I needed to find the mailman-father of the first baseman, so I started by checking out the entranceways of the tenements to see if the mail had been delivered. The mailbox layout was identical in all of the buildings–banks of metal mail slots, rows and rows of them, bearing poorly printed Spanish surnames and apartment numbers. I checked out three buildings on each side of the street, getting a lot of dirty looks in the process. The mailboxes were empty. I was in luck.
Medina Court dead-ended at a combination weed patch–auto graveyard where a throng of tattered but happy-looking Mexican kids were playing tag. I walked back to Peck Road feeling grateful that I didn’t live here.
I waited for three hours, watching the passing scene: old winos poking about in the rubble of the burned-out buildings, looking for shade to drink their short-dogs in; fat Mexican women chasing their screaming children down the street; a profusion of squabbles between men in T-shirts, filled with obscenities in English and Spanish; two fistfights; and a steady parade of pachucos tooling down the street in their hot rods.
At one o’clock, as the sun reached its stifling zenith and the temperature started to close in on one hundred degrees, a tired and dejected-looking mailman walked into Medina Court. My heart gave a little leap of joy–he was the very image of the blond first baseman. He walked into the “foyer” of the first tenement on the south side of the street, and I was waiting for him on the sidewalk when he walked back out.
His tired manner perked up when he saw me standing there, white and official-looking in my suit and tie. He smiled; the nervous, edgy smile of someone hungry for company. He looked me up and down. “Cop?” he said.
I tried to sound surprised: “No, why do you ask?”
The mailman laughed and swung his leather mail sack from one shoulder’ to the other. “Because any white man over six feet in a suit on a day like this in Medina Court has gotta be a cop.”
I laughed. “Wrong, but you’re close. I’m a private investigator.” I didn’t offer any proof, because of course I didn’t have any. The mailman whistled; I caught a whiff of booze on his breath. I stuck out my hand. “Herb Walker,” I said.
The mailman grasped it. “Randy Rice.”
“I need some information, Randy. Can we talk? Can I buy you a beer? Or can’t you drink on duty?”
“Rules are made to be broken,” Randy Rice said. “You wait here. I’ll deliver this mail and see you in twenty minutes.”
He was good to his word, and half an hour later I was in a seedy bar near the freeway, listening politely to Randy Rice expound on his theory of the “wetback problem plaguing America.”
“Yeah,” I finally broke in, “and it’s a tough life for the white working man. Believe me, I know. I’m on this tough case now, and none of the Mexicans I talk to will give me a straight answer.” Randy Rice went bug-eyed with awe. I continued: “That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I figured a smart white man familiar with Medina Court ought to be able to give me a few leads.”
I ordered another beer for Rice. He gulped it, and his face contorted into a broad parody of caginess. “What do you wanna know?” he asked.
“I heard Marcella Harris used to hang out on Medina Court. I think that’s a hell of a place for a white woman with a kid to be spending her time.”
“I seen the Harris dame there,” Randy Rice said, “lots of times.”
“How did you know it was her? Did you just recognize her from her picture in the paper when she got knocked off?”
“No, she lived on my block at home. I seen her leave for work in the morning, and I seen her at the store, and I used to see her walk her dog. I used to see her play catch with that crazy kid of hers in her front yard, too.” Rice swallowed. “Who hired you?” he blurted out.