“Her ex-husband. He’s out for blood. He thinks one of her boyfriends croaked her. Why do you say her kid is crazy?”
“Because he is. That kid is poison, mister. For one thing, he’s only nine years old and he’s at least six feet tall. He hates the other kids, too. My boy told me that Michael was always breakin’ up the softball games at school, always challengin’ everyone to fight. He’d always get beat up–I mean he’s a gigantic kid, but he don’t know how to fight and he’d get beat up, then he’d start laughing like a madman, and . .
“And expose himself?”
“. . . Yeah.”
“You didn’t seem surprised when I mentioned Marcella Harris’s boyfriends.” With a flourish I ordered the now red-faced Rice another beer. “Tell me about that,” I said.
He leered and said, “I been seein’ her around Medina for months, drivin’ in her Studebaker, hangin’ out in Deadman’s Park–”
“Deadman’s Park?”
“Yeah, where Medina dead-ends. Dead dogs and dead winos and dead cars. I seen her a coupla times hangin’ out with Joe Sanchez on his stoop, lookin’ real cozy with him. Him in his zoot suit and Harris in her nurse’s uniform. Once she walked out of Sanchez’s apartment real glassy-eyed, like she was walkin’ on mashed potatoes, and nearly knocked me over. Jesus, I said to myself, this dame is high on dope. She–”
I halted Rice. “Does Sanchez sell dope?” I asked.
“Does he ever!” Rice said. “He’s the number one pusher in the San Gabriel Valley. I seen loads of hopheads leavin’ his dump like they was on cloud nine. The cops roust him all the time, but he’s always clean. He don’t use the shit himself, and he don’t hide it at Medina. I heard lots of young punks talk about what a smart vato he is. If you ask me, scum like Sanchez should be sent straight to the electric chair.”
I considered this latest information. “Have you talked to the cops about this, Randy?” I asked.
“Hell no, it’s none of my business. Sanchez didn’t bump off Harris, some loony did. That’s obvious. I got my job to consider. I gotta deliver mail to Medina. It’s no skin off my ass what Sanchez does.”
“Is Sanchez tough, Randy?”
“He don’t look tough, he just looks oily. Mexican-smart.”
“What’s his address?”
“Three-one-one Medina, number sixty-one.”
“Does he live alone?”
“I think so.”
“Describe him for me, would you?”
“Well, five foot eight inches, one-forty, skinny, duck’s-ass haircut. Always wears khakis and a purple silk jacket with a wolf s head on the back, even in the summer. I guess he’s about thirty.”
I got up and shook Randy Rice’s hand. He winked and started in on another windy monologue on the wetback problem. I cut him off with a wink of my own and a clap on the shoulder. As I walked out of the bar I heard him giving his spiel to the other lonely booze-hounds.
Twenty minutes later I was back on Medina Court, sweltering in the vestibule of number 311. I scanned the bank of mailboxes for apartment 61, found it, and ripped the metal latch off to find the box stuffed with letters bearing Mexican postmarks.
Taking a chance on my rudimentary Spanish, I tore open three of the envelopes at random and read. The letters were scrawled illegibly, but I managed to discern one main theme after reading all three. Cousin Joe Sanchez was moving the Mexican wing of his family up to America, cautiously, one at a time, for a nominal charge. The letters were brimful of gratitude and hope for a good life in the New World. Cousin Joe was effusively praised, and monetary commitments were promised once the new Americans found work. I started to dislike Cousin Joe.
He showed up at six-thirty, just as the sun’s hammer blows were starting to fall short of Medina Court. I watched from the steps of his tenement as a purple 1950 Mercury with fender skirts pulled to the curb and a skinny Mexican with a purple silk jacket and a sullen grin got out, locked the car carefully, and skipped up the steps in my direction.