My Bad

by Manuel Ramos

  “Depending on what it is, I can probably help with that kind of problem. What’s it about?”

  “I’m the only one left from Sam’s family. We never had any kids. His only brother died in Iraq. I tried to keep the bar going after Sam was killed, but it was too much for me. I got in way over my head, but by the time I realized I needed to sell, it all went to crap. The bar was closed for taxes and license penalties. Creditors stuck liens all over the title. I didn’t know what to do. I tried, but . . .”

  “I remember when the bar closed. I heard the family wanted to keep it going.”

  “That was me.” She slumped in the soft leather chair reserved for clients. “I didn’t have any experience and I didn’t have any money or anyone to help me. I walked away from the bar and let the creditors fight over the bones. I never looked back. Not until recently, I mean.”

  “What happened?”

  “I started getting letters. And then email. They came out of the blue from a man I don’t know but who claimed he’d been in business with Sam and that there was some money that should have been split between him and Sam. But he couldn’t get to it.”

  I shook my head. “You didn’t fall for that, did you? I hope you didn’t.”

  “No, no, I was extremely skeptical, of course. I didn’t do anything with him, not even answer his messages. But then one day this arrived in the mail.” She pointed at the envelope and papers on my desk. “That’s when I thought I should get some legal help.”

  “I’ll look these over. I gotta say this sounds a long way from mundane. But why don’t you tell me what’s going on, the way you see it, and what you think you want me to do for you?”

  “I’ll try.” She straightened up and pressed forward. “This guy, he told me his name is Richard Valdez, says that he and Sam had a business together. That Sam provided upfront money and other services, and that Valdez did the actual work.”

  “What kind of business?”

  “The way I understand it, they had an import business. They called it Aztlán Treasures. Folk art. Day of the Dead figurines, pottery, that kind of stuff. From Mexico and Guatemala. Valdez had connections with various dealers, manufacturers and artists around the Southwest. Guess he was an artist himself, when he was younger. He did all the traveling, made the sales to the shops and outlets, built a network with the Mexican artists and exporters.”

  “Valdez was the face of the business?”

  “Yes. The customers only knew him and I guess they thought they were only dealing with him.”

  She paused.

  “You want some water, maybe coffee?”

  “No, I’m okay.”

  “And Sam? What did he do in this import business?”

  “According to Valdez, Sam took care of the books, paid the bills, and then he and Valdez split the profits. Sam got fifty percent, same as Valdez. Valdez said they’d been doing this for years but I never came across anything in Sam’s things about any import business, or about Valdez. I never heard of Aztlán Treasures or Ricky Valdez. That’s what he calls himself. Ricky. But the papers look authentic. There’s contracts, receipts, all the stuff such a business would require.”

  “But now Valdez says he’s owed money?”

  “Yes. He claims that Sam socked away two hundred and fifty thousand dollars that had accumulated in the business’ operating account. He wants half of that.”

  “This is very fishy, you know that?”

  “Yes, yes. But, the papers. It seems to be all there. And that’s Sam’s signature all over the documents. I know his autograph.”

  “I’ve got several questions already.”

  “That’s why I’m here. I need advice. Help me figure this out.”

  “You don’t know anything about this import business?”

  “Nothing. I never heard of it. I, uh . . . ah . . .”

  “What is it?”

  She breathed deeply as though I’d asked her to reveal her darkest secret.

  “I only knew Sam for about three months before we got married. And we were married for only three years before he died. Truth is, I didn’t really know him.”

  “But you were married.”

  She cleared her throat. “Sam and I had been separated for a couple of years. We didn’t get divorced but I didn’t know what he was up to, in business or anything else. To tell you the truth, we didn’t speak the last few years of his life. We had one good year together.” She paused again. “Sam and I had a complicated relationship.”

  “I have experience with many of the complications a marriage on the rocks can create.”

  “Yes, sure. You’re a lawyer.”

  And I had personal, in-my-face, ugly divorce knowledge, too, but that went unsaid.

  “I knew about the bar,” she said. “But that was it. I never heard of Aztlán Treasures.”

  “Why would they split the profits? Valdez was doing most of the work. Sam was only the bookkeeper.”

  “Because Sam’s money was all they had at the beginning, according to Valdez. I asked him the same thing. He says the split was really more like sixty-forty, but to pay back Sam on his investment, Valdez turned over another ten percent. He says all he wants now is fifty percent of what was left of the business.”

  “Pretty generous.” I glanced through the papers again. “Another question. If the story is true, where’s he been for the past three years? Why come after the money now? And where is it supposed to be? Why all the mystery?”

  “I don’t know the answers to some of those questions. But he thinks I know where the money is.”

  “But why now? Why not when Sam was killed?”

  “That’s just it. He says he was in prison. He was arrested right around the time Sam was killed. Apparently he imported more than simple folk art. He smuggled rare artifacts across the border, things Mexico didn’t want to lose. He basically was a grave robber but he went to jail for failing to declare the items at U.S. Customs. It was a minor charge compared to what Mexico could have done to him. He says he couldn’t do anything about the money until he got out. And now he’s out.”

  “And he wants his cut.”

  “Yes. He thinks I know where the money is, or how to get to it. Sam supposedly told him that.” She sighed. “Can you help?”

  For a few seconds I thought about the different answers I could give to that question.

  “Uh, Ms. Contreras, you sure you want to stay involved in this situation? An ex-con demanding money from an illegal smuggling operation, and the unsolved murder of your husband? Valdez should be satisfied with the fact that he’s out of prison, but apparently that’s not enough. All in all, it’s not a pretty picture.”

  “I don’t think I have a choice. I’m not saying that I have to find the money and pay Valdez. But I have to do something. He won’t stop harassing me until I find a way to make him stop. And . . .”

  She didn’t finish her sentence so I took a stab at completing the thought.

  “Valdez says that Sam was also in on the smuggling. That he took the fall for Sam and kept him out of prison. And for that alone he should be paid? Is that close to what he said?”

  She nodded. “It really doesn’t matter to Sam, I guess.”

  “Do you know how Sam and Valdez met?”

  “Only that they were in the Marines together.”

  “They see action?”

  “Afghanistan. The Korangal Valley.”

  I again flipped through the papers she’d deposited on my desk. Most of it consisted of communications between Valdez and Sam. Email, letters, notes, some receipts for the import business. Nothing, of course, about smuggling or a vanished pot of a quarter of a million dollars. From my quick review, it looked like the import business was legit and real.

  “What’s the next step with Valdez?”

  She strummed her fingers on the arm of the chair. “He wants to meet. Said he had more information he would show me to prove his claim.”

  “You can’t do that. You shouldn’t
do that.”

  “What should I do?”

  “Let me look at all this in detail. I’ll check with the Secretary of State, make sure this is a real company. Do some other background work. I’ll get back to you about whether we can help, about whether our office should get involved. Meanwhile, if he contacts you, try to put him off for a few days. Threaten to go to the cops with his story if he persists. That might reveal whether he’s on the level. If he’s honest he shouldn’t object to a few more days, or to you talking with the police.”

  “And if he’s not?”

  She blinked several times. She had a point. How dangerous was a convicted smuggler, a robber of Mexican treasurers? Would bringing up the police put her at risk?

  “I just need a couple of days. That’s all I can offer for now.”

  She sighed again. “Okay. I’ll wait to hear from you. I would feel better if I knew where he lived. I should at least have his address. Something, anything about him. I feel exposed now. Let me know if you learn anything, as soon as you know? Okay?”

  “Sure. No doubt.”

  I wanted to believe her. She came off as desperate, needy. All my education, experience and so-called smarts had to be enough to help a woman like María Contreras. I wanted to give her a chance, but I had to stop and think it through. I’d been around too long to do otherwise.

  Rosa made sure we had all the information we needed to set up a new computer client file including a copy of María’s driver’s license. Then my newest client slowly walked out of the office. She glanced back at me just before the office door shut. I wasn’t sure if it was a look of pain or pleasure. I’d been fooled that way before and learned not to make a judgment until I had enough information to back up my conclusion. I was a long way from that point with Ms. Contreras.

  3 [Gus]

  when things go wrong, go wrong with you

  it hurts me too

  At first glance, Luis Móntez’s office looked like any other office, or what I thought an office looked like. When someone walked through the door they stepped into a space where Rosa, his assistant, greeted clients, answered the phone and made sure the place presented a serious face. Then the client waited in one of the comfortable chairs, or was ushered by Rosa to Luis or me. Law books and computers, naturally; plenty of leather, dark wood and a conference table and chairs in a separate side room. A general work area and the conference room took up the bulk of the floor plan of the office. My desk crowded into the work area.

  But the initial impression was wrong. His office was like no other lawyer’s office I’d seen—and there’d been a few—mostly when I was a kid. Móntez squirreled away souvenirs of his cases, clients and history, and oddball stuff spread across tables, book shelves and chairs. Sitting in corners, balanced between books or hung on the walls were things such as a pair of dented hubcaps, native Central American masks, tickets to a music festival in New Mexico. Posters for psychedelic rock groups I’d never heard of shared wall space with flyers demanding peace or justice or both. The place could have looked cluttered, maybe a hoarder’s fantasy. Rosa diligently organized everything and worked hard on making the office look busy but professional. It was a difficult and never-ending task.

  Móntez looked through several pieces of paper and what appeared to be a bookkeeping ledger. His grandfather clock ticked in the corner and I watched the gold-colored hands move to the precise rhythm. Rosa was at lunch and the office was empty except for him and me. I finally asked a question.

  “She denies any knowledge of the money, or where it is, or why Sam would have told Valdez that she knew how to get it?”

  He put down the pages from the file. “That’s her story. Not sure I believe her yet. But I haven’t spoken with Valdez either.”

  Móntez had a reputation for being deliberate, a thinking kind of guy. He didn’t jump to conclusions. In other words, the opposite of whatever kind of guy I was. I liked the way he took his time about most things. There were days when he could be frustrating but that said more about me than him.

  Corrine told me that when he was younger he was a risk-taker, a guy who would go all out for his clients or friends even if it was dangerous. She had several stories about the Chicano lawyer that made him out to be a real stand-up dude. He had an activist history, a hell-raiser for the old Chicano Movement, the civil rights struggle of Mexican Americans back in the sixties and seventies.

  “He was all chingón back then,” Corrine explained with a hint of pride in her voice.

  He never came off big-headed or high-tone to me. Just another Chicano who saw a lot of life and tried to do his job. Corrine said he’d slowed down, of course. The years added up on everyone. I felt my age myself and I was nowhere near Móntez’s.

  I picked up the file and thumbed through it. “Getting something out of Valdez? Good luck. That’ll be an interesting conversation,” I said.

  “Tell me about it. Can’t guess what Valdez will do. Meanwhile, I’m trying to figure out if the smuggling money was laundered through the import business.”

  “Logical. But obvious.”

  “Right. The periodic moving across borders, numerous deliveries, convenient hiding places in the legit folk art pieces.”

  “Don’t forget the stash of money that’s at the heart of your client’s problem.”

  “Yeah, too obvious. Maybe not to Sam, though. He was a character and could be an asshole, but I never had the impression that he was a hardcore, experienced criminal mastermind.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t involved. He could have been Valdez’s patsy.”

  “And now Valdez is trying to scam the widow?”

  “I’ve heard of worse.”

  “The money must be from illegal activity, maybe drugs. That’s a huge chunk of change from only gewgaws and curios. There’s more to it than statues and vases. The fact that it’s been hidden away for years makes it look suspicious, to say the least.” He made a note on his legal pad. “Why would Valdez let Sam handle the money, especially such a large sum? Why wouldn’t he keep it under his own control, or at least know how to get to it? Doesn’t make sense.”

  Luis’ intuition sounded right to me. I thought for a minute.

  “Valdez’s either lying about the money being part of his deal with Sam,” I said. “He found out about it somehow and now he’s trying to get his hands on it. Or . . .”

  Móntez smiled at me for some reason. “Yeah?” he said.

  “Or he thought it was safer to keep away from the cash. He could deny he knew what was going on, easy to blame it on Sam, his partner, especially if no large amounts of cash can be traced back to him. He’s been locked up, so if that was his plan it didn’t work. Guess we should find out which it is, if Ms. Contreras is our client.”

  “Haven’t totally decided yet. Maybe you can do a check on her, dig up whatever she didn’t tell us about her involvement with her husband’s businesses, how all that went down. You think you can work on that?”

  I didn’t think I had a choice.

  “No problem. I’ll start tomorrow.”

  “As soon as possible,” he said. “She’s stalling Valdez but who knows how long that will play.”

  “Good point.”

  “It’s been bothering me and now that I think about it, I don’t like the risk to her. I should tell her to go to the cops even if Valdez holds off on his meeting.”

  “Doubt they would do anything,” I said. “No real crime committed, is there? The money could be from dope dealing but there’s no proof of that, from what you’ve told me. They’d treat it as a civil legal issue between two people, like a debt. Even she described it as a money problem.”

  He stood up and paced behind his desk. He stared for a minute at his Casa de Manuel calendar, which featured the typical Popocatépetl and Iztaccíhuatl fantasy painting. The half-naked Aztec couple scampered in the moonlight along the shores of Lake Texcoco. I tried to think about what Luis might be thinking, but it was no good. Too many options presented themselv
es. Did he want to be on a beach somewhere with a scantily clad native woman rather than dealing with somebody else’s complicated and potentially dangerous legal crisis? Did he really want to dig into a case that might include a greedy dope dealer on the prowl for a big con? Then I remembered that he was a lawyer, a damn good one, from my own experience. These kinds of problems had taken up most of his adult life. This was what he signed up for when he took the lawyer’s oath so many years ago. This was what he lived for, no?

  “See what you can find out today,” he said. “It’s only a little after one. I don’t want to be the cause of any trouble for Ms. Contreras.”

  I left his office to begin work.

  I used my desk telephone and called Jerome Rodríguez, the guy who knew everyone and all their dirty business, and the guy who stood next to me when the shit hit the fan and the bullets flew. I figured he should have moved past all that by now, right?

  I can’t say he was eager to speak with me, but eventually he agreed to meet.

  “At your coffee shop in the Northside?”

  “Nah. I sold that place. I’m over in RiNo now. You know where that is? I had to escape the Highlands craziness. RiNo’s a little more my speed.”

  “What’s the name and address of this latest racket?”

  “Strictly honest commerce. Nothing shady. I’ve learned my lesson. You make a good role model for that kind of education. I’m so clean you can hear me squeak when I walk.”

  “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

  “Come on over to J’s Joint, Washington and Ringsby Court. We serve healthy, organic, mostly breakfast but we have sandwiches, too.”

  “J’s Joint? Sounds like a marijuana cover. That your gig, too?”

  “Don’t need no cover these days, not in the Mile High City, and I mean high, man. But, no. Not that kind of place. I thought about it, but there’s too much . . . uh . . . government oversight in that business for my comfort level. I’m here now. Come on over and we can talk.”