It was a perfectly legitimate Social Security card.
* * *
Over the next few minutes, we fell over ourselves to offer apologies for the misunderstanding, and Mr. Alfaro graciously accepted them. Of course, I couldn’t help but wonder, If he and his wife were here legally, why were they so leery of the police? Why hide from them? Why talk to me with the insistence of “no police”?
Mr. Alfaro had been on the landing of his front steps the entire time we had been talking, and he finally walked up them toward his front door.
“Give me minute,” he said.
As he disappeared behind the front door, we looked at each other sheepishly.
Tee turned to Tommy. “I know why
he’s
ignorant,” Tee said, jabbing a thumb in my direction. “What’s
your
excuse?”
Tommy was about to return fire when the door reopened and we were invited into the Alfaros’ threadbare living room. The shades were drawn, as usual, but I now recognized that not as an attempt to hide from the world but as an effort to keep the house cool. There was no air-conditioning.
The children were on the floor, contentedly playing—the little boy with a train, the girl with a doll of some sort. They looked up at us with big, dark eyes, regarded us for a moment or two, then returned to their toys. Mrs. Alfaro was taking a basket of laundry upstairs and said something involving
“momento.”
My keen language skills told me that meant she would be a moment.
She came back downstairs and went into the kitchen to do the whole coffee thing again, I thought. But no, she returned to the living room and we all sat—Mr. and Mrs. Alfaro in folding seats, Tommy and I in mismatched chairs that had been dragged in from the dining room, and Tee on the disco couch. Mrs. Alfaro had a folded-up Spanish-language newspaper, which she occasionally used to fan herself.
Without being prompted, Mr. Alfaro launched into the backstory of their immigration status, which Tommy patiently translated. During the El Salvadoran Civil War, when his family was booted from its coffee plantation, he was still just a boy, but he realized his future was no longer in El Salvador. When he was old enough, he applied for political asylum in the United States, but that application had been rejected, for reasons he either didn’t accept or didn’t understand. So he applied for a green card. He waited nine years for his name to finally rise to the top of a waiting list. His wife was able to come over three years after that. And they held off on starting a family until they were in the United States, so their children could be born here as full-fledged citizens.
“He says he could have come here years earlier, but he wanted to do it the right way,” Tommy said.
They still sent money back to El Salvador. They spoke of their family there as if they still lived in poverty. And I couldn’t help but think,
And you’re living in the lap of luxury?
But I suppose it’s all relative.
After enough of the get-to-know-you stuff, I caught Tommy’s eye and gave him a small “let’s get on with it” hand gesture.
“Mr. Alfaro, I’m sorry, I just have to ask, why do you have these feelings against the police?” I asked.
Tommy translated the question, and Mr. Alfaro looked directly at me for the first time since we darkened his doorstep.
“Do you know of the Organización Democrática Nacionalista?” he asked.
I shook my head. He glanced over at his children, to confirm they weren’t listening, then turned to Tommy and began speaking in a low, rapid voice.
“They were the national police of El Salvador,” Tommy translated. “They were … brutal thugs … like terrorists … They roamed around the countryside with their death squads … They had a network of informants … All it took was one accusation to ruin someone’s life … One night they … a death squad … came for my grandfather … He was accused of being a Marxist sympathizer … He insisted he was no such thing—he was just a coffee grower who wanted to live in peace … They killed him and mutilated his body … And they made my father watch the whole thing.”
It was difficult to know what to say. Part of me wanted to proclaim that he was in the United States now and things were different here. Except that, in all likelihood, those death squads had probably been either financed or trained by Uncle Sam. We did a lot of shady stuff back in the seventies and eighties in the name of propping up democracy in Central America. I’m sure it felt necessary at the time—we couldn’t allow the Communist menace to get a foothold in our backyard—but it was hard to imagine how the senseless death of a coffee farmer had aided that cause.
“I was two years old,” Mr. Alfaro said. “I don’t know him, my grandfather.”
“Mr. Alfaro, I’m very sorry,” I said, and I tried to slow my speech just enough to give him some help following it but not enough to be the dumb American who talks loud and slow to be understood. “Our police here aren’t perfect. They make mistakes like everyone else. But they are, by and large, very good people who try their best to uphold the law. You can trust them.”
Mr. Alfaro swiveled his head toward his wife, then back at me. Finally, Tee—who had been squirming on the disco couch for a while now—lost his patience.
“Man, I’m getting bored,” he burst out. “Did you tell him about the ten grand? Just tell him about the ten grand. Never mind, I’ll do it.”
Tee scooted himself forward on the couch and began using large gestures as he spoke.
“If your wife here talks to the police about what she saw and they end up sending the dude that did it to jail? The cops will give you ten grand. That’s ten thousand dollars.
Mucho dinero.
You feel me?”
I think Mr. Alfaro followed what Tee was saying. But, just in case, Tommy talked him through it in Spanish. The Alfaros conversed briefly—actually, it seemed like Mr. Alfaro was doing most of the talking and Mrs. Alfaro, in between waves of her newspaper, was doing the agreeing. At the end, they were both smiling nervously, and Mr. Alfaro delivered a small monologue to Tommy.
At the conclusion of it, Tommy said, “Mr. Alfaro wants you to know he’s not doing this for the reward money. He’s doing it so his children can see that things are different here. He says they’re American citizens, and they need to learn to trust their government.”
“So they’re going to cooperate?” I asked.
“Oh yes,” Tommy said. “They’re going to cooperate.”
* * *
I summoned Detective Owen Smiley from his hiding spot, and he arrived ten minutes later, with another officer there to translate for him. Mrs. Alfaro made some coffee, and my little trio stuck around long enough to make sure the ice was broken and everyone was getting along okay.
Then, when it was time to get down to business, Owen announced, “Okay, the reporters go bye-bye now.”
I protested briefly—after all, I wasn’t even technically a reporter anymore—but the fact was I had places to go, people to meet, and perhaps leftover potato salad to eat.
Tommy, Tee, and I spilled out onto the sidewalk. The day had gone from hot to hotter, and the humidity reminded me of the inside of a dog’s mouth. I looked to the sky, which had a few puffy clouds that might form into something like a heat-breaking storm. But for now the forecast called for a ninety percent chance of
shvitzing
, with a strong possibility for continued swampiness.
“Thanks for the help, guys,” I said.
“You needed it,” Tee replied. “See you around.”
“They say the neon lights are bright on Brooaaadwaaaaay,” Tommy crooned, dreadfully off-key as usual.
“Yeah, I’ll pay up,” I said, cringing. “Your singing is an embarrassment to gay men everywhere.”
“Yeah, well, that suit is an embarrassment, period,” Tommy shot back. “When did you buy it? Nineteen eighty-four?”
“Yeah, wanna see the skinny leather tie I got with it?” I said, then switched gears. “Tommy, seriously, thank you. I know you’re risking a lot to be here, and I appreciate it. You’re a good friend and I’m lucky to have you.”
“Cut it out. I’m the one who’s supposed to get overemotional, remember? Just watch your back until the arrests go down, okay?”
“You sound like Tina.”
The skin around his eyes crinkled and he said, “Yeah, maybe there’s a reason for that.”
Before I could ask what he meant, he was gone, back to the comfort of air-conditioning, which is where I soon returned myself.
I still had a half hour before meeting with the Marino sisters, just enough time to return home and check on my wounded cat. In an unusual show of initiative, Deadline had managed to remove himself from the bathroom and trek all the way into the living room, where he had taken up residence on a windowsill. Only my cat would feel the need to bathe in sunlight on the hottest day of the year, thus sparing his body having to expend any energy to heat itself.
“No, that’s okay, don’t get up,” I said as I entered. When I saw he had heeded my command perfectly, I added, “Good cat.”
Then I went upstairs to change. I had spent enough time in my monkey suit for one day. And it was just too hot to muster the enthusiasm to don my normal uniform. Slacks and a polo shirt would have to be good enough.
Returning to my car, I noticed Constance at her usual spot, watering a lawn that was—even in the throes of a July heat wave—lush and green. Last summer I found myself rooting for water restrictions so she and her emerald island could be knocked down a few pegs. I gave her my usual I’m-going-somewhere-no-time-to-talk wave, but she stopped watering and dragged herself and her hose in my direction.
“There was some excitement at your house last night,” Constance said, showing her usual mastery for telling me things I already knew.
“There sure was,” I said.
“There were ambulances. I was so surprised. I was worried you had a fall.”
“Oh, everything is fine, thank you,” I assured her, unaware that falling at home was a potential concern for able-bodied thirty-two-year-old men. Mostly, I was trying to formulate a polite way to extricate myself from a rehash of the “excitement.” I decided if I just laughed at whatever she said next and dove into my car, that would do the trick. My car door was already open when she said something that made me a little more eager to stop and chat:
“There was a man looking at your house last night.”
“A man? What do you mean?” I asked, closing the door and walking a few paces toward her.
“Well, I wasn’t really paying attention. I was just watering my lawn”—and minding her own business, to be sure—“but I saw this man walk up your driveway, look into your backyard, then come back around front and ring your doorbell. You weren’t home.”
“About what time was this?”
“Well, I had just gotten back from the soup kitchen”—Constance volunteered and wanted to make sure everyone knew it—“so it was probably about six?”
“What did the man look like?”
“Well, I wasn’t really looking. I was watering my lawn,” she said again.
“Well, sure, but you must have gotten some sense of him. Even if you just saw him out of the corner of your eye?”
She put down the hose and crossed her arms, pursing her lips, as if this was all necessary to summon the proper concentration to answer the question.
“Well, he was … thick,” she said.
Hired killers often are.
“Is he a friend of yours?” she asked.
“Not that I … no, definitely not.”
“Well, then I would say he was a little fat. I didn’t want to be unkind, in case he was a friend of yours.”
“Tall guy? Short guy?”
“About medium.”
“White? Black? Hispanic?”
“White.”
“Old guy? Young guy?”
“It was hard to tell. I didn’t see his face. He definitely wasn’t young. But I don’t think he was old, either.”
“How was he dressed?”
“About like you’re dressed right now,” she said.
“Did you see anything unique about him? Any tattoos? Jewelry? Odd mannerisms?”
“Well, I was watering my lawn,” she said, just in case I had missed it the first two times.
“Right, right. Sorry. Did you see what kind of car he was driving?”
She paused again and looked toward the street.
“He parked it right over there,” she said. “It was a big SUV, one of those gas-guzzlers.”
“Was it black?”
“Yes, I would say it was. It had a very shiny paint job.”
“Was it a Cadillac Escalade, by any chance?”
“Well, I’m trying to think if I saw the Cadillac emblem. Those are pretty distinct, you know. It was definitely big and boxy, like an Escalade would be. But I didn’t really see. I was—”
“Watering your lawn,” I said. “Thanks. I think I might know who it was, after all.”
“Oh. Is it a friend of yours? I’m sorry I called him fat.”
“No, no, that’s okay. He, uh, sells magazine subscriptions. Those guys can be very pushy.”
“I know. Sometimes, I can’t bring myself to say no.”
Constance turned and picked up her hose, like she didn’t want her parched lawn to have to go much longer without quenching.
“I know what you mean,” I said before walking back to my car. “Sometimes you just have to get a little tough with them.”
* * *
The man Constance described didn’t sound like Gary Jackman or Gus Papadopolous. The obvious conclusion was that they had been outsourcing the ugly stuff to a hoodlum-for-hire who had come to my house to scout things out ahead of time, so that when it came time to embed me into his grille plate, he’d know the best way to go about it. I thought about Constance’s account of him: a thick and/or fat white man, medium-sized, middle-aged, dressed in slacks and a polo shirt, with no identifying marks. A quarter of the men in New Jersey probably fit that description. And if Constance didn’t see his face, she was effectively worthless where the police would be concerned.
About the only thing that made it useful, I thought as I drove across town toward Nancy’s place, is that after the authorities made their arrests, they could subpoena financial statements and look for sizable, unexplained withdrawals. Or checks made to the order of any local crime families. If this was going to be a circumstantial case—and it just might have to be—either of those things would bolster the cause.