Miguel's Gift

by Bruce Kading

  “Where did you get the gun?”

  “Some guy outside a gun show on Randolph. He had some guns in his trunk.”

  “Had you ever fired a gun before?”

  “My father owns lots of guns. He used to take us out to his cousin Eloy’s place in Calumet where we would have family picnics, and we all shot at targets on hay bales. I remember my dad saying if you ever really wanted to kill a person you should shoot ’em in the face.”

  “I understand you being hurt, but what made you actually go through with it?” asked Kane.

  “He broke my heart and made a fool outta me. So I was already mad and hated him, but when I saw him with his Mexican wife and kids on the street it really got to me, and I felt like I had to do something. You guys weren’t going to do anything. So I planned it all out. I knew he liked that bowling alley on the North Side. I even went over there one Sunday night when it was closed just to see if it would work. Then I called him and said something about needing money and suggested meeting there. I knew he wouldn’t tell his wife he was meeting me. He was secretive that way.”

  Though her voice was steady, she’d begun crying and took a moment to wipe the tears away.

  “It was a perfect night because the wind was making a lot of noise, and there was nobody around. I got there early and parked in back of the building. I waited a few minutes after he got there and then walked out toward him, and he was standing there, and the light behind him made him stand out real clear, like a big target. The shot wasn’t loud because of the wind.”

  Connie dabbed her nose with the tissue.

  “At first, I didn’t feel badly, just sort of numb. I figured he had it coming. But later I started thinking about his wife and kids. I saw them a couple times on the street, and I knew that what I did was a terrible sin, so I started going to church again. Then I got sick.”

  “Have you told anybody else about this?” asked Kane.

  “Only the priest. I told him last week at confession. He said it wasn’t enough—that to make it right with God, I needed to tell somebody official.”

  “Why come to us instead of the police?”

  “It was all an immigration thing. That’s what started it. I don’t mean any disrespect, but you shouldn’t let guys take advantage—like Marcos did. It doesn’t make it right, what I did, but you shouldn’t let it happen.”

  “You’re right about that, but the law is so weak that it invites scams like the one Marcos pulled on you.”

  Kane left her alone for a minute and called the homicide cops to see what they wanted to do with Connie. The detective seemed annoyed that Kane had taken the confession and said he would be right over to take her into custody. When Kane returned to the interview room, Connie was looking absently at the wall. Her legs were stretched out alongside the table, and Kane noticed she was wearing black cowboy boots with silver tips.

  “Thanks for listening, Mr. Kane,” said Connie softly. “I feel better now.”

  * * *

  Kane, alone in the office, answered the phone at six o’clock in the evening.

  “Investigations, Kane speaking.”

  “¿Habla español, Señor Kane?”

  “Sí.”

  The man continued in Spanish: “You are the one who was in the paper . . . the story about the fake documents?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wanted to tell you—there is a man who took over for Salvador Rico.”

  Kane bolted upright in his chair and grabbed a notepad. “What’s his name?”

  “His real name I don’t know. They call him ‘the Little Umpire’ because he wears a blue jacket and baseball cap. He is from Peru. He comes back from California with thousands of the green cards and social security cards.” The caller spoke Spanish slowly and distinctly so that Kane had no trouble understanding him.

  “Where does he live?”

  “This I don’t know. But he drives a new Chevrolet Impala. Most nights you can find him at the Little Lima Bar on Ashland. He always carries a gun—a revolver.”

  “How old is he?”

  The man laughed. “He could be thirty-five or fifty-five. You can’t tell.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “He is short . . . his teeth are bad.”

  “How do you know about his new business?”

  There was silence at the other end.

  “It would be held in confidence,” said Kane. “You can talk freely.”

  There was only the sound of breathing. Afraid the man would hang up, Kane continued. “What else do you know about him?”

  “The Colombians thought he was a government informant. But then they heard that Salvador Rico was the informant, so they are no longer after him. One other thing—‘the Little Umpire’ suddenly had all this money when Rico died. Before, he had nothing. It is odd, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, it is very odd,” said Kane. “We should meet to discuss this further.”

  “I must go now,” the man said, and the line went dead.

  Kane smiled as he set down the receiver.

  * * *

  All was quiet on Francis Street. Though the rain had stopped, gray clouds were still thick overhead. Inside the car, condensation clouded the windshield. Nick cleared it with his hand and scanned the street.

  If you come through, we’ll take care of you. You can trust us to do that. Those were the words he’d spoken to Miguel. He’d said it because he believed it was true—and Miguel had counted on him, trusted him.

  As Nick climbed the steps to the porch, Miguel swung the door open.

  “Paco sees you from window,” he said, smiling warmly. “Please, come in.”

  “Let’s talk out here on the steps, if that’s OK with you,” said Nick.

  “Claro. Yes, of course.”

  The porch was damp, so Miguel picked up a rug from inside and spread it over the top step. Hayden noticed that Miguel was wearing a jacket, the same one he had worn the day of the shooting. “Were you headed out somewhere?”

  “No. Is cold inside.” Miguel pulled the collar of his jacket around his neck. “How is arm?”

  “It’s better. I can move it pretty well now,” Nick said, rotating his shoulder.

  Neither of them spoke for a few moments.

  “Something is wrong?” Miguel asked.

  Nick had to force the words out. “They want you to go back to Mexico. I tried to stop it . . . you have to believe that.”

  “Yes, I believe, Nicolas.”

  “But I have a plan for you and your family.” He reached inside his leather jacket, pulled out a thick envelope, and handed it to Miguel. “With these you’ll be able to stay in this country as long as you want—all four of you. You’ll have different names, but you’ll be as good as US citizens. I can get you a job in California, and you wouldn’t have to do anything for INS anymore.”

  Miguel opened the envelope and pulled out the folded documents. There were four official-looking birth certificates that appeared to have been issued by the State of California. The stamps and seals looked genuine. Miguel’s name would be Miguel Fernandez. He examined them carefully.

  “You get to keep your first name,” said Hayden. “Those are genuine California forms and seals. They’re on file. The social security numbers are good. That was a family that died in a car crash a couple of years ago. Your birth dates will be different, but not by more than a year each.”

  “Where you get these?”

  “It’s better if you don’t know about that.”

  Miguel looked down at the papers. Carmen would have to change her name to Luz Fernandez. Paco would be Luis Fernandez. He considered them for several moments and then carefully folded them together, slid them into the envelope, and handed it back to Hayden.

  “No, thank you, Nicolas.”

  “What do you mean? Why not?”

  “I no can do this.”

  “Sure you can. Don’t let them push you around like a piece of garbage. With these you control your d
estiny.”

  Miguel spoke evenly. “I no think we control destiny. You risk much and I am grateful, but we no can do this . . . changing our names. I no can ask them to live false life.”

  Hayden hadn’t considered that he might refuse the documents. Miguel had already saved his life; now he was saving him from crossing a line into criminal activity.

  “Is great country here,” said Miguel, “but we go back now. Is no good to be where you not wanted. I thought they want us here. That is why I think is all right to come.”

  “You are wanted, Miguel.”

  Miguel smiled. “Is OK, Nicolas. We have many family there. Carmen miss them very much. My parents . . . they old and soon they need us. They be happy we come back.”

  Nick stuffed the envelope back into his leather jacket. They sat quietly for a few moments before Nick spoke. “They want you to leave when the criminal case is over . . . probably about six weeks. Maybe I can get you more time.”

  “Thank you, but we no need more time.” Miguel turned to Hayden. “What about you, Nicolas? After all that happen, you are OK?”

  Hayden was taken aback. How could Miguel possibly think about him at a time like this? It took a moment to shift focus. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, smiling appreciatively.

  “Good. Still, I pray for you.”

  The clouds were beginning to break up on the horizon and the retreating sun crowned the rooftops with a stream of pale gold light.

  “I going to miss this street,” said Miguel wistfully. “I remember when I come here and see the street name.”

  “Francis Street?”

  “St. Francis Xavier—he is patron saint for immigrants. He watch over us.”

  Though he didn’t share Miguel’s Catholic faith, Nick knew there had been a subtle yet dramatic shift in his own consciousness. He wasn’t sure where it was leading him, but he was gradually becoming aware of a higher dimension—a dimension that in some mysterious way binds us all together.

  “You’re a good man, Miguel. You’ve helped me more than you know.”

  “We help each other same, Nicolas,” said Miguel. “What you do at the bar—I not forget this. We always be friends.”

  As they rose from the steps, they shook hands and Hayden said they would talk again soon.

  * * *

  Nick turned off Francis Street into brisk traffic on Eighteenth Street. He called in to the radio operator and asked her to check for messages, but she had nothing for him.

  Heading north on Western Avenue, he came to a stop at a red light. On the corner was a metal drum factory where many area control operations had been conducted over the years. It could always be counted on if a few extra bodies were needed for the day’s quota. Nick watched the Mexican workers as they stacked fifty-five-gallon drums on pallets, and realized that he now felt differently about them. Though he didn’t condone their illegal status, their mere presence was no longer a source of personal frustration. That burden had been lifted. The last vestiges of the ego-driven gladiator syndrome seemed to have faded away.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the squawk of the radio and the voice of Richard Stark.

  “Base to Hayden, do you read?” said the voice, still raspy from their encounter in Stark’s office. It was unusual for Stark to be in the office this late and had to be something important. Nick picked up the mic but did not speak.

  After several moments of silence, Stark repeated: “Base to Hayden.” Another pause and then a demand: “Answer the damn radio, Hayden. I just heard you check in a few minutes ago.”

  Nick placed the microphone in its holder, turned the switch off, and watched the red light of the receiver flicker and fade. Stark was saying something, but his voice was too small to make out and disintegrated into nothing.

  The traffic light turned green, and Nick pulled through the intersection. He would drive north to the Chinese restaurant with the happy cooks and waitresses.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  * * *

  I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to many individuals who have assisted in the research and editing of this book. Among them are Nancy Sprinkel, Tim Ohr, Larry Jakus, Vern Loeb, Michael Reiners, Peter Jensen-Moulton, and my wife, Lucy Kading, who devoted countless hours to reviewing the manuscript as it evolved. Her keen observations and support sustained me throughout this process.

  I am also grateful to my fellow employees with the former United States Immigration and Naturalization Service. Their professionalism and dedication in the face of enormous challenges provided the inspiration for this book.