Killing Cortez

by A. L. DeNova

  8

  A Craftsman Home

  “I’m getting sunburned,” Jo said. “I think it’s time to pack up this trailer and head back to the ocean breezes of San Diego. Carmen, can I give you a ride back to your Chevelle?” Jo volunteered.

  “Thanks Jo,” Carmen said.

  “Jacobo, will finish the inventory and photos of the evidence. I am going to need those reports as soon as possible. Heidi is going to wig out when she finds out we took photos, we are going to have to get copies for her,” said Jo.

  “Well, it may be awhile until I get that report approved by my supervisor, but as soon as that happens, I will drive you out a copy. The photographs will be ready tomorrow,” answered Jacobo.

  “I will call you tomorrow with a witness list and we will fax the subpoenas for the trial,” Jo said as the three of them walked back to Jacobo’s car for the drive back to the diner.

  “You know Jo, my car still has a flat tire,” Carmen told the young federal prosecutor.

  “Pretty and demanding,” mumbled Jo under her breath.

  “What, you say something?” said Jacobo, not taking his eyes off of the road. “You know Carmen, you might be a bit optimistic. Do you know this area, and the people who live around here? You’ll be lucky if any of your tires are still on that car,” Jacobo said. The only miscreants they passed was a herd of ambling cattle, confined behind a wire fence.

  “Nice to meet you Carmen, hope we meet up again soon,” Jacobo said as he parked the El Camino. The two women slid out to the dust of the hot parking lot. “

  Thank you, Agent Sanchez,” was all Carmen said in reply. “He was joking about the tires,” Jo said.

  Jo opened up the door to her convertible and walked around the hood and waved goodbye to Agent Sanchez. “I’ll call you,” Jo mouthed, pantomiming the receiver with her extended thumb and pinky. She revved the engine, and put the AC on high. “Carmen, we’ll be back to your car in 10 minutes. She reached over with her left hand and patted Carmen right above the knee, before releasing the clutch.

  She pulled her sunglasses down from the bridge of her nose to reveal blue eyes and said softly “It will be OK.” Carmen sat bolt upright in the front passenger seat, showing no emotion but feeling an uncomfortable and unfamiliar tingle emanating from Jo’s hand. The slacks, the gesture, made Carmen think. The touch made her uncomfortable. She swallowed the thought, and turned to look at the radio.

  “I will make sure that your car is OK, Carmen, I am not going to leave you in the middle of the desert, even if we just met. I believe in the Good Samaritan and all that stuff,” said Jo. She continued to drive, glancing every few moments at Carmen. Was this going to be goodbye?

  “Let’s stop at the gas station, it will be up ahead in a few minutes,” said Jo.

  The two women stopped at the small gas station, manned by a bald man in a blue work shirt embroidered with the name “Mike” partially hidden by a pack of Marlboro cigarettes.

  “Can you follow us Mike? We had a flat tire a few miles up the road?” Carmen asked as she pointed. “We don’t have spare, so I guess I will have to buy one...” she continued. Mike took a step towards her.

  ”I can get that tire. You got cash? I’ll be needing that Andrew Jackson up front, like I said,” Mike explained.

  Carmen stared back blankly. Jo stepped forward and pulled out her billfold. She unfolded a $20 bill. Mike pocketed the cash. He grabbed a thick wad of keys and hustled over in his scuffed boots, to a turquoise Ford pickup. Mike lit a cigarette and spoke to both women, using the singular form of address, “Hey Missy, don’t your daddy teach you to keep a spare and tools in the trunk?” Jo and Carmen said nothing at first.

  “We don’t have a spare,” Jo finally answered.

  “How far is the car from here?” Mike asked.

  “Oh, it’s just about two miles,” Jo said.

  “How much will that be to just put on your loaner tire, and then take me back to the station to buy a new one?” Carmen said. “$200” was the answer.

  “That’s pretty stiff, can’t you help a lady out?” Jo said. “That is the price lady.” Mike added, questioning the last word.

  The two women jumped back in Jo’s convertible. Mike followed close behind in the pick-up. Jo made sure that she did not brake suddenly in the short ride as Mike drove fast and turned without warning.

  Mike pulled behind the stranded Chevelle, replaced the flat with a used tire. “Here’s a receipt, Miss,” Mike said handing Jo the change and pink customer copy. “Will this tire get me back to San Diego?” Carmen asked.

  “Sure will.” With the transaction completed, Mike drove east back to the station.

  Jo and Carmen stood alone after the morning breakfast and impound lot investigation. They shared the silence and the peace of two women together on a desert road. Jo spoke first “Do you have any plans for dinner tonight?” “No,” Carmen said.

  “It’s not much more than an hour and change back to my house in Hillcrest, why don’t you follow me there. You could use some fun. My roommate is a professional chef, and we are having a bunch of ladies coming over. It will be delicious.” She ripped the tire receipt in half and wrote:

  Josephine Gemma, Esq., 1321 Rigoberto Place, San Diego. “Just follow me up the highway, we will hit the interstate, and then I will take you straight to my house.”

  The two cars drove in tandem into central San Diego. They turned down a quiet cul de sac by the early evening. Carmen drove slowly on the street and looked around to see a neighborhood full of well-maintained Craftsmen houses from the early 1900s. Quaint and well-maintained homes, with flowers, and trimmed bushes lined both sides of the street. She saw two blond girls skipping rope on the sidewalk. Not like Tijuana or Tecate. Clean, quiet, orderly. Jo pulled up to a gray Craftsman style house with a small driveway and a one-car detached garage. Carmen parked alongside Jo, on the small driveway.

  Jo jumped out of her convertible and grabbed her briefcase and suit jacket, and was alongside Carmen’s driver’s door as Carmen was gathering her purse. Jo glimpsed the caramel of Carmen’s supple neck as she scooped her belongings from the floor of the car and her pulse quickened. Jo smiled as she enjoyed the sweet smell of Jasmine from the garden together with a new tangy scent, Carmen.

  Jo paused to clear a moment of calm. She opened the driver’s door and said with genuine joy, “Welcome to our home. You are going to love my roommate Rosie!”

  9

  Mexican Coke

  Jo skipped up the slate flagstone pavers to the red front door. The walkway was flanked on both sides by golden California poppies. Jo gently tried the front door knob with her left hand, finding it unlocked. She flung open the front door revealing a small living room adorned with honey-colored oak.

  “Nice,” Carmen said aloud and noting to herself that it looked comfortable. Adjacent to the living room, was a dining room that overlooked a fenced backyard. Carmen saw a formal dinner setting laid out complete with candle sticks, white linen, and ten chairs. Jo placed her brief case on a wing-backed chair in the living room. “And you will make eleven, for our dinner party. I will go tell Rosie that I am going to squeeze you next to her.” Jo dashed out of the room and returned with a swivel chair on wheels. “Filled to capacity,” Jo said, as she squeezed the armless swivel on the right-hand side of the head chair.

  Off the dining room was a long narrow, ship’s galley-like kitchen and a number of pots boiling. Carmen spied the broad shoulders of a person cooking with a pink dishtowel strewn around a pale and thick neck. “Hey Rosie,” Jo called from the dining room. The large shoulders performed a surprisingly supple pirouette, and the ruddy face of a beefy woman in her late twenties was presented. The roommate sported short tousled peroxide-blonde hair that was Marine Corps short. Her size and breadth rendered her an ideal candidate for either the roller derby or the Iditarod.

  “Hi, I’m Rosie, and I do all the work around here,” the large woman said, extending a hand. Carmen took the wid
e red hand, and withdrew her hand fast.

  “Jo, can I have a tour?” Carmen said. She did not like Rosie’s style at all. The men’s clothes, the military hair. Carmen liked being a woman, the high heels, the dresses, the perfume, the doors opened, the man paying the bills, the protection. She liked what she had with JC. She missed his muscles and dominance.

  It had been twenty-four hours since they crossed the Chevelle, and here she was in another universe with these women. She searched for the taboo words. American lesbians? The Chevelle was parked in a driveway in Hillcrest of all places, in front of an American Federal prosecutor’s house.

  She had no idea why JC had not come back last night. She knew he loved her. Or at least, wanted her and wanted to have sex with her. The physical reality could not be denied. He aroused her. She enjoyed his whining, panting, demanding desire. When they were together, it was with hunger. She liked what they cooked together.

  Jo touched Carmen’s shoulder, “Hey Carmen, let me show you around. First, here’s the restroom, if you need to wash up.” Carmen pushed the wobbly brass knob of what looked like the original hardware, and stepped into an old timey bathroom, complete with old fashioned faucets and a claw foot bathtub. She turned on the faucet labelled ‘C’ for cold, “not for caliente” she mumbled to herself. “Everything is opposite.”

  She splashed cold water on her face and gazed into the reflection. Different place, same face. She smiled at the beautiful woman in the bathroom mirror. The problem was Carmen’s family. They did not like her running with JC who was a “junior” in the drug business. Carmen’s family believed in education, hard work, and following the laws of God and man.

  The family wanted her to marry into a nice Mexican, middle-class life, to include a husband, children, and house in a good colonia. Of course, her husband would cheat, that’s what all Mexican men did, but as long he was loving to her, gave her money, maybe they would also buy a holiday home in Coronado on the beach. Perhaps, her family together could enjoy the sights of San Diego.

  “I have to make a phone call, “Carmen told her reflection, knowing that she had to make telephone call. Her mother must know that she was alive and that JC had run off.

  Carmen had no idea what to do with the cocaine or the Chevelle. She did not forget about that, not with all her smiles, the breakfast this morning, the federal agent, the ride back to San Diego. The home of an Assistant United States Attorney for now seemed like a good place to hide from the cartel goons.

  A knock was made on the bathroom door. Carmen turned off the faucet, “Yes?” she said.

  “Carmen, are you in the bathroom?” came a high voice. Carmen opened the door slowly to see the blonde woman looming in front her. That high voice, so incongruous and the demeanor so disconnected. A Chihuahua voice on a Rottweiler body.

  Carmen squeezed by Rosie into the living room where Jo was lounging in a chair. “So, Carmen, Rosie - she’s a chef downtown-but she’s our chef tonight,” Jo said.

  “Is that your van parked out front,” Carmen said.

  “It is, my pride and joy,” Rosie said, pleased by the compliments of this new cutie.

  “It looks fun,” Carmen said. “Not as fun as I am,” Rosie squeaked. She walked back to the small kitchen, seemingly occupying all available space. She stirred a sauce, while humming softly to herself.

  “I need to buy some cigarettes, is there a market nearby?” asked Carmen hoping to find a moment alone so she could make an untraceable phone call.

  “Yeah, about half a mile south of here, down Reynard Way” said Jo pointing, we call it PLO Market, but I think it is called Farmer’s Freshest -You can’t miss it.”

  “What time is the party starting?” Carmen asked

  “Whatever time our guests arrive. We told them 6:00 but you just never know with them,” Jo said.

  Rosie stepped out of the kitchen “So come back by 6:00 honey,” she winked.

  Carmen did not want Rosie so interested in her return. Perhaps there she could exploit this interest to her own benefit. Without delay Carmen turned on her high heel, and then twisted back with a smile. “Is that your garage Rosie?” Carmen asked.

  “It is. My name is on the lease and that no account federal prosecutor is just subleasing from me,” Rosie volunteered.

  “I noticed the garage was empty and I have a classic Chevelle. I just wondered if I can park it in the garage if you are not using it.”

  “Sure thing-the door is spring loaded, the padlock is open, just pull open the door and the spring will catch. You can drive in. I may have some tools in a tool box. Just put it aside, and pull in,” said Rosie.

  Carmen left with the “Yes” still lingering in the air, and called back “I’ll see you in a few.” She needed to get away from these women and have a few minutes alone. With a break of fifteen minutes, could think, make a phone call, and finally have a cigarette.

  At the convenience store “PLO Deli” they had called it, she had made change and dialed the telephone numbers from memory. She approached the phone, her heart racing, her breath constricted. She lit a cigarette and weighed the choices. Why had he abandoned her? She just had to tell them what happened, otherwise she was as good as dead. No matter where she was, whether in Tijuana or L.A., they would find her and her mother would find her dead body. End of story, another nobody murdered over drugs. Carmen stomped out her cigarette after just a few puffs. She didn’t want to be snuffed out by El Chiño. She very much wanted to live.

  Carmen picked up the scratched black receiver and read the graffiti etched into the metal coin plate on the pay phone. “Cunt!” it read in large letters. The familiar ring of a Mexican telephone, and then the most familiar of voices. She lit another cigarette.

  “Mama, it’s me!” Carmen said immediately in Spanish.

  “Oh, Carmen, I was so worried,” came the answer.

  “Mom I am fine. We had a flat tire on the other side. Yes, I am fine. I am staying here, on this side. I found a place to stay. Yes, Mom.” Carmen paused to take a drag on the cigarette.

  Her mother asked, with real concern and a choked tear, “My little one, are you safe? Where is JC, they want to know.”

  Carmen took hit from the cigarette, fortifying her resolve with the nicotine rush. She could not tell her mom about this now. “Mama, I will be smart, I will find JC, I will stay safe, I love you and I will see you soon. I have done nothing wrong except go on a date.” She hung up, knowing she had told three lies.

  Carmen pushed on the silver cradle that held the receiver. From the thick black telephone came the insistent demand “Please deposit $1.50. Please deposit $1.50.” Carmen hung up the receiver. She had ended the conversation before she could lose her nerve. They were looking for JC. They knew she was just JC’s latest piece of ass, no more. It was JC they wanted. The cartel thought she was just another dumb chica who was in the dark about the cocaine. And it was up to her, to use their underestimation of her know-how against them.

  She walked back into the store and asked first in Spanish if they had Mexican Coca- Cola.

  The middle-eastern cashier stared at her with a confused looked. She laughed, and repeated in English, “Do you have Mexican Coke?” “Mexican Coke?” the cashier repeated, spreading his arms. “What is that?” “It is like American Coke only sweeter, and authentic,” she said.

  The cashier walked her to the long row of shimmering glass refrigerator cases displaying the cold soft drinks and swiftly Carmen pulled in front of him, bending down and retrieving the familiar green glass, “hecho in Mexico,” imprinted on the bottle.

  She darted to the counter by the cash register and paid for the cigarettes and soda.

  “Keep the change,” Carmen called over her shoulder as she carried her Mexican Coke and cigarettes back to the Chevelle.

  Carmen slowed down the car as she approached Jo’s house. There was a clear path to the detached garage and she drove up the short concrete driveway. Letting the car idle in park, Carmen examined the
garage. She touched the open padlock on the manual garage door. She removed the lock and then lifted the mechanized spring up.

  In the twilight of the evening, Carmen peered into the garage. It was big enough for the Chevelle. She saw an old work bench, some saws hanging against the wall. She flicked up the light switch to get a better look.

  She needed the car off the street. She needed the contents of that trunk out of sight. How long could she keep the Chevelle, and its load of cocaine, hidden? That was the answer she did not have. Carmen glanced around the garage, and found a large metal tool case. She opened it up and took out a large screw driver. Kicking off her high heels, she knelt down on her knees. She stopped, listened for a second, glancing back to see only a trimmed lawn, an avocado tree heavy with its ripe offspring.

  On the floor of the cement garage floor were a series of wooden slats across a five-foot-long oil change pit. Carmen scanned the greying timber covering the opening to the oil pit. Carmen felt the old timber and saw that it was loose. She pried it up with the big screwdriver, and took the board out of the slot. She looked down and saw the deep hole into the ground. The pit appeared to be at least six feet deep.

  “An oil pit,” she observed.

  She stared at the cobwebs and the dirt, and thought. It was an oil pit from the old days, when oil was just oil, not toxic waste. In those old days, it was convenient to pour the waste out in a pit in the garage. A person would take the Model T and just change the oil out in an oil pit. Her great grandfather had once laughed about this at a family gathering. A large smile spread across Carmen’s face, and her large eyes sparkled.

  This pit could be used for more than storing oil, Carmen surmised. It looked like it had not been used in the seventy-five years since it was first constructed.

  Carmen had stumbled into a place she could keep the cocaine for now-and then ditch the Chevelle when the time came.