He smiled and at the same time felt Rita’s elbow in his ribs, pulling his attention back to the service.
Sonny turned his attention to the mourners at the front of the church. Dominic sat with friends, solemn faced. He was dressed in black, impeccable as always, not a hair out of place. The blonde was not in sight.
What about Turco? Sonny thought. Probably too busy running drugs into the South Valley to bother with his sister’s funeral mass. Just as well. A big man, ugly, with a scar across one cheek. He had a soft, moist handshake. Even though she had taken care of her mother over the years, Gloria had cut all her other ties to the barrio, and she had nothing to do with Turco.
The archbishop’s voice rose above Sonny’s troubled thoughts. He spoke of the charitable work Gloria Dominic had done for the community, and how he could always count on her to help Catholic charities. Gloria Dominic had given so much of her time to help the poor and the homeless.
Sonny stared at the casket, the gold gleaming with the refracted light from the stained-glass windows. St. Mary’s had beautiful stained-glass windows, and the morning sun shone with brilliant blues.
Sonny’s stomach churned at the sight of the bank of lilacs flanking the coffin. Lilacs, the flower of the city, the bushes that graced the estates of the rich as well as the front yards of the poor, symbol of spring, renewal, and he never again would be able to appreciate their scent. The purple lilac, rich and deep, lining walks and gardens everywhere, the color inextricably mixed with the spring-passion of the city, flower of transformation from death to life, blooming in the dooryard, like a poem he remembered by Whitman, renewing fertility of the earth, was now, for him, the flower linked to death.
The archbishop’s speech was long, the heat and fragrance overwhelming; Sonny wondered if he would have to get up and leave.
“She was a giving woman,” the archbishop intoned, the eulogy interminable. Sonny half listened. His gaze stopped on the stained-glass window on the east wall of the church. The circle of the dove, the Holy Spirit, was ablaze with the morning sun. From the circle radiated the four arms of the cross, divine love, a symbol as old as Christianity, older. It came from the earliest recesses of man’s awakening to consciousness. The circle was unity, the four points met in the middle.
The four sacred directions, north, west, south, and east. The sun rose in the east, climbed to the zenith, then died in the west. It traveled to the underworld to rise again in the east. Gloria’s soul should be traveling through the underworld, to rise on the third day into heaven. Instead it lingered on Earth. A spirit of disquietude.
One had to die before one could rise again; that’s what his catechism had taught him. His New Mexico brand of the Catholic faith was something he had tried to lose. But the questions lingered: What was death? What was the soul? Why did Gloria hover in front of him, even now when the archbishop was trying to prepare her soul for rest?
If her soul didn’t rest, was it doomed to wander the Earth forever?
Sonny looked again at the stained-glass window. The round sun, the four radiating lines. Four arms of the cross. Four seasons, the graces of the Río Grande. Four sections of the mandala. Four prior Aztec ages, and we live in the fifth. Four directions of the Zia sign on Gloria’s body. Four wings at Raven’s compound. Four women to die?
“Sonny!” Rita whispered as the priest ended the mass and the mourners stood. The funeral director’s assistants quickly wheeled the casket down the aisle, not waiting for Gloria’s mother. Dominic followed, staring straight ahead. They moved quickly toward the front door of the church.
The mourners filed out of their pews and followed the casket out into the bright sunlight where the hearse waited. Friends pressed forward to give Frank Dominic their condolences.
Sonny, Rita, and Howard made their way to the door and paused at the top of the steps, looking out over the dense crowd and the casket as it was loaded into the hearse.
“They’re moving fast,” Sonny said.
He looked for his mother and tía Delfina, but they had not come out the front door. Apparently they had not been asked to ride to the cemetery in the mortuary limo. There was only one car, and that was for Dominic.
“A lot of people,” Howard said and slipped something into Sonny’s hand. Sonny held the copper earring out for Rita to see, watching it glisten in the bright morning sun.
“This is the earring I found by the tire tracks behind Frank’s house. It was probably planted.”
“Looks like it’s made from copper,” Sonny replied.
Howard smiled. “This is copper, but I traced the type to a shop in Old Town. Zia Southwest. The owner buys earrings made from shell casings from women who come in once a month from somewhere up in the mountains.”
“I’ll check it out,” Sonny said and looked carefully at the earring. It was the Zia sign with two black feathers dangling from it.
“Any more news on the autopsy?” Sonny asked. He was looking at the scene near the hearse. The casket had been loaded, but the crowd kept Dominic immobilized as people pressed around him.
“We’ll never know if she was pregnant,” Howard said and hesitated. “She was cremated last night.”
“What?” Sonny turned to look at his friend. “What the hell are you saying?”
“Not even the archbishop knows,” Howard whispered. “I was calling the mortuaries to ask about the kind of pumps they use for embalming. Montoya didn’t want to talk to me, but I found an old friend. You remember Rudy Griego?”
Sonny nodded. A high school friend who had married into the Montoya family.
“He made me swear on a stack of Bibles, then told me they cremated the body right after the autopsy.…”
Sonny looked at Alfredo Montoya, the stocky man who was officiating at the funeral. He was running his assistants like a general, trying to move Dominic into the limo. Alfredo Montoya had turned a barrio mortuary that buried poor Chicanos into a million-dollar business. Now he served the rich Catholics, regardless of ethnic background. Catering to Frank Dominic was a political necessity.
“The sonofabitch,” Sonny whispered, anger stirring in his guts. Now he was sure Gloria had been pregnant. Why else would Dominic pull a stunt like this? “All this is just for show, worse than I thought.”
“Have you talked to Leroy Brown?” Howard asked.
“Soon as this is over,” Sonny answered.
“You better hurry. Garcia is about to go for a quick arrest,” Howard whispered.
Sonny cursed himself for not getting on this sooner instead of gathering information at the library on Morino, who wouldn’t even give him the time of day.
“Why him?”
“Garcia’s determined to close the case. The tire tracks we found in the road behind the house will be traced to him, even if—”
“Even if the tracks don’t fit.”
“Why not? Garcia’s gotta get the news media off his back, so he needs to arrest someone. The old, trusted gardener who was fired by Gloria, they will say, returned to kill her. The news will shift back to the mayoral elections, and Frank Dominic, who was ten points behind before his wife was killed, will garner enough sympathy votes to squeeze past Marisa Martinez and Johnson.”
Sonny frowned, rubbed his forehead. His friend was into a wild scheme, but Sonny knew by now he was usually right.
“Look,” Rita broke in, pointing. “Turco.”
So he did show, Sonny thought. Took time off from running drugs to pay respects to his sister. Nice homeboy.
They watched as Turco, a big, heavyset man in a mauve sharkskin suit, pushed his way through the crowd toward Dominic. Then he reached out and grabbed Dominic by the collar before the funeral director or the cops could react.
“You bastard!” he shouted. “You killed my sister! You killed her!”
The startled people surrounding Dominic fell back. “Turco!” Dominic cried. He wrestled himself free of Turco’s grip and fell backward. Three police officers grabbed Turco and pulled h
im away. It took all three to restrain him.
“You killed my sister! You killed her!” he kept shouting. Montoya and his assistants, caught temporarily off guard, now responded by pushing Dominic into the limo and speeding away, leaving a shocked crowd behind.
Sonny looked around for his mother and tía Delfina, wondering if they had seen the attack, but he couldn’t spot them in the crowd. Probably they had left with Max out a side door.
“Why the show?” Sonny wondered.
“He’s up to something,” Howard replied.
“But Garcia already questioned him and let him go.”
“Anyway, talk to Leroy Brown,” Howard suggested. “Garcia’s spooked everybody, but maybe the old man will talk to you. Their case is thin, Sonny.” He paused. “Garcia’s reassigning me—”
“They know you talked to me.”
Howard nodded.
Sonny put his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Don’t get in trouble for me, compa. We have to get to the cemetery,” he said and took Rita’s hand, calling “adios” to Howard.
“Qué piensas?” Rita asked as they drove to the Sunset Memorial Cemetery.
“I can’t believe Dominic could get away with secretly cremating her. Then this whole charade with a coffin!”
“I guess it keeps him high on the suspects list,” Rita said.
“Very high.”
Sonny drove into the cemetery and up the graveled lane to the lone hearse. Two men were pulling out Gloria’s coffin. Max had also just pulled up and was helping Sonny’s mother and tía Delfina out of his car.
In the limo parked off to the side sat Frank Dominic. He was peering at the proceedings from behind the tinted windowpane, but he made no move to get out.
A TV van was parked behind Dominic’s limo, but the crew stayed inside. If Dominic didn’t get out, there was nothing to film.
“Sonofabitch can’t even bury her,” Sonny cursed as they got down from the truck. He took Rita’s hand and approached his mother.
“Hijo,” she said and embraced him, then turned to embrace Rita. Her voice was tremulous, her eyes wet with tears. “It was a beautiful mass.…” She looked toward the limo where Frank Dominic sat, then at the mourners who had gathered. She turned, took tía Delfina’s arm, and walked briskly toward the hearse and the open grave. Max shrugged and followed them.
Only a dozen or so mourners had shown up, mostly women who had worked on projects with Gloria. One of the priests from St. Mary’s who had assisted at the mass was officiating. He, too, waited nervously for Frank Dominic to alight from the limo and join the small group of mourners.
Less than an hour ago the rich and powerful of the city had crowded the church to hear the archbishop eulogize Gloria. Dominic had planned the mass, invited the guests, and got the archbishop to deliver the eulogy. All great drama, everything calculated to garner sympathy and votes.
But the burial didn’t count. Now there was only the priest and a handful of friends. They gathered silently around the coffin, and the priest intoned prayers, blessing the coffin with holy water. Overhead the sun climbed toward midday. The lawn and trees of the cemetery lent the ceremony an aura of peace.
Sonny looked at tía Delfina. His mother stood next to her, sisters, both dressed in black, two handsome women from the La Joya. Max stood by them. His mother needed a helpful man like Max. Where the hell are Mando and me when she needs help? Sonny thought. Mando hadn’t even come to the funeral.
Rita glanced at him. She squeezed his hand. He looked at her, then back at his mother, Max, and his aunt. Under the immense bright sky there was something pitiful about Gloria’s burial, something missing.
The priest was done. He went to tía Delfina and whispered a few words; then signaling to the altar boy who had assisted, he walked quickly to his car and drove away. Dominic’s limo followed behind. The few mourners who had gathered bowed their heads and also walked to their cars and left. Sonny and Rita, his mother, Max, and tía Delfina were left alone with the two mortuary attendants.
“It’s done,” Rita said.
“No.” Sonny shook his head. They had not viewed the contents of the casket, not viewed the ashes. He looked at the attendants standing near the hearse. They, too, were ready to leave.
“Open it,” he said.
They looked at Sonny in surprise. “What?”
“Open the coffin.”
“Can’t,” the man answered and looked at his partner.
“Sonny, what are you doing?” he heard his mother ask.
“Open it,” Sonny repeated, stepping forward. “Or I will.”
The attendants glanced nervously at each other. They hadn’t expected this. There were no orders from Montoya.
“Who are you?” the younger of the two asked.
“Familia,” Sonny replied.
The young Chicano shrugged, looked at his partner. “Why not?” he said. It was normal for the casket to be opened so the family could get a last view of the departed.
“Okay,” his partner replied, and reached into the hearse for a key. He opened the coffin and partially lifted the lid.
“There.” Sonny stopped him. He did not want tía Delfina to see the ashes. Or worse, an empty coffin. She wouldn’t understand.
Sonny knelt and looked into the shadow of the coffin.
A white vase nestled in the white silk lining, the vase holding Gloria’s ashes. He remembered that when he had seen Gloria dead on the bed, he had felt the impulse to touch her, to place his hand on her stomach, to make some kind of connection with the woman who had meant so much to him. Now he reached into the coffin, ran his hand up the cold vase to the lip. He touched the dull, gray ashes that had spilled onto the silk lining. He ran his fingers through the ashes, feeling the fragile, glasslike texture. When he withdrew his hand, the white film of ash covered his fingers.
He looked up at Rita, and she handed him the four roses, which he took and placed next to the vase. He stood up, turned to the attendants, and nodded.
The man let the lid drop and locked the coffin. Then he pushed a button that turned a small motor that lowered the coffin into the grave.
Tía Delfina picked up a handful of fresh earth and threw it on the coffin. The others followed suit, tossing fistfuls of earth on the coffin. The sound was the sound rain makes on tin roofs during summer thunder-showers. The ritual reminded them that they, too, would one day return to the earth.
“Okay?” one of the attendants asked of no one in particular, and they removed the apparatus that had lowered the casket, loaded it in the hearse, and drove away. Two workers who had stood in the background began the task of filling the grave. At first the shovelfuls of earth pounded on the coffin, then they became soft thuds.
12
Sonny and Rita drove south on Broadway toward the San José barrio. Rita had insisted on accompanying him to see Leroy Brown.
“Josie’s running La Cocina today,” she said, sensing something on his mind. “I wonder if Frank knew she was pregnant?”
“Probably,” Sonny answered.
“And then the question, was it his?”
“Yeah,” he replied, “Gloria and Frank had no children, she’s seeing Morino, and suddenly she’s pregnant.”
“Que ’scándabo, eh. A Japanese-Chicano baby who looked nothing like Frank.…”
They passed in silence through the neighborhood that lay along the railroad tracks, inhabited almost exclusively by Chicanos and Blacks. Decades ago the men from San José had worked in the railroad yards, but when the roundhouse was shut down in the late fifties the barrio fell onto hard times. The men and women of the barrio, ill equipped for the new technology that swept the region, struggled to support their families with odd jobs. They struggled to keep their sons and daughters away from the drugs that flowed in the streets.
Sonny sighed. Tía Delfina had told him she didn’t trust Frank, but that was because she knew of his womanizing, knew how he treated Gloria. This was different.
&nbs
p; He looked at Rita.
“I love you,” he said, reaching out to take her hand.
“Ah, sweet music.”
“It’s not easy for …”
“For a man? You’re a special man, not just any man.”
“Thanks.” He smiled. “It is sweet music.”
At Las Palomas Bar he turned onto a side street and looked for Leroy Brown’s address. The wood-frame house was dilapidated, like the others on the street, built originally for the railroad workers.
An old truck with weathered plywood sideboards was parked in front of the house. Zia Lawn Care was stenciled in faded letters on the door of the truck. Rita pointed.
“Yeah. Be right back,” Sonny said.
“Can I come?”
“Better not. I don’t know the man, so there’s no telling …” his voice trailed. Rita could handle herself, but it made no sense to take her into a situation where there might be danger.
In the street a group of kids played baseball. Next door two Black women visited as they swept their sidewalks and watched the children. They paused to look at Sonny as he got out of the truck and approached the front door.
Sonny had to knock three times before the door was opened a crack. “What do you want?” a stern voice with the hint of a drawl growled.
“I want to talk to Leroy Brown,” Sonny answered.
“’Bout what?”
“I’m Sonny Baca. I called you. I want to talk to you about Gloria Dominic.”
There was a silence.
“May I come in?” Sonny asked.
The door opened and a Black man about sixty looked out at Sonny through the screen door. His face was wrinkled, his hair speckled gray.
“I don’t want any trouble, I just don’t want any trouble,” Leroy Brown said. He wasn’t inviting Sonny in. “You police?”
“No, I’m …” Sonny paused. “I’m not police. Gloria Dominic was my cousin. I need your help.”
“Help?” Leroy Brown said sternly. “Can’t help when it’s the devil killing people.”
“You think the devil killed her?”
“Uh-huh. I seen it coming all along, before Mr. Dominic fired me.”