“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Don’t get me wrong. Riley’s the best thing that has ever happened to me. But, am I letting Riley rescue me from myself? As fucked up as my life has been, I’ve always believed in that Cinderella crap. When I was a little girl, I always thought some Prince would ride in and save me.”
“I don’t get it. It seems like you don’t want to be happy. Are you trying to sabotage your relationship? You know we addicts have been known to do that.”
Chica shook her head. “I hope I’m not marrying Riley so he can be ‘Captain Save a Ho.’ I’ve never held a job in my adult life.”
“Now, come on, girl. I’ve seen this man go through the worse thing in the world with you and stick by your side. He seems to really love you . . . And you know what a cynic I am, so he passes.”
Chica slowly broke into a smile.“I guess so. Ever since I was a little girl, it started a pattern. I just have always been a victim and I’m afraid I’m going to screw things up.”
“What did Ms. Golden teach us to believe? I’m not your victim—sort of like that program in Texas. Victim no more—right?”
“Okay. Okay.” Chica took a deep breath before she went on. “Remember when we studied Shakespeare’s Macbeth in high school?”
“Yeah.”
“I always identified with Lady Macbeth, who is so dang evil.”
“Well,” I said, “I didn’t see her that way. I just saw Lady Macbeth as a lady ahead of her time. Who says women can’t be as cold as men?”
Chica didn’t answer. “Do you believe that the sins of the father or mother are visited on the children?”
“I don’t know. Where are you coming from? You know I’m not that religious so I really can’t say. I just think we get generational curses because we keep repeating the same problems our parents had.”
Chica glanced around the restaurant and saw that it had emptied out on the pier where we were sitting. “I just wonder if my past is why Trayvon got killed. Y’know there’s something I’ve always wanted to tell you, Z, that I’ve never told a living soul.”
“Uh-huh. What is it?” I absently stabbed my salad with my fork. In fact, my mind had wandered and I was watching a sea gull swoop from the sky, dip down in the ocean, and grab a fish. A school of birds followed him, fighting to take the fish out of his mouth. Their collective bird cries of protest filled the air as they fought for the one fish. Hmph. I thought. Dang. Even dog-eat-dog world in the bird kingdom.
Meantime, Chica cleared her throat, drawing my attention back to the table. She finally spoke almost in a whisper. “When I was four years old, my mother’s boyfriend started molesting me.”
“What?” I dropped my fork, and my mouth flew ajar. I was stunned speechless.
“Yes, I was lying to you when I said I was a virgin when we were teenagers. I guess I was in a sense. It had never been my choice to have sex.”
My heart started racing in trepidation. “Oh, no, Chica.” I reached out and held her hand. “Did he penetrate you?”
“He did it all.”
“What do you mean—all?”
“Sucked, fucked, anal, you name it.”
“What?” I started fuming inside. Nothing made me angrier than pedophiles posing as boyfriends. “Are you serious? Why didn’t you tell your mom?”
“She was too busy getting high herself. She didn’t care. You know I used to feel crazy inside. When other little girls were playing with dolls, I was sucking the dick of a grown man.”
“Oh, hell naw! Where was your father?” I thought about how my father died trying to protect me.
“He was already serving a life sentence in prison.”
“That’s awful.” I felt hot tears spring to my eyes. I got up and put my arms around Chica, who began weeping softly. “Did you ever tell your mother?”
“I know she knew. I’m just glad the bitch is dead.” Chica gritted her teeth.
“Don’t say that.” Then I felt a cringe of guilt for how I couldn’t forgive Venita, so I truly knew how Chica felt. “How about the perp?”
“What’s that?”
“The molester.”
“I don’t know where he is. He left when my mother went to prison, and we were spread all over in different foster homes.”
“He’s going to get his—if he’s still alive.” Now, I wish I were still on the P.D. so I could handle this fool.
Chica interrupted my thoughts. “Remember that day when you came home on the first day of the riots?”
“Uh-huh . . .”
“That was my first real time having sex. At least when I sexed Dog Bite, it was my choice and not rape. Anyhow, that’s the way I seen it.” Chica sniffed, wiping her nose on the back of her hand. “And he gave me a gift. I got pregnant with Trayvon that first month we got together.”
I took my napkin and wiped Chica’s nose for her. “Now blow,” I said, mothering her like I did when we were teenagers. She blew into the napkin, making a loud noise. “I can’t believe you never told me before.”
“How could I tell you? It’s just too nasty. I feel dirty telling you about it even now.”
“Well, you shouldn’t. The wrong was done to you. You’re not at fault.” I changed the subject. “Did Shirley know?”
“I think she suspected it because she always had me in counseling, trying to get me to open up as to why I was acting out so.”
“Did you ever tell your counselor?”
“Never. I guess I blocked it out, and after I discovered drugs I had the great escape.”
“Dang. I guess I was lucky. As many boyfriends as Venita had living up over me, no one ever touched me. I don’t know. Strange, that last negro she had my younger brother and sister by, was crazy. It’s a good thing he got killed—because no telling what he would have done though. Anyhow, have you ever had therapy?”
“Not since Shirley sent me and I never really opened up. Since I’ve been in recovery, though, I realize that I’ve always been a victim ever since that happened. Maybe I should get some therapy.”
I slid my arms from around her. I looked Chica directly in the eye. “I’m sorry I judged you so when you were on that crack. I guess it took laying in my own vomit for me to understand. Sometimes this life just gets to be too much and you look for a crutch. Right or wrong, bad or indifferent, this life can be a bitch. Now I see how people wind up on drugs.”
Chica attempted to smile and turned to brighter things. “You know I admire how you’ve never had any children. You’ve just made much better choices than me.”
“Wait a minute. You’ve got good kids. Yeah, that’s right. I didn’t have any kids, but I still found a way to flub my life up.”
“But you haven’t picked a lot of losers like I have.” Chica shook her head in regret. “Don’t get me wrong—I wouldn’t trade nothing for my children. I really want to get them back even more since . . .” Her voice faltered as if she couldn’t go on.
“I don’t know what I would have done had some grown man been messing with me,” I interrupted her, my mind racing back to my past. “I guess Venita’s boyfriends always saw how my father came and got me, plus, Mayhem was a stone fool even when he was young and he’d have hurt somebody.”
“I wish I had had an older brother, but I was the oldest. In between raising my younger sisters and brothers, I played wife to my mother’s boyfriend.”
Furious, I pounded my fist into my palm. “I get mad when I think about it. I’m so sorry for you.”
“I’ve tried to get over it in my drug treatment program, but this is the problem. I’ve never told Riley. Do you think I should tell him?”
“Nah,” I said without hesitation. “Some things you can’t tell a man. He knows you had five kids, and he knows you were on drugs, that’s enough of your business for him to know.”
When we parted, I told Chica to call me. “I’ll be calling you more,” I promised. “We’re going to stay more in touch. We need each other, girl.”
Chica smiled. “I’m so glad we’re back in each other’s life—even if it took a tragedy to get us back together. You’ve always been my best friend.”
“You’re mine, too. We go way back.”
On my drive home, I mulled over what Chica confided in me and I felt myself getting livid all over again. Why were young girls so vulnerable to these sexual predators and why weren’t mothers more protective? I thought about all the hookers I’d met on my beat and, most of them said they had been molested when they were minors—and sad to say, most of the abuse took place in their homes.
A few got into the life on their own accord, but for the most part the women were exploited first. Once again, I was thankful for divine intervention that sent me to Shirley’s home.
I almost wished Chica hadn’t told me because now I hurt for her. It was not that I excused her behavior over the years, but I better understood and empathized more.
I began to wonder. Was I a victim too, or did I just buy into Miss Golden’s “I’m Not Your Victim Program”? Would Chica and I ever be able to escape our crazy childhoods and have a happy life?
21
After I returned home that evening, I received a call from Romero. “How about if I take you to this restaurant in Monterey Park? This place has some of the best Mexican food.”
“I’ll pick you up, if it’s okay?” he asked.
I hesitated before answering. “No, I’ll meet you there.”
“You sure?”
“Nah, I’m renting from family now and I don’t want them all up in my business.”
“Are we business as in an item?” Romero’s voice sounded teasing.
“We’ll see.” I chuckled. “Plus, I have something I’d like to show you.”
So we decided to meet at seven-thirty that evening outside a Mexican restaurant called Flamingo Pink in Monterey Park.
As I strutted into the restaurant, I noticed how people nodded at Romero with respect. I really should have had him pick me up, but I wanted to feel free to leave when I got ready. Besides, I was on a mission. I wanted to tell him about the threat I’d gotten. I wanted to know if he had any leads that might help me to find Trayvon’s killer.
A mariachi band playing maracas filled the air. The walls and ceilings were decorated with sombreros, Congo drums, and nets. The place was crowded with Latinos in the thirty-something crowd.
We were in an area where a plethora of Asian businesses had moved from Chinatown, but I felt rather safe with Romero. They had every type of gang you wanted to name in L.A.—Black, Latino, Asian—so you never could say you were on safe grounds.
Although this area was fairly middle class, I was a little afraid. Being in San Gabriel Valley reminded me of when I was mugged in El Barrio during the riots when I was eighteen. Fool, you could have been killed, I thought. I must have been out of my freakin’ mind. I guess God does look out for fools and babies.
No matter how diverse California was, each race of people and group of immigrants congregated together in their own little areas.
After we ordered our dinners of chille rellenos, Spanish rice, and refried beans, we ate in silence. All you could hear was the crunching of our tortilla chips, which we continually dipped into a hot guacamole and salsa sauce.
When we were through eating, I broached the subject which had been on my mind.
“I want to show you something,” I said.
“What?”
I eased the note with the death threat out my purse and showed it to Romero
At first, he studied the warning with the cut-out newspaper letters. A strange look crossed Romero’s face, then ripples of concern replaced it. “Who gave this to you?”
“I don’t know. It was on my windshield about a week ago. I’m not sure if it’s a prank or if it’s connected to Trayvon’s death. What do you think?”
I noticed how Romero got quiet, as if he was in deep thought. At last he said, “I’ll look into it.”
Then it was as if he completely changed the subject. “Would you like a Margarita—oh, I’m sorry.” He held up his hand, as if he had total recall how wasted I was that day he dropped by when I was with Flag. Although I didn’t say I was abstaining from alcohol, I thought he knew from the green tea I ordered at Starbucks that I was on some new stuff.
“No, I’m good.” I shook both hands in a “I pass,” signal.
“Okay. I hope I’m not getting off on the wrong foot with you again. How about if we get up and dance?” Romero pointed to the dance floor on the other side of the bar and the restaurant.
We got up and blended in with the crowd swaying back and forth on the dance floor. At first we began to slowly do the salsa dance. We used slow, languid movements, before we picked up the speed. Once we got wound up, we both did advanced hand flicks like we’d been dancing together for years.
“Where did you learn to dance like this?” Romero whispered in my ear, which surprisingly turned me on.
“I don’t know,” I cooed. The truth of the matter was I’d always been a good dancer, and it could be my Belizean heritage, but I could Mambo, tango, and do a lot of the Afro Caribbean dances. Like most people from my generation, I liked hip hop, but I was even more drawn to the exotic dances.
The more we swayed, bumped, and grinded, the more aroused I started feeling. The more aroused I got, the more I felt the pull towards sex, which on an intellectual level, I knew would not be good for my psyche or my recovery. Sex clouded my judgment too much. It was just another drug for me. And after this long dry spell, I could jump Romero’s bones and tear him up, and I didn’t even know him like that. Instinctively, I started backing away from him, once my upper brain took back control of my body.
And what if I was reading more into this than what it was, I pondered. Besides, I had too much on my mind to get involved. My quest for Trayvon’s killer crossed my radar, and my libido shut off like a light switch. I visibly backed away from Romero until we finished the dance.
When we finally left the dance floor, Romero took me by the hand and stared deeply into my eyes. “Do you know how many years I’ve thought about you and dreamed about holding you in my arms?”
“Romero, you don’t even know me.” I pulled my hand out of his and pushed him gently away, but I could tell I was blushing. I fanned myself. “I could use a cold 7-Up, though.”
“Sure.” Romero went to the bar and ordered two 7-Ups.
He sat down and looked directly in my eyes. “I know you’ve been through a lot, yet you’re a survivor. You’re strong. That’s why I like you.”
“I don’t feel strong right now. I don’t want to do any thing right now because I’m too vulnerable.”
“What do you mean by anything?” Romero got that amused look I’ve seen on his face before.
“Anything. Anything stupid. Like take a drink. Like get involved with someone.”
Romero held up his hands in resignation. “Look, I’ve waited all these years. I can wait as long as need be.”
“Can I ask you a question?” I asked.
“Shoot.”
“Can you follow me home? I’m feeling a little nervous—with that letter and all. I don’t know why I even came out here tonight.”
“Sure.”
Romero followed me home on the Santa Monica freeway, and I felt more comfortable. It was after twelve-thirty when I pulled up to my place.
I felt so bad to have Romero drive out of his way from Silver Lake, I invited him up for a cup of coffee. We sat on my futon, and with my legs crossed under me, I sipped my coffee.
“Your place is nice,” Romero commented looking around my small unit.
I’d made it comfortable with plants, a nice painting from a garage sale, and my bookshelf was getting filled with Urban literature.
Ben snuck out of his hiding place, and I was surprised at how Romero played with him. Ben even seemed to take to him. He laid on his back, while Romero scratched his stomach, and he got the contented look he’d get whenever I playe
d with him.
We talked to three in the morning.
“You can stay the night,” I vaguely recalled saying before I dozed off, with Romero’s arms wrapped around me, and for the first time in a long time, I felt safe.
When I woke up, Romero was wide awake, cuddling me and studying me. “I’ve wanted to wake up and find you in my arms for years. Now it’s come true.”
I stretched, then looked around remembering where I was. “You better leave before Shirley and the girls get up. She’d never believe there’s no monkey business going on.”
“Sure.” Romero reached over and gave me a deep kiss, morning breath and all, but he pulled away just as quickly. He added, “I’m willing to wait as long as you want, Z. I know this isn’t a good time. I want to be there for you. There are some things going on I’m not at liberty to share with you right now, but I’ll tell you when I know more.”
“What is it?” I perked up, and came fully awake.
“I can’t tell you.”
“Okay, how about if I invite you to Chica’s wedding? You can be my date.”
Romero looked excited. “I’d be honored to be your date.”
As he pecked me on the lips on his way out the door, I wondered what Romero was holding back.
22
The next day I called L.A. Booking, made sure Collins was still in County Jail, and checked on the visiting hours. I decided, on an impulse, to visit the man responsible for my partner’s death. I wondered how I was going to feel. I was not sure what I felt anymore. I did know that being sober made me feel a lot of uncomfortable feelings. I wondered if I were still a police officer, if I would try to take Collins out. I was angry as hell at him, and almost hated I was now a civilian.
After I went through a series of checkpoints, L.A. County Jail looked dreary inside. There were only a few booths for attorneys. I had to wait an hour before I could see him, but I was finally able to see Lawrence Collins.
I flashed my identification, stared at him through the plexy glass window, and watched while he picked up the phone. “Collins, just tell me why?” I gave Collins a dead stare to challenge him to tell the truth. “Why did you kill my partner?”
L.A. Blues Page 14