The Collection

and of course they were in no position to argue.' He chuckled. 'The legend is that it was the magic which let the Mexicans hold off the troops, that even though they got shot they didn't die.'

I looked at him, and I suddenly felt cold.

They didn't die?

'Like I said, I been there before,' Baker said. 'And I'm not saying I believe all that hocus pocus. But I sure as hell don't disbelieve it either.'

When I got back to Phoenix it was nearly dark, and I decided to go straight home.

The police were waiting for me when I arrived.

Lieutenant Armstrong was leaning against the hood of a patrol car, and he stood straight as I got out of the Jeep. He had a wad of chaw in his mouth, and he spit at the ground before me as I walked toward him.

'How long've you been here?' I asked.

'Not long. Five, ten minutes.' He smiled at me with his mouth, but his piggy eyes remained hard.

'What do you want me for?'

'Want you to take a little ride.' He nodded his head, and a uniformed officer opened the car door. He spit.

I stepped over the brown spot on the sidewalk and got into the backseat.

I stood at the edge of the county cemetery and looked where Armstrong pointed. Ten or fifteen graves scattered throughout the cemetery had been dug up, caskets and all, leaving only holes and piles of dirt. One of the graves, he had told me in the car, was that of Trinidad.

They waste no time burying 'indigents' in Arizona.

'You know anything about this?' the lieutenant asked.

I shook my head.

'Come on, they're your people.'

'My people?'

He spit. 'You know. Chili eaters. Mesikens. Gonzalez and all them other boys. I know you know what's going on.'

'I don't,' I said. 'I really don't.'

Armstrong looked at me. I saw the hate in his eyes. 'You want to play it that way?'

'I'm not playing.'

He poked me in the chest with a strong fat finger. 'You know what you are? You're a traitor. You're ...' He trailed off, glared at me, unable to think of the word. 'What's white on the outside, brown on the inside? The opposite of a co­conut?'

'I don't know,' I told him. 'But I know that you're round on the outside, brown on the inside.'

'What?'

'You're an asshole.'

He hit me then, and I went down. The punch had not been that hard, but I was unprepared for it, and it went straight to the stomach. I tried to breathe, tried to gulp air, but my lungs seemed to have atrophied.

Armstrong stared at me, watched me clutching my gut on the ground. His face was impassive, but inside I knew he was smiling. 'You can walk home,' he said, turning away.

After I stood, after I caught my breath, after I called him a crooked sack of rancid racist pigshit, I did walk home.

The lieutenant spit at me as, halfway down the block, his car drove past.

I woke up the next morning sweating. The fan had! crapped out on me sometime during the night, depriving my bedroom of what little air circulation I could afford, and the sheet I'd used to cover myself was sticking to my soaked skin. I was still tired, but not tired enough to remain in bed and brave the heat. I got up and walked to the bathroom to take a cool shower.

Father Lopez's murder was the top story on the morn­ing's newscast.

I stood in the kitchen, still dripping from the shower, the empty coffeepot in my hand, staring dumbly into the living room at the TV. The scene was live. A blond female reporter was standing in the midst of a group of people in front of the church, while in the background, clearly framed by the cameraman, Father Lopez's body lay facedown on the wide front stairs. Even on television, I could see dark blood trick­ling down the steps in tiny waterfalls.

I heard the name Lopez, the words murdered and Sanc­tuary movement, but I was not listening to the reporter. I was already moving, throwing the metal coffeepot into the sink, grabbing my keys, and running out the door.

White-uniformed flunkies from the coroner's office were loading the priest's bagged body into the back of an ambulance when I arrived. Armstrong and another officer were talking closely in hushed tones to a police photographer. The television news crew was packing up and readying to go.

I hadn't known Father Lopez well enough to really feel sad, that deep emotion reserved for people whose loss will affect the rest of our lives, but I felt hurt, disgusted, and deeply angry. I strode up to Armstrong. 'What happened?' I asked.

He looked at me, said nothing, turned away, and contin­ued his conversation with the photographer.

'Who did it?' I demanded.

The lieutenant did not even glance in my direction. 'Drive-by,' he said.

I started up the church steps. I knew the refugees were long gone, had probably fled at the first sound of gunfire, but I wanted to see for myself.

'Get out of there!' Armstrong said. He was looking at me now. His voice was as loud and ugly as his expression. His pointing finger punctuated each word. 'This is a crime scene, and you are not allowed on it. I want no evidence dis­turbed.'

I could have fought him on that, should have fought him-I was a licensed detective whose client had just been murdered-but I didn't feel up to it. Besides, I knew there was probably nothing I could find that the police hadn't al­ready noted. I scanned the crowd, looking for familiar faces. I saw Julio and walked up to him.

The songbird looked sick to me, but when I got closer I saw that it was anger which had distorted his features. Anger mixed with a trace of fear. I stepped up to him. 'What hap­pened?' I asked.

He looked up at me, and for a second it was as though he didn't know who I was, then his vision focused. He saw me, recognized me. 'It was the redneck,' he said.

I nodded. I'd guessed as much.

Julio glanced around, to make sure others in the crowd weren't listening to our conversation. 'We got him,' he said.

'What?'

He stepped closer to me, until his mouth was next to my ear. I could smell his stale breath. 'He's in a safe house.'

'What are you talking about? The redneck?'

Julio nodded. 'They caught him at a stoplight, called in; reinforcements, surrounded him.'

'And you didn't-?'

'No cops,' he said, answering my unfinished question.

'You know I can't-'

'We're taking him to Bumblebee.'

I stood there, staring at him, my next words, my next thought, stuck in my throat. Bumblebee. I didn't know why the songbird was telling me this. I didn't know how he knew about my knowledge of Bumblebee. I suddenly felt cold, chilled, though the morning sun was fiery.

'I'll pick you up,' he said. 'Tonight.'

I wasn't sure I wanted to be picked up. I wasn't sure I was willing to keep this from the police. I wasn't sure about any­thing.

But then I thought of Trinidad, thought of Father Lopez, thought of those illegals in the semi, thought of the refugees.

'Okay,' I agreed.

Julio nodded, and was gone, losing himself in the crowd.

I saw Armstrong staring at me, and I turned away.

The songbird didn't show up at my apartment until after eight, almost dark. He pulled next to the curb,