by Manuel Ramos
She stayed only for a few minutes, and we didn’t really catch up. We never advanced beyond the light and pointless banter stage. After she left, I wanted to listen to do-wop and drink beer. I wanted to slow dance. I wanted to cheer at a football game and hold hands in study hall. Truth be told, I wanted to wallow in all the “might-have-beens” that I could imagine, and I had dozens of those.
When I wasn’t clicking through the Internet on Sylvia’s computer or dealing with the occasional customer, I sat at my table reading paperbacks, some for the third or fourth time. I listened to music on an old CD player I borrowed from Sylvia’s inventory. Bob Marley. Los Lobos. Stevie Ray Vaughn. Oldies, but that’s what the customers brought in. I paid two dollars for ten used CDs and sold them for fifty cents each. Second-hand capitalism.
Or I thought about how I screwed up my marriage to Sylvia. I spent hours doing that. Made me a real fun guy to be around.
We never got along, even when we dated. Two different people, completely. Why we got married, only the devil knew since he had to be the one who hooked us up.
Who was I kidding? The answer was S-E-X. We argued constantly but we made up passionately. On the good days, and I admitted that there had been plenty of good ones, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. We had marathon sex. Quickie sex. Afternoon sex. Wake up at midnight sex. Do it in the backseat of our car while it was parked in the driveway sex. Our lifestyle of sex and more sex lasted a few years until we finally burned out.
We made plenty of love but we never made peace.
When we divorced she took everything—house, car and computer—and left me the bills. After my delivery gig tanked and my boss laid off me and everyone else, she graciously hired me to be her grunt, delivery boy, all-around slave. She thought it was funny that her ex-husband worked for her. Sylvia had a mean sense of humor—hell, she was plain mean.
In addition to the shop she earned money as an office temp, filling in for vacationing secretaries or flu-stricken receptionists, and she actually had a pretty good thing going as a consultant, for anything from starting a company to managing office human relations. She also inherited a nice chunk of change from an aunt, I never knew how much for sure, but she could count on a monthly check from a lawyer somewhere in Texas. Each month that check paid for new shoes and regular hair and nail updates—the essentials as far as she was concerned. The aunt died after our divorce became final, naturally.
Sylvia wasn’t all that deep. Sexy, yes—when we got married. She let herself go a little after we broke up. Her business savvy, or luck, turned out to be her best asset. She certainly lived better than me. The neighborhood politicos looked to her as a leader of the community, not because of her brains or knowledge but because she could be counted on for hard work and connections. They appointed her to committees and task forces as the voice of the Latina business person. Flash and glitz but no substance, in my opinion. Maybe I was biased.
I turned on the CD player.
At the three-quarter hour mark, my curiosity got the better of me. I stopped ignoring the photograph that I stored in a cigar box I’d saved from Sylvia’s trash. I examined the picture of Artie and the girl several times and each time something nagged at me.
I guessed that Misti Ortiz was in her early twenties, but I couldn’t be sure, not from the photograph. The silver ring in her eyebrow had a tiny dot of turquoise that I’d missed when Artie gave me the photo. Unlike Artie, her eyes were wide open—glassy for sure, but open. The images were fuzzy, so what looked like a bruise on her shoulder could have been a tattoo, or dirt. I rummaged through the store for a magnifying glass to help me see the details better.
I found a pair of pink reading glasses. They were too small for me and they fit tight around my face but they did the job. I balanced them on my nose and didn’t hook them behind my ears. I slouched over the table and bent close to the photograph. I stared at the bruise or tattoo or dirt.
“What’re you looking at?”
I jerked backwards and the glasses rolled off my face and clattered on the floor.
“Damn, Sylvia, you scared the hell out of me.”
She picked up the glasses from the floor, wrinkled her nose and shook her head. She did it slowly and with such sadness that I started to feel sorry for myself. That’s the effect Sylvia had on me. I think she purposely snuck in the back door and didn’t make a sound so that she could see for herself whether I was stealing the “thousands of dollars” that the store had to be earning each day.
She put the pink glasses on the table and grabbed the photograph.
“Who’s this? Can’t be one of your girlfriends, she’s too cute. And this guy. Who is he? I kind of recognize him.” She stretched her arm and held the photo away from her. “Is that Arturo Baca? He’s smashed, nothing new about that. The girl? Way too young for him. Looks like they’re good friends. His wife know about this?”
If Artie expected me to keep his confidences, Sylvia blew them wide open, without trying. She immediately guessed the basics of the sordid tale Artie told me including the part that Artie’s wife would not be happy with the photograph.
I snatched back the incriminating picture.
“Artie stopped by the other day and left this by accident.” My brain clutched for straws. A lie had to be better than the truth. “I don’t know anything about it except that Artie had it. Don’t jump to conclusions.”
“Still covering for him? Just like high school. Gus, you’ll never learn.”
“Don’t start.”
I knew she was right but I’d never say it. I never said I was sorry for messing around on her, either, and look what that got me. Sex brought us together, and sex drove us apart.
She shrugged. “Nothing new, I guess.”
She stepped back from the table and inspected me like a dress on Nieman Marcus’ rack. “I told you to clean up your act. No more jeans, T-shirts or muscle shirts. You don’t look good in those clothes. You don’t have any muscles, for one thing.”
I wore a wife-beater but I didn’t think I needed to correct her on that point.
“Your hair, my God.” She was relentless. “It’s so short I can see the veins in the top of your head. Masquerading like a gangster will drive away the customers. Your hoodlum haircut and those mirror sunglasses give people the wrong idea. Don’t get me started about that pathetic goatee, good grief. Mary Helen talked to me about how she walked by and thought the place was being robbed until she recognized you. Do something about your appearance, Gus. I mean it.”
“I’m dressed like everyone else. I don’t like to waste time with my hair so I keep it clipped.” I ran my hand over the fine buzz on my head.
She ignored my comments, turned abruptly and did a quick tour of the store. She marched back to me.
“You have to grow up one day,” she said.
“According to you, I never will. Remember?”
“Not when it comes to women. You’ll always screw anything in a skirt. I’m talking about the rest of your life.”
I recognized the path we had stumbled onto. Sylvia would bring up my mistakes and I’d get defensive and before either one of us could stop it, we’d be hollering at each other. She might end up crying and I might break something to make a point. Two years and the wounds were still open and painful.
“Please, we don’t have to do this,” I said. “I messed up. I’m sorry. It’s been a long time. Let it go.”
She opened her mouth to scream back at me, but stopped before any sound came out. She shook her hair out of her eyes, raised her hand and flipped her wrist in an attempt to wave me out of her life, again.
She dashed through the doorway that led to the back room and the alley door. I heard her open and then slam it shut. There went the bright, pleasant day.
Bob Marley sang about how every little thing was gonna be all right, but I wasn’t buying any reggae feel-good right then. Leave it to Sylvia to ruin a great song.
I wanted to blame her for everything,
including losing my job and the general disaster known as the U.S. economy.
I examined the photograph again. I convinced myself that the smudge on the girl’s shoulder had to be a bruise, not a hickie, tattoo or dirt, and that she had tried to cover it with make-up. Artie could have been the cause of the bruise, and not necessarily because he lost himself in the throes of ecstasy. On the other hand, it could have come from her blackmailing partner when he tried to keep her in line, or from another victim of her scam who lashed out when he heard the price she demanded for her silence.
I put the photograph back in the desk and tried to keep busy.
The Denver Post predicted more showers for that afternoon. I read the forecast at least six times, along with a couple of passes through the adventures of Beetle Bailey, Funky Winkerbean and Doonesbury. An elderly pair of chatty sisters cruised the store, hardly looking at the goods as they dished on several of their neighbors back “at the home.” I swept the floor for the third time that week. I checked the dumpster in the alley and made sure no homeless guy had crawled in and died. I plugged in my cell phone and charged the battery. A fire truck roared a couple blocks away through the intersection at Clay and Thirty-Second. I chased a cat from the front door.
I never stopped thinking about Sylvia.
About an hour after Sylvia left, a dark sedan parked in front of the shop. Two men in sport coats and slacks exited the car, removed sunglasses, looked up and down the street and then walked to the store’s entrance. The smell of cigarettes followed them into Sylvia’s shop.
The older man, about forty-five, white and tired-looking, wore wrinkled pants and apparently was out of shape—red face, labored breathing even though he walked only about fifteen feet. The cigarette smell floated off his tan coat. The second, younger man was African American. His neat pants gave him an all-around smoother edge than his partner. The men looked serious, almost angry. They were obvious police and I worried. No visit from a cop had ever turned out good.
The older man looked down on me as I sat at the table. The younger man stood behind him and off to the side where he had a clear view of me, the back of the store and the front door.
“Gus Corral?” the older one asked.
“Yeah, that’s me.”
He studied me, looking for a weapon, I guessed. The pair’s body language said they were cautious but in command. The older one focused on me while his pal made sure the surroundings were secure.
“I’m detective Reese, Paul Reese. My partner is Frank Robbins.” He flashed his badge at me. Robbins didn’t bother. “We’d like to talk with you for a few minutes.”
I stood up and both Reese and Robbins frowned.
“Sure. What’s this about?”
“We’re checking a few things and we think you can help us with our investigation.”
“Investigation? You think I can help? That’d be a new one, for you and me, wouldn’t it?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Corral. I don’t understand,” Reese said. “Just a few questions. We’re looking into a string of burglaries that may be related. We’re talking to a lot of people in the neighborhood, including the businesses. This is the kind of place where some of the stolen stuff could end up.” Robbins smiled at that remark.
Reese paused and watched me but when I didn’t react, he continued. “Not that you had anything to do with the burglaries, but the thieves might have tried to sell you some of their stolen goods, maybe they tried to get quick cash out of you for the loot?”
I relaxed. I had nothing to fear from a fishing expedition. As far as anyone knew I was clean as mother’s milk. The fallout from the divorce forced good behavior on me. Thank you, Sylvia, for that at least.
“You can look, if you think anything’s here, if that’s what you’re saying,” I said. “No one’s tried to sell me stolen property in a long time. No one’s tried to sell me anything in a long time. So I think you picked the wrong segunda to check out.”
“Segunda?” Reese asked.
“Second-hand store,” Robbins said. “That’s what they call these places.”
Reese nodded as though he knew who “they” were.
Robbins stepped forward. He unfolded a piece of yellow paper and handed it to me. “Here’s a list of the stolen items. Why don’t you look it over and see if anything rings a bell? If you remember anyone trying to get rid of this type of merchandise?”
I scanned a two-column list of about fifty things—laptops, quite a bit of computer equipment, flat screens, jewelry, paintings, coats, sweaters and more.
“You can see, we don’t have much.” I aimed the list at the far wall of the store to emphasize my point. “No TVs, no laptops, except for Sylvia’s.” I moved to my left to give them a better view of the laptop sitting on the table. “No real jewelry, all the costume junk is in that cabinet over there by the old magazines. No coats or sweaters, but we have plenty of little girls’ dresses and baby bibs. Like I said, there hasn’t been anyone trying to sell me anything in a long time, a couple of months at least. Two old computer printers against the wall back there.” I pointed again. “They’ve been here at least a year.”
Neither of the cops moved. Robbins took back his list, folded it lengthwise and slipped it inside his sports coat.
“You been working here for what, almost two years?” Reese asked.
“Sounds like you know the answer to your question. But what’s that got to do with burglaries?”
“Before you started here you were a delivery man for Juanita’s Foods. Tortillas, frozen chile sauce, tamale leaves. Did that for three, four years before that place shut down?”
The two cops stood between me and the door.
“What’re you getting at? Enlighten me. You sure aren’t looking for stolen property.”
This time Reese brought out a piece of paper from inside his coat.
“No, Gus. That’s wrong. We are dealing with burglaries and stolen goods. Kind of. We’re not attached to the Burglary and Theft Unit but it seemed like a good idea to kill two birds in one trip. When your name came up, Frank and I figured it was worth a shot to look into the burglaries, too. Since we were planning to visit you anyway.” He unfolded the paper. “Because of this. Now, this is something I’m sure you know about and you can explain it to us. Right, Gus?” He handed the paper to me. A copier image of a check was printed in the center of the page.
Pay to the order of Gus Corral the sum of one thousand dollars and no cents. Signed by Arturo Baca.
My insides knotted and I tasted sour blueberries and bitter coffee.
“Uh, what is this?” The words popped out of my mouth without me thinking about them. I had to cover my ass, play dumb. I couldn’t admit anything, not yet, not without knowing what I was getting into. I handed the sheet back to Reese. He re-folded the paper and stuck it in his pocket.
“You saying you don’t know why Artie Baca made out a check for a thousand dollars to you? You never saw it before, Gus? That’s what you’re saying? Your old friend didn’t owe you for a favor, never asked you to do something for him? Because it sure looks like you were getting paid by Artie for something. I don’t think he was the kind of guy who would give away a thousand bucks.”
“No one’s given me a thousand dollars, ever. Do I look like someone who gets thousand dollar checks from old friends? What could I do for a guy like Artie Baca?”
“That’s a good question, Gus.” Robbins piped up this time. “What could a guy like you do for Artie Baca that’s worth a thousand dollars?”
Bag man. Errand boy. Target. Artie had wanted me for all three, and I had taken the job with gratitude.
“It’s not kosher.” Reese tapped a pack of cigarettes against his wrist. “You,” he practically spit out the word, “being paid a grand by a player like Artie Baca. The idea offends my common sense. I doubt the money was for any of your junk. The entire place can’t be worth a thousand dollars.” His pale skin darkened as he spoke. “We got us a real puzzle here, Gus. We need t
he truth. Now, here, today.”
Robbins nodded his head and drifted closer to his partner. His smile had spread across his jaw. The cops moved in for the kill.
My heart pumped anxiety and excitement. My legs went rubbery and my eyes strained for clarity. Again, the kid from the North Side had to stand up to hassle from outsiders—cops, other kids, strangers. I had to de-escalate, be smart.
I spread my fingers and held up my hands at waist level, like I was surrendering. “Whoa, boys. Don’t get carried away. Why don’t you ask Artie what the check is for? Why do you have it anyway? What . . . ”
Reese coughed. A cigarette appeared in his hand. Robbins finally quit smiling. I heard the wall clock tick. The temperature in the room must have risen by ten degrees in the time since the cops arrived. The meaning of the cops’ visit flowed over me. I grabbed the back of my chair to stop the flash of dizziness.
“That would be hard to do, right, Gus?” Reese said. “Considering we found the check in Artie’s wallet when we searched his dead body. Artie can’t explain anything, not with a bullet hole where his heart should be. So that leaves you, Gus. I’m all ears.” He flicked a lighter and lit his cigarette. Smoke poured from Reese’s mouth. He coughed again. Robbins fanned the smoke away from his face.
“Here’s an idea, Gus,” Robbins said. “The thousand dollars was a payoff. Don’t know for what, but my bet would be that it was not on the up-and-up. That’s the connection a guy like you might have to Baca.” What kind of guy did they think I was? “Maybe you wanted more from Artie, a raise, but he wouldn’t pay. Or he thought you did crummy work. Not worth the price you were charging. There’s an argument. It gets out of hand. You guys end up in a fight? Baca’s been in a few punch-outs over the years, right? I could see Artie pulling a gun. He’s got a rep as a hot head, a knee-jerk jerk. It could have been self-defense. Is that what happened, Gus?”
Neither one took their eyes off me. They stared and waited.
4
Ididn’t see Corrine until she stormed through the front door. Not seeing Corrine is hard to do, given her size. But that morning she snuck up on all of us. It was my day for unexpected visitors. First Sylvia, then the cops, now Corrine.