Gallucci nodded. "How long until he goes into surgery?"
"Soon."
"Well, I'll see what he has to say."
"Officer, he..."
"If he's conscious, we'll talk. If not, I'll come back tomorrow. What room?"
"Room 113. That doorway and to the right. Halfway down the hall."
Passing through the lobby, Gallucci glanced at the security guard posted at the side of the large room. The potbellied guard leaned against the wall watching the waiting area's television. Gallucci continued into the hallway. He noted that the food-service workers wore plain white uniforms without badges or identification tags.
Room 113 smelled of blood and antiseptic. The wounded Salvadoran opened his eyes as Gallucci went to the bed. Gallucci looked at the bandages covering the young man's body. He could not be the soldier who escaped.
"You are State Department?" the wounded young man asked.
Gallucci went to the room's bathroom. He looked inside, saw the door to the adjoining room open. No one occupied the other room. Gallucci pulled the door closed and locked it. Only then did he answer the Salvadoran.
"So you want asylum? Why?"
"I… have had enough of war and… killing. No more."
"War? What're you talking about? You're a Mexican. Mexico's not at war with us."
"I am Salvadoran… My commander, Colonel Quesada… he ordered… I come to kill North Americans."
"Who shot you?"
"North Americans. Why do you ask me that? I told them everything..."
"You mean the police?"
"Who shot me… who killed all the others… I told them everything…"
"So you're willing to cooperate?"
"Yes… I cooperate…"
"That's all I needed to know. Adios, amigo."
Gallucci left the room quickly. He went to a pay phone in the lobby of the hospital and called a San Francisco number.
An hour after the young Salvadoran left surgery, a food-service worker entered his room. The worker pressed a pillow over the face of the Salvadoran.
His war had indeed ended.
24
Stepping over trash and bottles, Antonio Rivera descended the urine-stinking stairs. Graffiti identified the gangs claiming and competing for the tenement as territory. At the first-floor door, Rivera peered into the lobby before stepping out.
He saw the clerk staring at a television behind the steel wire and bulletproof glass of the manager's office. An elderly resident of the deteriorating hotel slept in an overstuffed chair salvaged from some garbage heap. A Mexican resident pushed through the doors. Recognizing the Mexican as an illegal, Rivera knew he could leave the hotel without risking walking into a squad of Immigration and Naturalization officers.
With a quick "Buenos"to the Mexican, Rivera hurried out. Derelicts and winos sprawled on the sidewalk, warming themselves in the late-afternoon sunlight. Rush-hour traffic from the offices of downtown Los Angeles sped past. With their windows rolled up, secretaries and lawyers and accountants drove past without looking at the human dregs littering Main Street.
Rivera hurried to the corner of Eighth and Main. There, he went to a pay phone in the corner of a cafe. Taking a business card from his wallet, he punched the buttons for a San Francisco number. After depositing a dollar in coins, the phone rang.
"Good evening, Holt, Lindsey and Stein."
"Buenas tardes. May I speak with Mr. Holt."
"This is the answering service, sir. The office is closed for the day. Would you like to leave a message, sir?"
"Mr. Holt has gone home?"
"I have no idea, sir. I only take messages for the office."
"This is Antonio Rivera calling..." He turned the card over. On the back, David Holt had written his home number. "I will call Mr. Holt's home. I must speak with him personally. Thank you."
"Good night, Mr. Rivera."
The second call cost him the last of his coins. After several rings, a young man answered the phone.
"This is the Holt residence. Who is calling?"
"Buenas tardes. This is Antonio Rivera. May I please speak with Mr. Holt?"
Only a quick intake of breath answered him. He heard a hand close over the phone. Then the voice returned.
"Mr. Rivera, this is Michael Holt. My father's dead."
A cold fear seized Rivera. Though he dreaded what he must ask, he asked nevertheless, his mouth dry, "An accident?"
"No, sir. He was murdered."
"Who…?"
"We don't know who. But it's important for you to help us now. My father talked of your case. He was on his way to the airport to go to Washington, when they kidnapped him..."
"Los escuadrones de muerte… aqui."
"What, sir?"
"The death squads. Here."
"Floyd Jefferson went to your apartment in San Diego. But your family was gone. We were afraid that..."
"We saw the Immigration. So we left."
"Can we have your new address, please? We need your help. The police won't believe why this happened."
"North Americans don't understand. They killed my son and the North Americans said it was the Communists. They killed Senor Marquez and…"
"Will you talk with the police, Mr. Rivera?"
"If they send us back to El Salvador, we all die. I, my wife, my daughters. Los escuadroneswait for us."
"You will not be deported. You are now material witnesses in a murder investigation. An American murder investigation. My father's law firm will bring you to San Francisco. We will protect you. If you have any difficulties with the officials, we make bail for your entire family. We need your help… Please, we need your address and phone number."
"I have no telephone. We stay at a hotel in Los Angeles..." Rivera gave Michael Holt the name and address of the Main Street tenement.
"Thank you, Mr. Rivera. Together perhaps we can bring my father's and your son's murderers to justice. Tomorrow, a friend of my father will go to Los Angeles. I'll call him now. He's the personal aide to a congressman. He's offered to help us in every way possible."
"I'm am so very, very sorry my troubles have killed your father."
"No, not your troubles. Our troubles. Now we are together in this…"
"What is his name? This man who will come for my family?"
"Robert Prescott."
25
A night wind from the Atlantic misted the lush tropical garden. Lights hidden among the flowers — transplanted from Salvador — created shadows and translucent colors. Colonel Roberto Quesada walked the cobble-stoned paths of his estate. Though he appeared calm and impassive to the trusted guards stationed at the corners of his property, the colonel's mind raged with anger and impotence. His hands knotted into fists inside the deep pockets of his silk smoking robe. Quesada stared furiously at the lights of Miami.
He cursed his allegiance with the North Americans. The weaklings, incompetent weaklings. But what could he expect of men who would betray their country for Salvadoran gold?
Often, his disgust at his allegiance with the gringos threatened to shatter the mask of diplomacy he maintained. He gave them abrazosof brotherly friendship. He called them his allies in the war against international communism. He contributed hundreds of thousands of dollars to their political campaigns.