Authors: Christopher Valen
Liz smirked and took a drag on her cigarette. “No way.”
Garcia turned and faced Santana again. His right foot was tapping against the tile floor, keeping a constant beat to some internal rhythm. He spread his hands and said, “See, man. I don’t know anybody by that name. You’re wastin’ your time.”
Mr. Honesty.
Santana decided to play along until he could catch Garcia in a lie. He figured it would be easy to do, despite Garcia’s obvious practice.
“Mendoza was murdered at the Riverview Lofts, Luis.”
By the puzzled look on Garcia’s face, Mendoza’s death could have been years ago instead of days.
“I heard the Latino who got whacked that night was named Córdova, man. I don’t know nothing about any Mendoza.” He was setting up to bank the six ball into a corner pocket. “I’m trying to play a game here, man.” He leaned over the table, concentrating.
“We could talk downtown if you’d like, Luis.”
Garcia took the shot and missed. “Shit, man.” He looked at Reínaldo. “Can you believe that,
vatos
?” He stared at the big kid in frustration. “I’m gonna lose the game, homeboy.”
Santana said, “You could lose more than the game, Luis, if you’re not straight with me.”
Garcia looked at Santana with wary eyes, like a hungry animal trying to decide whether it should go for the bait in a trap. “You threatening me, man?”
“Whatever way you want to play it, Luis.”
“Hey,” Garcia said with a big, phony smile, “no need to get
loco
.”
He began gently tapping the tip of the pool cue on the table.
Reínaldo was moving around the table, acting as though he was ignoring the conversation, just looking to get the best angle for his next shot, but trying to get closer to Santana in case the shit hit the fan.
“How long have you worked for Mendoza, Luis?”
Garcia slowly lost his phony smile. His dark eyes were suddenly as hard and as lifeless as the eight ball on the table.
He looked at Reínaldo and said, “
Ponte detrás de el
.”
Santana said, “Your fat friend isn’t going to get behind me. And if he tries anything with that pool cue, I’ll shove it up his ass and haul him downtown for assaulting a police officer.”
“Hey,” Garcia said. “You understand Spanish, man. You didn’t tell me that when you came in.” He wagged an index finger at Santana. “That’s not fair, man.”
“I’d guess most things in life aren’t real fair for you, Luis.”
“You got a sense of humor, too, man. I like that. But you are not Mexican.”
“Colombian.”
“Ah,
si
.” He waved the pool cue at Reínaldo. “This is a good lesson for you, Reínaldo. You don’t fuck around with a Colombian, unless you want your ass handed to you.”
“That’s the most intelligent thing you’ve said since I came in here, Luis.”
“
Yo no soy idiota
.”
“So why don’t we sit down at a table near the bar and cut the bullshit.”
Garcia gave Santana a long look, like he was the one in charge. “Okay, man. I got time. I was losing this fuckin’ game anyway.”
He formed a wide U with the first and last fingers of his right hand. Tapped his heart twice and flashed the gang sign to Reínaldo. Then he tossed the pool cue on the table, turned around and sauntered over to Liz and gave her a deep kiss on the lips, holding the back of her head with one hand and giving her plenty of tongue.
“I’ll be right back,
míja
.”
Garcia strutted toward an empty table near the bar with the same carefully practiced gait that belonged to every gangbanger who wanted to be cool. He slid into one of four wooden chairs at the table as Santana took off his overcoat and sat down in a chair directly across from him.
Garcia said, “I’d offer you a drink,
hombre
, but I don’t think you can drink on duty, eh?”
“Looks to me like your two friends aren’t old enough to be drinking.”
“You gonna bust ‘em?”
“That’s not why I’m here. But maybe the girl,” Santana said with a nod in her direction, “shouldn’t be drinking. She’s starting to show a little. That your kid she’s carrying?”
“It better be, man, if the
Chicána
bitch knows what’s good for her.”
Garcia tipped his head toward Liz. She smiled at him as she sat alone at the high-topped table with her cigarettes and booze, waiting for her man to summon her.
Like a hundred other
Chicána
girls Santana had seen before, Liz wore her pregnancy like a badge of honor. She naïvely believed that having a child would somehow make her matter in a culture where pretty young girls were viewed by young men like Luis Garcia as nothing but chattel. Despite Luis’ warning about faithfulness, he would soon grow tired of her, and Liz would be passed around and shared like the bottle of tequila she was drinking from. She would have three or four more children with a series of men and one day in the not too distant future she would wake up and look in the mirror and discover that her beauty and figure had deserted her along with all the young men who once found her so desirable, gone after still younger and prettier girls. Santana saw no way out of this cycle. Even if he took Luis Garcia off the street, there were ten more just like him waiting to take his place — and plenty more like Liz.
“Now that it’s just the two of us sitting here quietly, Luis, and you don’t have to impress your friends, why don’t you tell me what you really know about Rafael Mendoza?”
“Hey, man, why don’t you believe me?”
Garcia was looking for an Academy Award nomination; acting like Mendoza was a complete stranger.
“I’ve been to your house, Luis. I’ve talked with your mother.”
Garcia’s eyebrows lowered and his nostrils flared in anger. “You been to my house, man?”
“It’s a very nice place for a mother who’s busting her ass at a minimum wage job and a kid with no visible means of support.”
“Hey, I help out.”
“How’s that?”
Garcia remained silent.
“How about I tell you,” Santana said.“
“You’re so fuckin’ smart, go ahead.”
Santana said, “Rafael Mendoza got worker visas for your family. But when your old man took off for Mexico and left you and your mother alone, you overstayed your time. Now you’re here illegally. You found out Mendoza was scamming the government, bringing illegals in for jobs that didn’t exist and making a small fortune. You were helping him, Luis, for a cut of the profits. According to Mendoza’s bank records, he made the same withdrawals twice a month. Those withdrawals were payouts to you. My guess is, he paid you in cash since you probably don’t have a bank account.”
Garcia laughed, but it was hollow. “You’re really
loco
, man.”
“What happened, Luis? You get too greedy? Have to kill Mendoza when he wouldn’t agree to up your take?”
Garcia jumped up, the chair skidding across the floor away from him. “This is bullshit! I didn’t kill Mendoza.”
“Everything okay, Luis?” Reínaldo called from the pool table.
“You better come clean, Luis,” Santana said.
“Or what?”
“Or I go to ICE. Let a couple of agents know about your mother.”
“You fuckin’ do that and I’ll —”
“What, Luis? You’re not threatening a police officer now, are you?”
Garcia glared at Santana. Contemplated his next move. Gave Santana a badass stare designed to keep his gangbanger buddies and his compliant girlfriend in line. Santana had no intention of turning in Garcia’s mother, but he had to make sure Garcia absolutely believed that he would.
He said, “Chill out, Luis. You cooperate with me, I won’t talk with ICE.” With his left foot, Santana slowly pushed another chair out from the table. “Sit down before I put you down. And tell Reínaldo everything’s all right.”
“You think you’re pretty tough, man.”
“No, Luis. I know I’m pretty tough. That’s one of the many differences between you and me. Now are you going to play this macho game all day, or are you going to tell me what you know. I’m losing my patience.”
Garcia postured for another ten seconds before he said in a low voice, “Okay. But only because we’re brothers, man.”
“Get this straight, Luis. We’re not brothers. We’ve got about as much in common as you do with the Pope.”
Garcia sat down in the chair to Santana’s left. “You always this hostile,
amigo
?”
“Murder investigations tend to bring out my irritable side.”
“It’s all right,
vatos
,” Garcia called to Reínaldo. He gave his homeboy a reassuring smile. “The detective and me, we just had a disagreement. He understands now.”
Garcia waved at the bartender. “Bring me a rum and Coke, Juan. And for my friend here, Detective …”
“Santana. A hot chocolate if he has one.”
“Hot chocolate?” Garcia said. “What the fuck kind of drink is that?”
“A warm one.”
“Yeah. It’s fuckin’ cold all right. Hey, Juan,” Garcia said to the bartender, “go to the restaurant next door and get Detective Santana here a hot chocolate. But bring me my rum and Coke first.”
Garcia leaned over and said quietly, “You don’t really think I killed Mendoza, do you, Santana?”
“Tell me why I shouldn’t?”
“Hey, I tell you what I know, man, I could go to jail.”
“You’ll go to jail if you don’t tell me, Luis. But if you help me, I’ll help you.”
“Yeah, like I’m going to trust a cop.”
“What choice do you have, Luis?”
He thought about that for a while.
The bartender arrived with the rum and Coke and then grabbed a coat from the rack near the door and went out for the hot chocolate.
Garcia said, “Look, Santana, it would be stupid to kill Mendoza. He was a lawyer. Without him, there’s no way we keep things going.”
“You and your gangbanger buddies were providing the muscle in case one of the illegals got picked up and started making noise.”
“Hey, man, you never know what one of those leaf blowers are going to do.”
Garcia was rolling a quarter between the fingers of his right hand like a magician.
“How often did you go to Mendoza’s place?”
“Once a month.”
“You sure it wasn’t twice?”
“I’m sure, man. It was the fifteenth of every month.”
“Was someone else working with you?”
“No, man. Why?”
“I’ll ask the questions, Luis.”
“Hey, no problem.”
Santana noticed that Garcia had gradually lost his heavy Mexican accent. He suspected that Ester Garcia was right. Her son was a bright kid. Probably hyperactive. Not well educated, but street smart enough to be worried.
“How much you get from Mendoza, Luis?”
“Enough so it didn’t make any sense to kill him.”
“You know anything about the night Mendoza died?”
Garcia hesitated. The table jiggled as his knee jackhammered against the table leg, his foot in constant motion.
“You’ve got to trust me, Luis. If you’re telling the truth and you had nothing to do with Mendoza’s death, then I’ll help you. If you lie to me …” Santana let the sentence hang in the air.
The bartender came back with a cup of hot chocolate and placed it on the table in front of Santana, a smile on his face.
Santana took a drink. It was warm and heavy with chocolate. “
Gracias, señor
.”
The old man seemed pleased.
When he left, Garcia said, “I don’t know anything about that night, man. I wasn’t there. Mendoza was my meal ticket. I wouldn’t kill him.”
“You have any idea who would?”
He shook his head.
“Tell me how you collected your payments.”
“Mendoza gave me a card for the underground garage, so I could avoid security. He had two spaces reserved. I usually parked in a space next to his Mercedes. But I got shit now.” He gave a disgusted wave. “All the money was in Mendoza’s accounts.”
“You ever meet any of Mendoza’s friends, Luis?”
“Like who, man?”
“Like Julio Pérez?”
“I never met him. Everyone in the community knew who he was, though.”
“Mendoza ever talk about Pérez?”
Garcia shook his head.
“How about Rubén Córdova?”
“I didn’t know Córdova either, man.”
Santana drank some hot chocolate and watched Garcia carefully, looking for any “tells” that he was lying. In the background, he heard the familiar ping of a pinball machine.
“You and your mother lived in Worthington for a time. Your father worked in a meat packing plant.”
“Yeah. So what?”
“Córdova was arrested for protesting in Worthington.”
“Doesn’t mean I knew him.”
Garcia sat back in his chair as a crooked smile played across his face.
“What, Luis?”
Garcia quit playing with the quarter. He took the straw out of his rum and Coke and started tapping it against the edge of the glass like a drummer. “I do know something that might help you, man. But I gotta have your word you gonna leave me out of all this.”
“I told you before, Luis, I’ll do what I can for you. There are no guarantees. You know that.”
Garcia’s dark eyes gave nothing away except that they were old beyond his years. “Okay, man. I gonna trust you. You got
cojones
.”
“I’ll cherish the compliment. Now tell me what you know.”
Garcia let out a cough of a laugh. “Mendoza was a
joto
, man.”
“I know he was queer, Luis.” Santana also knew that
joto
in Mexican was worse than anything in English.
Disappointment wrinkled Garcia’s brow. “Really? How you know that?”
“I’m a detective, Luis. It’s my job to know.”
Garcia raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, man. So you’re pretty smart.”
“What gave you the idea that Mendoza was queer, Luis?”
“I met his boyfriend once,” he said with a grin.
Santana leaned forward and put his elbows on the table, interested now. “Where?”
“At Mendoza’s loft. When I showed up one day to collect, Mendoza wouldn’t open the fuckin’ door at first. There was a lot of noise, you know. Like maybe he doesn’t want me to see what’s going on. When he finally lets me in, he’s acting all embarrassed. But I figure what’s the big deal? Mendoza’s got this reputation as a chick magnet, right? I start giving him a hard time, telling him I want to meet his
chiquita
. We get in an argument and I pushed him and he lets out a yell and falls over a table. All of a sudden this tall, black guy comes charging out of the bathroom with no shirt on. I couldn’t believe it.”