Angel Baby

by RICHARD LANGE

  The driveway continues past the house to a detached garage out back, but passage is blocked by a five-foot chain-link gate. A German shepherd and some kind of pit bull mix rush the gate and cut loose with a grating chorus of frantic barks. Thacker taps the corner of his eye with his finger, then points to the garage. Jerónimo moves to the gate and keeps watch on the rear of the house while the fat man lumbers to the porch and knocks at the front door. The dogs, eyes rolling, teeth bared, bellow at Jerónimo, letting the whole neighborhood know he’s here.

  A woman answers the door, a chubby Latina, thirty-five, forty, wearing a tank top and shorts. Thacker says something about immigration and shows her one of the photos of Luz that El Príncipe gave to Jerónimo. Jerónimo can’t hear what’s going on over the dogs, but Thacker soon gestures for him to join them on the porch.

  “This is my partner, Agent Vasquez,” Thacker says to the woman, whose brow is knitted in confusion. He turns to Jerónimo. “She doesn’t habla inglés,” he says with a smirk.

  Jerónimo takes the photo from Thacker and holds it out to the woman again. “We’re looking for this girl,” he says in Spanish. “Do you know her?”

  “No, sir,” the woman says. She’s a terrible liar.

  “Look again,” Jerónimo says. “Her name is Luz.”

  The woman waves the picture away. “Please, sir.”

  “She’s your niece, isn’t she?”

  “I don’t want any trouble.”

  “We don’t either. Tell us what we want to know, and we’ll go.”

  “I’m afraid,” she says and nods toward Thacker. “This man has a gun.”

  “Everything will be fine,” Jerónimo reassures her. “Just a few questions.”

  She considers this, then opens the door wider and motions him and Thacker inside.

  The living room is a cool, dark cave, the curtains shut tight, a window-mounted air conditioner working hard. Two little girls lie sprawled at opposite ends of a couch, watching cartoons on TV. They barely look up when Jerónimo, Thacker, and the woman pass through on their way to the kitchen. The family photos hanging in the hall trip Jerónimo up for a second, put him in mind of Irma and the kids, but then he glimpses a teenaged Luz in one of them, cradling an infant, and things begin to fall into place.

  The kitchen is like the rest of the house, lived-in but clean where it should be. A rack of freshly washed dishes drips next to the sink, and the room smells of soap. Jerónimo pulls out a chair for the woman at a small table cut in two by a slash of sunlight and sits down across from her. Thacker stands in front of the buzzing refrigerator, arms crossed over his chest.

  “What’s your name?” Jerónimo asks the woman.

  Trembling fingers hiding her lips, she replies, “Carmen Rosales.”

  “And you’re Luz’s aunt?”

  She nods. “But we haven’t seen or heard from her in years, not since she went back to Mexico.”

  “No calls from her lately? No texts?”

  “Nothing. What’s happened?”

  Jerónimo leans forward, rests his elbows on the turquoise Formica tabletop, and stares into Carmen’s eyes. He wants to frighten her just enough.

  “Luz has a daughter,” he says.

  Carmen’s hand slides from her mouth to her throat, to the gold cross hanging there.

  “One of them?” Jerónimo says with a nod toward the living room, playing his hunch.

  “We’ve been looking after her,” Carmen says. “She’s like one of our own.”

  “That’s good,” Jerónimo says. “That’s kind of you. But we’ve heard something.”

  “What?”

  “Luz is coming here to see her today.”

  “No. Who told you this?”

  Jerónimo frowns and scratches the back of his neck. “That’s confidential,” he says. “You understand how these things are. What I can tell you is that Luz is in big trouble. She’s made a very bad man very angry, and my partner and I have been sent here to protect her child.”

  Fear sharpens Carmen’s features. She glances over at Thacker, then turns her gaze back to Jerónimo. “I need to call my husband,” she says.

  “Later,” Jerónimo says. “There’s no time now.”

  “No, I’m going to call,” she says and starts to get to her feet. Jerónimo reaches out and takes one of her hands in his. He squeezes it hard as he pulls her back down into the chair.

  “Listen to me,” he says. “We’re here to help you.”

  “Help me?” Carmen says, her voice tilting toward hysteria. “You’re not the Border Patrol. You’re not any kind of police.”

  “Shhhh,” Jerónimo says. “Calm down.” She’s a good person, he can see that, but he’ll hurt her if he has to.

  “What’s happening?” Thacker asks in English.

  “Stay quiet,” Jerónimo says. “Let me handle this.”

  16

  MALONE AND LUZ ARE ON THE 91 SOMEWHERE BETWEEN CORONA and Yorba Linda, coming into Orange County, Malone’s old stomping ground. He grew up in Anaheim Hills; he and Val and Annie lived in Tustin, not too far away; and his parents still live in Newport. It was here that he went to school, worked, married, was a daddy, and bumped into happiness once or twice.

  He hasn’t been back since he slunk off to L.A. after Val left him, intending to lose himself among strangers and burn off what remained of his life. His chest tightens as he gazes at the familiar flatness stretching to the ocean, the orderly grid of wide streets and freeways, and the pall of smog that turns the colors strange. It hits him all of a sudden that he shouldn’t be here, that whatever he fled might be waiting for him like a vengeful spirit.

  Luz is staring out the window, and Malone tries to think of something to say to her to stave off the foreboding that’s descended upon him.

  “How old’s your daughter?” he asks.

  “Hmmm?” Luz replies, coming back from wherever she’d drifted off to.

  “How old’s your kid?”

  “She’ll be four on Tuesday.”

  “And it’s been how long since you last saw her?”

  “Three years.”

  Malone can tell she’s uncomfortable, but he keeps talking, can’t stop himself.

  “Why’d you leave her?” he asks.

  Luz shoots him an angry look, then shrugs and turns away.

  “I’m not judging you,” he says. “I’m curious.”

  “I was stupid,” she says.

  “But now you’re gonna make it right.”

  “I’m gonna try.”

  “That’s good,” Malone says. “I hope you do.” A smear on the windshield catches his eye. He reaches up to wipe it away with his thumb but finds that the mark is on the other side of the glass. They pass a gas station where he used to fill up once in a while and the pizza place where Val worked when she was in high school. One memory leads to another.

  “Who’d you take the money from?” he says to Luz, desperate for distraction.

  “Nobody you want to know,” she says.

  “Does he have any idea what you’re doing, where you’re going?”

  “Yeah, I left him a map,” she scoffs. “What do you think?”

  “I think that Border Patrol guy knew we were crossing this morning, and maybe the other guy too.”

  “Don’t worry about it. You’ll be rid of me in half an hour.”

  “I’m not worried about me. I’m worried about you.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  They ride in silence until the pressure builds again inside Malone’s skull. Leave her alone, he scolds himself even as he’s saying, “What’s your daughter’s name?”

  Luz cocks her head, angry now. “You know what,” she says, “I’m gonna ask you some questions. Are you married?”

  “I was,” Malone says.

  “What happened?”

  “She left me.”

  “Because you cheated on her?”

  “No.”

  “Yeah, you did. You cheate
d on her.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Why’d she leave you then?”

  “Our daughter.”

  “Oh, a daughter. What’s her name?”

  “Annie.”

  “How old is she?”

  “She’d be ten.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “She’s dead.”

  Shock registers briefly on Luz’s face, but she keeps going.

  “From what?”

  “She got hit by a car.”

  “How?”

  “She ran into the street,” Malone says. “I looked away for a second to unload some groceries—”

  He wants to embarrass Luz with the particulars, make her sorry she ever asked, but he falters. Even after all these years he can’t bring himself to relate what happened that morning, to describe the squeal of brakes, the fleshy thump, the moment he turned to see the truck that had run Annie down still sitting on top of her. “Move!” he screams on the nights when he relives it. “Move!” But it’s always too late, she’s always already dead.

  “Ask me something else,” he says when his voice returns to him, but now that Luz has drawn blood, her indignation has dissipated. She stares silently out her window again while Malone tightens his grip on the wheel and drives on.

  A Highway Patrol cruiser sneaks up on them, coming out of nowhere to speed past with its flashers winking maniacally. It begins to swerve across all four lanes of the freeway, a maneuver designed to gradually slow traffic. Malone tries to escape via an upcoming exit but ends up trapped between a panel truck and a Corvette when everything comes to a standstill. Sticking his head out the window, he watches the cruiser make a U-turn and park in the middle of the freeway facing a sea of idling vehicles. Luz clutches the door handle like she’s about to make a run for it.

  “Easy,” Malone says, having discovered the reason for the stop: A brown leather couch lies in the fast lane. At least one vehicle has already hit it, exposing white stuffing and a broken wooden frame. Stepping out of the cruiser, the patrolman pulls on a pair of black gloves. He grabs the couch and, with a series of tugs, drags it to the shoulder.

  “Thank you, officer,” a woman’s voice calls from somewhere nearby.

  The patrolman returns to the cruiser and swings it around so that it’s facing in the right direction. Traffic starts to flow again as soon as he zooms off down the eerily empty roadway, and in a matter of seconds it’s as if it had never paused at all.

  A couple of miles later Luz says, “If we come to a mall or something, could we stop?”

  “I thought you were in a hurry,” Malone says.

  “I don’t want Isabel to see me like this,” Luz says. “I need to clean up.”

  “Isabel,” Malone says. “That’s nice.”

  Luz looks at him sideways for second, then says, “I’m sorry about the way I am.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Malone says.

  “I’ve been through a lot of shit.”

  “You don’t have to apologize to me.”

  A smile flits across Luz’s face. Malone reaches up and tries to rub away the spot on the windshield again.

  Luz points out a sign. “There’s a Target up here.”

  “Target it is then,” Malone says.

  He takes the next exit and drives down a frontage road that leads to a shopping center. Target, Best Buy, BevMo. The competition for parking spaces in the vast lot is too much for him, so he retreats to the outer edge and finds an empty spot there.

  The cab of the truck heats up as soon as he shuts off the engine. Luz uses her filthy shirt to swipe at the dirt and ash streaking her face.

  “Do I look okay to go inside?” she says.

  “Good enough,” he says.

  He decides to accompany her. The store will be air-conditioned, and he needs food. He opens the backpack and pulls some money from it, a few hundreds, puts them in his pocket. He then zips up the pack and slings it over his shoulder. He and Luz walk across the parking lot together. He can feel the hot asphalt through the soles of his Converses. Once inside the store, they head for the restrooms.

  Malone splashes water onto his face and uses a paper towel to wipe away the grime on his neck and arms, slides it up under his shirt to get at his chest and pits. Not much he can do about his hair. He removes a twig stuck in it and combs it into place as best he can with wet fingers.

  When he leaves the bathroom he almost trips over a little boy. The kid is standing alone right outside the door and crying loudly.

  “What’s up, dude?” Malone asks him.

  “Daddy!” the boy yells, on the verge of hysteria. “Daddy!”

  Malone pushes open the bathroom door and sticks his head inside.

  “Anybody missing a kid, a little boy?” he says.

  A man standing at the sink says, “Not me.”

  Malone squats in front of the boy. “They’ve got a place here where they can call your dad,” he says. “You want me to take you there?”

  The boy puts his hand in Malone’s and lets him lead him toward the customer service desk. Before they’ve gone too far, a short, skinny man in khakis and a denim shirt comes running up.

  “What’s going on?” he snaps at Malone.

  “You left me,” the boy wails.

  “I did not,” the man says.

  “I found him over by the bathroom,” Malone says.

  The man gives Malone a look that makes Malone want to punch him in the face, a glance filled with suspicion and distrust.

  “Thanks,” he says as he picks up the boy and carries him off.

  Malone walks back to the women’s room to wait for Luz. She smiles when she emerges all scrubbed and smelling of soap. He’d forgotten how pretty she is.

  “I need some clean clothes,” she says. “Can you loan me some money?”

  He hands her two of the hundreds he took out of the backpack.

  “I’ll be in the snack bar,” he says.

  He orders pizza and coffee from a Chinese kid with a lisp. When it’s ready, he carries his tray to one of the little plastic tables. The pizza is the first food he’s eaten all day, and even though it’s barely warm and has a cardboard crust, he wolfs it down and considers having more. The man and woman at the next table are staring at their phones. Beyond them, a young mother spoons frozen yogurt into her squirming toddler’s mouth. Malone sips his coffee and wishes it was whiskey.

  After he drops Luz off, he’ll drive the pickup back to San Diego and ditch it in Old Town, take the trolley home. Then he’s going to sleep for twelve hours. The past couple of days have been too fucking much. Just look at his hand. It’s shaking like an old man’s. He’s starting to think he really should take Gail to Maui. Luz’s money will be more than enough to get them going. He’ll ease off the booze, give regular life another shot. He’s only thirty-five. There’s no reason he can’t try to string together however many good days he has left into something decent. But, goddamn, look at that hand.

  Luz wonders about Malone as she walks through the store. At first she thought he was sticking with her because of the money, but that can’t be it because now the money is his, and he’s still here. It would have been nice to have the cash to start her new life, but if she had to give it up to get Isabel back, it must have been meant to be. In fact, everything must have been meant to be. And that means that Malone, raggedy-ass fool that he is, is actually the person God sent to help her out today. And he’s getting something out of it, too, something besides the money. He’s bringing her to her baby because he can’t be with his own, and this is going to make him feel better about losing Annie. At least Luz hopes it will. She’d like to think that she understands what he was feeling back there in the truck when he was talking about what happened to his daughter but knows that she doesn’t. Because that kind of suffering, you do alone.

  Worry is getting the best of her now that she’s so close to reuniting with Isabel, and question after question pops into her head.

>   What if Carmen has moved?

  I’ll talk to the neighbors.

  And if they don’t know anything?

  I’ll go to the restaurant where Carmen’s husband used to work.

  And if she’s dead? It’s the voice of her mother asking this.

  Who? Who’s dead?

  Isabel. What if she’s dead? Like Annie.

  Don’t think that, don’t think that, don’t think, Luz tells herself.

  Isabel had a cold the day Luz left for Tijuana. She was cranky and feverish, and Luz sat holding her on Carmen’s couch, rocking her and kissing her again and again.

  “Mamá,” the little girl wailed. “Mamá,” as if she knew that soon a car was going to pull up outside and Mamá would have to go. She was wearing just a diaper and a T-shirt, but still her hair was damp with sweat.

  “Cálmate,” Luz whispered as she wiped snot from the baby’s nose and pressed her lips to her burning forehead. “I won’t be gone long, I promise. And when I come back, we’ll have everything we need: a place of our own, furniture, good food, and every beautiful thing you deserve.”

  She pictured her love for Isabel as one of those charms, a heart made up of two sections that fit together like pieces of a puzzle. She’d leave half with Isabel, praying it would be enough to keep the memory of Mamá alive until she returned. The other half she’d take with her and conceal deep inside her, where its fire would warm her on the coldest nights and its glow would be a comfort to her in her darkness.

  She nearly backed out when El Samurai arrived, almost sent Carmen to tell him she’d changed her mind about going with him. But it was too late. She’d led him on for too long, and to reject him then would have wounded his pride. He’d have punished her, punished Isabel, punished Carmen and her family. She wept as she handed Isabel over to Carmen and spent her last few seconds desperately trying to memorize the baby’s face.

  Ever since, she’s struggled to live with what she did. She realized soon after leaving that it would have been better to have been poor, to have starved to death, than to be parted from Isabel, and she’s grieved and yearned and drugged herself into oblivion trying to escape her shame. Her only prayer has been Let me get back to her, her only dream to hold her little girl again and finally, once and for all, knit together the two jagged halves of her heart. And she’s so close now, so close.