He rose and set their bowls in the sink, then sat down, sipped coffee now cold.
“So you thought you’d come and do what—help me out?”
Her eyes moved slowly across his face. “Work together, yes.”
“What was it you said once about all this being a long way from your world? This isn’t about some self-righteous dodger looking for loopholes and you plugging in the right numbers to make the IRS go away.”
“That’s not only bullshit, it’s unfair. I’ve learned things from you. Over the years.”
“Well, that’s just great, but the answer is no.”
“I wasn’t asking permission.” She let a second pass. “I’d rather not, but I’ll go it alone if I have to.”
“You will, huh? Fucking terrific.” The aspirin had chased the pain in his head to a spot above his right temple, which he rubbed. Rain binged metallically inside the vent above the stove.
“I’ll manage,” she said.
“To do what, Leese? The man who cut Paul is dead, remember? Bolo Zavala’s dead. Look, I can appreciate how you feel, but—”
“No, you can’t,” she interrupted. “You haven’t a clue how I feel.”
“He was my friend, goddammit.”
“He was my friend too, did you ever think of that?” Her dark eyes flashed. “And I happen to know you believe somebody else ordered him killed. That’s the son of a bitch I want.”
“Listen—”
“No, you listen, Wil. When you were wounded, Paul was there for me. He told me stories about you and how it was. He listened to me—meek little Lisa just out of college. You remember my first job, that dreary bookkeeper thing?”
Wil nodded yes, recalling her letters describing it, the words trying to make light of how frustrated she was. Lisa went on as the rain beat harder on the roof.
“Paul talked me into going back to school during your last tour even though it meant no second income and more expenses. I wouldn’t have done it otherwise.” She bit her lower lip. “You remember when Daddy had his heart attack? What I didn’t write was that he had no insurance—everything then went to the greenhouses. Paul gave me money to cover it. But he made me promise not to tell you. I’d have gone back to that lousy job, Wil. Do you see that?”
“What about the money?”
“I paid it back a little at a time—more as things improved. He and Raeann weren’t rich, but they never asked me when.”
Wil made tight wet circles with his mug on the Formica tabletop. “I took a swing at him once,” he said. “In a lousy beer joint.”
“He knew you didn’t mean it.”
Wil shook himself out of it. “Your loyalty to Paul isn’t the point, Lisa. Killing is a way of life to these people, whoever they are. It’s what they do, the way their problems get resolved. Understand?”
She said nothing.
“Let me clarify. I saw what they did to Paul—”
“Zavala did to Paul—”
“Same thing. They took him out like a pig in a slaughterhouse. In case I haven’t said it, I’m running scared here. And you want me to send you after them? Use your head.”
“Damn you, I just want to help. Is that so hard to grasp?”
He blinked against the pain, saw colors moving and opened his eyes. “I don’t even know what I’m up against, let alone how I’d use you.”
“Try thinking about what you need but aren’t able to get yourself. Like sober, to start with.” The line of her jaw was set hard now and her grim, shadowed expression in the weak light of the kitchen fixture reminded him of kabuki theater. Wind drove the rain in bursts against the outside glass.
Running on empty, Julio replaced coffee cups in the mahogany sideboard and brooded over last night. It seemed to him the sheriff’s men would never leave. They’d searched everywhere, found nothing, gone over everything twice. Madre Sagrado!
And the questions—out in the garage, Señor Guerra distracted by the big man inside the house. He’d been so tempted, deputies looking at him, expecting more. Why hadn’t he told them?
He slumped in a chair. They were police, and he knew about police who came in the night. Paramilitaries, death squads. Killers who’d dragged his family into the front yard by the jacaranda tree, hung his father inches off the ground, his father kicking while his mother screamed and pleaded. The fat one hitting her in the face with his rifle and the blood on her nightdress and him trying to go to her, but the thin one holding him back.
The questions then, lowering the rope just long enough to ask—pulling on it when his father didn’t answer. After a while they looked to Julio: Save your old man, give up the Farabundo Marti. We know you sleep with the FMNL, that you are traitors. Tell us and you will live.
Nothing he could say, nothing he knew. Finally they tied off the rope and watched his father’s face go purple, the kicking stop, the tight, creaking elipses. To his body they pinned a copy of his newspaper. Then they started on Julio’s sister.
As it always did, the sweat came and the fast swallowing.
Two of them took her behind the hedges, her cries cactus spines in his heart. Silence then and the men returning, one wiping his knife, the other with a handful of auburn hair. Julio knew then he was going to die; he ran but the fat one’s rifle butt was quicker.
He’d opened his eyes to bright sun and black flies.
Drifting north then: hopping buses, begging food, sleeping in sewers, being invisible. Stealing to survive. Borders meant nothing: El Salvador, Guatemala, Mexico. Moving to an inner current: America, a vague notion fueled by television and his father’s newspaper. In a year, he’d made it as far as Sonora. Then the woman from Los Amigos de Hermosillo and the slow road back from hepatitis and malnutrition and dysentery.
He should have died.
Selected for adoption, he’d gotten as far as Los Angeles when it fell through. Hearing his adoptive parents had burned to death under a gasoline truck on some freeway, that he’d be going back. And then the miracle: the gentleman who felt sorry for him, agreed to take him under his wing.
A vulture’s wing.
At first Julio had been grateful; he was beyond love by then, but life at least looked promising. Being given a home by Señor Guerra meant enough to eat, enough to live, escape from the bad dreams. Señor was good to him, demanding but generous.
Then the massages, coming at night to his bedroom—touching, putting his mouth on Julio’s; Señor whispering to him that he and Julio were alike, that people didn’t understand, and if he told anyone, he would have to go back there.
Back to hell.
He was a whore now, a fourteen-year-old puto.
He wondered what his father would think. Back home, when something troubled him, he’d go to church, discuss it with Father Jaime—maybe he could confide in Father Martin the same way. Yet every time he came close to Father Martin, after the others had left the altar boy class, he was too ashamed to form the words.
That left the officers—why hadn’t he spoken up? The big one’s face stood out again in his mind. From the moment he came into the house, the one named Freiman reminded Julio of the man who had hanged his father. From then on they all looked the same. Men with guns.
Julio put his head down on the cold wood and waited for the storm to pass.
Lenny Guerra poured, the aroma restoring him somewhat. When he wasn’t so tired, he enjoyed grinding the beans himself, sweetening the black brew, adding the leche evaporada. He never stirred it though, preferring to watch the white cloud form and swirl—destiny in a cup.
He drank some, anticipating its boost. From the Niños front desk Carmen routed a call. Jennette, he assumed; probably needing more Valium.
“Did Leonardo forget our meeting?”
Goddammit to hell—all he needed right now. “Fuck the meeting, Martin, I had visitors last night. Sheriff’s people. With a search warrant.”
There was an intake of breath. “What were they looking for?”
“Don’t pl
ay innocent with me. What do you think they were looking for?”
Hesitation, then: “I think what you are doing is absolute madness.”
“Be careful what you say, Martin.”
“I can’t permit it. I won’t.”
“Do you happen to have the Cardinal’s office number handy? Save me the trouble of looking it up. Two-five-one something-or-other—”
Martin DeSantis’ voice was barely audible now. “In God’s name, don’t do this.”
“Tears, Martin? Really!”
“I’m begging you—”
“Good-bye, Martin.”
TWENTY-THREE
They came up with the plan sometime after two that afternoon, Wil wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he was against it, his head hurt like hell, and Lisa was on the phone talking about her skills and volunteer opportunities with Isabel Diaz, Father Martin’s secretary. They concluded by setting up a late-afternoon appointment at St. Boniface.
“I’m as good as in,” she said. “They need finance people. Something big’s going on.”
“Rebuilding their Mexican outreach mission,” Wil said through the damp towel over his face.
“Los Amigos de Hermosillo. You know about it?”
“Some. DeSantis talked about it at the mass Paul and I went to.” He pulled the towel off and sat up gingerly. “No tricks, Lisa. You use your maiden name, you get as close to Guerra and DeSantis as you can, and we play it by ear from there. The Polaroid is only if an opening presents itself. Ditto the tape recorder. No—I repeat no—heroics. That’s the deal. Period.”
“Why would someone of Father Martin’s reputation get mixed up with someone like Guerra?”
“I don’t know. Men like DeSantis—called, charismatic types—are also ambitious. It’s what drives them. What I suspect is that Guerra’s tapping in, using DeSantis’ ambition for his own agenda. How, I have no idea. But with guys like him it’s generally for money.”
“You think Guerra could be skimming off the Catholic church?”
“Don’t ask me to prove it.”
“Surely the archdiocese must have auditors.”
“Judging by the articles I read, Father Martin is extremely important to the church right now, and not just the archdiocese. He’s doing incredible things. Millions are flowing in. The media love him. That would make him an awfully big fish to jerk around.”
Her almond eyes looked thoughtful; one hand swept a wisp of black hair off her face. She said, “I can’t believe he’d condone something like that.”
“He’s hiding something. I’m convinced he lied about Paul.”
“I’d better get going, Wil. I need to shower before I go.” She stood up, cinching the pink cord of her robe tight at the waist. The gesture was completely reflex, but it defined her figure: slim with small breasts, nipples standing out against the silk.
“I’ll wash your back,” he said, instantly regretting the crack. It was forced and inappropriate, and that’s the way she took it.
She flushed, looking at him as though something dammed up for miles was about to spill out in a rush, but she said nothing. Just turned and walked away.
He felt her touch on his shoulder and realized he’d drifted off to sleep on the couch.
“I’m going now, there’s a break in the rain. How do you feel?”
“Fine,” he said. It was partly true anyway; the sharp pain in his head was gone, replaced by a queasy stomach and the sensation of his blood coursing. For some chemical reason, his system craved tequila with lime and salt. He sat up and checked his watch: four o’clock.
“Will you be here when I get back?” she asked.
“Depends.” The question, the accountability inherent, felt odd but welcome, and he amplified: “Guerra’s due at his office at five, I called while you were in the shower. I’ll tag after him, see where it leads.”
“Won’t he spot you on the Harley?”
Mentioning the motorcycle in front of Guerra came back, but he said, “I bought a helmet, one of those faceless things.”
“Wish me luck,” she said. She was wearing a navy sweater over a white button-down shirt and pleated green pants. Over her arm was a Ghurka bag and a bone-colored raincoat. Sunlight from a rift in the clouds sent shine off her straight black hair and a little zip of electricity through him.
“Luck,” he said. “And remember our deal,” the words sounding rote and vacuous to him. When she turned and closed the door behind her, she left a hint of jasmine and Wil fighting a sinking feeling of déjà vu.
It was getting dark when he edged onto 405 South and into the lit river of slowly moving cars heading up the grade toward West L.A. and Santa Monica. The city’s glow reflected dully off the reformed overcast; the promise of more rain hung in the air like a damp curtain. Spray from the roadway patterned the smoke visor of his helmet and his leather field jacket.
He made Stan’s Café at five-fifteen, staked out a table that gave him a clear shot at Guerra’s black Mercedes in the Niños lot across Olympic. A thin girl with heavy makeup told him Cindy was off duty and brought him a club sandwich, which he paid for. Then she left him alone to wonder how Lisa was doing at St. Boniface, how that whole thing had come together. It still seemed unreal, one more thing to worry about. Yet by her presence, she’d lifted something dark and oppressive off him. He realized he hadn’t thought about a drink in nearly two hours.
Guerra strolled out just after seven, put his raincoat and briefcase in the backseat, nosed the SEL out the driveway and turned left. He slowed briefly at the jammed-up northbound 405, then kept going on Olympic. Wil maintained several cars between them as the neighborhoods upscaled, downscaled, commercialized, got dismal and became respectable again. Lit signs hawked Kona coffee then kimchi then pan dulce.
L.A., he thought: Don’t like what you see, you drive awhile.
Guerra picked up Alvarado Street, then drove northeast on freeways 2 and 134. Just before the freeway arched over Arroyo Seco and into Pasadena, Guerra swung off and followed the west side of the arroyo up a winding street overhung with camphor trees, then slowed at an open-gated property with about a dozen luxury cars parked along the curving drive. He swung the Mercedes in; a garage door opened automatically; the Mercedes slid inside. In a moment Guerra came out a side door and strode under the portico and into the house.
It was a dark-shingled Craftsman, modified and set back from the street. Multilevel decks circled the exterior; brick walks led off in different directions. Through brightly lit windows Wil could see a telescope pointing toward the mountains and people standing with drinks in their hands. Mist was beginning to float and swirl in the glow.
He put the Harley between a couple of photinia bushes; at the front door he was met by a white-coated houseman who eyed him up and down, took his card, then slipped back into the crowd of people. Wil stepped inside. The place was warm-feeling and beautifully decorated, the people as well. Prosperous and late-thirties eager, they stood talking in small groups beside spotlit artwork, alcoves of antiquities, Plexiglas-framed ethnic weavings. Their champagne glasses caught sparkles of light from candles that flickered on a long table set with silver, wine glasses, and flowers. Classical music eased from tall speakers.
He recognized Jennette Contreras, then Diane Sumner across the room, and smiled at her as Leonardo Guerra approached with the houseman.
“Mr. Hardesty, I figured that must be you following me. I’m hosting a dinner party here. Is there something you want?” He was holding a cut crystal tumbler, something clear over ice.
Wil brought his eyes up from the glass. “Yeah, to give credit where it’s due. With your friends around.” He looked beyond Guerra, saw people glancing his way. “I want them to know the real Lenny. The civic-minded one who put up a faulty hospital that fell down and killed people. In Hermosillo, of all places.”
Guerra drank from the glass; through aviator lenses his gray eyes held dark glints. Conversation fell off as guests began looking openly now. Wil
could see them eyeing his clothes.
Guerra nodded at the houseman. “Show Mr. Hardesty the door, Jesús,” he said. “Now, please.”
Wil raised his voice a notch. “The caring, compassionate Lenny who ordered my friend Paul Rodriguez killed.” He felt the houseman’s hand on his elbow and jerked away. He had the full attention of the group now and played to it; Diane Sumner’s eyes were very large. “God-fearing Lenny had Paul’s throat cut by a psychopath named Zavala who worked for him. Authorities say Zavala murdered seven children then kidnapped his own child. He is now conveniently dead.”
“Jesús!”
The houseman made another grab for Wil’s arm. “No offense, Jesús,” he said. “But I am not ready to leave yet. Momentito mas, por favor.”
A well-built man with the logo of a catering company on his white shirt moved toward them. “Come on, man,” he said. “Be nice.”
“Sorry, I just don’t feel nice.” Wil’s eyes encompassed the guests. “Maybe you folks weren’t aware that last night the sheriff’s department served a search warrant on our Lenny. Right here where you’re standing. Seems they had evidence Lenny was hiding Zavala’s little girl.” He took the snapshot from Donna’s out of his shirt pocket, flipped it on the dining table. “Her name is Jessie, Jessica Pacheco. Best to take a close look if any of you are thinking of adopting a child from Niños de Mexico. Wouldn’t want any of you arrested as accessories.”
Lenny Guerra’s neck and face were red-blotched, and a vein in his forehead pulsed. He turned away from Wil. “My friends, please forgive this unforgivable intrusion. This man is a failed private investigator, a liar, and a drunk. Some years ago his recklessness was the cause of his own child’s preventable death. Now he seems to exist for no other purpose than to cause trouble. Spoiling our evening is precisely what he wants.”
“My, aren’t we well-informed.”
Diane Sumner said, “Please, Mr. Hardesty, this isn’t right. Can’t you see we’re happy here?” She sounded confused and hurt.
The Innocents Page 20
