We walked out to the school yard into a cold misty night. José and his brothers had already taken off their ties and replaced their suit jackets with warmer windbreakers. Pasqual took a deep swig from a bottle inside a paper bag, then passed the bag to one of his brothers.
“Look at them!” Yolanda said with disgust. “They no even wait till after the funeral. They nothing but cholos. Es terrible!”
I glanced at José and his brothers. Something was bothering me, and it took a minute or two before it came to me. As on the night before, three of them-including José-were wearing old baseball caps. Pasqual was the only one wearing a painter’s cap.
I didn’t know why, but I found that odd. Then something familiar began to come up from my subconscious, and I knew I’d better start phoning up bus drivers. From behind me came a gentle tap on my shoulder. I turned around.
Pastor Gomez said, “Thank you for coming, Ms. Darling.”
I nodded. “I’m sorry I never met Martina. From what I’ve heard, she seemed to be a good person.”
“She was.” Gomez bowed his head. “I appreciate your help, and I wish you peace.”
Then he turned and walked away. I’d probably never see him again, and I felt a little bad about that.
I tailed José the next morning. He and his brothers were part of a crew framing a house in the Hollywood Hills. I kept watch from a quarter block away, my truck partly hidden by the overhanging boughs of a eucalyptus. I was trying to figure out how to get José alone, and then I got a big break. The roach wagon pulled in, and José was elected by his brothers to pick up lunch.
I got out of my truck, intercepted him as he carried an armful of burritos, and stuck my.38 in his side, telling him if he said a word, I’d pull the trigger. My Spanish must have been very clear, because he was as mute as Dopey.
After I got him into the cab of my truck, I took the gun out of his ribs and held it in my lap.
I said, “What happened to Martina?”
“I don’ know.”
“You’re lying,” I said. “You killed her.”
“I don’ kill her!” José was shaking hard. “Yo juro! I don’ kill her!”
“Who did?”
“I don’ know!”
“You killed her for the ring, didn’t you, José?” As I spoke, I saw him shrink. “Martina would never tell you she had the ring: She knew you would take it from her. But you must have found out. You asked her about the ring, and she said she didn’t have any ring, right?”
José didn’t answer.
I repeated the accusation in español, but he still didn’t respond. I went on.
“You didn’t know what to do, did you, José? So you waited and waited, and finally, Monday morning, you told your brothers about the ring. But by that time, Martina and the ring had already taken the bus to work.”
“All we wan’ do is talk to her!” José insisted. “Nothin’ was esuppose to happen.”
“What wasn’t supposed to happen?” I asked.
José opened his mouth, then shut it again.
I continued, “Pasqual has a truck-a Ford pickup.” I read him the license number. “You and your brothers decided to meet up with her. A truck can go a lot faster than a bus. When the bus made a stop, two of you got on it and made Martina get off.”
José shook his head.
“I called the bus company,” I said. “The driver remembered you and your brother-two men making this woman carrying a big bag get off at the stop behind the big garbage bin. The driver even asked if she was okay. But Martina didn’t want to get you in trouble and said todo está bien-everything was fine. But everything wasn’t fine, was it?”
Tears welled up in José’s eyes.
“You tried to force her into the truck, but she fought, didn’t she?”
José remained mute.
“But you did get her in Pasqual’s truck,” I said. “Only you forgot something. When she fought, she must have knocked off Pasqual’s Dodgers cap. He didn’t know it was gone until later, did he?”
José jerked his head up. “How you know?”
“How do I know? I have that cap, José.” Not exactly true, but close enough. “Now, why don’t you tell me what happened?”
José thought a long time. Then he said, “It was assident. Pasqual no mean to hurt her bad. Just get her to talk. She no have ring when we take her off the bus.”
“Not in her bag-su bolsa?”
“Ella no tiene ninguna bolsa. She no have bags. She tell us she left ring at home. So we took her home, but she don’ fin’ the ring. That make me mad. I saw her with ring. No good for a wife to lie to husband.” His eyes filled with rage, his nostrils flared. “No good! A wife must always tell husband the truth!”
“So you killed her,” I said.
José said, “Pasqual… he did it. It was assident!”
I shook my head in disgust. I sat there in my truck, off guard and full of indignation. I didn’t even hear him until it was too late. The driver’s door jerked open, and the gun flew out of my lap. I felt as if I’d been wrenched from my mother’s bosom. Pasqual dragged me to the ground, his face looming over me, his complexion florid and furious. He drew back his fist and aimed it at my jaw.
I rolled my head to one side, and his hand hit the ground. Pasqual yelled, but not as loud as José did, shouting at his brother to stop. Then I heard the click of the hammer. Pasqual heard it, too, and released me immediately. By now a crowd had gathered. Gun in hand, José looked at me, seemed to speak English for my benefit.
“You kill Martina!” José screamed out to Pasqual. “I’m going to kill you!”
Pasqual looked genuinely confused. He spoke in Spanish. “Yo u killed her, you little shit! You beat her to death when we couldn’t find the ring!”
José looked at me, his expression saying: Do you understand this? Something in my eye must have told him I did. I told him to put the gun down. Instead, he turned his back on me and focused his eyes on Pasqual. “You lie. You get drunk, you kill Martina!”
In Spanish, Pasqual said, “I tried to stop you, you asshole!”
“You lie!” José said. And then he pulled the trigger.
I charged him before he could squeeze another bullet out of the chamber, but the damage had been done. Pasqual was already dead when the sirens pulled up.
The two other brothers backed José’s story. They’d come to confront Martina about the ring. She told them she had left it at home. But when they returned to the house and the ring wasn’t there, Pasqual, in his drunken rage, had beaten Martina to death and dumped her body in the trash.
José will be charged with second-degree murder for Pasqual, and maybe a good lawyer’ll be able to bargain it down to manslaughter. But I remembered a murderous look in José’s eyes after he’d stated that Martina had lied to him. If I were the prosecutor, I’d be going after José with charges of manslaughter on Martina, Murder One on Pasqual. But that’s not how the system works. Anyway, my verdict-right or wrong-wouldn’t bring Martina back to life.
I called Mrs. Pollack after it was all over. Through her tears, she wished she’d never remembered the ring. It wasn’t her fault, but she still felt responsible. There was a small consolation. I was pretty sure I knew where the ring was.
I’m not too bad at guesses-like the one about Pasqual losing his hat in a struggle. That simple snapshot in my mind of the brothers at the church-three with beat-up Dodgers caps, the fourth wearing a new painter’s cap. Something off-kilter.