by Michael Nava
“The cops will keep them away from us.”
“I’d feel better if you came inside.” After a moment, I said, “You could bring Steven, too.”
“Sure, if you don’t mind that we disrupt the funeral.”
Inez said, “That would not be a good idea.”
Josh touched my lapel. “Then I guess we better stay out here.”
“Why don’t we both go home, then,” I said.
He shook his head, “Those days are over, Henry. You can’t protect me anymore.”
Inez tugged my elbow. “Henry, let’s go.”
“See you later,” Josh said, and kissed me. “Bye, Inez.”
“Good-bye, Josh. Keep your head down.” As we walked away she asked, “What was that all about?”
“Marital discord,” I replied, and left it at that.
Uniformed cops swarmed the entrance to the cathedral. As at City Hall, we had to pass through a metal detector. A tall man who looked like a cop in plainclothes called over to her. “Council-woman Montoya?” We walked over to him. “Fred Hanley,” he said. “LAPD anti-terrorist squad. If you’d step this way, I’ll have someone show you to your seat.”
“What’s going on here?” she asked.
“Just a precaution, ma’am,” he said, sounding exactly like Sergeant Friday. He handed us over to another plainclothesman who took us into the church and sat us four rows back from the altar. I could make out the backs of the heads of Peña’s wife and children in the front. Gus’s casket was on a flower-strewn dais. It had been left half-open, “half-couch,” in the argot of morticians with which I had become more familiar than I had ever wanted to be in the past few years of burying friends who’d died of AIDS. I could make out Gus’s stern profile.
The service began.
As far as I was concerned, the Catholic Church was just another totalitarian political entity, like the Communist Party or IBM, but I had to admit, it put on a good show. As I watched the theatrics unfold, I thought of Gus Peña. Over the past five days, the news stories about Gus had filled in the holes in my knowledge about him.
He was the son of Mexican immigrants and, as Inez had said, he knew what it was like to be poor. After high school, he’d joined the military, and done a tour of duty in Vietnam. Upon his return, he’d come back to the city and put himself through college and law school. In the sixties, he’d worked with Chavez’s farmworkers. Later, he’d come home to East LA where he opened up a law practice and began building the foundations of his political career.
I’d grown up in a place as poor as East LA, and I knew what he’d bucked to turn himself into the suave politician he had become. Inez was also right that he had never forgotten his roots. That in itself was an accomplishment; self-made men had a tendency to generalize their experience into a sour kind of bigotry against the poor. Peña could have escaped into the reaches of the upper-middle-class, the token “Hispanic” partner at some big downtown law firm, but he hadn’t. Having had to work twice as hard for what he deserved on merit alone, he’d developed a kind of rage, like an extra set of muscles, propelling him through life. The rage never went away. There was never enough to reward you for what you had suffered. And you never, ever, forgot you were an outsider, no matter how expensive your suits.
I could imagine all this because I had traversed the same trajectory. The difference was, being homosexual as well as Chicano, I’d had to learn a level of self-acceptance that mitigated my anger. Having had to overcome my own self-hatred, I couldn’t sustain hatred toward other people very long, not even the people who ran the Catholic Church, though God knows they deserved it. This inability to hate didn’t make me virtuous; it was just part of who I was.
I wondered if Peña had known who he was when he died, or if he’d died in the rage, like my father, his best instincts warring with his worst. No wonder he needed to drink.
“My father was a man with a lot to do.”
I looked up at the altar where Gus Peña’s son was standing at the podium, looking remarkably composed and touchingly young. I’d only half-listened to the parade of luminaries who’d been eulogizing Gus in phrases so general they could have applied to any politician, but this boy—Tino?—had my attention.
“When I was a kid, I resented the fact that he was so busy,” the boy said. “He wasn’t like other dads. I guess part of me missed that, but when I got older I understood why he was so busy. His work was the people’s work.” He paused, looked down at the casket, and then at the crowded church. “Dad, the people didn’t forget you. They’re here today.” He lowered his head, composing himself. “And we’re here, too, Dad. Mom, Angela, and me. To say goodbye.” He bent forward slightly, weeping. Next to me, I heard Inez’s low sobbing, too. The boy raised his head and continued. “My father believed in the God of justice,” he said. “Justice for everyone. I hope God will judge him justly and treat him with mercy. Good-bye, Dad.”
In the stillness that followed, the chants of the demonstrators outside echoed through the church.
“Are you going to the interment?” I asked Inez when we were out on the sidewalk. The crowd was breaking up. The demonstrators were gone, but the police remained in force.
Inez dabbed her eyes with my handkerchief. “No, I’ve got to get back to the office. You?”
“No, I don’t think so. I’ll walk you back.”
Fred Hanley, the LAPD officer, came up and said, “Councilwoman, one of my men will drive you to City Hall.”
She looked at me impatiently. “What is going on here? Why’s the anti-terrorist squad out? And don’t bullshit me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Hanley said. “We have some reason to believe that Senator Peña was killed by a terrorist group that calls itself the Dogtown Locos.”
“That’s the name of a street gang,” I said.
“Yes, sir,” Hanley replied. “I’m sorry I can’t say more. If you’d come with me, Councilwoman.”
“Go on,” I said. “I’ll be all right. Call me later.”
Inez nodded and went off with Hanley, whispering fiercely.
“Henry.” Edith Rosen was walking toward me, her hair covered with a black scarf. “I didn’t see you earlier.”
“It was a full house,” I replied. “How are you doing?”
“I need to talk to you,” she said. “It’s very important.”
“Sure. Have you eaten lunch?”
“What I could really use,” she said, removing her scarf, “is a drink.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
AT THE COMMODORE PERRY ROOM in the New Otani, a glass wall separated the bar from the Japanese Garden on the other side. A miniature footbridge forded a trickling stream shaded by small red-leaved plum trees. Inside, a big-screen Toshiba TV broadcast a soccer match from Buenos Aires and a lone cocktail waitress dressed in a black-and-gold kimono shuffled among the mostly empty tables filling little glass bowls with salted dried peas and rice sticks. I nursed a Diet Coke while, between sips of white wine, Edith Rosen told me she had lied to me about Michael Ruiz’s whereabouts the night Peña was killed.
“I got a call around eleven from the counselor on duty,” she explained, “telling me that Michael had left the house sometime earlier that night.”
“Don’t you have to sign out?”
“There’s a big AA meeting at the house from eight-thirty to ten,” she said. “Everyone goes outside to smoke on the break. He kept going. It wasn’t until bed check they found he was missing.”
“When did he come back?”
“Around midnight,” she replied. “The counselor was supposed to write him up, but I told her to hold off until I had a chance to talk to him.”
“And of course the next morning you found out that Gus had been murdered,” I said. “And you told me that Michael had been at the house the night before.”
“Look, Henry, I didn’t think the two things had anything to do with each other,” she insisted.
“Then why did you lie to me?”
�
��I didn’t want to complicate things before I’d had a chance to talk to him.”
“And what did he say when you did?”
“He said he went to see a movie,” she replied. “He told me the name of the theater, the movie, the time it started and when it was over. I called the theater. They confirmed it.”
“They confirmed seeing him?”
“It didn’t seem necessary to ask,” she replied brusquely.
“Did you write him up for taking off?”
“No,” she said, looking into her drink.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“He took off again this morning,” she said, lifting her face. “Just cleared out.”
“What happened?”
“The police were at the house, asking questions about Gus. They came in to talk to me but I told them I couldn’t say anything without violating the therapist-patient privilege—”
I cut in. “Did they want to know about Michael?”
“No, about Gus. I was his therapist, too. They wanted to know if he’d mentioned having received any death threats. That kind of thing.”
“That kind of thing you could have told them,” I said.
“I don’t talk about my clients, period,” she snapped. “Anyway, after they left, I saw Michael standing in the hallway. I think he must’ve seen them leaving my office. A little later, he missed group. That’s when they found he was gone.”
“Do you have any idea of where he might be?”
She shook her head. “I tried his parents and his grandmother. They didn’t know.”
“You still think this has nothing to do with Peña’s murder?”
“I don’t know what to think,” she said quietly, and finished her drink.
I studied her kind, plain face for a moment. She looked as if she had lost a child. “Edith, why did you cover for Michael? It seems out of character for someone who takes her ethical obligations so seriously.”
“One of my children got involved with drugs,” she said, after a moment.
“You’re married?”
“Divorced. We had two kids, a boy and a girl. It was my son who got caught up in drugs.” She picked up her glass, saw it was empty, put it down again. “I really didn’t understand because he seemed so well adjusted, and we were comfortable, our family, I mean. Of course, there was the usual tension, but there is in every family. I started looking for answers. Eventually, it led me back to school in psychology.” She looked at me. “I was almost fifty, and my husband thought I was crazy, obsessed. I suppose he was right.”
“Did you find your answers?” I asked.
“Some, I found some. Too late for Roger, though. He overdosed.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You know,” she said, “I’ve seen hundreds of clients, all shapes, sizes and ages. I never knew that I was looking for Roger in them until I found Michael. Do you understand now, Henry? I wanted to change the ending.”
“I understand completely,” I said. “I’d like to change a few endings, too. I think you’ve just convinced me that it’s not in my power.”
“I have to get back to the house,” she said, rising. “It’s possible that Michael’s with some of his gang friends. Do you think you could find that out?”
I thought of Tomas Ochoa. “I can try.”
“Thank you, Henry.”
“If he gets in touch with you, let me know immediately. By the way, what was the name of the theater Michael said he went to?”
“The Los Feliz,” she said. “It’s in walking distance of the house.”
Driving back to my office, I called Inez Montoya to find out what further information she had managed to wrest from Fred Hanley, the Sergeant Friday clone, about gang involvement in Peña’s murder.
“You know what it is,” she said scornfully. “Over the weekend, the cops started seeing Dogtown placasos with Peña’s name in it.”
“What did the graffiti say?”
“‘Peña puto’,” she quoted.
“How is calling Gus a queer claiming responsibility for killing him?” I asked.
“They told me it was the first time they’ve ever seen a politician’s name show up in the placasos.”
Just as she was speaking, I passed a building on Beverly whose wall was covered with spray-painted placas, filled with numbers and names in the serpentine script legible only to the gangbangers. The placas were a way of marking territory and trading insults. I, too, had never heard it used for political commentary.
“I don’t think the cops are telling you everything they know,” I said.
“Why should they?” she scoffed. “I’m only one of their employers.”
“Maybe you could press them for more.”
I heard her yelling something and then a door slammed shut. She came back on the line, “What’s your interest?”
“You represent the same district that Peña did,” I pointed out. “If I were you, I’d be concerned about the gangs turning into political terrorists.”
“Now you’re beginning to sound like Ochoa,” she said.
I said, “I have to make another call.”
I got Tomas between classes. He didn’t sound particularly happy to hear from me. When I brought up Gus’s murder, I got about the response that I’d expected.
“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” he said. “Listen, with that homicide charge hanging over him, getting killed was probably a good career move.”
“It was certainly good for your career, Tomas. You’ve been on TV almost every night since he was killed.”
“Listen, Rios, I’m busy. What do you want?”
I slowed for a red light. “I want to trade information with you.”
That got a guarded, “What information?”
“You first,” I said, stopping at the light. A man standing on the corner selling sacks of oranges shook one hopefully in my direction. I shook my head. “You’re always hyping the gangs Tomas, but do you actually have any ties to them?”
“Why?”
“Because I have a client who I suspect may be involved with the gangs, but I need to know for sure.”
“Ask him,” Tomas said.
I accelerated through the green light. “He’s disappeared,” I said. “That’s the problem. I want to know if he’s with them.”
“And what do you have to trade, Rios?”
“A warning,” I said.
“Yeah? What?”
“The cops are going to start a sweep, if they haven’t already.” The Los Feliz theater came into sight.
“That’s not news,” he said. “They’re out there every night.”
“I’m talking about mass arrests,” I said. “The day after Gus was killed the Governor signed his anti-gang bill with an urgency clause that put it into effect immediately. That’s what the cops will be using.” I pulled over just down the street from the theater. “What about it, Tomas, will you help me find my client?”
“What’s his name?”
“Michael Ruiz,” I said.
“When and where will the cops start their sweep?”
“Dogtown territory,” I said. “Tonight, if they haven’t already started.”
“How do you know this?” he asked suspiciously.
“No, now it’s your turn. Help me find Michael Ruiz.”
“There are two hundred gangs in LA,” he said. “You expect me to ask each one of them?”
“Only the ones that operate out of East LA. Try Dogtown and Varrio Nuevo.”
“Maybe,” he said.
It occurred to me that he hadn’t asked me why the cops were coming down on the Dogtown gang. Maybe he already knew.
The girl at the Los Feliz had been working the night Gus was killed, but she didn’t remember selling a ticket to a Chicano boy with a tear-drop tattoo. I thanked her and glanced up at the marquee. The Los Feliz was showing Terminator 2.
Although much had happened since my first session with Raymond Reynolds a week earlier, when I sat
down in his gray office I wanted to pick up where we had left off, talking about my father. I announced this to Reynolds who smiled faintly, and said, “You’ve overcome your resistance to talking about mommy and daddy?”
“Don’t gloat,” I said, marveling at how comfortable I felt talking to this stranger about matters I had seldom discussed with anyone, but then, there was something about this process that seemed distantly familiar.
“Seriously, Henry, what happened this week that makes it important for you to talk about him?”
“Two things,” I replied. “I went to a funeral this morning and heard a son talking about his father, and then later, I was talking to someone about changing endings. It made me think about my father’s death.”
“What about it?”
“I was in college,” I said, “a sophomore. It was September, and I’d just turned nineteen. I hadn’t been home since Christmas. My mother called me and told me my father was dying. I hadn’t even known he was sick.” I closed my eyes, remembering that clear September afternoon, standing in the hallway of the dorm. Going home was the last thing I wanted to do, but I went anyway. “He was dying of stomach cancer,” I said. “He looked like someone who’d been in a concentration camp.”
“What did you feel?” Reynolds asked, softly.
“I was shocked,” I said. “And surprised. Shocked by the way he looked. Surprised that he was dying, surprised that he was mortal, after all.”
“You didn’t think he was mortal?”
“I didn’t think he was human,” I replied. “He seemed so big and his fury was bottomless. He was a whirlwind, like the Old Testament God, or something, ripping through my life, uprooting me, tossing me around. How could someone like that die?”
“That’s a powerful image,” he observed.
I looked out the slats of the blinds that covered the windows at the narrow bands of sky: red, orange, blue. When I was small the sky frightened me because it never changed, it was always that enormous dome of light or darkness, and I was afraid that I would be little forever, and in terror of the giant who was my father. The only prayer I had as a kid was for time to pass.
“I was glad he was dying. I thought I’d finally be free.”