Clandestine

It wasn't enough. I told him so: "Not good enough, Joe. You make it sound like you just tolerated her. I don't buy it. I heard she used to hang out with you and a bunch of other pachucos down at the auto graveyard."

"Okay, man. I liked her. 'La Roja,' I used to call her. 'The Red One.'"

"Were you screwing her?"

Sanchez was genuinely indignant: "No, man! She wanted me to, but I'm engaged! I don't mess with no gringas."

"Forgive me for mentioning it. Was she hooked on stuff?"

Sanchez hesitated. "She . . . she took pills. She was a nurse and she could get codeine. She used to get crazy and act silly when she was high on it. She said she could be . . ."

I leaned forward. "She said what, Joe?"

"She . . . she . . . said she could outfight any Mexican, and out-fuck and out-drink any puta. She said that she'd seen stuff that . . . that . . ."

"That what?" I screamed.

"That would have made our cojones fall off!" Sanchez screamed back.

"Did she hang out with any other guys here on Medina?" I asked.

Sanchez shook his head. "No. She was just interested in me. I told the others to leave her alone, that she was bad news. I liked her, but I had no respect for her. She used to leave her kid alone at night. Anyway, I started giving Marcella the cold shoulder. She took the hint and didn't come around no more. I ain't seen her in six months."

I got up and walked around the room. The walls were adorned with bullfight posters and cheap landscape prints. "Who introduced her to you?" I asked.

"My friend, Carlos. He used to work at that factory where she was the nurse."

"Where can I find Carlos?"

"He went back to Mexico, man."

"Did Marcella Harris ever bring anyone else around to see you?"

"Yeah, once. She knocks on my door at seven in the morning. She had this guy with her, she was hanging on to him real tight, like they been . . ."

"Yeah, I know. Go on."

"Anyway, she starts jabbering about the guy, how he just got promoted to graveyard foreman at the plant. I sold them some reef and they split."

"What did this guy look like?"

"Kind of fat and blond. Kind of like a stüpido. He had no thumb on his left hand. It kind of spooked me. I'm superstitious and I . . ."

I sighed. "And what, Joe?"

"And I knew that Marcella was gonna die mean. That she wanted to die mean."

"Ever see Marcella with a dark-haired man or a blond woman with a ponytail?"

"No."

I got up to leave. "Poor roja," Joe Sanchez said as I walked out his door.

Mrs. Gaylord Wilder, Marcella Harris's landlady, had nervous gray eyes and a manner of barely controlled hysteria. I didn't know how to play her—impersonating a cop was too risky with a solid citizen, and intimidation might well bring repercussions from the real cops.

Standing in her doorway as she openly scrutinized me, I hit on it. Mrs. Wilder had an avaricious look about her, so I tried a wild gambit: I attempted to pass myself off as an insurance investigator, interested in the recent past of the late Marcella. Mrs. Wilder took it all in, wide-eyed, with a nervous hand on the doorjamb. When I said ". . . and there's a substantial reward for anyone who can help us," she swung the door open eagerly, and pointed to an imitation leather davenport.

She went into the kitchen, leaving me alone to survey the crammed living room, and returned in a moment with a box of See's candy. I popped a piece of sticky chocolate into my mouth. "That's delicious," I said.

"Thank you, Mr. . . ."

"Carpenter, Mrs. Wilder. Is your husband at home?"

"No, he's at work."

"I see. Mrs. Wilder, let me level with you. Your late tenant, Marcella Harris, had three policies with us. Her son, Michael, was the beneficiary on all of them. However, there has been a rival claim, filed out of nowhere. A woman who claims to be a dear friend of the late Mrs. Harris states, in an affidavit, that Mrs. Harris told her that she was the beneficiary on all three policies. Right now, I'm investigating to determine if this woman even knew Marcella Harris."

Mrs. Wilder's hands did a nervous little dance in her lap. Her eyes did a little dance of greed. "How can I help you, Mr. Carpenter?" she asked eagerly.

I gave that some mock concentration. "Mrs. Wilder, you can help me by telling me anything and everything you know about the friends of Marcella Harris."

Now the woman's whole body seemed to dance. Finally, her tongue caught up with her. "Well, to tell you the truth . . ." she began.

"You are sworn to tell the truth," I interjected sternly.

She went for it. "Well, Mr. Carpenter, Marcella's friends were mostly men. I mean she was a good mother and all, but she had lots of men friends."

"That's no crime."

"No, but—"

I interrupted. "I heard Michael Harris was a wild boy. That he got into fights. That he exposed himself to the other kids in the neighborhood."

Mrs. Wilder went red and shrieked, "That boy was the devil! All he needed was horns! Then everyone would have known. A boy without a father is a sinful thing!"

"Well, Michael is with his father now."