Lost in the Light

by Mary Castillo

  Vicente struggled to breathe as the officer grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked him up to his knees. "You think you can come into my country and break my laws?" His breath stank of tobacco and beer. He gave Vicente a good shake. "Huh?"

  "We got our haul, sir," one of the officers said. "We should take him in."

  "What's your hurry, Rick?"

  Rick was the youngest of the three officers who pulled them over. He was also the only one who hadn't taken a swig from the kegs of Tecate beer before emptying them into the black soil that was torn and tumbled from the harvest. The lights from the police cars shone into his blue eyes that looked directly into Vicente's. He shook his head ever so slightly, as if sending a silent warning to keep a cool head. But Vicente boiled with the rage and humiliation. His wrists were cuffed behind his back, and the metal bit through the skin.

  "This spic didn't answer my question. You think I'm gonna let you break the laws I almost died for?"

  "No," Vicente managed, feeling the hairs pop free of his scalp.

  "No what?"

  "No, sir."

  The officer threw him down, disappointed that Vicente hadn't given him a reason to continue the beating. Or maybe he was getting tired and wanted to go home at the end of his shift. Vicente looked up through the hair hanging in his eyes. Moments ago, he'd been riding high, feeling like the hero of whole operation and his new friends praised his quick thinking for saving their skins. Then they were caught on the dirt road skirting the lettuce fields in Paradise Valley, just outside the city limits. The rising sun silhouetted the mountains, and the air was thin and dry. It would be another hot, Santa Ana day.

  "Let's go," said the officer who beat him. "Rick, you drive that one."

  "What about the prisoner, sir?"

  "Stick him in the back of the truck." He ordered the other officer to take the two bootleggers away. They'd been put into the car, not even handcuffed, where they watched the whole thing.

  Vicente spat dirt, blood and snot. His eyes burned with tears of rage and pain.

  Officer Rick came around and lifted Vicente to his feet. "They didn't kill you," he whispered in Spanish. "But it was close."

  The ground gave way under Vicente's feet, and they nearly fell.

  A horn sounded. "Tie 'em to the bumper if he can't walk!" They laughed.

  "You have to walk. Come on." Officer Rick yanked him up. They shuffled the short distance to the truck.

  "How come you speak Spanish?" Vicente asked.

  "I'm half."

  "But they think you're white?"

  "Yup. We're almost there."

  "Rick, I'm leaving with these two," the other officer yelled. "Have a few go's at 'im."

  The engine started. Dirt and tiny rocks shot against Vicente's pants as the car drove away. When they were gone, Rick said, "Here, lean against the truck."

  Vicente jerked his arm free, angry that he had to be helped. He nearly lost his footing, but caught himself.

  "Next time, I'll leave you in the dirt," Rick said. "This is your first arrest, isn't it?"

  "So?"

  "The cops are done beating you, but I don't know about the prisoners. When they ask how old you are, tell them you're under 18. They'll stick you in with the juveniles."

  Vicente shrugged like it didn't make any difference to him. But his grandmother's words rang true. His father spent many a night drunk in jail. Now Vicente was following in his old man's footsteps, just like she'd always said. In just a few short hours, everything had changed. Here he was on the side of a dirt road in a ripped up suit and his ears ringing from the beating.

  "Rick Campbell."

  "Vic-" He then threw up in the dirt.

  Officer Rick handed him a handkerchief when he was done spitting out his last meal. "Get in the truck. You might get some sleep."

  Dori sat there, stewing in guilt at the force she'd used on that chola today. She was no better than that officer who had beaten a young kid. At least Vicente had technically broken a federal law. She had the training and experience to have used some defensive holds and locks to control the woman. She'd been ready to annihilate her.

  She didn't want to think about it anymore. "You went with Officer Rick and?"

  His eyes snapped up. "I got sentenced to a work camp."

  "For how long?"

  "It was supposed to be a year, but I was hired in six months."

  If Dori could find the arrest record, it would be one more piece of concrete evidence. But he just sat there with a faint smile on his face.

  "And then you came home?" she asked.

  "Nope. I went to work."

  "Doing what?"

  "Stop asking questions and I'll tell you."

  She sipped her tea.

  "When I was at the work camp picking oranges for free, these men showed up and bribed the guards to take some of us to pick up shipments off the coast. They sent me and this Japanese guy, Andy Munemitsu. I never picked another orange again in my life."

  She stored Andy's name with Rick's in her memory to look them up later. Vicente laughed at a private memory.

  "They liked using guys like me and Andy because we were expendable. If a Japanese and a Mexican ended up floating off Coronado, no one cared."

  She stayed quiet with her tea, not wanting to interrupt him.

  "We hauled champagne, brandy, cognac, whiskey and scotch off the boats from Mexico and then shipped it into San Diego and Los Angeles. Our clients were rich people who didn’t want to go to Agua Caliente or a speak. Hell, we supplied the American Legion when they had their convention in San Diego in 1929. We supplied mayors, bankers, lawyers, you name it.

  "Andy and me never got busted. He knew all the back roads and I negotiated with the Mexicans so they wouldn't call border patrol on us and share the take."

  "Sounds like the Old West."

  "Sure as hell was," he said wistfully, reminding her of her grampy.

  "Then, I got called up by the boss and I took Andy with me. I shook John Gilbert's hand and Greta Garbo sipped my champagne." He ran his thumb and finger along the lines that had bracketed his mouth. "In four years, I managed deliveries between San Diego and Santa Barbara."

  "And you never came back home in all those years?"

  "Why?"

  She pushed her tea cup away. "You never thought about Anna or wondered how your grandmother and sister made ends meet?"

  His face went flat but his eyes were bright as he stared straight into hers. "I didn't want to come back until I was somebody."

  "So you came back."

  He nodded. "My boss sent me personally in April 1932 to solidify our operations and get rid of the competition. Repeal was coming and we were ready to go legit. So I lived like a king in the penthouse of the US Grant Hotel and began consolidating."

  He sat back and then put his hands on the table, such a human gesture that she almost forgot he was dead.

  He then pulled his hands back on his lap and pulled down the cuff of his sleeves.

  Dori waited him out, reading his nervous gestures. If she kept her mouth shut, he'd crack open.

  National City, 1932

  Vicente drank the whole ride to the barrio. He'd been in San Diego for six months, buying out rival operations, or when that didn't work, permanently putting them out of business. He sent no check, no word to the old lady or Eugenia that he was back.

  Now dressed in his tuxedo with a white gardenia pinned to his lapel, he made the thirty-minute drive down the Harbor Drive section of the 101, past the Navy yards towards home.

  "How much longer we got, sugar?" Clara asked, her hand sliding down into his lap. "Maybe we got time to loosen you up."

  He caught her hand and flung it away.

  She hissed in the dark. "What’s with you tonight?"

  Vicente drank so much that his throat went numb from the whiskey’s burn. It spread through his whole body, making him feel like he was floating through the night.

  Clara shoved away from him, settl
ing in the corner of the limousine. He lifted his finger and ran it down the taut leather that upholstered the walls. Tiny lights burned in the shadows like yellow eyes that saw through his slicked back hair and barbered face and knew exactly what he was. That he was still that pathetic boy with shoes so old they’d flap around his feet.

  Vicente smiled to himself, wiggling his toes in the custom leather shoes hand stitched at the same shop where James Cagney and Clark Gable got theirs. He was going back to show all of them, especially her that he’d made something of himself. Vicente was an important man now; someone they’d address as Señor Vicente, holding their hats in their hands.

  Clara tapped the end of her cigarette against her case, and then her face appeared briefly under the flare of the lighter. She looked up at him with the cigarette stuck between her red lips. The limousine filled with the smell of fresh tobacco.

  "You gonna share any of that?" she asked, gesturing towards his flask.

  Vicente held out the silver flask, and her pale hand snatched it away. He’d picked her from the pack of girls who regularly circulated in the hotel lobby. She looked like Jean Harlow with the short silver hair and fingernails sharpened to red pointed daggers. He’d personally sent for the gold lace gown with a long mermaid train and glistening silver beads. She'd squealed with delight when she opened the box and then gave him the best blow job he’d ever gotten from a whore.

  It didn't take long for them to tire of each other. But tonight, he’d walk her into the church dance and let everyone see her clinging on his arm in all her finery. Afterwards, he’d set her loose in the pool of lady sharks in the lobby. If he was feeling generous, maybe he’d buy her a train ticket to Los Angeles with enough money to set herself up in Hollywood like she talked about.

  Traffic thickened as they neared National City. Tonight, sailors and couples were heading towards Tijuana like ducks flying south for the winter. By this time next year, they wouldn’t need to cross the border to drink their liquor in peace. Repeal would take the excitement out of the business, but then Vicente could cut down on expenses paid to the law.

  The limousine lurched and bounced as they turned off onto 6th Street, which led straight into the barrio. Vicente didn’t have to look out the window to see the rutted roads and cramped little houses that reminded him of broken teeth.

  "Jesus, where the hell are you taking me?" Clara demanded, bracing herself against the red velvet seat. The flower vases rattled with each bump.

  "I told you, a party," he answered.

  "It better be worth it."

  He imagined the look on Anna’s face when she saw the blonde on his arm. As if he already stood there, the dancers stopped and looked over their shoulders at him, envying him, maybe even hating him. Didn't matter as long as they knew what he'd become.

  Years ago, he’d been nothing. Even if his grandmother had the money, she would’ve let him rot in jail. She never even came to his hearing. Now, he could buy his grandmother’s shack, her nephew’s shack and the whole god-damned block up to the Vazquez house that stood proud at the top of Billy Goat Hill. Maybe he'd gobble up their pool hall and watch them dry up like a mud under the hot sun. He'd walk in tonight and then turn his back on the past, never to think about it again.

  The flask landed in his lap.

  "You hardly left me anything," Clara whined beside him. "You're a real killjoy, know that?"

  "I don’t want you falling down drunk," he said.

  "What the hell has gotten into you? I'm not takin' the strap from you."

  "Yeah? How the hell else are you getting back tonight? Bet the sailors wouldn't mind a go at you."

  She held her arm out, her white glove glowing in the dim light and tipped her cigarette ash onto the carpet. Vicente toyed with the idea of stopping the car and shoving her out into the muddy street. Clara stared back, arms crossed over her chest. The tip of her cigarette glowed, and he had no doubt that she'd smile as she ground it in his face.

  The giant car pulled up to the front steps of St. Anthony. Paper lanterns lit a path to the church hall where he could hear the throbbing guitarrón and mariachi singing in full passionate chorus.

  When the driver held the door open, Vicente stepped out into the cool misty night. The smell of damp earth, eucalyptus and fog rolling off the tidelands stirred up memories that flitted through his mind so fast that he couldn’t catch one and hold onto it. Laughter with the smell of tortillas and rich menudo floated out, pulling a chord of longing deep in his chest.

  "What the hell is this place?" Clara squawked angrily. "Did you bring me to a goddamned church?"

  Vicente looked down at her as she reached for the driver’s hand to step out of the car. Her blue eyes burned fire.

  "Shut up and walk with me," he ordered.

  "Forget it. I won’t walk in there with a bunch of Mexicans." Her mouth twisted nastily.

  "What did you think I was?"

  "Italian."

  "Surprise. Now come on." He yanked her wrist and settled her hand on his arm.

  He happened to look down the street, remembering he'd stood in this very same spot the last night he'd been in the barrio. But then he saw the black Model-T pull to a stop a short distance away, across the street. Vicente almost waved to Agents Campbell and Holner.

  The whiskey’s effect on his composure vanished as he walked towards the hall. His heart pounded as they came closer. Couples danced by the open doors. Inside the hall, the mariachi sang about soldiers returning home, broken hearted over their country and frightened they’d never see their wives and children again.

  He kept his gaze forward as they crossed from the chilly night to the heat of the church hall. He set his face in the stony lines befitting a señor who knew his importance. As they stepped through the door, Vicente didn’t recognize the first couple who stopped mid-polka to gape at him. The man nodded his head in grave respect, careful to keep his eyes off Clara for fear he’d be shot by Vicente, or slapped by his wife.

  Sure enough, the wife scowled and pulled her husband deeper into the crowd. Like dominoes, people looked over, momentarily forgetting the music. His name swept through the room and Vicente nodded in greeting to the boys who used to buy his tobacco and score Señor Riley's homemade whiskey. They were now men with faces lined and hardened by the days working in the sun and not much to show for it.

  The glamour of the 1920's skipped the barrio, but the Depression sunk its teeth in. His chest swelled with superiority that he'd been out in the world and taken what it had to offer. There was no glitter in the room; no gilt framed mirrors or soaring ceiling painted like those in European palaces. Here it was just a dusty floor and walls yellowing with age and tobacco. The band played tired old Mexican songs instead of slick jazz.

  Standing in the same spot as he had the night Anna danced with Albert, Vicente searched the morose faces of the young and older women. They wore handmade cotton dresses, low-heeled plain shoes and their long hair braided and pinned up. But Anna wasn’t here among them, and his heart thumped with disappointment.

  "Vicente, buenos noches."

  It took Vicente a moment to recognize the man who had the courage to greet him. "Alex. Buenos noches."

  They shook hands, and then smiling, Alex yanked him forward into a hug. He pulled away from Vicente, gripping his upper arms. Vicente smelled cheap wine and figured Alex was one more drink away from starting a brawl.

  "My wife doesn't know you're here yet."

  "Who the hell would be dumb enough to marry you?" Vicente said.

  "Your sister."

  The last time he saw Eugenia was the day he'd given her the doll she so wanted. Vicente couldn't picture her grown up and married, much less to his old friend. But he smiled and asked, "What’s a nice girl like her doing with you?"

  Alex laughed, mopping sweat off his forehead. "Come have a drink with us in the back. Like the old days."

  Vicente’s first instinct was to say no, not yet. Not before he saw Anna. He scanned th
e dance floor, checking the faces of the people sitting on the opposite side. He expected the crowd would part revealing Anna in her girlish white dress with Albert's arms still around her. But they weren't there.

  Alex stared at Clara as if he hadn’t noticed her standing there. In his condition, that was quite likely. Clara stared off, pretending not to be ogled. Vicente wished he'd left her in the car.

  He pulled his arm free. Clara snatched at it as if she were a drowning woman. "Where are you going?"

  "Getting a drink."

  "You can't leave me here."

  He tipped his hat to her. "Go wait in the car then," he said and then strode out the door, following Alex around the corner. A bare light hung over the front steps of the church hall where a group of boys tried to look like men. Their chatter cut off when they saw Vicente. He felt their eyes eating up his tuxedo and the gold ring on his pinky finger.

  "Is Señor Riley still alive?" Vicente asked as they came around the corner.

  "He died after you left. Where'd you go anyway?"

  That last night, when he'd waited out front in a new suit only to end up in the jail the next morning, flashed through Vicente's mind. He gave Alex the abbreviated version. "I went to Los Angeles."

  Alex tripped over his own feet, catching himself on the rickety fence. Vicente reached out to help him, trying to process that his old crony was now his brother-in-law. He hadn't been here to chaperone while they were courting or walk his sister down aisle. Did he have nieces or nephews? Was Alex a good husband?

  "Let's head back, compadre," Vicente said.

  "Nope. The night is young." Alex turned into the yard of a dark house.

  With a quick glance over his shoulder for Agents Campbell and Holner, Vicente couldn't remember who lived here. The Riley's were three more houses down, and if you didn't know where they lived, you could tell by line of men pretending they weren't waiting for their turn at the still.

  Alex knocked on the gate. It cracked open, revealing a suspicious eye.

  "You owe us five dollars," a voice said, and then the gate was shut in their faces.