by Manuel Ramos
“That’s all he wants,” Soapy said.
I didn’t blame her for siding with Corrine. Soapy was young, idealistic and eager to save the world. Corrine knew better.
The universe had turned upside down and was threatening to twist inside out. My sister, the activist, the community leader, a person who helped organize fundraisers for Black Lives Matter, now took up the cause of a policeman who admitted to killing a black youth. I worried that she would tarnish her hard-won reputation among the progressives and militants who sometimes gathered at her house. They could be a merciless, unforgiving crowd. I worried, but Corrine didn’t bother about such things, she simply did what she thought was right. This time, she would do what she could to help the homeless haunted white man gain a bit of peace, bring him closure, which really meant finding a way to pay for his crimes. I couldn’t argue with that conclusion, but her friends might not see it in the same way.
“Guess we’ll find out,” I said. “But when this goes haywire, when Hudgens is off the tracks, when he’s screwed up everything you tried to do for him, remember what I said tonight.”
I couldn’t help myself. I enjoyed the role. I smiled, inside, and Corrine grimaced like a bug had flown in her mouth.
“I get it,” Corrine said. “You don’t trust the man.”
“No, that’s not it. I trust him. I trust him to let you both down and to betray himself. He’s weak. That much I know already. When he lined up with Alito, he revealed the true Leo Hudgens. He may not have liked what he saw, but he rolled with it. That’s who this guy is.”
“You’re wrong, Gus,” Corrine said. “All we can do is wait and see.”
“As always,” I said.
In prison, I read hundreds of books. I forgot many of them, remembered only bits and pieces of others. But some stayed with me, as if carved in my hard head by a laser. One of those was a slim volume of old Mexican dichos, folk sayings. Each page had a saying, in English and Spanish, and a black-and-white drawing representing the lesson of the particular dicho. The book was put together by a professor of Chicano/a Studies from the University of Texas at El Paso, and his wife—a graphic artist. I forgot their names, but I memorized all one hundred and thirteen dichos, in English and Spanish.
When Corrine said, “You’re wrong, Gus,” I thought of one of my favorite dichos: “Dios no les dio alas a los alacranes. God did not give wings to scorpions.”
“Let’s eat.” Soapy said.
— Chapter 20 —
CAD
The next day I waited in my office for Soapy, Corrine and Hudgens. When Soapy called to let me know they were coming in, she promised to have good news.
Unfortunately, that morning’s Denver Post didn’t have the same beat.
Major League Baseball was gearing up for a new season in a few weeks, but the Rockies were not favored to repeat as National League Western Division champs. Key players were injured, the pitching was weak and the owners were at odds with the manager. Most important, the team’s superstar, Joaquín Machaco, was mired in the worst slump of his career. On the other hand, these were only Cactus League games, so no one panicked. Yet. “After all,” the reporter wrote, maybe with more optimism than was defensible, “Kino always starts slow.”
Kino was the new face of the Rockies. In the past few years, as he began to make his mark on the record books, Denver grew up in terms of baseball. It wasn’t enough for the team owners to offer a beautiful summer day, a great view from the stadium seats, over-priced beer, Rocky Mountain Oysters and a mediocre team. Fans had become accustomed to winning, and now nothing less would satisfy.
Kino was a winner—at least, he had been. His wide smile and gleaming bald head were plastered all over Denver: sides of buses, banners along the streets to the stadium, Coors beer posters. He regularly visited schools, children’s hospitals and senior centers. Everyone loved him.
No matter. The consensus, outside of Denver, was that the Cuban star had lost a step, and he didn’t have enough left in his tank to again take the Rockies over the hump. Wait and see, like Corrine said.
In other news, the racist President of the good ol’ U.S.A. appeared to have lost his final grip on sanity. Again. The man was an international joke, and I couldn’t stomach any more stories about his outrageous charade. He was, after all, only pretending to be the leader of the free world. It was obvious everything he did was about protecting his own bottom line. That was the American Way, wasn’t it? I didn’t need to read more of his ridiculous tweets or see more videos that documented his unfitness for the office he held.
The final story I read before I turned to the crossword was about the I-25 shooter. He’d struck again. A motorcyclist had been shot up north near the Wyoming state line, when traffic was light. He’d crashed his bike into a gulley where he bled to death. His body was found hours later by a rancher checking his fence line.
That was enough news for me.
I stared at the crossword for what seemed like hours. It was from the previous Sunday. I’d started it but hadn’t finished. From Sunday’s paper I worked the L.A. Times puzzle, and that morning not even the hints made sense. Forget about any answers.
My mind wouldn’t focus. I wandered back to Cuba and memories of the people I’d met: Lourdes and her inherent strength; Marita, beautiful and in pain; insensitive Alberto. Then I thought about Hudgens and what I might say when I saw him. I watched Marita walk into the ocean again. I heard Lourdes scream when the fake police shot our driver, Carlito. I listened to Alberto’s phony bravado in the face of Lourdes’ condemnation. I thought of these things and others, and so I didn’t find the calm the puzzle usually created. Sweat collected in my underarms and, for a second, I couldn’t catch my breath as bloody images from Cuba paraded through my head. I became irritated with the news, the puzzle and the meeting. The last thing I read before I threw the paper in the trash can was question ten—down of the crossword, four letters: Cad. I tried to not take it personally.
Hudgens walked into my office about fifteen minutes later. Corrine and Soapy were with him. He’d been shaved and showered and given a good haircut and clean clothes. He mumbled hello when he saw me, but his eyes would not connect with mine.
“Your office needs help,” Corrine said. “A little bit of color would go a long way. Get rid of that beat-up cooler. Hang a picture or two.”
“I haven’t been thinking about interior decoration,” I said. “I’m more about spending my time trying to make a buck or two, enough to pay the rent. That and attracting a better breed of clientele. But I’ll mention your ideas to Goldstein. I’m sure, he’ll agree.” Sam Goldstein, retired accountant, owned the building.
“Think long-term, Gus. A nice looking and comfortable office might attract customers. If I didn’t know you, I might worry that this is just a front for a serial killer, or something worse. Needs a little joy, if you ask me.”
She wanted to be funny, to soften the mood, but it didn’t work.
“Not asking. The people who come to me aren’t looking for joy. They want photos of their wife having sex with the plumber, or a subpoena served on the guy who knocked out my client’s teeth with a tire iron, or proof that their thirteen-year-old daughter’s online boyfriend is really three times her age. No joy in any of that.”
“Yikes, Gus,” Soapy said, “lighten up. Oh my god.”
“It’s okay, Sofía,” Corrine said. “I’ll come in here when he’s not around . . . maybe in jail again . . . and I’ll fix the place up. Then he’ll thank me.”
“Don’t mess with my stuff,” I said. They were futile words.
“You’re in an ugly mood,” Soapy said. “You not sleeping again?”
“I sleep fine,” I lied. “If anything’s bugging me, it’s this guy.” I pointed at Hudgens. “He’s still walking around, free and upright, when he ought to be in prison.”
“This is a mistake,” Hudgens said.
He turned to the door. Corrine blocked his way.
“It
will be okay,” Corrine said. “Everyone sit down and let Sofía tell us what she’s found. Relax, Gus. You started this when you asked Sofía to help. Now you have to finish it.”
I didn’t have enough chairs for the four of us. The building manager had a closet with a table and a half-dozen chairs in what he called the conference room. He’d given me a key, and I led the way down the dim hallway, past the deserted dentist office, the dark insurance company and the sullen and skittish collection agency receptionist who kept her door partially open.
Eventually, we sat at the conference table, one of us on each side. I felt uneasy, out of whack. Doubt about what I was doing ate at me like a parasitic worm sitting in my bowels.
“I just want to say that I appreciate all that you’ve done,” Hudgens said. “You’ve done more than I expected or deserve. Thank you.”
“Let’s get on with this,” I said.
Soapy arched her pierced eyebrows at Corrine.
“Well, it’s good and bad,” Soapy said. “The good is that Dominick Alito is still alive. He calls himself Don Allen these days, and for most of the past five, going on six years, he’s lived in Long Beach, California, managing a restaurant for a cousin. Last year, that restaurant closed, and Don Allen dropped out of sight.”
“But Soapy kept at it,” Corrine said. “She’s like a pitbull when she gets behind the computer.”
“Good to know,” I said. “He changed his name?”
“Yes, although I couldn’t find a specific reason why he’d change his identity when he moved to California.”
“Clean slate?” I asked, my eyes on Hudgens.
“Maybe,” she said. “Whatever—I lost Alito’s cyber trail, so I turned to the cousin who owned the restaurant, a guy named Tony DiNunzio, also known as Tony the Nun.”
“You’re joking,” I said.
“Nope. That’s his nickname, and not because he’s a religious nut. Apparently, Mr. DiNunzio always dresses in black suits and white shirts. Gives him a Mother Superior kind of look. And it’s not much of a stretch from DiNunzio to ‘the nun.’”
“Not that I’d stereotype, but is this guy a mobster?” Corrine asked. “Organized crime?”
“I’d be willing to bet on it,” Soapy answered. “He’s never been convicted of anything more than a speeding ticket, but the FBI is very interested in him. I found lots of chatter and references about him from various law enforcement sources.”
“I didn’t know that Dominick was connected,” Hudgens said. “Or about his cousin. We never talked about things like family.”
“Both these guys vanished?” I asked.
“For a while. But I picked up the trail again when, just for grins, I ran a search of new incorporations in California, Nevada and Colorado after the closing of the Long Beach restaurant.”
“Long-ass search,” I said.
She nodded. “I didn’t expect much, and it took a couple of hours, but I had to laugh when I saw the corporate filing for a place called ‘The Sicilian Nun.’”
“That’s funny, in a gangster way,” Corrine said.
“The Sicilian Nun is a five-star restaurant, with a pricey menu and a reputation for authentic Sicilian and Mediterranean dishes. It’s making plenty of money for the partners.”
“The partners include DiNunzio and Alito, or Allen?” I asked.
“You better believe it,” Soapy said. “Chairman of the Board of Directors is Anthony DiNunzio. Secretary and Treasurer of the Board is Mr. Donald Allen. There are others, but those two own the controlling share of the business.”
“Alito must’ve invested money in the restaurant,” Corrine said. “Where’d that come from?”
“That was harder to find out, but that’s the thing about insurance companies. They don’t like to pay claims, even those filed by their own customers. And if the customers fight back, and the company doesn’t cave immediately, the fight over the claim creates several files and communication trails that eventually give up a truckload of information about the claim, the claimants and the resolution. It took several all-night trips through dozens of dull and arcane insurance files, but I learned that DiNunzio and Allen, or Alito, won their claim. They were paid a million bucks by the insurance company.”
“Wow,” I said. “There was more to the closing of the Long Beach restaurant?”
“It burned down.” Soapy nodded enthusiastically as she spoke. She was in techie heaven, proud of what she could do with a computer and getting off on revealing her success to the rest of us.
“Gas leaks and hot grease don’t mix. The cousins made a bundle.”
“Good work, Soapy,” Corrine said. “Where are these guys now? Where’s this Sicilian Nun?”
“I’d say take a guess, but I can see that Gus is losing his patience, so I’ll just say it. About sixty-five miles south of Denver, in the little burg of Old Colorado City, which is really the west side of Colorado Springs, between the Springs and Manitou. It’s a small tourist collection of gift shops, art galleries and restaurants. A few blocks only. And the hottest place in Old Colorado City is a swanky, pricey joint called The Sicilian Nun. Only a little more than an hour away.”
Hudgens finally stirred. “He’s back in Colorado?” His pale skin lightened almost to transparency.
“He’s obviously not worried about his past catching up to him,” I said.
“What’s the next step?” Corrine asked. “Don’t tell me you’re going to bring him in.” She looked at me as she spoke.
Before I could respond, Hudgens said, “I’ll get him.”
Soapy, Corrine and I shook our heads in unison.
“No way,” I said.
“Don’t be a fool,” Corrine said.
“We go to the police, like we planned,” Soapy said. “Tell them your story. Let them deal with it.”
Hudgens’ head fell into his cupped hands. “That’s not going to do anything. It’s been years. Parker’s death, that entire night, was investigated by the D.A. Nothing came of it then, nothing will now.”
“You covered it up then,” Corrine said. “You’re making it right. The cops, D.A., somebody will believe you. You have no reason to lie. You’re turning yourself in, for God’s sake.”
“I’ll be confessing to a crime that officially doesn’t exist. The Department and the District Attorney won’t let me stir up trouble for something they locked away a long time ago. It’s hopeless.”
“You get cold feet?” I asked. “Now that we know where Alito is, you don’t want to go through with it, is that it? You were a coward when you killed Leon Parker, and you’re still one today.”
He looked up at me. His eyes were raw, his lips thin and flat. “The police won’t do anything to him.” His weak voice barely carried across the table. “I’m too late. I’ll tell what I know, but it won’t make any difference. Guys like Alito never get what they deserve, only what they take.”
“That may be,” I said. “Except for you, Leo. I’m gonna make sure you get what’s coming to you. You can count on that.”
“Come on, Gus,” Corrine said.
“Jesus,” Soapy said.
I stood up. I couldn’t take the enclosed room any more. My sister, Soapy and Hudgens pressed in on me. Again, I felt hot and disoriented.
“Where you going?” Corrine asked.
“I gotta get some air.”
“We’re not done, Gus,” Corrine hollered at my back.
I stopped and turned around. “Figure it out. If this worthless piece of humanity is ready, I’ll go with him to the police to tell his story. If he’s not, I’ll do it on my own.”
I walked out of the room, caught the elevator and stumbled through the building’s front door. I breathed as deeply as I could, leaning against a graffiti-covered wall. The trip to Cuba wasn’t finished with me. Although I wanted to believe otherwise, I hadn’t been the same since I’d returned. My hands shook, reminding me of Jerome, and I spiraled into gray nausea. My back slid down the wall until I sat on the sid
ewalk. Bloody and violent scenes from Cuba flooded around and through me. I couldn’t move.
Corrine, Soapy and Hudgens found me about fifteen minutes later. Corrine pulled me from the sidewalk, then took me home.
— Chapter 21 —
THE RIGHT THING
After the meeting at my office, Corrine gave me something that knocked me out. I slept for seven hours.
I woke up groggy and hungry. I jogged a couple of miles around the neighborhood, made a big breakfast, ate half of it and then called Corrine. Figured I would try again to make sense out of what we were doing for Leo Hudgens. I went over everything I knew about the Hudgens job with her. She asked questions, made suggestions, told me what Hudgens wanted. In other words, everything that we should’ve talked about during our aborted meeting.
She let me know that Hudgens left some of his money in my office, “as a deposit for future services.”
“He’s going through with it after all?”
“Yes. Which means we have to be ready.”
At the end of the call we had a plan.
“Where’s Hudgens?” I asked. “Where will he be? I can pick him up.”
“He can stay here,” she said. “I’ll keep an eye on him and make sure he’s ready when you come for us. What do you think? About three, three-thirty?”
“Yeah, around three-thirty. Traffic is crazy that time of day. And if we want to be there with the dinner crowd, we should leave early.”
“You’re going on I-25?”
“If you’re worried about the shooter, don’t be. Thousands of people drive that highway every day without getting shot.”
“And three people have died. Or is it four?”
“I can use highway eighty-three. Takes longer, though.”
“We should consider it. We’ll have Soapy and Hudgens in the car. We’ll be responsible for them.”