After attending such functions, he and Nancy always seemed to edge into arguments that ended with Nancy crying and accusing him of being hostile and non-communicative. Looking back, he probably had been. They'd once been desperately in love, but he'd eventually stopped looking at her as the long legged beauty he'd married and began seeing her as a carping roommate.
Now, he thought, when Nancy married Bruce, a wimp who wore button down shirts and flashed an instant shit eating grin, she'd always have a party companion.
He opened the refrigerator, took out a half empty carton of milk, and held it up to his nose: sour. He poured the curdled liquid down the drain. Promising himself to get to the store as soon as he had time, he took a glass from the dish drainer, flipped on the faucet, and filled the glass with water. He drank and set the glass on the sink. The taco at Manuel's had been the only thing he'd eaten all day and he was still hungry. He considered heating one of the TV dinners he had in the freezer, but decided against trying to sleep on a full stomach. In the morning, after signing in at Hollenbeck Station, he and Arredondo would stop at the Zacatecas Cafe on Evergreen Street for a combination plate with all the trimmings.
Stepanovich's bedroom was furnished with a bare mattress on the floor, one of Arredondo's card table chairs, and a portable radio. The clothing he'd kept in the dresser Nancy and Bruce had taken to Brentwood was now stacked on the floor of the closet next to his shoes. A tennis racket and some cardboard boxes he'd filled with police academy textbooks, and a few framed photographs of himself and Uncle Nick standing with his mother and father at the Los Angeles County Fairgrounds, were all he'd held on to.
Stepanovich removed his sports coat and slid his gun, bullet pouch, and handcuffs from his belt and set them on the chair. He stopped undressing and checked his watch. It was almost midnight. His mind made up, he quickly put his police equipment back on his belt and left the apartment.
It took him about ten minutes to get to the L.A. county hospital. He parked his car in the same spot he'd used earlier in the evening and entered the front door. Because of the hour, the pale green corridors were dimly lit.
He found Gloria Soliz at the nurses' station in the intensive care ward, writing on a metal clipboard. He stood in front of her until she finally looked up and saw him.
"Mr. Estrada is still too sick to be interviewed," she said when she recognized him.
"I'm not here about him. I had to pick up something from hospital records, so I thought I'd stop by and apologize for the misunderstanding earlier."
She stared at Stepanovich for a moment, but she didn't smile. "That's nice of you. But no apology is necessary."
"I guess I came on a little strong."
She came to her feet. "No problem. Is there something I can help you with?"
"When is the shift change for this ward?"
"In a few minutes."
"Would you like to go out to breakfast?"
She looked about to see if anyone was nearby. They were alone. "It's late and I "
"We could just grab a bite."
"Thanks, maybe some other time." The phone on her desk rang. She let it ring twice before picking up the receiver.
Stepanovich took a deep breath, let it out. Shuffling back down the hallway, he stopped at the elevator and looked back. Still holding the phone to her ear, she was standing in the hallway watching him. She darted back into the nurses' station.
Outside the employees' entrance to the hospital, Stepanovich sat in his car and watched as ambulances intermittently charged toward the emergency entrance. The image of the dead little girl lying on the church floor began to obsess him. But he recognized this as a normal response to the horrible events of the afternoon. Though it was no particular consolation, he knew the next violent death scene would, like a boxcar on a track, shove today's tragedy to the back of his mind. He just hoped like hell the next victim wasn't a child.
A few minutes later, off duty nurses and doctors began streaming out the door. He straightened to get a better look. As the flow of departing hospital employees began to dwindle, Gloria Soliz emerged. She didn't notice him. He started the engine. She walked across the parking lot to a late model Volkswagen. As she reached into her purse for her keys, he cruised across the parking lot and pulled up beside her.
"Sure you won't change your mind?"
She turned in surprise.
"Breakfast is the most important meal of the day."
She smiled broadly, shook her head. He climbed out of the car and opened the passenger door of his sedan. She stood there for a moment, then climbed in.
"How about Artie's coffee shop?" he said, steering down the descending driveway and onto the street.
"Where all the cops hang out."
"Some of them," he said, smiling, for the car was filled with the pleasant scent of her perfume.
"Cops love to do things in groups, don't they?" she said as he turned onto Mission Road, a thoroughfare lined with auto salvage yards and railroad sidings.
"I'm sure nurses socialize now and then."
"It's different."
Artie's, an open twenty-four hours establishment, was located next to a freeway at the edge of downtown. The place was deserted except for a group of motorcycle cops seated at a table in the corner.
Stepanovich and Gloria sat in a window booth overlooking the parking lot. The waitress, a tiny Filipino woman with thick eyeglasses, poured coffee, took their orders, and moved away.
Stepanovich sipped coffee and felt it warm his insides. "I hope you don't think I'm coming on too strong."
"I've found that cops always come on strong."
"Why don't you forget the cop stuff? Pretend I'm a rich doctor."
For a moment he thought she was going to take offense. Then the corners of her mouth turned up slightly. She smiled and shook her head. They both laughed and Stepanovich thought she seemed to relax.
"Where'd you go to school?" he asked.
"UCLA."
"I meant high school."
"Roosevelt. How about you?"
"Garfield."
"So you grew up in the barrio too."
Eating breakfast, they talked of growing up in East Los Angeles, and found they'd attended some of the same dances and even knew a few of the same people.
"Why nursing school?" he asked.
"I wanted to help people. I still do. And there's plenty of people to help when you're a nurse."
"Why didn't you move away from East L.A. when you got out of nursing school?"
"It's home to me. My family is here."
"So are the gangs."
She gazed out at the parking lot. "Gangs are a fact of life," she said resignedly.
"A fact of life I'd like to erase."
"A lot of them are just kids who don't know any better," she said. "Some have parents who were gang members. "
"My mother was Mexican, my father was Yugoslavian. Even though we weren't Catholic, they sent me to Catholic school to keep me away from the gangbangers. But it didn't help. The gang punks used to catch me on my way to school and beat the shit out of me anyway."
"So now you're getting back at them."
"I guess you could say that. Yeah, as a matter of fact, I am."
"You're not going to change anything."
"The gangbangers I've put in San Quentin are reading comic books right now instead of on the streets shooting innocent people."
"A policeman's dream. All the criminals locked up in cages,"
"Do you have a better idea?"
"No, but on the other hand, I don't see the world as the unattractive place you do," she said demurely. Nothing was said for a while, and she avoided his eyes when he tried to make her share a smile that would ease the uncomfortable silence.
"Are you married?" he said.
She shook her head. "Never really had time, I guess. And you?"
"Just divorced. I haven't been out much recently."
"How long were you married?"
"Fiv
e years. The marriage counselor said we might have made it if I weren't a policeman. Nancy couldn't handle the long hours."
"Why didn't you quit the police department and get a job with shorter hours?"
"I waited in line to become a cop. I worked like hell to make it through the police academy. Why should I quit?"
"To save your marriage."
"I married the police department before I married my wife."
"Being a cop isn't just a job for you, is it? It's power and status machismo. It's a way of life." Gloria touched her lips with a napkin. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get personal."
"How do you know so much about cops?"
"I grew up in East L.A., remember?"
"Would you like to go out sometime?" Stepanovich heard himself saying.
She looked into his eyes for a brief moment, then finished her coffee. "I don't know."
They were both quiet for a moment. Then she pointed out that she'd just worked a double shift and felt like she was going to fall asleep at the table. Stepanovich paid the bill. They walked out of the restaurant, and he drove her back to the hospital parking lot. As he pulled into a space next to her car, he said, "I'd like to see you again."
"I’m afraid I have a very busy schedule and journal articles to catch up on. Besides, I'm not much of a social butterfly."
"Neither am I, but I'd still like to see you," he said. "May I have your home number?"
She took out a pen and a tiny pad, wrote down the number, then tore the note from the pad and handed it to him. "My days off are Tuesday and Wednesday. And thanks for breakfast."
He considered kissing her, but didn't want to seem too aggressive. Instead, he climbed out of the car and opened the door, hoping that she wouldn't think the gesture condescending. She climbed out of the car and kissed him full on the lips. "Good night," she said, pulling away from him. She climbed in her VW, started the engine, and drove out of the parking lot.
She was on his mind as he drove back to his apartment.
Later, naked and covered only with a sheet, he was still thinking about her. Unable to sleep because of the heat, he reached out to the portable radio, tuning past a religious station, an all night talk show, and some screaming rock music. Restless, he turned it off. Lying there with his eyes closed and his arms extended straight out, listening to the cars whizzing past the apartment house, he finally began to feel drowsy. He imagined Gloria standing in the hospital hallway. Farther down the corridor, sprawled on a bloodstained church carpet, was the corpse of the little girl ... and behind her Payaso was lying in his hospital bed attached to life giving plastic tubes. In this dream the scent of Gloria's perfume acted like a powerful narcotic that suppressed any power he had even to say, "Hello."
When Stepanovich awoke the next morning, Gloria was still on his mind.
****
FIVE
Arredondo was waiting at Hollenbeck Station. He said he was starving and suggested the Zacatecas. Though Stepanovich was still full from the breakfast at Artie's, he knew Arredondo was unbearable to work with when he was hungry. Besides, at the Zacatecas they could eat for free.
He parked in the red zone in front of the small family restaurant housed in an old two-story brownstone. Across the street was the Chickasaw Street Elementary School, where a month before two students had been killed in an unsolved drive by shooting Stepanovich believed had been committed by the King Kobras gang. They entered through a tattered screen door and crossed the dingy linoleum to a table in the corner, where they could keep an eye on the door and the bay window in case the King Kobras decided to drive by and shoot up the place. A full skirted, smiling young Mexican woman with a streak of peroxide-blond running through her black hair came to the table, and they both ordered combination platters. The waitress served them quickly and they gorged on enormous quantities of chorizo and eggs, flautas, and piles of flour tortillas smeared with butter.
When the waitress brought them a bill after they finished eating, Arredondo headed into the kitchen to make small talk with the proprietor, Mary Valenzuela, knowing that she would recognize them and tell the waitress the meals were on the house. Mary hadn't charged Stepanovich since he'd interceded with the court to help her son Efriam get released from L.A. County Jail. Stepanovich had convinced the boy to testify against some Third Street gang shooters, and though Efriam had died from an overdose of heroin while celebrating getting out of jail, Mary was still grateful to Stepanovich for the favor.
While Arredondo was in the kitchen, Stepanovich took out his notebook and reviewed the notes he'd made on the church shooting.
A few minutes later, Arredondo returned to the table and sat down. "I'm glad I went back to say hello. Mary looks like she might need a little fucking."
Stepanovich found the page he was looking for. "What did she say?"
"Just small talk, haven't seen you guys in a long time yakety yak, but extra friendly. A bitch in heat. Women can't hide it."
Heavy busted Mary Valenzuela emerged from the kitchen and whispered something to the waitress, who in turn came to the table and snatched up the bill. "Sorry," she said apologetically, hurrying to another table.
"The price is right, amigo. Where we headed?"
"El Sereno."
"Who's there?"
"Albert Garcia. One of the witnesses from yesterday. I read him as knowing the secret."
"How so?"
"He was right by the sanctuary door. There's no way he wouldn't have seen the shooter, and he was extra shaky during the interview," he said as they walked out the door.
It was Arredondo's turn to drive, and he climbed behind the wheel and started the engine. Bloated from the combination platter, Stepanovich leaned back in the passenger seat and closed his eyes.
Arredondo pulled into traffic. "Did I tell you about the broad I spent the night with?"
Stepanovich shook his head without opening his eyes.
"A schoolteacher I met at Monahan's bar last night. A real space cadet, this bitch. I put the word to her at the bar. She'd had a few drinks and buys my action right then and there. She wants to go to her place. I follow her in my car. A nice pad. I fuck this broad across the living room and into the bedroom every which way. I'm power fucking and she's loving it. Finally we drop off to sleep. The next thing I know I wake up in the middle of the night to this buzzing sound. Bzzzzzzzzzzzz. I lie there listening. I pull back the covers. This bitch is lying there in the darkness giving herself a workout with her trusty vibrator. I said, 'What's this, baby?' This bitch isn't embarrassed in the least. She says, 'Turn on the lights, dude. I want you to see me do it.'"
The police car pulled to the curb in front of a graffiti-stained duplex on Eastern Avenue. Stepanovich climbed out and, with Arredondo following, trod down a gravel driveway past the house. The rear unit was a hovel the size of a small garage. Like most of the others in the neighborhood, its windows were lined with wrought iron bars, and the interior was hidden behind makeshift drapes of sheets and newspaper. A front door reinforced with a metal plate around the jamb was protected by a tiny screened in porch that reminded Stepanovich somehow of a pet store aviary. The screen door was unlatched. Boards creaked as he stepped onto the porch. He tapped a knuckle on a door.
There was the sound of movement inside, and the door was pulled open a few inches by a dwarfish Mexican woman whose hair was wrapped loosely in a towel. She was wearing a grimy blue robe and a pair of yellow dishwashing gloves that were sudsy.
Stepanovich held out his badge. "Does Albert Garcia live here?"
Holding her robe closed with her wet, gloved hands, the woman shook her turban. "Nobody here by that name," she said in barrio dialect.
"How long have you lived here?"
"Ten years. What's this about?"
"Have you ever heard of Albert Garcia?"
She shook her head. "I don't know no one named Garcia."
"We must have the wrong address. Sorry to bother you," Stepanovich said.
The w
oman shut the door.
Without saying a word to each other, the detectives strolled to the front house and knocked on the door. An obese Mexican man with shaving cream covering one side of his face opened the door. Stepanovich showed his badge. "We were just speaking with Albert Garcia next door. His car was broken into last night, and he said you might know who did it."
"I don't know nothing about Garcia's car. But if someone broke into it, it's his own fault because he leaves it parked on the street. I've told him to pull it in back.
"Sorry to bother you," Stepanovich said. They marched back to Garcia's door, and Stepanovich pounded loudly this time. When the woman opened the door, he and Arredondo pushed past her into a small living room furnished with a cheap red sofa and chair, a framed lithograph of Pope John XXII, and a kitchenette table.
"You can't just come in here!" the woman shouted.
Albert Garcia, wearing Levis and a T-shirt, was sitting on the sofa looking sheepish.
Stepanovich advanced to the sofa. "Sorry to bother you, but at the church yesterday I got the feeling you'd prefer to talk in private."
Garcia's eyes darted back and forth between the detectives. "Like I told you, I didn't see nawthing. "
"A little girl had her brains blown out yesterday. If we can't find the ones who did it, someone else could get killed," Stepanovich said.
"I'll be the one who gets killed if I rat for you."
"There was a hundred people in the church. So if you could see your way to tell us what you know, the shooter would never know exactly who handed him up. We could arrest him and your name would never so much as come up."
"Bullshit. There ain't no secrets in this barrio."
Earth Angels Page 4