Wolf in the Shadows

by Marcia Muller

  “So,” Abrego said to me, “you want to know about the guy who came up to Ana in the Holiday Market parking lot.”

  “She told me you saw him again that night.”

  He nodded. “It was down near the border on Monument Road. I was … you know what I do?”

  “You help people get where they need to go.”

  “Right. I had a pickup scheduled for Sunday night. Maybe around eleven, maybe later. What I do, I sit in my car across from the old dairy—sometimes most of the night—waiting for them and hoping they’ll make it through the canyons okay. Anyway, I noticed this guy because he was an Anglo, and you don’t see too many down there at night unless they’re la migra.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “Just sitting on a pile of broken-up concrete by the road that goes up to the mesa.”

  “You’re sure it was this man?” I showed him Hy’s picture.

  “Yeah, that’s the one, same one who bothered Ana. I watched him pretty careful. He was just sitting there on the concrete with a lit cigarette, but he wasn’t smoking it. He’d knock the ash off, and as soon as it burned down, he’d light another. Some kind of signal, I guess.”

  That explained the pack of cigarettes Hy had bought at the Bali Kai bar. “And then?”

  “A Jeep came by, maybe about fifteen minutes later. The guy got in, and it drove up on the mesa.”

  “This mesa—what’s on it?”

  “Not much. Rocks and dirt. A burned-out adobe. You need a four-wheel drive to get up there. Sometimes tourists go look at the view, but la migra warns ’em off. It’s dangerous even during the day—too close to the canyons.”

  I considered that. “It’s a strange place for a meeting, if the border patrol watches it.”

  Abrego smiled. “Hell, they can’t watch it at night; they’re too busy chasing my people in and out of those canyons. You gotta remember, they only got around thirty guys working a shift, and they cover the whole county, including the border checkpoints and the airports. I’ll tell you, though, your friend and whoever else was in that Jeep were taking their lives in their hands going up there. Bad stuff goes down all over the place at night. Real bad stuff.”

  The words chilled me. I asked, “Luis, did you see the Jeep come down again?”

  “No. My people made it through maybe five minutes later.” He shook his head, pulled heavily at his beer, emotion clouding his eyes. “People made it through,” he repeated, “and then I lost ’em.”

  “What happened?”

  “Damned San Onofre checkpoint—you know, the border control station near Oceanside?”

  I nodded. It was where many illegals attempting to travel north on Interstate 5 were stopped.

  “The way we work it,” Abrego said, “we drop our passengers off before we get to the checkpoint. Tell ’em to run across the freeway when it’s clear and go around the station in the brush. No way la migra can patrol that whole area. These people we’re moving, they’re tired, scared, their judgment isn’t so good. My organization, we know they’re gonna head north anyway, so we try to help ’em have a safe trip. But some of ’em just don’t make it across the freeway.”

  Beside me, John grunted.

  Abrego gripped his beer bottle, looking down, shaking his head. “About two hundred and fifty people been killed up there, run down because they couldn’t tell how fast the cars were going. A couple of years ago they posted signs—down here by the port of entry, too. ‘Caution,’ and a picture of a family running.” He looked up, eyes bleak. “You know what’s so funny about that? A lot of our people can’t read. They don’t know ‘caution’—in English or in Spanish. They look at those signs and they think they mean it’s a safe place to cross.” He bit his Up, raised his beer bottle, drank again. “I explain it real careful to my people, so that wasn’t the problem last night. These people were from a little village. They never seen cars going that fast before. They … just … couldn’t judge the speed.”

  I reached over and touched his hand. “Luis, I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, thanks.” He wiped his nose with his hand. “So about this guy … Ana says he’s your friend.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, even though I didn’t see him come off the mesa, I think I can help you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Guy I know. Name’s Marty Salazar. He’s slime. He’s such slime I want to kill the bastard, just wipe him off the face of the earth—you know? But I’ve got something on him, so he’ll talk to you.”

  “And you think he knows something about my friend?”

  “Yeah, I sure do.” Abrego nodded, face grim. “Marty followed the Jeep up there.”

  Fourteen

  Abrego excused himself and went to make some phone calls, and John and I waited in the booth. After a moment John said, “Interesting guy.”

  I nodded.

  Fifteen seconds or more passed. He asked, “So what do you think?”

  I shrugged.

  “You’re awful quiet. Worried?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “What, you think Abrego’s not on the level?”

  “No, I’m pretty sure he is.”

  “This Salazar character, then. You’re—”

  “Let’s just drop it for now, okay?”

  He frowned, but backed off.

  In truth, I was very worried—so much so that I couldn’t voice my concerns. Something had gone wrong on that mesa, I was certain, and I couldn’t shake the sense that something was about to go wrong again. Even though I was closer to finding Hy than at any time since this thing began, I’d never felt so distanced.

  Abrego came back to the booth. Salazar would see us, he said, but not until ten-thirty. “You can meet me here at ten, and I’ll take you to him.”

  “I thought you were waiting to hear about a job,” I said.

  “That?” He moved a hand, pushing it away. “I gave it to another member of my organization.”

  “I don’t want to keep you from—”

  “You’re not. I didn’t want to make the trip, not after Sunday night. It was only for Ana I was doing it. But since you gave her the money, I don’t have to.” He paused, looking indecisive. After a moment he sat down and said, “I gotta tell you—Marty Salazar’s not a guy you or anybody else want to go see alone. But with me and what I got on him … well, he’s gonna act like a real gentleman.”

  “Tell me about Salazar. You called him slime.”

  “Too good a word for him, really. Salazar’s got his fingers into everything down here and in Tijuana—drugs, girls, porn, fake documentation, you name it. He’ll buy and sell anything or anybody for the right price. Do anything, too. He slithers around like a rattler looking to strike, and when he sees his chance …” Abrego’s hand flashed out and grabbed my wrist in an apt imitation of a snake.

  “You think he’ll tell me what went down on the mesa?” I asked.

  Abrego considered. “He’ll tell you something. Part of it’ll be true, part’ll be lies. You keep what you can use, throw the rest away.”

  I nodded, then looked at my watch. “Thanks for setting it up, Luis. I’ll meet you here at ten, then.”

  “I’ll be outside. Gray Dodge, kinda beat up. You’ll follow me.”

  * * *

  When we got back to the Scout, John asked, “What do you want to do now?”

  “I don’t know. What do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know. You hungry?”

  “Not really.”

  “Ought to eat—and we’ve got a lot of time to kill.”

  “We,” I muttered, too worn down to fight it.

  “I know what. Take the freeway north. There’s a good burger place on Harbor Drive; they make them big and cheap.”

  One thing about my brother—he’ll never become a food snob.

  * * *

  When we left what could loosely be termed a restaurant, it wasn’t yet eight. The big, cheap burger sat in my stomach like a lump of clay. “Now what?” John as
ked. “Any ideas?”

  “No.”

  “You got to stop worrying.”

  “Well, that’s not likely to happen, is it? And now that I think of it, there is something I want to do: go for a walk on the beach.”

  “Now? Why?”

  “I still head for water when I’m upset.”

  “Okay, then we’ll walk on the beach. Which one?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  In the end we cut over to Ocean Beach at Point Loma, where John used to hang out before he married, trying to pick up girls. The area is typical southern California beach community: shabby apartment buildings and bungalows—some stucco, some wood or shingled, all weathered by salt and the elements. We parked and walked across the sand toward the water, skirting a bunch of teenagers who were playing volleyball. The tide was out, and I wandered along the wet, hard-packed sand, gradually pulling ahead of John. After I passed the first lifeguard tower, he lagged behind, apparently sensing my need to be left alone. I unbound my hair and let the cool breeze play with it, took in great gulps of fresh air.

  And tried once again for a connection to Hy. Tried and failed, as I had the other times.

  After a bit I quickened my pace and moved briskly in an attempt to shake my foreboding. All that did was get the adrenaline pumping, but not in a good way, and I cast suspicious glances at persons I encountered. I’d intended to walk all the way to the O.B. Pier, but finally I turned and ran back to where John sat on the sand, leaning against the guard tower.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I told him.

  He checked his watch. “Might as well head back down to National City. If we’re early, we can just sit till Luis shows up.”

  Back at the Scout, I found my nerves were so shot that I was afraid I’d be a menace behind the wheel, so I asked John if he wanted to drive. He climbed in and took over—master of his own vehicle once more. I sighed, wondering why I’d bothered to fight him in the first place. As in all the minor skirmishes of his life, circumstances had conspired to give him exactly what he’d wanted in the first place.

  * * *

  The address Abrego led us to was on Island Avenue in downtown San Diego. Although it is only five blocks and scant minutes from Broadway, the street might as well be on another planet. On Broadway you have distinctive and sometimes outlandish architecture, such as that of the new Emerald Shapery Center, which is designed to look like cut green crystals. You have distinguished old hotels, such as the refurbished U.S. Grant. You have upscale boutiques and the expensive shops of Horton Plaza. But turn off this main drag to the south, and the architecture becomes squat and functional. The hotels become flophouses. The shops slip downscale, their windows heavily barred.

  By the time you reach Island Avenue, you’ve hit rock bottom. Once-grand Victorians have been turned into rooming houses and allowed to decay. Derelicts sleep in doorways. Drug addicts and dealers conduct their business in plain sight on the sidewalk. There are rescue missions, one with a sort of parking lot for shopping carts loaded with the possessions of the homeless. There are vacant lots littered with broken glass and trash. There are bars and liquor stores and hookers on the prowl. The squalor is heightened by the affluence that exists only blocks out of reach of the avenue’s wretched and desperate population.

  As Abrego’s Dodge pulled over to the curb and stopped, John said, “Christ, I hope we still have wheels when we come out of wherever he’s taking us.”

  “You can always stay behind and stand guard.”

  “No way you’re leaving me here alone!”

  “My stalwart protector.”

  “I’ve just decided you don’t need protecting.”

  “About time.” Then I took Pa’s gun from my purse, handed it to him, and said, “Stick this in that recycling carton behind you and cover it up.”

  His eyes widened and he stared at it as if I’d given him a scorpion. “What’re you doing with—”

  “Please, John, just put it where it’ll be safe.”

  “It’s Pa’s, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, I borrowed it.”

  “Well, we can’t leave it here. What if somebody broke in and took—”

  “It’s safer leaving it here than taking it into Salazar’s place. If he’s as slimy as Luis says, he might search us, and then you don’t know what he’d do.”

  John swallowed hard, nodded, and did as I told him. Then we got out and met Abrego on the sidewalk. He flashed us a reassuring grin and said, “Don’t let the neighborhood fool you.”

  Luis led us to an alley entrance between a defunct market and a thrift shop. The alley was dark, blocked by a steel mesh gate. Abrego pushed a button on the gate and a male voice spoke in Spanish through the intercom; Luis answered it, and the gate swung open.

  As we started along the alley, I braced myself for the usual smells found in such places, but breathed in a sweet fragrance instead. Star jasmine. Now that my eyes were more accustomed to the darkness, I saw that flowers bloomed in profusion on the walls on either side of us. We walked the length of the buildings in single file to an ornate wrought-iron gate built into an archway. Through its scrollwork I saw a floodlit patio where plants grew in tubs and hanging baskets.

  I glanced questioningly at Abrego. He grinned again, said, “Salazar keeps a low profile.” Then he thumbed another button and a bell rang somewhere inside.

  Heavy footsteps sounded on the terra-cotta tiles. Abrego cocked his head, listening. “That’ll be Jaime, one of Marty’s people.”

  “People?” I asked.

  “That’s what he calls ’em. I call ’em thugs—and worse.”

  A very large man loomed before us, peering through the gate. He had an odd bushy haircut and close-set eyes, and his shoulders bulged under his dark suit coat. “Que?” he asked.

  Luis spoke rapidly in Spanish, something about an appointment. The man unlocked the gate and let us into the patio. After motioning toward its center, where a scattering of white wicker furniture stood inside a ring of potted palms, he left us.

  Wordlessly Abrego led John and me over there. They both sat, but I remained standing, looking the way the big man—Jaime, Luis had called him—had gone. French doors opened onto the patio from the building behind it; as Jaime went through them I glimpsed dark heavy furnishings and an Oriental carpet.

  “Strange setup,” I commented.

  Luis shrugged. “Like I said, Salazar don’t want anybody to know how good he’s doing.” There was scorn in the words—anger, too.

  “This patio reminds me of something out of Old Mexico.”

  “Even slime get homesick, I guess.”

  “Salazar’s a Mexican national?”

  He nodded. “Was born in Oaxaca, but he’s been here even longer than I have. Spent most of his miserable life right in this area. Worst thing the INS ever did, giving him his permanent green card.”

  I glanced at John; he seemed poised to leap off the chair. “The guy that let us in,” he said, “I think he was wearing a shoulder holster.”

  Luis was about to reply when the French doors opened and a slender figure stepped out. “Salazar,” Luis said.

  Marty Salazar moved toward us in a languid, fluid gait. As he came closer I saw that his slenderness was deceiving; under his light summer suit, muscles rippled. His face was a narrow oval, cheeks sunken, eyes hooded. An odd triangular scar on his forehead made me think of the plates on the head of a rattlesnake; Abrego’s earlier comparison had been right on the mark.

  Although neither Luis nor John stood to greet him, Salazar motioned for us all to be seated. I sank into the chair next to John’s. Salazar turned to Luis and spoke in Spanish—something about interrupting his evening. Abrego replied in a sarcastic tone I hadn’t heard him use before. Whatever he said made Salazar’s lips pull into a thin line. He sat down at some distance from us, took a cigarette pack from his jacket pocket, and lit one with a silver lighter. Through the smoke he said to Luis, “Someday you’ll go too far, man.”


  “Someday we’ll both go too far—all the way to the grave.”

  Salazar looked away; he didn’t want to be reminded of that.

  Abrego added, “These’re the people I told you about. You answer the lady’s questions, we’ll go away.”

  Salazar’s eyes studied John and me from under their heavy lids. After a moment he said to me, “Go ahead and ask.”

  “Luis tells me he saw you on Monument Road around eleven Sunday night.”

  “If Luis says so, of course it must be true.” He shot a mocking glance at Abrego.

  “A man was waiting there,” I went on. “Near the road that climbs the mesa. A Jeep stopped for him, then drove up top. You followed it.”

  “So far I have not heard a question.”

  “Here’s one: where did the Jeep go?”

  “How would I know?”

  Abrego started to say something, but I spoke first. “I’m not here to play games, Mr. Salazar. Where did the Jeep go?”

  He dropped his cigarette to the tiles, ground it out with his foot. “The Jeep,” he said in measured tones, “went up the road to the mesa.”

  “And when it got there?”

  “You know the burned adobe? The Jeep went to it.”

  “Who was in the Jeep?”

  “Just the two men.”

  “And then?”

  “Then?”

  “What did the two men do?”

  Salazar’s gaze became remote. “I don’t know. I left then. It is dangerous up there—the bandits, la migra.”

  That’s the first recognizable lie, I thought. The border patrol can’t be bothered with the mesa at night, and I’d give odds on you against any bandit in creation.

  I said, “The truth, Mr. Salazar.”

  His eyes flicked to his right, and I followed their direction. Jaime, the bodyguard, had come up and was standing quietly beyond the circle of palms.

  John had noticed too, and it brought out the street fighter in him. He tensed, ready to spring off his chair into a fullblown and potentially fatal brawl. I touched his arm to calm him, heard Luis say, “Don’t even think about it, Marty.”