The Angels of Catastrophe (20 page)

“Ah, nothing much. I've just been trying to find you. To have a talk and stuff. What's going on with you?”

The Mexican sensed trouble and raised his eyebrows and adjusted his sunglasses. He shrank from Durrutti. “I've been around. I went down to my cousin's place in Fresno for a wedding. Got into a fight there so I had to leave. Then I went to San Jose for a car show. Saw some people in Fremont. Mostly I've been working on my car. It's been giving me a shit load of trouble. The fucking thing is so old, I have to keep replacing parts on it all the time. It's a ‘63 Impala. It rules the highway,” Jimmy said with paternal satisfaction. “So you were looking for me? What the fuck for?”

The traffic on Folsom Street was a blizzard of vehicles. Durrutti had a hard time hearing himself. The sun was falling on his face, making him perspire. “It's about that gun I gave you. Do you know where it is? The cops are asking me about it.”

Jimmy took off his sunglasses and stared hard at Durrutti. His mouth went limp, the bottom lip touching his chin. His lard-soft eyes were wounded with anxiety. He played innocent, letting his face go slack, not showing anything except a manic disdain for the truth. He was liking what he was hearing less and less. “What gun? I don't know shit about no gun. What are you talking about? I don't know what the heck you're saying.”

“C'mon, dude.” Durrutti persisted, bearing down. His shaving rash prickled, but he resisted the desire to scratch his skin. “The gun without the fucking serial numbers. The
revolver I turned you on to, remember? You took it to a gunsmith.”

Jimmy nervously bridged his fingers together and shook his head from left to right. He was such a clever liar, a polygraph test on him would break the machine. “I didn't take nothing to no gunsmith. Ain't never been to a gunsmith in my fucking life.”

Dealing with Jimmy you had to have the persistence of the Pacific Ocean to get what you needed from him. Dealing with himself was even harder for Durrutti. He was losing control and he wanted to throw his hands up and scream. He said, “That's crap. You know you went to the goddamn gunsmith. Don't fuck with me like that.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Prove it.”

“I don't have to. The gunsmith called the cops.”

“He did?” Jimmy whipped out a comb and ran it through his towering pompadour. “The double-crossing motherfucker. I told him to call me first if he was gonna do that.” His bushy eyebrows did a jig, knitting his forehead with stress. “But who cares? It don't mean shit. Fuck him. And fuck you, too.”

Durrutti exhaled. He'd been waiting to say it for days and he said it with vehemence. “The cops want to know more about the gun.”

“So?”

“You told them it was stolen from you, right?”

The question pressed Jimmy's buttons and made him borderline paranoid and more talkative. “Oh, you mean
that
gat? That was a bummer. The pigs came to my crib in the middle of the fucking night and woke me up to ask me about it. They thought I had it. I said I didn't. They didn't believe me so they dragged me down to the station and grilled my ass. Had me in a room with these plainclothes dudes, trying to scare me. It didn't work—I told them all kinds of shit. I lied like a motherfucker.”

“What did you say to them?”

“I didn't tell them nothing. They wanted that fucking gun but bad and I didn't have it no more. But what's it to you anyway? Here you are. I ain't seen you in a century and you want to know my personal business, the details. I think that's queer as fuck.” Jimmy's face was impossible to read, but the dread was coming off him in tidal waves. “What do you want from me?”

“Where the fuck is the gun, man?”

Jimmy Ramirez grimaced heroically and sniggered. “Don't know. Let me break it down for you, homeboy. I say a lot of things I don't mean. Shitjust sort of slips out when I ain't thinking. You can't hold that against me, can you?”

“But you gave the police a name. Get it?”

“They said that?” Jimmy hit his leg with the comb for emphasis. “That's a lie. I don't rat on people. Besides I can't even recollect ever talking to the pigs in the first fucking place. I don't even remember talking to you. Who'd they say the guy was that took my gun?”

“Paul Stevens.”

“The
maricon?
The mofo that hangs out at K&H Liquors? Well, shit, he's a punk supreme. I never did like him. Me and him, we never did click. He has this vibe, like
he's a bad ass or something. He don't like me either and I know he's the thief. Damn right I told the cops he took my motherfucking gun.”

Durrutti stung the Mexican with a bruising stare. “He's dead. Long dead. It wasn't him. You gave up the wrong guy.”

“Don't be talking foolishness here, Ricky. I ain't got the time for it. I don't make mistakes. I know when a man is dead and I know when he's alive. Give me credit for that much, okay?”

“He's been dead from AIDS for years.”

“Chale!
”Jimmy's mouth dropped two inches. His skin seemed suddenly pale. “I knew he wasn't feeling so hot, but I thought I saw him the other day down there on Sixteenth Street. You know, by the phone booth and shit because I swear, he came up to me and asked for a quarter.”

“He died three years ago. Now the cops are on my butt about him. Where else have you been?”

Jimmy was noncommittal. A crown of deceit hung over him, visible in the day's light. “Oh, here and there. I went up to Yuba City to see my relatives. The youngest boy there, my cousin, he just got out of the joint. Been in Marion, Florence and Terminal Island. Then I went to Sacramento. My car broke down and I got hung up with that.”

“You know Fleeta Bolton has been hunting for you.”

“Fleeta?” Jimmy chimed with happiness. “I ain't seen him in a month of Sundays.” The thought of his friend made Jimmy reminisce. “Me and the
vato
... shit, back in the day, we were a thing of beauty. I had my car. He had his. It was good. What's going on with him?”

“He's interested in the money you owe him.”

Jimmy tittered. “The hell he is. I hope he ain't holding his fucking breath for it because I ain't got none to give him. All people do is worry about their money. I'm getting sick of it.”

Durrutti was abrupt. His tongue was leaden. The pain in his chest was sodden, garroting him from the inside. “The police keep wanting to tie me and that fucking gun into that cop killing.”

“With the fool who died on Mission Street?”

“Yeah, him.”

How Jimmy Ramirez gazed at him, you would have thought Durrutti had just given him a venereal disease. Jimmy flinched and took a step away from him, like he was contagious. “I'm sorry to hear that. Real sorry. But what does it have to do with me? Not a damn thing.”

“They said you told them things.”

Jimmy's eyes ballooned in their almond-shaped hollows. “I didn't say shit to them!”

Durrutti took it one step further, cutting deeper into Jimmy's defensiveness. “You gave them Paul Stevens's name, you jerk. A fucking dead man. What did you do that for?”

The Mexican made a dull attempt to deceive him. “Yeah, maybe I did say that to them. And maybe I didn't. I don't remember. Maybe I put the
pinche pistola
somewhere safe when nobody was looking. You ever think of that, asshole?”

“That ain't what you told the cops.”

The blitz of knowledge dazed Jimmy Ramirez; he drowned his confusion under a layer of bluster. His face
soured as he ingested the news. He wanted no involvement with what he'd just heard. “You saying I'm a snitch?” He pulled off his belt to do battle. His earrings jingled in the wind, reflecting the sun. “We're gonna have to throw some
chingasos
here, goddamn it.”

Tired of the bantering, Durrutti cut to the chase. He went for Jimmy's throat. “So who shot that cop?”

The silence that followed the question was volcanic. The space between the two men was taut with disquietude. Jimmy answered lazily, studying his fingernails. “I know this. It ain't like things have gotten any better now that there's one less pig on the street. You get rid of one, ten more take his fucking place. That's the law of physics, you hear where I'm coming from,
ese
?”

“Do you know who did it?”

“The shooting? Who wants to know? You? You ain't nobody. You ain't even that. If I know anything, I ain't verbalizing it to you. You wanna know why?”

“Why?”

“If I tell you, then you'll blab it to someone else. That's the domino theory. How many times have I told you: don't talk to nobody. That's the golden rule. You wanna get ahead in life? You gotta cheat and be discreet.”

Jimmy's reluctance to be forthright called for stronger measures.

“The police think Paul Stevens did the shooting with the gun stolen from you. That means you're involved.”

The conversion Jimmy Ramirez went through was memorable. An elegy to the flexibility of the human face. One moment he was deadpan, sanguine, happy to play
Durrutti for a sucker. The next moment he was on his toes, raging at the top of his lungs. “That's total bullshit! Everybody knows who done that killing!”

Durrutti gave Jimmy a piece of advice. “Pipe down, dickhead. You want everyone to hear this?”

“I don't give a damn.” Jimmy did an abbreviated tap-dance, holding his belly as if he had indigestion. “Hell,” he said. “That
maricon,
that Paul Stevens or whatever, he didn't kill no cop.”

The conversation was turning in Durrutti's favor and he went for Jimmy's jugular vein. “I know he didn't. But where is that .32? The Feds want it.”

Jimmy swatted a fly and gave off the impression what he'd just heard had taken place on Mars. “The Feds? Heavy duty. You're fucked.”

“No shit. That's why I needed to talk to you.”

Jimmy stared at Durrutti. The lack of trust between the two underfed criminals was magnetic. A dense forest of cynicism divided them. He ciphered the Jew's face and gurgled, “You can't even prove you gave that revolver to me. And if the cops ask me about you, I'm gonna say I don't even know who you are. So none of this touches me. That makes it your problem, not mine. Anything else you want?”

Durrutti put his cards on the table. “I need your help, Jimmy.”

The Mexican got crafty. He pictured Durrutti's wallet in his pocket. Unfortunately, there was no money in the billfold. “You do, huh? That ain't hard to guess. What do I get out of it?”

He was honest. “Not a whole lot.”

“Orale.
That's what I thought. You ain't got shit. Fair enough. Okay. Let's do some thinking here. Do the cops know Paul Stevens is dust? Do they know the motherfucker is dead? Did you tell them that? Is anyone saying anything?”

Durrutti guided himself to the answer. “No.”

Jimmy was elated. He opened his mouth in a gory smile. He flung his hands in the air and did a tango. “Presto! There's your answer. You're clean. Pin the killing on the dead guy. That way, nobody gets hurt. Who's gonna know? The only thing you have to do from now on in is keep your damn mouth shut.”

“Wrong,” Durrutti bitched. “If the cops can't find the perpetrator and talk to him, they'll drop the ball on me. They're dogging me.”

“Yeah, so?” Jimmy hedged. “I can't do anything about that.”

“You can tell them I'm not in on any of this.” Durrutti was on the brink of a tantrum.

Listening to him, Jimmy Ramirez let out a gale of laughter. He showed his mouth with the many fillings in his teeth. “
Chale!
You want me to rescue you? No fucking way, dude. I ain't that stupid. Is that why you've been looking for me? To clean up after your poo-poo? You want a maid? Fucking Christ, you've been wasting your time, boy.”

“But—”

“But nothing. Keep your shit to yourself. You cover your own ass. I ain't going to do it for you. I ain't talking to the cops.”

“C'mon, man,” Durrutti wheedled. “I'm not gonna make it without you.”

“Fuck you ... coming across all co-dependent. Don't you be whining at me with that crybaby shit.”

“I just need for you to talk.”

“I ain't gonna talk. You think I want to be dead? In a pine box? You think I like the police? I ain't into that, no how. I got things to do.” Jimmy pitched his Ray-Bans back on his nose and lowered his head, looked up and down, then snuffled, “I'm gonna say something I shouldn't be saying, because it ain't like I ain't got my own troubles, see? But since you is seriously fucked up, here's something that might help.”

Durrutti sensed a revelation in the making. “What's that?”

Jimmy did a psychological three-sixty on him, going full circle, shifting from hostility to uncertainty to accommodation in an instant. His neck broke out in hives. “Well, this is fucked up. It really is, because I'll tell you who did that killing.” His tired face was incandescent with righteousness. He cracked the knuckles on both hands and said, “That punk ass bitch Lonely Boy, that's who. The
vato
is a time bomb and he did it.” He went pale and crossed himself and said a prayer in Spanish. Jimmy Ramirez looked like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar.
“Madre de Dios
. But don't you ever tell him I said that.”

“Lonely Boy?”

“That's right,
ese
. The
hijo de la grau puta
is not to be trusted, let me assure you of this. He'll stab you in the back the first chance he gets. He's always saying how I should come party with him and his
carnales?
The motherfucker
would turn me into barbecue if I got within a hundred yards of him.”