An INS agent almost certainly-the FBI investigating a murder in the New Mexico desert would surely do a better job.
I found the intersection for the burrito place, turned the corner on Logan, and ducked down an alley.
Garbage cans, Dumpsters, squirrels.
I waited for Mr. New York Plates.
He passed by in a hurry.
I waited until he had turned at the next block and then I ran back up the hill to the Wetback Motel.
His Toyota was still there in the turning circle.
On my second day in the force Lieutenant Diaz showed me a trick with a coat hanger that can open practically every car on the planet. I’ve used it many times. But I didn’t have a coat hanger, and why not give the INS a little of their own back?
I picked up a log and smashed the passenger’s-side window, opened the door, looked inside the car.
A sleeping bag, McDonald’s wrappers, soda cans, a water bottle filled with urine. Nothing interesting until I found a digital camera in the glove compartment. I took it, slipped it in my coat pocket, and went back down the hill again.
Our paths did not cross as I had hoped they would.
I found the burrito place, ordered a beef fajita, and scanned through Mr. New York Plates’s photographic work on the digital’s tiny screen.
Pics of the motel, of trees, several of squirrels, of himself, and finally the jackpot: several shots of me, Esteban, Paco, and a few of the others.
Yeah-INS. Didn’t bother me but I’d have to warn Paco. He should have gone to L.A. If they deported him now he’d be back to square one again. Poor kid.
I ate the burrito and drank a warm Corona.
“You’re not good at this,” Mr. New York Plates said in Spanish.
I looked up.
“Not good at what?” I asked, attempting sangfroid.
He didn’t look angry, just tired. He put his hand out. I gave him the camera and he put it in his pocket.
“I like the ones of the squirrels best.”
“What else did you take?” he asked.
“Well, I was spoiled for choice: the bottle of urine or the McDonald’s wrappers?”
“Good day,” he said and turned to go.
“Wait. Who are you?” I asked.
“Me? I’m someone who doesn’t like to get dicked around by stupid fucking bitches!”
“I can’t imagine you get much opportunity if that’s an example of your small talk.”
He sighed. “You think you’re smart? We’ll see how smart you really are,” he said and walked out of the restaurant.
I didn’t think of a snappy comeback until he’d been gone five minutes. “I’m only smart in comparison to some.”
It was happy hour, so I ordered a Negra Modelo and considered him for a while, but I didn’t have enough information to work up many hypotheses. And besides, I had other tasks.
I found the phone Esteban had left for me.
“Hello.”
“Who is this?” Esteban asked.
“Maria.”
“What’s up? You wanna borrow the car?”
I did want to borrow the car. I needed the car tonight, but that’s not why I was calling.
“No.”
“Good. Fucking walk to town. Fed up with people using my property for their personal convenience. You all have it easy. Twenty years ago you’d all have had to work for a living. Don’t know what I was thinking. Don’t even try it. I’ll have them check and see if it’s in use with the GPS. Same to everyone else-no one uses the car until I get back on Monday. Give them an inch they take a mile.”
“I haven’t used it at all.”
“Somebody’s been driving it. I’ve logged it. Abusing their privileges. Oh yeah, and what’s this I hear about you asking questions about some accident? Briggs left a crazy message on my voice mail.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“What?”
“A private investigator’s been asking everyone questions about an incident that happened here in May. He’s been hired by the Mexican consulate in Denver. Apparently someone killed a Mexican on the Old Boulder Road and he noticed that your car was involved in an accident around then. He thinks you might be implicated somehow.”
I took the phone from my ear while Esteban threw out a complex series of curses involving the man’s mother and all sorts of unlikely forms of intercourse.
When he was finished I pressed home the point. “What should I tell him? He wants to have your car towed to a lab for a forensic examination.”
“My God, I leave town for one day and Briggs is going crazy and they’re towing my car? What the hell is happening out there?”
“Look, Don Esteban, it’s ok. I can handle this. He seems to be a little taken with me, but what should I tell him?”
“This is so fucked. I hit a deer. And that was a week before that accident. I was with Manuelito and Danny Ortega. We swiped an old doe. Jesus. And besides, everyone knows what happened to that dead Mex.”
“Oh-”
“Oh yeah, that’s no secret, one of our friends up the hill killed that poor bastard. Those fuckers. Briggs covered it up for them, I’ll bet my life on that.”
“One of the Hollywood people?”
“They can do anything they want in this town. That’s why we gotta squeeze a big tip outta them. Has anyone mentioned tips to you yet? Christmas isn’t far off.”
I ignored the sidetrack. “So I should I tell the investigator it was one of the Hollywood people?”
“No, no, don’t tell him anything. This isn’t our concern. Say nothing.”
“Ok.”
“But I know. Oh yeah, they think they can keep me out of the loop? That’s bullshit. Yeah, and just between you and me I’m pretty sure I know who did it.”
“Who?”
“Well, I can’t say over the phone. It’s not exactly confidential formation. You remember him. He smashed up that big white Bentley. You know who I’m talking about? From the party? I think he’s one of the houses you clean. No big secret.”
Silence.
“Are you still there, Maria?”
“Yes.”
“You sweet-talk him, Maria, don’t let anyone touch my car. I’ll fucking kill them.”
“Ok.”
“Ok. Good. Hold the fort. I’ll be back. See you Monday.”
It wasn’t late. The room clock said nine but Paco was already asleep, exhausted from a day’s overtime.
I needed sleep too.
