At first there was no recognition in Mrs. Vega’s gaze, probably because she was seeing me through the soft focus of her hangover. I watched the knowledge break in on her as I spoke.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said, “but I need to talk to your son. Is he here?”
“No.” She spat the word at me as if it were a bitter-tasting seed.
“Can you tell me where I can find him? It’s important that I—”
She slammed the door in my face. And locked it. And went wherever it was she went to nurture her pain.
* * * *
La Moderna Market was open for business, but the butcher shop part of it was closed; no fresh meat on Sundays. I spoke to both grocery checkers, one of whom referred me to a stockboy named Manuel. Manuel said maybe I should try the Cafe Guitarra on Guerrero Street. Paco hung out there sometimes, he said, because achiquita he liked waited tables.
* * * *
Café Guitarra turned out to be one of the funky products of the Mission’s New Bohemia status—a combination coffee house and music hall that featured folk, rock, punk, and flamenco guitar players. Paco wasn’t there. Three waitresses bustled around, all of them wearing white blouses and colorful peasant skirts; the second one I talked to was evidently the chiquita Paco was interested in, because her eyes got bright when I mentioned his name. He hadn’t been in so far today, she said. Had I tried La Raza?
I said, “La Raza? You mean the graphics center?”
“No. Centra Legal.”
That surprised me. “Why would he be there?”
“He works there sometimes on weekends.”
“Doing what?”
“Helping out. You know, volunteer stuff.”
“How long has he been a volunteer for them?” ,
“A long time, I think.”
As I left the cafe I decided that I shouldn’t have been surprised. La Raza Centra Legal is a legal assistance and referral group, and is deeply committed to making sure that the IRCA amnesty program for undocumented aliens is properly administered. Rafael Vega had become a coyote who preyed on his own people; his son, who knew or suspected this, and who hated him as a result, had taken the exact opposite route and become a La Raza volunteer. No, I shouldn’t have been surprised at all.
* * * *
La Raza Centro Legal has its offices on the 2500 block of Mission Street. I spotted Paco Vega as soon as I walked in, sitting at a table with two other young Latinos; they were stuffing envelopes from stacks of some kind of document or flier. He didn’t see me until I called his name. His first reaction was anger, but it lasted only a couple of seconds; what replaced it was a kind of disgusted resignation. He got up and did a slow walk to where I stood.
“Man,” he said, “you’re like a dose of the clap. You just don’t go away.”
“You get around pretty good too,” I said. “I didn’t know you were an activist volunteer.”
“Yeah, well, there’s plenty you don’t know about me. What you want, pancho? You didn’t come here to talk about La Raza.”
“Let’s go outside.”
“Yeah,” he said, “get it over with.”
By Mission Street standards, the sidewalks were un-crowded today; so were the bus-stop and rest benches, which were usually the domain of drunks, homeless citizens, and little old ladies when they could squeeze out a seat. Paco and I found an empty bench and sat down.
I said, “How’s your father?”
“He’ll live, so they tell me. But he won’t use his right arm again.” Paco’s face betrayed no emotion of any kind. “You have anything to do with putting him in the hospital?”
“Would it matter if I did?”
“Not to me.”
“You don’t care that he’s badly hurt?”
“No.”
“No feelings for him at all?”
“Not in a long time, man. My mother’s hurt bad too”— Paco tapped his head—”up here. He don’t care about her, why should I care about him? Be better for everybody if he’d died out on that beach.”
“You feel that way about Coleman Lujack too?”
“What way?”
“Better for everybody that he’s dead.”
“He’s a pig. I don’t think about pigs.”
“You help butcher them, though, don’t you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Come on, Paco. Somebody killed him last night. Why not you?”
He looked startled; and the startlement seemed genuine. “The hell,” he said. “How’d he get killed?”
“You don’t know, huh? It was in this morning’s paper.”
“You think I read the damn paper these days?”
“If the cops haven’t been around to see you yet, they will. Any time now.”
“Jesus Christ, you and the cops think I did it, you all been smoking angel dust. Why would I kill thatmarrano?”
“Revenge. He’s the main reason your father’s in the hospital and in big trouble with the law.”
“Bullshit,” Paco said. “I wouldn’t kill nobody for my old man. I wouldn’t kill a mad dog that was biting his leg.”
“No? You own a handgun?”
“Not me, man. Guns aren’t my thing.”
“But you’d know where to get one if you wanted it.”
“Sure. Lots of guns on the streets. But I told you, I didn’t kill Coleman Lujack. You want proof? What time’d he get wasted?”
“Around six thirty.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Six thirty last night, I was at Mission Dolores with my mother. Six o’clock Mass—she was praying for my old man’s soul. Ask the padre, ask fifty other people, maybe that’ll satisfy you.”
“I’m already satisfied,” I said. And I was. I’d started being satisfied as soon as I found out Paco worked as a volunteer for La Raza.
He wasn’t the shooter either.
* * * *
Eberhardt was home when I stopped by his Noe Valley house at one thirty. In a snarly mood and none too happy to see me. He started an up-tempo harangue as soon as I walked in, and if Bobbie Jean hadn’t been there, we’d have got into a hell of a row; my mood wasn’t much better than his. But Bobbie Jean is the unflappable sort of Southerner and exerts a calming influence on Eb, and she got him settled to the point where he could speak to me without yelling and calling me “a stubborn goddamn wop” at the end of every third sentence. He didn’t stop glaring at me though. He would probably go on glaring at me for days.
Bobbie Jean made us some coffee, and while we drank it we managed to discuss things in a more or less rational manner. When I got done telling him why I had pretty much scratched Teresa Melendez and Paco Vega off my list, he said, “All right, smart guy. If neither of them shot Coleman, then who did? Thomas’s widow?”
“I doubt it.”
“Pendarves?”
“Maybe, if he’s still alive.”
“And if he isn’t?”
“I don’t know. Somebody who’s mixed up in the coyote business, maybe some friend of Vega’s.”
“But you don’t have any idea who it might be.”
“No.”
“So you’re going to drop it, right? Let the police and the feds do their jobs and haul your ass out of it, right?”
“Maybe,” I said.
“Maybe? Chrissake, maybe?”
“I want to talk to Antonio Rivas.”
“What the hell for? You thinkhe shot Coleman?”
“No.”
“Well? He doesn’t know anything about Pendarves. I already told you that.”
“I still want to have a talk with him.”
“You don’t trust my judgment, is that it? You stubborn goddamn wop . . .” And he was off again.
Bobbie Jean stepped in to do another calming job, but I’d had enough. It was about time for me to go meet Kerry anyway. I said as much, thanked Bobbie Jean, gave her a peck on the cheek, and then asked her glowering fiancé if he minded coming to the door with me.
“Humor me, all right?”
He went along, grumbling. “So?” he said when he’d finished yanking the door open.
In lowered tones I asked, “Everything okay with you?”
“Huh?”
“You know, physically.”
“I’m fine. Why?”
“I worry about you, Eb. I know you spent the night with Bobbie Jean, and I know how clumsy you can be sometimes.”
“What the hell’re you talking about?”
“Well, I’m just wondering about your rotten disposition today,” I said. “You didn’t have one of those freak accidents last night, did you? Miss the target and ram your dingus into the mattress?”
For the second time that day I got a door slammed in my face. This time I didn’t mind a bit.
* * * *
Chapter 21
Kerry was waiting when I arrived at my flat, even though it was still fifteen minutes shy of three o’clock. A different Kerry than the last few times I’d seen her—not quite her old self, but with some of the old optimism and assurance. A good part of the strain had been eased. Whatever she’d done on Friday, it had had a profound effect on her.
She said after she kissed me, “My appointment didn’t take as long as I expected. I’ve been here half an hour.” She gave me a long appraising look. “You look tired, my love.”
“Not much sleep lately. I’ll be okay.”
“I wish I could help you sleep.” Gently she rubbed my cheek with her fingertips. “I’m better than calcium lactate.”
“You’re telling me? Right now, though, we need to talk. And before we talk, I need a beer.”
“I helped myself to the wine,” she said. “You mind?”
“Nope.”
“Good. I was afraid you might go all grumpy and mother-hennish on me. You do that sometimes, you know, when you’re under stress or in a bad mood.”
“I’m not in a bad mood today. Not anymore.”
She kissed me again. “Go get your beer.”
I went and got my beer. When I came back into the living room, she was sitting on the couch with her shoes off, her skirt hiked up on her thighs, and her bare feet tucked under her. She has terrific legs, long and slender, with very small and well-formed feet. Dirty old man that I am, I find her feet as erotic as the rest of her. Sometimes just thinking about them gives me urges. But not right now. Right now I was much more interested in what had brought about the change in her.
I said as I sat down, “You first. Tell me about Cybil. I can use some good news. It is good, isn’t it?”
“Well, positive. Very positive.”
“You went to see somebody?”
“Yes, and I wish I’d done it a lot sooner.”
“Geriatric doctor?”
“No. A support group,” she said.
“What kind of support group?”
“It’s called Children of Grieving Parents. One of B. and C.’s clients told me about it. A couple of dozen people like me who have or had parents, usually elderly, that reacted to losing a spouse the way Cybil has. They’ve found ways to cope themselves, and ways to help the parents learn to cope.”
“What do they advise? In the long run, I mean.”
“Getting Cybil into a care facility.”
“But how, with her fear of being put in a home—•?”
“Not that kind of care facility. Not a nursing home.”
“What other kind is there?”
“One that’s set up as a seniors complex. There are a number in the Bay Area. They’re not hospitals or places with rooms like cells and nurses and doctors in the halls; they’re virtual condos—separate and private apartments, with recreational facilities and organized activities that are completely optional.”
I asked, “What if the individual needs medical attention?”
“Part of the facility is a clinic staffed by medical personnel and counselors. They’re there if needed, but only if needed. The resident—not patient, that word is never used—makes the decision. The staff periodically looks in on the residents, of course, to see if they need anything and to make sure they’re all right. But they don’t interfere except in cases of medical emergency.”
“Sounds fine. But will Cybil agree to an arrangement like that?”
“I think so,” Kerry said. “Not immediately, but eventually. The one thing she’s most afraid of, that almost all grieving parents are most afraid of, is the loss of self-sufficiency. That’s the first insight the people in the group gave me. She’s been in control of her own life for nearly sixty years; she can’t stand the prospect of losing that control, becoming dependent, because to her it means losing her freedom, her will, and ultimately her identity.”
“But she’s dependent on you right now,” I said.
“Yes, morbidly so, and that’s a major part of why she can’t cope. She hates it—I’ve only made things worse by pandering to it. Yet the only alternative she sees is an even more terrible form of dependency, the impersonal kind. What I have to do is help her understand that there’s another alternative, the only sensible one . . . and then back off and let her decide to make the move. Working with the group, I can do that. They’ve prepared literature that I can get Cybil to read. And some have recruited their surviving parents who now live in care facilities to work as support counselors; the next big step is convincing Cybil to talk to one of them. It’ll take time and patience, but underneath her grief she’s the same rational and intelligent woman she’s always been. She’ll accept the truth sooner or later. I know she will.”
She wasn’t trying to talk herself into believing it; she already believed it. And because she did, I did too.
I said, “I wish there was some way I could get involved in the process. But I guess there isn’t.”
“Not until she realizes you’re not to blame for your feelings about Ivan. Then she’ll stop hating you.”
“I hope so. I not only like her, I admire and respect her— you know that. I always have.”
Kerry smiled and squeezed my hand. “You couldn’t like me if you didn’t like Cybil,” she said. “I’m my mother’s daughter.”
“I wouldn’t want you to be anything else.”
We sat for a while without saying anything. It was good companionable silence, the kind we used to share all the time. The awkwardness, the tension between us was finally gone.
At length she stirred and I looked over at her, and her eyes were moist. I asked, “What’s the matter? Are you crying?”
“A little.”
“Why?”
“Women cry sometimes,” she said, as if that explained it. “It doesn’t have to mean anything bad, you know.”
“. . . If you say so.”
“God, you sound so dubious.” Now she was laughing as well as crying. “You really don’t understand women, do you?”
“Not a lick,” I said.
She got up, still laughing and crying at the same time, and said, “I love you, you big goof.” Then she said, “I’ll be right back,” and went off to the bathroom.
I sat there wondering why I was such an ignoramus when it came to women. Sex shouldn’t make that much difference; people were people, right? All of us Homo sapiens under the skin. I understood men, sometimes too well, so why didn’t I understand women? The fact that I didn’t and never had made me feel inadequate and somehow ridiculous, as if I were the butt of some secret cosmic joke.
Kerry came back pretty soon. She was no longer either crying or laughing; she’d fixed her face and the expression on it now was serious and businesslike. She sat down, drank some of her wine. “All right,” she said, “now it’s your turn. What happened to get you written up in today’s paper? The Lujack case?”
“The Lujack case.”
“Talk,” she said.
I talked. She already knew some of the facts; I generally confided in her about what I was working on, to keep things open between us and because now and then she ca
me up with an insight or a piece of information that proved useful. I filled in the details, then went through the events of the past few days. I did not want to tell her about the incident with Rafael Vega, but it was bound to come out in the media eventually; so I settled for whitewashing it a little, making it seem less deadly than it had been. I didn’t say anything at all about being shot at last night. She didn’t need to know how deadly that had been either.
Breakdown - [Nameless Detective 19] Page 21