The Innocents

by Richard Barre

  They’d almost rebuilt when Lisa decided otherwise.

  With effort Wil spun his mind away from it to the who and why of the Innocents, getting nowhere before his thoughts turned abstract. A species that preyed on its own: Every day there was some new horror; picking up the paper was like waiting for the other shoe to drop. There seemed to be no bottom anymore.

  Gradually the room brought him out of it, Raeann’s passion for creating everywhere. In one corner, a group of footstools shared a needlepoint pattern; from an upper shelf, watercolor owls stared at crocheted homilies. He spotted a photograph propped up in a brass frame: the family, scrubbed and smiling.

  Counterpoint.

  He snapped off the lamp.

  What once had been full was now empty, raucous now stilled. Cigarette smoke drifted in harsh light over green baize. There was the soft click of pool balls as two men took their turns. Now and then a sip of beer.

  Faraway, audible now in the bar’s late quiet, a ringing. Feet padding closer and a pointed finger. “Teléfono.”

  The man with the long scar, the shorter of the two, moved toward the alcove, the waiting call. Anyone noticing might have been struck by the man’s orange hair, light skin, freckles—especially knowing he was Mexican. No one was there, however, as he lifted the receiver.

  As always, he listened first.

  “It’s happening,” said the voice. “What you said would not happen is happening.”

  He allowed a respectful silence to pass, then, “Cuénteme, talk to me. What concerns you?”

  “Not what, who,” the voice said. “There have been inquiries—a man named Rodriguez has been very curious about you. Calls have been made. My sources told him you were dead, but the man persisted. Words to the wise, cuate. A small effort now would be time well spent.”

  The listener waited; when nothing more came, he sighed deeply. “Comprendo, patrón. Tomorrow—after some personal business.”

  “This Rodriguez lives in Van Nuys.” There was a soft rustle of paper. “The first name is Paul. I leave it to you.”

  The connection went dead in the man’s hand.

  The voices woke him, quiet as they were trying to be. He found them in the kitchen: Paul sitting with the paper, Raeann scurrying.

  “Wil, honey.” She smiled, stopped for a hug. “You look good, not so thin. We worried, you know—even if Rodriguez never told you.”

  “Thanks Raeann. You’re looking good too.” Raeann Rodriguez was gringa negra, the cocoa-skinned daughter of a black shopkeeper Paul’s family knew in Santa Barbara—how often had he heard the story? They’d noticed each other about the time Paul enlisted, spent the next thirty years riding out the calms and storms: one son, Tommy, a lot of service-mandated separation, flack from families deeply rooted in different ways.

  Not to mention cultures.

  Wil had long figured the reason he and Paul originally grew close stemmed not from common interests or professional respect but from the women they’d chosen—the unspoken bond between them. He also knew that whatever prejudices he’d felt directed at him and Lisa could be magnified a hundred times for Paul and Raeann.

  They were good people, enduring.

  Raeann Rodriguez eyed him. “You still could gain some.”

  “Time to have your eyes checked, babe.” He sniffed. “Whatever it is, I’m sold.”

  “Eggs and chorizo’s all.” She pointed to Paul. “Watch him, or he’ll be swiping yours.” She winked.

  Wil grinned; Paul rolled his eyes.

  “I’d love to hear what you’re up to,” she said. “But I’m off after bulrushes.” She jammed some things into an already stuffed bag, nodded at Paul. “I keep trying to interest the Chief in basketmaking, but he won’t do it. Tell him it’s fun, will you?”

  “I don’t know, he might bite me,” Wil said, watching her. She was still relatively trim, with deep hazel eyes and a burnished look to her skin. High cheekbones, a comfortable sort of pretty. She hoisted the bag and backed out. In a minute they heard the car starting, a good-bye toot.

  “Bulrushes my ass,” said Paul, pouring more coffee. As Wil ate, Paul told him they’d missed Ignacio Reyes last night. “He’s always at the restaurant. You think he’s okay?”

  “Yesterday was tough on him,” Wil said. “You know Gilberto?”

  “Sure, he runs the place. Nice enough kid—worked there long as we’ve been going, ten years about. Doesn’t seem very close to his pop, though.” Paul forked in illicit chorizo. “You gonna see him?”

  “Tonight, yes. You think he knows about this?”

  “Hard to say. Gilberto doesn’t let on much.”

  “Guess we’ll find out,” Wil said.

  Paul left for St. Boniface as Wil phoned Mo Epstein; they’d meet at eleven. At ten-fifteen he hit the Ventura freeway, then the Hollywood toward downtown. Gas fumes caressed the slow-moving traffic; ahead, high-rises lurked behind a gray curtain despite sun and blue sky overhead.

  By ten forty-eight he’d eased off the Broadway exit and parked at a meter across from the Hall of Justice. Waiting for the light, he ran his eyes up the Prohibition-era wedding cake. Stone leaves circled it; Doric columns pretended to support the top floors; air conditioners poked out. A dreadlocked man slept curled-up near the doors Wil entered at five-till.

  Mo Epstein was there in the lobby under an intricately waffled ceiling and large overhead fixtures with most of the bulbs lit. TV crews were waiting their turn while bright lights inside the Information Bureau signified interviews in progress.

  “Feeding time,” Mo said, watching two reporters argue. “What there is. Every day just makes everybody that much more peckish.”

  “Apply to the gentlemen we’re about to meet?” Wil asked.

  Mo nodded as they entered the elevator. “Them in particular. Watch your step here, pal. I’ve told them you’re okay, but they’re in no mood to futz around.”

  Homicide was seventh floor, down a lifeless marbled hall. Wil followed Mo Epstein into a conference room. Two men sat at one end of a long table; without rising, the larger man motioned them to hard-looking chairs, then spoke.

  “Mr. Hardesty, August Freiman—Captain to you. Lieutenant Epstein says you have something about the Saddleback killings that might interest Lieutenant Vella and myself. He also tells me you’re something of an investigator, actually make a living at it. Kind of an independent son-of-a-bitch as well. That anywhere close?”

  Wil tried a smile. “Lieutenant Epstein is too kind, I’m not that independent.” He waited for reaction, got none. Freiman was big and Germanic, blond gone bushy gray; florid face on a thick neck above a civic lunch gut. He was dressed in the bottom half of a dark glen plaid, starched yellow shirt, red tie. As though interrupted from something important, he looked out over half-glasses. On his right Vella was tall and dark-suited; vulnerable-looking by comparison. Fatigue showed in both faces: indoor pallor; dark bags under eye-drop eyes. And something else Wil knew well, the taut look of men too long on alert for a shadow adversary.

  He flashed on Mo’s warning look and started again: “What you said is correct, Captain. I’d like to help.”

  “Then do it.”

  “And be helped in return.”

  Freiman’s jaw twitched slightly. “Mr. Hardesty, I’ve met remoras like you before, and I’ll tell you to your face I don’t like private cops. You know something about the Innocents, I want it. Yesterday. And not just because of the well-meaners and wackos breathing down my neck.”

  Administrative menace: Wil had seen the act before, and he knew Mo had. Vella regarded the backs of his hands.

  Freiman went on. “Seven dead kids, Mr. Hardesty. You are familiar with the rules governing evidence, I assume. Particularly the part about withholding it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then?”

  “Enough to know I’m not obligated by law to tell you anything.”

  Freiman looked at Mo Epstein, then back at Wil. “Perfect—just perfect.
Our reward for laws like that, I suppose. Mr. Hardesty, you even have kids?”

  “Captain—” Epstein began.

  “No,” Wil said.

  “No, I didn’t think so. This your great white hope, Epstein?”

  “Look,” Wil said. “What you think is your business. My situation is that I represent a client who is peripherally involved. Not as a suspect, but with a possible link to one of the victims. My client remains anonymous—that isn’t negotiable. However, in addition to the link, which could shed light on the possible reason for the killings, I’m prepared to offer you the name of a potential suspect. Now, that’s my situation. With all due respect, yours is best explained by that scene in the lobby. To be blunt, you seem to have a creekful of shit and no paddle.”

  The blood left Freiman’s face for a few seconds, then came pumping back. Epstein looked at the ceiling as Vella jumped in.

  “Not a real productive attitude, Mr. Hardesty.”

  “Real sorry about that.”

  “More like a luxury you can’t afford. Maybe you need time to reflect on that among types who’d be less interested in your attitude and more with your involvement. Men with a steel-door code about child murder. You think I’m kidding?”

  “No, Lieutenant, I don’t,” Wil said. “You’ll come up with a reason to lock me up and who’d care? But remember who requested this meeting. I want to help. I just need something in return, access to information—now and down the line. You get what I know and find out, I get what you know and find out. Everybody wins.”

  Freiman and Vella exchanged looks; Wil could see the hunger in them, the specter of time. Fingers drummed the table. Finally, Freiman spoke.

  “Mr. Hardesty, you’ll excuse us a minute.”

  “Talk to me,” Freiman said. “This guy for real?”

  Epstein met his eyes. “Captain, he and I served together in Nam, toward the end of the war. One time a shipment—food that we’d seized—turned up missing and embarrassed some brass. Hardesty found out a South Vietnamese who worked with us took it to feed his family—things were tough then for locals who’d helped us. Anyway, the brass was convinced Hardesty knew what was up, so they tossed him in the brig when he wouldn’t come across.” Epstein paused. “After forty-five days they gave up. Point is, Captain, we can sweat him, but it’ll cost us time. He didn’t have to come here. My gut feeling is he has something we can use.”

  Vella lit a cigarette, frowned. “I keep trying to think why the name’s familiar.”

  “His son died in a surfing accident,” Epstein said.

  Vella frowned, shook his head.

  “Hardesty went after a deputy who fronted him for letting the boy surf where he did. Things got out of hand—the deputy’s arm wound up busted. A photographer happened to be there, and it got splashed around.”

  The frown cleared. “Right, several years ago.”

  Epstein nodded; Freiman shifted in his chair. “This a red flag here, Epstein?”

  “No, sir. Both men apologized. I wouldn’t have let it go this far if I’d thought so. For what it’s worth, he’s helped me out a couple of times.”

  Freiman pondered the input then turned to Vella, got a what-have-we-got-to-lose shrug. He exhaled loudly and motioned to Epstein who was gone and back in seconds.

  After Wil sat down, Freiman fixed him with a look.

  “If we agree, this conversation stays here or you won’t believe the trouble you bought yourself.” He picked up Wil’s card, snapped it for emphasis.

  “All right,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

  SEVEN

  The Camaro, an IROC model with the big engine and a midnight blue custom paint job, turned left off La Cienega and onto Slauson. After a number of blocks it hung a right at Central, drove south across Firestone and into the ’hoods. The driver brushed back orange hair, levered down a smoked glass window and spat.

  Fucking coloreds, he thought, eyeing a group of men drinking outside a market with gates on the windows. Turn anything into a goddamn slum, live in shit, then whine that everybody disrespected them. He pulled a small shape out of his jacket and spun the top, hit the inhaler twice, sighed as the coke hit back. Graffiti and run-down storefronts gave way to shabby streets and hurt-looking houses.

  Close now, there it was.

  He circled the block, left the IROC in an alley, eased up from the rear. The place was small, squeezed in behind another and down a cracked driveway, invisible from the street. The Junkyard Dogs insignia was right where Ronnie’d said it would be.

  Bolo Zavala watched the house from cover, saw no signs of life behind windows boarded-up and barred. He racked a nine-millimeter round into the chamber of his double-action Llama, slid the gun into his coat pocket, then approached and knocked. The door opened a crack, a black face in shades asking, “The fuck you want?”

  “Want to see Collins. Ronnie sent me.”

  “Ron knows better’n sending somebody here. Do a ghost, Taco.”

  Zavala put two silenced rounds into the man, pushed through the door and scanned the room: nobody else there, noises coming from a room down the hall, the sticky smell of ether. He checked the body on the floor, dragged it behind a counter stacked with boxes. Then he started for the sounds.

  There were two of them: a heavy-set black man with a goatee and a fried-looking girl whose features said black and Mexican. The girl wore only underpants; scabs lined the inside of her arms. She looked up from wrapping crystallized cocaine, regarded him with hollow eyes, but said nothing. The black man was tinkering with the coils of an electric range.

  “Jerome let you in here?” he said.

  Zavala took in the girl’s brown nipples, her watching him vacantly. “Uh-huh. Got something for Wendell Collins. You him?”

  The man glanced at a pump shotgun in the corner, then back at the visitor who was pulling a kilo-size package from his coat. He relaxed, went back to tapping the coils. “Already got suppliers, Essey. On your way out, tell Jerome I want to see him.”

  Zavala tossed him the package. “Not selling garbage, pendejo. Returning it.” He brought the gun up as Collins regarded the package. “You think I’m some cherry who don’t know coke from baby lax? Aguilera never cut his shit. Makes you think I take that from some fuckin’ gangbangers just because they move in on the turf?”

  Collins’ eyes got large. “Hey man, be cool with that thing. We ain’t cuttin’ no shit. Straight up. You unhappy, hey, lemme see what I can do while you take the bitch in the other room. You know, she’s real…” As he reached for the phone, it was blown out from under his hand.

  With the gun, Zavala motioned the girl over closer to Collins. In Spanish he asked her, “They tell you to cut the white with menita?”

  She nodded, her expression unchanged.

  “What you tellin’ him?” Collins bleated. “The bitch don’t know shit, man. Jerome, get in here!”

  Zavala turned to him. “You think the dope’s so good, you try it.”

  “Hey, fuck you. Jerome!”

  Zavala took a folding knife from his pocket, threw it down next to the kilo. “Jerome’s dead. So’s Ronnie. Now open that thing up and start eating.”

  Collins undid the blade, looked at Zavala and the gun then slowly made an incision in the package.

  “Wider,” Zavala said.

  “You Aztecs? Malvados? Whatever, you better get your brown ass home while you still got it.”

  Bolo Zavala smiled.

  “Suicide what you be doin’ here, man. Junkyard Dogs don’t take no dis from nobody.”

  “Wider.”

  Collins thumbed open the slit, brought the package up to his face. When he lowered it, his mouth was white. “There. You happy now, muthafucker.”

  “More,” Zavala said.

  Wendell Collins had the package at his mouth, adulterated cocaine spilling down his front, when Zavala fired. There was an explosion of white. Collins hit the wall behind him, leaving red before bouncing off.

  Zaval
a turned to the girl.

  “Dandelion,” she said dreamily.

  “What?”

  “One’a them things you blow on and it goes poof. What his head looked like.” She scratched the needle tracks on her arm. “You got any heroin? I could sure use some heroin.”

  “No,” he said, picking up a sealed plastic bag from Collins’ table. “This stuff pure?”

  “Yes. Am I yours now?”

  Bolo Zavala stuffed the bag into his coat and retrieved the knife. He shook his head. “Lo siento, hermana. Wrong place, wrong time.”

  “My story.” She began to shiver; her pupils were pinpoints. As he raised the gun she turned away from him. “Just don’t hurt me, okay? Other than that, I don’t much give a shit.”

  Father Martin DeSantis was worried; his meeting with the Gentes de Cuidad operations committee had not gone well. They were having renewed problems with the landlord, an unsympathetic man of Middle East extraction, and the van scheduled to pick up donations this week had been crunched in a head-on with a drunk. He was sure something could be worked out with the landlord, but the van was another matter.

  Leaving the administration building for the rectory and yet another meeting—this time with the Amigos de Hermosillo ways-and-means people—Father Martin was deep into it. Hermosillo was big, no Band-Aid solutions this time, and yet it seemed only yesterday they’d opened the doors.

  So much work.

  He reached into his pocket, peeled a mint, popped it in his mouth. In his haste, he nearly ran down the shorter, plumper man.

  “Father Martin? Excuse me,” the man said. “Paul Rodriguez, Gabriel Ortega’s cousin. If you could spare a moment, it would comfort a friend of mine who needs help.”

  Separated from his thoughts, Father Martin stopped, noting the earnest expression. “Of course,” he said. Ortega? He finally gave up—there were so many now. He offered the man a candy.