“When was this?”
“Week, ten days ago.”
Long before Isabel had been accosted. Before the dead dog and shooting incidents, too. “Are you sure?”
“It’s what I hear. You know, in a way I’m surprised that they’d go after Mrs. Angeles at all.”
“Why?”
“The Filipinos have this macho tradition. ’Specially when it comes to their women. They don’t like them messed with, ’specially by non-Filipinos. So how come they’d turn around and mess with one of their own?”
“Well, her testimony would jeopardize the life of one of their fellow gang members. It’s an extreme situation.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
Jimmy Willis and I talked a bit more, but he couldn’t-or wouldn’t-offer any further information. I bought him a second beer, then went out to where I’d left my car.
And came face-to-face with Hector Bulis and the man called Sal.
Sal grabbed me by the arm, twisted it behind me, and forced me up against the latticework fence surrounding the garbage cans. The stench from them filled my nostrils; Sal’s breath rivaled it in foulness. I struggled, but he got hold of my other arm and pinned me tighter. I looked around, saw no one, nothing but the cliff face and the high board fence of the auto dismantler’s yard. Bulis approached, flicking open a switchblade, his twisty face intense. I stiffened, went very still, eyes on the knife.
Bulis placed the tip of the knife against my jawbone, then traced a line across my cheek. “Don’t want to hurt you, bitch,” he said. “You do what I say, I won’t have to mess you up.”
The Tagalog phrase that Anna Smith had translated for me-kumukuló ang dugó-flashed through my mind. The blood is boiling. I sensed Bulis’s was-and dangerously high.
I wet my dry lips, tried to keep my voice from shaking as I said, “What do you want me to do?”
“We hear you’re asking around about Dawson’s murder, trying to prove the Dragon did it.”
“That’s not-”
“We want you to quit. Go back to your own part of town and leave our business alone.”
“Whoever told you that is lying. I’m only trying to help the Angeles family.”
“They wouldn’t lie.” He moved the knife’s tip to the hollow at the base of my throat. I felt it pierce my skin-a mere pinprick, but frightening enough.
When I could speak, I did so slowly, phrasing my words carefully. “What I hear is that Dragón is innocent. And that the Kabalyeros aren’t behind the harassment of the Angeleses-at least not for a week or ten days.”
Bulis exchanged a look with his companion-quick, unreadable.
“Someone’s trying to frame you,” I added, “Just like they did Dragón.”
Bulis continued to hold the knife to my throat, his hand firm. His gaze wavered, however, as if he was considering what I’d said. After a moment he asked, “All right-who?”
“I’m not sure, but I think I can find out.”
He thought a bit longer, then let his arm drop and snapped the knife shut. “I’ll give you till this time tomorrow,” he said. Then he stuffed the knife into his pocket, motioned for Sal to let go of me, and the two quickly walked away.
I sagged against the latticework fence, feeling my throat where the knife had pricked it. It had bled a little, but the flow already was clotting, My knees were weak and my breath came fast, but I was too caught up in the possibilities to panic. There were plenty of them-and the most likely was the most unpleasant.
Kumukuló ang dugó. The blood is boiling…
Two hours later I was back at the Angeles house on Omega Street. When Amor admitted me, the tension I’d felt in her earlier had drained. Her body sagged, as if the extra weight she carried had finally proved to be too much for her frail bones; the skin of her face looked flaccid, like melting putty; her eyes were sunken and vague. After she shut the door and motioned for me to sit, she sank into the recliner, expelling a sigh. The house was quiet-too quiet.
“I have a question for you,” I said. “What does ‘tick-tick’ mean in Tagalog?”
Her eyes flickered with dull interest. “Tiktík.” She corrected my pronunciation. “It’s a word for detective.”
Ever since Hector Bulis and Sal had accosted me I’d suspected as much.
“Where did you hear that?” Amor asked.
“One of the Kabalyeros said it when I went to Fat Robbie’s earlier. Someone had told them I was a detective, probably described me. Whoever it was said I was trying to prove Tommy Dragón killed Reg Dawson.”
“Why would-”
“More to the point, who would? At the time, only four people knew that I’m a detective.”
She wet her lips, but remained silent.
“Amor, the night of the shooting, you were standing in your front window, watching for Isabel.”
“Yes.”
“Do you do that often?”
“… Yes.”
“Because Isabel is often late coming home. Because you’re afraid she may have gotten into trouble.”
“A mother worries-”
“Especially when she’s given good cause. Isabel is running out of control, isn’t she?”
“No, she-”
“Amor, when I spoke with Madeline Dawson, she said you were standing in the window watching for ‘sweet Isabel, like always.’ She didn’t say ‘sweet’ in a pleasant way. Later, Jimmy Willis implied that your daughter is not… exactly a vulnerable young girl.”
Amor’s eyes sparked. “The Dawson woman is jealous.”
“Of course she is. There’s something else: when I asked the waitress at Fat Robbie’s if she’d ever overheard the Kabalyews discussing you, she said, ‘No, not that one.’ It didn’t register at the time, but when I talked to her again a little while ago, she told me Isabel is the member of your family they discuss. They say she’s wild, runs around with the men in the gangs. You know that, so does Alex. And so does Madeline Dawson. She just told me the first man Isabel became involved with was her husband.”
Amor seemed to shrivel. She gripped the arms of the chair, white-knuckled.
“It’s true, isn’t it?” I asked more gently.
She lowered her eyes, nodding. When she spoke her voice was ragged. “I don’t know what to do with her anymore. Ever since that Reg Dawson got to her, she’s been different, not my girl at all.”
“Is she on drugs?”
“Alex says no, but I’m not so sure.”
I let it go; it didn’t really matter. “When she came home earlier,” I said, “Isabel seemed very interested in me. She asked questions, looked me over carefully enough to be able to describe me to the Kabalyeros. She was afraid of what I might find out. For instance, that she wasn’t accosted by any men with guns last Friday.”
“She was!”
“No, Amor. That was just a story, to make it look as if your life-and your children’s-were in danger if you testified. In spite of what you said early on, you haven’t wanted to testify against Tommy Dragón from the very beginning.
“When the Kabalyeros began harassing you a month ago, you saw that as the perfect excuse not to take the stand. But you didn’t foresee that Dragón’s lawyer would convince the gang to stop the harassment. When that happened, you and Isabel, and probably Alex, too, manufactured incidents-the shot-out window, the dead dog on the doorstep, the men with the guns-to make it look as if the harassment was still going on.”
“Why would I? They’re going to put me in jail.”
“But at the time you didn’t know they could do that-or that your employer would hire me. My investigating poses yet another danger to you and your family.”
“This is… why would I do all that?”