Milo
had taken Sixth Street from its inception at San Vicente. He made a left and
traveled south onto Alvarado. The thoroughfare was crowded, as it always is,
intersections teeming with pedestrians, some purposeful, some aimless. Better
to be outdoors, sucking in grimy air, than sitting alone in the single, fetid
room you share with eight strangers.
The
unmarked crawled along with the traffic. Spanish on the signs, cut-rate
merchandise hawked on the sidewalk. Plastic bags of fruit and bunches of
carnations dyed in unnatural tones were displayed by small, cinnamon-skinned
men who’d bargained with death to get over the border. Behind us was the park.
Milo
said, “Is it melting in the rain?”
“Not
much rain in awhile,” I said.
“Melting
in the smog, then . . . well, look at
that.
” He cocked
his head toward the passenger window.
I
turned and saw nothing out of the ordinary. “What?”
“A
heroin deal just went down in front of that photography studio. Lowlifes not
even bothering to hide it— okay, here we are.” He pulled up in the red zone. A
line of people curled at the takeout window of Taqueria Grande. The building
was blue stucco chipped white at the corners. An expansion would’ve made it the
size of a single-car garage.
Milo
said, “I’d like to see
Taqueria Pequeña,
” adjusted his harness holster,
slipped on his jacket, and got out.
We
waited in line. The smell of pork and corn and onions blew through the window
and out to the curb. The prices were good, the portions benevolent. Customers
paid with soiled dollar bills and coinage and counted their change carefully.
Two people worked the stand, a young man at the deep fryers and a short, round,
middle-aged woman handling the public.
The
fry cook was twenty or so, thin and sharp-chinned. He wore a blue bandanna on
his head. What was visible of his hair was clipped to the skin and tattoos
explored his arms. All around him, grease arced and spattered. No screen
guards, and I could see airborne specks land on his arms and face. It had to
hurt. He worked steadily, remained expressionless.
The
customer in front of us collected his tamales and rice and
agua de tamarindo
and we stepped up. The round woman had her hair pinned up. The makeup she’d
put on that morning was doing battle with sweat. Her pencil poised without
looking up.
“Que?”
Milo
said, “Ma’am,” and showed her his I.D.
Her
smile was slow to settle in. “Yes, sir?”
“I’m
looking for Nestor Almedeira.”
The
smile closed up instantaneously, like a sea anemone reacting to being prodded.
She shook her head.
Milo
eyed the man in the bandanna. “That’s not him?”
The
woman shifted to one side and peered around Milo’s bulk. Several customers had
queued up behind us but now they were drifting away. “Carlos.”
“Could
we see Carlos’s I.D., please?”
“He
got no driver’s license.”
“I’ll
see whatever he has, ma’am.”
She
pivoted and shouted something in Spanish. Bandanna tensed up, drew his hand
away from the fryer, and eyed the back door.
Milo
said, “Tell him if he’s not Nestor, there’ll be no problem. Of any sort.”
The
woman shouted louder and the young man froze. She covered the four feet between
them with three choppy steps, talked and gesticulated and held out her hand.
The young man drew a yellow scrap of paper out of his pocket.
The
woman took it and handed it to Milo. Western Union receipt verifying that
Carlos Miguel Bermudez had wired ninety-five dollars and fifty-three cents to a
money-transfer office in Mascota, Mexico. The date of the transaction was
yesterday.
Milo
said, “That’s all he’s got?”
“He
not Nestor,” said the woman.
“Nestor
got fired?”
“No,
no.” The woman’s eyes got heavy around the lids. “Nestor got dead.”
“When?”
said Milo.
“Few
weeks ago,” said the woman. “I think.”
“You
think?”
“Nestor
din’t show up much when he was alive.”
“How’d
you find out he’s dead?”
“He
sister tell me. I give him the job because I like her, nice girl.”
“How’d
Nestor die?”
“She
don’t say.”
“How
long did Nestor work here— officially?”
She
frowned. “Maybe a month.”
“Bad
attendance, huh?”
“Bad
attitude.” Another glance behind us. No customers. “You no want to eat?”
Milo
returned the yellow scrap to her and she slipped it into her apron. Carlos the
cook was still standing around, looking nervous.
“No,
thanks,” said Milo. He smiled past her. Carlos bit his lip. “What’s Nestor’s
sister’s name, ma’am?”
“Anita.”
“Where
does she live?”
“She
work at the
dentista
— up three blocks.”
“Know
the dentist’s name?”
“Chinese,”
she said. “Black building. You wanna drink?”
Milo
ordered a lemon soda and when she tried to comp him, he left a five on the
counter and made her smile.
By
the time we got back in the unmarked, the lunch line had resumed.
D
rs. Chang, Kim, Mendoza, and Quinones practiced in a
one-story building veneered with shiny black ceramic tile. White graffiti stuck
to the bottom of the facade like food-fight pasta. The sign above the door
said,
Easy Credit, Painless Dentistry, Medi-Cal Accepted.
Inside
was a waiting room full of suffering people. Milo marched past them and tapped
the reception window. When it opened, he asked for Anita Almedeira.
The
Asian receptionist lowered her glasses. “The only Anita we have is Anita Moss.”
“Then
I’d like to speak with her.”
“She’s
busy but I’ll go see.”
The
waiting room smelled of wintergreen and stale laundry and rug cleaner. The
magazines in the wall rack were in Spanish and Korean.
A
pale woman in her late twenties came to the reception desk. She had long,
straight black hair, a round face, and smooth, sedate features. Her pink nylon
uniform skirt showed off a full, firm figure. Her nametag said
A. Moss,
Registered Dental Hygienist.
Lovely white teeth when she smiled; the job
had its perks.
“I’m
Anita. May I help you?”
Milo
flashed the badge. “Are you Nestor Almedeira’s sister, ma’am?”
Anita
Moss’s mouth closed. When she spoke next it was at a near whisper. “You’ve
found them?”
“Who,
ma’am?”
“The
people who killed Nestor.”
Milo
said, “Sorry, no. This is about something else.”
Anita
Moss’s face tightened. “About something Nestor did?”
“It’s
possible, ma’am.”
She
looked out at the waiting room. “I’m kind of busy.”
“This
won’t take long, Ms. Moss.”
She
opened the door and walked through, approached an old man in work clothes with
a collapsed jawline and an eye on the racing form. “Mr. Ramirez? I’ll be with
you in one minute, okay?”
The
man nodded and returned to the odds.
“Let’s
go,” said Anita Moss, sweeping across the room. By the time Milo and I reached
the exit, she was out of the building.
She
tapped her foot on the sidewalk and fooled with her hair. Milo offered to seat
her in the unmarked.
“That’s
all I need,” she said. “Someone seeing me in a police car.”
“And
here I thought we were camouflaged,” said Milo.
Anita
Moss started to smile, changed her mind. “Let’s go around the corner. You drive
a bit and I’ll catch up with you and sit in the car.”
* * *
The
unmarked had taken on heat and Milo rolled down the windows. We were parked on
a side street of cheap apartments, Anita Moss sitting stiffly in the back. A
few women with children strolled by, a couple of stray dogs wove from scent to
scent.
Milo
said, “I know this is hard, ma’am— ”
“Don’t
worry about me,” said Moss. “Ask what you need to.”
“When
was your brother murdered?”
“Four
weeks ago. I got a call from a detective and that’s all I’ve heard about it. I
thought you were following up.”
“Where
did it happen?”
“Lafayette
Park, late at night. The detective said Nestor was buying heroin and someone shot
him and took his money.”
“Do
you remember the name of the detective who called you?”
“Krug,”
she said. “Detective Krug, he never gave me his first name. I got the feeling
he wasn’t going to put too much time into it.”
“Why’s
that?”
“Just
the way he sounded. I figured it was because of the type of person Nestor was.”
She straightened her back, stared at the rearview mirror.
“Nestor
was an addict,” said Milo.
“Since
he was thirteen,” said Moss. “Not always heroin but always some kind of habit.”
“What
else besides heroin?”
“When
he was little, he huffed paint and glue. Then marijuana, pills, P.C.P., you
name it. He’s the baby in the family and I’m the oldest. We weren’t close. I
grew up here but I don’t live here anymore.”
“In
Westlake.”
She
nodded. “I went to Cal State L.A. and met my husband. He’s a fourth-year dental
student at the U. We live in Westwood. Dr. Park’s one of Jim’s professors. I’m
supporting us until Jim gets out.”
“Nestor
got out of the Youth Authority three months ago,” said Milo. “Where did he
live?”
“First
with my mother and then, I don’t know,” said Anita Moss. “Like I said, we
weren’t close. Not just Nestor and me. Nestor and the whole family. My other
two brothers are good guys. No one understood why Nestor did the things he
did.”
“Difficult
kid,” I said.
“From
day one. Didn’t sleep, never sat still, always destroying things. Mean to our
dog.” She wiped her eyes. “I shouldn’t be talking about him like this, he was
my brother. But he tortured my mother— not literally, but he made her life
miserable. Two months ago she had a stroke and she’s still pretty sick.”
“Sorry
to hear about that.”
She
frowned. “I can’t help thinking Nestor living with her contributed to it. She
had a history of high blood pressure, we were all telling Nestor to go easy on
her, don’t stress her out. You couldn’t tell him anything. Mom wasn’t naive.
She knew what Nestor was up to and it really upset her.”
“Drugs.”
“And
everything that goes with that lifestyle. Out all night, sleeping all day. One
week he’d be working at a car wash, then he’d get fired. He’d just disappear
without a word, then he’d show up at Mom’s with way too much money. My mother
was a religious person, she had a real problem with money you couldn’t
explain.”
She
plucked at her badge. “One time he threatened my husband.”
“When
did that happen?” I said.
“Maybe
a week after he got out. He showed up at our place late at night and demanded
we let him crash there. Jim offered him money but wouldn’t let him come in.
Nestor got mad and grabbed Jim’s shirt, really got in Jim’s face. He told him
he’d be sorry. Then he spit on Jim and left.”
“You
call the police?”
“I
wanted to but Jim didn’t. He thought Nestor would calm down. Jim’s a really
even person, nothing fazes him.”
“Did
Nestor calm down?”
“He
didn’t bother us again and a week later he showed up at the office and begged
me to forgive him. He claimed he was clean, this time he was going to go
straight, he needed a real job. I know a woman who runs a food stand down the
block and I asked her if she’d give him a chance. She agreed but he screwed
that up.”
“How?”
“Bad
attitude, poor attendance. Now I don’t even go there for lunch.”
“Being
Nestor’s sister was a challenge,” I said.
She
exhaled and pulled at an eyelash. “Why are you asking me all this now?”
Milo
said, “Do you have any idea where Nestor was living right before he died, and
who he was hanging around with?”
“Not
a clue,” said Moss. “Soon after he got out, he bought some nice clothes. I
figured he’d sold some dope. A few weeks later he was back living with Mom and
the fancy clothes were gone.”
“We’re
looking into something Nestor might have done when he was locked up. Maybe he
talked about it.”
Silence.
“Ma’am?”
“Oh,”
said Anita Moss. “That.”
* * *