Civil was a different matter. Leonard Wong had been, and was currently being, sued by investors, landlords, suppliers, contractors, and even a live seafood supplier from Korea who he’d stiffed. The investors came in clumps. It appeared that he had sold the restaurants at least four times to five groups of overseas investors. He hadn’t done the bankruptcy out, which was interesting. That meant he hoped for new investors. I checked with my sources in the DA’s office and learned there were more lawsuits pending. Then I checked my darker sources and learned that in addition to his drinking and money problems, Leonard also had a cocaine problem, and that was overtaking the rest. The profile was shaping.
Estelle blew in around eleven thirty a.m., looking, as she was wont to say, rid hard and put away wet.
“If you look in the dictionary under blowsy...” I said.
“Stuff it.” Estelle reached for the Visine, tilted back, and shuddered as the drops hit her tender eyeballs. “Made the sale. At least I damn well better have made that sale. His wife would not like to see what my security camera saw.”
“Leonard Wong?”
Estelle sat up. “Interesting story, but I only know the parameters. He used to own the land his restaurants sit on. Three refi’s in three years. New case?”
“Time for lunch.”
“Gotcha.” Estelle turned on her desk lamp, put on her dark glasses, and spun her Rolodex.
I walked over to Manny’s. It was pleasantly dark, as always, and quieter than usual. You could actually hear Manny’s favorite soundtrack, delicate jarocho harp music from Veracruz. Manuel Santana was an interesting man, successful restaurateur, and failed artist, according to him — and Chicano Centrál if you were involved in Democratic Party politics. He kept the lights low and stocked chardonnay, which kept the gringas of a certain age coming back.
The head waiter’s wife, Socorro, was behind the cash register, comparing the tale of the tape to the handwritten bills, then stapling them together. I touched her on the shoulder as I went by. She lifted her head and smiled at me. Leobardo approached; he nodded and it was almost a genuflection — then, full smile. He leaned in attentively with his pad and we went through our ritual.
“Para mi, poquito ensalada de Manuel,” I said. “Chile relleño combinacion, menos frijoles, solo arroz.”
Leobardo didn’t write it down until I finished my recitation, and then he began his own: “One small Manny’s salad, one stuffed chile, no beans, only rice. And to drink?”
“Una Bohemia, por favor.”
Leobardo winked. “It’s December. We just got our shipment of Noche Buena. ”
The Christmas beer, a joy, a dark beer with some sweetness but more body and a great aftertaste. The German braumeisters who came to Monterrey in the nineteenth century lived on in this great beer, available once a year. “Noche Buena,” I agreed.
Leobardo bowed and smiled again. At the cash register, Socorro cackled. As always, Leobardo ignored his wife and maintained his chivalrous flirtation. “Esta bién, señorita. Your accent is really improving.”
As he set down the beer, I said, “Leobardo. A question, and this is professional.”
“For your work?”
“Yes. Do you know anyone who knows about cockfighting in South County?”
He sat down across from me. “You need this?”
“Yeah, it matters.”
“Then you should talk to my uncle Mike. Miguel to me, but he’ll want you to call him Mike. Did you know about my family?”
“No. Just a shot. Cockfighting’s been big in Watsonville since the sixties and I know your family has been here longer than that.”
“My family is from Michoacán, and that’s the center of cockfighting in Mexico. We’ve bred champion roosters for more than a century.”
At the cash register, Socorro spiked a sheaf of bills, rolled the tape around the spike, and punched the empty cash drawer closed. She stood with the bank bag and peered at us with some humor. “If I had a peso for every macho from Michoacán who claimed he raised the best cock in the country, I’d be a happier woman than I am today.”
Leobardo rolled his eyes and blew a kiss in Socorro’s direction, “Besos y pesos, mi amor.” He tore off a page from his order pad, wrote furiously, and then handed it to me like a check. “That’s the address and phone number. I’ll go make the call.”
The address was in Corralitos. Back at the office, Estelle looked up the parcel. It was a good-sized ranch for the area, 180 acres off Eureka Canyon Road. Miguel Sandoval was the owner.
Estelle spotted something interesting, the parcel opposite Miguel’s, which fronted on Amesti Road. It was owned by another Sandoval, Benjamin. Corralitos Creek separated the properties.
Estelle pointed out the window, “There’s your flag boy.”
I looked out. Leobardo had stepped out the front door of Manny’s and was waving a red napkin. When he saw he had my attention, he jabbed a forefinger south. It was time to go.
The day was too nice for the freeway. I took my Karmann Ghia through the apple orchards and Victorian farmhouses, then rolled down my window as I passed the Corralitos meat market to enjoy the scent of burning applewood and smoking linguiça.
I found the address, an impressive stone gate with a bronze sign affixed, Rancho Sandoval. Uncle Mike was behind the gate, an older, sturdier version of Leobardo, on horseback, a beautiful roan that must have stood seventeen hands high. I waved, and he walked the gate open and then walked it closed behind me, a nice bit of horsemanship.
I leaned out and looked up at him, “Don Miguel, cómo estás?”
He laughed, “Yeah, Leobardo said you would try out your Spanish. He said not to encourage you. It’s Mike. Follow me.”
He set out at a canter and then got up to speed, cutting through short grass and vetch that fronted the rows of apple trees. I followed on the concrete, which became well-graded dirt out of sight of the frontage road. It was almost three minutes to the house and outbuildings, clustered on a wide meadow, backed onto Corralitos Creek. It was as close to a hacienda as anything I’d seen on this side of the border.
Off to one side was what looked like a full-sized rodeo arena, with metal stands. In back, a parking lot. Mike went inside and came out bearing two sweating bottles of Noche Buena. He handed one over. “Let’s walk and talk. Leobardo told me two things. He said you wanted to know about cockfighting and he said you were to be trusted.”
I pointed to the arena. “Is that where they’re held? The cockfights?”
He laughed. “No, we actually do hold rodeos here, once a month at least, both vaquero and American.”
He took my elbow and guided me around an oak to a smaller path, which led to a pristine metal building with tiers of canted rows of windows, tilted to let in sunlight, but at an angle that made it impossible to see in from outside.
Inside, I understood I was in the Taj Mahal of henhouses — climate-controlled with filtered air, sunlit apartments filled with happy chickens, if the slow contented clucking was any indicator. Chickens of all colors walked and scratched and sat asleep on fresh straw, in tiers stretching to the roof.
“These are the hens,” Mike explained. “We sell some eggs at our roadside stand. About half of them are breeders, from long lines of fierce ancestors. Rockefeller couldn’t afford these eggs for breakfast.” Beyond the hens was a metal wall that had a metal door with a coded entry lock. Mike punched some numbers.