Angel Baby

by RICHARD LANGE

  With this in mind, Malone did well in school—honor roll, student council, all that crap; he got to work earlier than everyone else and left later; he married the right girl, moved into the right neighborhood, and drove the right car. And when Annie came along, he loved her like his father had never loved him.

  She was a beautiful baby and grew into a beautiful child, with wispy blond hair and round blue eyes. Malone was awestruck by her innocence and the sweet simplicity of her affection. “Up, Daddy, up,” she’d say. He’d sweep her into his arms and hold her close, and the gentle tap of her heart against his chest became the secret cadence that kept him going.

  But where is that heart now, those little hands, and those blue, blue eyes?

  Malone orders more beer and more tequila from the waiter with the tired smile, then raises his empty can to the thrill-seekers at the next table, Fatboy and Tattoo Slim.

  “How you doin’?” Slim says.

  “Great,” Malone says. “You guys?”

  “Ah, you know, getting there.”

  Fatboy chuckles and repeats his friend’s assessment. “Yup, yup, getting there.”

  “Let me help you out,” Malone says as the waiter returns. “Another round for these gentlemen too, boss. Por favor.”

  “Thanks,” Slim says.

  “Yeah, thanks,” Fatboy says.

  Malone waves it away. He and his new buddies watch two soldiers stroll by with assault rifles hanging across their chests. They look like kids, mean little kids. One of them whistles and gestures to a man on the other side of the street, and he and his partner walk over to talk to him.

  “See that TV,” Slim says. He points to an older model Sony showing Law & Order inside the restaurant. “It used to be mine. I got a new flat screen and put that one out on the curb, and somehow it ended up down here.”

  “Come on,” Malone says.

  “I know my own TV, bro,” Slim says. He turns to Fatboy. “It’s mine, right?”

  “It’s his,” Fatboy says.

  “I mean, I don’t mind,” Slim says. “The thing’s twenty years old. But, still, how crazy is that?”

  “What’s that they call it, the trickle-down theory?” Malone says.

  Both guys laugh like they know what he’s talking about. Slim has a tattoo of a Harley logo, an American flag, and what looks like a ’65 Mustang on one arm, and Bart Simpson, a top-hatted skull, and the words 9/11, Never Forget on the other. Bunch of junk.

  “So, you guys up to no good?” Malone asks.

  “We’re gonna check out this titty bar up the road,” Slim says.

  “Oh yeah?”

  “There’s usually a couple hot bitches there. You’re welcome to come along.”

  “I just might do that.”

  A bat swoops in to feed on the moths swarming the streetlight above their tables. The three of them tilt their heads back to watch.

  “A guy I know got a bat tangled in his hair,” Slim says. “The bad thing was, he had a gun in his hand at the time. Fucker was so freaked out, he started shooting at it and blew his own head off instead.”

  “My brother,” Fatboy says.

  “What?” Slim says.

  “It was my brother who did that.”

  “Really?”

  It’s not funny, but Fatboy laughs. Malone does too.

  The three of them move on after another round. Their first stop is a small, dark bar with a jungle painted on the wall. A black light makes the lion’s fangs shine like the moon on a winter night. Malone drops onto a stool and orders a beer and a shot. The tequila is finally working. His sorrow is nothing but a cold hard pearl now. He and Slim and Fatboy are the only gringos in the place. There are no women either. The music is Mexican, and loud.

  Slim and Fatboy huddle with a little guy sporting a perm and lots of gold around his neck. The three of them walk to the bathroom together. Coke time. Or as the Mexicans call it, perico, parakeet, because of how it makes you chirp. Malone is studying his fellow boozers, trying to decide if this is a gay joint, when Fatboy sidles up a few minutes later and whispers, “If you want a toot, go see Brian.”

  The men’s room door is locked when Malone pushes on it.

  “Who’s there?” Slim says.

  “Me, dude,” Malone says.

  He soon finds himself squeezed into a reeking stall with Slim and the little guy with the gold. Slim dips a key into a bindle of coke, then holds the key under Malone’s nostril. The shit tastes funny going down, but Malone does a second blast, and a third.

  The night revs up after that. The beers keep coming, and Slim prattles on and on. As they’re walking to the next bar, he tells Malone about his first wife, and his second, and his third. He’s worked for a number of real assholes, too, and someone somewhere in there is to blame for everything.

  Fatboy makes them wait while he vomits in the gutter.

  “You dumbass,” Slim yells. “Do that in the alley.”

  Malone starts to get sloppy. He forgets his change on the bar at the next place they go into and has to put a hand on the wall to keep from falling over when he takes a piss.

  By the time they reach the strip club, he can’t tell anymore whether he’s thinking or talking. The neon does a number on his eyes, and the mirrors confuse him. They sit at the rail for a while, then move to a couch, where three girls dance just for them. Malone’s is short and round with dyed blond hair and bush. She places his hand between her legs, and he sticks a finger inside her to see if she’ll stop him. She doesn’t.

  “Do you have kids?” he says to her, shouting over the music. It’s the wrong thing to ask, but he wants to know.

  Slim thinks he’s talking to him. “I’ve got a daughter,” he says. “She’s nine.”

  “I had a daughter too,” Malone says. He sticks another finger inside the blonde and prays that the building falls in on him. “But she died, and I died, and this is all that’s left of me.”

  10

  EL PRíNCIPE GIVES JERÓNIMO THE KEYS TO A FORD EXPLORER WITH California plates, a cell phone, and a roll of bills totaling $5,000 for expenses. He also hands him a loaded 9mm Smith & Wesson. Jerónimo almost refuses the pistol, thinking of the trouble it might land him in, but so many people these days, a gun is the only thing that scares them, and he has a feeling it’s going to take some scaring to get this job done quickly.

  All the Prince can tell him about Luz is that she left on foot carrying a zebra-striped backpack containing his money and his gun. As for her past, besides the fact that she was once El Samurai’s mistress, he doesn’t know much. He thinks she grew up in Tijuana, but she never talked about what colonia she lived in or who she ran around with.

  “If I could find her myself, why would I need you?” he says, standing in the driveway beside the Explorer as if seeing off an old friend.

  Jerónimo sticks the money and the nine in the center console and starts the truck. El Príncipe waves good-bye to him as he backs down the driveway and calls out, “I’ll take care of your family.”

  Jerónimo doesn’t reply for fear of what he might say.

  His first stop is Irma’s sister’s house to pick up his passport, which he’ll need if he has to cross the border. Irma’s sister is hysterical, wants to call the police, but Jerónimo tells her that would be the death of Irma and the kids.

  “I’ll handle this,” he says. “You know I will.”

  He finds his passport at the bottom of Irma’s jewelry box. He also takes along a necklace of hers, a locket with a tiny photo of him and the children inside.

  Back in the Explorer, he drives to Tacos El Gordo, a twenty-four-hour stand frequented by Tijuana’s army of taxi drivers. He’s looking for Don Rafael, a retired cabbie who knows every driver in town and acts as unofficial godfather to them all, listening to their gripes, mediating their disputes, and advising them on everything from the best mechanics to whom to bribe and how much to pay in order to be left alone to work in peace. The drivers see and hear everything that goes
on in the city, so there’s a good chance one of them spotted Luz.

  Don Rafael is sitting at one of the stand’s plastic tables with a couple of other old guys. He’s a gaunt man with a deeply lined face. His thick white hair is combed straight back, and his bushy white mustache has a yellowish tinge from countless cigarettes and cups of coffee.

  “Híjole,” he says, surprised to see Jerónimo. “You’re out?”

  Jerónimo pulls up a chair and sits backward on it. “I’m doing a job for someone,” he says.

  “You look good, healthy,” Don Rafael says. He reaches out to pat Jerónimo’s arm. “Can I get you something to eat? To drink?”

  “Un café,” Jerónimo says.

  Don Rafael calls to the woman at the counter and raises his foam cup. “One for my friend here.”

  “I need your help,” Jerónimo says.

  “Of course,” Don Rafael says. “Whatever I can do.”

  Jerónimo shows him the photos of Luz.

  “I need to find this girl. I want you to put the word out, see if any of the drivers might have come across her. Let them know there’s a thousand-dollar reward for good information.”

  Don Rafael pulls a pair of reading glasses from the breast pocket of his shirt and slips them on to examine the photos. “Hot stuff,” he says, then peers at Jerónimo over the tops of the cheaters. “El Príncipe?”

  Jerónimo shrugs, and that’s enough of an answer.

  Don Rafael shows the photos to the other men at the table.

  “She look familiar?” he asks.

  The men shake their heads, and the taquero brings down his cleaver on a hunk of meat. Jerónimo feels the THWACK! on the back of his neck. Stay calm, he tells himself.

  Don Rafael takes out his phone and uses it to snap a picture of one of the photos. He shows it to Jerónimo for his approval.

  “I’ll send it to some people with a note about the reward,” he says. “News like that will spread fast.”

  “Fast is good,” Jerónimo says. The woman sets his coffee on the table, and he lifts the cup to his lips and takes a sip while the old man pokes at his phone. The smoke from the grill drifts out into the street and rises above the traffic. A couple of drivers parked at the curb lean against their cars and eat, craning their necks so as not to drip salsa on their shirts. It’s a good life, driving a taxi. Jerónimo thinks he might take it up again when he and his family move to the States. Or maybe a truck.

  “Okay,” Don Rafael says, pressing a last key with a flourish. “Now we wait.”

  The old man brings out a deck of cards, and he and Jerónimo and the other men play a few hands of La Viuda. Jerónimo has trouble focusing on the game, keeps thinking of Irma and the kids. If he gets nothing from the drivers, he has another plan. He knows some people who used to work for El Samurai, and while it’s dangerous to cross the lines between crews, they might have some dirt on their late boss’s old girlfriend that’ll help him find her.

  He’s about to head over to the club where these men used to hang out when Don Rafael’s phone rings. The old man greets the caller and listens to what he has to say. When the caller finishes his spiel, Don Rafael presses the phone to his chest and addresses Jerónimo.

  “This guy claims that the woman you’re looking for got into his cab earlier today, and he ended up driving her all over town. He’s afraid of getting involved though. He doesn’t want to piss someone off and end up with his balls shoved down his throat.”

  “I don’t need his name,” Jerónimo says. “Just where he took her.”

  Don Rafael relays the message, then says, “They went to a house in Taurinas, and then afterward he dropped her off at a body shop in Libertad. The problem is, he doesn’t know the addresses.”

  “But he could find them again.”

  “He thinks so.”

  “Then ask him to come here now and show me,” Jerónimo says. “Tell him I’ll give him a thousand bucks for his trouble.”

  He gnaws on his thumbnail while Don Rafael makes the offer. The old man presses the phone to his chest again when he’s finished.

  “He’s asking me if he can trust you,” he says.

  “On my wife and children, nothing will happen to him,” Jerónimo says.

  Don Rafael raises the phone to his ear and tells the caller that Jerónimo’s word is gold and he’ll stake his reputation on it. A few second later he ends the call and sets the phone on the table.

  “Well?” Jerónimo says.

  “Don’t get this guy killed,” Don Rafael says, lighting a cigarette. “I’ll look like a real asshole.”

  The caller shows up half an hour later, a nervous man in a black ball cap and a T-shirt that says Hecho En Mexico. Lalo is his name. He doesn’t look Jerónimo in the eye when they shake hands. As they walk to the Explorer, Jerónimo tries to put him at ease, apologizing for making him come out so late.

  “Your old lady is probably pissed,” he says.

  Lalo doesn’t answer, just climbs into the passenger seat.

  “I’ll get you home safe,” Jerónimo says.

  “And the money?” Lalo says.

  Jerónimo reaches into the center console and removes the roll of bills. He counts out $500 and passes it to the guy.

  “You get the rest when we finish up,” he says.

  Lalo re-counts the money, then sticks the bills into the front pocket of his baggy jeans.

  “Do you know the way to Taurinas?” he asks.

  “I wish I could say no,” Jerónimo replies.

  They glide down murky streets toward the colonia, traffic fading away as they get closer. Jerónimo remembers back when he had his cab, many drivers would refuse fares going this way, saying it wasn’t worth the risk. Not him. Not even after a couple of pendejos he picked up in Zona Norte got him lost over here and tried to rob him. Their knife was no match for his gun, and one of them ran off with a bullet in his leg.

  He cruises up one potholed street and down another, Lalo making him stop at every corner. The guy is having a hard time retracing his route, especially with many of the streetlights shot out. “Left here,” he’ll say, then, “No, no, fuck, right.” He’s sweating even with the air conditioner blowing on him, keeps wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. Jerónimo figures he saw the Smith & Wesson sitting next to the money in the console.

  There are still lots of people out at this late hour. They sit on their porches or in their yards to escape the heat of the shacks they live in. Some have even moved TVs outside. Poor people, desperate people, breathing air that smells like shit and drinking water that makes them sick. It’s as bad as prison—worse, because out here they tell you you’re free. Dusty boys with no future kick scuffed soccer balls, a widow in perpetual mourning sells tacos from a grill in front of her house, and gangsters congregate in the shadows with caguamas of Tecate, dreaming of international hit man stardom.

  Lalo finally finds the place he’s been searching for, an ugly concrete box on a street lined with hovels that look like broken teeth. Fugitive snippets of soap operas and salsa commercials escape through the bars covering doors and windows.

  “Are you sure?” Jerónimo asks.

  “This is it,” Lalo replies.

  He can’t help but see the gun now, when Jerónimo grabs it from the console and tucks it into the waistband of his jeans. Jerónimo takes the money, too, tells Lalo to sit tight. Every dog on the street is barking as he approaches the house. A neighbor draws back a curtain, then lets it fall. The front door of the house is open behind a steel security gate, revealing a garbage-strewn front room, dark except for a single dim bulb.

  Jerónimo pounds on the gate with his palm, and a voice calls from the back room: “You’re early.”

  A few seconds later a woman appears, pretty once, but made ugly by life, spilling out of a red negligee. She opens the gate without checking who’s on the other side, then flinches, startled, when she sees Jerónimo, and tries to pull the gate shut again. Jerónimo’s foot stops
it.

  “I need to talk to you,” he says.

  “Not now,” the woman says.

  “I’ll be quick.”

  “I’m expecting a customer.”

  “Don’t make me be rude. Invite me in for a minute.”

  The woman looks him up and down angrily, then surrenders, releasing the gate and taking a step back. “What can I do?” she says. “You’re a man, I’m a woman, right?”

  Jerónimo walks into the house and nods toward the back room. “Is there anyone else?” he says.

  “No,” the woman says.

  She stands before Jerónimo unashamed in her worn lingerie, defiant even. He shows her a photo of Luz, watches her face for a reaction, gets none.

  “This girl was here earlier today,” he says. “What is she to you?”

  “Nothing,” the woman says. Her bravado is belied by her shaking hands.

  Jerónimo sets the photo on a table and draws the Smith & Wesson. At the same time he pulls a hundred-dollar bill from his pocket and offers it to the woman. Plata or plomo.

  “Your choice,” he says.

  The gun frightens the whore. Jerónimo sees it in her eyes, in the way her shoulders sag.

  “What a tough guy,” she says.

  “I’ve got a job to do,” Jerónimo says.

  “Yep, a real tough guy.”

  The woman takes a deep, bitter drag off her cigarette.

  “She’s my daughter,” she says.

  “Why was she here?”

  “She wanted the name of a pollero, to go to the U.S.”

  “Did you know of one?”

  “There’s a man. Freddy. He works out of a garage in Libertad.”

  “And you sent her there?”

  The woman licks her lower lip and fixes her gaze on the cracked and stained ceiling.

  “Yes,” she says.

  “Was she going to L.A.?”

  The woman continues to stare at the ceiling. She takes a shuddering breath and slowly releases it. It looks like she might be about to clam up, so Jerónimo points the gun at her head.