Wolf in the Shadows (16 page)

“Shar?”

See what you made me do?
The childish phrase suddenly popped into my head. A convenient way to blame everyone else for your own mistakes. Lord knew
I’d often employed it, but I wasn’t a child anymore.
I
had neglected to explain my problem to Hank.
I
had asked Rae to lie.
I
had screwed myself out of my job. No circumstance or person had forced me to do any of those things.

“Rae,” I said, “tell Hank I’m sorry. And tell him I’ll explain when I get back, for the sake of our friendship. You’re not
to worry about being blamed for your part in this, either. I got you into it, and I’ll set things right.”

“I’m not sure I care. Without you here, this won’t be a good place to work anymore.”

“Don’t say that.” I heard an engine noise outside. Parted the curtains beside the desk and saw John coming up the driveway
on his motorcycle. “We’ll talk more about it when I get back. I’ve got to go now.”

“But where can I reach—”

“Rae, it’s not safe. I’ll try to get in touch tomorrow. You take care.” I hung up and went to greet John.

“So you’re awake,” he said, coming inside and leaving the door open to create a cross breeze. “Here,” he added and tossed
me a manila envelope.

“What’s this?”

“Extra copies of your boyfriend’s picture.”

“Thanks. I’ll pay you back—and for a couple of phone calls I made. Did you find out anything?”

He went to the fridge and got a beer. “Pete did. He’s got some family connection to Vic, the guy that owns Holiday Market.
The reason Vic was so uptight with you this morning is that the place serves as a sort of information center for illegals—you
know, if they’re trying to find somebody or a safe house or a ride north. Whatever they need, Vic helps them get it.”

“Drugs?”

He shook his head. “Not to hear Pete tell it. He says the Holiday’s there to help his people, not to bring them down.”

“So what about Hy?”

John leaned against the back of the couch, sipping beer. “He went in there around five-fifteen on Sunday, bought some coffee,
then went back outside and hung around for about half an hour. Talked to two women, that’s all.”

“Did this Vic know the women?”

“One he’d never seen before and could barely describe. Just said she was short with short dark hair. Hispanic. The other—Ana
Orozco—he knows, and he called her and asked if she’d talk with you. She will, but it’ll cost.”

I’d expected to pay for information, would do so gladly if it would lead me to Hy. But I was running short of cash. “How much?”

“Seventy-three bucks.”

“That’s a lot. Why such an odd amount?”

“Because she’s got two hundred and twenty-two bucks, and the abortion clinic charges two ninety-five. That’s why they know
her at the store; she crossed the border on Sunday and came around asking about clinics.”

“I thought Mexico was where you
go
for abortions. At least that was what they said in high school.”

John shook his head, eyes solemn. “Even then, abortion was illegal in Mexico, and there’s been a big crackdown on the clinics.
The wife of a buddy of mine works at a clinic in the Hillcrest district near U.C. Med Center; she claims that after the early
sixties the only abortions you could buy in Tijuana were from cab drivers with rusty knives and pliers. I’m not sure I believe
that, but I do know that the methods they use down there aren’t real good for a woman’s health. And they’re expensive.”

“So now Mexican doctors are telling their patients to go to San Diego.”

“Yeah. Gina, my friend’s wife, says that about a quarter of all the procedures they perform at her clinic are on Mexican nationals.”

We were getting far afield from the business at hand. I asked, “Does Pete think this woman is on the level? Or could it be
she doesn’t know anything but sees this as a quick way to raise the money?”

John shrugged. “Pete trusts Vic, but he doesn’t know the woman.”

“Well, it’s the only lead I’ve got, so I better follow up on it. Can you stake me to some cash?”

“I’ll put it on your tab.”

“Where is the woman?”

“National City.”

“And her address?”

He hesitated, taking his time finishing his beer. “I’ll take you there.”

“No, just give me the address. This is something I have to handle by—”

“No, it’s not.” He straightened, went to the desk, and rummaged in a cashbox. “It’s a rough area down there, and you shouldn’t—”

“Exactly what do you think I’ve been doing all these years? Traveling with a bodyguard?”

“Obviously you haven’t. In those years, you’ve been stabbed, almost drowned, and shot in the ass. Christ knows what else has
happened that you haven’t told me about.”

“John, I can take care of—”

“All right—you can. But why make things harder on yourself than you have to?”

“I’m thinking of you. This is a potentially dangerous situation, and I’m not just talking about muggers. It’s not your problem,
and I don’t want to involve—”

“I’m already involved.”

“No, you’re not.”

He spread his arms wide in exasperation. “Look, do you want me to get down on my knees and beg you to take me? All right,
I will.” Dropping to one knee, he raised his hands in supplication. “Dear sister, please take me with you.”

“This is ridiculous. Get up!” I tugged at his arm.

He stayed where he was, grinning idiotically.

For a moment I considered telling him I had Pa’s .45 in my bag, but my use of firearms had erected a barrier between us in
the past—had erected a barrier between me and other people I cared about, too. “Oh, hell!” I exclaimed. I supposed I
could
take him along, have him watch for a possible tail as I drove. But some ground rules would have to be set right now. “All
right,” I told him, “you can come. But you can
not
go inside with me when I talk to the woman. You will do exactly what I tell you. And you will navigate while I drive.”

“It’s my Scout.”

“You’ve been drinking.”

“One beer.”

“One’s enough. You want to come or not?”

He thrust out his jaw belligerently. I was reminded of him at ten, pouting because Ma had swatted him for trying to climb
into the polar bear pit at the zoo.

“You want to come or not?” I repeated.

He got off his knees. “You know, you’ve turned into a bully.”

“Are you going to obey the rules and do exactly what I tell you?”

“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.”

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.”