Finnegan's Week (1993)

by Wambaugh, Joseph

  Bobbie said, "They're all trying not to notice Pate."

  Fin said, "Only reason anyone ever risks eye contact with a guy like that is so they can describe him later to a police artist."

  Nell said, "I hope little Juliet dumps her chamber pot on Romeo while he's boogeying."

  The investigators watched as Shelby Pate staggered up to the striptease kid, grabbed him by the neck, and sailed him like a Frisbee into the traffic lane, where another carload of college types had to brake to keep from running him down.

  While Abel pleaded with Shelby to move on, the ox planted his size 13 EEE's and glared at all the other students. They took a gander at this blazing destroyer in his nightmare costume of biker black, and suddenly started to get extremely interested in shop items, such as silver buckles, Mexican blankets, and velvet paintings of Michael Jackson's gloved hand.

  Nell said, "Before the night's over I bet he just about wrecks any chance of ever getting elected to public office."

  Bobbie said, "Wonder what's it like for Durazo, being on the town with that non-evolved mammal?"

  "About like being circumcised with draft beer as an anesthetic," Fin said. "He's doing his best to get killed."

  "Not quite his best yet," Nell said. "But he'll flat-line before he's much older."

  Bobbie said, "Dudes like him'll violate any law, including gravity. A walking reign of terror."

  Fin said, "I bet he's never changed those jeans. Just puts on a different rocker T-shirt and away he goes."

  "He'd be easy to buy for," Nell said.

  The truckers stood looking in the window of a pharmacy where a line of worried, hopeful, or frightened Americans were buying Retin-A, minoxidil, and AZT over the counter. Then they moseyed around the corner and vanished.

  The three investigators ran to the next corner but Abel and Shelby were nowhere in sight.

  Nell crossed the street and discovered a narrow passage way. Ten feet inside the dark passageway was an arch lit by a pencil of neon. It said, SOMBRAS.

  "Find something?" Fin called out.

  Nell yelled, "This must be a nightclub or restaurant. Let's try it."

  "Are you two packing?" Bobbie asked, when they stood at the mouth of the passage.

  "No way," Nell said.

  "Not on your life," Fin said. "If we got caught down here carrying concealed weapons, they'd just say: Badge? I don't want to see no steenking badge! And we'd end up in the Tijuana jail. They don't want any foreigners being armed."

  "I'm packing," Bobbie said, looping the purse strap over her shoulder. "And I'm glad."

  She led the way down the corridor between two windowless concrete walls of neighboring buildings. They walked perhaps thirty feet before they heard music. The closer they got, the louder it got. Not the heavy metal blaring on Revolution, this was Mexican folk music.

  Then they found themselves in a small open patio with a fountain in the center and a pepper tree in a tile planter off to one side. Double wooden doors with huge iron pulls separated them from the festive music inside.

  Fin opened the door and Nell took a peek. A white-haired proprietor in a dark blue suit and a pale blue necktie said, "Welcome to Sombras. How many een your party?"

  Nell turned to Fin, who said, "If they're not here, we've lost them anyway. Might as well go on in."

  Nell said to the proprietor, "Did a large man in a black leather jacket just come in with a small Mexican gentleman?"

  "Yes," the proprietor said. "They are een the back at Senor Soltero's table. Shall I take you there?"

  "No, he's just a person I used to know," Nell said. "We'd prefer a table in the front."

  "Very well," the proprietor said. "Follow me, please."

  The restaurant seated about eighty people. There was a second fountain inside, constructed of multicolored Mexican tiles. All the tables were solid walnut, as were the chairs, high-backed with tasseled yellow seat cushions. The tables were covered with yellow tablecloths except for those where patrons were just having cocktails. Each table was lit by a huge candle inside an onion-shaped, emerald-colored glass bowl. Three guitar players strolled among the tables singing old favorites.

  But the restaurant was not a quiet place to dine in that the bare floor was made of twelve-inch squares of tile with a patina and color of old saddle leather. The wiring inside the low ceiling was concealed by thin reeds lashed together, and lanterns dangled throughout, low enough to make tall men duck their heads.

  The patrons, both Mexican and American, were not ordinary tourists, and all were very presentable, with the exception of Shelby Pate, who may as well have been wearing light bulbs.

  The investigators spotted the truckers with three other men in a tiny alcove toward the rear of the room.

  "We're okay here in front," Bobbie said. "It's too dark for them to make us."

  Fin excused himself after saying to Nell, "Order me whatever you're having, and a Mexican beer."

  After he had gone to the rest room, Nell ordered three of the house special plates, consisting of a chile relleno, a tamale and a chicken taco.

  The waitress was a stunning girl, perhaps eighteen years old, wearing an off-the-shoulder, lace-topped cotton blouse and a red full skirt. Her red shoes were fastened with ankle straps, suggesting that she probably doubled as a dancer.

  "That order's safe enough for everyone," Nell said.

  "Don't worry about me," Bobbie said. "I haven't had much Mexican food, but what I've had I really like. I'm experimental in everything."

  "You must be," Nell said.

  "Whaddaya mean by that?"

  'Tin," Nell said.

  "Look, this is only the second time I've been with him!" Bobbie said.

  "Me too," said Nell.

  "Really? I don't believe it."

  "Now whadda you mean by that?"

  "It's easy to see you got feelings for him, big-time."

  "What?"

  "One woman to another," Bobbie said. "It's easy to see."

  "Me? Fin?"

  "I don't blame you," Bobbie said. "He's cute, and he's so nice. A real gentleman, in a way. I can see how you might feel. But honest, we're just friends, is all."

  Nell wanted to deny it, but the words wouldn't come out. This child was in-furiating! Calmly, she said, "Bobbie, I don't know what to say about that except that I would rather spend my life arranging flowers and pouring tea in a geisha house than be hooked up with that neurotic cop!"

  "I know," Bobbie said, sympathetically, "but we can't really follow our heads, can we? Not when our hearts're pulling us in another direction. Toing-and-froing, right? I know how it is, Nell."

  Nell didn't get a chance to respond in that Fin returned to the table just as the waitress brought the beer and margaritas. They were hand-shaken margaritas, not gringo slush.

  "Salud, as they say in these parts," Fin said, raising his beer bottle to each woman, with a lingering look at Bobbie.

  The strolling guitar players came closer to their table, singing "Guadalajara." When Bobbie turned to look at the musicians, Nell whispered to Fin, "Did you tell her about your very low sperm count?"

  "Nell!" Fin said, shooting a quick glance at Bobbie, but she wasn't paying attention to them.

  "And that you give blood regularly?"

  "Nell, what's wrong with you?" Fin whispered. "She's a sweet kid!"

  "They all are," Nell said. "Sweet. When they're kids."

  Fin whispered, "Do you have some sort of . . . problem with her?"

  Nell smiled, but only with her mouth, and said, "Not at all. It's very predictable."

  "What is?"

  "Life is," she said.

  "My whole life's been a failed effort to please women!" Fin blurted to a strolling guitar player, who didn't understand a word. "Is this a smoke-free zone or can I just set fire to myself?"

  ? ? ?

  They'd already had two drinks, yet nothing had been said about the money they were owed. Before they'd entered, Abel had tried to warn the ox not
to be pushy by telling him that Mexicans were patient, and that Soltero had chosen an elegant restaurant, so he might be playing the gentleman. And that Soltero would talk about money only when he was good and ready.

  But after his second double tequila, Shelby wanted action. He only had one more bindle of meth and was needing it. He slipped it out of his boot and put it in the pocket of his Grateful Dead T-shirt, then watched the guitar players and twitched.

  One of Soltero's companions was the man who'd approached them in the Bongo Room. The other was short but very burly, with a mustache so long he could've used it for a chin strap. He had a deep scar on the side of his neck, and a piece of his left earlobe was missing. From time to time, Shelby glared at this scarred mustachioed Mexican, but the man kept his eyes on Soltero or on his drink.

  Soltero wore a double-breasted suit of gray silk and a charcoal shirt buttoned at the throat, with no necktie. In fact, Abel thought he dressed a lot like their boss, Jules Temple, but he was several years older. Soltero's ponytail was pulled back more severely than Shelby's, and was gray-flecked.

  Soltero asked dozens of questions, both in Spanish and English, about the business climate in San Diego, and the politics of the presidential election, and if Abel would be interested in hauling other loads from San Diego to Tijuana and sometimes in the other direction. His English was only slightly accented, and his hands gestured gracefully.

  Just when Shelby thought Soltero was going to talk about money, he said, "And now it is time to eat."

  He had preordered two kilos of carnitas -- marinated pork roasted on a spit. The waiter brought another large plate that held homemade flour tortillas wrapped inside a red tasseled napkin, a bowl heaped with cilantro and onion, and yet another brimming with guacamole. Finally, a bowl of homemade salsa arrived.

  "I believe our American guest will not be disappointed," Soltero said, smiling at Shelby. "The salsa is made special for me."

  The food looked, smelled, and tasted delicious. Abel bolted it down, but when Shelby was on a methamphetamine rampage like this, he didn't want to wreck his edge. Shelby picked at his food, but drank two more tequilas. Then he got up and lurched toward the rest room to snort the last of his meth.

  Fin said to the women, "Oh oh, Pate's heading for the john. The men's room's about as wide as a Cuban cigar, and he's listing to starboard. It'll be like docking the U. S. S. Ranger in a car wash. Listen for a collision."

  Bobbie said, "My twenty-fifteen eyesight tells me that if that guy with the slick suit and the ponytail doesn't like you, instant emigration is in order. What're we gonna do if they all leave together?"

  Nell looked at Fin and said, "You're of the hunter-gatherer gender. Whadda we do?"

  "I think we try to get their license number and call the Mexican state judicial police on Monday. That's all."

  "For what?" Nell asked.

  "To ask if they'll search his house for shoes," Fin said.

  "Fat chance," said Nell. "He probably has a brother or a nephew or a cousin running the state police. Or else he owns a few of them."

  "No matter what happens, I've really enjoyed this day," Bobbie said. "It's the most fun I've ever had as a detective." When she said it she put her hand on Fin's forearm, as was her habit by now.

  "I've had a great time too," Fin said softly.

  "You're as good a partner as I've ever had. You're a smart little detective."

  Nell mumbled, "Me, I'm so dumb I better run home and memorize the encyclopedia. Well, maybe just A through G tonight."

  When Nell turned toward the singers, Bobbie whispered to Fin, "She has an attitude."

  Fin whispered back, "It's her age. They're all about as easy to understand as black holes in the galaxy, light-years away."

  When Shelby got back from the rest room, he was barely able to sit in his chair. He'd done the last of the meth and was turbo-charged and getting paranoid. He kept looking from one to the other. The little Mexican glanced at him with amused detachment. The burly one with the Zapata mustache continued to watch Soltero as though Abel and Shelby weren't even there. He'd nursed a beer for an hour, but had eaten more than his share of carnitas.

  Abel peeked at his watch more than once, but Soltero was in no hurry at all. The tequila and salsa heated them up and Soltero unbuttoned the first two buttons of his shirt.

  Shelby's body temperature had shot up like a Patriot missile, but he didn't seem to notice the flow of sweat. He was too busy fiddling with the fork, folding and unfolding the napkin, looking from one man to the other, checking inside his boot for meth that wasn't there anymore. If there'd been a television in the place, he'd have taken it apart and put it back together by now.

  When the coffee was served, Shelby ordered what would be his final tequila of the evening. Abel had given up counting, but was certain that the ox's tequila intake could only be measured by the liter. Moreover, Shelby was blinking so hard you could almost hear it. That was when the mariachis appeared.

  There were seven of them in black waistcoats, black trousers, red string ties: two trumpets, two violins, two guitars and one bass guitar. They did not play the traditional mariachi tunes that American tourists loved. Instead, they began by playing an old Mexican piece.

  The music had a haunting quality; Fin thought so at once. So did Bobbie. They put down their coffee cups and listened. The restaurant din quieted and the crowd became subdued.

  Bobbie said, "There's a sadness about that."

  Nell said, "I've heard it before. It's about death, I think. No, wait. It's about a lost soul."

  Soltero smiled at Shelby Pate, who had suddenly become enraptured by the music. All the mariachis were facing the far side of the room where there was a dark alcove near the kitchen. They played and seemed to be looking for something in the darkness. And then from that black alcove came the answering sound of a muted trumpet. And a small boy, attired in the same costume as the men, stepped into a little blue spotlight.

  The proprietor came to the table when Nell signaled, and he said, "Yes, senora, you have a question?"

  "What's the name of this piece?" she asked. "I can't remember."

  "Ah!" he said. "Ees beautiful, no? Ees called 'Nino Perdido.' "

  Soltero leaned over the table when Shelby Pate asked, "Why's that kid all alone over there in the dark?"

  Soltero whispered, "The music is called 'The Lost Child.' You see, the boy is trying to answer the other trumpet voice that calls for him."

  As the music played, the little trumpeter moved slowly through the darkness, toward the other trumpet's call, followed by the blue spotlight. The Lost Child wanted to be found, but could not find his way. The muted sound of his trumpet would sometimes grow faint as he moved in the wrong direction, away from the searchers.

  Suddenly, Shelby Pate shouted, "Guddamnit! Why don't somebody jist go git him? He wants to come home! He wants his momma!"

  Heads jerked toward Shelby Pate. Diners were stunned. Even the burly man with the Zapata mustache turned to gape.

  Abel said, "Eet ees only music, Buey!"

  But Shelby Pate stood up and knocked the heavy walnut chair crashing to the tile floor. Everyone in the restaurant turned toward him. Some diners stood to see what was happening, but it was so dark now they could only see a towering shadow figure inside the alcove.

  "He's movin away!" Shelby cried. "They gotta git him! They gotta show him the way home to his momma!"

  The proprietor ran toward the disturbance, but the mariachis kept playing. The lead trumpet kept calling for The Lost Child, but The Lost Child was wandering, and his trumpet grew more muted.

  The proprietor stepped into the alcove and said, "Senor Soltero! Por favor!" Then he put his hand on Shelby's arm and said, "Please, sir, you are frightening everyone!"

  But Shelby looked at him with eyes full of terror and grief, and said, "He came home for the Day of the Dead! Don't you git it?"

  The burly man with the Zapata mustache got a nod from Soltero, and for the firs
t time that evening he spoke in English.

  He said to Shelby, "Joo dreenk too much, amigo! Le's go out to the fresh air!"

  Shelby shoved him so hard he took the platter of carnitas with him crashing onto the floor.

  Then Abel leaped up, yelling, "Buey! Buey! Ees okay! Outside! We go outside!"

  By now most of the diners were on their feet. People were whispering, gesturing. Several men came forward.

  The mariachis, including the boy, had stopped playing. The lights remained dim, but Abel Durazo, with his arm crooked through the arm of Shelby Pate, led the ox toward the door.

  "We can't follow yet," Fin said. "Give them a few minutes."

  He and Nell kept putting money on the table to pay for the food and drinks until Nell said, "That's enough."

  "Lemme go alone!" Bobbie said. "He's so tanked he won't recognize me."

  "Watch yourselfl" Fin said. "Durazo isn't drunk. He might make you."

  Bobbie nodded, and put her purse strap over her shoulder on the way out.

  "Should I have let her go alone?" he asked Nell. "Can she handle it?"

  "Of course not," Nell said. "Women don't have testicles, we have ovaries. We keep forgetting that."

  After the disturbance was over, the diners went back to eating, and the mariachis stopped searching for The Lost Child. The musical interlude had ended for the time being.

  Abel Durazo led Shelby Pate back through the passageway toward the busy street, with Shelby bouncing from one wall to the other as he tried to negotiate the narrow corridor. Soltero and his companions stood in the small patio for a moment, whispering in Spanish, paying no attention to Bobbie when she walked past them on her way out of Sombras.

  When she emerged onto the street the traffic from pedestrians and cars had totally clogged Revolution. Most of the deafening noise came from young Americans screaming at the top of their lungs. Not at anything in particular, just screaming. Bobbie saw Shelby Pate leaning against a wall, rubbing his face as though he couldn't feel it. Abel Durazo stood in front of him gesturing wildly and yelling things she couldn't make out.

  Bobbie walked directly behind Abel and when she was nearly at the corner, she ducked into a doorway to observe them unseen. She was startled by a whimper and looked down at a bony, mangy, flea-bitten mongrel dog, chewing on a sandwich wrapper and looking at her fearfully.