My Bad

by Manuel Ramos

  He laughed. “That’s one way of putting it. But let me clear up something. I’m not talking about a debt. I’m talking about my property, my money. The two-fifty grand is money I made and earned for Aztlán Treasures. I was the head of that company. There never was any doubt about that. I gave the money to Sam for him to keep for me, and I would have paid him out of it, as part of our arrangement, if he hadn’t been killed. But the money is mine, it’s not owed to me, it’s mine. Your client has it and won’t return it.”

  He spit out the words like he expected his phone to die in the middle of our conversation and he had to say all he wanted as quickly as possible.

  “Are you saying she stole it?” I asked.

  “I talked to the cops about that. They said I had to handle it myself.”

  “So they don’t think there was any theft?”

  “They didn’t say yes or no about that. Just that I had to deal with it with my own lawyer or in court or however I wanted. So, that’s what I’m doing. Like the cops said. We’ll see how much I get out of doing it this way.”

  “What makes you think that Ms. Contreras has the money, or knows where it is? She tells me she doesn’t know anything about the money, and that she had little or nothing to do with her husband’s business.”

  He laughed again. “She can say whatever she wants. I know different, and so does she. Sam agreed to hold the money for me, like a bank. I was getting ready to do my time. He told me how he gave it to his wife so she could add it to some kind of account or mutual fund so it would earn interest while I was in prison. I believed him, he had no reason to lie to me. Now she won’t give it up. She doesn’t know who she’s messing with.”

  I wrote notes on my pad as he talked. There’s always two sides to every story, I reminded myself. But Valdez’s side sounded weak. Or was my other hunch the one I should follow? The one about not trusting Ms. Contreras?

  “Before we get too deep into this, let’s arrange a meeting. I’ve got some paperwork, what you sent to Ms. Contreras. I assume you have something else. Let’s meet, show me all that you have. Maybe we can resolve this.”

  “I’ll meet, but we ain’t resolving this until I get my money, all my money.”

  We agreed to meet the next day around 11:00 A.M. I suggested that I could meet him wherever he wanted; he said my office was fine.

  Gus’ second case began later the same day we started work for María Contreras.

  He introduced me to Jackie O. Later he told me that her original name had been Javier Ortega, but the name, and other parts of Jackie’s identity, had been changed years ago—name change petition, sex change operation, new clothes.

  “We’ve been friends since we were kids,” Gus explained. “We cruised the Northside in my father’s old Lincoln. Two homies looking for action.”

  Jackie’s bright orange lips smiled. She loved color, no doubt. That day in my office Jackie highlighted her orange lipstick with orange capri pants, white stilettos, a subtle violet blouse and an amber scarf wrapped around her head.

  “I wore one of my weekend outfits to meet you, Mr. Móntez. You like?” She didn’t wait for a response. “I’ve heard about you for a long time now. It’s so my pleasure.”

  She extended a hand that featured well-manicured orange and black polka-dotted fingernails. I shook it and a few bits of glitter flew loose.

  “Gus tells me you’re having a problem with your employer?”

  Gus and Jackie sat down and I cleared a space on my desk so I could keep notes.

  “Former employer,” Jackie said. “I finally had to leave.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  Jackie took a deep breath. She sat back in the chair and fidgeted with her fingers, like she held a phantom cigarette.

  “I’ve been a bartender at a bunch of different places—from dives like the Holiday Bar & Grill to downtown joints that cater to lawyers and bankers. I even did a minute at the Ship Tavern in the Brown Palace.”

  I wrote “bartender” on my legal pad.

  She continued. “I’m back at it, behind the bar. One of the new places on Tejon, not far from the old Dog House. Remember that place? Anyway, it’s not what I ever really wanted to do, you know? Not for the rest of my life. So I went back to school and recently got a degree in Business Management from Metro State.”

  “Congratulations,” I said.

  “I’m only saying this because of what happened. I’m not a dummy, or a fool.”

  I nodded.

  “I got a non-bartending gig about six months ago. Working as an administrative assistant for a real asshole. He’s my problem.”

  “Because of your, uh, taste in clothes?”

  Jackie squinted like she smelled a rotten piece of meat. “Something like that.”

  “No, seriously. You get hassled because of who you are, or how you express yourself?”

  “Oh, that. That’s a given. I dealt with that a long time ago. No, what I’m talking about is related, but different.”

  “Start from the beginning.”

  Jackie’s long legs stretched across the floor.

  “The place is called Dynamic-Tec.” She grabbed a pen from my desk and wrote the name of the company on the back of one of my business cards. “They do all kinds of tech support, from cleaning out viruses to hooking up peoples’ cable TV and sound systems. All I was hired to do was help the main guy, Joseph Cristelli, with clerical stuff and office management kinds of things.”

  “Cristelli’s the owner?”

  “Yeah. The person in charge, and he knows it. He’s some kind of genius, at least that’s what he tells his employees every day, and I mean every day. He’s started up about six different companies like Dynamic-Tec. Sold them all and now he’s very rich. He’s a young guy, still in his twenties. Dresses like an old beatnik, though. Beard, those skinny jeans, a leather bucket hat. You see guys like him all over the Northside now.”

  “You worked for him for less than six months?”

  “Yeah. I left about a month ago. Gus said I should talk to you, see if there was anything I could do. The jerk owes me a month’s salary. He won’t pay because he says I quit and forfeited that month. I told him he was full of it, but he just laughed and said to sue him. So that’s what I want to do.”

  “Why’d you quit?” I thought she would have led with that crucial piece of information but clients often surprised me when they told their stories. I could never predict how the first interview would play out.

  “The guy’s no good.” She rushed into the heart of her story. “He can hack anything and he steals private information that could help him or might embarrass people. Then he uses that info to get jobs, or to back off the competition. It’s simple for him, but effective. The victims don’t even know they’ve been hacked. Cristelli has it figured out so that it looks like he outsmarted the competition. He thought I was a dummy or a punk or something so he didn’t really hide what he was doing. Thought I would just go along, I guess. Finally, I called him on it. Surprised the hell out of him, but I’m not a crook. He wanted me to cover up what he was doing. Promised me a raise, even a cut of his action. All kinds of stuff. When I wouldn’t play, he went from nice guy to bully. He said I needed to disappear and shut up, and if I didn’t like it he would have me arrested for sexually harassing his other office workers, if you can believe that bullshit.”

  “What did he mean about harassing the other employees?”

  “Look, I’m an easy target. Wherever I work, there’s gonna be somebody who doesn’t like me. Usually, it’s much more than just dislike. They hate me. The religious nuts are the worst. At Dynamic-Tec there was a woman who refused to have anything to do with me; claimed I was an abomination from hell and she wouldn’t sin by working with me. Cristelli told her to ease off, at first. Then, when I wouldn’t go along with him, he told me that the woman, Clara Villagrana, would be only too happy to talk to the cops about how I made lewd and lascivious comments to her, and that I kept tormenting her
in a sexual way until finally one day I exposed myself to her. Like I would be showing off what I had become. I took a swing at him but two of his pals pulled me off and threw me out of the building. The next day I got a hand-delivered letter from him accepting my so-called resignation.”

  I scribbled notes as fast as I could to keep up with Jackie’s narrative. “You never actually quit?”

  “Not really. I didn’t have a choice.”

  “You sure you want to stir this up?” Gus said. “He’ll probably follow through on his threat to sic the police on you. And he’s probably also cleaned up his computer history so that there’s no evidence of his hacking schemes. If this woman makes a complaint, it could be difficult for you, to say the least.”

  “I have to do something. I’m tired of this shit.”

  “What do you know about Villagrana? Would she go as far as lying to the police?”

  “I don’t know. She really hated me. Couldn’t be in the same room with me. She might do anything. But I can’t say for sure. She acted all religious but maybe lying isn’t a sin these days.”

  I looked at Gus. “Can you check out this Villagrana? If she’s Cristelli’s leverage, she might be the weak link only because she thinks she’s doing God’s work.”

  “Yeah,” Gus said. “Either that or she’s faking it and in on the whole thing with Cristelli.”

  “You mean like his partner?” Jackie asked.

  “Something like that. Guess we’ll find out.”

  5 [Gus]

  go, get out of Denver, baby

  go, get out of Denver, baby go, go

  After our meeting with Jackie I had to rush to an appointment with Dirty Harry. I wrapped up a handful of details, then drove over to my parole officer’s office across from the U.S. Mint.

  Frankly, Harry and I had not warmed up to one another. I thought he took his job way too seriously, and I got the impression that he thought I wasn’t serious enough about my obligations to the state and him. But I walked the line.

  “How’s it working out with Móntez?”

  “Good. Good. He keeps me busy. I’m learning a lot.”

  “Anything I need to know about?”

  “You mean about what I’m working on with Móntez?”

  “Sure. Tell me about what you’re actually doing. What’s a typical day like?”

  “Well, I can’t talk about clients, you know that, right?”

  “Tell me what you can. You know what I mean.” He sounded bothered.

  Harry wore a gray tie over a black and gray plaid shirt. The tie hung loosely around his skinny neck and the curled corners of his shirt collar. No jacket. His hair bunched up in several places. I doubted he owned a comb. Stubble dotted his chin, no matter what time I met with him. He looked like a hillbilly dressed up for his annual night out on the town.

  “I served a half-dozen subpoenas last week for a hearing Luis has coming up later this month. One guy didn’t want the papers. He threw them back at me but Luis says he was served. I signed affidavits that he’ll file with the court. The guy has to show up.”

  “Lawyers, huh? I suppose if Móntez wants me in court, to waste time I can’t really spare, and you dropped a subpoena on me, right here, across my desk, I’d have to show up, is that it? Nothing I can do about it?”

  He knew perfectly well how it worked. “I just serve the papers, sign the affidavits.”

  “What else? You more than a process server?”

  “I interviewed a few witnesses, wrote up their statements, had them sign. That kind of thing.”

  He put down the yellow legal pad he used for his notes. “Jerome Rodríguez? He part of a case you’re working on?”

  I nodded. Harry was good. I’d met with Jerome only earlier that same day.

  “Móntez wanted me to talk with him. Possible witness in one of his cases. How’d you know I saw him?”

  His smirk irritated me but I didn’t show it. “Remember, Gus. I got eyes on you. This Rodríguez is a bit shaky, has a history of interaction with various law enforcement agencies.” Jerome would have loved that. “I’ll need something from your lawyer that confirms you got together with Rodríguez as part of your work. And the next time you have to see him, because of your job, of course, I need to know ahead of time. We clear on that?”

  “No problem, sir. No problem at all.” I think my dislike of Dirty Harry turned to hate at that moment.

  When Harry was finished with me I headed home, where Corrine waited with a dinner of rice and enchiladas. I didn’t care for her arroz but I would never tell her that. It was edible but it wasn’t the fluffy, soft rice I remembered our mother cooked. Corrine’s enchiladas were a different story. Corrine had never been afraid of eating or cooking with hot chile, and enchiladas were her prime examples of how to work a miracle with corn tortillas, cheese, onions and a velvety red sauce that overwhelmed all six senses.

  “You don’t know how much I missed your cooking.”

  “I tried to get some food to you, but the hassle discouraged me. I should have tried harder.” I looked up from the food. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  I wasn’t used to this apologetic sister. I hoped that with the passage of time Corrine would return to her old self and we could resort to our much more exciting love-hate relationship.

  “I’m here now and the food is here and we’re having a great dinner. That’s all that matters. Nothing to be sorry about. Prison and everything that went with it is done and it’s fading from memory. This is great, Corrine. I can’t quit eating.”

  The rest of the meal went by quickly but Corrine never really perked up. I finished five enchiladas and two beers. I was washing dishes when Móntez called to add something to his earlier message. He told me to find Valdez and watch him.

  “What does this guy do? Who does he know? What’s his story? Ask around. Anything you learn you give to me before my meeting with him tomorrow.”

  “I only have tonight to do this?”

  “Yeah. What’s the problem?”

  “Don’t expect much. It’s not a lot of time.”

  “Sometimes this work moves fast, Gus. Other times, it’s too slow. Justice delayed, you know?”

  My very busy day suddenly was a very long day.

  “You have an address for him?”

  “No. I’ve asked around but no one knows this guy. At least not the people I know.”

  “Right. I’ll get you what I can.”

  According to María Contreras, Valdez had been in prison during some of the same time as me. I finished the dishes, then checked the most obvious Internet sources to find his address. Nothing probable turned up under the names of Richard or Ricky or Ricardo or Richie Valdez. Not even Rico Valdez. I avoided the most likely place for information about an ex-con but eventually I had no choice. The night moved at its own quick pace and Móntez needed something now.

  I called someone I knew from prison. Eric “Shorty” Macías owed me a favor, something about helping him out when the odds were definitely not in his favor. He sounded happy to hear from me, although I assumed he was high. Drugs were his devil. They were at the core of his trouble in prison but men like Shorty never faced up to that undeniable fact. We had our small talk, our “what’s new” chit-chat. When I asked him about Valdez he came across as relieved. I guessed he expected me to ask for something bigger or more expensive. It’s a bitch to owe someone you did time with; not a position I ever wanted to be in.

  “No sweat, Gus,” he said over the phone. “I’ll find something. I recognize the name; might have even crossed paths with the dude one time or another. I’ll get back to you.”

  I was about to go downstairs when Corrine emerged from her bedroom, all covered in make-up, sporting shiny new shoes and a relatively new dress that hugged her too tightly in too many strategic places.

  “I’m gonna bar hop with Barb and Lucía. I’ll be late, so don’t wait up. You don’t need the car, do you?”

  “I’m good.” She ran out the front
door leaving the scents of perfume and minty mouthwash in her wake. I liked that she wanted to have a good time. Her remorse about me had apparently disappeared.

  I went downstairs, found the headphones, wrapped them around my ears and turned on the turntable. I listened to the laments and celebrations of Muddy Waters and Little Walter and Magic Sam. A nervous buzz circled my head but I figured that came from my need to do my job right, and the knowledge that Móntez wanted, needed, information about Valdez that I was expected to find. While I listened to music, I did what I could on the computer, searching for information, finding a little.

  Shorty called about an hour later and gave me an address.

  “The guy was down in Cañon City, not over with us near as I can tell. But enough people move around the system that I got a line on him. The address is listed under someone else’s name, a cousin or something like that. But the guy I talked to swore it’s where he spends his days.”

  “Good. That’s what I need.”

  “Great. Glad I could help.” He must have thought we were even now, that his debt had been paid. I didn’t agree but I didn’t say anything about it.

  “You know anything else about Valdez? What’s his rep? Friends? Where’s his hangout?”

  He thought for a few seconds. “His reputation’s not square, Gus. He was popped for a small-time smuggling thing and did his time but there’s talk he cut a deal early on, and that he snitched on a few guys to cut his sentence.”

  “Lot of guys get that jacket but it doesn’t mean it’s true. Could be jailhouse politics.”

  “Yeah, could be. Unless I was there in Cañon I can’t say for sure. I can follow up on that if you want.”

  Under prison math, then I would owe him.

  “It’s good for now. If I need something else I’ll let you know.”

  “Okay. You just call. Anyhow, his house is in southwest Denver, off of Morrison and Kentucky.”

  “Westwood, right?”

  He repeated the address and I wrote it down, as well as a note to tell Móntez about the Westwood connection.