Flipping Out

by Marshall Karp

  'Wow, that's not the question I expected,' I said. 'But I can't. I'm in a serious relationship.'

  'That's not the answer I was hoping for, but it eliminates the need for any future questions. Nice talking to you, Mike. I hope you get your man.'

  'Thanks, Deborah. And I hope you get yours.'

  She hung up, and I stared at the phone, a little dumbfounded.

  'Y'know, Lomax,' Terry said. 'I only get to hear one side of a lot of your phone conversations, but I've got to tell you something. They are a hell of a lot more interesting than both sides of mine.'

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Even though we knew Castaneda's address in East LA, finding his house required some basic math skills. Most of the front doors had their numbers removed.

  'Don't these people know that stripping off their house numbers makes it hard for the cops to find them?' Terry said. 'Not to mention the fact that it's totally confusing to your average gang member on a drive-by shooting.'

  We finally zeroed in on a small olive-drab house on the corner of Hubbard and Sadler.

  'Looks like the cover of Better Dumps and Gardens' Terry said.

  We locked the car and headed up the walk. Before we could ring the bell, Castaneda opened the door. He was wearing a stained tank top and skivvies.

  'You cops?' he said.

  'No,' Terry said. 'We're the Publishers Clearing House Prize Patrol. Congratulations. You're our big winner.'

  'Fuck you, I didn't do nothing,' he said.

  'Then you won't mind answering a few questions about someone who did,' Terry said. 'Get in the house, or get in the police car. Your choice.'

  Castaneda backed in the door, and we followed.

  Even when you expect a pigsty, you can still be amazed by the creativity of some pigs. We stepped into what was probably meant to be a living room, except that it was furnished with four beds, all at odd angles. One of them had a table and a bunch of chairs on top of the mattress. The other three were covered with dirty linens, pizza boxes, beer cans, and on one bed, a partially inflated basketball. There were dozens of plastic milk crates filled with CDs and albums on every inch of floor space, and the entire room smelt of rancid food that probably didn't smell all that terrific when it was fresh.

  'I see you're a big fan of Martha Stewart,' Terry said.

  Like most slobs, Castaneda felt the need to defend the mess. 'A friend of mine crashed here,' he said.

  'And what's your friend's name?' Terry asked. 'Amtrak?'

  Castaneda sat down on a bed and took a can of Hormel chilli off a makeshift cinder block nightstand. 'I was in the middle of breakfast. What do you want?' he said, shoving a spoonful of brown glop into his face.

  Terry reached into one of the crates and pulled out a CD. 'What are you selling besides the finest musical entertainment that ever fell off the back of a delivery truck?' he said.

  'Nada,' Castaneda said. 'And it ain't stolen. They're all promotional shit that the music companies throw away.' He took another spoonful of chilli.

  Terry whirled around and smacked the spoon and the can out of his hand. 'Put the fucking dog food down and get off your fat, greasy ass, or we'll be back with a warrant, and the music companies will throw you away for three to five.'

  Castaneda stood up. 'What do you want?'

  Terry showed him a screen shot of the young Mexican with the snake tattoo. 'Who is he, and don't tell me you never saw him, because the next picture I've got is you and him standing as close as prison shower buddies.'

  'Keep cool, man. I didn't say I don't know him,' Castaneda said. 'That's Esteban.'

  'Last name?'

  'That I really don't know. I swear.'

  'You turned him over for a fistful of cash, and you don't know his name? Last chance to tell the whole truth and nothing but, Raoul. Otherwise, you'll be trading in all these luxurious accommodations for a triple-XL orange jumpsuit and twenty miles of barbed wire.'

  'OK, bro,' Castaneda said. 'Chill. It just come to me. Benitez. Esteban Benitez.'

  'Now let's hope that the details of that little business transaction just come to you also,' Terry said. 'Why did you get paid to deliver him?'

  'It's for medical science,' Castaneda said. 'Some doctor is doing research about a disease that kills Mexican children.'

  'Esteban was not a child,' Terry said.

  'I know, but this doctor, he needs grown-up people who have the immunities for the disease. I pick them up when they arrive in the US.'

  'Where do you pick them up? LAX?'

  'Near the border,' Castaneda said, 'but I don't know how they get there. Could be legal, could be not so legal. I don't ask for who was the travel agent. I just pick them up, three, four guys at a time, and I drive them to a medical lab.'

  'Where?'

  'It's a van, so it's never in the same place.'

  'And what happens when you take them to this rolling medical research lab?' Terry said.

  'I wait outside. They go in and some nurse takes blood and tells them piss in a cup. Then they each get assigned an ID number, and the nurse gives them a hundred bucks apiece. Then I drive them to a safe place.'

  'A nice, cosy place with beds in the living room, like here?' Terry said.

  'Yeah. Here. Then maybe a week or two later, I get a call from this guy. Sometimes he tells me to release them all. Just tell them to go. But sometimes he gives me the ID number of one of them. I take that guy down to the Roadium in my van, and somebody comes and picks him up.'

  'But first he pays you for your trouble.'

  'It's no trouble, bro. It's all for medical science. Help the childrens.'

  'The guy who pays you,' I said. 'What's his name?'

  'Don't know. This time I really swear. I call him the Professor's Assistant, because he's not the doctor, he's just, you know...like the assistant.'

  Terry had a screenshot of Tony handing Raoul the envelope, is this the Professor's Assistant?' he said.

  Castaneda was amazed. 'Mierda. Where you get these pictures?'

  'They came with the wallet when I bought it,' Terry said. 'Answer the question, asshole.'

  'That's him. That's the Professor's Assistant.'

  Terry held up the picture of Esteban again. 'And with so many border jumpers to choose from, why was the Professor's Assistant willing to pay for this particular one?'

  'I told you, man. Esteban is one of the lucky ones who's got the immunities for this children's disease.'

  'And why is that lucky?

  'Oh man,' Castaneda said, 'it's like winning the lottery. If you got the immunity, they give you an operation, and they pay you big-time.'

  'How big-time?'

  'Twenty-five thousand dollars, US. You know what a guy can do with that kind of money back in Mexico? You live like King Tuck, man.'

  Normally Terry would have backed off and let me step in. Then I would go a little easier on the guy. But Castaneda was a scumbag who didn't deserve a Good Cop.

  'You're lying through your rotten yellow teeth,' Terry yelled. 'Who pays twenty-five thousand dollars to let them cut you open? What kind of bullshit operation are you talking about?'

  Castaneda was both scared and pissed. 'I'm trying to explain, man. Es verdad. If I'm lying, God should strike my father dead.'

  'And your mother,' Terry said.

  Castaneda hesitated. 'OK, and my mother. The operation is on your back. I don't know what they do, but I think they cut out some cells that have the immunities, and they make medicine for these sick little kids. I'm not making this shit up. I know guys who did it. They say it's very painful, but for twenty-five thousand, it's worth it, man.'

  'Prove it,' Terry said. 'We need to talk to someone who had this bogus operation.'

  'Oh shit, senor, but with all that money, they go home to Mexico. My job is to make sure they get back safe. They call me, and I pick them up somewhere, like maybe the bus station. Then I drive them down to the bridge at San Ysidro. My brother, he's waiting. He has a nice little hote
l in Tijuana. These guys have a pocket full of dinero. They need some pussy and tequila before they go home and give it all to the wife.'

  'And they pay you for the ride home?' Terry said.

  'I don't charge so much,' he lied. 'It's for medical research.'

  'Right,' Terry said. 'For the little childrens. So I guess we can't talk to Esteban, because you drove him back to the border.'

  'Not me,' Castaneda said. 'This guy Esteban you looking for, he never called me. Maybe he likes it here in LA. Quien sabe?'

  'Is he the only one that stayed here?' I asked.

  'Yes. No.'

  'Pick one and stick with it,' Terry said.

  'Paco went back to Mexico, but then he came back to LA.' Castaneda held up his hand, heading off the next question. 'His name is Paco Saldamondo. He hadn't been home for a year, then he gets called for the operation. He wanted to surprise his wife with the money, so he went back to his village, but he got a big surprise himself. The bitch was pregnant. So he kept the money and came back to LA.'

  'Where do we find him?'

  'He bought a taco stand. Eighth Street near Broadway. He's there every day except Sunday.'

  'And that's it?' Terry said. 'He won the lottery, and he's running a taco stand in downtown LA six days a week? If that's not living like King Tuck, I don't know what is.'

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  'So if your name was Paco, and you sold tacos,' I asked Terry as we drove downtown, 'what would you call your place?'

  'Shirley's Diner.'

  The real Paco, of course, wasn't nearly as droll as Terry. He went with Paco's Tacos. It was lunchtime when we got there, and the joint was jammed. The line outside was ten deep, and the picnic tables that surrounded the little building were filled with a multiethnic crowd munching and chattering away.

  'Good vibe,' Terry said. 'We might as well get some lunch.'

  We walked to the front of the line, and were immediately bombarded with a chorus of 'where do you assholes think you're going' in two languages.

  We didn't owe any of them an explanation, but it was smarter to flash a badge than start a riot. Even so, one woman yelled out, 'You think that entitles you to buck the line?' Then she gave us the finger.

  We stepped up to the window, ID'd ourselves to the counterman, and asked for Paco. There was a barrage of Spanish, and a short, roly-poly man who looked like the Mexican version of the smiley-face icon came running to the window. He held up a framed copy of his California health permit.

  'Excellent,' I said. 'Can we come in?'

  He nodded vigorously, waved us around the back, and let us in.

  Paco Saldamondo was all heart and no brains. Unlike the traditional immigrant-comes-face-to-face-with-authority-figure initial encounter, Paco seemed genuinely happy to see us, and immediately offered to feed us.

  'We have a few questions first,' I said. 'We've been talking to your friend, Raoul Castaneda.'

  His face went grim. 'He's no my amigo,' Paco said.

  'Good,' Terry said. 'Because he's a dirtbag.'

  That brought the smile back to Paco's face. Nothing wins trust like agreeing on a common enemy.

  'I'm US citizen now,' Paco said. 'Pay mucho taxes.'

  'God bless America,' Terry said.

  We explained that Raoul told us all about the medical research, and we asked about his surgery.

  'I'm so lucky,' he said. 'I have immunities. The doctor takes them out. They pay me twenty-five thousand dollars.'

  'Do you remember the doctor's name?' I said.

  'No.'

  'Gringo?' I asked.

  He laughed. 'No. Doctor was Mexican. He had on mask, but we speak only Spanish. Real Espanol, no gringo Spanish.'

  'Do you remember where they did the surgery?' I said.

  'Of course.'

  He turned around and lifted his shirt. There was a long scar that started near the centre of his lower back and wrapped around the front.

  'Right here they give me operation.'

  Terry and I exchanged a look. We had been to enough autopsies to recognise kidney surgery when we saw it. Paco was either too naive or too mesmerised by the twenty-five grand to know it, but nobody had taken his immunities. They'd cut out a kidney.

  'Thanks,' I said, 'but I meant do you remember where they did the surgery? What place?'

  'Oh, si. Los Angeles.'

  'What hospital?'

  'No hospital. Some building. Maybe East LA. But is two years ago. Long time. Sorry. You hungry? I get you a nice lunch.' He yelled out to one of the countermen in Spanish, and the guy hustled for two clean plates.

  'You're right,' I said. 'Two years ago is a long time. Maybe we could talk to Esteban Benitez. He had the surgery recently. Do you know him?'

  He beamed. 'Nice boy. Good boy.'

  'Where can we find him?'

  'Quien sabe? I'm thinking he maybe would come back for his grandfather's watch.'

  'You have his watch?'

  'His grandfather's,' Paco said. 'These boys, they come to America, no money. They give it all to the coyote who helps him across the border. So they come here to my place to eat, maybe borrow a few hundred dollars, while they wait to find out if they have the immunities.'

  'So he owed you money,' I said.

  He grinned. 'They all owe me money. El Banco de Paco. So he give me his grandfather's watch for how you call it, collateral. Is much more expensive than what he owes me. But he never come back after he have the operation. Not to thank me, not to pay me, not even to get the watch. He just disappear.'

  'How long ago?'

  'Three weeks, a month, something like that.'

  The counterman gave a yell, and Paco escorted us to a little table in the back of the kitchen. There were two taco platters with rice and beans waiting for us, along with dos cervezas. We passed on the beer and opted for a couple of Cokes. He refused to let us pay. It wasn't a bribe; it was just who the man was.

  He nodded gratefully as he watched us each take the first messy bite. We both gave him a thumbs up. I could see why the line was so deep, and so pissed to be cut into.

  'Enjoy,' he said. 'If you find Esteban, tell him Paco still has his abuelo’s watch. Even if he has twenty-five thousand dollars, is still family heirloom.'

  He went back to his lunchtime customers, while Terry and I ate.

  'It never ceases to mystify me just how dumb people can be,' Terry said. 'Here, let me cut a hole in you and remove your immunities. Oh, look what I found. A kidney. I wonder what I could get for that on eBay?'

  'I'm willing to bet you that Esteban never went to a doctor's office in his entire life,' I said. 'He's a poor Mexican, and someone offers him a fortune for his immunities, which he thinks will save kids from dying. Do you think he's going to ask a lot of questions? He's not dumb, just clueless.'

  'So Esteban Benitez got a kidney harvested and then suddenly disappeared,' Terry said. 'To a cop, that means one of three things. He had complications from the surgery and is holed up somewhere, he got busted by immigration, or he's dead.'

  'If he's holed up, we'll never find him,' I said, if immigration has him, we'll be choking on red tape. There's only one morgue in LA. Let's start with dead.'

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  The morgue was not only the smartest place to start, it was on Mission, only ten minutes away from Paco's. Twenty- five minutes with traffic. We parked in the rear and entered through the loading dock.

  Anne Jordan, the senior tech, was sitting at the admissions desk. She looked surprised to see us.

  'Do we have one of yours on ice?' she said. 'I didn't see your names on my dance card.'

  'We're not here to commune with the dead,' I said. 'We're hoping to talk to a short, wiry, Jewish pathologist, who thinks he's funnier than my partner.'

  'Eli is up to his elbows in body parts.' She looked at her watch. 'He should be done by two thirty. About twenty minutes.'

  'We'll wait. In the meantime, can you check your database over the past two mont
hs to see if you admitted a male Hispanic, Esteban Benitez?'

  It took her less than a minute to come up empty- handed. 'Nobody by that name. Are we talking homicide?'

  I shrugged. 'We're not even sure the guy is dead.'

  She peered at me over the rim of her half glasses. 'Honey, dead is one of our main criteria. We don't let them check in unless they've checked out. Let me go tell Eli you're waiting for him.'

  A half hour later Eli Hand emerged from an autopsy room. His scrubs were bloodied. He tossed his gloves and mask in a bio-waste bin. 'Sorry to keep you waiting, boys. I have one more vital organ to deal with. Can you give me a few more minutes?'

  'Cut to your heart's content,' Terry said.

  'This particular organ was cut when I was eight days old,' Eli said. 'Sit tight. I've just gotta take a leak.'

  Anne Jordan laughed out loud. 'He is funnier than your partner.'

  Five minutes later we were in Eli's office, is this about Marisol Dominguez?' he asked.

  'No.'

  'I released the body yesterday. They're flying her down to Mexico to be buried with her parents and a brother.'

  'Any surprises?' I asked.

  'Just the one,' he said.

  'Which one?' I asked.

  'The one I wrote up in my report. Correct me if I'm wrong, but weren't you the guys who left the autopsy early on Monday and said you'd read about the gory details in my report?'

  'Sorry. We didn't get to it yet. These dead people keep piling up and cramp our reading time. What did you find?'

  'The murder was cut and dried,' Eli said. 'Bullet to the head. But what fascinated me about Dominguez were her lungs. Black as a coal mine at midnight. The woman would have smoked herself to death in less than ten years.'

  'What does that have to do with the case?' I said.

  'Why does everything have to be about the case?' Hand said. 'I'm trying to tell a story here.'

  'Once a rabbi, always a rabbi, eh, Eli?' Terry said. 'Let's hear it.'

  'You know that Scared Straight program the morgue has for teenage drunk drivers? Last night I had a group I was lecturing to, so I figured, as long as I'm at it, I'll show them that it's not only alcohol that kills. I took a picture of Marisol's black lungs, and I put it side by side with a shot of a nice pair of healthy pink lungs. I wanted to show these kids the damage cigarettes can do.'