—the usual numb morning crowd working up to postmeridian oblivion. Looks he’d seen before in the mirror. They nosed around, passed out flyers.

  Ahng-hell, the man tending bar, spat on the floor as they left.

  Forty minutes later, on Pacific Coast Highway, they located the second Angel’s, a sandblasted brick place with polished oak floors. “Watch out, or you’ll catch it,” Epstein whispered, looking around.

  “Catch what?” Wil said.

  “The yup—what these people got.” They left a lifeguard-looking barkeep named Wesley examining the flyer and shaking his head.

  Afterward they ate at an open-air fish and chips restaurant near Ports O’ Call. Sun glinted off the water; pleasure craft of varying sizes moved up and down the channel. Mo regarded the boats.

  “Doesn’t anybody around here work?” he said. A blond in a large Chris Craft smiled and waved. “Get a job,” he yelled, though she couldn’t hear him. Just smiled and waved some more.

  Wil waved back. “Lighten up, will you? Somebody has to enjoy all this.”

  “I’m gonna order surveillance on the East L.A. joint,” Epstein said. “But I can’t see Zavala sipping banana daiquiris with Wesley.” He crunched something battered and deep-fried. “By the way, your Leonardo Guerra is an interesting guy.”

  Wil looked up from his cole slaw.

  “Came to L.A. from Hermosillo when you said, but what’s interesting is why. Turns out a hospital his company built there collapsed, killing a goodly number of people. Quite a scandal when the authorities found out Guerra’s company’d shaved the specs. Guerra blamed his foreman. The foreman said he’d split the profits with Guerra. Guerra denied it, and the case got sent up for trial. Guess who turned up dead the day before the case was due in court.”

  “The foreman.”

  “Somebody’d cut his throat—sound familiar? We cross-checked, and sure enough it was one of the murders they thought Zavala had a hand in. Of course Guerra had an alibi, and Zavala’d split, so a firm link was never established. Case dismissed. Little while later Guerra emigrated. He is now a citizen, thank you, and yes, we’re checking into his L.A. background.”

  Wil looked up from watching an incoming boat luff its sails. “Damn, if Guerra and Zavala did know each other in Mexico, could be they’re still in contact. Zavala might even know we’re looking for him.” He washed down the last of his lunch, thinking better alert Paul, no sense taking chanc
es. While Mo phoned his office, Wil used the next pay phone.

  Strange, he thought, how much he was used to answering machines. And how noticeable it was when there wasn’t one.

  Paul left the house at two, headed the Chevy up Hazeltine, took a right at Victory. It was early, he knew, but he was going anyway; Wil hadn’t said, but the only thing that made sense was hitting the Valley Angel’s last, especially when he was coming by the house afterward. If Wil was due at six, he’d be at the bar when? Five, probably. That would mean, to be safe, Paul should get there at four. Piece of cake then: park out of the way, observe, then go in; be there when Wil needed him. He knew what these places were like. Dumb looks and no hablas.

  Not with Paul Rodriguez there.

  With time to kill, he’d swing by St. Boniface first: couple questions he had for Father Martin about Leonardo Guerra. Besides, the church was in the same general direction. He drove east, then north, turning into the parking lot about the time he figured Hardesty and Epstein would be heading for San Gabriel.

  Angel’s number three was across from a rock processing plant, not far from the gravel pits that once aspired to be a pro football stadium. Once a tract house, it was the first and last one the developer put up before going broke. Renters trashed it until Mel Jefferson bought it to water the motorcycle gangs with which he occasionally rode. Talk was, you could buy just about anything there—one of Mo’s people had returned his call, told them about it as they drove.

  Wil parked the Bonneville up from the twenty or so bikes surrounding the place and looked it over. Squat, featureless, and pink, all word-associated. “Angel’s,” he said as they approached the door. “Funny, I wouldn’t have thought to call it that.”

  Mo fell in behind him. “You still own a Harley?”

  “It’s for sale.”

  “I was brave last time. You talk, I’ll cover.”

  It took a minute to get accustomed to the smoky gloom: bikers and their women at the long bar and a few stand-up games; figures bent over pool tables beyond an arched doorway; fans struggling overhead. Thumpy music.

  Epstein flashed his badge as Wil was approached by a bartender whose T-shirt read, Ride Your Bike, Not The Help. Pinned to it was a black plastic name tag: Mel. I Own It! He squinted at the sketch, grunted, and shook his head.

  “We don’t get a lot of beaners in here. Try Pomona.”

  Wil smiled. “Mel, this guy would love to hear you call him a beaner.” He gestured with the copies. “I’m going to pass these out. You get to announce it.”

  “Shit, man, this is bullshit,” Mel snapped. “Cops stay the fuck outta here. We’re a club.”

  Wil continued to smile. “Can the indignation, Mel, this place is a blight. Now we need your help in locating a man who would just as soon slice you as look at you. Clear?” Cold as he could make it.

  Mel nodded; behind them the room began to quiet down, which made the blare from the speakers that much louder.

  “Tell ’em,” Wil said.

  Mel reached slowly under the counter and turned down the music. “Achtung!” he barked. “Law wants to know whether or not you seen some Essey.”

  Wil set out with the copies; Epstein followed, hand on the Beretta’s grip. At each stop they got headshakes and glares. Moving toward the arched doorway, Wil heard Mel’s voice: “…asshole cops…some fuckin’ greaser…stow that shit, man.”

  Through the archway: four pool tables, each with a game going under fluorescent fixtures; pay phone on the wall next to a mirror next to a red exit door. The smell of marijuana. Players, alerted, stood by the tables; around the periphery, pink-eyed types waited to play winners.

  Wil began laying out copies on the first table. “This man’s name is Zavala—we’re trying to locate him. We appreciate your cooperation.”

  A few bikers, and then more, collected slowly around the faces in the buzzy light. “Guy’s connected to some bad shit,” said Mo Epstein. “Child killings, multiple. Who’s seen him?”

  Vacant looks. Nobody moved except for a twitchy player in a leather vest—taller than Wil but about thirty pounds lighter. He held a longneck loosely, tossed his cue to another player as he stepped forward.

  Wil could see the dilated pupils.

  “This sucks,” the player growled. “Why don’t you two assholes get the fuck outta here? Guy prob’ly did us a favor—too many fuckin’ kids as it is, man.” He looked to the room for approval.

  Epstein moved then. He grabbed a flyer, shoved it at the player. “Shame your mother didn’t feel that way, dickhead, she’d have saved everybody a lot of trouble. Now, one more time. You seen him, you know something? You do and don’t say and I’ll find you. Even if I have to lift every rock in L.A. to get the one you crawled under.” He glared and turned away.

  In a flash the player reversed his grip on the beer bottle, brought it back, snapped it forward. Wil caught a blur of motion just before glass exploded against bone.

  Mo Epstein dropped like a gallows weight.

  Wil froze, stunned by the suddenness: the crowd pressing in, the player bending over Epstein. The jagged stub cocked back.

  Adrenaline pumped then: Wil drove his boot upward into the man’s elbow. The player dropped the weapon and clawed his injured arm as Wil loosed the .45 and backhanded him with it across the face. The player staggered, dropped to his knees. Blood streamed from under his fingers.

  Wil knew he had to stop the action or lose it, the crowd had the look. His eyes dropped to the Beretta, exposed now on Mo’s hip; a short, tattooed biker, seeing it also, was edging that way.

  Wil fired at his feet. Sawdust flew; in the close room, the noise was a wall. The players hesitated, then retreated.

  Seeing his chance, Wil grabbed the tall man by the hair, yanked him to his feet, forced his head down on the table. Zavala faces scattered. Wil touched the .45’s muzzle to the man’s head and watched all fight leave him. He scanned the room: some chains and knives were out, but the crowd held its distance; at his feet, Epstein began to moan. Wil risked a look: Blood had soaked through Mo’s collar and was beginning to pool under his head.

  “That’s it, over,” Wil said with force. He gestured with the gun. “That door there. Use it. Now!”

  Sullenly, the crowd passed out the rear exit.

  “Mel, where are you?” Wil spotted him in the doorway. “You’re gonna call in an officer-down. No, use the phone where I can see you.” Fixing the gun squarely on the bartender’s chest: “Do it.”

  Father Martin was inside the church lecturing a couple of altar boys. Paul kept a diplomatic distance; he’d served Mass and on more than one occasion blown the responses. He glanced around at high ceilings and shining wood. Without the congregation, the space seemed huge; it also smelled pleasantly of candle wax and wood soap. Organ riffs floated down from the loft.

  He was enjoying the music when Father Martin dismissed the youngsters, handing them each something.

  “Mr. Rodriguez,” he said, spotting Paul. “You might as well have a couple, too. Hershey’s Kisses today.”

  Paul pocketed them, shook the priest’s hand. “Father, you’re a regular candy store.”

  “My personal cross, I’m afraid.” He transferred a rolled-up envelope to under his arm, peeled a kiss, and put it in his mouth. “I meant to ask if Leonardo was any help Sunday. What was that man’s…?”

  “Zavala,” said Paul. “And he did know the name. Quite a coincidence, said he’d seen him box.”

  “That sounds like Leonardo, always inviting me to some fight or other.”

  Paul looked at light making rosy pools through the stained glass.

  “Your Leonardo’s an interesting guy, isn’t he?”

  “I see you enjoyed talking with him.”

  “He must be very wealthy.”

  The priest smiled. “Leonardo’s success in business has brought semi-retirement, which permits him to spend time here. For which we are thankful.” He began to stroll up the aisle.

  �
��How did you meet him?”

  “Leonardo attended one of my first Masses.” Father Martin stopped to replace missals in a pew rack, then resumed. “It became clear we shared a similar vision. Since then we could not have accomplished what we have without him.”

  “He have other interests besides antiquities?”

  “You really should ask him, Mr. Rodriguez. I find it hard to keep up with all the things he does.”

  Paul saw writing penciled on the envelope—Niños de Mexico. He was starting to inquire about it when Father Martin continued.

  “You seem very curious about Leonardo. Is there a reason?”

  “Only that it seems an amazing coincidence he’d know the man we’re looking for.”

  “Known of, you must mean. Leonardo mentioned it had been quite a long time ago.”

  “Certainly, Father, let me explain.” Wil could hardly object to a priest hearing it, he thought. “I can’t say much about what I’m working on, but the matter involves a child brought to L.A. from Mexico in the late sixties. We think Zavala murdered him.”

  Father Martin crossed himself. “How awful. I know Leonardo would want to help find this man—perhaps through his connections in Mexico…”

  “He’s already offered, Father, thanks.” Paul lowered his voice and stepped out further onto thin ice: “Father, I’m reluctant to even suggest this, but do you think Leonardo Guerra could be connected to Zavala in some way?”

  How thin the ice was became immediately clear: Father Martin’s face clouded; veins jumped in his neck. “Leonardo Guerra is the most selfless man I know,” he began. “What you see here is but a small part of what he has done for us. The world is a terrible place, Mr. Rodriguez, full of hostility and suspicion. But your words are the worst, they wound the Savior’s heart and mine.” He slapped his palm with the rolled-up envelope. “Shame on you!”

  Paul felt fire on his face, ice in his gut. Instantly he was the chastened altar boy again, averting his eyes—hoping his complexion hid the embarrassment but doubting it. Hoping nobody’d heard.