The Man Who Killed His Brother

His English was distinct. But I answered in Spanish. “Hola, Manuel Sevilla y Acclara de los Maestos.” Speaking Spanish with him was part of the ritual, like knowing his proper name. “Alas, all my tales are poor things in comparison to your own legendary knowledge.” I was trying to figure out how he’d known who I was without opening his eyes. “Yet I would sit with you, and share speech, if I am not an intrusion.”

  He nodded as if he knew exactly what I had in mind. “You bear with you a thing more precious than many tales. Please sit.”

  Huh? I said to myself. But then I figured it out. He was talking about the bottle. He must have heard me buy it, recognized my voice. I kept forgetting just how good he was at picking up on everything around him.

  I said, “Gracias,” and slid into the booth. Then I unscrewed the top of the bottle and refilled his glass.

  He nodded again, smiling faintly under his mustache. But a moment later his eyes opened, and he looked at me with an air of mild surprise. His eyeballs were a muddy color, as if they’d been stained by all the secrets he carried around in his head. “You do not accompany me, Señor?” he asked. When I didn’t answer right away, he went on, “Perhaps tequila would be of more pleasure to you. Not all are equally enamored with anisette.”

  He was being perfectly magnanimous. But his graciousness cut both ways. He was offering me a chance to get out of being rude—and warning me that I’d better take him up on it.

  “Unhappily, I must decline,” I said carefully. “I am like other Anglos. Drink plays upon my wits discourteously.” That was like admitting a failure of manhood, but I couldn’t think of an alternative. “The matter before me is urgent. I must practice great sobriety if I am to speak clearly, and to hear what is said to me without confusion.” I shrugged as eloquently as I could.

  Old Manolo considered for some time. But he didn’t close his eyes. Finally he made up his mind. “It is said of you, Señor Axbrewder, that you suffer an infirmity of the heart, arising from the greatly-to-be-regretted death of your brother. Such things must be understood and accepted.” Solemnly he took a sip of his anisette.

  Deep inside me, I gave a sigh of relief. He wasn’t offended. The oracle was still open.

  I didn’t say anything. I knew better.

  He didn’t keep me waiting long. He scanned my face for a moment, then said, “You spoke of urgency. Is it permitted to inquire concerning this matter?”

  “Señor Sevilla, the young daughter of my brother’s widow has gone from her home.”

  “Ah,” he said politely. “That is to be regretted. But many girls both young and old have gone from their homes, Señor. The world has become corrupt in every place. Girls no longer honor their homes, or the wishes of their parents. What can be done? The world pays no heed to the sorrow of parents.”

  “That is very true. But I have cause to think that the corruption does not lie in this widow’s daughter. Hear what I have learned in seeking her.” Speaking formally, precisely, I told him about the seven dead girls. I described the connection between them and Alathea. When I was finished, I said, “Such evil does not befall so many young girls by chance. It is deliberately done. My thought is that for each the corruption comes from one source, one supplier of drugs. I must find that man if I am to save my dead brother’s child.”

  Old Manolo had closed his eyes while I was speaking. Now he was silent for a long time. I didn’t rush him. Information dealing is a touchy profession. He was alive after all these years because he was cautious and selective. But by the time he decided to speak, my knuckles were white from clutching the edge of the table.

  “Señor,” he said softly, not opening his eyes, “I think perhaps you have made the acquaintance of my son’s wife’s father’s sister’s daughter. You were not properly introduced. So few things are now done properly in the world. But her name will be known to you. She is Teresa María Sanguillán y García.”

  He paused, and I said, “I have been given the honor of knowing her name.”

  “Then you will understand that I wish to assist.”

  “I believe it.” His family was in my debt. That meant something to him.

  “Unhappily, I can offer you nothing. Indeed, the fate of these young girls has been known to me. But the supplier, he who works this evil—That one is not known.”

  I was trembling. “Señor Sevilla, it is said that no grain or gram of heroin passes from hand to hand in Puerta del Sol without your knowledge. In the matter of drugs, all tales come to your ears.”

  “I hear much,” old Manolo assented. “No man hears all.”

  “Can it be that el Señor has such evil dealings, and there is no talk of them? Or that men talk of the dealings of el Señor, and you do not hear?”

  At that, he opened his eyes. I half expected him to be offended, but he wasn’t. There was nothing in his gaze but sadness. “Señor Axbrewder, the knowledge you seek is dark and mysterious. I can shed no light upon it. But I ask you to believe that no hint of this knowledge has touched my ears. That in itself is knowledge for you, is it not?”

  When I didn’t answer, he went on, “I will speak further. There are many drugs, and much passing among hands. But in the matter of heroin, all passing begins in the hands of el Señor. That is his pride, and the source of his great wealth. I do not speak this to mislead you. El Señor is a man of honor, placing great value upon his family and his children, and the purity of his daughters. Such corrupting of young girls is a terrible evil, and he would in no way permit it.”

  “These girls are Anglo,” I said. “Does el Señor’s honor extend itself to Anglos?”

  “In truth, it does. He has no love for Anglos. That cannot be denied. But I speak absolutely. This corrupting of young girls does not come through him.”

  Well, probably that wasn’t the whole story. If the bastard I wanted was cutting into el Señor’s profits, el Señor would’ve slapped him down long ago. So I could assume that those profits weren’t in any danger. Which fit with what old Manolo was saying. Apparently Alathea’s kidnapper made his own clientele out of people el Señor didn’t want.

  But that didn’t help me any. I was still stuck. I couldn’t keep the bitterness out of my voice as I said, “El Señor controls all heroin in Puerta del Sol—and yet he does not supply these girls. Still they die from heroin. What, then, can I do? My brother’s widow’s daughter will surely die also.”

  Manolo poured himself another drink, then recapped the bottle and stuck it in the pocket of his coat. He emptied his glass and got to his feet. My audience was over—he was going somewhere else. But before he left, he bent close to me and whispered so that no one in the bar could overhear him, “Possibly you must go to el Señor himself. If you wish to have speech with him, you must know his name. It is Héctor Jesus Fría de la Sancha.”

  A minute later he was gone.

  I stayed where I was. Go to el Señor for help. Sure. That sounded like a polite way of telling me to go to hell. El Señor was what the newspapers probably would have called “the crime czar of Puerta del Sol,” if they’d known of his existence. A man of honor. Oh, absolutely. He would chew me up into little pieces and spit me in the gutter. No thanks. I wasn’t that desperate. Not yet.

  So I didn’t go looking for el Señor, even though I knew where to find him. I left the bar and started for home. Feeling like shit. Because I’d failed Alathea. I’d played the only hand I had, and lost. Now the only thing left was to be Ginny’s errand boy while she tried to crack this case her own way.

  My depression must’ve showed in the way I walked, because this time the muchachos felt free to notice me—which they don’t usually do, even when I’m drunk. Most of the time I’m a little too big for them. But not tonight. They weren’t exactly aggressive about it, but they whistled from across the street and muttered obscure Spanish insults at my back as I went past. The whole community seemed to know that I hadn’t been able to get what I needed out of old Manolo.

  When you’re in that kind of mood, i
t’s hard to stay away from the stuff. Alcohol is the only magic in the world. When you’re working, you’re trying to change things around you so that you fit into them better. But when you’re drinking, the fit comes from inside. And if it isn’t real, at least it’s easier than straining to figure out puzzles when no one will tell you the secret. On my way home I had a tough time staying out of the bars.

  But I did stay out of them—for Alathea. Because the one thing alcohol would never do was help me find her. Until she was found, being Ginny’s errand boy was better than nothing, and it was probably about all I was good for.

  I ignored the bars. I ignored the muchachos and their insults. I just lumbered my way up Eighth Street in the direction of home.

  As I approached my apartment building, I noticed a long black Buick parked at the corner of a side street. All the lights were off, but the motor ran softly. Three men sat inside.

  Just when I got abreast of the car, its doors thunked open, and the men got out. They wore neat businessmen’s suits, with crisp businessmen’s ties and shiny businessmen’s shoes. At that time of night in that neighborhood, they might as well have worn sandwich boards saying, “Plainclothes Cops.” They were all big, and the biggest one was a chunky individual about my size and maybe thirty pounds heavier. He said, “Axbrewder,” in the kind of voice you’d expect if you taught a bulldozer to talk.

  The muscle with him stayed back and didn’t say anything—and the light was bad, so there was a chance I might not recognize them if I saw them again. But the goon with the diesel voice I got a good look at. He had a jaw hard and square enough to set rivets, a nose that could moonlight as a can opener, and a forehead that looked like it was made out of reinforced concrete. He flashed his badge at me and said, “Detective-Lieutenant Acton.”

  But he wasn’t trying to introduce himself, or even prove he was a cop. He just wanted to get close to me. As he put the badge away, his other hand came up to my chest and shoved.

  I wasn’t braced for it, and it wasn’t exactly a gesture of undying friendship. He got his weight into it. It sent me backward, smacked me hard against the wall of the building.

  I was already rebounding at him when I saw that his backups had their guns out. Acton grinned like the blade of a plow, and suddenly I could picture him writing his report. “Shot while resisting arrest.”

  I stopped with a jerk.

  “Acton,” I said, trying not to show how much breath he’d knocked out of me. “What a pleasant surprise. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

  “Is that a fact?” His hand came up again, but this time he just poked me with one finger. He aimed to jab me in the solar plexus, which is a nice way to hurt someone when you don’t want to leave any marks. He missed, but that didn’t stop him. “Well, I want to talk to you, too”—he poked again—“Mick.”

  Mick. Instantly a wind began to blow inside my head, and my balance shifted. Nobody calls me Mick. Nobody. Not since my brother died. The night seemed to congeal at Acton’s back, and I lost sight of the two cops with the guns. My chest was so full of rage and pressure that it felt like my ribs were going to crack.

  “What’s the matter, Mick?” Poke. “Don’t you like being called ‘Mick?’” Poke. Any second now, he was going to rupture my self-control, and then I’d have to take his face off with my bare hands.

  But then his partners registered on me again. They had guns. If I touched Acton, they’d probably beat me half to death before they threw me in jail. Ordinarily I wouldn’t have cared much about being locked up, but if it happened now I wouldn’t be able to help find Alathea. Right this minute, she was somewhere in the city prostituting herself to get money for drugs. If we didn’t find her, she was going to end up dead.

  Just holding the knowledge in hurt so bad that I thought I was going to pass out. But I stood there. Let Acton do whatever he had in mind.

  He must’ve seen me make the decision, because he eased off with his finger. “That’s nice, Mick. That’s a good boy. Swallow your pride. A drunk like you should be used to it by now.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Give me the notes, Mick.”

  The notes—That surprised me. Who the fuck told him about the notes? But I was already clenched, and I didn’t show anything. Through my teeth, I said, “I don’t have them.” If I’d opened my jaws, I wouldn’t have been able to hold in my rage.

  “Where are they, Mick?”

  “The safe. Fistoulari Investigations.”

  “Ah, that’s too bad.” He never stopped grinning. “That means I’ll have to get a warrant. What a shame. It’s a good thing you’re a liar, Mick.”

  I couldn’t do anything about it. I had to stand there while he searched me. When he found the notes, he glanced through them, counted them, then stuffed them into his coat pocket.

  I stopped looking at him. Instead I stared into the darkness past his shoulder. That grin of his was going to give me nightmares.

  “Now, Mick. I’m going to let you have a little friendly advice. Get off my case. Stay off it. I hate your guts, Mick, and if you get in my way I’ll slap you down so hard you’ll have to reach up to touch bottom.”

  Staring into the darkness was a good way to watch his shoulder muscles. If he intended to hit me again, I wanted to know about it. “Why?”

  He laughed, but it wasn’t because there was anything funny. “Rick Axbrewder was a good cop. He was also a friend of mine.”

  I shrugged. What else could I do? “How did you know about the notes?”

  He stepped closer, and I almost flinched. But he didn’t hit me. His tone was soft and bitter as he said, “That bastard Stretto lit a fire under the commissioner. Now the commissioner wants my hide. I’m in trouble because I didn’t make the connection with those notes. So I’m warning you. This is the last time a punk drunk like you is going to make me look bad.”

  “I don’t have to,” I said. “You’re already doing it to yourself. Why did you scare the Christies like that?”

  That did it. His shoulder bunched, and he swung at me hard, fingers stiff, gouging for my solar plexus. I blocked it as best I could, but his fingers still dug deep into my gut.

  I hunched over, staggered back to get out of the way of another hit. However, he didn’t swing again. He and his goons got back into their car and drove off, roaring the engine and squealing the tires to convince me that they meant business.

  For a couple of minutes, I stayed where I was, almost retching. Then I went the rest of the way to Cuevero Road and struggled up the stairs to my apartment.

  Losing the notes made me a whole lot sicker than just one jab in the stomach. But there was no way around it—I had to face Ginny. While I was still mad enough to make decisions, I yanked up the phone and called her service. As it turned out, she was at home, and they patched me through.

  “Brew. What’s happening?”

  Almost puking with self-disgust, I told her, “I just had a run-in with Acton. He took the notes.”

  My fault entirely. A Mongoloid idiot could’ve warned me to take better care of the evidence.

  She must’ve heard most of the story in my voice. She didn’t ask me how it happened. Or how I could’ve been so stupid. She asked, “Are you all right?”

  “I’m not in jail.”

  “Thank God for small blessings.” Somehow she made her tone just right for my mood. “How did he even find out about them?”

  “Stretto. It seems he went to the commissioner. Apparently he doesn’t think the cops are doing their job. The commissioner took it out on Acton.”

  “Surprise, surprise,” Ginny muttered. “I wasn’t sure the illustrious Mr. Stretto had that much in him.”

  “Anyway”—I gritted my teeth and said it—“I’ve pretty well blown our case. Now we’ve got nothing.”

  “He’s a cop,” she snapped. “What could you do, eat the damn things?”

  “I shouldn’t have been carrying them around.”

  She dismissed that
without hesitation. “Forget about it. They were safe enough. We just didn’t know Acton was going to get desperate. Anyway,” she went on before I could object, “we don’t need them now.”

  I said, “Huh?” Always the brilliant conversationalist.

  “Acton won’t destroy them. Too many people know about them. And I’ve already got what I need out of them.”

  “Which is what?”

  “Brew, I finished checking out the other schools.” My head must’ve been clearing—I finally started to hear the vibration of excitement in her voice. “I’ll spare you the details. The point is that everything fits. Every one of these girls disappeared from school at a time when she was scheduled to be alone.”

  “You already knew that. It’s in the school board files.”

  “Exactly!”

  “Exactly what? It still doesn’t prove anything. Why call attention to yourself running away when you’ve got a perfect chance to sneak off every day of the week?”

  “Well, that’s true, of course,” she admitted, “if you look at it that way. Let me ask you a different question, Brew. Is there any proof in those notes? Proof the girls didn’t write them, or wrote them under duress? I’m talking about hard evidence, the kind that stands up in court.”

  I thought about it for a long time. Then I said, “No.”

  “Damn right. As far as we know, they were all addressed correctly. But that’s minor. The main thing is that all the notes were addressed to the right parents.”

  I said, “Huh?” again. It was getting to be a habit.

  “Marisa Lutt wrote, ‘Dear Mom and Dad.’ So did Esther Hannibal. So did Ruth Ann Larsen, May-Belle Podhorentz, Dottie Ann Consciewitz, Carol Christie. We don’t know about Rosalynn Swift. But Alathea wrote, ‘Dear Mom.’ Mittie wrote, ‘Dear Dad.’”

  It still didn’t mean anything to me. “So what? Most kids know how many parents they have. If they’ve only got one, they can usually tell if it’s male or female.”

  “Of course! That’s the point!” She was hot on a trail I couldn’t see. “Just look at it from the other side. We know those notes are wrong. We have good reason to believe they were all dictated by the same person. Well, nine girls who live in nine different neighborhoods and go to six different schools aren’t going to end up having the same person dictate their notes by accident. So what does that tell you?”