She stared into her lap, rubbed her hands along the stone-washed denim of her jeans. “They want me alive because they want to do the same things to me that they did to Jax.”
14
That night we sat in Peralta’s pickup again, only this time we were in a parking lot on Central Avenue in south Phoenix. Outside it was pleasantly crisp, in the fifties. All three of us wore light leather jackets. They concealed Robin’s protective vest and our firearms. Her unruly hair was tucked in a bun. My cell showed a quarter past ten-a quarter past midnight in Washington. I tried the mental exercise: put it back in the compartment. But the compartment was shattered. The best I could do was look through the windshield and force myself into the moment. From the open spaces, we could look down at the lights of the city and the downtown skyline, which looked entirely different from this direction. Over our shoulders, the red lights of the television towers on the South Mountains blinked in a steady cadence.
I was heedlessly venting my anger over the new sheriff, who was using the department to make large-scale arrests of Hispanics in an effort to pick up illegal immigrants. Why the hell wasn’t he arresting the employers-or the Anglos who benefited from cheap yard work or maid service? Where was the arrest of the wire-transfer company executives for helping facilitate human smuggling? Or even bagging big-time coyotes? Where was the outrage at the destruction of the traditional Mexican economy by NAFTA and the lack of investment that would benefit ordinary people down there so they didn’t have to migrate north? As usual, the working poor suffered. Only the sheriff’s “sweeps” were played prominently in the newspapers, along with anti-immigrant letters on the editorial pages. As I went on, Robin elbowed me in the ribs. Peralta serenely ignored me.
“Does this take you back, Mapstone?” The streetlights set Peralta’s wide, flat forehead in silhouette. “Summer of ’77, when the big gang violence really started. Command and the politicians didn’t even want us to use the word ‘gang.’ Why, Phoenix couldn’t have a gang problem. That’s what the well-off Anglos wanted to think. Neighborhoods falling apart, but they didn’t see it.” He chuckled. “Mapstone and I rode together when he was a rookie deputy, Robin. We served warrants down here. I was his training officer.”
“And he was a real bastard to work with,” I said, staggered again by the passing of time.
“It saved your life,” he said.
That was true enough. “You didn’t think I’d make it.”
“Yes, I did. Robin, you should have seen Mapstone the first time he arrested this hooker we called Speedy Gonzales. He didn’t know Speedy was a transvestite.”
“Ha. Ha,” I said. “And I remember the night you almost single-handedly started a riot at the Marcos de Niza projects…”
“Two young studs still competing,” Robin said and laughed.
We were watching the Pete’s Fish ‘n Chips, which had been here as long as I could remember. The place had survived the building up of south Phoenix, which was once heavily agricultural and bounded by the Japanese flower gardens that ran on either side of Baseline Road. But south Phoenix was also the poor part of town on the other side of the tracks and the Salt River. That part still survived. Pete’s had outdoor seating on picnic tables next to the small building, lit by overhead fluorescent lights that cast a white glow out on the otherwise deserted streetscape. At the moment, half a dozen young Latino men sat there, holding court.
“I thought you said…”
“Be patient,” he said.
Sure enough, they paraded out to their cars and sped off going north. The picnic tables were entirely deserted for ten minutes.
Peralta shifted in his seat. “Here we go.”
A white SUV pulled in, its mandatory spinning hubcaps running. Four black guys stepped out and walked to the order window. They kept a loud hip-hop number playing out of the open windows. Lyrics about the wrong place at the wrong time.
“No colors?” I asked.
“There’s less of that now,” Peralta said. “They don’t want to give P.C. to law enforcement.” Probable cause.
We were no longer law enforcement, but in minutes we were out of the truck, waiting to cross the scanty traffic on Central. On Peralta’s orders, Robin waited in the locked cab.
“You ought to join me as a P.I.”
“No. Why would I want to spend every day with you out in that shack on Grand Avenue?”
“What else are you going to do? I sent you that lawyer, Judson Lee. His case seemed right up your alley. Robin could work with us, too. I’ve already got more cases than I can handle.”
“No. And why did you do that? You’re not my boss anymore. We’ll sell the house and move to Washington.”
“She’ll be back.”
“Says you, the master of successful marriage.”
“You lost one, too, Mapstone, so don’t be smug. Not that Sharon didn’t warn you about Patty.”
That was true enough. I felt the need to defend myself, but there wasn’t time. We started across the street and my gut constricted.
“Trust me,” he said. “I’m the ideal man to give you advice.”
“It’s never stopped you.”
Then we were on the curb, crossing the sidewalk.
“Well, well, well, the motherfucking former sheriff and his history bitch.” This came from a slender man. Beneath his hoodie, he looked somewhere south of thirty, with skin the color of almonds. I had never met him, but people still knew me from television and newspaper appearances that Peralta would orchestrate when we broke an old case.
“Peralta, you the only motherfucker in the La-Ti-No community that’s got a nigger pass. Does your gabacho here have a nigger pass?”
The three other men, all large and heavily tattooed, watched us silently with the dead, sociopath eyes that had become all too common. My sensibilities stung from hearing the slur, even though it was common on the street.
“He’s got a nigger pass from way back.” Peralta actually drawled this. “The question is whether it’s worth anything down here anymore.”
“Here’s my black ass,” the man said, “there’s your Mexican lips. Act accordingly. Bloods have owned this corner since my granddad was banging.”
“Whatever you say. Now go shut off that diarrhea coming out of your speakers or I’ll put a bullet in your high-end sound system.”
The men around the lighter-skinned guy started getting twitchy, but he ordered one of them to turn off the music.
“We need to talk,” Peralta said, swinging a leg over the picnic table and pilfering one of the leader’s fries. “Don’t mind if I do. Mapstone, this here’s Andrew “Cut Me Some” Slack, the middle part being his gangster name.”
“Hey, fuck you, Peralta. My street name’s ‘Scandalous.’ You know that.”
“Sure.” Peralta chuckled and ate another of Scandalous’ French fries. “I gave him his real nickname because when we first arrested him, he kept saying ‘please, cut me some slack.’ Anyway, what kind of black name is Andrew?”
Slack ate part of a fish filet and smiled. “Same old racist bastard, yo. But not enough of one to get re-elected. The times they are a-changing.”
I kept standing, ready to give Peralta backup if things went bad, but he seemed perfectly comfortable. Every few minutes, I looked back toward Robin. The truck sat unmolested.
Peralta leaned forward on his elbows. “So since we’re talking about nicknames and all, what about El Verdugo?”
The backup crew stopped eating and eyed us carefully. Slack chewed intensely and slurped from a giant soft drink.
“Ain’t no such,” he said. “El Verdugo’s an urban legend. And if he ain’t, he’s down in ole Me-he-ko…” His voice didn’t have the same bravado.
“Oh, no,” Peralta said. “He’s up here. I almost wondered if he was coming after your ass, but then I guess he figured Andrew Slack was the name of some plastic surgeon in Scottsdale…”