She walked to her shrine, knelt before the figurine of La Virgen, and made the sign of the cross. Thank you, Señora, for your blessings, she prayed. You brought us Mano’s job and the new car. But I would give it all back if you’d let my husband be a good father to his children again.
THE RIO GRANDE INCIDENT:
Month 6, Day 9
Jo parked the rented Chrysler Sebring facing away from the Hopewell Realtors storefront and fussily adjusted her pinned-up hair in the rearview mirror, giving her a chance to survey the strip mall. There were no uniforms or plainclothes security lurking outside Walter O’Connor’s realty office.
As she approached the storefront, Jo saw two conservatively dressed young men with shaved heads sprawled indolently across couches in the lobby. One was flipping through a magazine while stroking his goatee. The other was immersed in a game on his vu-phone. O’Connor was apparently taking the precaution of a personal security detail, but judging from the caliber of his bodyguards, he was not taking the threat too seriously.
As Jo opened the door, the young men glanced up, then ignored her. Crossing the lobby, she heard a voice from somewhere deep in the office. “Is she here yet?”
“Yeah,” the young man nearest her shouted back without looking up from his magazine.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” the voice said, louder now.
“I’m not your receptionist, OK?”
Walter O’Connor burst into the room and glared at the two young men. He was a man who would have blended into the landscape anywhere in the United States. Around forty, average in height and build, O’Connor was wearing a tan sports coat over a buttoned-up white polo shirt and black pleated trousers. His brown hair was streaked with gray and parted neatly on the side.
“I’ll deal with you later,” O’Connor said to the young security guard, then turned toward Jo with a smarmy smile. “Mrs. Steele”—he extended his hand—“I’m Wally O’Connor. Please let me apologize for our trainees; they’re just getting started in the business and they ain’t learnt their manners yet. Won’t you please come on in?”
Jo returned the smile. “Please, Wally, my mother-in-law is Mrs. Steele. Call me Bonnie,” she said, entering his private office.
O’Connor gestured to one of the chairs in front of his desk. “You mentioned on the phone that Colonel Steele’s just been transferred to the base out here, right?” he said, dropping into a high-backed swivel chair.
Jo folded her hands on her lap. “Yes. Frank wanted me to get started on our house hunt right away. He’s still back in Dayton finishing things up at Wright-Patt.”
Jo had selected her clothes for this role carefully. Her silk blouse, calf-length skirt, modest gold necklace, and black leather purse projected the conservative style O’Connor would expect from the wife of an Air Force colonel. From her research on O’Connor, Jo knew he’d see a colonel’s wife as a plum client—he normally worked with blue-collar customers.
“Do you know this area at all, Bonnie?”
“Not really. Frank has a friend who was transferred out here a few years back. In fact, his friend recommended the house I mentioned when I called.”
“Well, that’s why I asked you if you knew the area. You see… well… your husband’s friend, is he a… a… person of color, by any chance?”
Jo had not expected O’Connor’s question. “I’m not sure—I’ve never met him myself. Frank just said his friend assured him this property was a good deal.”
“OK, Bonnie, now, I’m gonna tell you something I’m not supposed to.” O’Connor paused, lowering his voice. “There’s a bunch of people in Washington that believes Realtors shouldn’t be allowed to tell the truth about certain neighborhoods. You understand what I’m saying?”
Jo knew exactly what he was saying. O’Connor was redlining—steering Jo away from a neighborhood with a large population of Hispanics. His bigotry had not hurt his realty business, Jo supposed.
“No, Wally, I’m not sure I do.”
“I’ve made a good living by treating people fairly, even if that means breakin’ the rules. So I’m gonna tell you straight out. That neighborhood’s not fit for decent white people like you and your husband.”
Just to see the look on O’Connor’s face, Jo was tempted to say her husband was black, but instead she continued her charade, producing a slip of paper from her purse. “What’s wrong with the neighborhood at this address?”
“It’s north of Long Beach, see, and most people who live there these days ain’t white—they’re Hispanics. Now there’s some folks, mostly liberals, who like to look down on me for telling you this. But I’ve noticed one thing, Bonnie: even the liberals won’t buy in a neighborhood where they know the property values are gonna go down. They don’t want to send their kids to schools with a bunch of greasers who’re gonna cut up their sons and molest their daughters.”
She masked it well, but Jo was stung by O’Connor’s comment. Her own home was in Beverly Crest—an area with very few Hispanics. Still, she was risking her life and spending her fortune for the cause of justicia. That’s what truly counts, she told herself.
“I appreciate what you’re trying to do for us, Wally. But I have to honor my husband’s request to look at this property. It’s a Christian wife’s duty.”
O’Connor nodded solemnly. “I understand, Bonnie. It’s God’s will that a wife obey her husband. I’ll show you that property, but then we’ll look at some other homes in a more fittin’ neighborhood.”
O’Connor opened the door to the lobby and, with an exaggerated sweep of his hand, gestured for Jo to pass. Following her, he glanced at the guards and jerked his head toward the front door. The two rose to their feet.
“You don’t mind if we take along my trainees, do you?” O’Connor asked. “The boys are following me around to learn the business.”
“No, of course not,” Jo replied. She’d debated with Ramon and Mano as to whether O’Connor would bring his guards with him. It turned out that Mano was right. She would need to alert him.
“This here’s Darren,” Wally said, pointing to the young man with the goatee, “and this one’s Michael.”
Jo smiled at the young men, both of whom nodded indifferently, seemingly more interested in the carpet pattern than in making her acquaintance.
Now, walking ahead of Jo, O’Connor led her to the front passenger’s seat of his Ford Expedition. The two guards took seats in the row behind her. A few minutes later, they were cruising north on I-405.
O’Connor glanced toward Jo. “That’s an unusual ornament on your necklace, Bonnie. I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
“Oh, it’s something I picked up at a little shop in Dayton,” Jo said, improvising.
“Did I mention I’m from Ohio, too? Portsmouth. Did you ever get down to Portsmouth?”
Jo knew she was on thin ice. There hadn’t been much time to prepare for this role. “Frank was only stationed at Wright-Patterson a couple of years. With two kids at home and Frank away a lot, I didn’t get out much.”
“Well, you ought to see Portsmouth, Bonnie. It’s God’s country down there. The river and the cliffs—”
“Excuse me, Wally,” Jo interrupted. “Could we make a stop somewhere? I need a chance to… freshen up.”
After they pulled into a gas station at the next exit, Jo entered the restroom and called Mano. “I hate to admit it, but you were right. He’s got two goons with him.”
“We’ll be ready. Thanks for the call.”
Mano’s calm tone filled Jo with confidence. Her attraction to him was growing steadily, she admitted to herself. He’d become a pillar in her life she’d not even known was missing.
As Jo opened the restroom door, she was startled to see Darren standing outside. Had he been listening? For the first time on the mission, Jo felt the cold chill of fear.
Seeing her shocked expression, Darren offered an explanation. “Wally asked me to escort you back here. He says this is a rough
area.”
Jo was still suspicious. If Darren was on to her, he would have to report it to Wally. She would need to keep an eye on him.
When she returned to the SUV, O’Connor again acted like a royal footman, opening the door with a great deal of pomp. Jo watched Darren walk around the rear of the vehicle and exchange a few words with Wally before they both got inside.
Dammit, Jo thought. This doesn’t look good.
She lowered the sun visor, pretending to inspect her makeup in the mirror while keeping an eye on Darren. After touching up her lipstick, she left the handbag open on her lap. She didn’t want to use the six-shot Beretta inside, but she might have no choice.
O’Connor eased the SUV in front of a modest ranch home on a wooded cul-de-sac. “Well, this here’s the place, Bonnie,” he said. “It’s vacant and been on the market for quite a while. Notice how most of these houses around here are vacant? Like I told you, with all the beaners moving in, this neighborhood is just about ready to go to hell in a handbasket. You think we need to go inside?”
Jo was relieved they’d made it this far. Maybe Darren hadn’t overheard her call after all. “I promised Frank I’d look at this house, Wally, and I intend to keep my word.”
“I can’t tell you how much I admire a Christian woman who’s obedient to her husband—even if it is a waste of valuable time. It’s the way all wives should be. I’d be honored to show you the inside, Bonnie.”
O’Connor unlocked the front door with a key from a combination box hanging on the doorknob and gestured for Jo to enter. With all three of them here, this is going to be tricky, Jo thought. The timing will have to be perfect.
She walked casually through the living room and made her way down the hall, O’Connor in tow. She was relieved when the two guards remained behind.
O’Connor made another wide sweep with his arm. “See how shabby the place is? The family of a United States Air Force colonel deserves better than this.”
“I don’t know, Wally. I think some fresh paint and wall-paper could really cheer the place up. Let’s see what the other rooms are like.” Jo walked into the first bedroom with O’Connor close behind her.
He went to the far corner of the bedroom and opened the closet. “I wouldn’t be surprised if this place is crawlin’ with roaches. You know how these people live,” he said, peering inside.
Jo moved quickly toward the doorway, cutting off O’Connor’s path to the exit. The Realtor gasped in shock as Jo produced the Beretta from her purse and leveled it at his chest.
“Not a peep, Wally, or you’re dead,” she said very softly.
Reaching down, she brought the pendant to her lips. The shrill sound that followed made O’Connor cover his ears.
When he heard Jo’s whistle, Mano was in position outside the front door. Entering the house with his Glock drawn, he saw the two guards in the living room staring wide-eyed in confusion.
“Hands up!” Mano shouted, training the pistol on them.
Hearing footsteps from the hallway, Mano turned and saw Nesto run into the living room, his pistol drawn. Distracted, Mano felt a hard slap on his gun hand as the man closest to him bolted for the door. Glancing left, he saw that Nesto had already secured the other guard. It was up to him to catch the fugitive.
Dashing outside, Mano aimed his Glock at the man’s back… and broke into a run, unable to pull the trigger. After a burst of speed, he was nearly on the thug as he reached the street. The young man dropped to the ground in a catlike reflex, sending Mano hurtling through the air over his body. The guard sprang to his feet, trying to run again, while Mano—still rolling—leg-whipped him, fracturing the goon’s tibia. The young man went down screaming in pain.
On the ground, the guard drew a pistol from his sports coat, but before he could aim, Mano pounced, landing heavily on his chest. With his left hand, he grabbed the guard’s gun hand and pinned it to the ground. He then brought his bulky right forearm crashing down on the man’s throat, violently compressing it against the pavement. The guard’s head twitched spastically, his pupils rolled out of sight, and bloody foam oozed from his mouth. The blow had crushed his larynx and severed his spinal cord.
Breathing heavily, Mano rose to his knees and stared down at the lifeless body, feeling numb.
Jo’s voice broke his trance. “Get up, Mano. We’ve got to get out of here—now.”
Guided by the moonlight, Jo reached the edge of the seaside cliff. “This is far enough,” she said, the crash of waves a distant murmur far below. Behind her, Mano led two bound and gagged captives at gunpoint—O’Connor and his guard. Jo nodded to Mano and he removed the duct tape from O’Connor’s mouth.
“What’s a white woman doing with scum like this?” spat the president of the Aryan Fatherland. “Don’t you have any pride in your race?”
Jo laughed. “I was born in Uruguay. My name is Herrera,” she said, pronouncing her name with the distinctive trill of a native Spanish speaker. “But you and your kind are too ignorant to realize Latin Americans are no different than North Americans. We’re not a race, we’re a people.”
O’Connor’s eyes widened in astonishment, but his hatred seemed to trump all reason. “Call yourself what you like, bitch.”
Jo stared at him calmly. “O’Connor… that’s an Irish name, right?”
O’Connor jutted out his chin. “My father was Irish and my mother was German. I come from pure Aryan bloodlines.”
“Did you know that the Irish were considered a separate and inferior race by many people in this country until the late nineteenth century?”
“That’s a lie.”
“Is it? Then you probably won’t believe me when I tell you that Ben Franklin once complained about a horde of non-whites breeding so fast they were overrunning the British colonies—tawny-skinned people who wouldn’t bother to learn English.” Jo paused, waiting for her next words to sink in: “the German immigrants of Pennsylvania.”
“You’re right about one thing, cunt: I don’t believe you,” O’Connor said, the tendons of his neck bulging. “You’re nothing but a bunch of worthless, third-world terrorists trying to destroy a nation built by the superior intelligence and Christian values of the white race.”
“And you believe it’s your duty to preserve these values, right, Wally?”
“You’re damned right.”
“It doesn’t seem like you’ve done a very good job so far.”
“We’ve killed over forty of your useless fucking mud people.”
“Yeah, but don’t try to take credit for something you didn’t do, Wally. Somebody a whole lot smarter than you set it all up.”
“No, sister. I’m the—” O’Connor stopped, suddenly realizing Jo had baited him into a confession.
“You’re what, Wally?” Jo asked, finally venting her fury. “You’re the man who arranged for his lackeys to gun down more than forty unarmed men, women, and children? Is that what you were about to say?”
O’Connor didn’t reply, but simply stared at Jo, hatred burning in his eyes.
Jo turned slowly toward the sea. “He’s the one,” she said to Mano, her voice emotionless.
On a foggy spring morning, an Orange County deputy, responding to a call from an Iowa tourist, found the bodies of three men at the foot of a cliff along a deserted stretch of shoreline. Two of the men had been shot in the head in what appeared to be execution-style slayings. One was identified as Walter O’Connor, age forty-three, a Realtor from El Segundo. The other was Darren Strachan, a twenty-three-year-old convicted felon paroled from San Quentin five months before. The third body was that of Michael Walker, twenty-five—another felon recently released from San Quentin. The cause of Walker’s death was listed as “blunt force trauma.” Although authorities later found O’Connor’s realty office ransacked, the motive for the killings remained unclear.
Over the next two weeks, the greater Los Angeles area was hit by a wave of similar killings. All eleven of the men slain were former San Que
ntin inmates.
Shortly thereafter, the vigilante raids into East Los Angeles ceased.
Across the rest of the Southwest, however, the drive-by shootings by Anglos continued, spawning a vengeful spiral of violence. Each vigilante attack triggered more protests and rioting; each disturbance in the barrios provoked more attacks by the vigilantes.
Even in Los Angeles, where the vigilante attacks had stopped, rioting still broke out in response to Anglo raids in other cities.
Three months after the notorious ambush on L.A.’s Agnes Street, local authorities throughout the Southwest were confronting a surging tide of anarchy. Government buildings, utility companies, malls, corporate offices, colleges, and sports stadiums all became the scenes of demonstrations that often turned violent.
THE RIO GRANDE INCIDENT:
Month 9
Repression is a revolutionary’s best recruiter. It will create more converts than a thousand rousing speeches.
—José Antonio Marcha, 1978
Translated by J. M. Herrera
Rosa emerged from the bodega keeping Elena close by her side. The chance of trouble was growing worse each day, but bringing her five-year-old shopping seemed less risky than leaving her home alone. She scanned the street and noticed a patrol of six National Guardsmen moving in her direction. Fearing the soldiers might attract trouble, she went back inside the store.
Through the front window, she watched the heavily armed men draw closer until they were just outside the store. One of the Guardsmen drifted away from the others and approached Sofia and Julie Cardona as the teenagers walked by.
The soldier tilted back his helmet and leered. “Hello, pretty señoritas,” he said, revealing a row of crooked teeth.
The young girls giggled, whispered something to each other, and kept walking.
“Hey, I’m talking to you,” he said, his tone suddenly harsh. “Halt!”
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