“Because basically you’re an honest woman, a good woman. You didn’t want to testify because you knew Dragón didn’t shoot Dawson. It’s my guess you gave the police his name because it was the first one that came to mind.”
“I had no reason to-”
“You had the best reason in the world: a mother’s desire to protect her child.”
She was silent, sunken eyes registering despair and defeat.
I kept on, even though I hated to inflict further pain on her. “The day he died, Dawson had let the word out that he was going to desecrate Benny’s space. The person who shot him knew there would be fighting and confusion, counted on that as a cover. The killer hated Dawson-”
“Lots of people did.”
“But only one person you’d want to protect so badly that you’d accuse an innocent man.”
“Leave my mother alone. She’s suffered enough on account of what I did.”
I turned. Alex had come into the room so quietly I hadn’t noticed. Now he moved midway between Amor and me, a Saturday night special clutched in his right hand.
The missing murder weapon.
I tensed, but one look at his face told me he didn’t intend to use it. Instead he raised his arm and extended the gun, grip first.
“Take this,” he said. “I never should of bought it. Never should of used it. I hated Dawson on account of what he did to my sister. But killing him wasn’t worth what we’ve all gone through since.”
I glanced at Amor; tears were trickling down her face.
Alex said, “Mama, don’t cry. I’m not worth it.”
When she spoke, it was to me. “What will happen to him?”
“Nothing like what might have happened to Dragón; Alex is a juvenile. You, however-”
“I don’t care about myself, only my children.”
Maybe that was the trouble. She was the archetypal selfless mother: living only for her children, sheltering them from the consequences of their actions-and in the end doing them irreparable harm.
There were times when I felt thankful that I had no children. And there were times when I was thankful that Jack Stuart was a very good criminal lawyer. This was a time when I was thankful on both counts. I went to the phone, called Jack, and asked him to come over here. At least I could leave the Angeles family in good legal hands.
After he arrived, I went out into the gathering dusk. An old yellow VW was pulling out of Benny’s space. I walked down there and stood on the curb. Nothing remained of the shrine to Benny Crespo. Nothing remained to show that blood had boiled and been shed here. It was merely a stretch of cracked asphalt, splotched with oil drippings, Uttered with the detritus of urban life. I stared at it for close to a minute, then turned away from the bleak landscape of Omega Street.
THE PUPPET by Dorothy Salisbury Davis
DOROTHY DAVIS’s first crime novel was The Judas Cat, published in 1949, Since that time she achieved an enviable reputation for her ability to write novels and stories with both believable rural and urban settings. Her more than twenty novels include at least four that have been nominated for the Edgar Award and she was made a Grand Master of the Mystery Writers of America in 1984. Most critics consider A Gentle Murderer to be her best novel, and one of the best crime novels of the post-World War II era.
Over the ring of the doorbell came the cry, “Help me, Julie… Let me in!”
Julie, out of bed before she was rightly awake, pulled on her robe and ran, barefoot, to the front of the shop. It was half-past one in the morning. She unbolted the door and opened it on the latch. Her upstairs neighbor, Rose Rodriguez, was shivering in a silvery dress that glowed in the stark Manhattan street light. Julie let her in, then bolted the door and lighted a lamp.
“I don’t know where Juanita is. She’s not in her bed. I thought maybe she comes to you?”
Julie shook her head. “Sit down while I get my slippers.”
The chair creaked with its burden. In the years Julie Hayes had occupied the shop, the ground floor apartment on West 44th Street, Mrs. Rodriguez had put on weight. Her one child, Juanita, had grown from a string bean to puberty with a sudden promising beauty.
Mrs. Rodriguez pointed at the row of dolls when Julie returned. They sat on a table, their backs against the wall. “They are Juanita’s, no?”
“We’ve been mending them,” Julie said. “Now tell me what’s with Juanita?”
“It’s boys. I know it’s boys.”
You ought to know, Julie thought. It was apparent Mrs. Rodriguez had just returned from an evening out. Her husband wouldn’t know about it. Juanita would. Julie was not a great hater, but she would have been hard put to find a kind word for the woman now twisting off the flashy rings from her fingers. “Where do you think she is? Let’s start with that.”
“She wants to go to her friend Elena’s for supper. I say okay, but you be home by nine o’clock. The whole holiday weekend and she hasn’t done her homework.”
“Did she come home?”
“Julie…” The woman’s face became a mask of contrition. “She has a very good father but not so good mother. You know?”
Julie ignored the ploy for sympathy. “Isn’t it possible she tried to call you? To ask if she could stay overnight? And then stayed anyway when she couldn’t reach you?”
“She knows better. Papa will not give permission. He will kill me…” The woman began to sob.
“Stop that!” Julie shouted. “Let’s call her friend’s house right now.”
“You know her number, Julie?”
“Don’t you?”
“I don’t even know her name except Elena.”
“Then you can’t do anything till morning. I can call the police…”
“No. No police. They come and ask questions.”
“Yeah.”
Mrs. Rodriguez brushed away green tears. Her mascara was running. “You are right. She stays with Elena, I think. That’s what I tell Papa if he looks and sees she’s not in her bed. A wild man.”
“First thing in the morning, call the school. Ask for the principal. Whoever you get, find out Elena’s last name, her phone number…”
The woman laid her hand on Julie’s. “Please, will you call? Say it’s for me, Señora Rodriguez. Say I don’t speak very good English. That’s the truth, no?”
“Mrs. Rodriguez…”
“Please, you call me Rose. We are friends, no?”
Julie could not go back to sleep. She listened for Juanita’s father to come home from work, a tired, bemused man who moonlighted on a second job while his wife moonlighted in her fashion. Juanita had grown up a silent, angry child who beat her dolls and pulled off their arms and legs. Now she and Julie were putting them together again with glue and heavy thread, a Christmas project for the really poor. It had taken Julie a long time to make her smile, then laugh, to make her see the dolls as little Juanitas. A lot of her own angry childhood had gone into the making.
Mr. Rodriguez came home. Julie waited for the explosion, the reverberations of which would run through the building. But none came. The woman would have persuaded him the child was asleep in her bed. Julie sat up and phoned the local precinct. The only complaints involving children were drug related: downtown bookings, parents contacted.
“How about the prostitutes-any young ones?” The wildest possibility.
“They’re all young-and as old as Magdalene,” the desk sergeant said. Then: “This wasn’t a sweep night, Julie.”
Nothing came of inquiries to the local hospitals.
Julie lay back and thought about when she had last seen the youngster. Late afternoon yesterday. Probably when she was coming home to ask permission to go to Elena’s. What was she wearing besides the red, white, and green streamers? Julie couldn’t remember. The Italian colors were for the Columbus Day Street Fair. Nor could she remember Juanita’s ever mentioning Elena. She was only beginning to make friends. So, thank God for Elena. Sleep finally came.