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“Maybe it’s time for me to retire, Mapstone.”
I stopped reading and looked at him. Then I laughed. He just stared at me with his coal-black eyes until I stopped.
“You ever hear of Mara 18?”
“A gang,” I said.
“Yeah, well…” He let some ash fall off his cigar and let it sit in the ashtray, a little Cuban smokestack industry on my desk. “I’d call it a terrorist organization. Mara 18 started in LA. Back in the ’70s it was Mexican immigrants. Then in the ’80s, they started recruiting Centro Americanos—all these rootless young men who came here to get away from the wars down there. Only this wasn’t the Boys and Girls Club. Their big enemy is the Salvatruchas—that’s mostly Central American, Salvadoran, you know.”
“They’re operating over here?” I asked.
“Don’t let the chamber of commerce know,” he said. He took his
cigar again, took a puff, kept it in his hand. “A little before seven this morning, a carload of Mara 18 gets out at an apartment, it’s in a county island over by Tolleson. They go in and kill five people. Only four of those people are under six years old.”
“God…” It was all I could say.
“None of the neighbors wanted to talk, of course. Nobody wants to talk and get killed. But there’s a utility crew working across the street. They said the guys in the car had tattoos on their faces, their foreheads. That’s the way these gang members look.” He rubbed his eyes, then slowly shook his head. “Turns out, the apartment was being used by Salvatruchas—but of course the men aren’t there. How long before we get a retaliatory hit on Mara 18? A day? A week? Places in this town are like Baghdad, or the West Bank.” He sighed and watched the tip of the cigar.
“I get tired of this shit, Mapstone,” he said, in a tone of voice I had never heard from him before, a far-away voice. “It’s like the world is just crazy. And what kind of future do I have anyway?”
“Governor Peralta has a nice ring to it,” I said.
“Not in this state,” he said. “Maybe I need a change. I could be making money in real estate, just like everybody else.”
“As you said to me about teaching, ‘you’d be bored,’” I said. “You were born to be the sheriff of Maricopa County.”
He was about to say something when the door opened. Lindsey and Robin came in laughing.
10
That night I dreamed of men with tattoos on their faces. Blue ink was etched into their foreheads and cheeks. I couldn’t read the words, but they were in English, not Spanish. The tattooed men were digging a grave in the desert, then they were trying to bury me in the grave, slamming bowling-ball-sized rocks onto me, and the rocks didn’t hurt but I was fighting for my life in dream slo-mo. I couldn’t breathe. Then I was in our bedroom, watching the bluish moonlight coming in from the street. The only sound was Lindsey’s quiet, regular breathing. I put my hand on her hip, and let her warm, soft skin reassure me that this was reality.
It had not been a nightmare-inducing day. In fact, it had been a good day. Peralta had made only minor suggestions on the chapters. The cigar was fine, although I could still taste its bitter aftermath, even after two teeth-brushings and one swig of mouthwash. No reason to feel anxiety, aside from a potential lecture from the dentist. As I lay there, my heart still pounding from the dream, I wondered if I had somehow let Peralta down. His talk of retiring, of being worn out by the increasing madness of politics and society, was so unlike him that I thought he was joking. But he doesn’t joke. Maybe I should have tried to get him to talk more. Maybe I should have invited him over for a cocktail. No, that wouldn’t do. He was probably on some riff that had nothing to do with his doubts or fears or interior life. Mike Peralta had none of those things. It was what had finally busted up his marriage. It wasn’t up to me to try to reach him, not after nearly a quarter century of friendship. The cornerstone of that friendship was my willingness to let him be.
We were interrupted anyway. Lindsey and Robin were on their way to the Biltmore to shop. Robin had become more of a fixture of those spring months, as Lindsey had little by little set her caution aside. I had learned that Robin’s last name was Bryson, that she rode a motorcycle, and had a master’s degree from the University of Delaware, where she had specialized in the WPA Art Project. This had brought her to the attention of a very wealthy retired cookie magnate in Paradise Valley, who collected paintings, murals, and posters from the Social Realism movement, among other enthusiasms. From power to the workers to collectibles for the capitalists. Robin lived with her boyfriend, Edward, in a bungalow down in the Roosevelt District. We had not yet met this Edward, who was an artist. As Lindsey had spent more time with Robin, it had seemed like a good thing. Lindsey had never been one to pal around with the girls, just as I had few male friends after college. A woman friend, a lost sister who had gotten her act together, was something new, and Lindsey seemed to like it.
In my office, introductions were made and Peralta was unusually charming. As they talked, I studied the two women, searching for the sisterly similarities. They were both about the same height. This day, Lindsey was dressed in a white sleeveless knit top and black cotton skirt coming to just above her knees. Robin was wearing blue jeans and a vivid tie-dyed work shirt. Her newsboy cap from our first encounter was gone and her hair was loose. It was a thicker and wilder than Lindsey’s hair, fell below her shoulders, and was somewhere between light brown and blond. Robin was tan, while Lindsey was fair. She had gray eyes to Lindsey’s blue. Her features were more closely clustered, and her eyes deeper-set. Somehow her features didn’t assemble quite right, although they could be attractive when she was speaking, when her face became mobile and expressive. Yet they had the same mouth, dimples, chin. When they sat side by side, talked and laughed and glanced—there was connective tissue, in their eyes, and in glances and identical smiles.
“What does a private curator do?” Peralta was sitting on the edge of the desk, and I swear he was sucking in his gut. It was a most un-Peralta like curiosity, and Lindsey gave me a secret smile.
“She arranges the sex toys of the filthy rich,” Robin said, nodding her head in slow seriousness.
“I always suspected,” Peralta said, and the room boomed with his unaccustomed laughter. Robin tended to be as off-the-wall boisterous as Lindsey was subtle and ironic.
“I help guide the collector,” Robin said. “In art, that is.”
“The rich guy,” Peralta said.
“Right. His collection is focused on Social Realism and he’s interested in WPA-era stuff, but he also has some awesome Latin American paintings. Part of my job is to research the art scene. I’m in contact with the galleries, sometimes with artists themselves. I run a lot of interference. Some of the galleries can be really obnoxious.”
“Kind of like Mapstone, here,” Peralta said.
“David is interesting.” Robin smiled at me. “I’ve never had a brother-in-law before.”
“So what else do you do?” Peralta asked.
“Some art can also be fraudulent, and I help him research a work he’s looking to buy, making sure it’s the real thing,” Robin said. “I also keep his library of books and periodicals, and records on the collection, things like insurance appraisals and bibliographical information. Don’t you yawn, now—this is not boring stuff! Sometimes I arrange for his work to be loaned to museums. Here’s where it can get sweet. Last year, I got a great trip to Madrid for just one painting. Then some weeks I feel like I’m a moving company—he’s got a house in Aspen and a penthouse in New York, besides the place in Paradise Valley. He’s got a very cool jet…”
