George Pelecanos (23 page)

"It's
been brewing for a while. There's so much tension between Latinos and the
police. The shooting was like a flame to a tinderbox."

Cort
nodded. "What about the shooting?"

Father
Dave shrugged. "I've probably heard what you've heard. The police say the man
pulled a knife.
There's rumors
that he was handcuffed.
There's probably a lot of misinformation going around."

Cort
suppressed a chuckle. Driving over, he'd tuned in to an all-news station. A radio
reporter had breathlessly noted that the violence erupted on the Mexican
holiday Cinco de Mayo, and speculated on a connection. Mount Pleasant was
Salvadoran territory, with Hondurans, Guatemalans, and Nicaraguans mixed in.

Cort
said, "Yeah, bad information. Thanks, Father. I've got to roam now."

"Good
to see you, Cortez. Drop by anytime. You're always welcome at Mass."

Cort
stepped away, surveying the aftermath of the bedlam. His stomach churned as the
dimensions of the missed opportunity sunk in.

"Goddamnit."

Even
with the city clocking nearly 500 murders a year, Cort had to hustle for a
byline. For every ten murders, one would yield a story, usually a fifteen-inch
quickie buried inside Metro.

A
yuppie victim was guaranteed decent ink. But a black or Hispanic homey gunned
down in the hood? Well, that's what the Briefs column was for.

Cort
reached the end of the riot zone, hooked a right, and ambled north on Mount
Pleasant Street.

The
street featured dollar stores, bars, greasy carryouts, liquor stores, old
apartment buildings, and Heller's Bakery, which arguably produced the finest
cakes in the city.

The
MacArthur Park section of Los Angeles was Little El Salvador, and Mount
Pleasant was its East Coast counterpart. Inside Haydee's, a Salvadoran restaurant,
former Marxist guerillas drank beer with ex--Salvadoran Army soldiers as they
argued over soccer games playing on a TV behind the bar. Nearby, Salvadoran day
laborers stood outside 7-Eleven, or "El Seven," as they called it, waiting for
work. Salvadoran vendors with metal carts dotted the street, hawking fresh
mangos.

To
the west, a series of quiet, tree-lined residential streets with row houses
sloped down toward Rock Creek Park and the National Zoo.

The
street was unscathed, except for El Seven. A window had been shattered and a
store worker swept glass off the sidewalk.

Cort
pulled out the cell phone and punched in Chuck's number. "Everything's quiet
now. I'm heading back." He clicked off, muttering, "Goddamnit."

He
was three blocks from the office when a high-pitched screech rang out from the
police scanner.

A
woman dispatcher said, "Attention units paged.
Third District
officers at a stabbing at an apartment building, the corner of Park Road and
Mount Pleasant Street.
Homicide requested.

Cort
pulled over to the curb. Mount Pleasant Street dead-ended at Park Road, three
blocks north of 7-Eleven, one block over from 16th Street.

A murder on the edge of the riot zone?
Huh.

Cort
pulled out the cell phone and called Chuck.

"Yeah,
I heard it," Cort said. "I'm heading back. Maybe it's connected to the riot.
I'll call as soon as I know."

The
brick apartment building was four stories high, with a fading, chipped white
paint job and a well-manicured lawn decorated with shrubs and small shade
trees.

A
concrete walkway stretched thirty yards from the side-walk to the glass
double-doors at the front entrance. From the entrance, the building jutted out
on both sides out to the sidewalk, in a half H configuration. A short, black
iron fence surrounded it. Yellow crime scene tape was draped across the width
of the fence.

The
victim was halfway down the walkway, lying on his back, his head turned away
from the street.

He
was a stocky Hispanic man, in his early twenties, wearing faded blue jeans, a
yellow polo shirt, and black canvas sneakers. The chest area of his shirt was
stained a dark crimson. His right arm was crooked at an angle above his head,
and his left arm was parallel to his body. Wooden crutches lay on either side
of him.

Two
crime scene technicians in navy-blue uniforms worked around the body. One
leaned down and shot photos. The other, wearing disposable latex gloves and
holding a flashlight in her left hand, was on her hands and knees, looking for
evidence.

A
uniformed sergeant Cort knew from previous shooting scenes stood just inside
the front gate. An unmarked sedan and a squad car were parked in front of the
building. The detective was probably inside the building, interviewing
witnesses.

To
the right, a handful of spectators had gathered on the sidewalk. A local TV
newsman, Brad Bellinger,
chatted
them up while a
cameraman rolled tape on the body.

Across
the street, to the left, three young Latino men in jeans and battered sneakers
stood underneath a streetlight in front of the Argyle convenience store. Two of
the men looked
anxious,
they kept looking from the
body to the third man and back again. The third man, slightly older, in his
late twenties, leaned against the lamppost, his gaze steady on the body. He
looked like he was doing a slow burn.

Cort
soaked it all in as he walked deliberately toward the crime scene, his satchel
slung over his right shoulder.

He
stopped at the gate and asked the sergeant, "This related to the riot?"

"Unlikely."
The sergeant nodded over his shoulder, toward the body. "Victim has an MS-13
tat on his forearm, my money's on a gang beef. The guy from Homicide's inside,
he'll be out soon." MS-13 was a Salvadoran gang.

"Thanks."

Cort
turned and sauntered toward the three Latinos. Maybe they'd seen something.

One
man was wearing a white and red Budweiser T-shirt and a chain with a silver
cross around his neck. The guy next to him wore a soccer shirt emblazoned with
the light-blue and white Salvadoran flag. The older man wore a red Chicago
Bulls T-shirt.

They
clammed up when Cort got within earshot.

"Buenas
noches," Cort said.

Tentatively,
the two younger men responded in kind. The older man gave Cort the once-over.
In Spanish, he said, "Who are you?"

"Periodista,"
Cort replied. In Spanish, Cort identified himself: "My name is Cortez
DeLojero,
I'm a reporter for the Washington Tribune." He
gestured toward the murder scene. Continuing in Spanish, he said, "Can you help
me with what happened? Is this about the riot?" He kept his notebook and pen
holstered; bringing them out too soon spooked some civilians.

The
two younger men looked at their shoes.

The
older man peered at Cort a long moment,
then
said,
"This isn't about the riot."

Budweiser
said, "His name was Roberto Arias. He deserved better."

No
riot angle. Probably a gang beef. He could hear Chuck say, dismissively, "Brief
it."

Cort
put his palms out. "So, what happened?"

Chicago
moved off the lamppost and squared up to Cort. "He was murdered by a coyote. He
was behind in his payments, because he was hurt, and the son of a bitch killed
him."

Cort
felt an adrenaline surge. This was interesting.

"How
do you know?"

Chicago
pointed to an apartment building adjacent to the murder scene. "The three of us
live there, we share an apartment. Roberto lives, lived, next door, with his
sister. We were walking
home,
Roberto was going to his
place. He screamed. We ran over--Gato was standing over him. He pointed his
knife at us and said, 'This is what happens to people who don't pay.' Then he
wrapped the knife in a ban-dana and ran that way." Chicago pointed west, toward
the neighborhood of row houses.

Halfway
into the account, Cort had pulled out his note-book and pen, and was writing
furiously. He jotted "Bud," "Sal," and "Chi," respectively, next to each man's
statement.

"Did
Roberto say anything?" Cort asked.

"He
couldn't. He gasped, and he was gone," Chicago said.

A death scene--outstanding.
Cort walked them through the evening.

Chicago
said they'd been playing soccer at a nearby schoolyard. Roberto watched. When
the game ended, the riot was raging. They went to a friend's apartment and
waited it out. They had a few beers and walked home after calm was restored.

Cort
nodded as he took down the account. "And why did Gato kill him?"

Budweiser
explained: Four months before, Gato and two other men had driven the four of
them and eight others in a van from their village near San Salvador across the
Mexican border into California, then to D.C. Each man owed $1,800. Each man had
to start paying off his debt two weeks after arriving in D.C.

Roberto
had been working steadily in construction, and paying, until he fell off
a second
-floor scaffolding and broke his hip. A week after
Roberto missed his first
payment,
his mom in El
Salvador was kidnapped by the coyote crew. Gato told Roberto he needed to come
up with a thousand dollars.

Chicago
gestured to his friends. "We all pitched in, others too. Roberto paid, and his
mother was freed. But two days later, Gato told Roberto that was just a
tax,
he needed to keep up his payments."

Budweiser
made a circular motion with his index finger near his head--the universal loco
gesture. "Gato smokes PCP."

Jackpot.

Most
victims were drug slingers, bandits, or enforcers. Editors didn't break a sweat
over them. But this was what the Homicides called a real murder. This had
front-page potential.

Cort
said, "Describe Gato."

Chicago
said, "He's about your size, but bigger, like he lifts weights. He's about
twenty-five. His hair is short, slicked back."

"Anything else?
A scar,
anything like that?"

Chicago
shrugged. Budweiser rubbed his chin.

Salvadoran
flag said, "Yeah, the tattoo."

"What
tattoo?"

"He
has a big tattoo of a dollar sign on his left bicep. He always wears tank tops
or T-shirts with the left sleeve cut off to show it off," Salvadoran flag said.
Chicago and Budweiser nodded in assent.

"Just on his left arm?"

"Yes,"
Salvadoran flag said.

Cort
wrote it down. "How can I find him?"

Chicago
said, "He shows up at Don Juan's every Monday, around 7:00.
To
collect from a waitress."

"You sure?"

"She's
my girlfriend."

Nice.
Cort figured he had all he needed. He looked at the three and said, "So, what
are your names?"

Budweiser
and El Sal looked at Chicago. Chicago thought about it and said, "Michael
Jordan."

Budweiser
said, "Michael Jackson."

El
Sal said, "George Bush."

Cort
smiled. He thanked them and started walking back to the apartment building.
He'd taken one step when it hit him. He pivoted. "Have you talked to the
police?"

The
three men shook their heads. Michael Jordan said, "No, the paramedics shooed us
away. I tried to tell them, but they didn't speak Spanish."

Cort
allowed himself a quick smile. He'd score a bucket load of chits from Homicide
if he handed them eyeball wit-

His
eyes swept across the three men. "Would you be willing to talk to a detective?"

Silence.
Finally, Michael Jordan
said, "We don't want any problems."

"Problems"
meant immigration. Cort said, "The police are only interested in who killed
Roberto."

Michael
Jordan said, "How do we know?"

"You
can trust me."

Michael
Jordan cocked his head to the side.
"Maybe, maybe not."

Cort
looked at the other two men. No give in either of their faces. The cross around
Michael Jackson's neck gave him an idea. "When you all went to Mass this
morning, it was at Sacred Heart, right?"

The
three men nodded.

Cort
thought about asking them to wait, decided it might spook them. "Thanks." He
turned and began jogging east on Park Road, toward 16th Street.

Brad
Bellinger hustled onto the street and held up a palm. With his dark wavy hair,
blue eyes, and square jaw, Bellinger bore an unsettling resemblance to a
full-sized Ken doll.

Cort
pulled up. Bellinger said, "Get anything good from those guys?"

Each
of the local TV news outfits had a cheesy promotional slogan. The slogan for
Bellinger's station was, "We report to you!