Wolf in the Shadows Read online

  “Since when do you make the rules, anyway?”

  I just looked at him.

  “All right, dammit, I’ll obey them! Somebody’s got to protect you from yourself.”

  Thirteen

  Before we left, I asked John if Karen, who is roughly my size, had stored any clothing in the cartons. He told me to take a look, and in one I found a treasure trove of jeans and shirts and T’s and sweaters—perhaps not suitable for a new bride on her way to a romantic sojourn in Italy, but perfect replacements for the things I had on, which by now were barely presentable. I changed and went outside to find John in the driver’s seat of the Scout. It took a fait amount of wheedling and, finally, threatening to move him over, but eventually we set off for the South Bay with me at the wheel.

  National City is sailor town, a blue-collar town, an immigrant town, home to light-manufacturing plants, warehousing operations, trailer parks, and the famed mile of car dealerships. Ana Orozco’s address was an old-fashioned apartment court on F Avenue, a couple of blocks off Highland. The narrow street was roughly paved and without sidewalks, overhung by very old pepper trees and dead-ending at the freeway. Most of the buildings were California bungalows built in the 1920s, and the apartments—one-story stucco, U-shaped, with cracked-concrete center sidewalks cluttered with toys and tricycles—were about the same vintage. I left John in the Scout, after making him promise he wouldn’t stir unless he heard bloodcurdling screams in a voice clearly recognizable as mine, and made my way through the obstacle course to apartment number six.

  It took Orozco a while to answer the door. When it opened, the eyes that scrutinized me across the security chain were red-rimmed and underscored by dark half-circles. I told her who I was, showed her the seventy-three dollars, and she let me inside a linoleum-floored, cheaply furnished room whose drapes were pulled against the hot afternoon sun. Orozco motioned at the shabby sofa, then curled her small body into an equally shabby chair, pulling a blanket around her and shivering in spite of the trapped heat. She was no more than eighteen.

  I put the money on the coffee table and asked, “Do you speak English?”

  She nodded.

  “Are you okay? You don’t look well.”

  “I will be okay soon.” Her eyes strayed to the money.

  “Will you be able to get an appointment at the clinic right away?”

  She didn’t reply, and for a moment I thought she hadn’t understood. Then she fumbled alongside the chair’s cushion for a tissue, and I saw she was crying.

  “Ms. Orozco … Ana,” I said.

  She held up her hand. “No, I am okay. It is … I know that what I will do is wrong. Are you católica?”

  “Yes.” At least, I’d been raised Catholic.

  “Then you must know how I feel,” she said. “I did not believe in … this thing before I knew I was to have the child. I am not married. The boy went away when I told him. In September I am to go to the university in Mexico City, but …” She broke off, staring bleakly at me, then added, “I know I will feel bad about this for all my life. But I want to have children someday and give them more than what I have had. I do not want them to suffer for my mistake.”

  “I understand.”

  She went on, though—trying to convince herself she’d chosen the right course of action, I supposed. “My sister, years ago she went to a doctor in Santa Rosalía, where we are from. He did something that is not illegal in Mexico, with a … you call it an IUD. It brought on the bleeding, but nothing else. Tres meses after, she had the malparto—the miscarriage—and almost died from the infección. Now she cannot have children. I do not want that for myself.”

  “You were right to come here for a safe procedure. I’m glad I can help you.”

  “You say that, and you are católica?”

  “You’ve obviously given this serious thought. And we can only live according to our own conscience.”

  “Yes. And then we must answer a Dios. I hope he will forgive me.” Then she seemed to remind herself of the purpose of my visit. “Now, what is it you wish to ask me?”

  I handed her Hy’s picture. She looked at it, nodded. “This man I remember. My friend who lets me stay here, he took me from the border to the store. He said the man there will tell me where is a good clinic. He”—her finger tapped the photo—“came to me before I could go inside and asked me if I am named Ann. I said yes. Ann, Ana.” She shrugged.

  “Go on.”

  “Then he asked me, ‘Where am I to meet …’ I think the name was Brockowitz. Could that be?”

  “It could.”

  “I did not answer. He took my arm.” She demonstrated, grabbing her left forearm with her right hand and yanking at it. “ ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘I am tired of waiting.’ He hurt me.”

  Not like Hy to be rough with a woman—unless he thought he was dealing with an enemy, a kidnapper’s contact woman. “What happened then?”

  “I became afraid. He looked at my face. He said, ‘You are not Ann Navarro?’ I said no. He let go and said he was sorry to frighten me. I ran into the store.”

  “He didn’t try to follow you?”

  “No. He called after me, again saying he was sorry.”

  “Was he there when you went back outside?”

  “No.”

  “And how long were you in the store?”

  “Ten minutes? Maybe longer. There were people, and the man there could not talk at first.” She paused, fingers pleating the tattered blanket. “This man—he is your enemy?”

  “No, a friend.”

  “A good friend?”

  “Very.”

  “Then I will tell you. If you said enemy, I would not tell you this, because I know there is goodness, la dulzura—gentleness—in him. I saw it in his eyes when he let go my arm. The friend who lives here? He saw the man also. And that night he saw him again.”

  “Where?”

  She shook her head. “I do not remember. But if you like, I will ask him.”

  “I’d like to talk with him myself. When will he be coming home?”

  “I think not until very late. He is working, and then he will go to a bar not far from here, called the Tradewinds. I will call him there and then he will call you.”

  I hesitated. Ana seemed sincere, but I had to protect myself. “No, I’ll just go there. What’s your friend’s name?”

  “Luis Abrego. He has a mostacho.” Her fingers illustrated its length and curve. “Very long hair.” Hands at shoulder level. “And the skin, very dark.”

  “Thank you. I’ll talk with him.”

  “Thank you.” She rose and gently touched the bills on the coffee table. “This money will make many things possible.”

  * * *

  When I got back to the Scout, I found John slumped in his seat, morosely watching a couple of kids who were sifting through the trash in a can in front of one of the nearby houses. “Christ,” he said as I got in, “one of them ate some moldy bread he found there. All I could think of is how I’d feel if my boys were that hungry.”

  “Well, they’ve never been and, God willing, won’t ever be.”

  “No. But these shouldn’t be, either.” He straightened up. “You find out anything?”

  I told him what Ana Orozco had told me. “It’s a little after four now,” I concluded, “so I have time to run you home before I go to the Tradewinds and talk with Luis Abrego.”

  John folded his arms and set his jaw. “I told you before, you’re not running around down here without me.”

  “John, what do you think I’ve been doing—”

  “All these years—I know. So humor me.”

  I sighed. John took it for assent and perked right up. “Brockowitz,” he said. “Weird name.”

  “Definitely not Hispanic, which knocks a hole in the theory that Mourning’s kidnappers were Mexican nationals. Of course it could be an assumed name, or someone fronting for the kidnappers. On the other hand, we have only what Hy told Gage Renshaw about the accent
of the contact woman to back up that theory, anyway. Hy’s very good with languages, but I wonder if a telephone voice is really enough to base an assumption like that on. But then there’s this other name—Ann Navarro. Probably Hispanic, except the first name’s anglicized, so who knows? Ana was definite about it being Ann. I’m pretty sure she’s on the level, but I’d feel a lot better if I knew something about this Luis Abrego before I—” I broke off because John was staring at me, mouth agape. “What?”

  “You talk things over with yourself like that a lot?”

  “A fair amount, but usually just inside my head. With you here, though … well, you’re sort of like the cat.”

  “What? I’m what?”

  “When one of the cats is around, I think aloud. Doesn’t seem so silly if there’s something to listen.”

  “Something.”

  “Or someone. Look, do you want to make yourself useful?”

  “I’m not sure, since the cat comment.”

  “Well, do it anyway. Call Pete and ask him to check with the guy at the Holiday Market. I want to know if it’s okay for me to tell Abrego he—what’s his name?”

  “Vic.”

  “If it’s okay to tell Abrego that Vic sent me, just in case saying Ana sent me doesn’t work. And also have Pete ask Vic if he knows anything about Abrego, Navarro, or Brockowitz. Got that?”

  “Yes, boss.” John unfolded his long frame from the Scout. “I saw a convenience store with an intact pay phone right around the corner. Will you be okay if I leave you alone here?”

  “I’ll fend off any muggers by running them over.”

  As soon as he was out of sight, though, I began to feel uneasy—that particular brand of unease that makes me suspect somebody’s watching me. I glanced in the rearview mirror, checked out both side mirrors. No one in any of the parked vehicles, no one in any of the overgrown little yards. Just the waving branches of the pepper trees. The ragged kids had vanished. The feeling persisted, however, and I slipped down in the seat. Even on a bright summer afternoon, this shabby little dead-end street had pockets of shadow—pockets where a watcher could hide.

  Don’t get overimaginative, I cautioned myself. RKI hadn’t known where I was at nearly two o’clock when one of their operatives tailed Rae downhill to the Remedy. It was doubtful they’d been able to trace me through John this fast, given that his identity was hidden behind that of Mr. Paint. I’d covered my trail perfectly.

  Hadn’t I?

  When John opened the passenger-side door, I jerked violently. “Scared?” he asked in mocking tones.

  “Shut up. What did you find out?”

  “Okay to use Vic’s name. Neither he nor Pete knows anything about Brockowitz or Navarro. Abrego—he’s sort of a coyote.”

  “You mean one of those people who move illegals across the border?”

  “That’s why I said ‘sort of.’ He picks them up at the border, takes them where they want to go. He’s a roofer by day, belongs to an organization called Libertad and works for them at night. The way Pete tells it, those guys’re like an underground railroad. He says Abrego is completely honest, charges only what he needs to keep going.”

  “Why is it that Pete makes everybody sound like a saint?”

  John shrugged, annoyed. “Why is it that you’re so cynical?”

  “If you’d seen what I’ve seen—”

  “All these years. Yeah, yeah.”

  “John!”

  “Shit, let’s not fight, okay?”

  I didn’t reply. Then I told myself it was silly to get angry over nothing. “Thanks for making the call.”

  “De nada.”

  “I didn’t mean to put your friend down.”

  “I didn’t mean to put you down. I just don’t understand why you can’t see some goodness in these people. After all, you’re the one who was championing the rights of illegals this morning.”

  It was a good point. Maybe I was more fond of championing minority rights in the abstract than in the concrete. And if so, that bothered me a great deal. I said, “I guess I’ve become conditioned not to accept anything until proven.”

  “Conditioned by what?”

  I sighed. “Let’s not get into all that now. When this is over, I’ll try to explain. By then I’ll owe you an explanation.”

  “You’ll owe me a damn sight more. You’re already in to me for breakfast, a couple of phone calls, the use of the Scout, and two hundred bucks. Plus when Karen gets back I’m gonna have to explain why her clothes have disappeared. And she’s one scary lady.”

  I smiled, looking at the clock on the dash. “Well, it’s five now. What do you say we try to find the Tradewinds?”

  He grinned. “No problem. I looked it up in the phone book. It’s three blocks north on Highland.”

  * * *

  It was fortunate he had looked it up—even though his foresight had made him smug beyond endurance—because the Tradewinds was the least prepossessing building on an undistinguished strip of fast-food restaurants and small commercial establishments. Wood frame with no windows and only an unlit neon sign with the name and a wind-tossed palm tree—that was all. I parked down the block and told John to wait for me. This time he got out of the Scout. “No way!”

  I got out too and glared at him across the hood. “I thought we’d established some rules here.”

  He crossed his arms and glared back. “No National City bars for you without me.”

  “This is ridiculous!”

  “Say another word and I’ll cause a scene.”

  Already he was causing a scene. A couple of sailors some ten yards down the sidewalk had paused to watch. I said furiously, “Why the hell do you have to be so obstreperous?”

  “What’s that, your new word for the week?”

  “Dammit, you son of—”

  “Don’t say that about Ma. Hey, look—those nice sailors are coming to your rescue.”

  I looked. The two—who were all of twenty and probably had never gone up against a serious bar brawler like my big brother—had started toward us. I grabbed John’s arm and said loudly, “Come on, darling.” Then I muttered, “I’ll get you for this.”

  “That’s what you’ve been threatening ever since Joey and I rolled you up in the rug.”

  “Don’t mention that.” As far as I was concerned, it was a particularly dark event in our personal history. “I will allow you to go in there with me,” I added grimly, “because I don’t want you to have to punch out those poor sailors. But you are to sit at the bar and leave me alone. Do not follow me, do not say one word, or so help me—”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  As soon as we entered, I realized Tradewinds was a misnomer. Not the slightest current of air moved in there, and when I drew a breath my lungs filled with cigarette smoke. The darkness blinded me for a moment. Then I saw neon beer signs and an illuminated backbar stocked with every brand of liquor known to mankind. A babble of Spanish rose to my ears as I waited for my eyes to adjust enough to distinguish the customers. John tensed, put his hand on my shoulder, and tried to pull me back outside.

  “Holy shit,” he muttered.

  The people at the bar and tables were mostly men, and all Hispanic. As we stood there, they stopped talking and turned to look at us. Dark eyes glittered, and faces grew hard and hostile.

  I tensed, but said to John, “It’s okay,” and scanned the room. At the far end of the bar sat a lone man with a long, drooping mustache, hair to his shoulders, and skin so dark he could have passed for black. Luis Abrego. I started down there, felt John close in behind me. “Go have a beer,” I told him.

  “No way.”

  “I mean it!”

  “I’m looking to protect myself, not you. They probably won’t knife a woman, and besides, you know self-defense.”

  “All right, come on. But if you say one word—”

  “You’ll feed me to the mean-looking guy by the cigarette machine.”

  “Right.”

  As we
approached, Luis Abrego swiveled on his stool and got up to greet us. Soft, liquid eyes appraised us; then the mouth under the limp mustache spread into a grin. “You’re the lady Ana called about,” he said to me. “She wanted to make sure I waited for you.”

  John made a sound like air escaping from a tire.

  “Mr. Abrego,” I said.

  “Luis.” He extended his hand and we shook.

  “I’m Sharon, and this is my … associate, John. Can we talk?”

  “Sure. Lemme get you a couple of beers. Take that booth over there.” He pointed.

  The other customers had looked away and resumed their conversations by now. As we got settled in the booth, I said, “Still want me to protect you, big brother?”

  “Fuck off, little sister.”

  Abrego came to the booth, three bottles of Miller’s clutched between his hands. He passed them around, then sat across from us. “Hey, Ana told me you paid her the money she needed. She shouldn’t’ve asked for it. I told her I was gonna have it tonight, if this … job that I’m waiting to hear about goes okay, but would she listen? No, she’s too proud to take my money.”

  I said, “I didn’t mind paying her. She helped me, and I’m glad I could do something in return.”

  “Yeah, she’s a doll, that Ana.” His face grew glum, and he looked down at the table. “Bad break for her. She’s nice and smart as they come, going to college in the fall, even. Sort of a relative of mine—everybody from Santa Rosalía’s family somewhere along the line. I’d like to kill the bastard knocked her up, you know?”

  “She’ll be okay now.”

  “Maybe.” He looked up, eyes uncertain. “I don’t know, though. I think there’s something wrong with her. You see how sick she looks?”

  I nodded.

  John said, “I know somebody at the Woman’s Place Clinic in Hillcrest. I think they charge less than two ninety-five for the … procedure, and they’ll check her over for other problems. I’ll write down my friend’s name and number; you tell Ana to call her. Gina’ll make sure she gets good care.”

  Abrego brightened and fished a finger-smudged piece of paper from his shirt pocket. John took it and wrote. As he passed it back, I squeezed his arm, but he just shrugged and looked away, embarrassed.