Oscar rose. “Thanks for the coffee, Lupita.” The door shut firmly behind him. He’d swear on his mother’s rosary that they were hiding something.
He sat down on the back stoop of his house, watching the Garcias’ door. He wanted a cigarette something terrible, but he didn’t light up. The wind turned cold and he was about to give up when Lupita slipped out, looking over her shoulder. She’d come without her shawl, her hair loose and framing her face. She had a worried look he knew. When she got to the stoop, she sat down beside him.
“Whatever it is,” he said, “I won’t tell Alonso.”
She looked down at her feet, clad in soft woven slippers. “He would be very angry if he knew. But I think...” She bit at her lip and kept her eyes down.
“What is it?” He tried to be patient, keep his voice calm.
She looked up at him. “That night, Señor Lester wanted his drink, the one he has with the green liquor. But before I brought it to him...” She hugged her arms around herself, shivering.
Oscar shrugged out of his jacket and draped it around her.
“Gracias.”She looked at her feet. “He... put something in it.”
“Who?” But he had an idea who she meant, and his gut twisted.
She raised worried eyes to Oscar’s. “Max.”
Santa María.
“A powder. He said it was better if I didn’t ask... You know how he is. Alonso saw him upstairs before that, in the hallway.”
Max. He should have known. But why hadn’t Alonso said anything? “Then what?”
She shook her head and glanced over her shoulder. “He told me to give it to Señor Lester.” She blinked as if she were going to cry. “And not to tell anyone.” She grabbed his arm. “I did, Oscar. I gave it to him... Was it poison? Did I kill Señor Lester? I wanted to tell you, but Alonso—”
“Did you tell the police?”
“No.” Her voice shook. “I thought they’d arrest me and then—”
“No, listen to me, Lupita. He didn’t die of poison.” He took her hand in his. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” Why had Max got Lupita mixed up in this? Hadn’t he done enough harm to her family?
“Really?” She leaned against him, limp and relieved, but his thoughts leapfrogged from one question to another. Oscar had found a puzzle piece, like Brody had asked, but it seemed to be from the wrong puzzle. Lester had been stabbed, not poisoned.
But Max had lied to him. Played him for a fool. Again. And that made him see red.
——————
He left Lupita on the steps, his jacket around her shoulders. He’d get the truth from Max and he’d get it now... if he had to beat it out of him.
Oscar cranked the Ford mercilessly, slammed the door, and revved it through the streets of thecolonia. He worked over what Lupita had told him, a cold lump in his belly. Could Max have tried to drug Lester, then gone upstairs to make sure his plan had worked? Could he have fought with Lester and killed him? But what about the girl? She had to have been in on it, but why did he leave her? And he really had looked surprised yesterday when Oscar had sprung the news. But then again... maybe Max had learned to act in the years since he left them.
An old man pushing a cart lurched out of a side street and into his path. Oscar jammed on the brake and the Ford almost sputtered out.Miércoles.Max owed him some answers, and he was going to pay up.
The wind gusted in his open window and shivered the tall palms as he turned into the Garden of Allah. Rhododendrons dropped brown blossoms on the sidewalks. Champagne bottles and overturned chairs ringed the ice-blue pool, along with discarded clothing. Oscar’s ire surged. Thesegringoswith more money than sense, drinking away their nights, sleeping through the days. He jerked to a stop at the third bungalow on the left. The drive was empty, but he got out and pounded on the door just the same.
No answer. A fat man in a woman’s dressing gown and cowboy boots stepped onto the stoop two doors down and watched him with droopy eyes. Oscar pounded again.Nada.
He got back in the Ford and spit gravel as he turned backonto Sunset, then north on La Brea. How was he supposed to know where Max would be on a Monday morning? It’s not like he lived the high life Max did. He turned back west onto Hollywood Boulevard, passing Grauman’s Chinese, the sun glinting off the jade roof and marble columns. Plenty of Cadillacs, Rolls-Royce touring sedans, and Packards, but no yellow LaSalle.
He drove for an hour, his head swiveling from left to right, his anger rising. Women in furs carried shopping bags. Men in suits crossed in front of him as if they owned the street. Then he went to Western Avenue, the girl’s place. The roadster wasn’t parked out front there, either. He cursed under his breath and turned toward the north. He’d pick up the boys at the packing house and try again. He wasn’t giving up until he’d gotten the truth from Max.
By the time he made it back from the packing house and helped Mamá and Francesca deliver the laundry, it was almost the dinner hour and his stomach was making hollow growls. There. The yellow LaSalle, parked crookedly in front of a building with a fancy scrollwork awning. He pulled around the corner and jerked to a stop. Max. Probably eating a big steak. It was enough to set his blood on fire. Letting Oscar do all the work. Have all the worry. Some people never changed.
He was out of the automobile and across the street, the horn of a delivery van blaring as it swerved around him. He wasn’t waiting another minute for Max to tell him the truth.
He pushed through a chattering cluster of fancy-dressed women. At the door, a slight man in tails eyed Oscar from his hatless head to his brown dungarees. His pencil mustache twitched. “May I help you?” His tone said he’d help him back to the street.
