by Manuel Ramos
“Thanks,” I said. “I was worried a little bit myself.”
“I called Jerome and he gave me the same kind of push back. ‘I warned Gus,’ he said. Then he told me that you probably got what you deserved.”
“That’s cruel. But I can’t blame him. He spoke the truth as he saw it.”
When Corrine and Max accepted that there was nothing they could do about finding me, they quit calling people and turned to serious wine-drinking. They talked about their wrong-headed brother, our parents, Max’s never-ending drama with her band and Corrine’s failed romances. At two in the morning they crashed in the living room, Max on the couch and Corrine on her new carpet.
I recuperated by sleeping late for several days and eating too many blueberry and cream cheese empanadas from Panadería Santa Marta, the bakery next to Chencha’s.
Sylvia came by the first afternoon and announced that she was leaving town on vacation so I didn’t have to worry about the shop. “Take some time off,” she said. “You need it.”
She paid me in advance for two weeks and said I could open again when I felt better. I think she was worried about me and made up the vacation story as an excuse to help out. I could have asked, but I didn’t want to open any doors that should stay closed for the good of both of us.
Max played nurse and tried to get me to a doctor, but without any insurance that was a trip I could not make. I didn’t need any more bills, especially bills because of a beating. What could an Urgent Care clinic do for me that I hadn’t already done for myself? Nothing felt broken and my bruises and swelling gradually retreated. Jerome’s punch followed by the multiple punches from Ortiz’s three stooges had been too much for the membranes and blood vessels of my nose and it periodically leaked blood for several minutes. That stopped eventually. Nothing I hadn’t dealt with before.
On the third morning of my forced down time, I climbed the stairs to the upper level of the store, telling myself that I should finally get the floor fans. For years Sylvia had crammed her overstock into the single large room that made up the second floor.
That place gave me the creeps. Dust-covered boxes and large cobwebs filled the corners. Strange-looking gadgets that had no obvious purpose bumped up against one-armed and legless mannequins. Moth-eaten clothes hung on rickety coat racks. The lighting was bad and no way would I go up there at night. However, several streaked windows let in the sun without any problem, which meant that in the summer the place became unbearably hot.
The second story’s balcony was its saving grace and the real reason for me to be up there. The wrought iron enclosure looked solid and an awning provided welcome shade. I found the fans and set them up in the store. I returned to the balcony and arranged a chair and a crate that I used as a table. I carried out a mug of instant coffee, the newspaper, my CD player and a couple of the Gold Medal paperbacks. I put on my shades. Gus Corral-on vacation.
I relaxed in the hot air and let my mind drift with the breeze. I tabulated my aches, bruises, where I hurt the most. I picked at the bandage that held my nose in place. I gave up on the coffee. I missed Jerome’s cappuccino.
I’d always thought that I grew up and lived in the North Side. Nobody called it that anymore. I had become a resident of trendy Highlands, but that wasn’t enough. My balcony perched in Lower Highlands, or LoHi, as the hipsters labeled the several blocks that more or less stretched from I-25 to Federal, bordered by Speer and Thirty-Eighth Avenue. Those of us who were natives to the area couldn’t play that tune. We never used the name LoHi, a rip-off of the LoDo tag with the hope that the flash and cash of LoDo would somehow work its way up to LoHi.
Several new condos, already leased or under construction, obstructed the view from my perch. High density boxes were a booming business in Highlands—recession or not. My neighborhood had become fashionable and more expensive, with more traffic, more rude behavior and higher property taxes, according to Corrine.
Long-time landlords with run-down house rentals or duplexes could not resist selling to developers who, as soon as they had their names on the deeds, tore down the single or two-family homes to quickly replace them with multi-resident high rises that clogged the air, cleared out trees and animals, and blocked the view of the mountains. Newcomers without any long-term commitment to the area moved in, and the old neighborhood changed, big time.
When Corrine and I talked about the changes, I told her I had nothing against making a buck, even if I never learned how myself.
“I don’t like what’s happening to the North Side,” she said, “and I’ll tell that to anyone who’ll listen. You can’t make up your mind. You bitch about it, but you go along with it, too. What is it with you, Gus?”
“As long as no one I care about is hurt, then it ain’t my business.”
“So typical.”
“Give me a break. The North Side is my home. For some reason, nothing I can pin directly, I do feel cheated, tricked, taken advantage of. I could have something to say about what happens around here, don’t you think?”
“Not if you don’t get involved. That’s one of your problems. You care only up to the point that it means you have to act, or need to take time to do something about the situation.”
I quit the conversation to avoid another lecture.
Artie Baca had been heavily involved in the transformation. He did well with the changes and, if I resented it, I had to admit some of that came from my envy of what he’d done with his life.
I shook myself out of my daydreaming and quit mulling over the changing scene. I quickly scanned the newspaper until I found two stories that caught my attention. The first made me realize that even if I tried, I couldn’t escape the neighborhood makeover.
The article announced an open house and reception later that evening at one of the more expensive condo complexes, Quixote Plaza, only two blocks from where I sat. I could see its ugly façade and boxy architecture above the trees that cooled the sidewalks. According to the article, the development had been one of the late Arturo Baca’s pet projects. The paper quoted Ralph Twittle, realtor, who first said that “Arturo Baca would have been proud of Quixote Plaza. It’s quite a dramatic change for this area.” Then he admitted that “Highlands has reached a critical mass. It’s gentrifying and gentrifying quickly.”
His honesty sounded refreshing, although it made me queasy. I’d never be able to buy a place in my own turf. I thought about the older residents, the grandparents struggling to keep some trace of what their lives used to be but who now must feel like strangers in their own back yards. Or the families who couldn’t keep up with taxes, increased mortgage rates, higher prices at the grocery stores, the generally higher cost of living that the gentry always brought with them. Those were consequences that I could blame Artie for and that I should have talked to him about that day when he stopped by the shop. As usual, I had kept my grumblings to myself.
The second newspaper story was darker and more intense, and it consisted of two parts.
First, a sidebar piece about the raging drug wars in Mexico that had claimed forty thousand lives, more than three thousand on the border alone, with some history and background of various criminals and their gangs. A highlighted box contained an ego-boosting gangster top ten list: the Zetas, Chapos, the Cartel, Los Rojos and others; Daniel Ochoa, Trinidad Morales and so on—a mug book of murderers, torturers, smugglers and thieves. The article did not mention Lorenzo Ortiz, but it noted that the gangs had begun to cultivate branches in several North American cities, including Denver.
The main part of the story had captured the world’s attention for almost a week—the raid on the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe in Mexico City and the theft of the most revered religious symbol in Mexico, maybe the entire Catholic Latino world. A ruthless group of gunmen killed ten people and wounded dozens during the attack—tourists, priests, nuns, food vendors—then seized the ragged cloak that framed the famous image of the dark-skinned, indigenous Virgin Mary, created by the Mother of Go
d as a gift to the New World’s converts back in 1531.
“They’ve gone too far now,” I said out loud.
The shock and anger spread around the world. Thousands, maybe millions, of people reciting the rosary gathered each day at the basilica, in front of St. Peter’s in Rome, and at hundreds of other churches on every continent. World leaders united to offer help. Every important official of every organized religion publicly prayed for the tilma and the victims of the raid. The pope issued special pleas and held continuous masses for the safe return of the holy blanket. Newscasters repeated rumors on television programs that the Catholic Church was willing to pay the ransom. But so far the thieves had not responded. The Mexican president vowed a relentless hunt for the stolen holy treasure and a crackdown on gangsters in general. He dedicated the remainder of his term to the “cleansing of Mexico and the extermination of the criminal elements that threaten the stability, the very existence of the Mexican nation.” President Obama promised money, guns, FBI agents and heightened border security if the Mexican government requested assistance for tracking down the Rojos.
The raid on the basilica and the theft of Juan Diego’s tattered wrap proved too extreme for some of the hardened smugglers and killers who had maimed, tortured, kidnapped and raped in their quest for the billions of dollars that could be made as narcotraficantes. Several Mexican gang leaders issued their own statements of condemnation against the Rojos.
I grinned at that bizarre mockery of common sense. El Cartel’s chief, Trinidad Morales, in an on-air telephone call to a popular Mexican television talk show host, vowed to track down the Rojos, save the tilma and return it to the Church. I immediately thought the worst. The story confirmed my hunch. Unknown individuals had dumped Morales’ body, minus hands, feet and tongue, on the steps of the Nogales police station. The detailed and massive tattoo of Our Lady of Guadalupe that covered his back, inked into his skin years before, appeared intact, untouched by his killers.
The theft, subsequent ransom demand and the execution of Morales were brutal and clumsy, and several government officials expressed amazement that the gang had orchestrated such a “daring, ruthless and suicidal attack.”
I forced myself away from the blood and gore of the Mexican gangs and what appeared to be their all-out assault on civilization. It sounded surreal, fantastic.
I called Jerome. He didn’t want to talk at first.
“I’m trying to run a business,” he said. “No time for shooting the breeze.”
“Take a break. You been at it since early this morning, right?”
“Maybe. So what do you want?”
“I saw the article in the paper about the robbery of Juan Diego’s poncho.”
“Forget the newspaper. Check it out on the Internet. Photos, videos, interviews with people who were at the basilica when it all went down. It’s big news around the world. The heist turned into a bloody mess.”
“Not planned very well, was it?”
“Well enough. They got away with the tilma, didn’t they? It was a rough play, nothing smooth in the execution, but these gangs aren’t known for their finesse. They shoot the place up, almost destroy what they are trying to steal, lose men in the getaway, and leave too many dead and wounded. Not smooth at all.”
“Those people are crazy.”
“Those people are your people, in case you forgot. Mexicans, dude. Killing each other by the thousands because North Americans need their daily fix and they’re willing to pay exorbitant money for it.”
“Mexicans, yeah, but not like any Mexican around here that I know. To rip off the Church goes way over the line.”
“You don’t know your history, Gus. How many thousands were killed in the Mexican Revolution? They even had a war against the Church. Lined up priests against the wall and shot them. That went on for decades, and who else did they kill back then? Pancho Villa, Emiliano Zapata, Madero. Those guys were heroes, legends. For some, they were as holy as the painted image of Mary on the peon’s blanket. The killers, the killing machine, respected no one back then and nothing’s changed today. One more chapter in Mexican history. Mexico’s always been a blood-thirsty country. From the sacrifices on the pyramid altars to the serial killing of women along the border.”
“At least Villa and Zapata died for a cause. What’s the cause now? Where are the heroes today?”
Jerome laughed. “Some of these guys are looked on like heroes. There’s songs about them, like the one about the poor kid from the slum who runs drugs across the border and gets rich by standing up to the man.”
“Narcocorridos. Corrine plays them sometimes, when she feels more Mexican than usual.”
“Songs about gunfights with the federales, or double-crosses, revenge ambushes.”
“Wild West bullshit.”
“It doesn’t get any wilder than ripping off a religious symbol at least as powerful and respected as Christ himself.”
“These guys try to come off as revolutionary outlaws,” I said, “but you can’t compare them to men like Villa and Zapata.”
“The cause is what it’s always been—money and power. The tilma got snatched because someone realized a lot of bucks could be made by stealing it. End of story. I gotta go.” He clicked off.
I brushed away empanada crumbs that floated to the street. Below, four large noisy crows pranced on the curb. They strutted and screeched and argued over the remains of a squirrel that had been too slow for traffic. The scavengers pecked and backed off, pecked and backed off. Finally, the noisiest stretched his wings and raised his head skyward. He cawed loud and long and then flew off, a piece of squirrel meat hanging from his beak. The other three looked around for their foraging partner, and then they too deserted the picked-over carcass.
I was about to leave the balcony and call Shoe—I hadn’t talked to him since we’d arranged to meet at the strip club—when a car parked on the street under my balcony. Detectives Reese and Robbins exited the car and banged on the shop’s door. They looked in the windows, knocked some more, walked up and down the sidewalk. They never glanced upward. Reese tugged a card out of his jacket pocket and stuck it in the frame of the door. They returned to their car and drove off. I waited five minutes. Then I made my way through the hot and dingy second floor, down the dark stairs and into my room. From there I walked into the shop, opened the front door and retrieved Reese’s card.
He had written a note on the back of the card. Call me before it’s too late. I can help you. Baca’s not worth it.
Reese could have meant anything. He was playing me, acting as though he had it all figured out. I doubted that he did.
It seemed simple. Follow up on the connection between Artie and Misti, which in turn should lead to Lorenzo Ortiz. If they were watching me they had to know about Lorenzo.
I could have called Reese and told him about Ortiz’s admission that he had “taken care of family business.” That would have been my death sentence. Lorenzo would need only two minutes to realize where Reese and Robbins got their information. I was the obvious source, now that I had revealed myself to Lorenzo. I had to walk a tightrope and keep out of it, but not let Reese and Robbins wander too far from the Ortiz family. The cops had to stumble around and harass me until they finally saw the light and targeted Lorenzo. They had to look like they did it all by themselves.
13
Icalled Shoe, who agreed to meet at the Quixote Plaza open house after six.
“I have a hundred questions,” he said. “What happened? I’ve heard so many stories I don’t know what to believe, and they’re all crazy.”
“I’ll give you all the dope later. Bring Ice along, okay?”
I didn’t call Reese. I figured he and Robbins had to be watching me and would show themselves when they needed to. Until then, I would go on with life acting as though I wasn’t the center of curiosity for two cops who had zeroed in on me, even though it seemed clear all they had to do was squeeze Lorenzo Ortiz and they would have their case.
> “They’re the detectives,” I said to myself.
I wasted the rest of the day—mainly by walking around the changing neighborhood. The evolution of the North Side was almost complete. Like the realtor in the paper said, we were at a critical mass. How could we fit in any more people? The work of all the Artie Bacas of Denver had paid off. For them. Some of us were left feeling like we’d been hit by one of those tornadoes that every once in a while threatened Denver.
The walk did wonders for my attitude. I still liked where I lived, changes and all. I saw people I’d known all my life, friendly, good people. I said hello to men working on cars, some bent over the engine, others flat on their backs on the pavement underneath their rides. Old women waved at me and smiled. They remembered my mother and father and believed because I came from a good family I must be a good man. I recognized elaborate gardens and barking pets, cedar fences that needed staining, cracked driveways—signs that some things always would stay the same.
I cleaned up the best I could in my makeshift shower, put on a blue shirt that Sylvia would approve of, and made my way over to Quixote Plaza a little before seven.
Several cars slowly circled the block. All the street parking was taken, the building lot did not have an empty space. About a dozen people loitered outside the fancy entrance to the housing complex. Inside, thirty-year old techies jostled even younger lawyers. Retired doctors gabbed with restaurant owners. A yoga teacher hung on every word from the district’s city council person. The partiers stood elbow-to-elbow, butt-to-butt. I entered another world, far removed from my walk around the neighborhood, sucked in like a goldfish dumped in the toilet. Loud music bounced around the walls and ceiling. I couldn’t tell what song was playing or even what kind of music blasted my eardrums. The heavy air moved around me. The AC hummed at max, and people shouted to be heard by the person next to them.