The Chicano/Latino Literary Prize (41 page)

“Gus Becerra—according to one of the neighbors.” She crossed her arms in front of her and kept pacing. “When I come home from work, he stands in front of his building and watches me pick up my mail. When I go out, I see him looking at me while I'm getting into the car—and sometimes when I come back, too. He gives me the creeps. Now it's worse.”

I leaned against one of the bookcases. “What happened?”

“The mail carrier accidentally delivered some of my mail across the street last week. I'm not sure if it wound up in Becerra's mailbox or what.” She stopped her pacing and faced us. “I subscribe to lots of feminist and lesbian newspapers and magazines. This guy Becerra somehow got his hands on a couple of them. When I got home from work that day, he was standing by my mailbox. He had ripped up my magazines. He threw the pieces at me. From what he started saying, I knew he had read them first. He wasn't going to let me forget that.” She paused, and without looking at either of us, continued in a quieter voice.

“He called me names—all kinds of names. He stood next to me while I unlocked my mailbox and kept up a constant verbal attack. I was scared, Officers—very scared. I took my mail, rushed past him, and hurried upstairs.”

“Did you say anything to him?” Lu asked while she scribbled on her pad.

“Only when I thought he was going to follow me. I turned around on the stairs and said, ‘Don't even think about it.'”

“And then?” I spoke before Lu could.

“He said what I need is ‘a good, hard fuck.' He said he wasn't about to try that himself 'cause he didn't ‘want to get AIDS.'” Ramos sighed. “I know I shouldn't have said anything else. By that time, I was really furious. I called him an ignorant asshole. I told him his brains were between his legs.”

Lu raised one brow. “Did he do anything in response to that?”

Pat Ramos nodded. “He started up after me. Good thing I already had my keys out. I unlocked the door as fast as I could and slammed it behind me. I didn't hear him go away for a long time.”

“When did that occur, Ms. Ramos?”

“Last Friday. I reported it,” she added with what I thought was a trace of sarcasm. “When no officers showed up, I went to stay with a friend. I didn't see Becerra when I left, and I didn't see him when I came home the next day either. Meanwhile, I told several friends about the whole thing. They all wanted me to stay with them. I just don't want to get into the habit of doing that. Know what I mean? I need to feel
safe
in my own home. I've lived here five years. There's never been any trouble before.”

She hardly took a breath. “Then today, Becerra was waiting in front. He started yelling at me again by the mailboxes. I went upstairs fast and phoned my friends. Two of them came over. He started in on them too.”

Lu's dark eyes studied hers. “Exactly what did he do?”

Pat Ramos sighed and rubbed her hands against her jeans. “He called them the same names he'd used on me. ‘Mother-fuckin' dykes.' ‘Pussylickers.' I think you can get the picture.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Lu kept her eyes on the woman's. “Did your friends provoke him in any way?”

“No. I warned them not to before they came over. I don't want any more trouble. My friends didn't want to leave till you showed up, but I sent them home. I was worried about them.” For the first time, Pat Ramos sounded tired. “How can I avoid trouble when Becerra keeps hanging around my mailbox? All I'm doing is trying to get my mail.”

Lu studied her. “Has he touched you in any way?”

Pat Ramos shook her head. “No. That doesn't mean he won't. I hate all this, Officers. It's like living in a fortress all of a sudden.” Her eyes did not waver when she gazed at us. “I want him stopped—before he does anything else.”

I sensed her fear and tension, but still was puzzled about her current lifestyle. What had changed her from the scrawny kid I remembered? She had been raised in the same neighborhood as me, played softball with my sister, shared identical family values, and a Catholic education. What had made her cross the line into an unknown territory?

Lu must have been aware of my wandering thoughts. She stuck her notepad in her belt and opened the door. “Ms. Ramos, we'll go talk to Mr. Becerra right now. Whether he knows it or not, he's in violation of your civil rights.”

“I doubt if he cares, but thanks.”

Before I closed the door behind me, I glanced at her. “We'll be back.”

“How'd you like that little trip down memory lane?” Lu muttered as we crossed the quiet street.

“Sure as hell took me by surprise.” I shook my head in bewilderment. “That Patty Ramos used to pitch a mean ball, Lu. Didn't see any of her softball trophies on those shelves.”

Lu cut her eyes at me. “Mmmhmm. Plenty of lesbo-type books instead.”

“Yeah. She sure doesn't look like a dyke to me.”

“No more than you look like a cop, cholo-boy.” Lu grinned and led the way to the apartment building where Becerra lived.

“Good evening, Officers,” we heard someone call when we got there. A stout sixtyish woman in a yellow sweatsuit came around a corner of the building and paused by the low brick border. She held a leather leash with a tiny mongrel on the other end. “I'm Faye Preston. Can I help you with something?”

I nodded to her. “We'd appreciate it, ma'am. We're looking for a man named Gus Becerra.”

She looked rattled when I said that. “Hate to admit it—he's one of my tenants.” She glanced around to be sure no one overheard. “If it wasn't for the asinine rent control laws in this town, you'd better believe I'd have thrown
him out by now. He acted all sweet and polite when I rented to him a few months ago. He's changed his tune since.”

“Ma'am?” Lu took out her notebook again.

“He's a mean son-of-a-bitch—pardon my French. Lives in Number Three with his wife and little girl. I go out of town a lot—Las Vegas, Laughlin—you know, once us seniors escape the rat race, we like to gamble. The other tenants say he beats up on his wife whenever I happen to leave. Makes me worried sick about that poor woman and the little daughter.” Faye Preston sighed with genuine concern.

“Whether it's true or not, Officers, I don't really know,” she went on. “He keeps his windows shut, drapes snapped tight. I might be the landlady—lot of good that does—can't even see inside that place. Never been able to overhear anything either—my hearing isn't what it used to be.”

“Anything else, ma'am?”

“Is there ever,” she said. “Other folks on the street tell me he yells at their kids all the time. Some of them won't let their little girls play anywhere near here because of Becerra and his foul mouth. What's he done now?”

Lu gave her a cordial nod. “We'll take it from here, Mrs. Preston. Thanks.”

Faye Preston kept talking while she watched us head into the building's courtyard. “From what the neighbors tell me, I wouldn't let my own little darlin' puppy near that big lug.”

When I turned to wave at her, she gave the small mongrel's leash a tug, as if to emphasize her point. “Don't worry, honey. I'll clean up after Petunia.” She saluted me and pulled a plastic pooper-scooper out of the paper bag she held.

I grinned. “Good for you, ma'am.”

Becerra' s apartment was tucked away in the far corner of the first floor.

Lu pushed the doorbell to apartment three. “Landlady's damn opinionated about this guy.”

“Becerra sounds like a real beloved figure,” I remarked, still half-smiling.

In seconds, what was left of my grin faded. We came face to face with Gus Becerra. His bulk with its thick neck and flabby middle squeezed itself into a khaki security guard's uniform. He had a close-cropped head and heavylidded stare. Right off, I tagged him for a cop wannabe, fixated on keeping his neighborhood clean single-handed. I wasn't a bit surprised to hear his radio blaring the local police frequency.

“What can I do you for?” Slack-jawed, Becerra stood in his open doorway, giving us the once-over.

Even in the shadows, I could tell by Lu's face she had no use for this guy. Not that she was crazy about protecting dykes. She cared even less for macho-types who intimidated every female on the block. I made some quick introductions. Then Lu took over.

“We're here to investigate a possible violation of California Code Section 51.7, Mr. Becerra. A young lady across the street says you've harassed her and her friends.”

“You call that mother-fuckin' bull dyke a ‘lady'? My ass.” Becerra spit out his words. “That bitch is out to snatch every little Susie-Q on this street. I've seen how she looks at all the teenaged girls around here. And you should see the sick trash she reads. Did she tell you I tore it up? Fuckin' A, I'd do it
again
. Sick and tired of all these dykes and faggots going public, trying to lure innocent kids. You ought to lock
her
and her kind up. Jesus Christ, I have a baby daughter and—”

“Excuse me, Mr. Becerra,” Lu cut in. “You have no right to read or destroy another person's mail. That's a Federal crime—outside our jurisdiction—but that young lady could file a complaint against you for that alone. You have no right to intimidate her either. Do you know what a hate crime is?”

“Blah, blah, blah.” A high-pitched laugh burst out of Becerra's ugly mouth. That crazy sound made me step a little closer to Lu.

My partner did not let him shake her. “A hate crime is violence or intimidation by the threat of violence committed against another because of race, color, religion, ancestry, national origin, political affiliation, sex,
sexual orientatio
n, age, disability—”

Becerra's eyes almost bugged out at Lu's emphasis. “You tryin' to tell me that fuckin' dyke has civil rights? What about the safety of this neighborhood, huh? What about my daughter and all the other girls on the block? I want them to be safe, not lured into that sleazy dyke's apartment.”

“Regardless of your personal opinion, Mr. Becerra, that young woman,” Lu said through gritted teeth, “is entitled to the same civil rights as you are.”

“She's a pussy-lickin', cunt-chewin' dyke. I don't give a shit about her so-called god-damned rights. How'd you like that snatch-sniffing
señorita
to take a grab at
your
tits?” He jabbed his middle finger at Lu.

“Keep your hands to yourself, Mr. Becerra.”

“Shut up, you black bitch.”

I moved nearer to grab his attention and give Lu a chance to cool off. “You keep this up, Mr. Becerra, and we'll have to take you in.”

“Fuck you, stinkin' beaner—”

“Mr. Becerra, whether
I
like it or not, we're both Latinos—so you just cancelled out that ethnic slur. My partner and I are going to leave now. We'll give you some time to calm down and think this over. ¿Entiendes? Listen good, hombre.”

He smirked while I faced him down.

“You are not to threaten nor in any way intimidate the young lady across the street. You are not to stand by her mailbox and harass her or her friends.
Otherwise, Mr. Becerra, you're in violation of her civil rights, you're liable for arrest, and she can file a civil suit against you. ¿Comprendes?”

“Ain't goin' to listen to a greaseball coconut and a fat-lipped oreo—that's what you both are. Doing the white man's shit work. Get the hell out of my face!” He slammed the door hard.

Lu and I looked at each other. My adrenalin was pumping and I could see the veins in her neck throbbing.

“You okay, Partner?”

She nodded. “He's too damn stupid to realize he's the wrong color to be a bigot. I could've handled him
myself
, Ron.”

“I know you hate the word ‘black' used in a negative way—especially when the word ‘bitch' is added to it.”

“What did I
do
to deserve such a considerate partner?” She grumbled as we crossed the street to Pat Ramos' apartment.

“If Becerra doesn't quit the harassment, Ms. Ramos,” Lu advised, “you may have to obtain a temporary restraining order to make him keep his distance. He's hopping mad right now. He didn't like hearing you could sue him for violating your civil rights.”

“Homophobes like to think they're above the law.” Pat Ramos looked weary. “All I want is for him to leave me alone.”

“Well, if he doesn't, give us another call. I sure wouldn't mind taking that guy in,” I drawled. “In the meantime, concentrate on what you can do to protect yourself.”

She sighed while I went on.

“Have the owner of your building put some bright lights outside. Some landlords don't realize they're legally responsible if tenants are injured on their property. Becerra might think twice about hassling you if the building's exterior is as well-lit as Dodger Stadium. Why don't you tell the landlord we mentioned that?”

She nodded.

Lu kept her hand on the doorknob as we were about to leave. “In the meantime, be careful. Let Becerra spout off all he wants—don't answer him. His intent is to rattle you, Ms. Ramos. Don't give him
that
satisfaction.”

“It won't be easy, but I know you're right. Thanks again, Officers.” Pat Ramos leaned against the door jamb and at last smiled a bit. “Say ‘hi' to Margie when you see her.”

“Sure.” I handed her my card. “If Becerra keeps up his weirdness, don't hesitate to call. That's what we're here for.” I took the stairs two at a time after Lu.

Off duty, Lu and I had coffee at the IHOP on the corner of 20th Street and Santa Monica Boulevard. The waitress left the pot on our table and we split a piece of hot apple pie between us.

“Pretty down in the mouth tonight, Partner. Still trying to figure Ms. Ramos out? Hope you weren't sweet on her once upon a time.”