San Diego Noir

I was feeling optimistic. The weight of worry that had followed me from L.A. was beginning to disappear. I sat at my station and began to make plans to contact an immigration lawyer, but the crush of people soon had me working too hard to follow that tract. I had no idea the number of people who came in from L.A. every single day, but I learned quickly enough. I’d been at my window for three hours when I took my first break between the third and fourth races. I ran to the bathroom. They are large at the Del Mar track and this one was mobbed. I stood in line waiting for a urinal to open up, all the time staring at my watch. It’s a sin to be back late from a break. We were all on tight schedules and you don’t play around on opening day. The stall next to me opened up and I ran to the door. The guy coming out tripped on my foot. I looked up at him and mumbled an apology and shut the door quickly. I was in a hurry but something in my brain made me turn and look. The guy was washing his hands and he glanced back as I was staring at him, trying to catch a glimpse of his face in the mirror.

I now know what people mean when they talk about their blood freezing. I started to piss on my shoes I was so shaken. I hoped to God he wasn’t still looking and I whipped around so he wouldn’t see my face.

Of all people.

Eddie P.

The guy I owed twenty-five grand and to whom I had sworn upon my mother’s grave that I was good for it.

I wasn’t sure he saw me clearly but he seemed to have some sense of recognition. I tried to stay cool and keep my eye on him. As soon as he left, I exited through the opposite door. I ran into the employee room, opened my locker, and grabbed my keys. I ran to my car, jumped on the 5, and headed south to safety.

I’d never been a tough guy. I’d never needed to be. Life had been pretty easy so far. How had I allowed myself to get into this spot? My heart raced all the way home and a couple of hours beyond. I was shaking uncontrollably. I couldn’t think of what to do. I now had no job, which was better than the alternative. I’d become too accustomed to my skin to want to lose that. I figured I only had enough money to last a month. I went out for dinner after I calmed down a bit but still couldn’t relax. I was hoping to get lost among the mass of people but unfortunately San Diego’s population isn’t that dense. I walked down Ash and all I could see was my shadow bouncing around as the streetlights illuminated me and only me. I headed south to a more crowded section of town but thought better of it. I was sure some of the track people would end up down in the Gaslamp to continue their party. I grabbed a couple of tacos off a roach coach and hurried back to my room.

I could barely eat the small tacos. My stomach was convulsing. My walk had made me feel exposed and I’d begun to shake again. I didn’t deserve this. I wasn’t a bad sort. Hell, I was an altar boy. Got a perfect-attendance award when I was twelve, a heavily lacquered portrait of Jesus with the index finger of his right hand pointing up. My mother said I succumbed to my baser instincts, the first time, when she discovered a Playboy under my mattress. It became a litany whenever she flushed a bag of weed she’d found in my pockets when doing laundry. I always thought she looked through my pockets hoping to find something incriminating, and she was almost effusive when she did, but I knew it broke her heart every time. It didn’t help when I said, “Shit, Ma, it’s only weed.” No Latino mother wants her kid to be a marijuano. I was glad she wasn’t around to see me like this. I’d never felt more like a punk.

After a week holed up in my room, I was going batty. I had to man up, and besides, I needed supplies. I put on some shades and a Padres baseball cap and went for a walk. I ended up on E Street walking past the library, glad to be breathing the air and out of my room. I was worried about my weed stash. It was stinking my room up so bad you could smell it as you walked by the door. I had to get rid of it and get some money.

E Street is full of small businesses—barbershops, cheap women’s boutiques, and hair supply places—and they were all just opening up for the day. I glanced into the window of one. There’s something soothing about the old-fashioned barber shop. It’s a place where guys go to shoot the shit. You never see women in there. I looked past my reflection to the barber chair. Sitting there, getting himself a nice trim and staring back at me, was Pablito. Some called him Diablito.

Eddie P.’s left hand.

The hand that did all the dirty work.

Fuck!

I turned as calmly as I could, then I ran back to the library. By the time I got into the back stacks I’d half convinced myself I was hallucinating. Paranoia was starting to take over.