Case Pending

by Dell Shannon

  “It isn’t always,” said Mendoza, “the hand dealt to you, so much as the way you play it.”

  “You should know. How much do you average a year in poker winnings, anyway?”

  “Sometimes enough to buy my shirts.”

  “That ain’t hay for you, at what, twelve bucks a throw…22 You know something else? When we do catch up with him, he’s going to be some guy who’s got the reputation of being the kindest, mildest, sweetest-tempered hombre God ever put on earth. Everybody who knows him’ll say, Oh, John couldn’t be the one, he’d never do such a thing, officer! Want to bet?”

  Mendoza laughed, abrupt and mirthless. “Don’t I know it! I only hope he doesn’t have another brain storm before we catch up to him. No one’s ever accused me of being a sentimental man, ¡no, por Dios!—but I don’t care for his notions of how to treat women.” He swept the Homburg off, passed a hand over the thick, Indian-straight black hair that grew to a widow’s peak, and opened the door.

  10 A disparaging term for Mexicans in Los Angeles.

  11 Although the first-name references may seem strange between sergeant and lieutenant, it will be seen that Hackett and Mendoza have a close relationship: Mendoza later calls him “Art.”

  12 That is, the University of California, founded in 1868. Hackett is, therefore, between the ages of thirty and thirty-two, though he might be older if he enrolled after World War II on the GI Bill or had his schooling interrupted by the war.

  13 Bluish in color, resulting from deoxygenation.

  14 “I think so,” a phrase used colloquially here to mean something like “sure, just what I expected.”

  15 “Enough!”

  16 Anticipating the catchphrase of Michael Connelly’s iconic Los Angeles detective, Harry Bosch: “Everyone counts, or no one counts.”

  17 “Unfortunately.”

  18 “That’s obvious.”

  19 “On the way”—meaning, “in passing.” Linington freely admitted that she didn’t speak Spanish fluently, and her effort to include naturalistic Spanish-language exclamations and expressions in this and her other Mendoza novels often produced phrases (such as this one) that no native speaker of Spanish would ever utter.

  20 “I said to myself.”

  21 Linington’s Spanish is at fault here; Mendoza should have said “muy loco”—“very crazy.”

  22 More than $100 per shirt in 2019.

  Three

  The girl who had found the body was nervous, too nervous. Not a nice experience, but it had been over an hour ago, and if she had nothing to do with it, why was she trembling and stammering and eying the policemen as if she expected the third degree? Mendoza was mildly curious.

  She was a rather pretty girl, about twenty-seven, neat rounded figure, modest and dowdy in a clean cotton housedress. Fine olive-tan complexion, big brown eyes, minimum of make-up: a respectable girl.

  “Her name was Elena Ramirez. I realize you wouldn’t be likely to recognize anyone you knew under the circumstances—so, did you know Miss Ramirez?”

  “Oh, no, sir, I never heard of her.” She twisted her hands together and her eyes shifted away. “I’ll be awful late for work, sir, I don’t know nothing—”

  Mendoza let her go. “Sergeant Hackett will drive you to your job and explain why you’re late”; and to Hackett, “Conversation—find out what you can about her, and then see what you can pick up where she lives. I don’t think she’s got anything to do with it, but one never knows. I’ll see the family. That takes us to an early lunch, maybe—Federico’s at twelve-thirty, O.K.?—we’ll compare notes.”

  “Está bien,” said Hackett, and joined Agnes Browne outside. The Italian grocer, hovering to get Mendoza’s attention, asked excitedly if he had said Ramirez—the family Ramirez over on Liggitt Street, would that be? Sacred name of God, what a terrible thing—ah, yes, he knew them, only to nod to, the signor comprehended—sometimes the wife came in to buy, not often—God pity them, to lose a daughter so—no, no, the girl he did not know at all—she was assaulted, assassinated by some madman, then?

  “So I think,” said Mendoza. The men from headquarters had dispersed; the ambulance was gone, the patrol car was gone. Across the street he saw Dwyer leave the first house next to the corner lot and head for the neighboring one. Mendoza crossed to his car and stopped to light a cigarette; he looked at the car thoughtfully, getting out his keys. He believed in buying the very best piece of merchandise obtainable of what one set out to buy, giving it loving care and using it until it fell to pieces. A thing like a car, that by this scheme was with you for years, you got acclimated to one another, it had personal individuality for you, it was more than a mere machine of transportation. The austerely elegant black Ferrari club-saloon was only thirteen years old,23 just into middle age for a Ferrari, and it would be mad, extravagant, to give it up: he had no intention of doing so: but there was no denying that with the increase of traffic and parking problems, its size was a disadvantage, not to say a nuisance. The trouble was, if he did buy a new car, it would be one with less than twelve cylinders—unless he should buy one of the new, smaller Ferraris, which was piling madness on madness.24

  He muttered, “Es difícil,” got in and started the engine. (“Now look, Mr. Mendoza,” the mechanic had said patiently, “the number o’ cylinders isn’t anythin’ to do with how good the car is! If you knew anythin’ about engines at all—! I know it sounds to you like you’re gettin’ more for your money—facta the matter is, about all it means is it costs more to run, see? Sure, this is the hell of a great car, but you’d be just as well off, get just as much power and speed, with say something like that Mercedes six—I mean if you got to have a foreigner—or one of them slick hardtop Jaguars—”)

  Liggitt Street, a block the other side of Main and one down, was a bare cut above Commerce. Not so many signs in windows, and the houses, most as old and poor, better cared for. The Ramirez house was one of the two-storey ones; as he came up the walk, he saw that the curtains at the narrow front windows were clean and starched, a few flowers planted against the low porch.

  He did not mind breaking bad news to strangers, and often it was of help to notice reactions: little things might tell if this was as impersonal a fate as it looked, or had reasons closer to home. But he fully expected that a good deal of time would be wasted, from his point of view, while they assimilated the news, before he could decently ask questions.

  He was not wrong there. The family consisted of Papa, Mama, assorted children between three and sixteen, an older daughter perhaps twenty-one, and a stocky middle-aged man who bore enough resemblance to Papa that his designation as Tío25 Tomás was superfluous. Mendoza waited through Mama’s hysterics, the dispatching of a message to the parish priest, the settling of Mama on the sofa with a blanket, cologne-soaked handkerchief, glass of wine, and her remaining brood nested about her comfortingly. He found a cracked pink saucer in obvious use as an ash tray and smoked placidly in the midst of the uproar, eyes and ears busy.

  Not native Mexican-Americans, these, not a couple of generations across the border. The kids, they had the marks of smart American kids, and their English was unhesitating, sparked with slang; but Mama, fat and decent in ankle-length black cotton, and Papa, collarless neck scrawny above an old flannel bathrobe, were Old Country. It was no different, Mexican, German, Lithuanian, whatever—always there was bound to be a little friction, the kids naturally taking on freer modern ways, the old ones disapproving, worried, and arguments about it. So? The man called Tío Tomás sat in a straight chair behind the sofa and said nothing, smoking tiny black Mexican cigarillos.

  “You know I must ask you questions,” said Mendoza at last, putting a hand on Manuel Ramirez’s arm. “I’m sorry to intrude on your grief, but to help us in hunting whoever has killed your daughter—”

  “Sí, yes, it is understood,” whispered Ramirez. “I—I tell you whatever you
want to know. María Santísima, my brain is not working for this terrible thing, but—excuse, mister, I don’t speak so good in English—”

  “Then we speak Spanish.”

  “Ah, you have the tongue, that’s good. I thank you—pardon, mister, the name I did not—”

  “Lieutenant Mendoza.”

  “Mendoza.” He gave it the hard Mexican pronunciation that was ultimately Aztec, instead of the more elegant Spanish sibilance. “You are—an agent of police?”

  “I am. I’ll ask you first—”

  “The gentleman’s good to wait and be polite.” It was the oldest girl, coming up quietly, looking at him with open curiosity; she was pale, but had not been weeping. She was not as pretty as her sister had been, but not bad-looking, in a buxom way. “Of course we know you got to ask questions, but look, Papa, no sense disturbing Mama with it—I guess you and me can tell him whatever he wants. Let’s go in the kitchen, if that’s all right, mister?”

  “It is Lieutenant, Teresa,” said Ramirez distractedly; he let her urge him through a shabby dining room. Mendoza strolled after: she threw him a glance over her shoulder of mixed interest, anxiety, and a kind of mechanical female blandishment. The kitchen was big, cold, reasonably clean. “Please to sit down, sir—if you would accept my hospitality, a glass of wine—it’s only cheap stuff—” Ramirez was trying to pull himself together; the conventional courtesy was automatic.

  “No, no, thanks. Tell me first, I believe your daughter lived here with you?—then you must have been worried that she didn’t come home last night? Do you know where she was?”

  The girl answered from where she had perched uneasily on the kitchen table. “Sure, we were worried. But she might’ve gone to stay overnight with a girl friend, or—well, you know how it is, we sort of talked back ’n’ forth and kept waiting for her maybe to call one of the neighbors with a message—Mrs. Gomez next door lets us—”

  “Where had she gone and when did she leave?”

  “She was—she was just out on a date. I don’t know where they were going. Ricky, he was here for Elena about seven, I guess, and they went right after.” In answer to the query only begun, she added hurriedly, “Ricky Wade, he’s a boy Elena’s—Elena had been going with a lot. A nice boy he is, you needn’t go thinking anything about him, see. I don’t know where they were going, but they did go to the Palace rink26 a lot—that roller-skating place, you know. Silly, I say, but Elena’s—Elena was just a kid, she liked it.”

  “She would have had nineteen years only the next month,” murmured Ramirez. “It was wrong, Teresa, I said so! We should have gone to the police at once, at once! Elena was a good girl in her heart, she was properly brought up, never would she have done such a thing—all the talk around and around, I should have let you and Mama talk and gone to the police myself—”

  “What would she not have done, Miss Ramirez?” asked Mendoza.

  “Oh, well, I s’pose we got to say or you’ll think it’s funny we didn’t seem more worried.” Her mouth tightened. “We were going to do something about it this morning, don’t know what, but—We were awful worried, you can see that, way Papa and I both stayed home from work—it wasn’t as if Elena ever did nothing like that before, stay away all night and not call or nothing. But—well, we got to thinking maybe her and Ricky’d eloped—you know, over to Las Vegas or somewhere, to get married in a hurry—”

  “It is not true!” exclaimed Ramirez excitedly, jumping up. The bathrobe fell open to reveal his spindly legs and unexpectedly gay pink cotton underpants. “It is a wicked lie, that Elena is got in trouble with this fellow and has to run away and marry quick! She is a respectable girl, never would she—oh, she does this and that Mama and I don’t like, sure, but she’s young, it’s different times and ways now, I know that—she’s impatient, she wants the moon like all youngsters, but never would she—”

  “I never said she did, I never! But after they made up and he came back, she sure meant to keep him, she was set on marrying him someday, you know good as I do. All I said was, if he all of a sudden wanted to elope, she wouldn’t take the risk of losing him, she’d say yes quick!”

  “Did you disapprove of this Mr. Wade, then?” asked Mendoza of Ramirez casually.

  “Disapprove—” He moved his thin shoulders wearily. “He is not of the faith. I don’t know, if Elena wanted so bad, I—You don’t have nothing to say about it any more, anyway, fathers. The kids, they go their own way. She wouldn’t have been happy in such a marriage, that I thought. But it wasn’t really serious, they were just youngsters—”

  “Elena was serious, all right!” said Teresa. She turned to Mendoza. “Look, you might’s well know how it was, an’ weasel round like I s’pose you got to, to be sure Ricky didn’t have nothing to do with—with killing her. That’s silly, he wouldn’t. Elena met him in school three years back, see—that’s Sloan Heights High,27 where I went too. Only I had the sense to finish, and she didn’t—wanted a job so’s she could buy a lot of splashy clothes ’n’ all—soon as she turned sixteen, she got a work permit an’ a job uptown in a Hartners’ store,28 putting stuff on the models in the windows, unpacking in the stock room, like that—”

  Ramirez moved restlessly. “All this foolishness,” he muttered, “keeping girls in school so long—history and algebra, it don’t teach them any better to keep house and bring up the kids. And Elena always give Mama her five dollars a week, regular, like she should.”

  “I’m not saying nothing against her, Papa, only she should’ve finished like I did, learned typing and all, so’s to get a better job. Sure she gave Mama money, and bought things for the kids too, she wasn’t stingy. All I—”

  “Mr. Wade,” murmured Mendoza.

  “That’s what I’m getting to. She saw I was right in the end, see? Because the Wades, they reckon they’re a lot too good for the likes of us, they didn’t like Ricky taking up with Elena. Mr. Wade, he works for the city, they own their house and all that—you know. Elena, she liked Ricky a lot, sure, he’s a nice boy like I said, but at the same time she saw it’d be kind of a step up the ladder for her, marry into a family like that. She didn’t want to stay on Liggitt Street all her life, well, who does? But the time she had a little fight with Ricky, ’n’ don’t go thinking it was anything serious, just a little spat like, she started thinking how silly it’d be to really lose him—I know all this because she talked it over with me, see, nights—we got the same room. I mean, she thought, he’s used to different sorts of ways and she got worried she wouldn’t know how to act right about things like that if they got married.”

  “It was foolishness,” said Ramirez. “That school place for teaching the fascination. But it’s Elena’s money, if she wanted—”

  “Fascination?” Momentarily the subtle color of near-synonyms in the Spanish misled Mendoza.

  “No, it wasn’t,” said Teresa. “It’s—it was worth the money, Papa, and that Miss Weir’s real nice, you know I seen her once, when I met Elena uptown to shop. It’s a charm school”—turning back to Mendoza—“you know, they teach you what’s right to wear and so on. Me, I say it was O.K. for Elena to try to improve herself, sure. Even if she had to quit her job like she did, it’s a sixweek course an’ every day—she could get another easy enough after. What was silly about it, those Wades aren’t all so much that she had to feel nervous about them! Mother of God, you’d think they were millionaires with a butler maybe like in the movies, way she talked. He’s just a bookkeeper in some office, but—you know—they’re the kind put their noses in the air at us, dirty low-class Mexes, they say to each other, an’ Catholic which they don’t like so much either. Me, I don’t let people like that bother me, not one little bit. Maybe we do rent a house instead of owning one, an’ maybe our street isn’t so high-class, an’ we don’t have no car or telephone or electric washing machine—maybe Papa does just drive a delivery truck—what’s that got to do wi
th anything? We’re respectable folks, Papa’s worked for Mr. Reyes all the time since he come over, and that’s nearly twenty years, and we don’t owe nobody no money like I’ll bet the Wades do. I got a good job typing for El Gente Méjico,29 ’n’ I’ve saved nearly three hundred dollars toward furniture an’ so on for when Carlos and me get married this summer—which I’ll bet is more than Mrs. Wade can say she did!” Teresa gestured contemptuously. “People like them, let them talk! But it bothered Elena, see.”

  “You have much common sense,” said Mendoza with a smile. “I think Carlos is lucky. So nothing was said last night about where your sister and Mr. Wade were going?” She shook her head. “But you would certainly have expected that he’d see her home?”

  “Oh, sure. I can’t figure out how she came to be alone—she must’ve been, for whoever—did it—to sneak up on her. You said—the corner at Commerce an’ Humboldt? She must’ve been on her way home then, and from that Palace rink too, coming that way.”

  “We’ll find out. Mr. Ramirez, you’ll have to identify the body formally, and there’ll be an inquest, of course. I’ll send someone to take you down to the morgue.”

  “Identify—that mean you’re not sure it is Elena?” asked the girl sharply.

  “No, that we know. It’s only a formality of the law.”

  “Yes, I understand,” said Ramirez. “You’re kind, we thank you.”

  Mendoza took the girl’s arm and led her out to the dining room. She looked up at him alertly, half-suspicious. “Well, what now?”

  “No need to upset your father more,” he said easily. “Will you give me the address of this school your sister attended, please—how long had she been going there?”

  “A—about three weeks it was, yes, just three because today’s Saturday an’ she began two weeks ago last Monday. I don’t know that it was doing her much good at that, she couldn’t seem—”