“I’m surprised he was out of the house,” said Elena. “His grandmother treats him like an egg she has to sit on or he won’t hatch.” Elena hung up. There was a slim possibility Beanie might be able to eliminate Omar from her list of suspects, although what were the odds of a five-year-old kid spending two afternoons watching Omar Ashkenazi asleep on his Oriental carpet? On the other hand, what if the kid liked to follow Omar around? Maybe Beanie was playing detective. Maybe he’d seen Omar go over to the Potemkins’ Monday and—well, she’d just have to find out. She’d hit a few pawnshops, have lunch, and show up at the Montoyas’ around one, when Beanie was home from play school.
Amarinta Montoya, Beanie’s grandmother, filled the door when she answered Elena’s finger on the bell. Three hundred pounds if she weighed an ounce was Elena’s guess. Amarinta was as tall as her son Belen but double his weight, and she had a better mustache. “Mrs. Montoya, remember me? Elena Jarvis?”
“Sure, sure,” said Amarinta.
“I’d like to talk to Beanie.”
“What about?” asked Amarinta suspiciously. “If we got graffiti artists in the neighborhood, it ain’t Beanie.”
“Beanie didn’t do anything.” Elena could see the little boy, a loose Western Playland T-shirt drooping off his shoulders, twig legs sticking out beneath baggy shorts, socks sagging onto his sneakers. He looked scared to death. “Hey, Beanie,” called Elena, giving him her best kids’ smile. “Que paso? You’re about to become a cop’s best friend.”
“Come here, Rudolfo,” said his grandmother. “You ain’t in any trouble. This is Mrs. Jarvis. She lives one street over. Don’t you remember her?”
Beanie nodded, took two steps forward, and stopped by a lavender and pink couch, the latest in Southwestern chic, although the pillows had already lost their shape, so Elena figured the Montoyas must have bought it at some double discount store or off the back of a truck.
“So why are you here if he didn’t do nothing?” asked Amarinta.
“I just need to ask him a few questions.” Beanie was sneaking a terrified look at his grandmother. So that was it, thought Elena. Somehow or other he’d been getting out of the house without Amarinta knowing it. Now he was afraid Elena would reveal his secret.
“Come on in,” said Amarinta.
“Actually, I thought I’d take Beanie out to the car,” said Elena, figuring his grandmother would listen if they stayed inside. “Kids love police cars. You know? We’ll just sit and chat, and then I’ll send him right back in.”
“You’re taking Rudolfo out of the house? You got a warrant or something?”
“I don’t need a warrant,” said Elena.
“Well, let me see your badge. I don’t want Belen coming home and getting after me because—wait a minute. How come you’re looking so relieved, Beanie?”
“I’m not, Abuelita,” he said in a scared voice.
Abuelita? thought Elena. Little grandmother? Now there was a misnomer! “Here’s my badge, Amarinta. Come on, Beanie.” She held out her hand to the child, and he edged across the room to take it. They walked out to the car together.
“It’s not a police car,” he said, disappointed.
“No, it’s a detective car, but I got a flashing light I can stick on top.”
“Yeah?” Beanie looked interested.
Elena fished the light from under the seat and stuck it on the roof. “There,” she said. “It’s official. Hop in.”
Beanie stared a minute at the light. Then he scrambled across the seat to the passenger side. “Do I need to fasten my seat belt?” he asked.
“Nah,” said Elena. “We’re just gonna sit here and talk.” She turned on the air conditioning.
“Is Mr. Ashkenazi mad at me?”
“Mr. Ashkenazi doesn’t even know you were looking in his window. Do you do that often?”
“Are you gonna tell Abuelita?”
“Everything we say is confidential.”
“What’s that?”
“Secret. It means I won’t tell.”
“I go every day when Abuelita’s asleep.”
“Ah-huh. How long is that?”
“I don’t know,” said Beanie. “After lunch she goes to sleep. She don’t wake up till Barney the Dinosaur comes on TV.”
“What time is that?”
“When the little hand gets to the four.”
Elena thought a minute. That meant Amarinta slept about three hours each afternoon. “And you watch Mr. Ashkenazi every day from one till four?”
Beanie shook his head, thumb in his mouth.
“How often, then?” asked Elena.
“Only if he’s in the living room.”
“How come you watch Mr. Ashkenazi?” It didn’t sound like a very exciting pastime to Elena. Surely the kid would rather watch TV or play with his toys, even if his abuela wouldn’t let him play with other kids. Not that there were any along his street. Elena and the Montoyas were the first droplets in the wave of the future, the first younger people to move into a neighborhood of aging residents. She could see that Beanie didn’t want to explain why he watched Mr. Ashkenazi. God, what was the old man doing in there? “You can tell me, Beanie,” she said gently.
After an obviously painful moment of inner debate, Beanie whispered, “He’s a space alien.”
“He is?” Elena suppressed a grin. “How do you know that?”
“He looks like the alien in my comic book.”
Mr. Ashkenazi was kind of different-looking. “Anything else besides the way he looks?”
“I seen him put his legs behind his head. An’ sometimes he stands on his head or waves his arms an’ legs around funny.”
“Ah-huh.” Yoga exercises, Elena guessed.
“An’ when he sleeps, he makes loud, space-language sounds.”
“I see.”
“I’m waiting for more aliens to come. When it happens, I’m gonna be there an’ see it all. Maybe a flying saucer an’ green people an’—wow!” Beanie’s eyes got as big as tortillas. “It’s really exciting!”
Poor kid, thought Elena. The highlight of his afternoon was watching a retired Oriental-rug salesman snore and do yoga exercises.
“Mr. Ashkenazi doesn’t eat meat,” said Beanie, shyness overcome by his desire to confide these wonders to an interested party who had promised secrecy. “He can speak Earth language too. An’ he told me meat was bad for me. ‘Course, I know that’s just an alien thing, ‘cause Abuelita is always telling me to eat my meat ‘cause it’ll make me big an’ strong an’ smart.”
Abuelita evidently hadn’t heard about fat and cholesterol, thought Elena. “So tell me, Beanie, do you remember whether you were watching Mr. Ashkenazi on Monday? That would be the day you went back to school. After Sunday and Mass. The day all the police cars were on my street.”
“I remember,” said Beanie. “Me an’ Mama went to see them.”
“Did you watch Mr. Ashkenazi that day?”
His head bobbed. “First I had to eat all my frijoles an’ my arroz con pollo. Then Abuelita gave me a popsicle ‘cause I ate everything on my plate. I can make a popsicle last a long time,” said Beanie proudly. “Then Abuelita sat down an’ went to sleep, an’ I went over to Mr. Ashkenazi’s.”
“That’s a neat watch you got there.” She admired his dinosaur watch. “Where were the hands when you left?”
“They were both on the one. An’ I went home when the little hand was on the four so I could see Barney. No space aliens came.”
So Omar had been under surveillance by Beanie Montoya from one to four, and the coroner said Boris died between two and three. Elena rolled down the car window when Amarinta knocked and shouted, “Ain’t you through yet?”
“Your grandson is one smart kid,” said Elena. She leaned over and whispered in his ear. “I’ll never tell about the a
liens.”
Beanie gave her a conspiratorial smile and whispered back, “Abuelita might be scared if she knew.” Then he scrambled out of the car.
17
Friday, October 1, 2:05 P.M.
“Who are those people out there?” demanded Captain Stollinger, head of the Criminal Investigations Division.
“I think half of them are from the media,” replied Sergeant Mosson of Community Relations. “The protesters, according to their signs, are poets, gays, people from H.H.U., and bicycle racers.”
“You’re kidding.” Captain Stollinger peered out the front door. He was six three with short gray hair and a hawk nose upon which were perched large rectangular bifocals framed in dull silver.
“They’re all supporting Lance Potemkin, the guy C.A.P. thinks murdered his father,” added Mosson.
Stollinger glowered through the door. “Get Beltran out here.”
With so many factions milling around, Harmony despaired of a well-organized demonstration. She decided to deal with the senior citizens first, since she had got them together after the funeral, drilled them in safe-protest practices, and set them to work making signs that said things like “Protect Golden Agers,” “Senior Citizens Aren’t Safe,” and “Criminals are Killing Us.” Unfortunately, many of the sign carriers were resting on the front steps. Granted, their presence impeded foot traffic into Police Headquarters, but Harmony had been hoping for a more active participation. The only senior citizen actually walking up and down was Lydia Beeman. Although Harmony didn’t care much for the woman, Lydia was physically active, so Harmony approached her.
“Could you organize the Socorro Heights group into a picket line?” she asked.
“Do they look as if they’re up to walking around?” retorted Lydia. “I had them bring lawn chairs for just that reason. As soon as they get their second wind, they’ll be putting up the chairs.”
“Wonderful!” said Harmony, willing to compromise. “Form a lawn-chair barricade so the police cars can’t get in and out.”
Lydia looked as if she were about to refuse, then nodded briskly and marshaled her forces. Harmony could hear various elderly ladies wondering if they might not be run down. “Of course not!” snapped Lydia. “Do you really think the police are going to kill someone’s grandmother? They may ignore our problems, but they know better than to injure us.”
The lawn-chair blockade formed up nicely, those without arthritis marching behind with the signs. Dimitra sat in her walker, while T. Bob Tyler stood behind her protectively. Harmony thought they made a charming couple. Satisfied with the senior citizens, she turned her attention to Hoke Mitchell, president of the bicycle racers. They were carrying signs that said “Let Lance Ride,” “Los Santos Athletes Support Lance,” and “We Want A Win In New Mexico.” They’d come on their bicycles.
“Could you ride in some sort of close-order pattern and stop traffic on Raynor and Montana?” she asked.
Hoke agreed and strode off through the bicycle racers, calling out orders like a drill sergeant.
“What about us?” asked Orion, who had watched Harmony’s organizing tactics. His group carried signs that said, “LSPD Harasses Gays,” “Los Santos Lesbians for Lance,” “Cease and Desist, LSPD Homophobes,” and “Stop Gay Bashing.”
“Form a human chain in the public parking lot,” Harmony suggested. The gays fanned out, joined hands, and effectively kept anyone from leaving. Once the bicycle brigade began looping in figure eights, nothing came in. Police had to park farther out and walk to headquarters, as did civilians. Police cars already in their slots were blocked by the lawn-chair contingent.
“Looking good,” said Harmony to Donald Mallory, who carried a sign that said in Renaissance lettering, “H.H.U. Supports Its Staff.” He was trying to ignore Gus McGlenlevie, who had arrived late carrying a sign that said, “Vigilante Police Menace the Poetic Muse.” “The senior citizens have left the front steps,” said Harmony. “Why don’t you Herbert Hobart people parade in front of the entrance so the police inside can see that the city’s richest institution is mad at them?”
Gus, Mallory, Chairman Raul Mendez, Professor Anne-Marie LaPortierre, and a gaggle of fashionably dressed English majors trooped over to the steps. In fact, Gus bounced up like a red-bearded Christmas elf and pushed his sign against the glass where Captain Stollinger looked out. Ten minutes of Gus McGlenlevie, and the police ought to agree to anything, thought Harmony smugly.
“What the hell does that mean?” demanded Stollinger. “Police can’t be vigilantes.”
“That’s Angus McGlenlevie,” said Lieutenant Beltran. “That dumbass poet from H.H.U.” Beltran had come from his office in Crimes Against Persons at the summons from the Community Relations sergeant.
“So what have we got to do with the poetic muse?”
Beltran stared out at the human chain of gay activists in the public parking lot, beyond them to the looping bicycle racers where the traffic was building up in all directions, approaching gridlock. If the department didn’t act, there’d be cars backed up to the freeway, to downtown, to Bassett Center and beyond. And they couldn’t get units in or out because the police lot was jammed with old folks in lawn chairs, chatting with one another and waving their signs if any cop came near.
“I don’t know why McGlenlevie’s here,” Beltran admitted. “It’s Jarvis and Weizell’s case, and they’re out gathering evidence against Lance Potemkin, who’s a gay bicycle rider. We’ve got a pretty good case against him.”
“Well, that explains why the gays and the bicyclers are protesting, but not the H.H.U. people,” said Stollinger.
“Or the senior citizens,” added Beltran.
“What senior citizens?”
“They’re sitting in lawn chairs blocking traffic in our lot,” said Sergeant Mosson, “carrying signs that say we’re letting them get killed. Very bad public relations, sir, especially with all the media people out there.”
“I think we’ve got a bunch of nut cases on our hands,” said Captain Stollinger in disgust. “Get Captain de la Rosa to clear the parking lots and streets. It’s a traffic situation.”
“Captain de la Rosa’s at a meeting in Austin,” said Sergeant Mosson.
“So find the ranking officer in Traffic!” Stollinger tramped off, leaving Lieutenant Beltran to watch while a gay activist, approached by a police officer, fell limp into the cop’s arms. The cop dropped the young man and leapt away as if burned.
Sweating profusely in the afternoon sun, Lieutenant Kurtz surveyed the line of elderly men and women sitting in lawn chairs, chatting with one another and passing around thermoses of
lemonade. “O.K.,” he said to Sergeant Lopez. “Start with that tall, thin old lady in the slacks and sun hat. She seems to be the ringleader.”
“What am I supposed to do with her?” asked Lopez.
“Ask her to leave. Tell her she’s guilty of demonstrating without a permit, interfering with officers in the performance of their duty. If she won’t move, have two guys pick her up in the lawn chair and carry her across the street.”
“What about the bicycle riders?”
“That ought to interfere with their operation. They’re not gonna run down some old lady in a lawn chair. Assign your men in pairs. Take her and five others. Then we’ll have a lane open and can move the rest out.”
“Yes, sir.” Lopez felt unhappy about his assignment, but he grabbed Patrolman Allen Mobley, who was big enough to lift three old ladies, and the two of them headed for Lydia Beeman.
“Ma’am, we’ll have to ask you to move out of the way. You’re blocking traffic.”
“That’s the idea,” said Lydia.
“If you don’t move, ma’am,” said Lopez politely, “we’re going to pick you up, lawn chair and all, and transport you across the street.”
“Just try it, young man,” said Lydia belligere
ntly. “That’s about what I’d expect of the police. Indifference to the safety of women.”
“We’re not indifferent, ma’am.” He nodded to Mobley, and the two of them braced themselves to lift Lydia Beeman. Each put a hand on a chair arm and one under the seat. Lydia, who was wearing sensible, heavy-soled walking shoes, stood up—right on one of Mobley’s big feet.
“Ye-ow-w!” cried Mobley.
Madre de Dios, thought Lopez. I’m going to have to arrest somebody’s grandmother for assaulting an officer.
“My apologies,” said Lydia. “I didn’t see your foot.”
As Lopez gave thanks that it had been an accident, Lydia folded her lawn chair and walked away.
Two chairs down, Emily Marks, who thought the whole operation a lark, slipped out of her chair and rolled into a ball on the pavement when two patrolmen tried to pick her up.
“Sergeant,” shouted the officer on her left, “she’s had a heart attack.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Emily, peeking up at him. “I’m protecting myself against police brutality.” The TV cameras were rolling.
“What did you do to that there lady?” roared T. Bob Tyler. He leapt from his station beside Dimitra and grappled with the patrolman who was taking Emily’s pulse.
“Aren’t you gallant, T. Bob!” said Emily.
T. Bob blushed happily.
“Sir, I’ll have to arrest you for interfering with an officer in the performance of his duty,” said the pulse-taker’s partner.
“Who, me?” T. Bob looked surprised. “Ah thought you was hurtin’ Miz Emily.”
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