I didn’t stick around to see if he’d make good on his threat.
The morning paper stated that Malibu Mike, having expired from natural causes, was still in deep freeze, waiting for a relative to claim his body. He’d died buried under tiers of clothing, his feet wrapped in three pairs of socks stuffed into size twelve mismatched shoes. Two pairs of gloves had covered his hands, and three scarves had been wrapped around his neck. A Dodgers’ cap was perched atop a ski hat that cradled Malibu’s head. In all those layers, there was not one single piece of ID to let us know who he really was. After all these years, I thought he deserved a decent burial, and I guess I wasn’t the only one who felt that way. The locals were taking up a collection to have him cremated. Maybe a small service, too-a few words of remembrance, then his ashes would be mixed with the tides.
I thought Malibu might have liked that. I took a twenty from my wallet and began to search the trailer for a clean envelope and a stamp. I found what I was looking for and was addressing the envelope when Yolanda Flores called me.
“Dey find her,” she said, choking back sobs. “She dead. The police find her in a trash can. She beat to death. Es horrible!”
“Yolanda, I’m so sorry.” I really was. “I wish I could do something for you.”
“You wan’ do somethin’ for me?” Yolanda said. “You find out what happen to my sister.”
Generally I like to be paid for my services, but my mind flashed to little dresses in cardboard boxes. I knew what it was like to live without a mother. Besides, I was still fuming over last night’s encounter with Pasqual.
“I’ll look into it for you,” I said.
There was a silence across the line.
“Yolanda?”
“I still here,” she said. “I… surprise you help me.”
“No problem.”
“Thank you.” She started to cry. “Thank you very much. I pay you-”
“Forget it.”
“No, I work for you on weekends-”
“Yolanda, I live in a trailer and couldn’t find anything if you cleaned up my place. Forget about paying me. Let’s get back to your sister. Tell me about Jose. Martina and him get along?”
There was a very long pause. Yolanda finally said, “Jose no good. He and his brothers.”
“Is Pasqual one of Jose’s brothers?”
“How you know?”
I told her about my visit with Pasqual the night before, about Big-and-Fat’s threat. “Has he ever killed anyone before?”
“I don’ know. He drink and fight. I don’ know if he kill anyone when he’s drunk.”
“Did you ever see Pasqual beating Martina?”
“No,” Yolanda said. “I never see that”
“What about José?”
Another moment of silence.
Yolanda said, “He slap her mebbe one or two time. I tell her to leave him but she say no ’cause of the girls.”
“Do you think Jose could kill Martina?”
Yolanda said, “He slap her when he drink. But I don’ think he would kill her to kill her.”
“He wouldn’t do it on purpose,”
“Essackly.”
“Yolanda, would Jose kill Martina for money?”
“No,” she said firmly. “He’s Evangélico, A bad Bvangélico, but not el diablo.”
“He wouldn’t do it for lots of money?”
“No, he don’ kill her for money.”
I said, “What about Pasqual?”
“I don’ think so,”
“Martina have any enemigosl”
“Nunca persona!” Yolanda said. “No one want to hurt her. She like sugar. Es so terrible!”
She began to cry. I didn’t want to question her over the phone. A face-to-face meeting would be better. I asked her when was the funeral service.
“Tonight. En la iglesia a las ocho. After the culto funeral, we go to cementerio. You wan’ come?”
“Yes, I think that might be best.” I told her I knew the address of the church and would meet her eight o’clock sharp.
I was unnerved by what I had to do next: break the bad news to Deirdre Pollack. The old woman took it relatively well, never even asked about the ring. When I told her I’d volunteered to look into Martina’s death, she offered to pay me. I told her that wasn’t necessary, but when she insisted, I didn’t refuse.
I got to the church by eight, then realized I didn’t know Yolanda from Adam. But she picked me out in a snap. Not a plethora of five-foot-eight, blond, blue-eyed Salvadoran women.
Yolanda was petite, barely five feet and maybe ninety pounds tops. She had yards of long brown hair-Evangelical women don’t cut their tresses-and big brown eyes moistened with tears. She took my hand, squeezed it tightly, and thanked me for coming.
The church was filled to capacity, the masses adding warmth to the unheated chapel. In front of the stage was a table laden with broth, hot chocolate, and plates of bread. Yolanda asked me if I wanted anything to eat and I declined.
We sat in the first row of the married women’s section. I glanced at the men’s area and noticed Pasqual with his cronies. I asked Yolanda to point out Jose: the man who had come to the door with Pasqual. The other two men were also brothers. José’s eyes were swollen and bright red. Crying or post-alcohol intoxication?
I studied him further. He’d been stuffed into an ill-fitting black suit, his dark hair slicked back with grease. All the brothers wore dark suits. Jose looked nervous, but the others seemed almost jocular.
Pasqual caught me staring, and his expression immediately darkened, his eyes bearing down on me. I felt needles down my spine as he began to rise, but luckily the service started and he sank back into his seat.
Pastor Gomez came to the dais and spoke about what a wonderful wife and mother Martina had been. As he talked, the women around me began to let out soft, muted sobs. I did manage to sneak a couple of sidelong glances at the brothers. I met up with Pasqual’s dark stare once again.
When the pastor had finished speaking, he gave the audience directions to the cemetery. Pasqual hadn’t forgotten about my presence, but I was too quick for him, making a beeline for the pastor. I managed to snare Gomez before Pasqual could get to me. The fat slob backed off when the pastor pulled me into a corner.
“What happened?” I asked.
Gomez looked down. “I wish I knew.”
“Do the police-”
“Police!” The pastor spat. “They don’t care about a dead Hispanic girl. One less flea in their country. I was wearing my work clothes when I got the call this morning. I’d been doing some plumbing and I guess they thought I was a wetback who didn’t understand English.” His eyes held pain. “They joked about her. They said it was a shame to let such a wonderful body go to waste!”
“That stinks.”
“Yes, it stinks.” Gomez shook his head. “So you see I don’t expect much from the police.”
“I’m looking into her death.”
Gomez stared at me. “Who’s paying you to do it?”
“Not Yolanda,” I said.
“Martina’s patrona She wants her ring.”
“I think she wants justice for Martina.”
The pastor blushed from embarrassment.
I said, “I would have done it gratis. I’ve got some suspicions.” I filled him in on my encounter with Pasqual.
Gomez thought a moment. “Pasqual drinks even though the church forbids alcohol. Pasqual’s not a bad person. Maybe you made him feel threatened.”
“Maybe I did.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Gomez said. “Calm him down. But I don’t think you should come to the cementerio with us. Now’s not the time for accusations.”
I agreed. He excused himself as another parishioner approached and suddenly I was alone. Luckily, Pasqual had gone somewhere else. I met up with Yolanda, explaining my reason for not going to the cemetery. She understood.