The Ford sputtered again as he reached Olvera Street, passing the Teatro Hidalgo, its shabby marquee advertising films captioned in Spanish. The Ciudad de México displayed ropes of dried chilis and baskets of Mexican candy. Thefarmaciasold bothamericanomedicines and traditional herbal remedies. He turned down his street, lined with the crumbling remains of stucco houses, relics of an earlier age when Los Angeles was a thrivinghacienda. Now, his people lived in ramshackle assortments of shacks, train cars, and even tents, the stink of the industrial section hanging low in the air.
This was his home. These were his people.
The sight of the deserted plaza stoked his anger like dry grassfed a brushfire. Only a few months ago, La Placita would have been filled with men hoping to be picked for a day job, dozing in the shade, or playing dice. Since the raids, no one gathered outside. Any Mexican man might be arrested at any time. Already they’d lost dozens of men from theircolonia, and it was the same in all of Los Angeles County.
La Opinióndenounced the unjust measures and sent complaints to the Mexican consulate and even Washington, DC. Officials there answered back that the “deportables” were illegals—or even communists and criminals—but everyone knew what their real crime was: taking jobs fromgringosnow that jobs were scarce.
Oscar reached home with the Ford running on fumes, anger and despair warring in his gut. Roman lounged on the front stoop, smoking a cigarette. Oscar slammed the door of the Ford and stomped to the house. “That mine?”
Roman blew out a white plume. “You owe me.”
Oscar grabbed Roman’s shirt in his fist and pulled him up from the step. “I don’t owe you a thing.” Hadn’t he just spent the day trying to keep a roof over Roman’s head?
Roman smirked. “Then I’ll just tell Mamá all about the girl you picked up.”
Oscar’s fist tightened on his brother’s collar. He could still beat some sense into him if he had to. “If you think this is funny—”
Roman’s hide was saved by a boy tearing between the houses and skidding to a stop, breathless. “Oscar...” He took a deep gulp of air. “The telephone, for you.”
“For me?” Oscar had only received one telephone call in his life, and that was from Max, telling him that Maria Carmen was dead. He threw Roman back down on the step—“Stay out of my cigarettes!”—then took off toward thesociedades.
Oscar caught his breath before pushing through the door. The old storefront building was mostly a social club, a place for men to gather and complain, smoke, and buy the illegal tequila that Raul kept behind the counter. On Saturdays the space was cleared for cockfights or the occasional boxing match. Inside, half a dozen men sat at mismatched tables and chairs. The air reeked of cheap tobacco and chicken droppings, and their low conversations were punctuated by the irregular tap of the old typewriter that sat in the back office. The telephone, paid for by members’ dues, was on the back wall, the receiver off its cradle, Raul standing guard beside it.
He’d never liked Raul, who was a few years older than he was. When they’d been boys, Raul had tormented Max with taunts of being halfgringountil Oscar had grown big enough to ensure that Raul kept his opinions to himself. Now that Raul ran thesociedades, he was known to eavesdrop and gossip like an old woman.
Oscar leveled a look at Raul as he picked up the heavy black handset. Raul shrugged and sauntered away.“Hola?”Oscar said, turning his back to the room.
“Oscar Dominguez? Detective Brody.”
“Sí—yes?” Oscar’s heart dropped a few inches. Did Brody find out about the girl already?
Brody didn’t waste time. “I need to talk to you.” The line crackled and popped. “Meet me at the diner on the corner of Vine and Western. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
He hung up before Oscar could reply. Oscar looked at the silent handset. What could Brody want? Did he know something? He put the receiver back in its cradle. He’d have to go. If he didn’t, Brody might just show up on his doorstep.
Santa María.What had he gotten himself into?
——————
On the corner of Vine and Western, the Hard Times diner lived up to its name—a dim luncheonette with grimy windows and a long countertop that looked like it hadn’t been washed in a month. A fug of stale cigarette smoke and bacon grease hung in the air. Men in shabby suits hunched over coffee cups. Brody sat in the corner booth, half obscured by a raised newspaper.
Oscar sat down on the other side of the table and Brody lowered the paper. “You want coffee?” Brody signaled to the waitress without waiting for Oscar to reply. She set a cup in front of him and filled it with an oily brew.
“Oscar—you mind if I call you Oscar?” Brody folded the paper.
Oscar shrugged.Gringosgenerally didn’t ask what he minded.
“Oscar, you married?”
Oscar’s wariness increased. He shook his head.
“I was once.” Brody took a sip of his coffee. “Nice girl, but it didn’t take.” Brody’s wiry brows inched together over his gray eyes. He fished a pack of Viking cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and tipped it to Oscar as if they were old pals.
This friendlygringomade him nervous. “No, thank you.”
Brody tapped out a smoke and stuck it in his mouth, then struck a match. He took a long puff and blew it out. “I’ll be straight with you,” he finally said. “I need your help.”
Oscar’s neck heated. “I told you everything I knew.” Which wasn’t the truth.
