Authors: Gerald Petievich
"Neither am I, but I'd still like to see you," he said. "May I have your home number?"
She took out a pen and a tiny pad, wrote down the number, then tore the note from the pad and handed it to him. "My days off are Tuesday and Wednesday. And thanks for breakfast."
He considered kissing her, but didn't want to seem too aggressive. Instead, he climbed out of the car and opened the door, hoping that she wouldn't think the gesture condescending. She climbed out of the car and kissed him full on the lips. "Good night," she said, pulling away from him. She climbed in her VW, started the engine, and drove out of the parking lot.
She was on his mind as he drove back to his apartment.
Later, naked and covered only with a sheet, he was still thinking about her. Unable to sleep because of the heat, he reached out to the portable radio, tuning past a religious station, an all night talk show, and some screaming rock music. Restless, he turned it off. Lying there with his eyes closed and his arms extended straight out, listening to the cars whizzing past the apartment house, he finally began to feel drowsy. He imagined Gloria standing in the hospital hallway. Farther down the corridor, sprawled on a bloodstained church carpet, was the corpse of the little girl ... and behind her Payaso was lying in his hospital bed attached to life giving plastic tubes. In this dream the scent of Gloria's perfume acted like a powerful narcotic that suppressed any power he had even to say, "Hello."
When Stepanovich awoke the next morning, Gloria was still on his mind.
****
FIVE
Arredondo was waiting at Hollenbeck Station. He said he was starving and suggested the Zacatecas. Though Stepanovich was still full from the breakfast at Artie's, he knew Arredondo was unbearable to work with when he was hungry. Besides, at the Zacatecas they could eat for free.
He parked in the red zone in front of the small family restaurant housed in an old two-story brownstone. Across the street was the Chickasaw Street Elementary School, where a month before two students had been killed in an unsolved drive by shooting Stepanovich believed had been committed by the King Kobras gang. They entered through a tattered screen door and crossed the dingy linoleum to a table in the corner, where they could keep an eye on the door and the bay window in case the King Kobras decided to drive by and shoot up the place. A full skirted, smiling young Mexican woman with a streak of peroxide-blond running through her black hair came to the table, and they both ordered combination platters. The waitress served them quickly and they gorged on enormous quantities of chorizo and eggs, flautas, and piles of flour tortillas smeared with butter.
When the waitress brought them a bill after they finished eating, Arredondo headed into the kitchen to make small talk with the proprietor, Mary Valenzuela, knowing that she would recognize them and tell the waitress the meals were on the house. Mary hadn't charged Stepanovich since he'd interceded with the court to help her son Efriam get released from L.A. County Jail. Stepanovich had convinced the boy to testify against some Third Street gang shooters, and though Efriam had died from an overdose of heroin while celebrating getting out of jail, Mary was still grateful to Stepanovich for the favor.
While Arredondo was in the kitchen, Stepanovich took out his notebook and reviewed the notes he'd made on the church shooting.
A few minutes later, Arredondo returned to the table and sat down. "I'm glad I went back to say hello. Mary looks like she might need a little fucking."
Stepanovich found the page he was looking for. "What did she say?"
"Just small talk, haven't seen you guys in a long time yakety yak, but extra friendly. A bitch in heat. Women can't hide it."
Heavy busted Mary Valenzuela emerged from the kitchen and whispered something to the waitress, who in turn came to the table and snatched up the bill. "Sorry," she said apologetically, hurrying to another table.
"The price is right, amigo. Where we headed?"
"El Sereno."
"Who's there?"
"Albert Garcia. One of the witnesses from yesterday. I read him as knowing the secret."
"How so?"
"He was right by the sanctuary door. There's no way he wouldn't have seen the shooter, and he was extra shaky during the interview," he said as they walked out the door.
It was Arredondo's turn to drive, and he climbed behind the wheel and started the engine. Bloated from the combination platter, Stepanovich leaned back in the passenger seat and closed his eyes.
Arredondo pulled into traffic. "Did I tell you about the broad I spent the night with?"
Stepanovich shook his head without opening his eyes.
"A schoolteacher I met at Monahan's bar last night. A real space cadet, this bitch. I put the word to her at the bar. She'd had a few drinks and buys my action right then and there. She wants to go to her place. I follow her in my car. A nice pad. I fuck this broad across the living room and into the bedroom every which way. I'm power fucking and she's loving it. Finally we drop off to sleep. The next thing I know I wake up in the middle of the night to this buzzing sound. Bzzzzzzzzzzzz. I lie there listening. I pull back the covers. This bitch is lying there in the darkness giving herself a workout with her trusty vibrator. I said, 'What's this, baby?' This bitch isn't embarrassed in the least. She says, 'Turn on the lights, dude. I want you to see me do it.'"
The police car pulled to the curb in front of a graffiti-stained duplex on Eastern Avenue. Stepanovich climbed out and, with Arredondo following, trod down a gravel driveway past the house. The rear unit was a hovel the size of a small garage. Like most of the others in the neighborhood, its windows were lined with wrought iron bars, and the interior was hidden behind makeshift drapes of sheets and newspaper. A front door reinforced with a metal plate around the jamb was protected by a tiny screened in porch that reminded Stepanovich somehow of a pet store aviary. The screen door was unlatched. Boards creaked as he stepped onto the porch. He tapped a knuckle on a door.
There was the sound of movement inside, and the door was pulled open a few inches by a dwarfish Mexican woman whose hair was wrapped loosely in a towel. She was wearing a grimy blue robe and a pair of yellow dishwashing gloves that were sudsy.
Stepanovich held out his badge. "Does Albert Garcia live here?"
Holding her robe closed with her wet, gloved hands, the woman shook her turban. "Nobody here by that name," she said in barrio dialect.
"How long have you lived here?"
"Ten years. What's this about?"
"Have you ever heard of Albert Garcia?"
She shook her head. "I don't know no one named Garcia."
"We must have the wrong address. Sorry to bother you," Stepanovich said.
The woman shut the door.
Without saying a word to each other, the detectives strolled to the front house and knocked on the door. An obese Mexican man with shaving cream covering one side of his face opened the door. Stepanovich showed his badge. "We were just speaking with Albert Garcia next door. His car was broken into last night, and he said you might know who did it."
"I don't know nothing about Garcia's car. But if someone broke into it, it's his own fault because he leaves it parked on the street. I've told him to pull it in back.
"Sorry to bother you," Stepanovich said. They marched back to Garcia's door, and Stepanovich pounded loudly this time. When the woman opened the door, he and Arredondo pushed past her into a small living room furnished with a cheap red sofa and chair, a framed lithograph of Pope John XXII, and a kitchenette table.
"You can't just come in here!" the woman shouted.
Albert Garcia, wearing Levis and a T-shirt, was sitting on the sofa looking sheepish.
Stepanovich advanced to the sofa. "Sorry to bother you, but at the church yesterday I got the feeling you'd prefer to talk in private."
Garcia's eyes darted back and forth between the detectives. "Like I told you, I didn't see nawthing. "
"A little girl had her brains blown out yesterday. If we can't find the ones who did it, someone else could get killed," Stepanovich said.
"I'll be the one who gets killed if I rat for you."
"There was a hundred people in the church. So if you could see your way to tell us what you know, the shooter would never know exactly who handed him up. We could arrest him and your name would never so much as come up."
"Bullshit. There ain't no secrets in this barrio."
Stepanovich felt his muscles tighten as he glanced at Arredondo. The other detective took the frightened woman by the arm and led her into the other room.
"Where you taking her?" Garcia cried as the door slammed.
Stepanovich grabbed Garcia by the neck with both hands and yanked him fully to his feet. "I'm working on a murder, you piece of shit," he hissed. "Now, either tell me what you saw or you're under arrest as a material witness."
"Leave him alone!" the woman shrieked from the other room.
Stepanovich spun Garcia around, took handcuffs from his belt, and ratcheted a cuff onto Garcia's right wrist. He twisted sharply and Garcia cried out in pain.
The woman cried, "He didn't do nawthing! Leave him alone!"
"I got a look at him, but I don't know who he is," Garcia whispered.
"Age?"
"About thirty."
"That won't get it."
"He was a
veterano
, but I don't know his name. I swear." Arredondo ratcheted the other handcuff onto Garcia's left wrist. "He had green eyes."
"You're sure about that?"
"Positive. There ain't that many Mexicans with green eyes. That's all I know. Please don't take me to jail. I gotta go to work today. I'll lose my job."
Stepanovich paused for a moment, then used a handcuff key to unlock the handcuffs. As Garcia rubbed his chafed wrists, Stepanovich crossed to the bedroom door and opened it. The woman rushed out to Garcia and threw her arms around him. Arredondo followed Stepanovich to the door.
"I don't like the gangs any more than you, but I gotta look out for my own ass," Garcia said.
"Where are you going to be for the rest of the day?" Stepanovich asked.
"I was just going to work."
The detectives headed out the door.
"I don't get to carry no fucking gun to protect myself like you cops!" Garcia yelled at them as they headed down the driveway.
"It's Pepe Gomez," Stepanovich said as he and Arredondo climbed back in the car.
"The name rings a bell."
"They call him Greenie. He's an Eighteenth Street
veterano
good for at least four drive by murders. He lives in the apartments at Eighteenth and Toberman and likes to use a sawed off piece."
"I remember him. He did a deuce for robbery at Chino awhile back."
Stepanovich and Arredondo drove downtown to Parker Center. In the records bureau on the third floor they obtained a mug shot of Gomez from his arrest file. With the help of a clerk, they rummaged through at least a hundred other files until they came up with four other mug shots of Mexican men with green eyes who looked somewhat like Gomez. Stepanovich removed a booking photograph of each man from the file and numbered and stapled the photos onto a manila file folder. It was almost three by the time they finished.
It took less than ten minutes to get from Parker Center to the service station where Albert Garcia was employed. He was changing a tire in the automotive bay and there was no one else in the station. Frowning when he saw them approach, he set down his tire iron, pulled a soiled blue rag out of his rear trouser pocket, and wiped his hands. Stepanovich handed him the manila folder bearing the mug shots. "Recognize anyone here?"
"I told you I didn't want to be no witness."
"We already have a case, but we just want to make sure we have the right guy," Arredondo lied.
Garcia accepted the folder reluctantly, studied it. Handing the folder back, he pleaded, "I gotta live here, man. I can't be no witness."
"The little girl who was killed could have been yours," Stepanovich said.
"The homeboys know who did it," Garcia said. "They'll take care of him."
"I'm just asking you to point your finger at one of these pictures if you see the man who did it. Just point your finger and we walk away and leave you alone. I'm not asking you to come into court," Stepanovich said. He'd used the line before.
"You wouldn't be here if you didn't need me as a witness. I got a business here. I got a family to feed."
"You're chickenshit, eh,
cabron
?" Arredondo said.
Garcia glared at Arredondo. "You calling me chickenshit?"
"I'm saying that your mother and father are chickenshit and they raised chickenshit
caca pollo
."
Stepping between the two men, Stepanovich gently took Garcia by the arm and ushered him into a corner.
"I ain't afraid of him because he's a cop," Garcia said, glaring at Arredondo. "Fuck that asshole."