Desperado

by Manuel Ramos

  “Which seems understandable now,” I said.

  “Oh, little brother. You just don’t learn, do you? You trust anybody. Sorry lover-boy Baca was setting you up for something. You don’t know the whole story. You don’t really know what went down between him and the girl.”

  “I don’t care about that. It was a chance for a job.”

  She put her elbows on the table and leaned into her clenched hands. “She must be working with someone. She needs back up.”

  “Artie didn’t mention anyone else.”

  “Well, it looks like Artie met the guy. Which didn’t turn out too good for him.”

  She ate another bite of food and swallowed another long drink of water. “Asking for ten thousand,” she said. “The girl must have something big on Artie, something he didn’t tell you. That something might have cost him his life. But you, good old Gus Corral, Mr. Nice Guy, you’re willing to get involved. Why is that?”

  “For a thousand bucks, Corrine. I need the money.”

  She bugged me, dug deep under my skin, and the last time she did that I told myself I wouldn’t let it happen again. Fat chance.

  “We all need money, Gus. That doesn’t mean we all get to act stupid.”

  I loved my sister. I liked Maxine better, but I loved them both. What Corrine told me wasn’t new. I’d heard the same song from her since I was at least fourteen, the first time I faced serious trouble. But still, she could get to me. Maybe it was the shock of Artie’s death or the surprise visit from Reese and Robbins. Whatever, that day, she got to me.

  “Screw this.” I threw my taco on my plate and stood up. “I’m out of here. Enjoy the rest of your lunch by yourself. I told you not to call me stupid.” I tossed a ten-dollar bill on the table.

  “Sit down, Gus. Don’t get mad. Where you off to? It’s gonna rain.”

  I bolted for the door. I heard her laughing behind my back. She never took me seriously.

  I regretted my snit-fit almost immediately. I needed Corrine, if only for somebody to talk with, to think things through.

  I had to run the last hundred yards to the shop. A hard shower erupted over Highlands and caught me on the street. Rain pelted me as I jumped overflowing curbs. The temperature dropped and the water soaked lawns and flower gardens. My near-bald head dripped rain into my eyes. I stopped under a storefront canopy and waited out the cloudburst.

  The reality of the situation took hold. Artie Baca was dead, murdered. The cops knew I had a connection to him and that I had played hard-to-get. They’d be back and they wouldn’t be as easy to shake, especially if Corrine wasn’t around.

  But my stomach didn’t rumble because of Reese and Robbins, or because of Chencha’s authentic chile. I could explain the check. I had the photo and the girl could be tracked down. She might deny the blackmail attempt but if she was as weak as Artie said, the cops could figure out her scam. I might look like a sucker for getting involved—what else was new—and I might get heat about not reporting the blackmail to the police, but at least it’d be clear that I had no reason to kill Artie. Maybe that was wishful thinking. They had me in their sights, so why look for anyone else?

  The bullet hole in Artie’s heart, as Reese colorfully put it, had me looking over my shoulder at tree-lined Thirty-Second Avenue. Was my loose connection to Artie and Misti Ortiz enough to make me a target, too? The cops were on me already so it wouldn’t be much longer until Misti and her partner-in-shakedowns also stopped by for a chat. Once I started down paranoia road, my imagination took me to extremes of conspiracies and plots and ugly endings. I owed it to myself to know more about the girl, to learn answers to the questions Corrine asked. Knowledge is power and right then I felt like the ninety-seven-pound weakling who had sand kicked in his face.

  The rain slowed down and then quit. Large drops of water fell from the trees and the corner drains bubbled and churned from the sudden flow. Thunder continued to boom in the background and lightning creased the southern sky. As always, it took only a few minutes for the air to suck up the moisture and the temperature to climb back up, for life to resume from the wet interruption. The rain smell drifted strong and complete.

  In the aftermath of the quick storm, Thirty-Second again buzzed with people, dogs, scooters and cars. A half-dozen kids jammed the counter of the ice-cream shop a block from Sylvia’s place. Three bicyclists, decked out in racing colors and professional helmets, stood near their wet bikes on the corner of Thirty-Second and Zuni. They stared at a map. Across the street, a Chicano with a soul patch waited by the door to the liquor store. A family that looked like tourists exited the pizza joint, opened umbrellas and crossed the intersection. I assumed they wanted to avoid the dude waiting for his six-pack. They hesitated when they realized they had to walk past me.

  Noise and motion took over a street where I once ran, jumped and shouted unnoticed, where I lost myself in stories of what my life might become.

  Everything had changed, and yet nothing had changed. Off to the east, Denver’s downtown skyline simultaneously reflected sunshine and tumbling dark clouds. Glass and steel towered over the orchestrated chaos of a big city. Old warehouse districts and venerable neighborhoods circled the metro core. I heard the city’s beat and recognized the rhythm. That view and tempo always provided the background for everything important that happened to me. They gave me a comfort I couldn’t explain. They cleared my head so I could think.

  By the time I unlocked the door to the shop I convinced myself to help the cops, in my own way. Give them somebody else to think about for Artie Baca’s killing. Point them in the direction of the most likely suspects: Misti Ortiz and her unknown associate. I walked into a muggy store and left the door open. I found a towel and dried my head and my arms.

  I didn’t know exactly how I would carry out my plan, but I knew how to begin. I needed to talk with Misti Ortiz.

  7

  It should be easy to find an attractive young Latina with a pierced eyebrow who indulged in blackmail. It should. I knew a guy. Jerome Rodríguez. Down and dirty, a loco from way back who traveled the low road but survived.

  Jerome had been through it all—combat, divorce, prison, homelessness, money. I knew my fair share of guys like that. More than once he mentioned his surprise at reaching his fortieth birthday.

  That milestone caused Jerome to step back and look at his life. His decision to take on an honest business looked like it came out of nowhere, but he planned it in detail. He opened a coffee shop close enough to the gentrified condos to attract the young professionals but far enough from the trendy retail blocks to keep his rent manageable. His customers were “the hustlers,” he said, and he meant that in a good way. When I asked about his business plan, he said, “Hustlers and coffee go together like rice and beans.” He named his shop Jerry’s Cup O’Joe, but only people who didn’t know him called him Jerry.

  Jerome simmered with advice and ideas, especially about making money. Some made sense, some were silly and many were illegal. I hadn’t gone along with any of his crazier ideas but I had to admit that he tempted me. When the recession hit like a Manny Pacquiáo combination and I lost my job, then my marriage and finally my self-respect, I seriously considered his offer to relieve a neighboring state’s bank of some of its bags of cash that, according to Jerome, were “sitting around waiting to be plucked, like college girls at their first frat party.” I didn’t go through with it, but Jerome knew he almost had me. I’m sure he filed that away for future reference.

  Jerome was the guy to see for leads on a woman like Misti Ortiz. I met him at Jerry’s the morning after Reese and Robbins introduced themselves to me.

  He wore a snow white Panama with a rainbow-colored band, and a florid shirt, not quite Hawaiian but close. He nodded at me when I walked in, but he was busy greeting customers and barking orders to the pair of young baristas who jumped at his every word. I ordered, picked up my drink, found an empty chair on the patio and sat down, read the newspaper. Patios and outdoor eating
and drinking were big in the neighborhood that summer.

  Jerome and I first hooked up back when the tables were turned. I had money and he was down and out. One Saturday afternoon I filled in for Sylvia at her shop, this was long before our divorce. He lugged in a box of old 45s and asked, “How much for the lot?” No small talk, no attempt to grease his sales pitch. All business—typical Jerome.

  I rifled through the vinyl and couldn’t believe the music that the bearded stranger who needed a haircut brought into the store. The collection had hits from the fifties and sixties, real classics for which any lowriding vato loco would gladly trade a tattoo or two. The Miracles, Four Tops, Jerry Butler, El Chicano, Tierra and other songs and groups that every oldies collector considered basics. But his box also held songs that had to be difficult to find in their original version—“Hey Señorita” by the Penguins, “It’s Got to be Mellow” by Leon Haywood, “I Guess That Don’t Make Me a Loser” by the Brothers of Soul. Too much Motown, a bit of Philly Soul and plenty of the East Los Angeles sound. Then I got excited. The prizes were a couple of red Elvis Presley discs with original sleeve covers: “That’s All Right” and “Good Rockin’ Tonight.”

  I could have offered Jerome ten bucks for everything and he would have been satisfied. But I didn’t do it. I bought the box of 45s for twenty-five dollars, minus the Presley records. I gave him the name and number of a local collector who would give him book price for Elvis and I sent him on his way. He looked surprised but he took the money and rushed out of the store.

  I listened to the records until the ancient phonograph I borrowed from Sylvia broke down. A few weeks passed and I couldn’t find the box of records. She told me she sold it to a neighbor for decorations for his daughter’s sweet sixteen “sock-hop” party. He thought it would be a kick to use the 45s as wall hangings and drink coasters. The neighbor ended up with his decorations and Sylvia pocketed twenty dollars. Zilch for yours truly.

  Jerome called me his friend after that, and I liked to hang out with him to listen to his stories, ideas and general bullshit. He bounced back months later, bought some decent clothes. Eventually, I found a flyer announcing his new enterprise taped to the shop’s front door. I never learned all the details of how he turned his life around. Sometimes we joked about the old records and what happened to them. He didn’t tell me how much he pocketed for the Presley songs, but he made at least enough for a shave and a haircut.

  Jerome finally joined me on his patio.

  “I only have a few minutes, Gus. What’s up?”

  “You okay? The stress is starting to show. Maybe time for some R and R?”

  “God, don’t get me started. I ain’t got time for no vacation. Can’t even hardly take a leak without something going wrong somewhere.”

  “How come your business is rolling along when everybody else needs a bailout?”

  “Those scurvy dogs, so-called financial experts, can kiss my ass. Them and the crooked banks, and this guy Obama and his stooges. All of them together, against the little guy, the small businessman.”

  “I didn’t know you were so political, and a Republican too.” That made him laugh. “I sound like one, don’t I? Me and Sarah Palin. Could get real interesting.”

  “Seriously, dude. How’s business?”

  “I thought we would go under, drown in the toilet they call the economy, just like everybody else, but lately we’re doing all right. Timing is everything. When we opened there weren’t that many coffee places around here. That’s changing, but we can handle the competition. I have to admit I’m surprised. It’s been up and down, and my bottom line changes month to month. Some nights I can’t sleep. My hair is falling out. I wonder if it’s worth it.”

  “You should have jumped on the medical marijuana bandwagon,” I said. “Those places are popping up everywhere. Thirty-Eighth Avenue has at least one every block. They make serious money, from what I read. No recession in the kush trade.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I gave that business some thought, but with my record no way a drug store could be in my name. My moral character is suspect, if you can believe that. But you’re right. Those shops are raking it in. Years ago, who’d a thought that the grass business would go legit and your average dope dealer could make beaucoup bucks. We all knew weed was good for chillin’. I might need a prescription myself. I’m kind of tense lately.”

  His face opened up into a broad, shiny smile that matched his hat.

  He had a steady flow of customers ordering coffee, tea or juice, often with pastries or breakfast burritos. Several tables were occupied by chatty young mothers surrounded by baby strollers. A pair of dogs paced near the entrance, occasionally growling at passing joggers.

  I sipped on my cappuccino—hot, creamy, eye-opening. I’m an instant coffee guy most of the time, but Jerome had a way with steamed milk and very dark coffee beans that was hard to resist, especially at seven-thirty in the morning. He claimed he learned about coffee while on military duty in the Middle East, but when I asked him for details he changed the subject. That was Jerome—full of stories but only up to a point.

  We small-talked for a few minutes more but Jerome didn’t contribute much to the conversation. He shook his crossed legs and tapped his fingers on the table top.

  “You anxious to get back to work?” I said.

  “I’m busy, man. It’s not good for the staff to see me sitting around when I should be helping out. Being the boss ain’t all that it’s made out to be, certain obligations and responsibilities, know what I mean?”

  “We could have met at your house, later. This was your choice.”

  “Only because you sounded desperate. Like a man on fire. What the hell’s going on with you now?”

  I fished Misti’s photograph from my T-shirt pocket and handed it to Jerome. His eyes blinked and his lungs sucked in a quick deep breath of air. The bright smile disappeared.

  “You know her?” I said.

  He did a classic look-around his shop and nodded. “What you doing with this? Why do you have a picture of Misti Ortiz?”

  “It’s a long story. When we have more time I’ll give you all the details. For now, I need to talk with her. Can you put me in touch?”

  He handed back the photo and shook his head. “Trust me. You don’t want to touch that, in any way. She’s nothing but trouble, Gus. Way over your head. In fact, I don’t want to know any more about this photo or the guy with her or why you have it. Just back off. Back off.”

  “I told you, I need to talk to her. Seriously. It’s important. Like life or death.”

  “Important enough to get you hurt, maybe killed?” He pointed at the photograph in my hand. “That is one dangerous young lady.”

  “Look, Jerome. No need to get complicated. I just want an address or a phone number. I’ll do the rest. Either you have the digits or you don’t. It’s that simple. Anyway, I heard she wasn’t all that tough, or bad. Kind of weak, actually, weepy.”

  Jerome laughed at the word “weepy.” “Whoever told you that is as wrong as tamales in a can. She moves with a heavy crowd, Gus. Nothing like you’re used to. Not the bangers we have around here. Those guys are juvenile delinquents compared to Ortiz’s people.”

  I had a hard time thinking of Jessie Salazar and Charley Maestas as “delinquents.”

  “All right, Jerome. You don’t want to tell me anything about this person. Fine. I’ll ask somebody else. If she’s all you say, some one knows how I can find her. I thought because we go back a ways, and all. But, okay, don’t worry about it.”

  “I’m trying to help you, Gus. I’m saying to stay away from that girl.”

  Jerome did not exaggerate or play a role. He told it the way he saw it. I trusted his instincts. His warning had me concerned. I shrugged off the feeling and finished the cappuccino. His attention shifted to the line of customers that now wormed outside the door.

  “Gus, I have to get back to work.”

  “Okay. I’ll tell Ms. Ortiz you said hi when I f
ind her.”

  He shook his head. “Christ. If you’re going to keep after her, let me check on a few things. I’ll make some calls. Maybe I can keep you from getting your hard head shot off. Soon as I have verification from a couple of people, I’ll hit you back. You at the same cell number?”

  “Yeah, the same.” I reached across the table and we bumped knuckles. “Thanks, Jerome.”

  “Don’t thank me. After you see what you’re into, let me know then if you’re still grateful. ‘Gracias’ might not be the word that comes to mind.”

  If Jerome said something or someone meant trouble, I could take that to the bank. For a second I thought about telling him to forget about it. I’d accept his advice and stay away from Misti Ortiz and her hoodlum friends. I’d go back to wasting time at Sylvia’s store, running errands for my wacky sister Corrine and trying to stay ahead of bill collectors and repo men. Why stick my finger into a mess created by Artie Baca? I had enough problems already, didn’t I?

  But I couldn’t forget that Artie was dead. Cops were digging into my life. I was trying to protect myself from the same ending as Artie or an arrest by the cops. Anyway, what else did I have to do other than a boring day job and boring nights watching TV in the back of Sylvia’s shop?

  Knowledge is power—I repeated to myself. The echo came back—ignorance is bliss.

  8

  After my conversation with Jerome I used the shop’s computer to dig up information about Misti Ortiz. I found nothing, not even a Facebook page. The day dragged. Heat and few customers combined to sap any energy I might have saved from Jerome’s coffee. I decided I needed a real break, and that could only mean spending time with my sister, Max, and keeping my promise to check out her band. That night I drove to the club where the Rakers were the house band.