by Toni Andrews
“Mami? Yeah, I’m okay. Gus is alive, Mami, but—he’s been shot.”
I could hear her shrieks as Tino pulled the phone away from his ear. “Mami, listen to me. He’s with the paramedics. They’ll take him to San Gabriel’s probably. No, you can’t go down there—the police will want to know how you found out so quick, and you’re supposed to be in bed.” Again he winced and moved the phone away from his ear.
I listened for a while as he tried to calm Teresa, then tuned him out when he switched to Spanish.
I’d killed a man. Again. And this time it was so much worse.
When I’d compelled Dominic to drive his Jaguar into Newport Harbor, I’d been defending both myself and Sukey. I hadn’t seen any way to let him live and still save her, and I’d made a measured decision. While I’d never truly felt good about it, I’d managed to reconcile my guilt enough to sleep at night. Most nights, anyway.
All I’d had to do was tell him to put down the gun.
Which had been my intention as I’d stared at Joaquin, gathering the press and pushing it forward with my mind. But, just like so many times before, my anger had taken control. When I saw Joaquin hit a vulnerable, injured kid—a kid I was just starting to like—my telepathy and my press had risen on the wave of anger like a boat caught in a storm and flowed out before I had a chance to stop them.
It might not have been premeditated, but it was still murder. And what scared me the most was that, just for a moment, it had felt good.
“Here.”
I opened my eyes—I hadn’t even been aware of closing them—to see Tino holding out my phone. I took it and put in back in my pocket.
“Sukey thinks she can figure out a way to find out how Gus is doing. And Tío Javier is coming to get us right now—they’ll all give us an alibi, but we need to get back there before the police show up asking questions.”
“Why would the cops show up at Hilda’s?” I was having a hard time thinking, as if my brain was encased in gelatin.
“Because of her car. Gus stole it, remember? It’s parked right in front of the fucking junkyard, on the street. I saw it before I parked at Manny’s.”
I tried to picture it. “How did you get into the back of the junkyard?”
“From the one next door. There’s an old gate between the two yards. It’s locked up, but the guys there let me through. They won’t tell the cops I was there.”
I changed the subject. “How’s Sukey going to find out about Gus?”
“She calls her detective friend, tells him about the stolen car. Then she’ll say she heard about a shooting on First Street on the police band radio, say Gus said something about heading over that way and ask him to check on it. He’ll find out someone was shot and call Sukey back. Then Mami can call the hospital.”
That would work. I had another thought. “Who was the dead guy?”
“Nestor.”
Made sense.
“Will the police be looking for you?” I asked next. “I mean, are there fingerprints or something?”
He shook his head. “They ain’t gonna print the whole junkyard, not for a couple of dead Hombres. And I know better than to touch the bullets with my bare fingers when I load them into the clip. There ain’t gonna be no prints on the shell casings.”
There are some prints on that battering ram, though, I thought. I ignored that little loose end and asked, “You still have the gun?”
He nodded, lifting his shirt to show where the gun was tucked into his belt. “I’ll drop it into the bay or something, or have Tío Javier do it. The police ain’t gonna be looking too hard, not when they got the shooter in custody.”
I was confused. “Didn’t you kill Nestor?”
Tino slumped into the chair, suddenly looking exhausted and about ten years older.
“No, man. Gus did.”
16
“You’ve got no reason to go back, Tino. None whatsoever.” Grant leaned back against the cushions of Hilda’s sofa and took a sip of his scotch.
“You listen to him, hijo.” Teresa, no longer confined to bed, sat opposite Grant in a high-backed armchair. She looked like a queen on her throne, despite the circles under her dark eyes. She’d stayed up most of the night, sitting next to Gus in the hospital. He had been moved out of intensive care and into a regular room. He’d almost died from blood loss, and the surgeons had removed part of one lung, but he would recover. Technically, he was under arrest, but it would be a while before he was in any condition to appear in court. Still, his room was guarded.
Tino was still arguing, although not as vehemently. “I never got to the part about the territory, or my cut.”
“The territory is Gordo’s problem now, not yours,” Grant said. “And you don’t need your cut. You’re going to be making plenty of money as soon as we get your business plan rolling.”
“I’ll need it, if I’m gonna pay you and Hilda back for those lawyers.”
When Gus was well enough to appear for his indictment, he would be standing next to one of the best criminal defense teams in the state of California. Grant, who sailed regularly with the head of a famous firm, had secured their services, and Hilda had insisted on paying the half of the retainer Grant wasn’t covering, as well as any fees moving forward.
“I’ll be paying them back,” said Teresa. “As soon as I sell the house on St. Gertrude.”
“Aw, Mami, I was gonna wait until my real estate license comes through to do that.”
“There’s absolutely no hurry, Teresa,” Hilda insisted. “You just worry about getting yourself well, and taking care of Gus.”
“And we’re gonna need the money from the house to get you and Gus a new place, closer to here, maybe. Costa Mesa, or maybe Huntington Beach. There’s some real nice condos just went up near Huntington Harbor,” Tino said.
“Teresa doesn’t need to worry about that right now, either,” said Grant. “She’s moving into my guest house. I never use it.”
Grant has a guest house? Damn, if I’d known, I’d have asked him to rent it to me.
I glanced at Sukey, glad she hadn’t spoken aloud.
Teresa needs it more right now, I replied silently. Especially if the lawyer can get bail for Gus.
“Excuse me. Dinner will be ready in ten minutes.” Estela stood in the doorway, drying her hands on a dishtowel. She looked pleased to have her kitchen back. Teresa’s relatives had returned to their homes now that Joaquin was no longer a threat. Various aunts, uncles and cousins were doing round-the-clock shifts at Gus’s bedside.
“I’ll help you put everything on the table,” said Sukey, getting up to follow Estela into the kitchen. I followed, too, even though Estela would probably refuse our help.
She did, so, instead of going back into the living room and listening to round thirty-seven of the argument about Tino leaving the gang, I settled into the breakfast nook. Sukey sat down opposite and spoke quietly, so as not to be overheard by Estela, who, in any case, was humming along with a corrido playing on the radio as she moved back and forth from the dining room, carrying laden platters and steaming bowls. The smell made my stomach grumble.
“Are you okay?” Sukey asked me.
“I’m getting there.” I’d told her about what had happened with Joaquin. Even Tino didn’t know that part of it. He’d only seen me close my eyes and open them a few times, and, if he’d guessed anything about what I was trying to do, he hadn’t mentioned it. Teresa had asked a couple of shrewd questions but hadn’t pressed too hard for answers.
“You know that guy deserved it,” she said. Again.
“That doesn’t mean I had the right to make it happen.”
The death had been ruled a suicide. Joaquin’s gun was the only one at the scene big enough to make such a wound, and his were the only prints on it. Gus had been unconscious by the time the police got to him, clearly having lost too much blood to have hefted a gun. His pistol—which, Teresa had confided to me, had been hidden under the floorboards in his closet—had been matched t
o the bullet that had killed Nestor. Gus had been initially charged as an adult, but the attorneys were confident the prosecutor would back down on that count. It wasn’t, after all, an election year.
I was relieved when Sukey changed the subject. “There was something else I wanted to tell you,” she said. “I’ve been going over your adoption papers, and I found something funny.”
“Funny how?”
“Funny odd. It’s your name. It’s on the original papers.”
“Of course it is. My parents—the Hollingses, I mean—would have given it to the clerk when they applied for the birth certificate.”
“I don’t mean the birth certificate, I mean the original ledger page, when the orphanage recorded receiving you from the church. It says, ‘Mercy, last name unknown.’”
“That makes no sense. My legal name is Mercedes.”
“That’s another reason it’s odd.”
I thought about it. “I’ll call Bobbie tomorrow and ask her. Maybe she can clear it up.”
“And there’s another thing. I got a call back from the orphanage, and they were able to tell me the name of the church where you were found,” Sukey said.
“They were? What is it?”
“It’s a Romanian Orthodox church. In New York City, right near Central Park. It’s been there forever. I found pictures on the Internet—it’s incredibly beautiful.”
Romanian Orthodox. Why does that feel…familiar?
“When did you do all this?” I asked her.
“Yesterday, after you went home. I didn’t want to bother you—you looked like you really needed some sleep.”
Not that I got much. Had Sukey heard me think that? It didn’t appear so.
“Anyway, I called them, and spoke to a priest. He wasn’t assigned there when it happened, but he said the old priest, who’s retired now, is still alive in some retirement home for the clergy. He promised to see if he could get in touch with him and call me back.”
“Thanks, Sukey.” I wasn’t sure if I could deal with this right now, but she was so obviously pleased at her own detective work that I forced a smile onto my face. “I appreciate you keeping after this.”
“Hey, no problem. It’s actually pretty interesting.”
“Dinner is ready,” said Estela, returning to the kitchen. “I already called everyone else in—you two need to go to the table.”
We rose obediently and went into Hilda’s airy dining room, taking the two empty seats. I’d secretly always considered the enormous table—ten more people could easily have been seated with us, and that was before she added leaves—under the ornate chandelier to be a bit pretentious, but it looked pretty tonight, with its bright candles and flower arrangements.
Estela came in carrying a tureen, and, as she set it down, Teresa touched her arm. “Estela, you were so good to my family these past few days. Won’t you join us for dinner?”
“My husband is expecting me,” Estela replied, flustered.
She looked at Hilda, who shrugged.
“Call him,” she said. “He can do without you for one evening.” Then, when Estela still looked hesitant, she said, “Seriously, Estela, it’s okay. You did all the cooking—you should enjoy it.”
“Okay, I’ll stay,” Estela said, turning toward the kitchen. “Just let me get another place setting and turn off the radio.”
“Leave it on,” said Teresa. “It’s nice.”
“You like corridos?” Estela sounded surprised.
“I’m from Sinaloa. Of course I like corridos. We always played them, especially for holidays and birthdays. You can’t celebrate a birthday without dancing to some corridos.”
“Mercy’s birthday is tomorrow,” Sukey said.
So it was. I’d forgotten.
“It is? Then we must celebrate!” Teresa unfolded her napkin. “Have you planned a party?”
“We tried to,” Sukey replied. “Mercy made us cancel it.”
Teresa gave me a stern look. “Why don’t you want to celebrate your birthday? You should enjoy it—any birthday could be your last.” Somehow, coming from Teresa’s lips, this didn’t sound like an omen of doom.
“I just didn’t want a big party,” I protested. “I’m not crazy about crowds.”
“How about dinner at a nice restaurant?” asked Grant. “We could go to the Villa Nova. No—what do you call them? Corridos? But we could sing along at the piano bar.”
“Oh, I love the piano bar at the Villa Nova,” said Hilda. “Richie knows all my favorite songs.”
“And you have a nice voice, Señora Hilda,” said Estela, returning with her plates. “You should sing there, at this piano bar.”
Tino laughed. “Yeah, I’d like to hear that. I’ll bet you’re a real superstar. Why don’t you ever sing for me?”
“So, then,” Teresa said, nodding at me, “is this settled? Will you let us celebrate with you?”
“Well, if you’re all going to gang up on me, I guess I’ll have to.”
“Excellent,” said Grant, and Sukey clapped her hands like a child. “I’ll call as soon as we finish dinner and reserve a table in the bar, near the piano.”
“And you should call Sam,” said Tino.
“But—” I stopped. Sam and I were supposed to be friends now, after all. What harm would it do, inviting him to join us? I realized everyone was still looking at me, waiting for me to finish the sentence. “But be sure to ask if his father is feeling well enough to come, too,” I said, a bit lamely.
Maybe you should be the one to make the call. I looked at Sukey, who raised her eyebrows before reaching for a basket of bread and selecting a roll.
Maybe I should.
“They told me the name was stitched into your clothes when they found you. I wanted to name you Margaret, after my grandmother. She was always called ‘Peggy.’” Bobbie Hollings paused, far away in Tucson, and I heard the soft sound as she inhaled on her cigarette.
“But it just didn’t fit,” she went on. “Once I’d gotten the name ‘Mercy’ in my head, it sort of stuck. I’d always liked that actress, Mercedes what’s-her-name.”
“McCambridge,” I supplied. “Mercedes McCambridge.”
“Yeah, her. And Tom didn’t care what we called you, so when I filled out the paperwork, I just wrote in ‘Mercedes,’ and that was that.”
“Stitched into my clothing? That has to mean…” I trailed off.
“It means that either your birth mother named you ‘Mercy,’ or else it was some kind of prayer. Like ‘God have mercy on my baby.’ I thought about it some, at the time, but I guess I forgot about it by the time you were old enough to ask.”
My birth mother…
“Anyway, I’m sorry I acted so weird when I first answered the phone, but I’d just been thinking about you, and then the phone rang.”
“Thinking about me?” Why had Bobbie been thinking about me?
“Is that really so strange? I mean, after all, it is your birthday. I still think about it every year, you know, whenever it starts getting close.”
“My real one? I mean, if I was abandoned, how do you know?”
“I don’t, not for sure. But the doctor who examined you at the orphanage said you seemed to be about forty-eight hours old—I guess they can tell by the umbilical cord—so we just used the date two days before you were found. It’s got to be within a day, one way or the other.”
I guess they can tell by the umbilical cord. I reached under my untucked blouse and touched my navel. Where I’d been attached to my birth mother.
“Well, um, anyway, thank you for answering my question. I appreciate it.”
“No problem. And, Mercy?”
“Yes?”
“Happy thirtieth birthday.”
“Thanks,” I whispered, just as a click on the line told me she’d hung up the phone.
“Hey, Mercy,” called Sukey through the open door to the reception room. “Are you off the phone?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Why?”
Sure, why not? Why settle for one emotionally traumatic conversation in five minutes when you can have two? Actually, make that three, although the first call had been several hours earlier, when I’d called Sam and invited him and his father to the Villa Nova.
I closed my cell phone and put in back in my pocket.
“Sure, Sukey, I’ll talk to him.”
She stuck her head in the doorway. “He’s on hold. Just pick up the phone and push the button.”
Sukey labored under the impression that I was incapable of operating any of the office equipment. She was wrong—I felt I had completely mastered the coffee machine and the fax/printer. Well, the coffee machine, anyway.
“Hello, this is Mercedes Hollings. To whom am I speaking?” I sounded formal, stilted. Oh well, probably not inappropriate for speaking with an elderly priest. Still, I wasn’t sure why I’d used my full name.
“This is Father Constantyn.” The accent was Eastern European, the voice deep and resonant. “Your charming assistant told me you wanted to talk about the baby that was found in the church all those years ago. Is this correct?”
“Yes,” I said, uncertain how to begin. “The other priest said that you were there at that time.”
“Yes, it was Father Michael who gave me your number.” I expected him to go on, but he remained silent.
“Do you remember the, er, incident?”
“Of course.” He chuckled, the rumbling of bass notes on a church organ. “Despite what you see in movies or read in novels, it is actually a rare occurrence to find a baby in a basket on the church steps.”
“A baby in a basket?”
“A metaphor. The truth is much less dramatic. The baby was strapped into a plastic carrier and left in a pew. But it was exciting, nevertheless. She created quite a stir at the time.”
I could imagine.
“It is curious that I received your message today,” he went on. “I was thinking about it only recently. The anniversary is very close. Just a few days, in fact.”
“I was wondering if you remember anything that might be some kind of clue about who left the baby there. Did anyone see someone, anything like that?”