I’d left Roy’s room, slipping down the staircase—where I’d found my abandoned heels on the top landing— and through the deserted house. Champagne bottles littered the tables and overturned whiskyglasses sat in amber puddles. A pair of men’s pants were draped over the piano. I told myself I’d get out and no one would ever know I was with him all night. Even with the drubbing my head was taking, I should have known it wouldn’t be that easy. Outside, I realized what a mess I was in, miles from anywhere in nothing more than my underthings and a dress that wouldn’t stay put.
Dear Lord, help me.As if the God who listened to Penny’s prayers would take pity on me at this late stage. That’s when I heard the rattle of an engine and saw my chance. And here I was, sitting beside a stranger who didn’t speak English. If I could just get home and slip into my room before Lana or my landlady got an eyeful, I could pretend none of this ever happened. I’d get dressed, get some aspirin, and find Max. He’d tell me what to do.
When my stomach stopped doing the shimmy, I opened my eyes, blinking against the bright light. We were on Santa Monica heading toward the city. It wouldn’t be long now.
I eyed the man beside me without moving my pounding head. At least now there was only one of him instead of three, like before. He stared straight ahead with a grim turn to his mouth. Like everybody else, he looked like he’d hit hard times. His faded blue shirt was worn, and the tan canvas dungarees frayed at the hems. His cloth newsboy cap looked like it had seen the last century. It was hard to tell, but he couldn’t be much older than me—a couple years maybe—and dark enough some women would cross the street to avoid him. No fashionable mustache, just the shade of a day’s beard on his jaw. Everything about him was too much: his skin too brown, his hair too curly, his eyes too wide and dark. If he were in pictures, he’d be a south-of-the-border bandit captured by the cowboy hero.
We hit a bump and my stomach lurched. The truck rattled likeit would fall apart. It was an old Model T—almost as old as the one we had on the farm. The fabric of the seats was patched in a few places, but clean and smelled like grass. I could almost see myself in the black paneling, shined within an inch of its life.
I couldn’t help but notice how he drove, both hands on the wheel, taking the curves like an old man—my queasy stomach thanked him, but I wish we’d go faster. When he glanced sideways, his mouth hardened and his eyes veered back to the road. I looked down to see my dress had slipped again and showed not only my shoulder but most of the scant lacy brassiere made to go under a revealing gown. I pulled it up and closed my eyes, but immediately Roy was there.
Roy’s dead eyes. Roy’s cold body. Who had killed him? And when? A thought lurked in my mind, one I hadn’t even put to words. I couldn’t remember anything past dancing with Roy, except that I’d been afraid and desperate and, heaven knows, not in my right mind. I try to be honest with myself—even if I’m not with anyone else—so I made myself think it.
Could I have? Could I have killed Roy Lester? What had my sorry life come to, that I was asking myself if I killed a man?
A punishing bump sent me bouncing against the door. I opened my eyes, expecting to see the familiar streets north of downtown. Instead, we’d turned onto a dirt road. Flat brown fields striped with green rows. Dark-skinned men and women with baskets on their backs. My pulse went into high gear. Where was he taking me? We pulled up at a line of long whitewashed sheds. He jerked the truck to a stop and leaned forward, motioning for me to hunch down.
Where was I and what was he going to do with me?
The Model T had high-set windows and a wide seat. I slumped down like he said—wondering if I’d jumped from the frying paninto the fire, another thing Penny liked to say. He didn’t move, just honked the horn... two long blasts. I peeked over the lower edge of the open window. Men—all bronze skin and denim work clothes—carried crates to waiting delivery wagons. Two workers with the lanky look of half-grown boys hopped down from a loading platform and loped toward the car. The shorter one was almost at the door, smiling with his hand raised in greeting, when he saw me. His smile fell from his face and his eyes went wide. The other, taller and broader, pushed up behind him and peered through the window.“Ay, caramba,”he whispered.
The man beside me barked out a word in Spanish, but the two boys didn’t move. He leaned over me and unlatched the door, pushing it open. Then his hand closed around my upper arm and pulled me roughly over the seat next to him. I struggled to adjust my scant covering as the boys slid in beside me, their eyes stuck to me like feathers on a wet hen.
The shorter one—younger, too, now I saw him up close—slid next to me. His eyes were chocolate brown with spiky lashes, his hair a mass of unruly dark curls. The older boy came in next, with lighter hair slicked back with tonic and a shadow of a mustache on his upper lip. They both gawked at me—from my bare toes, my ankles, and my legs, to my naked shoulders and what I could only imagine was the state of my hair and face. The older one let out a whistle through his teeth. The driver said something in an urgent tone that jerked him alert. They all looked toward the men lazing on the platform, but thankfully nobody looked back.
The older boy slammed the door shut, and the man beside me put the auto in low. We jerked back down the rutted road. My stomach lurched as the silence stretched. What was happening? Who were these boys, and how was I going to get home?
The younger boy—the one next to me—stuck out a hand. “Hello,” he said with a slight accent. “I’m Angel.”
I let out a relieved breath. “You speak English? Thank goodness.” I didn’t know where to start. “Please, can you tell him I need to get home? On Western Avenue. I—” I realized the hand was still there and he was looking at me expectantly. “Oh.” I transferred the grip on my dress to my other hand and shook his. “Minerva.” His hand was rough with calluses and gritty with dirt.
The other boy leaned over and took my hand next. “I am Roman.” He held it a good moment longer than necessary and gave me a devastating smile. He was too handsome for his own good. Angel’s gaze stayed on my face, while Roman’s drifted down to my insufficient covering.
“I... please.” I glanced sideways at the man beside me. “Could you tell... him, um, I need to get home? Western Avenue. I don’t think he understood me.”
Angel frowned at the driver. “He did not understand?”
“I don’t speak Spanish. . . and he...” I trailed off as the two boys looked at each other, then to the man beside me.
“Myhermano—that is my brother Oscar,” Roman said, and he looked like he was trying to hide a smile.
His brother?
Angel said a few Spanish words to the driver, and he growled back a one-word answer. Angel turned to me. “Oscar says he is glad to meet you.” Both the boys snickered. I didn’t get the joke. Panic crept up my chest and I blinked to ward off tears.Please, just bring me home.
Angel reacted to my distress. “Are you maybe hurt? Were you in an accident?” he asked, real concern in his voice.
I tried to reassure him. “I’m fine.” Except for my heavingstomach, pounding head, and the dizziness. And I may have killed someone. “I need to get home. Please.” My voice broke.
He and his brother—Oscar, was it?—exchanged a long series of words. Oscar’s were angry and short; Angel’s sounded more like he was trying to make a deal. Roman chimed in with a few sentences that made Angel squirm and Oscar’s mouth tighten.
Angel finally turned to me. “Oscar, he brings you home. We go there now.” He smiled again, a gentle smile that somehow made me feel better.
Roman nodded, eyeing my bare shoulders. “We get you home,cariño.”
“Thank you.” I said, letting out a shaky breath. It wouldn’t be long, and I could say goodbye to my unexpected—and, at least one, unwilling—heroes.
I’d get home, figure out a story. Nobody would be the wiser.
