“I don’t know about that,” Frank said.
“He’s been drumming up aid in the Mission and the Delta, aid for his little projects. Rehabilitating gang members. Providing legal assistance for migrants. There’s talk it’s all just a front.”
“Yeah?” Frank said.
“What I know, I only know secondhand.” Waxman attempted a smile. “From friends. I have friends in the movement.”
“Aha,” Frank replied. The way he said it, it came out sounding like: You would.
Abatangelo said, “This hotel, the one out in Montezuma Hills, how easy is it to get in and out of?”
Frank affected bewilderment. “In, easy. Out, I mean, out how?”
“Out with Shel.”
“I don’t know she’s there.”
“If she is.”
“There’s a zillion rooms, they’ve got guys, Cesar, Humberto, Pepe, the place is crawling with guys.”
“This marina then, the one you mentioned. The writing above the phone, it said something like, ‘The lady waits. Same place by the river.’ ”
“Yeah?”
“You think that’s where they mean to bring Shel?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re going to show us where it is. Right?”
Frank shrugged in a way that suggested he meant yes. “Can I lie down somewhere for a little while?”
Abatangelo sat back, took a deep breath and told himself to be careful. Removing the cassette from the recorder, he labeled it, set the tape down on the table where Frank could see it, and said, “This is the truth, right? Not a little story to make us go away.”
Abatangelo shot Waxman a glance that said, Let him answer.
Frank paled and licked his lips. “Honest,” he said quietly. “Please. I’m so tired.”
Abatangelo scooted the cassette across the table to Waxman. “Sure, Frank. Catch yourself a little nap. We’ll need you on your toes for the trip out to the marina.”
Waxman took the covers off his own bed and provided them to Frank on the couch. Frank lay down, tucked up his knees and drew the bedding over his head. Drawn by their own sheddings, the cats materialized, leaping up onto Frank’s body and pumping the blanket with their paws. Waxman gestured for Abatangelo to join him in the hallway. Once they were alone, he whispered, “Are you all right?”
The question caught Abatangelo off-guard. “Why?”
Waxman studied him. “I’m not saying it’s as bad as it was at the restaurant, but there’s a look in your eye. It changes, but something’s always there, and it’s frightening.”
Abatangelo felt exposed. Judged. Frank’s not the only object of scrutiny in this story, he realized. “I’m not sure I can help that.”
“Perhaps you should try,” Waxman cautioned. “Relax.”
Abatangelo laughed. “Oh yeah. Ring for the masseuse.”
Waxman gestured fussily. “Look, I have a call to make. Help yourself to tea, or the fridge. Make yourself comfortable. That’s what I meant.”
He vanished into his room, and Abatangelo watched him go, feeling abandoned to his own intensity. He went back into the dining room, commandeered a chair from the table, sat in it backward, and rested his chin on his folded arms. Shortly his outrage failed him and he realized how tired he was. He catnapped in the chair, unaware of how much time was passing. His thoughts grew dreamlike, and at one point he imagined his father and Frank on the beach at Montara, scattering Shel’s ashes.
The next thing he knew, Waxman was greeting a visitor at the door.
She was a small, thin woman with broad dark features. An Indian, Abatangelo guessed. She appeared to be in her twenties, though a certain hardness about the eyes made her seem much older. She wore a work shirt, flannel jacket, white Keds; her black hair hung straight to her elbows. There was a sadness about her, but a certain ferocity as well. Whatever sorrow she’d endured had been racked into clarity.
She clutched an accordion folder to her chest. Declining introductions, Waxman led her into his own room and closed the door behind them. Waxman’s voice, the woman’s voice, thrummed urgently back and forth beyond the door for about a quarter hour, then the muted voices stopped, Waxman’s door opened again. The woman visitor returned to the entry, studying Frank now with an expression of profound disgust.
As she stood there, Abatangelo noticed something he’d failed to see before. A hatchwork of whitish scars mottled her throat. Her shirt collar, buttoned to the top, partially concealed them.
She removed her stare from Frank’s body long enough to meet Abatangelo’s eye. She did not smile or offer any greeting, and Abatangelo decided against saying anything himself. Her spirit seemed inured to courtesies. Waxman broke the spell finally, guiding her by the arm out the door and thanking her.
The woman gone, Waxman joined Abatangelo in the dining room. Without waiting for a question, he started in quietly with, “Her name is Aleris. Missionaries christened her that. She’s Kekchi, an Indian from northern Guatemala. Two years ago she came to San Francisco to work with the refugees here. I met her while I was working on an article. She’s quite a story in and of herself.”
His eyes betrayed a gravity Abatangelo had not seen before. “Tell me later,” he said.
“Of course,” Waxman replied. “In any event, Aleris brought something. I think you should see it.”
“Bring it to me here. I want to keep an eye on our boy.”
Waxman went to his room, returning with the accordion folder Aleris had left behind. He set it down on the table, then closed the sliding doors connecting the dining area to the living room, leaving just enough space so Frank could be seen. The folder contained news clippings, press releases, human rights reports, written in various languages and worn smooth by repeated handling. Typewritten translations had been stapled to each of the foreign pieces, some in Spanish, some in English.
“This,” Waxman said, withdrawing an article and pointing to the accompanying photograph, “is Rolando Moreira. The man who owns the hotel Frank told us about.”
Abatangelo leaned closer. The man wore white and addressed a crowd of schoolchildren in a tropical courtyard.
“Moreira,” Waxman continued, “is a
Abatangelo said, “The point, Wax. We’ve got a drive to make.”
“I understand. Indulge me just this moment. Basically, Moreira positions touts in the border village of Hidalgo, across the river from Tecun Uman. He offers work on his ranches or transport north to America. The touts charge outrageous fees and kick back to Moreira. Sometimes they just drop the pretense, take their pigeons out into the forest and rob them. Rape them.”
“Let me guess,” Abatangelo said. “You just snuck in Aleris’s story.”
Frank groaned on the sofa and pulled the blankets tighter over his head. Waxman regarded him a bit differently now, as though he were a rare and poisonous flower.
“Here,” he said, finding a second clipping and photograph, “is the person Frank referred to as El Zopilote.”
The grainy picture, a decade older than Moreira’s, presented a man with lean features and thick black hair, descending the steps of a small white courthouse.
“His real name is Victor Facio,” Waxman explained. “He’s the overlord of Rolando Moreira’s security apparatus. I don’t know how much you know about recent Mexican history.”
“No history lessons,” Abatangelo said.
“The short version, then.”
“Tell me in the car.”
“I don’t think it would be wise,” Waxman said, “to share some of this information with him present.” He nodded toward the sofa.
Abatangelo sighed. “Go on, wrap it up.”
“After 1972 or so, rumors put Facio everywhere and anywhere there’s money and guns and a smack of anticommunism in the air. There’s only one file in the public record here in the States, though. It’s in U.S. District
