Clandestine

Medina Court dead-ended at a combination weed patch—auto graveyard where a throng of tattered but happy-looking Mexican kids were playing tag. I walked back to Peck Road feeling grateful that I didn't live here.

I waited for three hours, watching the passing scene: old winos poking about in the rubble of the burned-out buildings, looking for shade to drink their short-dogs in; fat Mexican women chasing their screaming children down the street; a profusion of squabbles between men in T-shirts, filled with obscenities in English and Spanish; two fistfights; and a steady parade of pachucos tooling down the street in their hot rods.

At one o'clock, as the sun reached its stifling zenith and the temperature started to close in on one hundred degrees, a tired and dejected-looking mailman walked into Medina Court. My heart gave a little leap of joy—he was the very image of the blond first baseman. He walked into the "foyer" of the first tenement on the south side of the street, and I was waiting for him on the sidewalk when he walked back out.

His tired manner perked up when he saw me standing there, white and official-looking in my suit and tie. He smiled; the nervous, edgy smile of someone hungry for company. He looked me up and down. "Cop?" he said.

I tried to sound surprised: "No, why do you ask?"

The mailman laughed and swung his leather mail sack from one shoulder to the other. "Because any white man over six feet in a suit on a day like this in Medina Court has gotta be a cop."

I laughed. "Wrong, but you're close. I'm a private investigator." I didn't offer any proof, because of course I didn't have any. The mailman whistled; I caught a whiff of booze on his breath. I stuck out my hand. "Herb Walker," I said.

The mailman grasped it. "Randy Rice."

"I need some information, Randy. Can we talk? Can I buy you a beer? Or can't you drink on duty?"

"Rules are made to be broken," Randy Rice said. "You wait here. I'll deliver this mail and see you in twenty minutes."

He was good to his word, and half an hour later I was in a seedy bar near the freeway, listening politely to Randy Rice expound on his theory of the "wetback problem plaguing America."

"Yeah," I finally broke in, "and it's a tough life for the white working man. Believe me, I know. I'm on this tough case now, and none of the Mexicans I talk to will give me a straight answer." Randy Rice went bug-eyed with awe. I continued: "That's why I wanted to talk to you. I figured a smart white man familiar with Medina Court ought to be able to give me a few leads."

I ordered another beer for Rice. He gulped it, and his face contorted into a broad parody of caginess. "What do you wanna know?" he asked.

"I heard Marcella Harris used to hang out on Medina Court. I think that's a hell of a place for a white woman with a kid to be spending her time."

"I seen the Harris dame there," Randy Rice said, "lots of times."

"How did you know it was her? Did you just recognize her from her picture in the paper when she got knocked off?"

"No, she lived on my block at home. I seen her leave for work in the morning, and I seen her at the store, and I used to see her walk her dog. I used to see her play catch with that crazy kid of hers in her front yard, too." Rice swallowed. "Who hired you?" he blurted out.

"Her ex-husband. He's out for blood. He thinks one of her boyfriends croaked her. Why do you say her kid is crazy?"

"Because he is. That kid is poison, mister. For one thing, he's only nine years old and he's at least six feet tall. He hates the other kids, too. My boy told me that Michael was always breakin' up the softball games at school, always challengin' everyone to fight. He'd always get beat up—I mean he's a gigantic kid, but he don't know how to fight and he'd get beat up, then he'd start laughing like a madman, and . . ."

"And expose himself?"

". . . Yeah."

"You didn't seem surprised when I mentioned Marcella Harris's boyfriends." With a flourish I ordered the now red-faced Rice another beer. "Tell me about that," I said.

He leered and said, "I been seein' her around Medina for months, drivin' in her Studebaker, hangin' out in Deadman's Park—"

"Deadman's Park?"

"Yeah, where Medina dead-ends. Dead dogs and dead winos and dead cars. I seen her a coupla times hangin' out with Joe Sanchez on his stoop, lookin' real cozy with him. Him in his zoot suit and Harris in her nurse's uniform. Once she walked out of Sanchez's apartment real glassy-eyed, like she was walkin' on mashed potatoes, and nearly knocked me over. Jesus, I said to myself, this dame is high on dope. She—"

I halted Rice. "Does Sanchez sell dope?" I asked.