White Tombs

by Christopher Valen

  He walked up the steps and rang the bell. After a moment the door opened slightly and a heavy-set Hispanic woman peered out past the security chain.

  “I’m Detective John Santana.”

  She stared at the ID he held up and then at him. Cautious. Unsure.

  “I’m looking for Luis Garcia. Can I come in?”

  Her dark eyes darted nervously back and forth. “No comprendo, señor.”

  “Es Luis Garcia su hijo?”

  “Si,” she said, surprise showing on her dark, Indian face. “He ees my son. What has he done?”

  “I’d just like to ask him a few questions.”

  “He ees not home.”

  Santana could hear voices in the background. Then he realized that she had the television on.

  “Perhaps I could talk to you, Mrs. Garcia.”

  She glanced inside like she was worried about something. She might have dealt with the police in Mexico and figured she had little choice but to let him in. If she were here illegally, dealing with the police would only add to her fears. She started to unlatch the chain and then hesitated a moment longer, weighing her options.

  “Talking to me might help your son,” Santana said, offering encouragement.

  He saw concern register in her eyes.

  Finally, she unlatched the safety chain, opened the door, and allowed him to step into the living room with its unpolished hardwood floors and faded white curtains on the windows. It was a small room that needed a fresh coat of paint, yet it was as expensively furnished as a showroom. A black curved leather sectional that was too large for the space sat against one wall opposite an oak armoire. The armoire held a brand new Sony flat screen twenty-seven inch color television with a built in VCR and DVD player.

  Santana stood next to a black leather chair in front of four rectangular windows that looked out onto the street. A radiator ran along the wall beside him. Beyond the walnut archway that led into the dining room were a shiny oak table and four chairs. On one of the walls was a two-foot crucifix, and on another were three shelves filled with a collection of porcelain angels.

  “I go to work soon,” Mrs. Garcia said, standing in front of the leather sectional with the remote in her hand.

  She wore white shoes and a plain gray maid’s dress with CROWNE PLAZA printed on the nametag pinned just above her left breast. The nametag read: Ester Garcia.

  Santana remembered a time when he and Rita Gamboni had enjoyed a dinner in the restaurant on the top floor of the hotel. The restaurant had booths that circulated like a slow-moving merry-go-round while you ate, offering a full view of the city through floor to ceiling windows. It was early in their relationship, a time when everything he said seemed interesting and significant to her, a time when her touch felt as if she had a constant fever.

  “This won’t take long,” Santana said, giving Ester Garcia a smile.

  She turned off the TV and lowered herself reluctantly to the couch, as though she were about to sit in something unpleasant.

  He said, “You have a very nice home, señora.”

  She averted her eyes, obviously embarrassed by her expensive surroundings.

  “Luis help out.”

  Santana took off his overcoat and folded it over the back of the cushioned chair. He took out his notebook and pen and sat down in the chair.

  “Does Luis work?”

  “When he can,” she said softly.

  “Where’s that?”

  “He no work in a long time. There are few jobs for …” her voice trailed off.

  “Illegals,” Santana said.

  Ester Garcia’s eyes grew large with panic and her mouth fell open. The radiator let out a hiss of steam like a cat alarmed by an intruder.

  “Don’t worry, Mrs. Garcia. I’m not here about your legal status. Everything you tell me will be between you and me, comprende?”

  She looked at him for a long moment, still hesitant but less uneasy. “De dónde es, señor?”

  “Colombia.”

  She gave a knowing nod. “How many years?”

  “Twenty.”

  “It was hard for you, no?”

  “Very. It’s easier now.”

  She stared at him, motionless, still trying to make up her mind whether or not to trust him.

  He said, “Usted, señora? Cuantos años?”

  “Four years,” she said.

  “Viniste aquí con Luis?”

  “With Luis and my husband, Jorge. He work in the meat packing plant in Worthington.”

  “Tienes otros hijos?”

  “Only Luis.”

  Santana could tell by her body language that she was more relaxed now, more willing to talk. “Is your husband here in St. Paul, or is he still in Worthington, señora?”

  She thought about it for a while before responding. “One day Jorge go to work and no come back. I wait for two months in the apartment where we live with another family in Worthington.” She held up two fingers for emphasis and shook her head resignedly. “I think he get tired of the work and go back to Mexico.”

  “Why didn’t you go back after him?”

  Her lips formed a melancholy smile. “Jorge like the tequila more than work.” She held the smile for a moment and then let out a sigh that carried with it something other than weariness.

  “More than me, I think.”

  She gazed out the windows to her left, out into the cold, empty street where melting snow ran in dark, dirty streams along the curbs and down into the sewers.

  “How did you end up in St. Paul?” Santana asked.

  “One of the women in the apartment had a sister who live here and work at the hotel. She talk to Mr. Mendoza. He get me a job. Mr. Mendoza was a good man. When I hear on the TV that he die, I was very sad.”

  “Did Mendoza get Luis a job, too?”

  “Si.”

  “Did he help you get the house?”

  “I do not know. Luis brought me here one day a year ago. He say this is ours now. He say soon I no have to work anymore. We will have papers. We will be citizens. But I can always work. I don’t mind.”

  Santana wondered how many Ester Garcias were working in the restaurants, fast food places and hotels throughout the city. All of them wanting to become citizens but many going about it the only the way they knew how — the wrong way.

  “Do you know where Luis is now?”

  “Sometimes he ees with his friends at Diáblos.”

  “I know where it is. Would you have a picture of Luis that I could borrow?”

  She pushed herself up from the couch and went to drawer in the dining room where she took out a thick photo album and brought it back to the living room. She sat down on the couch again and set the album gently in her lap.

  Santana watched her as she turned the pages, gazing at the distant memories captured in each of the photos.

  Removing a photo from the album, she looked up at him. Her eyes were dark pools filled with concern and hope.

  “Luis is a good boy, señor. Very smart. I try to get him to finish school here. But he no read so good. He has a lot of energy and a temper, too. Sometimes he get into trouble.”

  She held the picture of her son with both hands close to her heart, reluctant to give it up.

  “I understand, señora.”

  Santana held out a hand.

  She looked at him and then at the distance between his outstretched hand and hers.

  “I’ll return it safely to you,” he said.

  Her mouth began to tremble and she looked at Santana again, as if giving her son’s photo to him in some way implied that she was turning her back on her only child.

  “And my son too, por favor,” she replied.

  That was a promise Santana could not make.

  Diáblos was located at the bottom of the bluff near Cesar Chávez and State. Traffic was usually heavy in the area and the sidewalks were busy with Hispanic shoppers, most of them without hats and gloves and heavy coats. Santana parked his car at the c
urb a half block down behind a customized, white and blue, low rider ’64 Chevy Impala with fender skirts. It had been washed and waxed recently and the finish shone like a polished floor.

  A bank of dark clouds had rolled in suddenly from the west, covering the sun and dropping the temperature ten degrees. Snow crystals blown by wind gusts pricked Santana’s face and sliced across his skin like razors.

  From the outside Diáblos looked like a pueblo with its white walls, red tiled roof and board-and-batten door. From the inside it looked and smelled the same as a thousand other bars, the stink of stale beer and cigarettes hanging like body odor in the air. On Santana’s right was a long bar with red padded stools running the length of the room. Behind the bar was a Mexican flag and rows of multi-colored bottles, an alcoholic’s wet dream. The bartender, an old Hispanic man with craggy features and white hair, looked up momentarily as Santana entered and then went back to washing glasses.

  Sets of square tables and chairs were loosely organized in front of the bar. Ceiling fans sat motionless above him. In an alcove to the left were a pinball machine, pool table and a couple of high-topped tables.

  Diáblos was nearly empty at this time of the day, so Luis Garcia was easy to spot. He was a muscular kid, about five feet seven inches, and dark like his mother with the same flat nose and Indian features. His jeans were baggy and low on his waist. He had a gold bandana tied over his head like a pirate. The tight black T-shirt he wore showed off a pair of large biceps. He was playing pool with another Hispanic kid the size of the Goodyear Blimp. The kid looked younger than Garcia, maybe nineteen, and wore his long, shiny, dark hair in a ponytail. A Vikings sweatshirt hung over his belt and expansive gut.

  Santana walked over and stood near Garcia. He could see now that Garcia was trying to grow a mustache and goatee and having little success.

  A young Hispanic girl with bleached blond hair, a leopard skin skirt and black turtleneck sweater sat on a stool at a round high-top table, smoking Lucky Strikes and drinking shots of tequila from a half-empty bottle.

  Santana flipped open his badge wallet, revealing his shield.

  Garcia gave it a cursory glance and said, “Qué es lo que este pinché cabrón quiere?”

  The Hispanic girl giggled.

  Santana had understood what the girl was laughing at. Garcia wondered what this fucking pig wanted. But rather than let on, he ignored the insult. Garcia was showing off for her, letting her see how tough he was. Santana had expected it.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Rafael Mendoza, Luis.”

  Garcia looked at him as though Santana had two heads. He had a thick, silver chain around his neck and a five-pointed crown tattooed on his right forearm, a symbol of the Latin King Nation.

  “I don’t know any Mendoza, man. Hey, Reínaldo,” he said to the fat kid across the pool table. “I know any Mendoza?”

  Reínaldo shook his head dutifully. “No, man.”

  Garcia turned around and looked at the blond girl sitting at the table behind him. “Liz, mija. Do I know any Mendoza?”

  Liz smirked and took a drag on her cigarette. “No way.”

  Garcia turned and faced Santana again. His right foot was tapping against the tile floor, keeping a constant beat to some internal rhythm. He spread his hands and said, “See, man. I don’t know anybody by that name. You’re wastin’ your time.”

  Mr. Honesty.

  Santana decided to play along until he could catch Garcia in a lie. He figured it would be easy to do, despite Garcia’s obvious practice.

  “Mendoza was murdered at the Riverview Lofts, Luis.”

  By the puzzled look on Garcia’s face, Mendoza’s death could have been years ago instead of days.

  “I heard the Latino who got whacked that night was named Córdova, man. I don’t know nothing about any Mendoza.” He was setting up to bank the six ball into a corner pocket. “I’m trying to play a game here, man.” He leaned over the table, concentrating.

  “We could talk downtown if you’d like, Luis.”

  Garcia took the shot and missed. “Shit, man.” He looked at Reínaldo. “Can you believe that, vatos?” He stared at the big kid in frustration. “I’m gonna lose the game, homeboy.”

  Santana said, “You could lose more than the game, Luis, if you’re not straight with me.”

  Garcia looked at Santana with wary eyes, like a hungry animal trying to decide whether it should go for the bait in a trap. “You threatening me, man?”

  “Whatever way you want to play it, Luis.”

  “Hey,” Garcia said with a big, phony smile, “no need to get loco.”

  He began gently tapping the tip of the pool cue on the table.

  Reínaldo was moving around the table, acting as though he was ignoring the conversation, just looking to get the best angle for his next shot, but trying to get closer to Santana in case the shit hit the fan.

  “How long have you worked for Mendoza, Luis?”

  Garcia slowly lost his phony smile. His dark eyes were suddenly as hard and as lifeless as the eight ball on the table.

  He looked at Reínaldo and said, “Ponte detrás de el.”

  Santana said, “Your fat friend isn’t going to get behind me. And if he tries anything with that pool cue, I’ll shove it up his ass and haul him downtown for assaulting a police officer.”

  “Hey,” Garcia said. “You understand Spanish, man. You didn’t tell me that when you came in.” He wagged an index finger at Santana. “That’s not fair, man.”

  “I’d guess most things in life aren’t real fair for you, Luis.”

  “You got a sense of humor, too, man. I like that. But you are not Mexican.”

  “Colombian.”

  “Ah, si.” He waved the pool cue at Reínaldo. “This is a good lesson for you, Reínaldo. You don’t fuck around with a Colombian, unless you want your ass handed to you.”

  “That’s the most intelligent thing you’ve said since I came in here, Luis.”

  “Yo no soy idiota.”

  “So why don’t we sit down at a table near the bar and cut the bullshit.”

  Garcia gave Santana a long look, like he was the one in charge. “Okay, man. I got time. I was losing this fuckin’ game anyway.”

  He formed a wide U with the first and last fingers of his right hand. Tapped his heart twice and flashed the gang sign to Reínaldo. Then he tossed the pool cue on the table, turned around and sauntered over to Liz and gave her a deep kiss on the lips, holding the back of her head with one hand and giving her plenty of tongue.

  “I’ll be right back, míja.”

  Garcia strutted toward an empty table near the bar with the same carefully practiced gait that belonged to every gangbanger who wanted to be cool. He slid into one of four wooden chairs at the table as Santana took off his overcoat and sat down in a chair directly across from him.

  Garcia said, “I’d offer you a drink, hombre, but I don’t think you can drink on duty, eh?”

  “Looks to me like your two friends aren’t old enough to be drinking.”

  “You gonna bust ‘em?”

  “That’s not why I’m here. But maybe the girl,” Santana said with a nod in her direction, “shouldn’t be drinking. She’s starting to show a little. That your kid she’s carrying?”

  “It better be, man, if the Chicána bitch knows what’s good for her.”

  Garcia tipped his head toward Liz. She smiled at him as she sat alone at the high-topped table with her cigarettes and booze, waiting for her man to summon her.

  Like a hundred other Chicána girls Santana had seen before, Liz wore her pregnancy like a badge of honor. She naïvely believed that having a child would somehow make her matter in a culture where pretty young girls were viewed by young men like Luis Garcia as nothing but chattel. Despite Luis’ warning about faithfulness, he would soon grow tired of her, and Liz would be passed around and shared like the bottle of tequila she was drinking from. She would have three or four more children with
a series of men and one day in the not too distant future she would wake up and look in the mirror and discover that her beauty and figure had deserted her along with all the young men who once found her so desirable, gone after still younger and prettier girls. Santana saw no way out of this cycle. Even if he took Luis Garcia off the street, there were ten more just like him waiting to take his place — and plenty more like Liz.

  “Now that it’s just the two of us sitting here quietly, Luis, and you don’t have to impress your friends, why don’t you tell me what you really know about Rafael Mendoza?”

  “Hey, man, why don’t you believe me?”

  Garcia was looking for an Academy Award nomination; acting like Mendoza was a complete stranger.

  “I’ve been to your house, Luis. I’ve talked with your mother.”

  Garcia’s eyebrows lowered and his nostrils flared in anger. “You been to my house, man?”

  “It’s a very nice place for a mother who’s busting her ass at a minimum wage job and a kid with no visible means of support.”

  “Hey, I help out.”

  “How’s that?”

  Garcia remained silent.

  “How about I tell you,” Santana said.“

  “You’re so fuckin’ smart, go ahead.”

  Santana said, “Rafael Mendoza got worker visas for your family. But when your old man took off for Mexico and left you and your mother alone, you overstayed your time. Now you’re here illegally. You found out Mendoza was scamming the government, bringing illegals in for jobs that didn’t exist and making a small fortune. You were helping him, Luis, for a cut of the profits. According to Mendoza’s bank records, he made the same withdrawals twice a month. Those withdrawals were payouts to you. My guess is, he paid you in cash since you probably don’t have a bank account.”

  Garcia laughed, but it was hollow. “You’re really loco, man.”

  “What happened, Luis? You get too greedy? Have to kill Mendoza when he wouldn’t agree to up your take?”

  Garcia jumped up, the chair skidding across the floor away from him. “This is bullshit! I didn’t kill Mendoza.”

  “Everything okay, Luis?” Reínaldo called from the pool table.