“Antonio,” said Wil, writing. “Probably had a mother even.”
Epstein went on. “September 1971, he pushed his luck like you said. The Border Patrol got a tip he was coming across pre-dawn near Calexico and caught him in a roadblock with a vanful of customers including women and kids. The guy was armed to the teeth, killed three patrolmen. He got it, too—they found blood—but somehow he escaped. Incident stirred up hell with the feds.”
Wil heard him take a pull on something wet.
“There’s speculation he’s dead,” Mo continued. “But no hard evidence, either here or in Mexico.”
“Any local contacts?”
“Sketchy. He had a girl in East L.A., but she died the same year from drugs. FBI staked out her place for about six months after the shootout and came up snake-eyes. They spotted him a couple of times in the late seventies, nothing since then. Figured he got his comeuppance somewhere in Mexico. A warrant’s still out on him for the Calexico guys, though. They haven’t forgotten.”
“Hold on a second.” Wil wrote a moment then spoke. “Who’s the girl who died?”
“That’s where it gets interesting. Her name’s Lucinda Pacheco, sister of the guy they found dead in the Colorado. Incidentally, his name was Porfirio, aka Sonny. He and Zavala were pals. According to the police it was Sonny first got Zavala into the people business—Zavala did the runs to L.A. while Sonny collected the pigeons, sometimes vice versa. Sonny Pacheco had a sheet as long as your arm down there and no shortage of enemies. Finally moved his family up here.”
Mo stopped to clear his throat, started again.
“Anyway, Lucinda. It’s secondhand, but the Mexicans think she fell for Zavala and he responded by getting her hooked. Up here she got in deep and died in the usual squalid way. Sonny took it hard. According to police records, he tipped off the locals about when Zavala was making a run, and they notified our people. Sonny must have known Bolo would try to shoot it out but didn’t figure on his getting away. Bolo did and Sonny paid.”
“Any Pachecos left in L.A.?”
“Just ask. We tracked a sister, Donna. Her name’s Ybarra now. Lives in East Los Angeles, address 542 Hibiscus Place. Horrible neighborhood, more like East Beirut.”
Wil finished writing. “Sounds like you’ve been there.”
“Such a dick. The good lady suggested a way we could get to know each other better.”
“Must be your way with women, Mo. She know anything about Zavala?”
“Yeah. Said he died in a knife fight.”
Sunday traffic was light until he hit the Valley, the overcast breaking up as he parked in front of the house and went in. To his relief, Paul seemed to have forgotten their conversation, although Wil knew he’d have to bring it up again. The feeling of walking a tightrope was hard to ignore.
Paul drove. On the way, Wil briefed him on the calls from Gilberto Reyes and Mo.
“So where’s that leave us?” Paul asked. “Any closer to a motive?”
“I can’t see how. If it wasn’t for money, that leaves sex. But nothing’s turned up in Zavala’s background, at least that Mo found. And people like that generally have histories.”
“What about the people he sold the boy to?”
“Benito would have been an investment for them, something to keep around. The medal indicates he was killed right away.”
“So who’d murder seven kids—devil worshippers? Great talk for a Sunday, huh?” Paul signaled a left, then waited to turn.
Wil said, “I’m no expert, but it seems pretty clean for those types. From what I’ve read, they leave symbols.”
“Sheeit.”
They turned and followed a line of cars down an unprosperous street into a crowded parking lot. Sun glinted off numerous luxury automobiles. Doors thunked, feet step-shuffled. As they joined the walkers, Paul noted the Mercedes and BMW nameplates.
“Damn,” he said. “That kind of sheet metal in a neighborhood like this? Unreal.”
Wil nodded. Ahead of them St. Boniface rose up; he stood taking it in as Paul went on ahead. The church was newish, sandblasted concrete giving it a miniature-cathedral look, oversize doors curving Gothic-style to meet at the center. Recessed in thick walls were stained glass windows. Thirty-foot deodars stood sentry along the walk.
At the foot of the stairs, a tall priest in a purple vestment with gold brocade was smiling at the people milling around him. Silvering hair framed a tan face and white even teeth. He looked familiar somehow and very much in his element. Sixty, Wil guessed—until he caught up with Paul, who was shaking the priest’s hand.
Few wrinkles showed in the priest’s face, the effect slightly disconcerting. Paul was saying, “Father, you remember me, the Ortega’s cousin? We spoke the other day about Hermosillo.”
“Mr. Rodriguez, of course. Isabel got you your list?” The voice was rich and softly accented.
Paul turned to Wil. “Yes, thank you. Father Martin DeSantis, my friend Wil Hardesty. We served together in Vietnam.”
The priest extended a manicured hand, sun highlighting clear nail polish. He gave Wil a firm grip; dark eyes sought his. “Mr. Hardesty, welcome. It’s always good to see a new face.” To Paul he said, “Is this the friend in difficulty?”
“Oh no, Father. This friend is helping me help my other friend.”
“Friendship is a wonderful thing,” said Father Martin. “By the way, I passed your request on to Leonardo.” He turned from Paul to Wil. “Leonardo Guerra—perhaps you heard he would be here today. Which reminds me, you should go in. Latecomers have to stand.”
As if to confirm his point, bells sounded.
They entered, found a seat in back. The interior was at once traditional and contemporary: more raw concrete—attractive in a stark way—dark pews, metal crucifix behind a slab altar, antique stations of the cross, Plexiglas pulpit. With just over two weeks until Christmas, St. Boniface was red with poinsettias. As Father Martin predicted, an overflow gathered in back and down the side aisles.
The church had forgone Latin, Wil knew, but he was unprepared for the impact of English. As Mass progressed, he tried to be open; at least there was active participation.
Halfway through, Father Martin ascended the pulpit. His gaze encompassed them. “How privileged I am to see you,” he said. “All of you know that we have done much in a short time. And yet there are so many still who need our help.”
He leaned forward.
“You were with me when we fed and sheltered the homeless. You were there when we went to assist families coming here to find the dream. Together we created a network of urban resources, jobs for the indigent, legal help for the downtrodden, centers for the sick and the persecuted. You reached out beyond your own border, and the result was a program governments have held up for example.”
Paul leaned over. “Some delivery—regular Charlton Heston.”
Martin DeSantis went on, his voice rising. “When we stand as one there is nothing we cannot do. Nothing!”
There was a murmur of approval.
“Yet as much as we have given, as many sacrifices as we have made, our work calls louder and clearer than ever.” He unfolded a letter.
“This is from Miguel, who has been with us since Hermosillo’s inception. He says our old warehouse cannot contain all the food and clothing we send. It rots outside unprotected while all over Mexico the hungry and the sick, the neglected, go without.” On “without,” he slammed his hand on the pulpit.
“There is more,” he said. “Our shelter there no longer is safe. Plaster crumbles, pipes burst, ceilings sag. Those who have nothing have nowhere to go. We turn them away as Joseph and Mary were themselves turned away two weeks from today almost two thousand years ago.
“I look at you and see people who are whole, complete. Yet who is complete when others are not? Which of you will let brothers and sisters, sons and daughters, go hungry? Which of you can be happy knowing others are suffering, can live knowing others are dying?” Father
Martin held out his hands.
“There was a time for our other tasks. The time for Hermosillo is once again now, the clarity of our mission absolute. Once more I ask you in His name. Give us the tools. Give us the money. Allow Los Amigos to remain a beacon for those without hope.” After a final look, he descended to sit between his altar boys.
Volunteers set forth with long-handled baskets. Everywhere in the congregation was the rustle of bills and envelopes, the clink of coins dropped by wide-eyed children: “Put it in the basket, dear, it’s for Father Martin.”
After the collection Wil saw the Eucharist raised, heard hymns and responses, but it was the passion of Martin DeSantis that held him. The power. For a moment he projected the priest into politics. Then Mass ended, and he filed out with Paul as the choir punched up “Adeste Fidelis.”
As they exited, he was there. Standing in bright sun, basking in the moment, his congregation pressing in for benediction, then dispersing.
“Father, you’re enough to return strays to the fold,” Wil said at length. “And your church is not what I expected.”
“I tried to tell him, Father,” Paul added.
Children pressed in. The priest smiled, reached under his vestments, came out with foil-wrapped candies he passed out. “That’s all,” he said, and after they’d left, “You expected perhaps a few old ladies in rebozos. It was like that once. But we’ve been building St. Boniface for over twenty years now with the help of God and these people. Are they not incredible? They come because we offer them a chance to make a difference in the real world, with its disease and hunger and suffering.” Raising a hand, he shielded his eyes from the sun.
“Just now they blessed us with over twelve thousand dollars.”
Paul’s eyes widened.
“You might appreciate, Mr. Rodriguez, that our operating budget was over six million this year.” He waved at a well-dressed family.
Wil was about to ask how the money was distributed when a man stepped up behind Father Martin. Aviator-style glasses emphasized eyes the dull color of zinc; slim fingers smoothed a thin mustache. The aroma of citrus cologne hovered around him. With him was a Latin-looking young man, similarly dark-suited and silk-tied.
The man cleared his throat.
Father Martin turned. “Ah. Gentlemen, this is the man who made St. Boniface possible. Everything you see here he built. Leonardo, this is Mr. Rodriguez, whom I told you about, and Mr. Hardesty.”
They shook hands. Leonardo Guerra introduced his foster son, Julio, as the youth lowered his eyes. Guerra then dismissed the young man, who headed toward the parking lot.
“He is doing very well, Martin,” Guerra said. “We talked—he wants to be an altar boy. I told him I would ask you.”
The priest smiled broadly. “Classes start Thursday, four o’clock. And now, Mr. Rodriguez and Mr. Hardesty wished to have a word with you, so I will get about my business. Gentlemen, I leave you in excellent hands. Leonardo Guerra is a true friend of St. Boniface.”
They sat at the end of a long row of folding tables, the hall crowded with people socializing over post-Mass coffee and doughnuts. Sunlight streaming in high windows flared in the diamond on Guerra’s right ring finger.
“There is talk of the Nobel Prize, you know.” The speech was Spanish-laced, the inflections arresting. “I have been here from the start, seen what he has done—the missions, the centers, the programs, these buildings. All since he came.”
“When was that?” Wil asked.
Guerra thought. “Christmas sixty-six. I had just moved here. He was simply…incandescent. Filled with what he had to do. Like Jesus to Peter, he beckoned, I followed.”
Wil ignored the comparison. The man had an odd, vain manner, smiles that stopped short of his eyes. “Leonardo…” he began.
“Lenny, please. Only Father Martin calls me Leonardo.”
“Lenny. You built St. Boniface?”
“My company did, yes. Before coming to Los Angeles, I was in construction, so it was logical for me to help Father Martin with his new home.” He looked around the room. “The labor of love, you might say.”
“You moved your business from Hermosillo?”
“Father Martin must have told you. Yes, but I don’t do construction anymore.” Guerra noticed Paul’s quizzical look. “Import-export. Latin American antiquities primarily.”
Paul nodded. He bit into a doughnut, wiped his lips with a paper napkin. Wil said, “Did Father Martin tell you we’re trying to locate someone?”
Paul swallowed hurriedly. “For a friend. He’d be very grateful for any help you can give us.”
“The man we’re looking for used to live in Hermosillo,” Wil said, throwing Paul a look.
Paul flushed and returned to his doughnut. Guerra stroked his tie.
“So Martin said. You know, gentlemen, Hermosillo was not a small place even then, and my memory gets no better with age.”
As Guerra spoke, Wil was struck by the absurdity: Hermosillo was a city, and this man hardly seemed the type who’d know about someone like Zavala. Still, this was what you did—asked somebody who knew somebody else who knew something, and somewhere along the line you made something happen.
“The name is Zavala,” Wil said. “Antonio Zavala, Bolo he was called. Stocky, reddish hair, mottled complexion. Among other things, he did some boxing.”
Paul finished a bite, used the napkin on sugared fingers. Guerra leaned back, hands coming together as though in prayer.
“Mr. Hardesty, Mr. Rodriguez, this is a remarkable coincidence.” Smiling, he opened his palms.
Isabel Diaz, who happened to be working Sunday, brought them fresh coffees; at Leonardo Guerra’s suggestion they had moved to quieter quarters, a paneled office in another part of the building. After Isabel returned to her desk, Guerra removed a silver case from his coat pocket, offered cigarettes around, lit one with a filigreed lighter. He exhaled smoke.
“I saw him fight. Not more than nineteen, he was—no style, but a ferocious puncher. The night I was there, he nearly killed his opponent, wouldn’t stop even though the man was clearly finished. Finally the other cornermen jumped in, and Zavala threw both of them out of the ring. From then on they refused to let him box.”
Guerra smiled. “After the bout I asked someone about this bantam rooster and was told the young man worked slaughtering pigs. I was also told a story. His father was a drunken ex-fighter who used to spar with the boy, wanted to make him hard to hit in the ring. To do so he had him put a razor blade in his mouth. The father would get mean on tequila, land punches and cut him. One day Bolo was fast enough. He spat out the razor blade and sliced his father’s ears off, as a bullfighter would, told him he would kill him if he ever saw him again.” Guerra paused. “I don’t know if the story is true, but not many laid a glove on him. Even fewer wanted to fight.”
Paul stirred sugar into his coffee. “Some story.”
“And after that?” Wil asked.
Guerra began polishing his glasses with a handkerchief, first fogging the lenses. “After he left the ring, I lost track. Occasionally I’d see him at a match, then not at all. Someone told me there had been trouble with the law, that he had been killed, although I don’t know when or how.”
“You remember what kind of trouble?”
“Guns, I think, Mr. Hardesty.”
“Did you ever hear of him running families out of Mexico?”
“No. But again, I didn’t follow him closely after the boxing.” He drew on the cigarette. “I know people down there. I could put you in touch if you wish.”
Paul sat forward to speak.
“Thank you,” Wil said, “perhaps later. One more question? Have you ever seen Bolo Zavala at any time in Los Angeles?”
Guerra crushed the rest of his cigarette in an ashtray on the desk. His tone was patronizing. “That would be most bizarre in a city this size. No, Mr. Hardesty, I have not seen him.”
Julio sat patiently in a black Mercedes; Wil could s
ee his profile through the tinted glass as they walked to Paul’s car. The lot was nearly empty now.
Paul said, “Some lead, huh? Not bad for an over-the-hill gunnie.” He steered the Chevy wagon out into traffic. “Thoughts?”
Wil slipped a loafer, rested his foot on the dash. “Interesting man, Guerra. Had a good memory after all, didn’t he? The razor blade story works with Gilberto’s tattoos, everything else with what Mo found out.” He rubbed between his eyebrows. “I don’t know. Everybody on the same page—makes you wonder a little, maybe.”
Paul looked at him.
Wil caught it, grinned. “Hey, man, you did good. By the way, a free tip? Never give out more than you have to, even on something as small as a client’s gender. I learned that once the hard way.”
Paul stared straight ahead. “You concerned about Guerra?”
“Not even sure he caught it,” Wil said.
Paul nosed the wagon up the on-ramp. For a while they drove in silence, then he said, “Damn, that’s some operation out there. Twelve thousand in that neighborhood? Raeann won’t believe it.”
“We’re not the only ones impressed with Father Martin, are we?”
“I haven’t seen that many furs since the zoo.” Paul thought a minute. “Antiquities been bery good to ol’ Leonardo, from the looks of that suit.”
Wil regarded his friend’s blue polyester. “Maybe you should go talk to him.”
“Sheeit.”
At the house Wil phoned Mo Epstein and got an earful about a break they’d gotten in the Lynwood hooker killings, some woman whose husband had contracted AIDS from one and passed the virus on to her. Wil mentioned the coincidence of Zavala-Guerra and then described the man with the gray eyes.
“Just a wild hair, Mo, but I’d be hard pressed to recall what he did about some boxer I barely knew twenty years ago.” He let a few seconds pass. “Look, it’s probably nothing. You guys can’t be checking out every Leonardo Guerra coming down the pike.” After the expected profanity, he hung up, promising to call Mo again Monday. By then Raeann and Paul were off on errands.
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