White Heat Page 20
“I’m looking for Teddie Matson’s killer.”
His eyes snapped open. Impressed.
“I have reason to believe that Pilar Cruz might be able to help me find him.”
His eyes half closed, heavy lids over dull bloodshot eyes. Should he tell me? Was I to be trusted?
“Pilar don’ live in L.A. no more.”
“Where does she live? Where’s Anna?”
“I haven’t heard from Anna in more than a year. Could be anywhere by now.”
“Is Pilar with her?”
Silence. Thinking.
“I don’t know.” More silence. “I think so. Prob’ly.”
I looked into his eyes. Probing.
“Don’ look at me that way. An’ it’s not what you’re thinking.”
“What am I thinking?” I said.
“Never mind.”
He was probably thinking that I thought his sister and Pilar were lesbian lovers. He was right.
“Where’s the last place you had an address for them?”
A piece of wrinkled paper materialized from his pocket. A street address in Calexico, near the Mexican border, on it.
“I haven’t heard from her in over a year.”
“Are you worried?”
“Yeah, man. We used to write at least once a month. Me an’ Anna. Or me an Pilar. At least once a month.”
“Why didn’t you go with them?”
Silence. I figured they didn’t want him. Didn’t want to push it.
“What are they running from?” Maybe they were two lesbian girls who felt alienated from their community. Hiding out so they could be alone—together. But then why Calexico—hardly the most tolerant place, I imagined. Maybe there was something else. Still hiding out, but not from their community. Maybe it was from one person.
He was thinking, hard. How much should he tell me? Was he betraying confidences?
“It’s better if you tell me, Ramon. Better for—”
“It ain’t gonna bring Teddie Matson back.”
“True. But maybe your sister and Pilar can stop running. Live a normal life.”
“How do I know I can trust you?”
“Would I come down here if I didn’t have good intentions?”
“Depends on what’s in it for you.”
“Look, someone hired me to find Teddie Matson’s killer. If it’s the same guy that hurt Pilar I’ll be doing us both a favor.”
That struck something in him. “I don’ even know his name. They wouldn’t tell me.”
“Pilar and Anna wouldn’t tell you?”
He nodded.
“Tell me what you know.”
“I don’ know much. The girls went to stay with relatives in Sparks for a summer.”
“Sparks? Sparks, Nevada?” Sparks flying. Teddie’s and Pilar’s notes.
“Yeah. Stayin’ with relatives. I was here. Workin’ a summer job when I was stupid enough to do that kinda sucker shit. Somethin’ happened. I’m not sure what.”
“Rape?” There was no easy way to say it.
“They wouldn’ tell me. Something bad. Knew I’d kill him. Didn’t want me goin’ to jail. Can you believe it? I been to jail four times since then. Before that summer, Pilar and I—it was never the same. I mean, we was only kids anyways. But I loved her. She loved me. We was gonna get married. Have kids. Live the American Dream. The Gringo American Dream.” He snorted a disgusted laugh. Sarcasm glinted in his eyes. “It was never the same.”
“Did Pilar or Anna know Teddie Matson?”
“I don’ know. Don’t think so. How could they? She’s from another world.”
“In Sparks maybe.”
“Don’t know.”
“How long were they in Sparks?”
“I don’ know, man. A few months. Maybe they were fifteen, sixteen. Somethin’ like that.”
Teddie was a few years older than Pilar and Anna. She might have been in Sparks at the same time. Seemed like a long shot.
“Were they in any kinds of plays or something when they were in Sparks?”
“I don’ know. Yeah, maybe. I can’t remember.”
“Is there anything else?”
“Here, man.” He handed me a picture of Pilar and Anna. “If you find them, tell ’em to write.”
“I will.”
He started to walk away. “If you find the dude done this to ’em, lemee know. I’ll take care-a him. Waste ’im, man. Then you won’t have to go to jail.”
“No, you will.”
“I can do the time standing on my head.” He lit a joint. Walked off.
I drove home. It was empty without Baron. I grabbed the phone.
Calexico was a long shot. Information didn’t have a phone number for either Anna Martinez or Pilar Cruz. Unlisted number? Gone?
I dialed again, Mrs. Matson this time. The phone rang seven times. I was about to hang up.
“Hello.”
“Hello, Mrs. Matson, this is Duke Rogers.”
“Hi Duke. Any news?”
“I’m making some progress. Wish it could be faster. Do you have a minute?”
“Surely. What can I do for you?”
“Did Teddie ever live in Sparks, Nevada? Visit there?”
“No, not in Sparks. When she was first starting out she lived in Reno though.”
“What was she doing?”
“She was in a chorus line at one of the hotels.”
“Do you remember which one?”
“No, I’m sorry. I might be able to find it in her things though.”
“Would Warren know?”
“He might. They were very close. He isn’t home now.”
“If he gets in within the next hour will you have him call me.”
“I’ll ask him. But he, well, you know—”
“I think he might this time.” I didn’t go into our rapprochement. “Is there anything you remember about her time in Reno? How long she was there? Any friends she might have made? Anything like that.”
“I’m afraid I don’t. It was several years ago. I think it was rather uneventful. She didn’t work there very long. A couple months. Three maybe.”
I thanked her and hung up. Packing didn’t take long. Ammo for the Star. More ammo. And a toothbrush. A small bag of clean underwear, fresh shirt. The phone didn’t ring. Should I call Mrs. Matson again? See if Warren’s in. Don’t be a pest. Not yet.
Tanked up the car. Ready to go. I hit the road. It was early enough in the afternoon to miss rush hour. These days just about any time is rush hour. Traffic was bad. Could’ve been worse. I hit the Hollywood Freeway to the 10 and headed out.
Somewhere around San Berdoo, the beeper rang. Hit the first off ramp. First gas station. Old fashioned glassed-in booth. Greasy finger marks on the glass. Dial.
“Warren. Duke Rogers.”
“Yeah, man. What’s up? I haven’t found the teddy bear yet.”
“Keep looking.”
“I will.”
“Tell me about Teddie’s playing Reno.” The line was silent. Dead? “Warren?”
“I’m here.”
“Reno.”
“Yeah, Reno. Hold on.”
Bang, the phone hit a hard surface. Shuffling, nondescript noises. Another extension being picked up. “Okay, you can hang up.” A reverbed Warren. Click. First extension being hung up. “I’m back.” His voice was low, almost a whisper. Conspiratorial.
“What’s going on?”
“You wanted to know about Reno. What do you want to know?”
“I’m not sure exactly. Anything unusual about Teddie’s time there?”
Silence. “Yeah, man. But my mom doesn’t know. If I talk, it’s between us.”
“It might come out. I’ll do my best and I won’t tell her. I’ll try to keep it quiet.”
“That ain’t good enough.”
“It’s the best I can do. Look, I could lie to you. Tell you it won’t come out. I’m not lying. I’m being straight. Be straight with me.”
“A stalker?”
“Yeah, I guess. But it was before that word got into vogue, know what I mean? He’d send her flowers and candy backstage. Notes. All kinds-a stuff.”
“Teddy bears?”
“Yeah, I think so. I’m lookin’ for it. Really. Can’t find it.” More rustling. “But even before the shit got so heavy I didn’t want her seeing him.”
“Why not?”
“He wasn’t good for her.”
“You’re being oblique.”
“Good whitey word there.”
“Cut the shit.”
“He wasn’t good for her.”
I started to say something, but Warren cut me off. “He was white.” As if that was enough.
“What else?”
“I don’t know. It was a long time ago. Teddie and I were close. Real close. But I’m not sure she told me everything.”
“You think she might have liked him? Led him on?”
“Get off, man.”
“Might he have raped her?”
“She never said so. I thought maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“She wouldn’t tell me for sure. Knew I’d kill the guy—didn’t want me landing in jail. Already been—would have been really hard time.” He lowered his voice even more. “Don’t you mention none of this to my mother. It would kill her.”
“Any chance you remember the guy’s name.”
Silence. “I think his first name was Jack. John. Maybe Jim.”
“Jim?”
“Yeah, something like that. One-a those J names.”
“Last name.”
“Can’t remember?”
“Talbot?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Did he ever contact her after she made it on TV?”
“Might have. I remember she did get something that upset her. Some kind of gift. I never actually saw it. Might have been the bear. She could’ve thrown it away.”
“Would Rita know anything?”
“Shit, man, this ain’t goin’ nowhere. Let’s get out. Hit the streets.”
“You’ve got to be methodical. We’re taking it as best we can. Now, tell me, would Rita know anything?”
“I don’t think so. Teddie was closer to me than Rita.”
“Did she know a Pilar Cruz?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Anna Martinez?”
“I hate beaners, man. They’re comin’ in here, takin’ over all our hoods. Grabbin’ the power and they won’t even speak English.”
“I didn’t ask your opinion of them. Did Teddie know either of these girls?”
“I don’t know. Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Anything else you can think of?”
“Not now. If I do, I’ll let you know.”
“I’m gonna be out of town for a couple days.”
“I’m comin’ with you.”
“I’m going to be hard to reach. Leave any info with my service. Detailed message and tell them to make sure they get it right.”
“Yes, sir, massah.” There was a brief silence at his end of the phone. “See you in Reno.” He slammed the phone down. I pulled my map box out of the trunk. Nevada. Sparks. Reno.
Bingo.
Sparks was a suburb of Reno.
As I was leaving the booth, the beeper beeped again. Read out a number. Familiar. Rita.
I cleared the beeper. Headed for the car.
Something nagged at me. Why was I avoiding Rita?
CHAPTER 31
Dust swirls engulfed the car. Calexico. A desert border town. Like something out of the movies. A cross of cultures. Or maybe a clash of them.
First thing, gas up. While they filled the tank, I checked the phone book. Lotta Cruz’s. Lotta Martinez’s. No Pilar Cruz’s. No Anna Martinez’s. Several A. Martinez’s. One M. Cruz. Rip. Tore the page out of the book for future reference if the address Ramon gave me turned bust.
Small house. Faded yellow planks. Faded brighter yellow trim. Two-car garage at the end of the driveway. Window in front. Sound of the vacuum cleaner shooshing back and forth. Knock-knock.
“Who’s there?”
“My name’s Duke Rogers, I—”
“Don’t need anything.”
“I’m not selling anything.”
The door jerked open. “Then waddayou want?” Older woman. Red, puffy skin. Mid-fifties maybe. Maybe younger. It was the moo-moo and alcohol lines that made her look old. Might have had a figure at some time. Not now. And if she did, who could tell under the cow tent?
“I’m looking for Anna Martinez and Pilar Cruz.” I showed her the photograph of the girls.
“Sorry, you must have the wrong address.” The smell of alcohol spit from her mouth like fire from a dragon.
“Well, maybe they don’t live here now. But they used to.”
“I’ve owned this house for seventeen years. No Anna Cruz or Pilar Martinez ever—”
“Anna Martinez and Pilar Cruz.”
“Whoever.”
“You never rented a room or—”
“—or nothin’. I’m busy now, please.”
“Thank you.”
Hissing sound. Before I reached the curb, sprinklers doused my pant legs with unfriendly water. As an ex-frogman, I’d thought of all water as friendly. Not so this water.
Simon Bolivar rode a magnificent rearing white steed in front of the cheap motel bearing his name. Both he and the steed were covered with magnificent graffiti art. The room was small. Clean. Double bed with a tapestry spread. TV had to be fed quarters. A phone in the room cost extra. It was worth it. I started dialing the names from the phonebook pages. No one had heard of Anna or Pilar, at least they claimed not to have. Both had common enough Hispanic surnames. It was possible that none of the Cruz’s and Martinez’s in the book knew them. It was also possible they were covering up.
After exhausting the phone pages, I fed four quarters into the TV for an hour’s worth of mindless pabulum. The A-Team reruns were the only thing I could stomach—best of the lot. With the sound low, I lay back on the bed, hands folded under my head, and stared at the ceiling.
Ramon could have given me the wrong address to send me on a wild goose chase. I didn’t think so. He knew I didn’t have much to go on. He’d tried too hard to get in touch with me. Meet off his current turf. I believed the address was correct. He might have copied it down wrong. That was a more likely possibility. Another possibility was that the lady of the house, whose name I’d forgotten to get—fuckup—was lying. The garage had a small curtained window in it. The car door looked sealed shut. There was a people door cut into it. A garage apartment?
The question was, were the girls living there now? Had they moved? Had they ever lived there? Using their own names. Aliases? Mental note: go back there.
Night fell, a crisp desert evening. The town kept bustling. Hustlers on the sidewalks selling everything from marijuana to Rolex watches, or “un bueno facsimile,” as one of the vendors had so honestly put it.
The smell of dope coupled with the reedy desert air burned my nostrils. A sunburned bearded man in a trench coat and ratty knee-high moccasins was digging through a garbage can. He turned, standing square in front of me. Smelled like his skin was decomposing on the spot.
“Got any spare change, man?”
“I gave at the office.”
He called up a loogy from the back of his throat, ready to spit a projectile in my direction. I pivoted out of the way just in time. The spittle projectile darted past me landing bullseye on a telephone pole. My nature had me wanting to fight. My judgment said no. I didn’t want to touch this guy. Lice and diseases he might be carrying were something I didn’t need. I’d made a deal with myself several years ago not to hand out money to anyone on
the street. It was dangerous and most likely they’d use it for booze or drugs instead of food or shelter. I gave to a couple of the missions in downtown L.A. every year as well as to the Salvation Army. I figured that was the best way to go. I guess my friend in the trench coat didn’t agree.
Castle’s Bar was a dive. A comfortable dive. And apparently the swankiest dive in town. A washed-out blonde with black roots in a sequined black velvety dress sang and played piano for tips. It was so low cut everything hung out, almost falling onto the keyboard when she leaned over to light a cigarette. I’d only been in the bar half an hour and she’d already played Billy Joel’s Piano Man twice, changing the words to “piano girl”. Must’ve meant something personal to her as no one around the piano seemed to be making any requests.
I ordered a light beer and some conversation from the bartender. “Been here long?”
“Does it matter to ya?”
“I’m looking for these two women. Ever seen ’em?”
He perused the photo of Anna and Pilar. Shook his head. “Mex don’t come in here.”
That was that. On my way out, the blonde was singing Piano Man for the third time in less than forty-five minutes. It might have been the only song she knew.
There were several bars on the street. There were several bars on every street it seemed. Good business, drinking at the border. No one in any of them, Anglo or Mexican, admitted knowing the girls.
It was almost 1 a.m. by the time I headed back to the Bolivar. The trip down to the border had been uneventful. No feeling of being spied upon. But now it was back. Faint footsteps, several paces behind me. I slowed, they slowed. I sped up. So did they. Pretending to window shop, I stopped in front of a bridal store displaying outlandish bridesmaid costumes in dayglow orange with green trim in the window. The footsteps stopped.
From the corner of my eye, I saw a shadow in a recessed doorway three doors back. I headed in that direction, retracing my footsteps. The shadow pulled deeper into the doorway. Disappeared. I walked past the doorway, not looking to the side. My peripheral vision told me someone was hunched up against the door in the farthest corner. I walked past. Quietly, I turned around. Headed back to the doorway. Didn’t step in front of it. If I was as quiet as I thought, he hadn’t heard me.
I waited.
After about three minutes, a sigh escaped the doorway. The man stepped forward. Foot out. I tripped him. He fell into me. I grabbed his collar and pulled him back into the darkness of the doorway. A police car cruised by. Didn’t see us.