AHMM, June 2005

by Dell Magazine Authors

  The tunnels were larger now and I could stand up, or almost. Hunched over like some enormous chimpanzee, I moved through the maze as if I knew where I was going. But I didn't. I had no clue. The darkness was absolute.

  Behind, the footsteps of the shooter stayed close. So close, I imagined I could hear heavy breathing.

  Slowly, inexorably, I pulled away from him, and fled into the darkness.

  * * * *

  I steeped in the hot tub.

  My black suit and my underwear and my socks and even my tie, were knotted in a plastic bag, ready for the dumpster. The material was beyond cleaning. After fleeing through that vile storm drain for what seemed hours, I finally spotted light and crawled back up into the land of the living, the shooter nowhere in sight.

  The murder of Chuy the Squirrel made no sense. If somebody other than Henry Carranza had murdered Juanita, why would they want to murder the prime witness against Henry? Unless, of course, Chuy was lying and Chuy had known the identity of the real killer.

  Why would the shooter have chased me through the flood drain? To eliminate a witness? Unlikely. He or she had fired from the tree line on a dark night, completely concealed. All the shooter would've had to do was leave the park. Free as a bird. Instead, the shooter took the risk of coming after me—not even sure whether or not I was armed—and entered that hole of a drainage ditch. That was determination.

  Only one possible motive: to stop my investigation into the death of Juanita Maria Silva. An idea began to develop in my fevered brain. Amorphous yet. Nothing more than a phantom forming in shadows. I'd need evidence to force the phantom to take on a recognizable shape.

  To take on a face.

  * * * *

  When I awoke, it was almost noon. I shaved and dressed quickly. No more suits hanging in my closet. I'd been running through them mercilessly during the last few days. Instead, I had to settle for blue jeans, sneakers, and a T-shirt that said something about always trusting your urges. I even slipped on an L.A. Dodgers cap. For once, I was your typical Angelino.

  I decided to have lunch at Taquería Guaymas. The place was mostly empty so I sat at a table near the front window and ordered a bowl of albóndigas.

  Taped to the wall behind the cashier was a large, hand-painted poster touting the next performance of El Teatro Azteca. Juanita's name was on it. Supposedly, she'd be performing this Saturday. I considered asking the owner to take it down but finally decided not to bother. As long as there was something left to remind us, she wasn't completely gone.

  I called the waitress over. She was short and dark and told me that she had only recently arrived from Chiapas. I asked her about the poster. She told me that el jefe, the boss, was very proud of the poster because he had contributed money to the program so the local kids could show the Anglo world how wonderful the folk dances of Mexico really were.

  "Your boss donated money?” I asked.

  She nodded, her eyes widening slightly as if curious as to why I thought that to be so strange. I thanked her and she went back to her work of folding cloth napkins behind the counter.

  I sipped on my coffee. A thought came to me. I pulled out the ledger that I had found in Juanita's room.

  Dates, initials, numbers. Small numbers like ten, fifteen, twenty. Before, I had thought those numbers might represent multiples of ten. Or a hundred. Now I reconsidered. The numbers were probably accurate. That's how much Juanita had actually received. Ten dollars, fifteen dollars, twenty dollars. That would make sense if she were asking for donations from small local merchants. And the dates made sense too—the weeks leading up to the last performance of El Teatro Azteca.

  The initials were the key that unlocked everything. I had only noticed the posters for El Teatro Azteca in two places, La Panaderia Zapata, where I bought bolillos most mornings, and here at Taquería Guaymas. Could it have been placed in many more shops? I scanned the ledger for the initials LPZ and ETG. They were there, next to dollar figures. I envisioned the shops on Whittier and Brooklyn in East L.A., matching their names to the initials listed. Muebleria del Norte, Libreria de la Raza, Mariscos de Mazatlán. They were all there. A perfect match.

  There had never been anything mysterious about this ledger. Or the five hundred dollars I had found in the toe of Juanita's hiking boot. All she had done was go door to door with posters rolled up under her arm and asked for contributions for the kids of El Teatro Azteca. If this ledger was any indication, Juanita had seldom been rebuffed. Most of the local merchants were probably happy to contribute a few dollars and then to proudly display the poster announcing that a new generation of Chicanos was carrying on the traditions of the homeland.

  No drug dealing involved.

  I felt like an ass. What kind of cop was I?

  A failed one. And now a failed private dick.

  * * * *

  Using the yellow pages, geography, and shoe leather, I systematically checked every entry in Juanita's ledger. The businesses that had contributed formed a circle around El Cinco de Mayo Park and El Teatro Azteca. Within an hour, I had accounted for every set of initials except one: LEDLR. I checked the yellow pages again. No such business was listed. Maybe it wasn't a business, but a person. That was a lot of initials for one person's moniker. Then it dawned on me—a non-profit organization. I continued walking in circles around the park, expanding my search block by block. Finally, I spotted it. LEDLR. La Esperanza de la Raza. The Hope of the Race.

  A two-storey, cement block building painted blue with a huge mural depicting the heroic struggles of the Mexican people. The valiant brown faces were crisscrossed with the mad black lines of gangbanger graffiti.

  The building held a large boxing gym. About a half dozen heavy bags swung listlessly in the warm afternoon air. Inside the ring, a couple of featherweights sparred with only slightly more gusto than the heavy bags were showing. On the other side of the building was an arts and crafts center. This was busier than the gym. Mostly girls inside, ranging in ages from seven to about twelve.

  I searched for the administrative office and found it, the door locked, at the back of the boxing gym. As I rattled the doorknob, I looked around to see if anyone was watching me. Not a soul. I pulled out the filed-down screwdriver and the narrow metal chopstick I use in these situations, and after fumbling with the lock for a few moments, the door popped open. I entered quickly and shut the door behind me. Ahead, two file cabinets against the wall, a desk, a typewriter. No computer.

  I started with the file cabinet. Ten minutes later, I found what I was looking for: a copy of the Letter of Determination for tax exempt status. It included the name of the chief executive officer: Aguinalda Baca.

  I had a hunch who she might be.

  * * * *

  At City Hall, I paid seven fifty for a certified copy of Aguinalda Baca's marriage certificate. It confirmed what I had feared. I meant to fold the document carefully and place it in my pocket. Instead, standing in front of the startled clerk, I crushed it with my bare hands.

  * * * *

  How many heroes take public transportation to the final showdown? Not Wyatt Earp. Not Eliot Ness. Certainly not Gary Cooper.

  But Gonzo Gonzales does. I don't own a car. As a repo man, it makes life easier. I just show up, grab the car, and deliver it to its rightful owner. Besides, I like the feeling of not being beholden to either Detroit or Tokyo. They can keep their expensive toys and twist in the wind as far as Gonzo Gonzales is concerned.

  Kids in the back of the bus were playing their portable radios at full blast, but I wasn't listening. I only thought of what had happened since I first received that frantic phone call from Ezzy.

  When Juanita went to La Esperanza de la Raza to request a contribution for El Teatro Azteca, she'd stumbled upon something she had never imagined. Maybe she saw Los Diablitos hanging around. Maybe it dawned on her that the long-standing operation at El Cinco de Mayo Park for selling drive-through drugs to gringos was too good to be true. Or maybe her boyfriend, Henry Carra
nza, had spilled something to her. Even if he hadn't intended to, Juanita was smart enough to pick up on the slightest revelation.

  Los Diablitos were paying for protection. It all made sense, except for one vital link. Who was providing the protection?

  Aguinalda Baca's marriage certificate and her married name filled in that piece of the puzzle. Her husband was providing the protection. And he was the same man who murdered Juanita to keep her quiet, then murdered Chuy the Squirrel, hoping to pin that murder on me.

  The same guy in every case. The same hand behind the entire operation. The same fallen hero. The same angel who'd become a devil.

  I should've realized it when he told me so quickly that the informant was Leo Barreras. When he turned over the arrest to the glory-hungry Gang Unit. Who else could've put so much pressure on Leo Barreras, alias Chuy the Squirrel, to lie about a murder? Who else could've ordered Lalo Quintana, the leader of Los D's, to beat me up and tell me to meet Chuy at midnight in the center of El Cinco de Mayo Park?

  In our neighborhood, only one man had that much power.

  When I reached my stop, I took a transfer slip from the driver, waited twenty minutes, and then caught another bus heading north. We crossed the low-lying range of the Santa Monica Mountains and then rolled down into a smog-filled valley named after a saint called Fernando.

  * * * *

  I made my way up Emerald Avenue.

  The wind from the Pacific picked up and started to blow in gusts. Then the first splats of rain hit the sidewalk. An old pal on the force, Mike Fuentes, had given me the address and some background information on Aguinalda Baca. He and some other cops had come up here from time to time for impromptu get-togethers. By the time I arrived at the wrought-iron gates of La Casa de Portillo, a steady drizzle filled a slate gray sky.

  The house in Woodland Hills was quiet. No car in the driveway. No dog barking. No parakeets chirping. Light seeped through the front window. I followed a flagstone path to the front porch and then rapped on the door with a brass knocker in the shape of a wickedly horned bull.

  No answer.

  I shook raindrops off my fedora and rang the bell. When there was still no answer, I started to pound on the door with my fist. I prayed she was home because it was Lieutenant Portillo's wife I wanted to talk to. I had a copy of the marriage certificate in my pocket.

  I was about to walk toward the side of the house and check around back when suddenly the front door swiveled open.

  "Can't you be more patient?"

  She was about average height with red hair puffed slightly on top, an attractive pixie-like face, and a nice figure.

  "Aguinalda Baca?” I asked.

  She crossed her arms over a blue flower-print dress cinched at the waist by a lavender belt. “Mrs. Portillo,” she answered.

  "I used to know a family named Baca,” I said. “One of the brothers went to Roosevelt High."

  "What do you want?"

  "To talk,” I said. “About your husband."

  Her eyes remained dead. It took some convincing, but eventually she must've realized two things. One, that I wasn't going to hurt her and, two, that I wasn't going away. She opened the door wider and let me in.

  The front room of the Portillos’ home was a work of art. Atop the mantle, below what appeared to be a hand-carved silver crucifix, hung a huge color photograph of Inspector Portillo shaking hands with a man in the black flowing robes of an evangelical preacher. I recognized him from TV. Next to Portillo, beaming, stood an attractive Hispanic woman—Aguinalda.

  Protestants. Evangelical ones at that. First they leave the barrio, then they leave the Church. But who the hell was I to criticize? I had avoided my religious duties for so long that if I decided after all these years to make my confession, the priests would have to listen in shifts.

  The sofa and settee and chairs seemed to be made of teak or mahogany. And the upholstery was stitched with an elaborate maze of petals and vines. Vases, both crystal and porcelain, were filled with fresh roses and lilies.

  More framed photographs surrounded the walls. The Portillos posing in front of various European tourist attractions: The Eiffel Tower, the Colosseum in Rome, Big Ben in London. One of the more beautiful photographs appeared to be of the Alhambra in Granada, Spain. They both wore berets in that one and smiled as broadly as it is humanly possible to smile.

  All this on a cop's salary?

  Mrs. Portillo read my mind.

  "My husband and I take great pride in our home,” she said. “Every extra dollar has been invested in what you see. And we take great pride in our heritage. That's why we made a point of visiting Spain."

  We sat on hand-embroidered upholstery in her exquisite front room while I started to explain why I was there. She stopped, excused herself, and left for about ten minutes.

  She could have called her husband on his cell phone. But I didn't figure that was what she was doing. She seemed intrigued by my presence somehow. I fidgeted on the couch, losing my confidence with each second that ticked by on the big grandfather clock against the wall, half expecting her to return now with a pistol. Instead, she walked back in carrying a silver tray, set it on the coffee table, and poured us both a cup of tea.

  I noticed that she was less defensive now. Her hands were relaxed, her green eyes had a sparkle to them that I hadn't seen before. A false sparkle, like cheap fireworks on the Fourth of July. The kind of sparkle I'd seen hundreds of times in the eyes of the kids who hang out at El Cinco de Mayo Park.

  She was busy ladling sugar into a porcelain cup when I said, “Does your husband supply you?"

  She froze, her arm still outstretched. “What are you talking about?"

  "You're using,” I answered.

  She stared at me long and hard, as if trying to decide what kind of person I was. Finally, she spoke.

  "What of it? I'm not the only person in the world with bad habits."

  I have to admit that she kept her cool. Showing no visible reaction, she reached to the end of the table and grabbed a decanter of brandy. She poured two shots and then pushed the tea cups out of the way. Grabbing the booze, we clinked glassware, and I said, “Salud.” We both drank deeply.

  "I know about your arrest record,” I told her. This was some more of the information Mike Fuentes had dug up for me. “A few times for hooking in Venice. The last bust was in East L.A., Boyle Heights to be exact, and the arresting officer was your current husband, Lieutenant Ruben Portillo."

  She stared at me impassively, sipping her brandy.

  "The alias on your sheet was Nelda. You'd been working out of Venice but for some reason you decided to go independent and started working a different neighborhood. It didn't last long. Ruben busted you almost before you got started."

  I stared into her deep green eyes. No movement. No protest either.

  "You moved in with him. Later, you two were married."

  Unconsciously, she glanced at her ring. A huge rock that must've set Ruben Portillo back a few thousand bucks.

  "Things were fine. You joined an Anglo church. Pretty good for a couple of Chicanos."

  "Hispanics,” she said. “Chicanos are Mexicans."

  She sat silently for a while, gazing at the far wall. A gust of wind rattled the front window and rain like BBs spattered the pane. Still, Aguinalda Baca sat without moving. Maybe she decided that there was no sense trying to hide the truth anymore. Maybe she decided that it would be nice to finally discuss old times with a third party. Maybe she decided that her husband would kill me soon anyway. Whatever her reasons, she poured us both more brandy. I smelled her perfume and as she leaned across the coffee table, she allowed me a glimpse down her loose neckline.

  "I've been a good wife to him,” she said. “And he knew my grandmother. Not from Mexico. A lady from Sevilla whose family had to leave Spain when she was a child during the Civil War. And my grandfather, he was a hacendado near Guadalajara. His family spent two hundred years in Mexico and emerged without one drop of
Indian blood.” She drank again, staring at me slyly over the lip of her tumbler. “I doubt you can say the same for your family."

  "I'm sure I can't,” I answered. “Does your husband feel the same way about mestizos?” People of mixed European and Indian blood.

  "I'm not sure if he did at first. But all those years at Hollenbeck. All the violence. All the stupidity."

  Now I had a better idea of what kind of couple Aguinalda Baca and Ruben Portillo were. Racists. Of the type found south of the border. Always claiming to be white Europeans, looking down their pointed noses at los indios working in the fields.

  "This home,” I said, “the trips to Spain, the nice cars. Maybe even the charitable contributions that bought you so much influence with your gringo church, it all added up, didn't it?"

  Aguinalda stared at me, slightly amused.

  I continued.

  "So your credit cards were maxed out, maybe your home mortgaged for its full value, maybe you had a ton of consumer loans outstanding, and, of course, your husband wouldn't want you to work. Not the granddaughter of a lady from Sevilla. Without skills, what could you do? Clean motel rooms? Not suitable for the wife of a rich Castilian hacendado. That would make you look too much like the poor women of East L.A."

  This brought Aguinalda Portillo alive. She sat up straight, her breasts trying to burst out of her silk blouse.

  "You needed money,” I continued. “So your husband set up this deal. Or maybe it was your idea. Provide protection for Henry Carranza and Los Diablitos so they could deal their drugs in peace at El Cinco de Mayo Park. They pay for the privilege, but instead of putting the money in your pocket directly, you filter it through La Esperanza de la Raza, a non-profit organization. When you want to take a trip to Spain, you let the organization pay for it. When you want to buy influence with your gringo church, you let the organization make the contribution. A sweet deal. But then some girl from the barrio comes along asking for contributions to El Teatro Azteca. She sees things, she hears things, and she picks up clues from Henry Carranza, the leader of Los D's. She's a smart girl and she puts it all together and suddenly she knew all the things you've been trying to keep secret for so long. And suddenly you knew something had to be done about it. Something had to be done to protect yourself. To protect the Hope of the Race."