CHAPTER
25
Carte blanche at two a.m. meant putting a BOLO out on Sal Fidella’s Corvette as we sped east on the 101.
Milo said, “I get non-AFIS prints that aren’t Fidella’s, all the more reason to hunt for Marty Mendoza seriously. As in talking to every damn student and teacher at Prep who knew him, maybe flying out personally to San Antonio where I will enjoy tamales and carne asada and drive by his sister’s apartment at frequent intervals, myself.”
“I am detective, hear me roar.”
“Beasts of burden make noise, too.”
Nine hours later, he called me. “Top of the morning.” Lightness in his voice.
“You found the car?”
“Nope, but I made a new friend.”
♦
I met him at noon at the Culver City jail on Duquesne, where a guard named Shirronne Bostic led us to a locked holding room.
Tapping a foot, she shuffled through a key ring.
Milo said, “When did he come in?”
“Last night around ten. Picked up in a hooker sting, pretended no hablo inglés then changed his tune when he got hauled in instead of just a ticket like the last time. Your card was in his pocket along with some bullshit I.D. You were his one call.”
“Flattered.”
“He for real, Lieutenant?”
“Depends on what he has to say.”
“Guess he is real,” said Bostic. “You’re here.”
Inside the holding cell, a middle-aged balding man with a droopy mustache sat on a metal bench, dusky skin jaundiced by cruel light. White stubble dotted his face, his eyes were defeated.
Jumpy eyes and unstable hands, same as when he’d been part of the day-laborer crowd waiting for pickup work near the ice joint. The one who’d claimed a fake address in Beverly Hills.
Officer Bostic said, “He claims to be Hector Ruiz but he also claims to live near movie stars.”
“That’s my name,” said the man.
Milo said, “I’ll take it from here, thanks,” and Bostic left. “Mr. Ruiz, how’re things in B.H.?”
Hector Ruiz said, “The guy in anteater shirt,” in barely accented English.
“What about him?”
“I know him.” Ruiz rotated his wrists, tugged the side of his mouth into a grotesque demi-smile.
Milo said, “I’m waiting.”
“I need to get out.”
“Next time you get arrested, make sure it’s in L.A. and it’ll be a snap.”
“Please,” said Ruiz.
“Tell me about Anteater.”
“Please,” Ruiz repeated. “My wife coming from Juarez. She can’t know.”
“You got arrested for the same thing two weeks ago, Hector.”
“That was a ticket,” said Ruiz. “This time they take me in.”
“That’s called being a repeat offender.”
“Please. I got no bail money, they gonna keep me here, she coming two days.”
“Tough lady?”
Ruiz pressed a palm against a temple. “Oh, man.”
“I’m LAPD, Hector. Most I can do is talk to Culver City Vice.”
“Why just talk? Do,” said Ruiz. “You say you gran patrón.”
“In L.A.”
“They lie to me, she was a cop.” Ruiz outlined female curves. “They give her the hot pants and the boots, she say I blow you for thirty.”
“The boots’ll do it every time,” said Milo.
“She say she blow me before I say nothing.”
“Clear case of entrapment, Hector.”
“I need out tomorrow.”
“Mrs. Ruiz isn’t arriving for two days.”
“I need clean the house.”
“Hiding the evidence, huh?”
“I need out.”
“What’s Anteater’s name and where can I find him?”
“Get me out I tell you,” said Ruiz.
Milo leaned in close. “It doesn’t work that way, Hector. And just giving me information won’t be enough until I make sure it’s worth more than your I.D. card.”
Ruiz looked away. “What you want with him?”
“Not your business, Hector, but if you want the wife to be happy, I need him in custody.”
No answer.
“Comprende, Hector?”
“I know English.”
“And a good English it is.” Milo shot a cuff, checked his Timex.
Hector Ruiz said, “You promise to help me?”
“Once I’ve got Mr. Shirt in custody.”
“Okay, okay, okay, he live in my apartment.”
“You’re roommates?”
“No, no, same building. He number five, the bottom. I number seven, the top.”
Milo suppressed a smile. “Beverly Hills?”
“No, no, here,” said Ruiz. “Culver City. Venice Boulevard, near the freeway.”
Out came the pad. “Address.”
Ruiz tugged his mouth. Complied.
“Now I need a name, Hector.”
“Gilberto,” said Ruiz. “Gilberto Chavez, he say he a painter, in Juarez he never paint, just drywall and no good at drywall.”
“One of those darn painter wannabes,” said Milo.
“Don’t say I the one tell you.”
“What else do you know about Mr. Chavez?”
“He smoke a lot.” Miming a two-fingered cigarette grasp, Ruiz brought his hand to his mouth, scrunched his eyes, hollowed his cheeks, gave a goofy look.
“Marihuana que fumar,” said Milo.
“All the time,” said Ruiz. “That’s what they pay him with.”
“Who?”
“Kids.”
“What kids?”
“They pay him with weed to buy dry ice. He say lucky day.”
“Tell me about these kids, Hector.”
“That’s all he say. Kids.”
“How many?”
Ruiz shook his head. “That’s all he say.”
Milo waited.
Ruiz said, “You got to get me out before Lupe come.”
“If you’ve done your best, Hector, I’ll do mine. Tell me about the kids.”
“That’s what he say.” Crossing himself. “Kids, that’s all.”
Milo headed for the door.
Hector Ruiz said, “Please.”
A call to a Vice D named Gerald Santostefano revealed that Ruiz was scheduled for release in three hours due to overcrowding at the jail.
“Why’d you take him in to begin with?”
“He’s a chronic, Lieutenant.”
“Likes the ladies, huh?”
“Likes ’em in boots, real pest,” said Santostefano. “You know what it’s like, we can’t get ’em unless we nab ’em in the act. We put one of our cuter rookies in a pair of knee-high white plastics with stacked heels, he was toast.”
“There’s an idea for Project Runway.”
Santostefano cracked up.
Milo said, “Any way you can keep him in for a while?”
“What’s a while?”
“Until I call you and let you know his info’s good.”
“Well,” said Santostefano, “I got no personal problem with that but it’s a jail issue. Who’s on shift there?”
“Officer Bostic.”
“Shirronne’s okay, I can maybe get her to lose paper for another few hours. Beyond that, I can’t promise.”
Milo thanked him.
“Hey,” said Santostefano. “Who knows, maybe one day I’ll need you.”
“Not for fashion advice.”
The building besmirched a corner lot on the south side of Venice just west of Sepulveda. Two gloomy stories of cracked, gray stucco were rust-striped like a tabby cat. Waist-high chain link boxed in a yard coated with powdery brown dust. Cans and bottles and trash bags had been kicked into a corner. Errant flecks of garbage dotted the dirt near the doorway.
During the quarter hour we watched the premises, two Hispanic males left and three others entered, the third swaggering arm in arm with a chubby, heavily made-up woman wearing a floral micro-dress.