Holy Guacamole!

by Nancy Fairbanks

  “No. Mr. Finnegan was, in his own fashion, quite placid. He’s afraid of the dog.”

  “You want me to pick you up and put you on the sofa, ma’am. That carpet’s kind of dirty.”

  “I’m sure any sofa belonging to Mr. Ignatenko would be equally dirty, and I’d rather not move for a minute or so.” While we were waiting for the paramedics, I gave my statement from a prone position. Luz pulled the desk chair over and sat beside me to give her statement. We both insisted that the drug dealer in the alley and his assailant, Manny, who was hired by Mr. Ignatenko, be found, one for medical treatment, both for arrest.

  More sirens wailed, long blasts sounded, and several firemen arrived, suited out for fighting fires. They clumped in, turned me on my back, took my pulse and blood pressure, shined flashlights in my eyes, waved fingers in front of my face, and pronounced me concussion-free but entitled to a ride to the hospital where x-rays would determine if any skull or facial bones had been broken. I said that Luz would drive me in my own car. Since she’d gotten me into this mess and had thought it hilarious that I had complained about sleep deprivation, I fully intended to see that she didn’t get to bed until I did. The young policeman carried me to the car through a group of gaping perverts and staring, scantily clad dancers. The performance had stopped when the police arrived. Boris was being held outside in the club and snarled at me as I was taken away.

  With Smack in the front seat and me curled up in back, beset by dog hair and the lingering odor of Mr. Barrientos, not to mention the air freshener that I had used liberally before leaving home this evening, Luz drove to the hospital. I must say, she didn’t allow the people in the emergency room to put me at the end of the treatment list. I was rolled right into the back, then examined and x-rayed from all angles by curious technicians, nurses, and interns. Each new purveyor of care wanted to hear about Brazen Babes, why I had been there, and the assault on me. Didn’t they know that I felt horrible and had no desire to describe my experiences? Evidently not. Since I had neither a fracture nor a concussion, they all felt quite free to bombard me with questions.

  Finally, I was left with one nurse, a very kind lady who let me have some Seven-Up, although she freely admitted that they wanted to know if I could keep it down. “You must have been having a boring evening if my little misadventure caused so much interest,” I remarked.

  “Oh, no. We’ve been busy. Friday night/Saturday morning and Saturday night/Sunday morning are always a circus. Everything from knifings and car pileups to barfing kids who ate too many hot dogs at the ball game.” She held out the cup with its bent straw, encouraging me to take another experimental sip. “Now if you feel like vomiting, honey, let me know right off. Then we won’t have to change the sheets.”

  “I’ve stopped feeling queasy,” I assured her. “And I should have remembered that weekends bring lots of emergencies. Dr. Peter Brockman, an acquaintance of mine, was called out in the middle of the night for emergency surgery just last weekend.”

  “The neurosurgeon? Not here, he wasn’t. I’d have remembered that. He’s ultrapicky about everything.”

  “I’m sure it was here. Maybe you were off duty. According to his wife, the call came after midnight.”

  “I had that shift. Both Friday and Saturday. I promise you he wasn’t here.”

  Now that’s strange, I thought. Vivian definitely told me that he was home with her after the opera party, until the hospital called him in to perform surgery on an auto accident victim.

  “You cold, honey? Want me to get you a blanket?”

  I said that I wasn’t. That shiver, those goose bumps running up my arms were caused by a very disturbing thought.

  “Another half hour and we’ll let you go home. Anyone waiting for you in Admitting?”

  “Yes, a friend,” I replied. A friend that I wanted to talk to right away. I didn’t get to of course.

  We were in the car heading for my house before I had the opportunity to tell Luz about Dr. Brockman, who had said to his friend Frank Escobar, Luz’s ex, that they needed to get rid of Vladik—Dr. Brockman, who had told his wife he had to go to the hospital to perform emergency surgery on someone’s head, when there wasn’t any such surgery. So where had he gone?

  “Sounds thin to me,” said Luz, ignoring the mention of her ex-husband. “Who goes over to someone’s house and kills them over a weird opera production. But, hey, we can worry about that tomorrow. You want me to stay with you tonight?”

  I did. For the second night. We were having a weekend sleepover, only more violent than the ones I’d given and attended as a child, and there hadn’t been any more at my house after my mother died. My father didn’t like giggling. Or noise of any kind if it involved children.

  36

  A Butt Print Remembered

  Luz

  Even considering the strange bed, I should have slept right through because I’d been pushing myself too hard and needed the rest. Instead I kept waking up and checking on Carolyn—like my subconscious thought she was going to die on me. The woman never stirred all night. Once the hospital staff satisfied themselves that she didn’t have a concussion or fracture, she was given a prescription for pain pills, which she couldn’t wait to get home and take. The only thing that changed with her that night was her eye, which had puffed up and turned multicolored by morning. She was not going to be a happy camper the first time she looked in the mirror.

  At dawn I’d wrapped up in a blanket on her patio to watch the sunrise creep over the Franklins, but then I dozed off in one of her loungers and woke up with my knee aching, so I rubbed on some of her husband’s pain cream, thinking that my chile-pepper stuff would have done me more good. Maybe that’s because I’ve got Indian blood. My ancestors probably used chiles to doctor all their ills. Then I made myself some coffee and toast and ate it in the warm kitchen while I waited impatiently for Sleeping Beauty to wake up; I needed to get home, change clothes, and give myself a shot—it was that day—but I didn’t want to do it until she woke up. It was a bitch, being tied to a medication schedule when I actually had something interesting to do with my time.

  Carolyn staggered out around ten-thirty. “Have you seen my eye?” she groaned.

  “It’ll clear up in a week or so,” I said.

  “A week,” she cried, and dropped into a chair, aghast.

  I told her she was lucky to come out of last night with just a black eye. I’d been reading the paper. Ignatenko was in jail, and the cops had found the alley victim at Thomason Hospital. The guy talked his head off, identified Manny Diaz as the attacker, said Ignatenko had threatened him because of the drugs and bookmaking at the club. So the guy was arrested, him and his broken bones: collar bone, six ribs, and three leg bones, plus some cracks in his arms and a bleeding kidney. There was a warrant out on Manny and more charges on Ignatenko. INS was talking deportation hearings, so Boris was, as I’d told him, thoroughly screwed. “We did good work last night,” I told Carolyn, and read her choice bits of the story.

  That brightened her up a little bit, but not much, so I said she should get a black eye patch for her eye, sew some beads or sequins on it, and set a fashion trend in El Paso.

  “That’s a ridiculous idea,” she said sternly, and then started to giggle.

  I was on a roll, having cheered Caro up without even knowing I had any talent in that area. My mother once told me she’d rather be sick on her own than have me around looking glum and botching up the nursing chores. Once Caro stopped giggling, I told her what I’d been thinking about her doctor friend. While I talked, I poured her a cup of coffee; from the look on her face, you’d think she didn’t like my coffee, even though I was known at Central Regional Command for my great coffee during my days on patrol. I fixed her some toast too, and even poured her a glass of juice since I figured she needed healthy stuff.

  “Tell me about his butt,” I said, plunking the juice down in front of her.

  Her expression was amazed and offended. Carolyn would make
a crappy poker player. Everything shows on her face. If she got a good hand, she’d probably light up the room. “The doctor’s butt,” I added, just to be sure she understood what I wanted. “How wide would you say it is?”

  “I don’t go around measuring men’s bottoms,” she replied stiffly.

  I took a deep breath. “Look, you think he might have killed Vladik. It’s a long shot, but what have we got to lose? We need to think about him, this doctor. One thing I noticed in Vladik’s house was his sofa. He’s got this microwave upholstery on it. Feels like suede.”

  “Microfiber,” she corrected.

  “Whatever. Anyway, you sit down on it; your butt leaves a print. Lean your hand on it. Handprint. One of each on the Russian’s sofa. I had the crime-scene guys take a picture. Of course, that dumb Guevara thought it was a waste of time, but then he thought Gubenko died of natural causes. Probably still does.”

  “If he’s so sure of that, why is he harassing those of us who provided food for the party?” Carolyn asked sharply.

  “Because it’s easier than doing a real investigation,” I told her. “So how wide is the doctor’s butt?”

  “I have no idea,” she said. “He’s had trousers over it every time I’ve seen him.”

  “This wide?” I spread my hands to about two feet.

  “Luz, he’s a thin person, but quite tall, and I don’t how wide his rear end is.”

  “What about his hands?”

  She thought about it. “Large, but then they would be. As I said, he’s tall. You wouldn’t expect little bitty hands or feet on a tall man. And his fingers are long and thin with short, manicured nails.”

  I nodded. My recollection of the prints on the sofa was pretty vague, but it seems to me that the hand did have long fingers; of course so do Boris Ignatenko’s hands. Now Manny Diaz—he’d be more likely to have short, broad hands, but since I’d never seen the man, that was a guess.

  “What we need to do is knock on my neighbors’ doors and ask if anyone saw or heard anything that night. If we can get a description of someone going in or leaving—”

  “We? You expect me to go out looking like this?” She covered her eye with her hand.

  “You planning to hide out for the next week or so?”

  “I’ve heard of putting steak on a black eye,” she said. “But I’d have to go to the store to get some, and that would be so embarrassing.”

  “Right. I get the idea. I have to do the canvassing by myself. Only problem is, you know what the doctor looks like. I don’t. And steak never did me any good. Course I used cube steak. Maybe you need a more expensive cut—sirloin or T-bone. Or a filet. That would be about the right size.”

  “You’re making fun of me,” she said.

  “Instead of a steak, why don’t we get you an eye patch? The decoration is up to you. Go for plain if you want. You could wear a hat too, a big, wide one. My neighbors won’t even notice you got a black eye. They’ll think you’re a gardener in your big hat.”

  “What a wonderful idea. The pirate-gardener. Maybe I should bring along gardening gloves. And a trowel.”

  I grinned at her. “So are you in?”

  “I suppose so,” she grumbled. “If we can find an eye patch. But you’ll have to drive. I’m taking pain pills.”

  37

  Canvassing in Black and Blue

  Carolyn

  There were various minutiae to take care of before we could actually begin canvassing Luz’s neighborhood. I had to shower and dress, then find a suitable hat and a picture of Peter Brockman. There had been a photographer at the opera party, and we’d been sent a picture of the two of us standing with Peter and Vivian; I put that in an envelope. Luz had to purchase an eye patch for me at Walgreen’s. Then she had to stop by her condo to change her clothes and give herself a shot of the very expensive medication that keeps her mobile. Finally it was necessary to console Smack, who wanted to accompany us but wasn’t allowed. Luz said her neighbors might not appreciate a visit from the dog.

  The security guard didn’t remember the man on night shift mentioning any strangers wanting to come in after midnight the Sunday morning in question. We picked up that discouraging piece of information before we even started the canvass. Because it was Saturday, we found people at home, but all had been asleep a week ago after midnight. Luz grumbled that she’d hoped to find at least a few swingers among the group who might have seen something. Our last stop was across the street and several doors down from Luz’s.

  “Not much hope here,” she muttered. “This woman’s old. Probably goes to bed at nine.” She rang the bell, and the householder answered after a rather long interval and several more rings.

  “You don’t have to lean on my doorbell,” she said, thumping her cane irritably on the floor. “I have arthritis. It takes me a while to get to the front door, and having the bell ringing in my ear doesn’t make me any faster, young lady,” she said to Luz.

  Mrs. Filbert was a tall, lean woman, somewhat humped, very wrinkled, with liver spots on her hands and face. The rest of her was covered by a long, baggy dress with purple flowered stripes and large pockets on the chest, stuffed with Kleenex. Over the dress she wore a heavy green sweater that looked hand knitted. A pair of well worn, New Balance tennis shoes completed the outfit.

  “I’ve seen you from time to time,” she growled at Luz. “You limp. Mine’s arthritis. What’s your problem?”

  “Same,” said Luz grumpily.

  “You’re too young for arthritis.”

  “Tell my rheumatologist.”

  “Oh, that kind of arthritis. Well, come in, both of you. Don’t stand out there in the wind.” She led us into her living room, where every chair and sofa was straight-backed and very firm. “You’ll appreciate my furniture,” she told Luz. “Easy to get out of. I’m not so crippled up yet that I have to have one of those chairs that shoot you onto your feet when you push a button, but I suppose that’s coming. Do you have one of those?”

  “No, ma’am,” Luz replied. “My medication’s working pretty well.”

  “Lucky you. Not that having a crippling illness at your age is lucky. I have a friend with the rheumatoid kind. It’s always women. Have you noticed that? As if God didn’t give us burdens enough—menstruation, childbirth, men. Either of you have children? Mine are a thankless lot. They think I should go into a nursing home. As if I’m likely to do that. I plan to stay right where I am. Maybe when I turn a hundred and don’t care any more, but for now I can take care of myself. Can’t drive anymore, but there’s bus pickup for seniors. You could probably use it too, young lady. You being crippled and all.”

  “I still drive,” Luz said.

  “I have two children,” I replied, in answer to the question our hostess had asked and forgotten. “Both in college.”

  “You find you don’t know what to do with yourself now you don’t have to pick up after them and wash their clothes and all that?”

  “Actually, I keep quite busy,” I replied, smiling.

  “So do I. I have no patience for women who sit around their houses moaning about empty-nest syndrome, of all the newfangled ideas. I’d offer you refreshments, but I don’t feel like getting up. When people lean on your doorbell and force you to hobble faster, you need a little rest afterward.” She aimed a challenging glance at Luz, and then turned to look out the front window, by which her chair was placed. “What with TV and watching what’s happening in the neighborhood, I keep busy. Used to do crewel embroidery, but it makes my fingers hurt now. You have trouble with your fingers, young lady?”

  “No, ma’am. Mostly my knees, although at times it jumps around,” said Luz. “Those are the worst spells.”

  “Well, you have my sympathy. I know just how it is. Can’t sleep because you’re aching so bad, can’t garden anymore. That’s a nice hat you’ve got there,” she said to me. “Must be good for gardening. A good hat’s a blessing in this town. I always wore a big hat when I gardened. Of course here in Casi
tas they do your gardening for you.”

  “You have trouble sleeping?” Luz asked. She’d become quite alert when she heard that. I could see her chafing to break into the neighbor’s monologue.

  “Sure do. Sleeplessness trouble you?”

  “No, I’m used to it. You weren’t by any chance awake last Saturday night late, were you?”

  “Yep. An interesting night, that was. That young man with the condo by yours—he came home drunk as a sailor. Staggering into the wrong yard. He fell into your bushes. Did you notice that? And he was throwing up from the bushes all the way to his own door. I reported him to the association. But I tell you, I had to laugh to see him trying to get out of those bushes. Men and alcohol are a bad combination. The fool didn’t even close his door.”

  “Did you see anyone else go in his house that night, Mrs. Filbert?” I asked, now feeling that we were getting somewhere.

  “Oh, yes. He must have called his doctor. Now most folks wouldn’t bother to call a doctor when they’re vomiting from too much alcohol, but sure enough a while later along comes this fellow with a doctor bag, finds the door open, goes on in, comes out maybe an hour later; no, probably a half hour. I was sorry I’d called the association on this young lady’s next-door neighbor if he was that sick, but then I heard he died, so I guess they never reported the complaint to him.”

  I whipped out my picture and showed it to her. “Did the doctor look like any of these people?” I was thinking that this was the best we could do in the way of a lineup, not that Vivian, Jason, or I looked like Peter.

  “Well, he wasn’t a woman, and he wasn’t the short fellow with the beard. Might have been the tall fellow in the tux, but the one in the picture isn’t carrying a doctor bag. That’s what I noticed. The bag. Why are you wearing a patch over your eye, young lady?” she asked me. “And don’t I see bruising spreading out from under that patch? My eyesight’s still good. My late husband always said I could spot the warts on a warthog from fifty yards away. Stupid thing to say. I never saw a warthog in my life.”