I leaned forward. “Did you give the order, Aguinalda, or was it your husband's idea?"
As I talked, Aguinalda's flippancy disappeared. She drank heavily and then, losing all inhibition, pulled something out of the small drawer in the coffee table. Cocaine. She offered me a snort. I declined. Although I did help myself to more brandy.
"Your husband went too far,” I said. “He killed that young woman. He killed Juanita Maria Silva."
Aguinalda nodded somberly. “Yes. It must've been an accident. He's a good man."
I stared at her, contemplating murder.
Nervously, Aguinalda sipped more brandy.
"That girl,” she said, “that Juanita Silva, she was a talented girl, wasn't she?"
"Very."
"Part Indian, I suppose, but really what the hell difference does it make?"
I didn't answer.
"By the way,” she asked, “what's your interest in all this?"
I swallowed before I answered, keeping firm control of my voice.
"Juanita Silva was my niece."
Aguinalda pulled a pack of cigarettes out of the drawer, offered me one, but I refused. She lit one of the long filter-tips, puffed on it two or three times, and then crushed it out in a crystal ashtray.
"No sense starting again,” she said. “Took me months to kick the habit.” She crossed her arms and gazed at me. “So what are they going to do with my husband?"
"Big trouble,” I said.
"Unless he murders you too."
"Too late. My attorney knows everything."
This was a lie. But I told it as convincingly as I could.
A car pulled up in the driveway. Aguinalda Portillo glanced toward the sound. Then she jumped lightly to her feet, straightened the pleats in her dress, and peeked out the Venetian blinds, staring past rivulets of rainwater.
"He's home,” she said.
Aguinalda Baca Portillo reached once again into the drawer in the coffee table. Like the fabled cornucopia it first offered up cocaine and then nicotine and now something a little more frightening: a Smith & Wesson.38 revolver.
She pointed it at my nose.
"It's loaded,” she said.
"I don't doubt it."
"And I know how to use it."
"I don't doubt that either."
She made me stand and empty my pockets and then had me lift my T-shirt to make sure I was unarmed. Then she had me turn around and lift my pant legs. When she was satisfied, she said, “You'll walk in front of me about five paces. We'll walk though the door and out into the yard. If you make any funny moves, I'll shoot you. Entiendes?"
"Got it,” I answered.
* * * *
We stepped out into the rain.
Portillo climbed out of his silver BMW. When he spotted me, he stepped quickly around the car. He wore black slacks and a white shirt without a tie. Regal. As ramrod straight as a matador planted in the center of la plaza de toros.
Aguinalda turned toward me and said, “You stand right here. If you move, I'll shoot you."
I nodded my understanding.
Then she turned, spread a smile across her face, and bounded like a young girl across the wet lawn. Still holding the pistol in her hand, she leapt into her husband's arms, hugged him, and kissed him on the neck.
"What is it?” Portillo asked. “What's he doing here?"
Aguinalda Baca didn't answer, she just continued to cling to her husband, pressing her face against his white shirt. Then she pushed herself away from him.
"He knows,” she said. “And soon, everyone will know. They'll humiliate us. All the Chicanos will laugh at us. All the vatos. All the cholas. We'll be put in prison. Like common criminals."
"Don't worry,” Portillo said. “I'll take care of everything."
She shook her head, tears flowing now, makeup and mascara running down puffed cheeks.
"There's a way out,” Portillo said. “There's always a way out."
I took a step toward them.
Portillo made a quick move and snatched the pistol from his wife's grip. He pointed it at me.
I hesitated. My mind said continue forward, die like a man. Force Portillo to shoot you. My original plan was to come here, get close to him, and reach out and strangle him with my bare hands, as I had sworn to do when I'd first seen Juanita's body lying in that drainage ditch. But maybe the flesh is wiser than the mind. Despite my orders, my body stopped. I stood still, not twenty feet from the loving couple.
Portillo smiled.
His wife looked back and forth between us, her face a mask of worry. I knew what she was thinking. There's no way out. They were sure to be caught. Tears streamed from her eyes, but then she composed herself. The serenity that overcame her was that of someone who's made an important decision. Somehow, she managed to smile, then she stepped closer to her husband.
Portillo glanced at his wife but by now she had closed the gap between them and she was hugging him again, pressing her red hair fully up against his chest, her eyes shut, tears falling from wrinkled lids. Deftly, she twisted the pistol out of her husband's hand and shoved the barrel firmly up beneath his heaving rib cage.
I should've known earlier. But I'd been too self-involved.
Time, as so often happens when lives are at stake, took on a new set of physical properties. It started to move sluggishly, like syrup being poured.
"No!” I shouted. Suddenly, my body was set free and I sloshed through the mud, but my feet felt heavy. I wasn't moving fast enough.
I understood now why Aguinalda Portillo had been so open with me. She'd known from the beginning, maybe from the moment she'd seen me standing on her porch, that it was over. And knowing that, she'd wanted to talk. To get a few things off her chest. Maybe mitigate some of the shame she felt for allowing Juanita to be murdered. Maybe tonight she had harbored a glimmer of hope that her husband would set things right, as he had set so many things right before, but now she knew he had failed. Their world would collapse. If not now, soon. And forever.
The blast jolted Portillo upright.
Someone screamed. I think it was me.
Once again, Lieutenant Ruben Portillo stood as ramrod straight as a matador in the bull ring. But this time his posture was that of a matador who'd been gored in the belly. A look of surprise filled his face. His knees buckled and he clutched his stomach, blood running between splayed fingers. He stared incredulously at his wife.
She was crying even harder now, shouting, screaming so loudly that I couldn't make out the words. And then they started to make sense. She was screaming that she loved him.
I was still moving toward her. Once again the gun recoiled wildly in her nervous grip. I threw my hands up, thinking she had fired toward me, and I threw myself into the mud.
Aguinalda Baca's husband had crumpled to the ground, his knees sinking slowly into the soft earth.
I tried to rise back to my feet but couldn't. All the strength seemed to have left my legs.
Aguinalda Baca stroked the back of her husband's head with her bare palm, crying all the while, mumbling something indecipherable with moist lips. Then she pressed the barrel of the.38 up against the temple of the famous detective.
Ruben Portillo gazed up at her, wonder filling his big eyes.
Two words come out of her mouth. “Te adoro."
Then she pulled the trigger.
Portillo's skull jerked back, red blood exploded in a million tiny droplets, and his lifeless body collapsed.
I managed to find my footing and took a lurching step forward.
Aguinalda pirouetted. Her eyes, full of tears, focused on my face. She pointed the pistol at me and a hideous smile spread across her rouged lips.
"We looked good,” she said. “We always looked good, didn't we?"
Then she twisted her wrist awkwardly, opened her mouth, and stuck the barrel between her pearly white teeth.
A blast filled the universe.
* * * *
When the cop
s arrived at La Casa de Portillo, they knocked me flat on the wet grass, turned me over, cuffed me, and when they realized that one of their own was dead, they beat the holy albóndigas out of me.
My public defender was some kid with a freshly inked diploma from some mail-order law school but he handled himself like a pro. First, he forced the LAPD to run a ballistics test on the slug that had taken the life of Leo Barreras. The test matched the hunting rifle found in the trunk of Portillo's BMW.
However, the LAPD wasn't ready to give up a Latino hero so easily. They claimed that by shooting Chuy the Squirrel, Lieutenant Portillo had, in fact, been performing top-flight police work. If he hadn't shot Chuy, then Chuy would've shot me.
When you're cooling your heels in the L.A. County lockup, you learn not to quibble over details. But what bothered me was how the LAPD played Juanita's death.
There was no direct evidence linking Portillo to Juanita's murder, and no one wanted to listen to my take on the sequence of events that had led to her death. Still, a reasonable doubt was raised, and on that basis, all charges against Henry Carranza were dropped. A quid pro quo. Henry the quid. The honor of the LAPD the quo.
Did the LAPD suspect me of murdering Ruben Portillo and his wife? Of course they did. But the pistol that had actually killed Ruben was found with only his wife's prints on it and it was obvious to even the first cops on the scene that she'd used the pistol to take her own life. The question was, had I forced her into committing the murder and then the suicide?
The presumption was pretty farfetched. No one had ever heard of any such crime being perpetrated before—at least not on an experienced cop and his wife—but the LAPD would've been willing to go with it if it hadn't been for my public defender. He organized the evidence I had given him so well, and presented it so forcefully, that the cops knew that if they brought me to trial, not only would I tarnish the memory of Lieutenant Ruben Portillo but, more importantly, that evidence would bring to light a long history of corruption in the LAPD.
When my “interrogators” couldn't beat a confession out of me, somebody at City Hall made the final decision.
All charges against me were dropped.
* * * *
Three days after his death at the hands of his wife, Lieutenant Ruben Portillo was feted to the funeral of a hero. A big black hearse, lines of motorcycle cops, and an honor guard of uniformed police. The mayor attended, along with the chief of police.
I sat in Ezzy's front room, watching the ceremony on cable. Mercifully, she was at Catholic Mass.
The entire Gang Unit stood at attention in dress blues. When the mayor took the podium and started to say what a wonderful guy Portillo had been, it was more than I could stand. I cursed and grabbed the remote and flicked off the power.
I slipped on my coat and walked the five blocks over to El Cinco de Mayo Park. The rain had disappeared finally and sunshine once again filled the L.A. sky.
When I reached the park, a sudden gust of wind carried the fresh scent of the ocean in from the Pacific. It made me think of Juanita, of how she would so enjoy this day at the park and how she would make everyone laugh and how she would turn this beauty that surrounds us into a dance.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Copyright © 2005 by Martin Limón.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Our Daughter is in Heaven by Elaine Menge
Walt let the dog's leash dangle as he stopped to view the house they were passing. The look of awe on his face set Gwen's teeth on edge. Piccolo, their miniature long-haired dachshund, gazed up at Walt with equal ardor. “Beautiful,” Walt said. “Look at those pointy windows. Like a New England church, don't you think? Lots of clean, clear light."
Late Texas Gothic, Gwen said to herself, awarding her husband's comment an agreeable nod. He was too easily impressed. If she told him what an architectural mish-mash she thought the house truly was, he'd draw in, show wounded disapproval. After five years of marriage she found it best to keep quiet than differ with Walt on matters of taste.
Gwen reached out and tugged the leash's slack line. Like a miniature donkey, Piccolo resisted, backing toward the middle of the street. “Car's passing! Watch out!"
Walt reeled the leash in as a Lexus SUV blew by. He rolled his eyes. “You're way too protective. Piccolo wouldn't run in front of that car."
She would in a heartbeat, Gwen thought. They both knew Piccolo wasn't blessed with brains. “You really need to rein her in when cars pass. Gosh, I wish this neighborhood had sidewalks. I didn't notice that when we put in the offer."
"See how those windows are set?” Walt pointed at the same house. “I think the architect who did ours must've designed this one too."
Gwen eyed the many-gabled home, delivered another stage nod. Right, and no doubt the architect who'd done theirs had done most of the houses around here. Variation on a theme. The House of Seven Gables to the power of ten. How many roof angles were possible? It was as if the designer asked himself, How many peaks can I fit in a linear foot?
She glanced at the house next to the one Walt was admiring. Oh boy, there was another of those weird signs: a big plyboard cutout of a soccer ball staked in the garden with the words A HIGHLANDER TIGER LIVES HERE! printed beneath the cartoon ball. Beside it a cutout of a pom-pom announced A HIGHLANDER LASSIE LIVES HERE!
"I've never seen signs like these before,” Gwen said. “Some even include the kids’ names. It's a perfect smorgasbord for a pedophile. You've got the name, address, the child's ruling interest..."
Walt shrugged. “I think it's a neat idea."
Gwen took the leash from Walt and gave it a quick pull, jerking the dachshund's interminable snout out of a Mexican heather bush. “And we really can't let her nose around bushes. She's allergic to bees, and sometimes wasps nest in bushes."
"Overprotective.” Walt laughed. “Once we have a kid, you're going to be so ... The kid won't be able to do anything."
Gwen felt a jab of anger. About Piccolo she didn't mind being direct. “It's too bad you weren't along when I raced her to the vet. Anaphylactic shock—not pretty. And that was New Orleans. The emergency vet here is even farther away! And these things always happen after hours."
"Yada, yada, yada.” Walt strolled on, hands in pockets.
"Twice I went through that,” said Gwen, following. “I know you love Piccolo, but you need to anticipate what she can get into. But yada, yada. That's all you can say."
"I thought you liked our house,” said Walt.
"What? Where'd that come from?"
"I could tell from your expression when we passed that one back there. You seem to be putting down all the houses, all of Brigadoon. You don't like our house?"
"I love it.” Gwen faced Walt, tried to link up with his eyes, but Walt stared at a distant rooftop as if something important had just landed on its peak. “I love the windows,” Gwen continued, “and I'm thankful it isn't a house of more than seven gables.” She laughed. “But it's seductive, this whole community. Perfect, but what a price. Brigadoon. Can you believe we live in a place called Brigadoon?"
"You'd rather loud music and non-stop basketball games?"
Gwen didn't answer that one. She missed New Orleans, but she did not miss the noise. The city was a mess. People threw trash out their windows and cruised the potholed streets in mufflerless bombs, the school system was a shambles, and the crime rate was the worst in the country. But it was her hometown. The people might be as messy as the streets, but they were real, just themselves, without apology.
"At least New Orleans has character,” she said after many steps. “Bad character, maybe, but the folks around here are robots. ‘Hi, how are ya,'” she mimicked. “'Love your grass, just love your little doggie-poo. See my Lexus? See my Eddie Bauer Land Rover? My cute shiny Mini Cooper? My cuter Vespa? Imagine my bucks. The bucks and bucks we have.’ Christ, Walt. How did we land here?"
He shook his head in beat with his stride. “Well, we're Texans now. Get us
ed to it."
"This isn't Texas. It's Disneyland. Sam Houston would die of embarrassment. Oh boy, here comes another one.” Staked beside a thin-trunked oak in front of a mock Tudor home was a huge cutout of a ballerina, the name Adrienne printed down one leg. Emblazoned on the tutu's sash were the words: COLLINS COLLEENS—DANCE CAPTAIN. Amongst azalea bushes across the street stood a plyboard trumpet: OUR SON PLAYS IN THE COLLINS COUGARS BAND. FIRST CHAIR TRUMPET was added with a black marker. “Well, la-di-da,” Gwen muttered. “This is getting competitive."
The street made a gentle, uphill S-curve. They strolled on. Just ahead stood another multi-gabled home, its neat green lawn filling the belly of the street's curve. River stones defined an island garden near the driveway planted with butterfly iris, amaryllis, and cyclamen. Another sign, this one mounted on two thick wooden legs, reared up just behind the butterfly iris, angled to face the walkers.
As Gwen approached, she noticed this sign was more sophisticated. Its legs were made of a glossy, expensive wood, and it was fashioned like a giant frame. Glass was even involved in its construction. The sun glared off it, making her squint.
"What now?” she said. “Coming up on the right."
Walt visored a hand above his brow. “A portrait?"
Gwen jutted her head forward to catch the first clear glimpse of the approaching face. “Of a girl? No real estate agent, that's for sure. Looks like a yearbook picture."
"A blonde.” Walt raised his brows, as if contemplating a dumb blonde joke he thought better of repeating. “Like you. That could be your hair."
Yes, Gwen thought. Even the hairline, the slight widow's peak, was like her own. The color portrait was bigger than life-size, about three feet wide by five feet tall. The girl's pale yellow hair stood out against a garishly vivid aqua background typical of those in photographers’ studios.
AHMM, June 2005 Page 10