small fortune.
'Another question, senora. Raquel told me that Elena had in her possession certain tapes - recorded tapes. Of music, and of relaxation exercises given to her by Dr. Handler. When I went through her things I found no such tapes. Do you know anything about that?'
'I don' know. This is the truth.'
'Has anyone been through those boxes before I got here?'
'No. Only Rafael an' Antonio, they look for books, things to read. The policia take boxes first. Nothin' else.'
'Where are your sons, now?'
She stood up, suddenly agitated.
'Don' hurt. They good boys. They don' know nothin'.'
'I won't. I just want to talk to them.'
She looked to one side, at the wall covered with family portraits. At her three children, young, innocent and smiling; the boys with short hair, slicked and parted, and open - necked white shirts; the girl in a frilly blouse between them. At the graduation picture: Elena in mortarboard and gown, wearing a look of eagerness and confidence, ready to take on the world with her brains and her charm and her looks. At the somber tinted photo of her long - dead husband, stiff and solemn in starched collar and gray serge suit, a workingman unaccustomed to the fuss and fiddling that went with having one's countenance recorded for posterity.
She looked at the pictures and her lips moved, almost imperceptibly. Like a general surveying a smoldering battlefield, she conducted a silent body count.
'Andy working,' she said, and gave me the address of a garage on Figueroa. v
'And Rafael?'
'Rafael I don' know. He say he go look for work.'
She and I both knew where he was. But I'd opened enough wounds for one day, so I kept my mouth shut, except to thank her.
I found him after a half - hour's cruising up and down Sunset and in and out of several side streets. He was walking south on Alvarado, if you could call the stumbling, self - absorbed lurch that propelled him headfirst, feet following, a walk. He stayed close to buildings, veering toward the street when people or objects got in his way, quickly returning to the shadow of awnings. It was close to eighty but he wore a long sleeved flannel shirt hanging loose over khakis and buttoned to the neck. On his feet were high - topped sneakers; the laces on one of them had come loose. He looked even thinner than I remembered.
I drove slowly, staying in the right lane, out of his field of vision, and keeping pace with him. Once he passed a group of middle - aged men, merchants. They pointed at him behind his back, shook their heads and frowned. He was oblivious to them, cut off from the external world. He pointed with his face, like a setter homing in on a scent. His nose ran continuously and he wiped it with his sleeve. His eyes shifted from side to side as his body kept moving. He ran his tongue over his lips, slapped his thin thighs in a steady tattoo, pursed his lips as if in song, bobbed his head up and down. He was making a concentrated effort at looking cool but he fooled no one. Like a drunk working hard at coming across sober his mannerisms were exaggerated, unnatural and lacking spontaneity. They produced the opposite effect: He appeared to be a hungry jackal on the prowl, desperate, gnawed upon from within and hurting all over. His skin was glossy with sweat, pale and ghostly. People got out of his way as he boogied toward them.
I sped up and down two blocks before pulling to the curb and parking near an alley behind a three - story building that housed a Latin grocery on the ground floor and apartments on the upper two.
A quick look shot backward confirmed that he was still coming.
I got out of the car and ducked into the alley, which stunk of rotting produce and urine. Empty and broken wine bottles littered the pavement. A hundred feet away was a loading dock, unattended, its steel doors closed and bolted. A dozen vehicles were illegally parked on both sides; exit from the alley was blocked by a half - ton pickup left perpendicular to the walls. Somewhere off in the distance a mariachi band played 'Cielito Lindo.' A cat screeched. Horns honked out on the boulevard. A baby cried.
I peeked my head out and retracted it. He was half a block away. I got ready for him. When he began crossing the alley I said in a stage whisper: 'Hey, man. I got what you need.'
That stopped him. He looked at me with great love, thinking he'd found salvation. It threw him off when I grabbed him by his scrawny arm and pulled him into the alley. I dragged him several feet until we'd found cover behind an old Chevy with peeling paint and two flat tires. I slammed him against the wall. His hands went up protectively. I pushed them down and pinioned both of them with one of my own. He struggled but he had no strength. It was like tussling with a toddler.
'Whadyou want, man?'
'Answers, Rafael. Remember me? I visited you a few days ago. With Raquel.'
'Hey, yeah, sure,' he said, but there was only confusion in the watery hazel eyes. Snot ran down one nostril and into his mouth. He let it sit there a while before reaching up with his tongue and trying to flick it away. 'Yeah, I remember, man. With Raquel, sure, man.' He looked up and down the alley.
'You remember, then, that I'm investigating your sister's murder.'
'Oh, yeah, sure. Elena. Bad stuff, man.' He said it without feeling. His sister had been sliced up and all he could think of was that he needed a packet of white powder that could be transformed into his own special type of milk. I'd read dozens of tomes on addiction, but it was there, in that alley, that the true power of the needle became clear to me.
'She had tapes, Rafael. Where are they?',
'Hey, man, I don' know shit about tapes.' He struggled to break loose. I slammed him against the wall again. 'Oh, man, I'm hurting, just let me go fix myself up and then I talk to you about tapes. Okay, man?'
'No. I want to know now, Rafael. Where are the tapes?'
'I don' know, man, I told you that!' He was whining like a three - year - old, snot faced and growing more frantic with each passing second.
'I think you do and I want to know.'
He bounced in my grasp, clattering like a sack of loose bones.
'Lemme go, motherfucker!' he gasped.
'Your sister was murdered, Rafael. Turned into hamburger. I saw pictures of what she looked like. Whoever did it to her took their time. It hurt her. And you're willing to deal with them.'
'I don' know what you're talkin' about, man.'
More struggling, another slam against the wall. He sagged this time, closed his eyes and for a moment I thought I'd knocked him out. But he opened them, licked his lips and gave a dry, hacking cough.
'You were off the stuff, Rafael. Then you started shooting up again. Right after Elena's death. Where'd you get the dough? How much did you sell her out for?'
'I don' know nothin'.' He shook spastically. 'Lemme go. I don' know nothin'.'
'Your own sister,' I said. 'And you sold out to her murderers for the price of a fix.'
'Puleeze, mister. Lemme go.'
'Not until you talk. I don't have time to waste time with you. I want to know where those tapes are. You don't tell me soon I'll take you home with me, tie you up and let you go cold turkey in the corner. Imagine that - think how bad you hurt now, Rafael. Think how much worse it's going to get.'
He crumpled.
'I gave them to some dude,' he stuttered.
'For how much?'
'Not money, man. Stuff. He gave me stuff. Enough for a week's fixing. Good stuff. Now lemme go. I gotta appointment.'
'Who was the guy?'
'Just some dude. Anglo. Like you.'
'What did he look like?'
'I don' know, man, I can't think straight.'
'The corner, Rafael. Tied up.'
'Twenny - five, six. Short. Built good, solid. Real straight - lookin'. Light hair, over the forehead,
