Taco Noir

by Steven Gomez

  “Maria,” said Aunt Angela in a sad, beaten tone. “Senior Lazlo’s men have already found us.”

  Both of the women fell silent and looked at each other. I sighed and held up a hand to calm them before they got out of hand and tried to kill me again.

  “I’m not one of Lazlo’s men,” I protested.

  “So you weren’t hired to find Maria to take her back?” asked the aunt hopefully.

  “Uh…well, I kind of was,” I started, sparking off much wailing and shouting, much of it in Spanish.

  “Whoa, whoa,” I said, putting away my pistol and holding out both hands. “I’m not a flunky, I’m a detective.” The ladies stopped at this, but the looks on their faces told me that they didn’t see a natural distinction between the two. Most days, I’m not sure that I do either.

  I told Maria and Aunt Angela that I was hired by Lazlo because she had skipped out on bail. Maria confirmed what Mike from the DA’s office told me. She’d never had so much as a jaywalking ticket, let alone bail posted for her. Lazlo wanted a shamus just smart enough to find his lady, but not smart enough to ask any questions. I decided to get off the stupid train here and now.

  “My plan isn’t to hand you over to Lazlo,” I told the frantic women. I had to repeat it a couple of times in order to get them to slow down and relax, but eventually my words penetrated.

  “It isn’t?” asked a wide-eyed Maria. “Why?”

  I could have told her that I don’t like being lied to by a client, any client, and I could have told her that taking a case from Lazlo Lavage already left a bad taste in my mouth that even his chili couldn’t erase. I also could have told her that I don’t think I could sleep at night if I delivered her and her auntie to a slug such as Lavage. I told her none of that.

  “It ain’t my style, sister,” I said, and that was pretty much that.

  I watched Maria and Aunt Angela finish packing up their belongings and loading up the beat-up sedan parked in front of the bakery. As I helped them strap on the last of their second-hand luggage, Maria asked what it would cost me to let her go. I told her about the payment and the expenses, but the part that really hurt was the recipe. It looked as if I were going have to wing my next batch of chili.

  Maria smiled and went back to the apartment one last time. As Aunt Angela secured the last of their belongings, Maria returned and started to tell me where in Arizona they were headed.

  “Save it, sister,” I warned her. “I don’t want you to tell a soul where you’re going until ten minutes after you’re there, understand?”

  Maria nodded, her big cow eyes filling with tears. She and her aunt gave me a hug so tight that I saw stars for a moment, and then I felt something being pressed into my hand. Aunt Angela smiled wide, spoke quickly, and said lots of stuff. Most of it was in Spanish, some of it in English, and none I understood. I nodded back to her as she got into the passenger side of the sedan. Maria once again thanked me for what I considered as my only human act of the day, and kissed me softly on the cheek. From that kiss alone I could see what Lazlo saw in her, and it brought me no small amount of satisfaction to make sure that she escaped his greasy mitts.

  They drove off into the sunset, aunt and niece, and as they did so I smiled in a way that I hadn’t for a long time, and probably wouldn’t again for a while. When the ladies had disappeared into the horizon, I looked down into my hand and examined the note Maria had slipped me. It was a hastily written recipe, along with a message scribbled at the top.

  “Who do you think gave Lazlo the recipe in the first place?”

  Perhaps good deeds are rewarded after all.

  Maria’s Chili con Carne

  3 dried ancho chilies

  1 to 3 tablespoons vegetable oil

  4 ounces pork shoulder, finely chopped

  2 pounds boneless chuck steak, cut into 1/2-inch cubes

  1 large white onion, chopped (2 cups)

  3 cloves garlic, minced

  1 teaspoon ground cumin

  1 teaspoon dried oregano

  1 bay leaf

  Kosher salt

  28 ounces whole peeled tomatoes, briefly pulsed in a blender

  2 bottles of cheap beer

  1 tablespoon white vinegar

  Take the dried chilies and dump them into a skillet, cooking over medium heat for about two minutes or until they start to puff up. Remove the cores and seeds, putting the seeds aside. Put the chilies in a bowl and cover them with boiling water. Put them aside.

  Heat one tablespoon of oil in a Dutch oven over medium heat. Add the pork and brown, then move and park it someplace convenient. Add the beef and brown it as well, working in batches. When you have completed that assignment, park it also.

  Put your chilies into a blender or food processor with about a half-cup of the hot water you soaked them in. Puree the chilies and set aside. Add the onion and garlic to the Dutch oven and cook for eight minutes or so. Stir in the cumin, oregano, bay leaf, and one tablespoon of salt. Toss in some of the reserved seeds to add a little heat to the enterprise. Cook for one more minute before you throw in the puree. Turn the heat to high and cook for two more minutes or so, stirring often.

  Return the meat to the pot and add two more teaspoons of salt, the tomatoes, and the beer. Bring the stew to a boil, then reduce the heat to medium for about one and a half hours, stirring occasionally.

  Reduce the pot to low heat, fish out the bay leaf, and stir in the vinegar until the meat is tender and your spirits are a little brighter. Dish you and your cronies up heaping bowls, and top them with some grated cheese, broken tortilla chips, or dashed dreams. Whatever floats your boat.

  THE CASE OF THE AWKWARD HIGH NOTE

  Do Re Me Coq Au Vin

  When I was a kid, the gargoyles at the Metropolitan Opera gave me nightmares. Large, gaping stone mouths, bat wings, and leering faces that seemed to beg small children to stop by for a quick bite. My mom used to scrape up enough money to drag her kids there for a Saturday matinee of high class and culture, when all we really wanted was to see the Scarlet Gumshoe bust up a ring of racketeers in the weekly serials. Ma desperately wanted her kids to get an education, to appreciate the finer things and, for the most part, it worked. I learned at a young age how to tell Verdi from Mozart. That was the same year Billy Driscal saw my mom haulin’ us out of the Met one afternoon and he told all the kids in my class that I loved the opera.

  That was also the year I learned to fight.

  I never developed the appreciation of opera and culture that Ma hoped I would, but at least I learned not to let the gargoyles bother me. Except now, to my surprise, the Met had hired one of them to guard its door.

  “I told you to shove off,” said the ape someone crammed into a red doorman’s jacket. I could only assume that the Met had paid some unfortunate tailor to extend the length of the arms on the jacket to simian proportions. He had taken about three steps closer to me than society deemed acceptable, and I got a strong whiff of the horseradish that accented today’s roast beef special at the local deli.

  “And I told you that Old Lady Bancroft is expecting me,” I said to the primate. Inching closer to me, he started to roll up his sleeve. With sleeves like his, that would take quite a while.

  I was taking a mental inventory of all the tender places on the goon’s anatomy I could place a cheap shot before he tried to kill me. Luckily for me, before any shots were placed, cheap or otherwise, a voice rang out from somewhere behind Kong.

  “Andrew!” came the cry, stopping the goon in mid-homicide. “This gentleman is my guest!”

  Andrew immediately dropped his arms and stood straight, as if a drill sergeant had called him to attention. And I guess in a way, one had.

  “Mrs. Bancroft!” Andrew stuttered. “I thought…”

  “I don’t imagine that you thought at all!” Mrs. Bancroft said in a frosty tone. “Otherwise you would not make me strain my voice before the season begins!” The voice in question, Mrs. Bancroft’s, was indeed a forceful
and powerful weapon. And the package it was attached to wasn’t a wilting flower either.

  Mrs. Bancroft looked to be in her late fifties, stood about six-foot one, and had enough bulk on her to play middle linebacker when the Metropolitan was in off-season.

  “Please follow me,” Bancroft told me from behind the ape. Andrew shuffled off to the side, just enough to let me pass, his mouth gaping.

  “You got a little of that horseradish on your lapel,” I told him, pointing to his jacket. When he looked down, I zipped my finger upwards and gave him a chuck on the nose.

  “Lead the way, Mrs. B,” I told the woman, and she showed me down a long corridor towards the dressing rooms.

  “You’ll have to forgive Andrew,” she told me over her shoulder. “He is the sentry of the grandest Opera House on Earth and is sometimes a little overzealous.”

  “Didn’t he know you were expecting someone?” I asked.

  “I told him I was expecting a guest,” she said, opening the door to her dressing room. “I’m sure that he was expecting someone a bit…different.”

  She looked at my wrinkled suit as if it might crawl off my body and bite her.

  “I’m sure he was,” I said. “Now why don’t you tell me what it is a mug like me can do for a dame like you?”

  Bancroft sighed and collapsed onto a sofa-like structure. The sofa groaned a little, but held up its end of the bargain.

  “I’ve asked you here on a matter of considerable…discretion.” She looked put out, as if I had asked her if Rigoletto was a German opera, so I imagined that the matter was serious indeed.

  “Lady, when you pay me, you also pay for my silence.” It sounded remotely chivalrous, but if you go around spilling your client’s secrets, soon you have no clients left. Mrs. Bancroft seemed relieved by my answer. The old bird sat up straight on her sofa, head held high, and addressed me in the manner of an elegant lady addressing the help.

  “As you may know, I have spent many years at the forefront of European culture and have been an eminent champion of the Opera in the U.S.”

  “Do tell,” I said, examining a little bit of the shipyards I had caught under my fingernails earlier that day. “Go on.”

  Clearing her throat, Mrs. Bancroft regarded me with the disdain of someone who wasn’t worthy of washing her pet poodle, but she managed to soldier on.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “I am in the middle of financing this season’s opening production of the Metropolitan Opera. This is a precarious junction for the Opera, and I have spent much of my personal fortune and reputation making sure that this season’s Pagliacci is performed flawlessly.” She paused, looking down over the frames of her pearl glasses, searching for understanding in my eyes. There was none.

  “Pagliacci is a timeless story …” she sighed, as if she were explaining Calculus to sixth-graders.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I mumbled. “Everyone loves a clown.”

  That stopped her in her tracks, and her jaw dropped floor-wards. As I said, Ma used to drag me to the opera.

  “Well, at any rate,” Mrs. Bancroft muttered, regaining her composure. "I have invested heavily in this production, both in monetary and social equity, and I stand to lose substantially should anything disrupt this premiere.”

  I had to hand it to her. She certainly could talk up a storm.

  “And is there any reason that this production could suffer…disruption?” I asked, and immediately regretted it. As soon as the words left my mouth, she broke down, sniffles, tears, and a strange ‘neighing’ sound erupting from her all at the same time. Her hand fluttered behind her, and it looked to me as though the old broad might swoon. I stood up quickly, figuring I might have to catch her before she hit the deck. As I maneuvered in behind her to try and catch the old bird, I had visions of hazard pay in my future. Luckily the old dame righted herself before I abused my sacroiliac.

  She sat on the edge of her sofa and took a few deep breaths before she was able to speak. It was real emotion in her eyes when she turned back to me, instead of the fake society stuff that passed for it. I gave her a moment to wipe her tears and catch her breath before she spoke. When she did speak, it was as if a little girl had taken the place of the woman.

  “Have you ever been guilty of a youthful indiscretion?” she asked me. I answered yes to the ‘indiscretion’ part, but no to the ‘youthful.’ She smiled an actual smile and continued.

  “When I was a bit younger, and a bit more naive, I met a man. I was married to my late husband Randolph at the time, but this man was young, vigorous, and exciting.” I imagined that they are all young, vigorous, and exciting when you are married to a mug like the late Randolph Bancroft.

  “We made vows to each other. Promises were made, oaths were taken….”

  “Letters were exchanged?” I added with a sigh.

  “Letters were exchanged,” she sighed back in resignation. In my trade, I’ve noticed that letters were always exchanged.

  “The man for whom I had fallen vanished into the ether! He had asked for a thousand dollars to arrange for us to run away and have a fresh start. Another life, if you will. And on the day he was to come and collect me…” She broke down, and the words dried in her throat.

  “He never showed.”

  “No,” she sobbed. “He never came.” She reached over and pulled a handkerchief from off of one of those chiffarobes, or highboys, or whatever the hell the society dames call those fancy little dressers. After a moment, she regained her composure.

  “After Maurice left me…”

  “Maurice?” I asked.

  “Maurice.” She answered. “After Maurice left, I resigned myself to making my marriage work. I finished my education and Randolph and I left for the continent. It was there I immersed myself in the life that is the opera. Randolph and I made the best of our lives, and fell once again into love. It was only after Randolph passed that I left the continent to return to the city.”

  With full control of the Randolph fortune, I thought. But the meter was running, and it was her dime.

  “When I returned to my life in America,” she continued, “I dedicated myself to the cause of bringing enlightenment to the deprived masses.”

  “By means of opera?” I asked.

  “By means of opera.”

  “All was well as society welcomed me back with open arms. I found a place with the Met, and established myself as a driving force in the creative community.” Her eyes had that far-way look, and for a moment, I feared she might break out in song. “Everything was falling into place in my life.”

  “Until…?” I interjected.

  “Until the letters arrived,” she sighed, and the faraway look in her eyes vanished, replaced by a here-and-now look of resignation. “Just one or two letters, but there were more letters out there, and they were by far more…” The words escaped her.

  “And I am assuming that they came from Maurice?” I asked.

  “Never!” she protested. “What Maurice and I shared was a special bond. A melding of the spirits! What we had he would never betray for filthy lucre! I can only assume that some tragedy has befallen Maurice. Our passion may have been star-crossed, but our love was eternal! He must have perished, and our letters fallen into unscrupulous hands.”

  “So,” I said standing and making my way to the door. “You want me to find your blackmailer and …?”

  “And retrieve my letters!” she commanded. “I want to make sure that my good name remains untarnished and that the Metropolitan’s season opens without scandal of any kind!”

  “And if it turns out that old Maurice is the guy pulling the strings?” I ventured.

  “Impossible!” she said, dismissing me as the help I guess I now was. “I want you to find this cretin and return to me the memories of my youth.” She stood and turned her back to me, letting me show myself out. As I made my way back to the gorilla at the door, Mrs. Bancroft called to me from over her shoulder.

  “Detective, if you have to give
this ne’er-do-well a thrashing in the process, I shan’t mind!”

  It took me about fifteen minutes to find Maurice. His full name was Maurice De Leon, and he had kept anything but a low profile. Working through my list of contacts, I simply had to describe the slimy little weasel to Benny at Chez Petite Francois, cross his palm with a sawbuck, and Benny sang me a tune that was both enlightening and nauseating.

  Maurice was a gold-digging hustler, but managed to keep his trade secret by virtue of his appearance. Although he was a short, sweaty, doughy, pug-like man, Maurice dressed in tailor-made suits that cost more than my annual rent, and adorned himself in jeweled tie-clips, pinkie rings, and watch fobs that defied imagination. If clothes made the man, then old Maurice was a prince.

  Maurice, according to Benny, had never worked a day in his life but was accustomed to the finer things. He was often seen on the arm of rich, if not desperate, older women in society, and would feed off of them like a leech until the well ran dry or until marriage was unavoidable. Then he would run off in the night as fast as his fat little legs would carry him, often to greener and more lucrative, pastures.

  I caught up to the snake as he was leaving the Leaping Lord, an old-fashioned, honest-to-goodness private club in the city. The Lord was an old-world joint that cost an arm and a leg to join, but apparently was a little lax on character requirements.

  I tailed Maurice past the park, to a brownstone off Weber Street. The building was an impressive piece of architecture. It stood proudly near the great park, side-by-side with some of the finest homes in the city. Maurice had done well for himself after making Mrs. Bancroft’s acquaintance on the continent. He had wealth, stature, and a place in the very society that Mrs. Bancroft was working her way towards.

  It occurred to me that high society played a little lax with its character requirements as well.