“You should have gone, I need to be here,” I replied.
Paco looked at me for a long time. He could sense that I was keeping something back. “Tell me,” he said, at last.
“There’s nothing to tell,” I said weakly.
“Oh, I know this one,” Paco said.
I listened to the tune but I didn’t recognize it.
“I don’t know it.”
“Really? It’s called ‘Ghost Dance,’ it’s very popular. It’s about the Day of the Dead,” Paco said, giving me another skeptical look.
“Blood and death! Blood and death!” Esteban was shouting until he grew hoarse.
Eventually the tape stopped and someone helped Esteban into bed.
The clouds cleared. Mars rose between the branches of a blue spruce, and after Mars, Venus and then the big glassy seashore of stars, the Via Lactea.
“Hell with this, let’s go to bed,” I muttered.
Paco smiled.
“Separately,” I clarified.
“Of course,” he replied with an even bigger smile.
But neither of us moved.
We sat there, smoking, listening to the silence and gazing at the Milky Way.
It was quiet now and I felt strangely at ease here in the town where my father had found comfort and lived and loved. “It won’t last,” I said.
“It never does,” Paco said.
It never does because waiting in the wings are blood and death.
“Blood and death,” I whispered, and Paco grinned.
CHAPTER 9
THE MEN FROM SASKATCHEWAN
E
steban prodded me awake at four-thirty in the morning. “Can you drive a car?” he asked.
“Wha?”
Paco woke on the other bed. “I can drive,” he said.
Esteban shook his head. “No, we need you at the construction site. We’re against a deadline there. We get penalized a thousand dollars a day if we’re not finished by Christmas. The Ortegas going to L.A. has really screwed us.”
“Yeah, I can drive,” I said.
“Good, come on, let’s go.”
“What time is it?”
“Come on.”
“At least let me go to the bathroom.”
“Hurry.”
In five minutes we were outside in the Range Rover. Esteban’s right arm was in a homemade sling.
“Where to?” I asked.
“Drive downtown, we’ll swing by Starbucks, it opens at five.”
“And then where to?”
“Wyoming.”
“Wyoming?” I said with surprise. “Wyoming’s the one with the Mormons and the—”
“No, no, that’s Utah. It’s just up the road, couple of hours. Come on, foot on the brake, turn the key, yeah, that’s it.”
I pulled out of the parking lot and made the turn for downtown. Across the street from the motel a big rented Toyota Tundra with New York plates was parked in a turning circle. I took no notice of the car but my cop brain saw a man apparently sleeping inside.
At the Starbucks we were the first customers and the coffee was poor, almost undrinkable. Esteban seemed to like it, though, and he bought a couple of pastries to go with it. I had him get me two yellow bananas and a small bright orange.
Wyoming turned out to be ninety minutes north of Fairview. There were no direct highways but good double-lane roads with little traffic. An easy drive. Signs everywhere warning us about the dangers of elk, deer, and bears but I didn’t see any animals at all. A few big rigs, a lonely pickup or two.
The Range Rover was good, though it caught the wind on some of the exposed sections. I let the sheer take me over a little more than I should so we could talk about the car, but Esteban didn’t even notice.
“The car drives pretty well,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“A little top-heavy.”
“Yeah?”
“See you got a dent on the front.”
“What?”
“You had an accident?”
“Oh, that, that was nothing.”
“What happened?”
“Just fucking drive, María, it’s not far now.”
A little over the state line Esteban had me pull off the road onto a Park Service trail that led to a frozen lake surrounded by snow-covered forest.
We finally stopped in a small, empty parking lot.
“Ok, where are we?” I asked.
Esteban grinned. “You like it? This place is perfect. The Park Service closes it from Thanksgiving through April. No one comes here. They don’t allow ice fishing because although the lake freezes, the ice isn’t quite thick enough for the health-and-safety people. So it’s perfect.”
“We’re here to fish?” I asked.
“No. Don’t you listen? It’s not safe enough. You can walk on the ice but it’s not safe enough for the little huts those ice fishermen build. No, rest assured no one will be out here the whole winter.”
“I don’t understand. So what are we doing here?”
“It’s a meet.”
The light dawned. “Oh, I see. Who are we meeting?”
“The men from Saskatchewan.”
I wanted to ask more but Esteban put a finger against his thick chapped lips. The conversation had terminated.
After a few minutes it got cold and he told me to turn the engine back on.
He blasted the heat and scanned the radio for a Spanish station but the mountains were blocking the ones from Denver and in Wyoming the music choices were between soulless white people singing songs about Jesus and soulless white people singing about their marital problems.
As 7:00 a.m. approached, Esteban killed the radio and turned off the car. He removed the key and put it in his pocket.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
Esteban reached into the glove compartment and pulled on a ski mask.
“What the fuck are you doing?” I asked.
He opened the passenger door, went to the back of the Range Rover, and took out a sports bag and his hunting rifle. He came back around to the driver’s side of the car, gave me the bag.
“Listen to me, María, it’s very simple. You give them the bag, they’ll give you a bag. There’s no need to sample the merchandise and they have no need to count the money. We all trust each other. Just bag for bag. It’s that simple.”
“Why don’t you do it?”
“I’ll be in the forest, covering you with my rifle,” he said. “Don’t worry, I can still shoot with my arm like this, and despite my stupidity last night, believe me, I’m pretty good.”
“Wait a fucking minute. I’m meeting your d—”
Esteban lowered the rifle and pointed it at my chest. “I suggest you take it easy. They’ll be along presently. I’ll be covering you from the trees.”
He backed away into the forest.
Thoughts racing. What would he do if I got out and ran for it? Shoot me? No. But why not? For all his fine talk about Greater Mexico, what was I to him? Another wetback expendable, a chiquita at that.
As he disappeared under the branches of a big pine I shouted after him: “No wonder everyone’s fucking off to L.A. if this is how you treat your workers!”
He didn’t reply and in another two seconds I couldn’t see him anymore.
I sat there.
Ten minutes. Twenty minutes. Thirty.
The men came.
Not men at all—kids. Blond-haired Canadians in big coats. Bags under their eyes made them look as if they’d hit their early twenties but the driver’s licenses probably told a different story.
Their blue Dodge Ram stopped next to the Range Rover.
I got out. They got out. They’d driven all night and had the smell of exhaustion and fear people got in the MININT building on Plaza de la Revolución.
I gave them the money and they gave me a large clear bag filled with white powder and an even bigger bag of marijuana.
“What’s the white stuff?” I asked.
<
br /> “Ice Nine from Japan, via Hawaii,” one of them said.
They were excited. They were surprised to be dealing with a woman and they wanted to talk about the drive down, the money, everything. But I had an uncomfortable feeling pricking at the back of my neck. I was concerned for them. In his angry, humiliated mood, I wouldn’t put it past Esteban to assassinate both of them and keep the cash and the drugs. Kill all three of us, take that phony bandage off his hand, drive back, laughing all the way.
“. . . and Dale’s shitting it, like totally shitting it, man, and I’m saying it’s not the Mounties, it’s a fucking fire marshal—” one of them was saying until I cut him off.
“Beat it.”
“What?”
“If you know what’s good for you. My boss is in the trees with a rifle. I don’t trust him. Get out of here. Scram.”
They scrammed.
Five minutes later Esteban returned. He slid back the bolt on his rifle and took the round out of the chamber. Live ammo. He’d been ready to shoot.
“You did well, María.”
“Thanks.”
Silence on the drive back. At the outskirts of Fairview, Esteban took the wheel and drove without any seeming discomfort. He dropped me at the bottom of the hill on Malibu Mountain.
“What now?” I asked him.
“What do you think? Your regular route.”
“No bonus, no day off for my help, no tip?”
“I’ve got a tip for you—shut up and do your job.”
“I don’t have a uniform.”
“Forget that. Just go—and you better step on it, you’re an hour late. Oh, and tie the garbage bags properly at the top of the trash can, we’ve had complaints,” he said, passing me a key ring with the alarm codes and house numbers taped to individual keys.
“Tie the garbage bags,” I muttered.
“What did you say?”
“I said you really are a bastard, Esteban. Worse than that sheriff. You’re screwing your own people,” I said.
He made a fist. “You watch your mouth, María. You want to be back in Mexico? That’s an easy one. That’s one phone call. You’ve been given a great opportunity here, don’t blow it.”
I nodded, lowered my eyes.
“Look at me,” he said.
Our eyes met. He yawned and his voice assumed a more conciliatory tone. “Look, you did well this morning. There’s something about you. You got an air of responsibility. I like it. Tell you what, when I go to Denver with Rodrigo to unload the ice, you can borrow the car. Drive to work, drive to Safeway, do a couple of errands for me.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I stood there.
“What are you waiting for? Quit your gaping and get up there, we don’t want any more complaints.”
“Ok.”
He wound the window and started to drive off but the Range Rover suddenly squealed to a halt.
“No. María, wait a minute. Wait there,” Esteban said.
I stood in the ditch while Esteban fiddled with something in the front seat. A stretch limo drove past, heading up the hill toward the Cruise estate. I tried to look inside but the glass was frosted black like Jefe’s car.
“Come here, María,” Esteban said.
“I’m here.”
He handed me three small Ziploc bags filled with the Ice 9 from Japan.
“What the fuck is this?” I asked.
Esteban rubbed his hand over his beard. “This is nothing. This couldn’t be more straightforward. Number 22, number 24, number 30 on the Old Boulder Road. That’s Rick Hanson, Yuri Amatov, and Paul Youkilis. Got it?”
“What’s in the bag?”
“It’s meth from Asia. Look, don’t worry, you’ll get cut in. Couple of days when I’m liquid. That’s why I have to go to Denver.”
He stared at me for a second and I took the baggies and put them in my coat pocket.
“Where do you want me to put it?” I asked.
“Listen to me. This is important. After you’ve cleaned each residence and as you’re leaving, place each bag in the downstairs medicine cabinet.”
“What’s that?”
“The little cupboard thing behind the mirror. They all have one. Don’t refer to the ice and don’t talk about it if you’re asked, just leave the baggie and go.”
“Hanson doesn’t have a downstairs bathroom.”
Esteban spat. “Use your fucking head then! The upstairs cabinet. If they have any problems they’ll contact me,” he said. “Now, no more of your bullshit and get to fucking work.”
He drove off in a squeal of rear tires and burned tread. I watched the car go, wondering how fast he drove up and down this road and if he’d even know the difference between a deer and a man in the dark.
The air was frigid as I walked up the hill to the first of the houses.
I found the key and the alarm. The instructions were idiotproof. Bell or buzzer first and then key if they’re not home or asleep. Thirty seconds to disable the alarm and arm it again as you’re leaving.
I pressed the bell. “Who is it?” Mr. Hanson asked through an intercom.
“Maid service.”
“You fuckers,” Mr. Hanson said.
A buzzing sound and the door opened but I didn’t go in. Not yet. I was emotional. Angry. Tired.
I took a moment to have a dialogue with myself. It’s ok, Detective, it’s all part of the process, don’t worry about it. This day is important. You found the place. The place you’ve dreamed about. So forget the anger, forget the drugs, forget the Canadian boys, forget the money, remember the lake.
Remember the lake.
Hanson was drunk. He was sixty, trim, handsome, tall, an avid skier. Angela said that he played doctors or lawyers in commercials or occasionally the father of a female lead in television dramas, but not sitcoms as his personality wasn’t large enough for that. He probably thought that being inebriated at nine in the morning was charming, but it wasn’t. I emptied his trash cans, swept his hardwood floor, cleaned his toilet, ran the dishwasher, and wiped the surfaces. He was still in bed and flipping through the channels when I appeared with the vacuum cleaner.
There was a french press filled with cold yellow urine next to the bed when I came in. He pointed at it. I emptied it in the en suite bathroom.
“Giuh hanbac for a hajaa,” he said repeatedly.
It was only when I was leaving that I realized he was saying, “I’ll give you a hundred bucks for a hand job.”
Meth and booze are a killer combination as consistent as cocaine and heroin, so defying Esteban, I put the Ice 9 behind two shampoo bottles on the top shelf of the bathroom cabinet—hopefully he’d need to be reasonably sober to find it.
I closed the front door and walked up the hill to the next residence, an easy one, that of an actor called Bobby Munson who was in L.A. and apparently not coming to Fairview at all this winter. There I did some light dusting and flushed the toilets.
The next house, a weekend retreat for a rich Denver family, was also empty. They had a Dyson vacuum cleaner and it was almost a joy to run that thing around. I dusted, emptied trash, made beds, ate fruit from their fridge. Oranges, grapes, and a kiwi that I lovingly cut, peeled, and diced into quarters. They seemed just the type to have a hidden camera that spied on the help, but fruit was my American obsession and what difference did petty larceny make when I was planning a kidnapping and worse.
Yuri Amatov was a production designer—whatever that is—a skinny, bald man about forty. When I rang the doorbell, he took my arm and led me inside.
“Where is it?” he asked.
“Excuse me, señor?”
“Where the fuck is it?” he screamed.
I reached into my messenger bag and brought out the cellophane-wrapped meth. He snatched it from me. “Now fuck off,” he said.
“The cleaning, señor?”
“What part of ‘fuck off’ don’t you understand?”
Anoth
er walk. The gradient increased as you went farther up the hill; seemingly the climate zone changed too. The wind was blowing from the north, the temperature had fallen considerably, and the sky was filled with ominous gray clouds.
“Looks like snow,” I said to myself with no excitement whatsoever.
These thoughts left my mind at Youkilis’s house.
Gravel drive. Carved wooden door. Bell. Paul Youkilis came to the door in a sweatshirt, sweatpants, flip-flops.
“You’re late,” he said, looming over me.
“I’m sorry, we—”
Youkilis raised a hand. “I don’t want the details, just get this shit cleaned up. It’s driving me crazy.”
“Sí, señor,” I said.
He smiled and added, “Christ, I sound like such a fucking feudalist. Get this shit cleaned up, please. I can’t work in these conditions.”
“Sí, señor.”
The conditions were Chinese food cartons, newspapers, a couple of beer cans, and what looked like dog excrement in the kitchen.
Youkilis’s house was smaller than Jack’s. A few downstairs rooms painted in bright primary colors and adorned with Mediterranean pottery. The windows looked out on forest and there was no mountain view. I couldn’t tell if this was all he could afford or whether he had just taken it to be next to Jack. Presumably he got 10 percent of Jack’s salary, but how much did Jack make? How much did a second-string actor get in Hollywood? I should probably find out.
Youkilis went upstairs. I’d been cleaning for about fifteen minutes when I became aware that Jack was upstairs with him.
As I was changing the vacuum bag both men came down.
Evidently they had been in the middle of a heated discussion, but now neither was saying anything. Jack was wearing jeans and a blue shirt unbuttoned to the navel. His hair was product-free and he looked tired, frazzled.
Something was going on.
“Plato thought everything had a true self, an ideal form, from which all things deviated,” Youkilis said.
“What’s that got to do with anything?” Jack snapped.
“Everything has to be perfect. For a movie to happen, all the stars have to align, there are so many things that can fuck up: the money, the director, the cast. Every single little thing has to be perfect.”
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