Authors: Charlie Price
“I don’t think so,” Vincente said, shaking off the surprise. “Pin in a haystack. Even if you found him, then what? Citizen arrest? Wise up.” He stood abruptly and followed Rita into the bedroom.
Angel could feel her face flushing. Was she so stupid?
“How you gonna find him?” Momo asked.
“How much is a trailer?” Angel responded, suddenly full of questions for someone with more experience out in the world.
* * *
W
HEN
V
INCENTE AND
R
ITA RETURNED
, Angel and Momo were on the couch with the
Imperial Valley Press
spread out between them. Momo had his finger on a picture of a truck; Angel had lined paper and one of Rita’s pencils.
“’99 Ford 350, Super Duty, that’s big enough to haul a trailer, but it’s eighty-five hundred. He couldn’t get much of a rig for less.” Momo continued to run his finger down the page.
“Hey, this is crazy,” Vincente said, turning to look at Rita for confirmation.
“Take it easy, Uncle,” Momo said. “We’re just looking. She could be right.”
“I told you,” Vincente said to Rita.
Angel didn’t want to look up from her calculations, afraid of what she might see in Rita’s eyes.
“Yeah, well, since everybody’s up, how ’bout I make chilaquiles? Give these two a minute to work on things and then we can talk at the table.”
When Angel glanced up, she saw Rita had hold of Vincente’s arm and was pulling him into the kitchen.
“So we should check the library,” Momo said. “They got computers and we can check Craigslist. Some cheaper trucks there, but no matter how you cut it, he’s gotta have several thousand for nice wheels and a motel to lay low the way you’re thinking.”
“Will you help me find him?” Angel asked, keeping her eyes on her numbers.
Momo looked away. Angel dreaded his answer.
Everybody thinks I’m crazy.
“Uh, I got to call Dad and Ray and Carmen,” Momo said. “See if they need me up there this break. If they don’t got nothing major going on I could give you a couple of days.”
* * *
T
HE ATMOSPHERE AT THE KITCHEN TABLE FELT AWFUL.
Angel could tell she and her problems were blowing this home apart but she didn’t know what else to do. Shame or no shame, she had to keep fighting. Maybe Vincente was right. First, so drained she could hardly move, a few hours later talking about fighting. Manic. Again the urge to run, but before she could move, Vincente reached across the table and grabbed her shoulder. Everybody jumped up, not sure what would happen next.
“The hell’s it take to knock some sense in you?” He was practically yelling. “I got short runs starting today. I can’t be watch-doggin’ while you and SuperMex here get yourselves killed.”
Rita had hold of his shirtsleeve. “Cente, Cente!
Cálmate.
She’s right, Vin. He won’t do nothing right now. Hole up, that’s all. And I got Goot and TJ looking out for us. You work. That’s what’s got to happen.”
Angel could see the rage in Vincente’s face starting to soften. Momo was practically vibrating beside her, hands clenched.
Rita sat and dragged Vincente back into his chair. “She’ll do what she has to,” Rita said, looking at Angel. “You tell her no but it don’t work like that.
Mira. Es lo que tiene que hacer. Es
more than reason.”
Angel looked to Momo for meaning.
“You do what you got to do,” he said.
Angel looked back to Vincente. Seemed like he was still seething. He pointed at Angel like she was the one who was ruining everything. He moved his hand to point at Momo.
“Okay,
vato
. You stick your dick in this, it’s on you. My family gets hurt—” He stormed out of the room, the sentence dangling like a noose.
The room became so quiet Angel could hear the wall clock. She wondered if she really understood what she was doing, what consequences it could have, but it didn’t matter. She was going to look for Scotty even if she had to do it alone. Even if it killed her.
21
The front door closing woke Angel out of a sound sleep. Morning light filtered through the shades. The living room was empty but she could hear people in the kitchen. She cleaned up in the bathroom and went to see what was going on. Momo and Rita were talking over coffee.
“Vincente probably won’t be back till after dark,” Rita told her. “Momo’s got some business to take care of and you’re going to school with me and Jessie. He’ll pick you up this afternoon.”
Momo nodded at her, confirming.
Angel didn’t argue.
At school, she helped Rita get the tables ready. When she went to the kitchen for the napkins, she remembered the padlock, felt for the key in her pocket. “Where’s the door go to?”
Rita looked where Angel was looking. “Attic,” she said. “Before, when this was a church, I think they stored stuff up there. Pretty sure it’s empty now.”
Empty!
Angel began sifting through cupboards to find towels and tablecloths she could take upstairs for bedding, but her search was interrupted by the children’s arrival. Norma found her immediately.
“Brought you something,” Norma said, grinning but shy, holding the bottom of her skirt.
“What?”
“This,” Norma said, and dropped a raisin in Angel’s hand. “It’s like a baby grape, only it don’t squish up. You can put it in your pocket.”
“Hey, thanks.” Angel tucked it down by the five-dollar bill. “I have something to tell you.”
Norma looked up at her, very pleased.
“I … I may not be here every day or I may leave early some days. I got to do some stuff.”
The smile left Norma’s face. “What stuff?”
Angel wasn’t sure what to say, realizing too late she should have asked Rita about this conversation. “I have to find somebody. Pretty quick.”
“Why?”
“Uh”—Angel hoped this was okay—“you know there are some bad guys out in the world, right?”
Norma gave an exaggerated nod. “Real bad,” she said. “Bad bad.”
“Yeah, well … one of those guys from where I used to live is chasing me … and I have to find him first … so he can’t hurt me.” Angel looked away and shook her head. That was probably way more than the little girl needed to know.
“I seen bad guys,” Norma said, starting to pick her nose. She thought a moment. “I’ll help. What’s he look like?”
“You don’t need to hel—” Angel stopped because Norma’s face was clouding over. “Okay,” she amended. “It’s a guy, right?”
Norma nodded, relieved, and screwed her face into a superconcentration mode.
“He’s an older guy.”
“White hair?” Norma was into this.
“No, not that old. Okay, you know what a country-western singer looks like? A guy?”
Norma thought for a moment. “On TV?”
“Yeah, cap or cowboy hat, uh, blondish hair, darker than mine, not too long. Mustache. Slim. Button shirt, sleeves rolled up.”
“Long pants?”
Angel had to hold her face set. In spite of how serious this was, Norma was cracking her up. “Yeah, jeans. Usually black jeans.”
“Mean?” Norma asked.
“Yes,” Angel said, “very, very mean. And if you ever see him, don’t let him know. Be real cool, right.”
“I am cool,” Norma said. “Like popsicles.”
Angel didn’t know what to say to that, but fortunately Rita called everybody to circle.
* * *
M
OMO PICKED HER UP DURING NAP TIME.
Angel had fluffed her hair and scrubbed her face so her cheeks had some blush. She wore one of Rita’s light cotton sweater tops and the cargo pants/running shoes again. Momo had told her: “We’re gonna be driving around places, maybe asking questions. We gotta look right. Like we’re shopping or something. Like we’re … you know, together. I’ll say I’m trying to find my friend and you’ll, like, be my, um, my sister, maybe. Or a friend. We got to be casual like we know what we’re doing.”
Momo looked her over as she climbed in.
She could feel her face coloring. Didn’t look at him. “Can we go by the StopShop first?”
“You need something?”
That hadn’t occurred to Angel. She ran a mental checklist on the contents of the small purse Rita had loaned her. Maybe more pads, but she wouldn’t buy those when she could borrow them. Borrow them. Right. That made her smile.
“What?”
“Oh, uh, I told this girl about Scotty today. She wanted to help. Made me think I should tell StopShop too. Tell them be careful if there’s a guy asking about me. Tell them call the police after he leaves.”
“Good idea.” He rested his elbow on the open window ledge.
Angel remembered that from the first day she met him.
“Got some news,” he said.
“What?”
“Saw TJ. He said tell Rita and you that Cathedral police had a guy matches Scotty’s description on the morning bus to L.A. yesterday. He’s outta here. You can stop worrying.”
That didn’t ease Angel’s mind. “He’s going to buy a truck where it’s harder to trace,” she said.
Momo nodded. Probably thought she was totally paranoid. She wasn’t. She just knew Scotty.
Angel knew him even better than she thought. Yesterday, he had slipped off the L.A.–bound bus unnoticed during the brief stop in Ontario, about eighty miles from where he’d boarded. At a convenience store, he picked up a truck shopper magazine. Hours later he struck a phone deal with a private party for a dark green four-wheel drive Ford 350 with the big diesel. Today, before he headed back to the Salton area in his new ride, he had a couple of errands: an army surplus store for two pairs of handcuffs, a hardware store for eyebolts and locking carabiners that would attach the cuffs to the passenger side door and floor plate.
“So you want to cruise this afternoon?” Momo asked. “Check out motels? Get a feel for Brawley. Places where guys meet women. Clubs, music, dancing. Get a line on those.”
“Who’d know that?”
“Find a guy looks like me. Ask him.”
Angel didn’t get it, then she did. Scowled at him.
“Hey, just jokin’. I don’t do that.”
Angel couldn’t help herself. “You already got a girlfriend?”
“Not yet. You applying? I’m too old for you.”
“Stop the car.”
“What?”
“Stop the goddamn car!” Angel was opening the truck door, getting ready to jump.
“Hey!” Momo stood on the brakes, which slung the heavy door open. Angel went out with it, hanging on as best she could till it slid out of her hands and she tumbled to the road.
Momo skidded to a stop, rammed it in park, and was out his door running.
By the time he reached her, she was on her feet, pants torn, palms and knees bleeding, embarrassed, rubbing a knot on her forehead, eyes wet with pain. When he got close she kicked at him. “Don’t you ever … Never! You never talk to me—” She didn’t have enough breath to keep her words going. “I don’t need you.” She hobbled away in the direction of the StopShop.
* * *
W
HEN SHE WALKED OUT OF THE STORE,
rubbing her hands on paper towels from the restroom, his pickup was parked by the door and he was standing in front of it, cap in hand. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Really sorry. That was so stupid, and I didn’t even mean it. I didn’t. Running my mouth … Vinnie’s right about me. I’m a
cabrón
.”
She didn’t look at him. Didn’t know what to say.
“Let me drive you back to Rita’s. You fix up and I’ll check out the casino, take a look around Brawley. I got his pic. I already checked RV lots. They said nobody like him bought a trailer lately. Bad economy helps. Almost no sales. So probably a motel like you said. Probably won’t hook up with another woman this fast, right?”
Angel didn’t trust herself to speak. If she cried again in front of him …
“Get in. Please. I’ll be right.”
Angel did, staring out her window on the drive to Rita’s. This would be okay. She could get herself together before Rita and the kids got home, and she could get the pistol from the bathroom. She’d have time to look for the bullets. She’d need them sooner or later.
She left the truck without having spoken and was frustrated when she reached the front door to find it locked. Behind her, Momo was waiting to see that she was safe. She walked around the house. The rear door, which Scotty had broken, still wasn’t fixed. She missed the new cigarette butt on the ground next to the doormat. Inside, she blinked the porch light once to let Momo know she was in and okay. When he drove away, she went to the bathroom to clean off the rest of the blood and change clothes.
Looking at herself in the mirror, she was ashamed. Dirty, bloody, tear-streaked face. A crazy girl. What was the matter with her? Her moods way up, way down. And opening the door of a moving truck? Was that the way she wanted to go? That reminded her. The bullets.
She checked to see that the pistol was still hidden behind the towels before entering the bedroom to search the night table on Vincente’s side. A bottle of aspirin, a pack of Kleenex, a cheap watch, condoms. She felt slimy, spying on them after they’d been so good to her. The bullets were in the back of Vincente’s top dresser drawer, behind his briefs and socks. Two boxes: .38 cal. and .22. She took the bigger ones.
Back in the bathroom she tried to stash them in her small purse with the pistol but it took too much space. She fiddled with the gun until the cylinder opened, fed six cartridges in the empty chambers, clicked the cylinder back in place, and hid the box with the remaining shells in the spot behind the towels. Now the pistol fit, but she noticed how heavy it felt. Would the cheap purse hold it without seams breaking? Was there another way to carry it? Where had she left her stuff with the extra clothes and green water bottle?