Wolf in the Shadows (18 page)

I reached over and touched his hand. “Luis, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, thanks.” He wiped his nose with his hand. “So about this guy … Ana says he’s your friend.”

“Yes.”

“Well, even though I didn’t see him come off the mesa, I think I can help you.”

“Oh?”

“Guy I know. Name’s Marty Salazar. He’s slime. He’s such slime I want to kill the bastard, just wipe him off the face of the
earth—you know? But I’ve got something on him, so he’ll talk to you.”

“And you think he knows something about my friend?”

“Yeah, I sure do.” Abrego nodded, face grim. “Marty followed the Jeep up there.”

Abrego excused himself and went to make some phone calls, and John and I waited in the booth. After a moment John said, “Interesting
guy.”

I nodded.

Fifteen seconds or more passed. He asked, “So what do you think?”

I shrugged.

“You’re awful quiet. Worried?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What, you think Abrego’s not on the level?”

“No, I’m pretty sure he is.”

“This Salazar character, then. You’re—”

“Let’s just drop it for now, okay?”

He frowned, but backed off.

In truth, I was very worried—so much so that I couldn’t voice my concerns. Something had gone wrong on that mesa, I was certain,
and I couldn’t shake the sense that something was about to go wrong again. Even though I was closer to finding Hy than at
any time since this thing began, I’d never felt so distanced.

Abrego came back to the booth. Salazar would see us, he said, but not until ten-thirty. “You can meet me here at ten, and
I’ll take you to him.”

“I thought you were waiting to hear about a job,” I said.

“That?” He moved a hand, pushing it away. “I gave it to another member of my organization.”

“I don’t want to keep you from—”

“You’re not. I didn’t want to make the trip, not after Sunday night. It was only for Ana I was doing it. But since you gave
her the money, I don’t have to.” He paused, looking indecisive. After a moment he sat down and said, “I gotta tell you—Marty
Salazar’s not a guy you or anybody else want to go see alone. But with me and what I got on him … well, he’s gonna act like
a real gentleman.”

“Tell me about Salazar. You called him slime.”

“Too good a word for him, really. Salazar’s got his fingers into everything down here and in Tijuana—drugs, girls, porn,
fake documentation, you name it. He’ll buy and sell anything or anybody for the right price. Do anything, too. He slithers
around like a rattler looking to strike, and when he sees his chance …” Abrego’s hand flashed out and grabbed my wrist in
an apt imitation of a snake.

“You think he’ll tell me what went down on the mesa?” I asked.

Abrego considered. “He’ll tell you something. Part of it’ll be true, part’ll be lies. You keep what you can use, throw the
rest away.”

I nodded, then looked at my watch. “Thanks for setting it up, Luis. I’ll meet you here at ten, then.”

“I’ll be outside. Gray Dodge, kinda beat up. You’ll follow me.”

*    *    *

When we got back to the Scout, John asked, “What do you want to do now?”

“I don’t know. What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know. You hungry?”

“Not really.”

“Ought to eat—and we’ve got a lot of time to kill.”

“We,” I muttered, too worn down to fight it.

“I know what. Take the freeway north. There’s a good burger place on Harbor Drive; they make them big and cheap.”

One thing about my brother—he’ll never become a food snob.

*    *    *

When we left what could loosely be termed a restaurant, it wasn’t yet eight. The big, cheap burger sat in my stomach like
a lump of clay. “Now what?” John asked. “Any ideas?”

“No.”

“You got to stop worrying.”

“Well, that’s not likely to happen, is it? And now that I think of it, there
is
something I want to do: go for a walk on the beach.”

“Now? Why?”

“I still head for water when I’m upset.”

“Okay, then we’ll walk on the beach. Which one?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

In the end we cut over to Ocean Beach at Point Loma, where John used to hang out before he married, trying to pick up girls.
The area is typical southern California beach community: shabby apartment buildings and bungalows—some stucco, some wood
or shingled, all weathered by salt and the elements. We parked and walked across the sand toward the water, skirting a bunch
of teenagers who were playing volleyball. The tide was out, and I wandered along the wet, hard-packed sand, gradually pulling
ahead of John. After I passed the first lifeguard tower, he lagged behind, apparently sensing my need to be left alone. I
unbound my hair and let the cool breeze play with it, took in great gulps of fresh air.

And tried once again for a connection to Hy. Tried and failed, as I had the other times.

After a bit I quickened my pace and moved briskly in an attempt to shake my foreboding. All that did was get the adrenaline
pumping, but not in a good way, and I cast suspicious glances at persons I encountered. I’d intended to walk all the way to
the O.B. Pier, but finally I turned and ran back to where John sat on the sand, leaning against the guard tower.

“Let’s get out of here,” I told him.

He checked his watch. “Might as well head back down to National City. If we’re early, we can just sit till Luis shows up.”

Back at the Scout, I found my nerves were so shot that I was afraid I’d be a menace behind the wheel, so I asked John if he
wanted to drive. He climbed in and took over—master of his own vehicle once more. I sighed, wondering why I’d bothered to
fight him in the first place. As in all the minor skirmishes of his life, circumstances had conspired to give him exactly
what he’d wanted in the first place.

*    *    *

The address Abrego led us to was on Island Avenue in downtown San Diego. Although it is only five blocks and scant minutes
from Broadway, the street might as well be on another planet. On Broadway you have distinctive and sometimes outlandish architecture,
such as that of the new Emerald Shapery Center, which is designed to look like cut green crystals. You have distinguished
old hotels, such as the refurbished U.S. Grant. You have upscale boutiques and the expensive shops of Horton Plaza. But turn
off this main drag to the south, and the architecture becomes squat and functional. The hotels become flophouses. The shops
slip downscale, their windows heavily barred.

By the time you reach Island Avenue, you’ve hit rock bottom. Once-grand Victorians have been turned into rooming houses and
allowed to decay. Derelicts sleep in doorways. Drug addicts and dealers conduct their business in plain sight on the sidewalk.
There are rescue missions, one with a sort of parking lot for shopping carts loaded with the possessions of the homeless.
There are vacant lots littered with broken glass and trash. There are bars and liquor stores and hookers on the prowl. The
squalor is heightened by the affluence that exists only blocks out of reach of the avenue’s wretched and desperate population.

As Abrego’s Dodge pulled over to the curb and stopped, John said, “Christ, I hope we still have wheels when we come out of
wherever he’s taking us.”

“You can always stay behind and stand guard.”

“No way you’re leaving me here alone!”

“My stalwart protector.”

“I’ve just decided you don’t need protecting.”

“About time.” Then I took Pa’s gun from my purse, handed it to him, and said, “Stick this in that recycling carton behind
you and cover it up.”

His eyes widened and he stared at it as if I’d given him a scorpion. “What’re you doing with—”

“Please, John, just put it where it’ll be safe.”

“It’s Pa’s, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I borrowed it.”

“Well, we can’t leave it here. What if somebody broke in and took—”

“It’s safer leaving it here than taking it into Salazar’s place. If he’s as slimy as Luis says, he might search us, and then
you don’t know what he’d do.”

John swallowed hard, nodded, and did as I told him. Then we got out and met Abrego on the sidewalk. He flashed us a reassuring
grin and said, “Don’t let the neighborhood fool you.”

Luis led us to an alley entrance between a defunct market and a thrift shop. The alley was dark, blocked by a steel mesh gate.
Abrego pushed a button on the gate and a male voice spoke in Spanish through the intercom; Luis answered it, and the gate
swung open.

As we started along the alley, I braced myself for the usual smells found in such places, but breathed in a sweet fragrance
instead. Star jasmine. Now that my eyes were more accustomed to the darkness, I saw that flowers bloomed in profusion on the
walls on either side of us. We walked the length of the buildings in single file to an ornate wrought-iron gate built into
an archway. Through its scrollwork I saw a floodlit patio where plants grew in tubs and hanging baskets.

I glanced questioningly at Abrego. He grinned again, said, “Salazar keeps a low profile.” Then he thumbed another button and
a bell rang somewhere inside.

Heavy footsteps sounded on the terra-cotta tiles. Abrego cocked his head, listening. “That’ll be Jaime, one of Marty’s people.”

“People?” I asked.

“That’s what he calls ’em. I call ’em thugs—and worse.”

A very large man loomed before us, peering through the gate. He had an odd bushy haircut and close-set eyes, and his shoulders
bulged under his dark suit coat.
“Que?”
he asked.

Luis spoke rapidly in Spanish, something about an appointment. The man unlocked the gate and let us into the patio. After
motioning toward its center, where a scattering of white wicker furniture stood inside a ring of potted palms, he left us.

Wordlessly Abrego led John and me over there. They both sat, but I remained standing, looking the way the big man—Jaime,
Luis had called him—had gone. French doors opened onto the patio from the building behind it; as Jaime went through them
I glimpsed dark heavy furnishings and an Oriental carpet.

“Strange setup,” I commented.

Luis shrugged. “Like I said, Salazar don’t want anybody to know how good he’s doing.” There was scorn in the words—anger,
too.

“This patio reminds me of something out of Old Mexico.”

“Even slime get homesick, I guess.”

“Salazar’s a Mexican national?”

He nodded. “Was born in Oaxaca, but he’s been here even longer than I have. Spent most of his miserable life right in this
area. Worst thing the INS ever did, giving him his permanent green card.”

I glanced at John; he seemed poised to leap off the chair. “The guy that let us in,” he said, “I think he was wearing a shoulder
holster.”

Luis was about to reply when the French doors opened and a slender figure stepped out. “Salazar,” Luis said.

Marty Salazar moved toward us in a languid, fluid gait. As he came closer I saw that his slenderness was deceiving; under
his light summer suit, muscles rippled. His face was a narrow oval, cheeks sunken, eyes hooded. An odd triangular scar on
his forehead made me think of the plates on the head of a rattlesnake; Abrego’s earlier comparison had been right on the mark.

Although neither Luis nor John stood to greet him, Salazar motioned for us all to be seated. I sank into the chair next to
John’s. Salazar turned to Luis and spoke in Spanish—something about interrupting his evening. Abrego replied in a sarcastic
tone I hadn’t heard him use before. Whatever he said made Salazar’s lips pull into a thin line. He sat down at some distance
from us, took a cigarette pack from his jacket pocket, and lit one with a silver lighter. Through the smoke he said to Luis,
“Someday you’ll go too far, man.”

“Someday we’ll both go too far—all the way to the grave.”

Salazar looked away; he didn’t want to be reminded of that.

Abrego added, “These’re the people I told you about. You answer the lady’s questions, we’ll go away.”

Salazar’s eyes studied John and me from under their heavy lids. After a moment he said to me, “Go ahead and ask.”

“Luis tells me he saw you on Monument Road around eleven Sunday night.”

“If Luis says so, of course it must be true.” He shot a mocking glance at Abrego.

“A man was waiting there,” I went on. “Near the road that climbs the mesa. A Jeep stopped for him, then drove up top. You
followed it.”

“So far I have not heard a question.”

“Here’s one: where did the Jeep go?”

“How would I know?”

Abrego started to say something, but I spoke first. “I’m not here to play games, Mr. Salazar. Where did the Jeep go?”

He dropped his cigarette to the tiles, ground it out with his foot. “The Jeep,” he said in measured tones, “went up the road
to the mesa.”

“And when it got there?”

“You know the burned adobe? The Jeep went to it.”

“Who was in the Jeep?”

“Just the two men.”

“And then?”

“Then?”

“What did the two men do?”

Salazar’s gaze became remote. “I don’t know. I left then. It is dangerous up there—the bandits,
la migra
.”

That’s the first recognizable lie, I thought. The border patrol can’t be bothered with the mesa at night, and I’d give odds
on you against any bandit in creation.

I said, “The truth, Mr. Salazar.”

His eyes flicked to his right, and I followed their direction. Jaime, the bodyguard, had come up and was standing quietly
beyond the circle of palms.

John had noticed too, and it brought out the street fighter in him. He tensed, ready to spring off his chair into a fullblown
and potentially fatal brawl. I touched his arm to calm him, heard Luis say, “Don’t even think about it, Marty.”

Salazar’s fingers clamped tightly on the arms of his chair. He looked hotly at Abrego, then seemed to remind himself of something,
and waved Jaime off. I realized that whatever Luis had on him must be very damning indeed.

After a moment Salazar’s eyes regained their remoteness. He looked at a point beyond me and spoke slowly. “It is said that
someone was shot up there that night. It is said that there was a body left in the adobe.”