Ditch Rider (14 page)

Since
I'd never seen Lobato, I figured he wouldn't know who I was, either. Still, I couldn't drive down the street too often without somebody noticing the
huera
in the yellow Nissan. Pino wasn't a road that led anywhere. It was a street of broken cars and houses fortified by burglar bars. The houses were small and close together. The yards were a warren subdivided into tiny cages by chain-link and wooden fences. I didn't see a single person as I drove down Pino, but I had the feeling that curtains were opening and closing behind me. At number 347, the Lobato residence, the blinds were drawn, the driveway was empty. There was a chain-link fence around the bare yard, and attached to the garage was a hoop without a net.

16

D
ISPROVING
C
ADE
'
S ALIBI
had reopened the Padilla case for Saia, and for me it had reopened the issue of who had assaulted my client. The police hadn't been very interested in the assault after Cheyanne had refused to cooperate in their investigation and had pled guilty to Juan Padilla's murder. I'd always been more concerned about that crime than Saia was. It had been and still was a sticking point for me. Maybe the wounds had been inflicted by Cade seeking insurance in case his alibi was disproven, although I wasn't as convinced as Saia was that the lack of an alibi made Cade guilty. Still, if he was guilty, Cheyanne could walk. One way to get to that point was to rule out other possibilities. Maybe the wounds had been self-inflicted in remorse or (as Saia had said) to get into the D Home. If the word on the street had convicted my client of Juan's murder, the assault could have been a payback from the Four O's. I also couldn't exclude the ex-con, gang member and stepfather of sorts, Leo Ortega. He had the muscles, he'd had the opportunity, he had the anger.

On Saturday the Kid worked and I had nothing special to do, so in the afternoon I took a walk to the Sacred Heart Church to see if there was a soccer game going on. About halfway down the block I saw a mix of Mercedes-Benzes, Toyotas, four-by-fours and pickup trucks lined up on both sides of the street, soccer moms and dads being Saturday chauffeurs. The bike rack was full. The spectators were a fence surrounding the field. Through the spaces between them I could see boys Danny Ortega's age galloping up and down, full of energy, but not very coordinated. I circled around the spectators looking for Leo. Some parents were busy watching the game. Some were busy watching each other. When I located Leo on the far side of the field it was obvious he was in the game-watching category. Whatever the other parents were doing or saying or wearing or driving didn't interest him. He didn't even notice me sidling up beside him. I followed the direction of his eyes and saw Danny run down the field, take a wild kick at a ball, lose his balance and fall on his butt.

“Ouch,” I said.

“Hey.” Leo looked over at me.

“How's Danny's team doing?”

He laughed. “Losing again, but he sure does love to play. How's Cheyanne?”

“She seems to be all right.”

“That's good.”

Leo's eyes returned to the field, where Danny had picked himself up and started running again.
There
was a paper cup in Leo's left hand and he raised his arm to take a sip. The Virgin of Guadalupe slipped out from under the sleeve of his t-shirt and embedded in his right forearm I could see the other tattoo. What I had seen earlier as a chain I now saw as four zeros.

“What gang were you a member of?” I asked him.

“Why do you want to know?” he replied.

“Was it the Four O's?”

He looked at his arm, saw that the tattoo was plainly visible and owned up.

“How'd you get out?”

“I didn't. Gangs are like family. You never get out, but you can get away and that's what I did. I just don't have anything to do with them. They're more interested in ranking in the young ones anyway than they are in me.”

“How do they feel about your girlfriend's daughter pleading guilty to Juan Padilla's murder?”

“I haven't discussed it with them.”

“There couldn't be many Four O's your age left.” I doubted if Leo was thirty-five, but he'd probably lived long enough to be an elder statesman in gangland.

“Not outside the Pen,” he said.

“If they consider you family, I suppose there is a lot of pressure to rank Danny in.”

“Too much,” he said. He turned toward me and his eyes blazed with a fire I hadn't seen even when he'd been sniping at Cheyanne. No one is as fierce as the converted—or those who want you to believe they're converted. “But they're not gettin' him. My son's not dying when he's fifteen. My son's not gonna be in the State Pen. My son's gonna grow up and get a job and take care of me when I'm an old man.”

The game ended, and Danny galloped over to us. Leo pulled him close and ruffled his hair, which—today anyway—happened to be grease-free. Some children seem to be born good. Some children get told it so often they start to believe it. Hard to tell which of those categories Danny fit into, but he was a good kid. I wondered whether that was a quality that was fixed for life or if there was still time for the gang predators to get ahold of him and turn him into one of them.

A sandy-haired soccer dad approached Leo and they started making plans for next week's game. The other dad wore khakis and a polo shirt. His eyes were a faded blue. Leo dropped his arms to his side, hiding his tattoos.

“This is the best facility in the city,” the dad said. “You know that?”

“It's pretty good,” Leo replied. “I've been watching your boy. He has a lot of talent.”

“You think so?” The dad beamed.

“Sure.”

“
Danny's coming along well.”

“That's good to hear.”

While Danny watched his dad with admiring eyes, I wandered off and examined the crowd. A soccer field is one place where the colors of Albuquerque come together, where junker meets Mercedes-Benz and what matters is enthusiasm for the game. Sports have long been a way out of one life and into another. I saw brown, white, Asian and black kids with matching and unmatching parents. The one thing the parents had in common was that they all had plans for their children. The Kid and I wouldn't have stood out here, except that he was closer to the soccer players' age than I was.

Some girls gathered at one end of the field. They could have been cheerleaders, but they'd taken no interest in the game. They were just hanging out, looking at boys, comparing fingernails. I saw Patricia and walked over to say hello. When she spotted me coming she separated from the other girls and met me about ten feet away. Her fingernails were nearly an inch long. Her lips were black. She was wearing a chain around her neck that said
BITCH
in silver letters. Her pager was attached to the waistband of her skirt.

“How's it going?” I asked her.

“Okay.”

“Do you talk to Cheyanne?”

“Every day.”

“She's doing better than I expected.”

“Oh, sure, she's doin' great in jail twenty-four-seven,” Patricia scoffed.

“Twenty-four-seven?”

“All day every day. She's gonna be spending the best years of her life in the Girls' School.”

“The judge hasn't accepted her plea yet.”

“He will. Did you see the way he looked at her? Even if he doesn't, her life still won't be worth nothin'. She's only thirteen and already her life is over.”

“It's not over. Life does get better when you get older.”

“But you don't have any fun.”

“I don't know. My boyfriend and I have some good times.”

“He's still young!” she said.

“Not that young,” I replied.

“Cheyanne'll die if she goes to the Girls' School. She can't spend two years in that place.” Spoken with the intense conviction of a fourteen-year-old. It was like witnessing an oath, as if Patricia had slashed her finger and mixed her blood with Cheyanne's for all time.

If Cheyanne did get two years and got out before her time was up, it wouldn't be the first (or last)
time
someone escaped from the D Home or the Girls' School. The escapees usually got caught, but not always. “If you're thinking escape, don't even consider it,” I said.

“Two years is forever!”

“No, it's not. It'll be over before you know it.” I had enough mileage on me by now to put two years in perspective. “Your friend Nolo Serrano talked to me after the arraignment.”

“Him? He's not my friend.”

“He said he'd look out for Cheyanne while she's inside.”

“The only person Nolo looks out for is himself.” Patricia glanced at her sports watch. “I gotta go.”

“Where?”

“Home.”

“I'm going downtown to my office. I can give you a ride.”

I could see her mentally comparing me to the bus and deciding I was better, but not by much. “Okay,” she said. “As soon as I turn fifteen my parents are giving me a car. No more rides. No more bus.”

“Cool,” I said.

The soccer crowd was breaking up and heading for their cars, trucks and bikes. Patricia and I walked down Mirador toward my house. While we waited for the long light at Second she turned around and saw that Danny had left his father behind at the soccer field and was following us on his bike. “Hey, bro,” she called. Danny waved.

“He follows me a lot now,” Patricia said.

“How come?”

“He doesn't have his sister to follow anymore.”

“She didn't like it much.”

“It doesn't bother me. I don't have a little brother.”

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“Only Cheyanne. She's like my sister.”

The light changed and we crossed Second. It's hard to make small talk with a teenager. Besides, the things I wanted to talk about were not small, so I went ahead and asked her what I wanted to know. Either she'd answer or she wouldn't. If I'd been Detective Jessup I'd have tried flattery, but that's not my style.

“I could have done more for Cheyanne if she'd told me who or what got her out of the house the night she was assaulted,” I said. “If she'll say it was Ron Cade, I may be able to get her out of the D Home.”

Patricia said nothing, and we kept on walking. We reached my house and stood outside in front of
the
courtyard.

“She doesn't like Leo much, does she?” I tried again.

That got a response. “She hates him. They're always duking it out.”

“Why?”

“He thinks he's the head honcho. He tries to tell her what to do. He's not her father.”

I'd been focused on our conversation and hadn't noticed how close Danny had come. He had a way of turning into a shadow when he rode his bike. Whether he was within earshot or not I couldn't tell.

“Did they fight that night?” I said, lowering my voice as if Patricia and I were conspirators, but that could only happen if she confided in me. She closed her eyes and considered it for a minute, but when she opened them again I could see I was one of those people over thirty she couldn't trust.

“I can't tell you what happened that night.”

“You have to trust somebody.” She was a savvy fourteen-year-old but way young to be dealing with matters of life and death by herself. She'd erected a wall, however, and I didn't know the way in.

Her eyes were opaque. “I trust Cheyanne. She trusts me.” She looked at her watch again. “I gotta go.”

“Okay.” I walked down the driveway to get the car, and when I came back Danny had pedaled home.

******

Patricia directed me to her house, which was several blocks south of Mirador on one of the streets that still resembles a country road. She lived in a frame stucco dwelling in the middle of a large lot surrounded by a chain-link fence. It wasn't much of a place, but I figured Patricia's bedroom would be pink and plush and full of gadgets like the computer she knew how to operate and the pager she always wore. The west side of the property bordered the Chapuzar Lateral, the ditch that crossed Mirador near my house and the Morans' trailer. It was a cool and shady walk from her place to mine in the daytime, but at night the predators roamed and La Llorona would be out weeping and looking for her lost children. On the ditch side of the field the fence was topped by circles of wire.

Two orange chows had dug holes in the dirt next to the fence, and they leapt up when I parked. One growled, the other stood still and watched. As soon as Patricia stepped out the door they ran toward her wagging their tails.

“Hi, guys,” she said.

She pulled a key ring from her purse and began unlocking the padlock that held the gate shut. Someone was going to a lot of effort to keep this place and/or Patricia safe. Maybe it was living in a fortress or maybe it was being an only child that enabled her to be so bold. Cheyanne had the raggedy air
of
a street dog—sometimes confident and sometimes not—but Patricia seemed better-groomed to me, more pampered, and more reckless as well. “Do your parents own this property?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“I bet they get offers all the time.” A couple of acres this close to town would get developers salivating even if the rest of the street was full of yard cars and trailers.

“All the time,” she said. “But my dad won't sell. He grew up here.”

“What does he do?”

“They run a temp business. They work twenty-four-seven.”

She let herself in, locked the gate behind her, stopped to pet the dogs. “Thanks for the ride,” she said.

“De nada,”
I replied.

******

I hadn't intended go to my office. My intention had been to question Patricia, but all I'd learned was where she lived, that she was an only child, that she had parents who worked all the time, that her home life might be more stable than Cheyanne's but lonelier and that she considered Cheyanne a blood relative. I'd thought about asking her if she knew Alfredo Lobato, but that was a name I felt I ought to be keeping to myself. His name and address and the question of why he'd fingered Ron Cade if Cheyanne had shot Juan Padilla was a sore tooth I couldn't stop touching. After I dropped Patricia off, I lit a cigarette and went out cruising.