My Bad

by Manuel Ramos

  I never expected that my innocent job with the lawyer Móntez would lead to the hole that I felt for certain I had fallen in. I worked myself into a bag of nerves and anxiety. I owed Móntez for saving my ass and for the job. How far would I go for him? How far would he go for me?

  My game of a thousand questions I couldn’t answer ended when Corrine woke up. She was scheduled to volunteer at Academia Ana Marie Sandoval, the dual language school near Móntez’s house. She worked there one day a week helping a second-grade teacher and her class.

  “What’s up, little brother?” She was way too cheery. She helped herself to coffee. “Hey, this is good. Thanks.” We killed a few minutes drinking coffee.

  “You must’ve had a good time last night with your pals. Anything exciting happen?”

  “The usual,” she said. “Those women are too much. They do know where to go to meet men, though.”

  “So you met someone?”

  She shook her head. “No one special. Just guys, you know?”

  I poured both of us another cup of coffee. “Just guys, huh?”

  “Anyway, I gots to go. What you doing today? Need a ride? Or what?” She stopped talking, walked over to the table where I sat and picked up my empty beer bottle. “What’re you doing hitting the booze already? What’s going on, Gus?”

  “Nothing. Really. I worked late with Luis. Didn’t sleep. Had a beer to relax while I figure out if I try to get some sleep or I just carry on. It’s nothing. No need to worry.”

  She tossed the bottle in the recycle bin near the back door.

  “You screw up and you’re out of here, Gus. ¿Me entiendes?”

  Corrine sometimes threw in a Spanish word or two to emphasize her concern. She was pissed. One day I was her fave, stay as long as I wanted, she said. The next, I had to consider packing. She was getting back to normal.

  “Yes, I understand. I’m cool. I don’t drink like I used to. I been dry for a few years now. I’m just working hard, that’s all. Your lawyer friend has me out at all hours. I thought lawyers were more ten to four people?”

  She didn’t buy my soft sell. “What’re you working on? What kind of case?”

  I hesitated. I could explain everything that was going on, but Móntez had impressed on me to play it cozy with everyone, cops included, until we had a better hold of the facts. I opted for caution with Corrine, mainly because I didn’t want her to carry extra weight on her shoulders about what her black sheep brother might be up to.

  “He wanted me to stake out a potential witness in a case where one person says the other person has money that needs to be given back. I watched in the event the second person tipped his hand and revealed something about the money. But, nada. It was a waste of time.”

  “Bullshit. I can always tell when you’re lying or not telling me everything. I been your big sister too long, Gus.” She looked at the clock on the wall. “But I ain’t got time now.” She fished keys out of her purse. “Tonight. We’ll go over this again. I’ll talk with Móntez myself if I have to. I’m not letting you get in trouble again.” She walked to the door, stopped and looked back at me. “I’m just concerned, Gus. I don’t ever want to visit you in prison again.”

  There went my plan to not have her worry about me. “I’m good, Corrine. I swear. What’s the worst that can happen?”

  “Oh hell, you can’t say that. What’s the worst? Really?”

  I hugged her across the shoulders. She stiffened.

  “It’s all good. I’ll be back at work in another hour. Maybe knock off early since I did double overtime last night. We can get something for supper. Talk about whatever you want.”

  She looked satisfied. “You need a ride?”

  I didn’t know Móntez’s agenda, so I faked it. “I’m waiting to hear from Luis. I think he’s picking me up for some kind of meeting on the case.”

  “All right. I’ll grab a Chubby’s burrito before I head to the school. You know you can have whatever’s in the fridge.”

  “Yeah. I’m good. Not all that hungry. Have a nice day.”

  She left a few minutes later, her attitude switching back to a smiling and humming version. She definitely had met someone who’d grabbed her interest.

  I retrieved the paper from the front lawn but I didn’t expect any news about the Westwood house. It had happened too late for the morning delivery. I turned on the TV and waited through four commercials until one of the morning news programs popped on the screen. And there it was.

  The well-dressed and well-groomed blond anchor sorted through papers and then began a report about a fire in the Westwood neighborhood. I wondered how she managed to look so good so early in the morning. I never looked that good at any time of the day.

  “According to a statement just issued by the Denver Fire Department, the house has been completely destroyed but so far no injuries have been reported. We’re looking at live footage from our News Copter flying over the scene. You can see several fire trucks and other fire department vehicles and numerous firemen working through the debris, much of it still smoking. So far we don’t have any information about an owner or owners of the property.” She paused while the screen showed billowing smoke from a collapsing house. “Shannon Flanigan has been on the scene for several minutes, let’s see what she has to report. Good morning, Shannon. Can you tell us if there have been any developments in the investigation of the fire?”

  The screen switched to another smartly dressed reporter holding a microphone and standing near a fire truck. This reporter was black and looked very young. There was a slight pause as Flanigan listened on her earphone to the delayed transmission from the studio.

  “Good morning, Kathy. So far there’s not much to report, other than this is quite a fire and the house is certain to be a complete loss. I did just finish speaking with the fire investigator on the scene, Brett Montaño. He confirmed that the house is totally demolished. He described the fire as one of the hottest he’s seen in a long time. He verified that they are looking for the owner and any possible victims, but so far it doesn’t appear that anyone was in the house, which, of course, is good news.” She paused and looked at someone behind the camera, then nodded. “And now, here next to me is Mrs. Viola Alcalá, a resident on this street.”

  The news ticker on the bottom of the shot scrolled an address for the house. It was the same address Macías had given me. The same address where I’d spent a few hours hiding behind a tree like a lost kid, where I saw María Contreras and a man leave in a big hurry, where I saw another man stretched out dead on the grimy linoleum floor.

  The camera panned back to reveal an elderly woman wearing a down vest, checkered shirt and jeans. She had wrinkled skin and thin gray hair pulled back under a scarf. The reporter seemed unsure of herself next to the neighbor.

  “Can you tell us what you know about this house, Mrs. Alcalá?”

  The woman looked at the camera and blinked her eyes. “I been living two houses down for more than forty years. This place used to be owned by Frank Contreras and his wife, Betty. Good people, great neighbors. They been dead for years. One of the sons lived here for a couple years, Anselmo I think his name was. We called him Sammy. Then he rented it to all kinds of people over the years. I heard he died, too.”

  “Do you know who owns the house now?” The reporter smiled at the camera and held the microphone steady for Mrs. Alcalá, who kept trying to grab the mike and wrench it from the reporter’s fingers.

  “I seen different people come and go. Not very friendly, if you really want to know. No one takes care of the yard or the house. Real eyesore for a while now.”

  “Well, thank you, Mrs. . . .”

  The woman did not stop talking. “I ain’t seen anyone around for a long time, but you know there was someone sneaking around here last night for a while. Didn’t see who.” She turned her head slightly to look at the burning shell of the house. “Might be better that it burned down.” She smiled, then began to laugh, but the laugh quickly t
urned into a cough that spiraled out of control. She turned her back to the camera, coughing and growling. The camera focused on the reporter.

  “Well, thank you, Mrs. Alcalá. Kathy, I think that’s it for now. I’ll stay here on the scene and as soon as I learn more from the firemen or police, I’ll report back to you and our audience.” Harsh coughing continued in the background.

  I turned off the television set. The report stirred the mess inside my guts from the night before. My headache turned up a notch. The old lady had seen me. What did she tell the cops? I wanted to take action, talk to somebody, but I couldn’t fix on exactly what I should do. I waited for something to happen.

  8 [Luis]

  el tiempo pasa

  y no te puedo olvidar

  A half-hour after I heard the news about the fire, I pulled up in front of Corrine’s house and honked my horn. Gus emerged, locked the door and sprinted to my car. He carried a mug of coffee.

  “What the hell is going on?” he asked.

  “You tell me. You were there, remember? You get any hint that the place was going to be torched?”

  “You know I didn’t. I told you everything that happened, everything I saw. Somebody came back to the house after I left, set it on fire and made sure no body would be found. That’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  He was a bit defensive.

  I drove to the intersection and headed west on Thirty-Seventh Avenue.

  I wanted to believe Gus, but that meant that whatever was going on was not what we’d expected. I told myself that I was too close to retiring to get involved in another bloody caper with a Chicano on the edge.

  “Where we going?” Gus asked.

  “I need breakfast. Don’t know about you, but I can’t pull all-nighters anymore without suffering consequences, like not being able to think clearly. I should eat. It’ll help balance my system and we can talk about what might be happening.”

  “Sure. Whatever.”

  The truth was that I was half-asleep and in a daze. Not really hungry, but I’d pay a steep price if I didn’t get something in my stomach. Actually, I thought that a drink would do more for my condition. Not a beer, but a real drink. Whiskey? Maybe a shot of tequila to work wonders for my thought processes. I hadn’t thought about serious drinking for a long time. I wasn’t sure why the thought came to me when it did. I didn’t suggest the idea to Gus.

  “In the old days I’d just have a drink and get on with it,” he said. “Can’t see me doing that now.” Great minds . . .

  “Yeah,” I said quickly. “I know what you mean.”

  “You don’t drink these days?”

  “Those days are over. Can’t handle the hangover, and there’s always a chance that I’ll embarrass myself. Too old for that. It didn’t seem to matter when I was younger.”

  “I can’t really indulge, you know? The state is watching me like a hawk, with U.A.s and spot checks from my P.O. Anyhow, it’s been years, literally, since I hung one on. Not sure I want to do that again. I think I lost the taste for it.”

  We sunk into our own thoughts for the next several minutes. I turned right on Federal and headed north. At Thirty-Eighth I turned west again.

  “Where’s this breakfast going to happen?”

  “How about Tacos Jalisco?” I suggested. “You like that place?”

  “Sure. We used to eat there a lot. Me and my sisters. Big plates, hot chile. You think we can talk there?”

  “I’ll ask for a booth in the back. We won’t say anything earth-shattering.”

  “We don’t know anything earth-shattering.”

  I nodded and drove the rest of the way in silence.

  When we were finally in the restaurant, I asked him something that had been on my mind since earlier that morning when I first learned of the fire.

  “What about meeting with that police liaison person?”

  “Seeing as no body was found, there’s not a reason to speak to her, is there?”

  “Only that you don’t want any blowback about this down the road. And I still don’t feel right about what happened. I should report to the cops. Tell them everything.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’re not on parole.”

  “But you haven’t done anything wrong, and if they somehow find out that you were there and didn’t speak up . . . well, it won’t go good if Dirty Harry wants to violate you.”

  He thought about what I’d said.

  “Okay,” Gus said. “Set up a meet with Ana Domingo. As long as you think it’s what should happen.”

  The restaurant was busy and several minutes passed before a waitress took our order. Old time Mexican music played in the background.

  “That’s Antonio Aguilar,” I said.

  Gus grunted but I wasn’t sure he knew who or what I was talking about.

  “My parents dragged all of us to the Colorado State Fair in Pueblo when we were kids to see him perform. He sang from a shiny silver saddle on his giant horse.” Many years had slipped by since then. My parents were gone, Aguilar, too. There were a few of the Móntez clan left in various cities and I added visiting relatives to my retirement bucket list.

  We ate eggs, chile, beans, fried potatoes and tortillas washed down with coffee. I asked him to go over what happened at the house, at least what he’d seen. He finally said I asked too many questions. His irritation with me was obvious. It might have been the lack of sleep, or just an ex-con’s sensitivity to interrogations and repeated questions.

  I’d been through this several times during my checkered career as an attorney. I wouldn’t have traded one day of my life as Luis Móntez, Esq., for anything else, but after forty years of rubbing hard against the rough edges of the U.S. legal system, I was tired, and not from just one lost night of sleep. I’d been in tough spots with old friends like Gato Guerrero or new enemies like Tyler Boudin. Different guy staring back at me, different uptight situations, but still the same in many ways. Except that this time I felt the years in my bones and tired legs. The all-nighter with Gus had already cost me. I drank several cups of coffee while I looked at the glowing but puffy face of Gus Corral and thought about my own sagging and wrinkled flesh. Retirement looked too far away and it wasn’t getting any closer.

  “I’m trying to help, Gus. That’s all.”

  He nodded. “Why not just go to a regular cop and report what I saw? Why use this community service person, or whatever she is?”

  “Remember, I know her. And her position is supposed to encourage people to come forward with information about crimes, problems, neighborhood issues, that they might not want to talk about with the official cop driving around in his cruiser. I just think it’s an easier and safer way for you to deliver what you know to the police. Minimize the risk as much as we can. But, there is the fact that so far there’s no body. We have to think that through.”

  “They came back and either made sure the body would be completely torched in the fire, or they removed it and had it buried somewhere else. The fire means they’re just being extra careful.”

  “You keep talking about ‘they.’ More than one. You’re sure María Contreras was in on the killing and the fire?”

  “Hell, I don’t know.” He talked as he chewed. “I can only speak about what I saw and guess about the rest. Last night she looked like she was involved. Very involved. This shit all happened in Sam Contreras’ house, the house he inherited from his parents and the house your client might have lived in for a year or so, if I remember right. She didn’t notify anyone that there was a dead man in her husband’s house. And now she’s gone, so I don’t have much doubt about her role. Do you?” He scooped up a piece of runny egg and chile with the remainder of his tortilla.

  “People do strange things,” I said. “Unexpected stuff that boils over and explodes without warning. I’ve seen it. Over the years I’ve run into twists and turns that I never anticipated, crap that almost got me killed, so I try to never assume too much. I thought my client was on the level, tha
t she needed help and that I could help her. But today, I have to say, she looks guilty.”

  9 [Gus]

  running on empty, running blind

  running into the sun but I’m running behind

  I didn’t respond to the lawyer and I left it at that. There were times when Luis sounded an awful lot like the wise elder who’s been through it all and wants everyone else to listen to the lessons he’s learned. I wasn’t a fan of those times.

  I was certain that María Contreras was a killer who used Móntez and me to find the guy she wanted dead. I didn’t give her the benefit of the doubt that Móntez thought he had to give to his client. I wanted only to come clean with this community cop, Ana Domingo, wash my hands of the nasty business and try to get on with my life. After all, I was a free man. Free and independent and ready for the next act in my so-called life. I didn’t have time for all this latest trouble and confusion.

  Móntez had to be in court that morning, and until we talked to Domingo there wasn’t anything for me to do. I asked him to drop me off at the Scheitler Recreation Center. I spent the next two hours at the center near faded Lakeside Amusement Park and cloudy Berkeley Lake. I needed to sweat, to feel the strain and pain, to blank out my mind and focus on my body.

  I ran around the lake five times, almost five miles, belching and re-tasting green chile and coffee. The running erased the fog from lack of sleep. Occasionally, without any reason, I imagined the bleeding man stretched out on the floor of the house where we thought Richard Valdez lived. Then I saw the fire. I willed myself to concentrate on the run.

  I worked up a nice burn in my thighs and lungs. I forced my legs to keep pumping but it was nothing compared to how I felt when I exercised in prison. Back then, everything was a test I gave myself or that I had to pass for others who watched. In the park, no one watched as I jogged past the swampy reeds and the busy and noisy dog run. The sunshine that bounced off the lake and the leaves of the trees created a golden circle of light that followed me as I ran. My muscles relaxed in the heat. My brain let go.