“Latino was one group. Who was the other?” I asked even though I could have guessed.
“Chinese,” he confirmed.
“Where’s the Alpine district? I’ve never heard of that.”
“It’s those little hills between Chinatown and the south side of Dodger Stadium. Used to be mostly an Italian neighborhood until the Chinese moved in. You still have a few decent Italian delis there left over from the old days.”
“You mentioned a gang?”
“This is where it gets complicated. Mr. Hermosillo was one of these pachuco wannabe punks from East L.A. White Picket guy, maybe, but never confirmed if he was officially a member.”
No wonder Hector wore his pants so high. The original Chicano gangs were the zoot-suited playboys of the streets. They wore sports coats to their knees and pants to their chests.
“He was in a gang, huh?”
“There’s mention of it in the original police report but, like I said, it was unconfirmed.”
I wondered how he got access to this level of information. He must have an inside source at the department but I don’t believe he was ever employed by them. I made a second mental note to run a background check on him.
“Was the victim in a gang?” I asked.
“Not sure.”
“Did he have a personal connection to Hector?”
“You’re asking the wrong questions, guy.”
Badger was one of the few men to call other men “guy” and not have it come off as an invitation to a fight. There was an excitement in his voice as if he had some bit of information that he wanted me to discover. But it bristled all the same. I prided myself on having a first-rate interviewing skillset, which included asking the right questions at the right time. The direct challenge to my ability to ask pertinent questions was an open-handed slap to my corporate face.
“Were the Chicano gangs active in the Alpine district at that time?” I asked after giving it more thought.
“You’re getting warmer.”
“Did Hector serve time for the murder?”
“Much warmer.”
“Was he even convicted?”
“He was not.”
“Why?”
“Because an eye-witness confirmed that his actions were in self-defense.”
“One of his friends vouched for him and they dropped the charges?” I asked incredulously.
“A very well-respected, upstanding friend,” he smiled.
“Valenti?”
And the smile that was partially concealed during this excruciating game of twenty questions finally emerged in all its yellowed brilliance.
My mind raced with all the permutations of what this development meant in the already-complex nest of relationships around the disappearance of a young girl. The loyal driver of thirty years owed both his livelihood and his life to the man who employed him. Or was it reversed? Was the job payback for a sordid deed in the Alpine district in the early 1960s?
“I did a little more digging on the murder. No charge, of course, this is just Badger being Badger. It’s who I am and it’s what I do. I get on something and I can’t let it go until I know everything about it. Must be in my blood—”
“What did you find out?” I interrupted before he launched into a family tree discussion about being a direct descendent of a long line of Nez Perce Indian trackers.
“The victim? He wasn’t a nameless punk from the neighborhood. He came from an influential Chinese family with a lot of money. They did most of the developments in the area, including the ones in Alpine.”
“Last name was Li,” I said for him.
“With an ‘I’. How did you know?” he asked, surprised.
“I had a feeling.”
“Maybe you have some Cherokee in you, too,” he laughed.
The fun and games were short-lived.
“We got an issue,” Badger whispered and slowly moved the folded, yellow newspaper that was on the desk and placed it in front of me. I picked it up and scanned the page.
“I don’t see it,” I said. “Is there a story about Valenti in here?”
“Behind you,” Badger said softly.
I followed Badger’s gaze and spun around in my chair and got a look at what was distressing him. Standing in front of the large picture window, his hands cupped on the glass to peer beyond the glare, was the perfectly pussy-willow-framed face of Hector Hermosillo.
“Jesus, how did he get here?”
“Do we have a situation?” Badger asked gravely.
“No, I don’t think so—”
Turning back, I noticed the gun in Badger’s hand and realized it was hidden under the newspaper the entire time. I made a mental note to add the letters “ASAP” next to the background check we needed to run on Badger.
“What’s the score, guy?”
“There’s no score,” I said. “Let me handle this.”
I walked out to the street and faced off with Hector.
“What are you doing here?”
“We were supposed to meet this morning,” he answered mechanically.
“Yeah, well my plans changed. Why are you following me?”
“We were supposed to meet this morning,” he repeated.
“You already said that. Listen, I didn’t sign up for this job to be tailed like a common criminal. That was not part of the bargain. I will let you know when and where I need your help and you will not question me when plans change. You need to understand your place and do as you are instructed.”
It was a dressing-down straight out of an English manor television series. It was full of indignation and pompous self-righteousness. And it was wholly ignored by my pachuco friend.
“Who’s he?” he motioned to Badger’s office. Glancing in, I realized Badger himself was no longer in there.
“This is my personal business.”
I watched Hector read the sign announcing Badger’s trade of business. He looked at me like someone who had double-crossed him. Or like someone who caught their spouse cheating. Anger and disappointment were a deadly combination.
“I’m making progress,” I felt the need to justify. “If your boss wants regular updates, all he has to do ask. I don’t need an intermediary, let alone one who makes me feel like I am the one under investigation.”
But what I really wanted was to avoid having Hector tell Valenti that I engaged the services of a private investigator. Valenti’s mistrust towards the profession — in this case, seemingly justified — might very well get me dismissed from the job. And when I glanced across the street, my potential termination became very likely.
Badger stood next to a parked car, his eyes hidden behind very large, very dark sunglasses. One hand casually held the yellow newspaper in front of his belt. The other hand held something heavy behind it.
I had nightmarish images of a knife and gun battle in the sun-drenched streets of midday Los Angeles and having to explain it all to the police, to Valenti, and to work. I moved around to step in between Badger and his direct line on Hector before anything happened. I then filled Hector in on the progress I had made that morning with Gao. I instructed him to pass this information along to Mr. Valenti.
“We got an issue here?” interrupted a voice behind me.
Badger stood off my left shoulder and although he was speaking to me, he stared only at Hector.
“There is no problem,” I answered.
“Unfortunately, it looks like there is,” he warned. “Traendo cola, ruco.” It sounded like pigeon Spanish. “Yeah, I speak calo.”
Hector slowly put his hand inside his pant pocket. Badger responded by moving aside the newspaper to reveal the gun. He cocked the hammer with his thumb.