“Exactly. Have you ever been out there before?”
“Just in passing. Never been any reason for me to stop.”
“How’s your Spanish?”
“Not great, but I can follow a simple conversation,” Brubeck said. “I’ll do the driving, if you do the talking.”
“Sounds good. Just get us there in one piece.”
MIGRANT FARM WORKERS were a fact of life in California. They came over on work permits and were allowed to live and toil doing very specific labor for a very specific amount of time. The temporariness-along with the smothering poverty-was reflected in the living conditions. It wasn’t shantytown because there were some wooden houses with stucco walls, but there was no permanence to the areas. The houses were meant to be erected in a day’s time and razed with the single push of a Bobcat.
“Every so often that happens,” Brubeck told Decker. “Some social activist raises a hue and a cry about workers’ rights and then the area’s leveled. Next week, it starts all over again. It’s not like the old days when the hands would live on the ranches. Not enough money to feed a staff and pay them wages. Something had to go.”
Decker noticed electric lines jerry-rigged to the houses so at least some of the places could sustain a modern convenience or two. Most of the structures shared walls, making them look like tenements.
A cheerless and depressing chunk of nothing; the only exuberance was the paint color on the exteriors-bright yellows, electrifying oranges, deep purples, kelly greens, and rose reds. Instead of address numerals, the units were identified by letters, and in the northern district the rooms were A through P. The Mendez families lived in H, I, and J. As Brubeck approached the huts, Decker noticed a recently washed twenty-year-old Suburban parked outside.
“Stop the car, Willy.” As Brubeck braked, tires churned up the loose gravel. Decker said, “Any idea who drives the Suburban?”
“No, but it’s a visitor. The car’s old, but it’s too clean to belong to one of the tenants.”
Decker opened the rental’s door. “Let’s take a peek.”
Quietly, they slipped out and tiptoed up to the Suburban. Inside was a leather jacket, a paper cup of coffee, a cop’s radio and mike, and an empty shotgun rack. The two of them exchanged glances and tread softly back to the car.
“It’s outfitted with a police scanner,” Brubeck said.
“Yeah, I noticed. Also the gun rack is empty.”
“I noticed that, too. Let me call up Dad and find out what T drives.” He got off the phone a minute later. “It’s T’s official vehicle.”
Neither spoke for a moment.
“I don’t think sneaking up on the sheriff would be a good thing,” Decker said.
“I agree with that.”
They sat a few more moments.
“Maybe I should tell T that we’ve just arrived here and we’re headed for town.”
“What good would that do?” Brubeck asked.
“We could wait for him to drive away and then go inside.” A pause. “Unless someone inside has guns.”
“Out here everyone has guns. And once he figures out we duped him, he’s gonna be pissed.”
A good point. “Then how about if we watch him as he comes out the door…see if he’s traveling with his shotgun.”
“Then what?” Brubeck laughed. “You’re not saying we should jump him, right?”
Decker shrugged. “Back up and hide the car so it’s not so visible. I’m going to give him a call.”
Brubeck put the rental in reverse and slowly backed up, hiding the vehicle behind a pink and green shed that housed a red Toyota Corolla-the paint job new and not professionally done. The two men regarded the car until Decker scratched the surface with his nail. There was navy paint underneath.
“Martin drove an ’02 blue Toyota Corolla.”
“Now what?” Brubeck asked.
“I’m not quite sure. Let me call up the local law, and at least no one can say we didn’t try.”
Edna, the secretary, told him that T wasn’t in. “He wasn’t expecting you until this afternoon.”
“We got an earlier flight.”
“Oh…but the call just came in a half hour ago.”
“Must have been the delay of my cell going through.” It made no sense whatsoever, but Edna didn’t challenge it. “Any idea where T is?”
“No, sir. Just that he’s out on official business.”
“Does he have a cell phone?”
“He sure does, but I’m under strict orders not to give out the number. I’ll call him for you, if you want.”
“That would be great.”
“Where are you now?”
“We’re just picking up our rental at the airport.”
“It’ll take about a half hour to get over here. You need directions?”
“No, I’m with Willy Brubeck. He knows the area.”
“Willy Brubeck? Marcus Merry’s son-in-law?”
“Yes, ma’am, he works for me.”
“Call me Edna.”
“I’ll see you in a half hour, Edna.” Decker cut the line. They were about a hundred feet from unit J, but there was no clear view of the front doors from where they had parked. “You stay near the car, Willy. I’m going to move a little closer.”
“Are you crazy? We’re naked in the wind.”
“I didn’t say I was going to confront him. I just said I was going to move a little closer. Just stay with the car. And if I get plugged, don’t tell my wife how it happened.”
Before Brubeck could protest, Decker was out of the automobile.
Sneaking up, he got within striking distance from unit J’s front door.
Five minutes later, T came out, garbed in a plaid shirt, jeans, and scuffed leather boots, toting a twelve-gauge shotgun. It looked like a Remington 1100-an old sucker, not at all state of the art. T was a small guy, but sometimes that made an armed man especially dangerous.
The sheriff glanced around, then opened the Suburban’s door and got inside. There was no visibility through the windshield of the vehicle because of the glare from the sun, but T had made the tactical error of not closing the driver’s door. Decker crept around until the sheriff’s arm came into view. He waited until T had secured the gun into the rack, and then caught him by surprise.
“Good morning, Sheriff, I’m Lieutenant Decker from the LAPD.”
T’s head spun around, his hand instinctively reaching for the gun rack. Decker, anticipating the move, caught T by the wrist, causing the car keys to drop to the floor. He said, “Don’t do that.”
T’s arm was in an awkward position. To break free, he would have had to wrench a socket. “Are you fucking insane?”
“No, I just don’t want to get shot.”
“Then don’t sneak up on a man, for Chrissakes! Let go of my arm or I’ll throw your fucking ass in jail.”
“Get out of the vehicle and we can talk about it.”
“I can’t do nothin’ because you’re holding on to my arm.”
Decker eased him out of the car and let go of T’s arm. Being almost a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier, it was clear who had the advantage. As the saying went, size mattered. A moment later, Brubeck was at his side. “You okay, sir?”
“Is he okay?” T was shaking his arm up and down. “Jackass nearly broke my wrist. What the fuck is your problem?”
“I’m not armed,” Decker said. “I like a level playing field.”
“Why the fuck would I shoot you?” T’s eyes were daggers. He was still shaking out his wrist. “I should throw your ass in jail.” He suddenly noticed Brubeck. “Willy, how could you let him do that to me?”
“Sorry, T, but he’s my boss.”
“He’s crazy!”
“I don’t deny that, T, but I got to work with him.”
Decker took out his ID, but T swatted it to the ground. “Why the fuck did you sneak up on me… nearly gave me a heart attack.”
“I identified myself.”
“And that was supposed to impress me?”
“I’m sorry, Sheriff,” Decker said.
“You’re a fucking idiot.”