White Heat Page 15

  “Yeah, but if I knew it was gonna be this kinda party I wouldda worn a different shirt.”

  “Maybe you can take it off and ask some pretty young lady at ringside to hold it for you.”

  He snorted. “Will there be any pretty young ladies where we’re going?”

  “Doubt it.”

  “Well, you owe me bro. A hot time on the old town one night.” He sounded pissed. I knew he wasn’t serious. Jack loved a good fight. I was hoping we’d avoid one. But if it couldn’t be helped I wanted him there.

  I filled Jack in on the mission. We got lost east of downtown.

  “Man, it was easier in the bush or in the sandbox than finding your way around these damned city streets.”

  I needed directions and the tank needed filling. Pulled into a gas station. Jack pumped while I fumbled with a map.

  “How do you get to Whittier?” he asked the attendant after topping off the tank.

  “No hablo Inglés.”

  As soon as I heard those words, I slid a touch lower in my seat. Didn’t want to look in Jack’s direction. Didn’t have to. I knew what he looked like when he got this way—the veins in his neck sticking out. His mouth curling. Eyes narrowing. Hands balling up into huge fists.

  “Well, does anyone here habla Inglés?”

  “No, no hablo Inglés.”

  A police black and white drove by.

  “Then why don’t all you tamale eaters go back to Mexico if you don’t want to learn our culture? Our language.”

  I slunk deeper in the seat. Jack had a way of picking the wrong time and place for things.

  He got back in the car, slammed the door, rolled up the window.

  “Drive on, James.”

  The attendant was beating on the window. “El dinero. El dinero.”

  “You haven’t paid?”

  “They wouldn’t give me directions.”

  “Maybe they really don’t speak English.”

  “Don’t gimme that shit. They speak-a da English.” He rolled the window down a little. “I’ll give you your money when you tell me how to get to Whittier Boulevard.”

  Jack was right. The attendant had miraculously learned English awfully fast, gave us the directions, and we were on our way.

  La Revolución was a dingy place on the outside. Looked like an old industrial building, small machine shop or something. The bottom half of the stucco wall was painted a dark, though chipping, forest green. Top half was white, or used to be. Grime and dirt crept all the way up to the roof. Made you wonder how it got that high. A handful of men stood outside talking, playing dice and drinking. We parked a few doors down. Jack dumped the contents of the kit bag on the floor, swept them under the seat, all except for his credit card, driver’s license holder and the .45, of course, which he put back in the kit and stuck under his arm. We walked back to the entrance. Several pairs of intense brown eyes followed us up the sidewalk.

  The door was open, sort of. It was blocked by a large Mexican with a round face and rounder belly in a sweat-stained T-shirt. He grinned at us. Held a pool cue across his chest at port arms.

  “Wha’s he think he is?” Jack said softly. “The Master at Arms?”

  We stepped into the doorway. Round face took a short step forward. Pushed the cue out a couple inches.

  “Stand aside,” Jack said.

  “You don’t order us around down here.”

  “Nobody’s ordering you around,” I said. “We just want a couple-a beers.”

  “No beer in here. No liquor license.”

  “Don’t give us a hard time.”

  “I ain’t. I’m tryin’ to help you. This building’s been condemned. You could get hurt in here.” He shrugged, squinting his face into a fake smile.

  “We’ll take our chances.”

  Jack shifted the kit bag from one hand to the other.

  “Nice purse.”

  “Thanks. My boyfriend gave it to me,” Jack minced.

  The Mexican grinned deeper, baring pointed yellow teeth. He stepped aside. We walked in.

  “You ain’t the police,” he said. “This guy dresses too good. Like a vato.” Several others inside overheard and laughed. Seemed they spoke English.

  The floor was covered with sawdust. The bar tin, dented. Dull yellow lights flickered across the ceiling. It was dark and yellow inside. Jaundiced.

  “We’re the hit of the party,” Jack said, as we walked up to the bar, leaning in. Eyes followed us. Bodies too. It was hot in there. Sticky. No windows. No air conditioning. You could smell the sweat on the men who played pool and drank all day and all night.

  The bartender ignored us. No one else was giving us that much space. Jack laid his kit bag on the counter.

  “If you ain’t the policia, who are you? And how brave you are, coming into the barrio alone. Two gringos.”

  “Two white bread boys,” another Mexican said.

  “This ain’t like the movies. You ain’t Eddie Murphy in a pussy redneck bar now.”

  “Speakin’ of pussy.” A short Mexican with a stubbly beard grabbed for Jack’s kit bag. Jack caught him by the wrist. Twisted. There was a snapping sound. The man winced with pain.

  “We’re looking for someone,” I said.

  “This ain’t the lost and found.”

  “Lost gringos, over here.”

  “Lost Mexicans, this corner.” They had a good time, partying and chugging beer.

  Jack sat facing the rear. He could also see behind the bar. I sat with my back to him, scanning the front of the dive and the other half of the bar. They might come at us, but we’d see them coming.

  “And jus’ who might you be lookin’ for?”

  “Ramon Martinez.”

  “Man, you know how many Ramon Martinez’s there are? Sort of like John Smith.”

  “Yeah, well this one has a sister named Anna.”

  “Another uncommon name.”

  “Look, we know he hangs here.”

  “Hangs. Cool talk. You been hangin’ ’round the niggers again? That’s how they talk, hang. Gringo’s been hangin’ with the niggers again.”

  “Whachu want this Ramon for? Beat ’im up? He rape your sister and you know no Mexican—”

  “That’s Mexican-American, ain’t it?” Jack said.

  “Yeah, man, no Mex-American can hang with a white bitch.”

  The circle around us grew tighter. A noose of people, hot sweaty bodies. The liquor on their breath stank.

  “White man’s law don’t count in here.”

  “In a few years won’t even count in Ca-li-forn-aye-a. We’re takin’ it back.”

  “Can’t wait,” Jack said.

  “Well we don’ know no Ramon Martinez, so you better go. You never know what a borracho Mejicano will do.”

  “We’ll wait. We’ve got plenty of time.”

  “White men with no job. Didn’t think it was possible.”

  Someone in the back of the crowd put their hands in their pockets. I heard a very soft click. The safety being shifted on a pistol?

  Jack jumped off his bar stool. The port arms man we’d met in the doorway stepped in front of him. Jack swung his kit bag hard and straight, right into the man’s jaw. That .45 hitting him must’ve stung. He fell back. Jack whipped the gun from the bag, letting the bag fly. The men surrounding us drew back. The man in the back who had slipped the safety off his pistol drew it—too late. Jack charged through the crowd, which parted to let the crazy gringo with the gun go by. He jammed the .45 up to the other man’s head, disarmed him. Backed to a side wall. I moved next to him, the Firestar drawn. He handed me the man’s .32, which I slipped in my belt, and held the man in front of him, the .45 still jammed into his temple.

  “Now,” Jack said, “We’ll do a little talking. Or a little waiting. Whatever turns you on. Comprende?”

  “Ramon Martinez,” I said. No response. “My friend here is crazy. That’s why I bring him along. He doesn’t mind killing. He doesn’t mind doing time. Loco.”<
br />
  “And I don’t like Mexicans. ’Specially Mexican-Americans.” Jack spit. “You wanna be American, be American, goddamnit. Learn our language.”

  I nudged him. Segue. Might not have been bad to have him spouting off. Might make them think he’s crazy enough to do anything—and he would, if he thought he could get away with it. But I had lied. Jack could take anything but jail time. He’d go crazy in stir. He would kill if he had to, but not here, not unless it was truly a matter of life or death. More than anything, he didn’t want to land in jail. Small as the iron lung was, he could come and go as he pleased. Eat the slop he wanted and listen to his classical musical all day and all night. But he wouldn’t be able to adjust to being penned in, taking orders from people he thought were morons. He didn’t have trouble taking orders in the Navy because, with an exception or two, he thought the people there were sharp. When he bucked them and landed in the brig, he nearly tore his eyes out until our lieutenant could get him free.

  Jack shoved the .45 harder into the other man’s temple.

  A large man, not fat, but well-toned, pushed through the crowd. “Ya basta. Ramon comes in here just about every day.”

  Murmurs of disapproval shot through the crowd.

  “We’ll wait,” I said. “Nobody leaves.”

  I made sure the back door was locked. Everyone, including the unfriendly bartender, sat at tables that had now been pushed to the back of the room. Everyone but Jack and his hostage. They stood near the wall inside the front door. A spot where they couldn’t be seen until someone had already entered. I sat on a bar stool on the other side of the door, scanning back and forth between our guests and the front door. I guess we could have been brought up on kidnapping charges had anyone complained. But we didn’t want anyone getting out and warning Ramon off.

  Any time anyone entered, they were escorted to the rear and sat to wait with the rest of us.

  And that’s what we did. We waited.

  CHAPTER 23

  We didn’t have to wait long. About an hour. It seemed more like a decaying eternity in a condemned house as we ushered in more guests, seating them in the back of the room.

  “Hey, my mamacita wants me home,” a long-haired man shouted. Jack and I didn’t respond. Our eyes fixed on our designated cover spots. I was glad I didn’t have to hold that heavy .45 up to someone’s head for an hour.

  The door opened. A wash of late afternoon sun poured in. I knew it was him as soon as he stood in the doorway. I knew it was him even in silhouette, from the sun bleeding around his shoulders and head. He held himself like he owned the place. His shoulders were powerful, bulging underneath a black short-sleeved skin-tight shirt with rolled cuffs at the ends of the sleeves. Tats up and down his arms. If he knew something was wrong, he didn’t let on. Stepped inside.

  In the dim yellow light of the bar, I could see his face. The same as his younger brother. Harder looking, more creases. More coldness around the eyes, if that was possible. But the same. A little taller. A little more filled out. But the same raggedy black mustache. Acne scars. Another scar. Longer. A thin slit. Knife. Tough hombre.

  He sauntered in, easy gait. Cool. Blasé. I saw it before he cleared the vestibule. The rectangular butt of an automatic pistol outlined in his waistband under his shirt. Our guests in the back of the room were silent. Probably praying that Ramon would have come in blasting, two gun-style, like in the old B-Westerns. No such luck.

  He jerked his neck to his left, saw Jack holding his prisoner. Jerked the other way. His hand flew to the open bottom button of his shirt. Before he could pull the gun out, Jack yanked his prisoner in front of him, leveled the .45 at Ramon. The wheels were spinning in Ramon’s head. Should he run for it? Shoot it out? Who were these gringos anyway? What did they want? He let his hand drop to his side. Walked deeper into the room. Turned around to face Jack and me.

  “Looks like what we have here, amigos, is what might be called a Mexican standoff,” he said with a trace of Mexican accent. Our guests cackled. Even Jack cracked a smile. My face was immobile. I didn’t want to give anything away. “My brother said a couple-a gringos was lookin’ for me. What’d I do, rape your sister?”

  “You guys all learn the same script?”

  “It’s the script we’re given, amigo.”

  I didn’t like the way he said amigo. He sure as hell didn’t mean it.

  “Let’s talk.” I motioned him over to my end of the bar.” The Firestar was in my lap. He didn’t have a chance with his gun and he knew it.

  “I don’t have time for your gringo bullshit.”

  “You can leave. You can leave now. But aren’t you just a little curious about what we’re after?”

  “Un poquito.” He walked toward me at the bar. Didn’t lean against it. Stood tall. Hands at his sides. “Somethin’ about my sister.”

  “We’re looking for Pilar Cruz. I thought maybe you or your sister could help us find her.”

  His eyes swam. Debating. “Man, why should I help you? White man been nothing but trouble for both of them.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothin’, amigo. Nothin’. I’m just a dumb Mexican. Talk when I shouldn’t.” His voice wasn’t very loud, as if he didn’t want the others in the rear of the bar to hear what he was saying. I got the feeling the macho act was as much for them as for us. “What can you do for us, amigo?”

  “I’m a private detective. I’m trying to find someone that might have known Pilar Cruz.”

  “How’s that gonna help Pilar?”

  “Same guy that might have been after my client might be after Pilar.” I was beginning to believe it.

  “Shit. No one’s after Pilar.”

  “Then why is she hiding?”

  The cold eyes warmed. Only for a flash. Long enough for me to know he believed what I was getting at.

  “’S bullshit, man. ’Sides, I haven’t seen Pilar for a couple-a years.”

  “What about Anna?”

  “Don’t see her neither.”

  “Look, if you’re not gonna help us, fine. We’ll leave.”

  I handed him a business card. He rolled it in fingers. “Un hombre grande con un bees-ness card.” His audience laughed on cue. He glanced at the card. Tore it in half.

  Jack and I headed to the door. He walked toward it, pulling the hostage with him. I backed to it. We weren’t taking any chances. He shoved the hostage forward and we were out the door.

  “You sho’ know how to give a party, bro.”

  “Stop bitching. You love it.”

  “Know I do.”

  “You really took off after that guy.”

  “I see a gun, I take defensive action.”

  The tires squealed as we pulled out. No one had followed us from the bar, but I didn’t wait around to see what would happen next. I wondered what Ramon had thought of us. Did he expect it to be so simple? Did he expect us to brace him? We’d have had to brace the whole place. It wasn’t part of the plan, but we’d had no choice when they came at us.

  “Fuckin’ Mexicans. Don’t know what’s good for ’em. You’re tryin’ to help ’em out. For what? They don’t give a shit. You’ll never hear from that sucker.”

  I felt I owed Jack dinner at the least. We went to El Coyote. He may not have liked the people. He loved the food.

  I made it home in one piece. When I’m out with Jack I never know if that’ll be the case. I settled in. The phone felt cold to my touch. I was going to dial Rita. Changed my mind. I needed an evening alone. Time to think. Sort things out. About her. The case. My life. It rang. Mary.

  “Duke, I was right. Panasonic laser printer. Model KX-P4410. No good way to trace them. And the ice cream is definitely laced with cyanide.”

  “Easy to get?”

  “Easy enough. Some rat poisons have it. Some—”

  “I get the idea. I appreciate the fast work.”

  “Only for a friend.”

  We hung up. I thought about friends. When I first met her
I had considered Mary more of an acquaintance than a real friend. I was wrong. A friend was someone you confided your innermost secrets to. Someone who would accept you faults and all. Jack considered me his best friend. Sometimes I thought I was his only friend. I accepted him. I didn’t like the way he thought about certain things or the way he acted. But I let him be himself. He repaid the favor by accepting me. On the rare occasions I confided in someone it was usually in him. And that wasn’t that often. Did that make him my best friend? If so, what was I hiding from?

  With that thought roiling around in my brain, I downed a jigger of Scotch and went to sleep.

  I woke up the next morning refreshed. The first good night’s sleep I’d had in days. The first thought on my mind was Rita. Could she be a good friend? Could I be one to her? Would our racial differences make a difference? Would they get in the way? So far we’d enjoyed a diverting relationship—mostly on the surface. It seemed we were both giving each other safe harbor during the storm. Telling each other, by our presence in bed together, that things weren’t so bad. The country wasn’t—and wouldn’t be—falling apart. That the races could get along with each other someday. We proved it by our mere presence together. Or was it all just surface? Were we still really strangers? Was she just an acquaintance?

  There were no answers. Not then. I hoped there would be. Soon. I liked her. She was different. And I was probably different to her. It would all have to come to a head. Or it might just fade away. I wouldn’t hear from her. She wouldn’t hear from me. It would be over. Nothing said. Nothing resolved. I didn’t want it to end that way. Didn’t want it to end at all. But I wondered if our differences were so great that without fires raging in the street to push us together, nothing else would.

  I got up. Showered. Those thoughts kept circling in my head. I had an onion bagel for breakfast with some melted cheddar on it. It was enough to satisfy me. It was seven-thirty in the morning. The whole day lay ahead. I thought about going down to the ocean for a swim. Or laying on the raft in the pool. I sat in the living room and watched the sun streak in through the leaded glass window. Picked up the book I was reading, L.A. Confidential by James Ellroy. Couldn’t concentrate.