I stared at Henry and he stared back. The vato challenge. The standoff that can result in death if one of the combatants doesn't back down. But I wasn't backing down. Not with Juanita lying cold and naked on some mortician's pallet.
I wanted to reach through the bulletproof partition and grab little Henry Carranza by his well-muscled neck. I wanted to wring the truth out of him. Somehow, he murdered my niece. Maybe it hadn't been him who strangled her, maybe she had died at the hands of another criminal, but he was responsible nevertheless. Somehow, he enticed her into something that was more dangerous than she imagined.
"Talk to me, Henry,” I said.
"I have nothing to say."
"You're frightened now, Henry. I'm close to the truth. Maybe you're frightened of the guy who murdered Juanita. But think about this for a minute, Henry.” I leaned closer, until puffs of fog appeared on the glass between us. “If you don't help me find out who did this, and if you don't start helping me now, you're going to have to start being frightened of me."
* * * *
I spent the rest of the morning rousting some of the drug runners at El Cinco de Mayo Park. I finally convinced one of them to tell me what he knew about the whereabouts of Chuy the Squirrel. All he knew was that Chuy's mother worked at a tortilleria off Whittier Boulevard. Which one, he wasn't sure.
After wearing out some serious shoe leather, I found a place with a hand-painted blue and gold sign above the shop that said, LA TORTILLERIA INTERNACIONAL.
As I entered, a bell tinkled above the door. One long glass cooler held many types of queso, string cheeses imported from Mexico. Another held the pink and green sugary confections known as pan dulce, sweet bread. In the work area in the back, rotund women surrounded a wood burning stove, patting masa back and forth between their palms. When the discs were flat enough, they slapped them atop the heated stone surface. The air was filled with the pungent aroma of hot chili peppers and roasting corn.
A young woman with huge brown eyes and a bright red ribbon tied in her black hair stared at me from behind an ancient cash register.
"Señora Barreras está aqui?” I asked. Is Mrs. Barreras here?
One of the women preparing tortillas froze in mid pat.
Bingo. The big-eyed girl turned and stared at her. Another woman, one of the round ones standing near the stove, held her hand up to her mouth and said, “Aaeei."
Apparently, despite their establishment's grandiose name, the employees at La Tortilleria Internacional weren't used to a lot of visitors. Especially grown men in suits asking for a woman whose only claim to fame was that she could stand over a hot stove, hour after hour, patting out corn tortillas.
"Señora Barreras,” I said, addressing the woman who had frozen.
"Sí,” she answered warily.
"Your son.” I spoke to her in Spanish. “I wish to speak to him."
She was a round woman, almost as round as the wood-burning stove she toiled in front of. Her face was brown and wrinkled with worry. Long black pigtails, streaked with gray, fell down the sides of her head to her shoulders.
She handed the uncooked masa to the woman across from her. Then she wiped her hands on her white apron, shook her head negatively, and started to say something. I interrupted her.
"It's about the payment. We weren't sure if we should mail a check directly to Leo so I've brought it over. Of course, I'll need him to sign a receipt."
In their confusion, the women glanced at one another. “Un recibo,” the one by the stove said, as if in awe.
I pulled out my worn notebook, hoping it looked enough like a receipt book to fool these women at least for a moment.
"It's not that much money,” I told Mrs. Barreras. “Only fifty dollars. Still, don't you think Leo could use it?"
"Cincuenta dolares,” the same awestruck woman said.
The woman I assumed to be Leo Barreras's mother looked confused and then seemed to make a decision. She said, “Cómo no?"
Leo, she told me, was working at a garage not far from here and she would be happy to give the check to him. I thanked her for her consideration but told her that my boss insisted that I hand the check to Leo personally and insure that he sign a receipt. I tapped my notebook.
She nodded and assured me that she understood my dilemma.
Mexicans, before they're spoiled by life in the States, revel in exaggerated politeness. Even when they'd like nothing better than to cut your liver out, they'll smile and use fancy phrases and show their fellow human beings every verbal consideration. Of course, it's a show. But it's a pleasant show. I wished more Americans used it, instead of trying to impress one another with the extent of their four-letter-word vocabularies.
Señora Barreras waddled over to the counter. When the big-eyed girl behind the register offered her a paper and pencil, she stared at the writing implements as if they were radioactive. So as not to embarrass her, I grabbed the pencil and started to write.
On Whittier, she told me. Just past the Taco Bell across the street from the Exxon station. She pronounced the word as “X sown."
I didn't insult her by asking her the street number. If she knew it, she would've told me.
As I wrote, I told her she could be proud of her son. I really had no clue as to whether or not that statement was true, but when I said it she beamed. Then I said that Leo had earned every cent of this fifty dollars and I was certain that he had a fine future ahead of him. The other women in La Tortilleria Internacional absorbed every word. Señora Barreras led a hard life. Why not give her a moment of glory? Lord knows that for her those moments came few and far between.
I thanked her, tipped my hat, and walked out the door.
* * * *
The garage past the Exxon station near the Taco Bell was called Los Mecánicos Zacatecas.
It was one of those old stucco warehouse-type buildings built probably back in the thirties or even earlier. Instead of hydraulic lifts, there were four wood plank-edged pits dug into the earth. The floor was made of grease-stained cement, smooth, and still flaked with an ancient green paint job.
The place smelled of oil and solvent and sweat.
I stood on the edge of one of the double doors that led into the open bay, staring into dim light, searching for shadows. Nothing moved. I continued to stand perfectly still, letting my eyes adjust to the darkness.
Finally, a hulking shape emerged from beneath a car that hung suspended over one of the pits. The hulk rose to his feet and walked toward me. When the rays of outside light hit his face, I could see that he was a big Indian-looking man, holding a thick wrench in his gnarled fist.
"Donde está la ardilla?” I asked. Where's the squirrel?
The man frowned, looking like Geronimo must've looked after he discovered that the reservation he'd been promised didn't have water or game. He stepped toward me.
"Chuy,” I said. “Leo Barreras. His mother sent me. I owe him some money."
My words failed to dent the scowl covering the face of the big indio.
"I owe him fifty dollars,” I said.
The man's voice came out like a low growl. “Nobody owes Chuy that kind of money."
Without another word, he stepped forward, raising the wrench as he did so.
A tire iron leaned against the wall. My choice was to run or grab the tire iron. The memory of Juanita kept me from running. I grabbed the iron.
A door opened in the back of the garage. Dim yellow light from an overhead bulb filtered out. A slim figure, a young man in his early twenties, walked toward the pit. He wore baggy blue jeans and a T-shirt emblazoned with some sort of monstrous face that glowed in the dark. He was barefoot. Straight black hair stood up from his head in disarray.
"Chuy?” I asked.
The young man stared at me and then at the big Indian. “Who is it, Hector?"
The big indio didn't answer.
When Chuy turned his head and the light glistened off the side of his brown face, I saw it. Hideous black welts, as i
f someone had pounded him while he was down. A plaster cast enveloped his right thumb.
"Christ,” I said. “What happened to you?"
Chuy shrugged. The all-purpose East L.A. answer.
"Listen, Hector,” I said, glancing at the big man. “Can we talk for a minute? Without trying to brain each other?"
"Get out!” the mechanic ordered. “You cops have done enough."
"I'm not a cop,” I said. “I'm here on my own. I want to talk to Chuy about Henry Carranza."
The young man I assumed to be Chuy the Squirrel visibly flinched. The mechanic took two quick steps toward me and didn't stop until I raised the tire iron.
"I'm not going to hurt you,” I told Chuy. “I just want to hear what you told the cops."
"I told them what I saw,” Chuy said.
"And what was that?” When he didn't answer I spoke for him. “You were in the tunnel, weren't you? The tunnel that drains the gully where Juanita's body was found. I know what you are, Chuy. A runner. Drugs in, drugs out. Via the water drainage that stretches between the L.A. River and El Cinco de Mayo Park.” When he hesitated, I said, “You don't have to admit anything to me. Just tell me what you saw that night."
"I saw a guy."
"Chuy,” the mechanic said. “You don't have to talk to this cabrón."
Now that my eyes had fully adjusted to the dim light inside the garage, I had a clearer view of Leo Barreras. He was a little slow. Not only in his speech but in his facial responses. One eyelid drooped as if he was unable to raise it. His lips were twisted and didn't quite close all the way. That, along with a fallen cheek on the bad-eye side, made him look a lot like the rodent he'd been named after.
"I saw a guy,” Chuy said. “With a girl. He was strangling her."
"That's it. Just strangling her? Was he trying to get her to do anything?"
This seemed to confuse Chuy. “No."
"Was he asking her questions?"
"Yes. A lot of questions."
"About money?"
"I don't know. I didn't hear that part. He asked her about other things. Like whether or not she thought she was a princess and if she thought that was good or not."
Suddenly, I felt dizzy so I glanced up at the ceiling. Hanging from a low rafter over the pit was one of those ancient cast-iron hoist mechanisms, chains with a cable pulley and a heavy iron hook for replacing engine blocks. It was knotted against the far wall by a heavy rope tied to a post. I closed my eyes, forcing myself to picture the scene of Juanita being taunted by her killer. Apparently, Chuy the Squirrel was seeing the same thing. He stood with his shoulders hunched, staring at the ground.
"When she didn't tell him anything,” Chuy continued, “he tightened the rope. Then he'd ask her some more questions and tighten the rope again. Like that."
Anger rose up and clutched my throat like a tightening fist. I stepped toward Chuy. “Why didn't you do something?"
Without warning, Chuy the Squirrel started to cry, whimpering like a little boy. Hector the mechanic waved his wrench at me. I took the hint.
"All right, Chuy. Don't take it so hard. You did your best.” When he calmed down, I went at him again. “So who was it? Who was the guy strangling Juanita?"
"I don't know,” Chuy said, wiping his eyes with the back of his knuckles.
"What the hell do you mean? You were right there. You were looking at him."
"It was raining. I was in the tunnel."
"Then why did you tell the cops it was Henry Carranza?"
"Maybe it was."
"What do you mean maybe it was?"
The sarcasm in my voice caused the big mechanic to waggle his wrench once again. But now I didn't give a damn. I stepped forward, raising my tire iron.
"Who was it, Chuy? Who the hell killed Juanita?"
Chuy's lower lip started to quiver.
"What kind of man are you, Chuy?” I said. “An innocent girl was killed. A girl who didn't deserve to die and you won't tell me who the hell did it?"
The mechanic stepped toward me, but instead of backing off like he expected, I twisted my body and swung the tire iron viciously into his stomach. A great rush of air erupted from his mouth, he dropped the wrench, clutched his stomach, and curled over.
Chuy the Squirrel cowered against the wall. I stepped toward him. Before I was through with him, he'd tell me everything.
Something rattled behind me. Chains. And then something creaked. Something old and rusty and made of iron. Instinctively, I swiveled to my right. But before I could move out of the way, I saw it, the heavy iron hook, swinging straight for my head.
* * * *
Someone slapped my cheek.
My eyes cranked open like the rusty hinges of a garage door. I stared up at gray sky. Overcast. Threatening to rain. The leaves of palm trees rustled in a gentle breeze. A face hovered over me. A young Chicano man with a wispy mustache and a gold ring through his left nostril. His eyes were full of fire and intelligence. Definitely not Chuy the Squirrel.
"Levantase, cabrón,” he said. Get up.
Then he slapped me hard across the face. The sting on my flesh brought me fully awake. I wasn't so sure that I wanted to be awake. Rain or no rain, this wasn't turning out to be a great day. Hands grabbed my shoulders and jerked me to a sitting position. Gradually, an awareness of my surroundings seeped into my throbbing brain.
El Cinco de Mayo Park. Near the gully where Juanita was murdered. Vatos surrounded me. Their arms crossed, sneering. Laughing. I recognized some of the faces. They were famous in this neighborhood. As famous as young warlords. Los Diablitos. The Little Devils. The guy speaking was Lalo Quintana. Husky chest. Forearms rippling with blood veins and tattoos. If Lalo was talking while the others remained silent, that meant that he was their new leader.
Lalo slapped me again, harder this time. I struggled to rise to my feet, but more hands reached for me and held me in place.
Somehow I found my voice. “Where's Chuy?"
"Oye, Gonzo,” Lalo said. “We found you lying here like you decided to take a nice nap. That's not good. Running around asking questions and then sleeping in the park. You're being a pest, man."
"That's me. Always pestering people."
Lalo pointed both his forefingers at the center of his chest. “We have a business to run."
"So who's stopping you?"
"You're not listening to me, Gonzo. I got a message for you. An important message. Tonight, at midnight, you come back here, alone. Chuy the Squirrel will talk to you. You got that? Alone and unarmed. You and Chuy can talk all you want. After that, I want you to stay away from El Cinco permanently. Entiendes?"
Suddenly I was angry. I'm not sure why. Just angry. I raised myself to all fours.
"I got your entiendes,” I said, grabbing my crotch. “Right here hanging."
Apparently, Los Diablitos didn't appreciate the humor in that remark. In unison, the vatos bent their knees, leaned toward me, and ten sets of fists fell on me like a summer squall.
* * * *
The rain kept the crowd at El Cinco down to a bare minimum. At this time of night, midnight, there was no one in the park per se. Only on the edges. Punks loitering on the sidewalks selling drugs to the overpriced cars that cruised by. Here, beyond El Teatro Azteca and beyond the well-tended lawn, things were quiet. I stood on the edge of the gully and stared down into the pit.
Slowly, I turned in a complete circle, keeping my hands in my pockets, studying the shimmering darkness that surrounded me. The only light came from the street lamps on the edge of the park.
It was an obvious setup. Meet Chuy at midnight in the park. Alone. Unarmed. But what choice did I have? Now that Chuy knew I was looking for him, I'd never find him. Not unless I took a chance.
I picked out a clump of trees surrounded by bushes near the edge of the gully and stood beneath them. From there I could see the expanse of lawn behind me, El Teatro Azteca across the gully, and much of the thick clump of tropical forest lining the depr
ession that led down into the cement-lined flood drain. The same drain where Chuy the Squirrel once hid and watched as someone strangled and then killed Juanita Silva.
Water dripped off of palm trees and splashed into mud. Occasionally, a brief wind picked up, rustling big leaves. Other than that, nothing moved. Except for my twitching fingers, checking the revolver tucked snugly next to my heart.
Then, without any noise heralding his arrival, he was there. Standing at the edge of the gully about fifteen yards away, staring down into it, as if in prayer. Chuy wore only sneakers and blue jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt. He must've been cold. And wet. I couldn't tell from here whether he was armed.
I pulled the revolver out of its shoulder holster and stepped out from the shadow of the palm tree. At the edge of the gully, I turned and faced him.
"Why here, Chuy?” I asked. “Why didn't you talk to me earlier today when you had the chance?"
He raised his head, his moist brown eyes glimmering with moonlight.
"Here?” he asked. “I thought you were the one who wanted to meet me here."
Just then, a shot rang out, and Chuy the Squirrel's head exploded.
My knees crumpled and I dove forward, tumbling into the gully. Another shot splashed the mud beside me. I crawled until, like a giant eel, I slid through the broken and twisted iron bars that led into the storm drain.
Feet sloshed up to the edge of the gully. I peered out through the bars but the rain was falling again and the sky was darker than before. I couldn't make out much, just a shadowy figure, crouched next to where Chuy the Squirrel had fallen.
Man? Woman? Chicano? Anglo? No way to tell.
I groped at my shoulder holster. Empty. Somehow, I'd dropped my revolver outside in the mud.
Then the footsteps sloshed down into the gully. I pulled myself back into the darkness. The footsteps sloshed right up to the entrance of the storm drain.
I held my breath.
The bars rattled.
Suddenly, a great blast filled the tunnel. Involuntarily, I grabbed my ears. Something ricocheted off cement and whined through the narrow tube. The stench of burnt gunpowder invaded my nostrils.
Frantically, I searched myself for wounds. None. I was all right. I scuttled backwards into the tunnel, keeping low as I did so. Behind me, I heard the shooter stepping deeper into the network of storm drains. Coming after me.
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