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Frank opened his eyes to slim slices of sunlight coming through the miniblinds on Monica’s east window. He turned the rod on the blind until the sunshine was shut out and crawled back into bed. Monica was warm now, thank God. She turned on her side and slid her arm across his chest. Last night, he thought he would never get her warmed up.
“Good morning,” she whispered.
“Sorry if I woke you.”
“It’s past time to get up and call the office.” She yawned.
“Let’s go down the street to McDonald’s for breakfast. We’ll take the phone book with us, and we can start checking the body shops.” They had made plans on the way to Monica’s last night to check all the shops in town for the Cadillac that knocked her off the road. At the same time, they could find a place to have the VW repaired.
“I’ll make huevos rancheros and refried beans. We don’t want to go out too early. Give them time to get the Cadillac into a body shop. Besides, I make better coffee than McDonald’s.”
She was right—McDonald’s coffee was excellent, but hers was even better. And the eggs were better than any fast food. The apartment was more comfortable, too. “What do you call this style of decorating?” he asked.
She laughed. “Mexican chaos, I guess. When I see something I like, I bring it home with me. I hang it on the wall, toss it on the couch, or set it on an end table. It makes me feel at home, makes me feel like the place is me.”
He thought about Darlene’s delicate porcelain figurines, carefully arranged on their doilies. What would she think of Monica’s assertive colors and shapes? The apartment wasn’t cluttered, although it came close; it was stimulating and comfortable.
He helped her clean up after breakfast, and then they used the phone book to locate all the body shops in town with an X on the San Gabriel map, from AAA Body Works to Zaragosa Automotive. “Let’s start with the closest, which would be, let’s see . . . George’s Paint and Body on Alameda Street. We’ll work our way uptown from there and then come back down the other side. We can end up at my house and fix some dinner there.”
It was two in the afternoon by the time they checked the last shop on the West Side and crossed Laredo Road. AAA Body Works was the first shop on their route through the East Side. They found it facing Sycamore Street and backing up to an alley behind. It was a huge old building and looked more like an abandoned warehouse than a garage. A faded sign told them this was the right place.
The woman behind the counter looked at them through smudged eye makeup. “Can I help you?”
Frank leaned on the counter. “We need to have some work done on a VW. Would there be a wait before you could get to it?”
“Two, three days, maybe.” She popped her gum and considered her fingernails. “You in a hurry?”
Monica wandered to the door between the office and the hanger-like interior of the shop. Frank watched her from the corner of his eye. “We’d like to get it done as soon as possible. We need it for work.”
Monica motioned to him with a quick jerk of her hand. He walked to the door and watched with her as a black Cadillac nosed into the empty bay and came to a purring stop inside. The windows were dark; they couldn’t tell who was in the car until the door opened and a man got out. He was wearing a stained jumpsuit and had a shop rag stuffed into his back pocket.
Frank walked into the repair area with Monica beside him. They went to the passenger side of the car.
“Sorry, you’ll have to wait in the office,” the body man said. “Our insurance don’t allow . . .”
Monica ignored him. She leaned down and inspected the long dent in the side of the Cadillac. She nodded. “That’s my green paint.”
“Mister, you and the lady will have to get out and go in the waiting room.”
Frank could feel the heat rising in his face from confronting the car someone had used to try to kill Monica. “Where the hell’s the manager?”
“You go in the office—maybe then you can talk to the manager.”
“I’m not leaving this car till you get him. I need information—a lot of information.”
The body man was a good six inches shorter than Frank, but sturdy. He was younger, too. Thirty, maybe. Thirty-five at most. He backed away, however. “I’m calling the police.”
“Great. We’re going to need them. This car was involved in an attempted murder.”
A hulk of a man approached them. He looked at them from under a shock of red hair. A pronounced underbite gave his heavy face a bulldog look. “What’s going on here?”
“I need the manager.”
“I’m the manager, the owner, and the boss. What’s your problem?”
“I need the name and address of the owner of this car.”
Bulldog-face stared at him for a moment. “I don’t see as that’s any of your business. You’re going to have to leave. Our insurance . . .”
“Go into the office and call the police, Monica. Tell them to get over here as fast as they can. Tell them to bring a wrecker to impound this car.”
The manager put his hand on Frank’s shoulder. “Take it easy, man. We can work this thing out. I can see this isn’t just idle curiosity. Get the work order on this car, Eric.”
Eric went into the office and came out with a paper in his hand. He handed it to the manager, who pulled reading glasses from his shirt pocket and put them on. “This car is owned by a James Thornberry. He lives at 1413 Pine.”
Frank reached for the work order, and the manager handed it over. “Have you ever done any work for him before?”
“No, never heard of him. Israel wrote up the order earlier today, but he’s off this afternoon. Someone brought the car in and parked it behind the building.”
Monica had written the owner’s name and address on a notepad she took out of her purse, and she slipped the pad back into the bag. “Do you think we should call the police to meet us over there?”
“Let’s go over and check out the situation first. Then we can make a decision.” Frank shook hands with the shop owner. “Do you think you can hold off on the Cadillac till the police get a chance to look at it? It ran into Ms. Cruz’s VW last night. That’s the green paint from her car there, on the side.”
The owner raised his eyebrows and thought a moment. “Who’s doing the repairs on your vehicle?”
“We haven’t decided.”
“Bring it in here. We’ll hold off on the Cadillac till we get your car done first. I can guarantee you that much. The police, sometimes they never do get around to checking on a car. They say they need to look at it, and then they don’t show up. I can’t promise you we’ll hold the Caddy till they see it, since they might not show up.”
“Sounds fair enough. It’ll be tomorrow before we can have the VW hauled in here. It went into the water, so we’re not sure of the extent of the damage. The seats might need to be replaced. Then we may have to have the engine worked on once the body work’s done.”
“We don’t do no mechanical, just the body work. I can get some used seats for it, though, if they’re needed.”
The manager walked to the side of the Cadillac where Eric was taking a damaged chrome strip from the car. After a few words Eric stopped and walked to another vehicle, and the owner came back. “You have collision on the VW?”
“No, liability only. It’s a very old car, but in pretty good shape. At least it was till this. I’ll have to pay for the repairs myself.”
Frank felt the heat rising in his face again. The problems and complications caused by some unknown SOB running into the side of Monica’s car, trying to drown her in the river, made the situation worse all the time. At least, Monica had survived. He put an arm around her shoulder.
She reached up and took his hand. “Let’s get over to Pine Street and see what we can find out.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to trade the VW in on something else?” Frank asked as they drove away.
Monica sighed. “I’ve thought about it, but I love my little car. I hate the thought of giving it up. I’ll see what the estimate amounts to.”
Pine Street was in an older neighborhood. Most of the houses were small and run-down. Sitting among the smaller places were occasional large houses which reflected San Gabriel life in the early 1900s. Some of these bigger places had been kept up, but for the most part, they stood vacant and sagging like faded matrons whose time had passed.
It was one of the larger houses, moderately well-kept, which had the number 1413 in its mailbox in small gold numbers. An elderly black man dozed in the sun in the fenced front yard, his head rolled to one side in a reclining lawn chair.
“Sir! I’m looking for James Thornberry,” Frank called from the gate. A dog began barking from behind the house at the sound of Frank’s voice.”
The man sat upright. “Who looking for him?”
“My name is Frank Novak, and this is Monica Cruz.”
“What you want with James Thornberry?”
“We want to talk to him about his car.”
The elderly man stood up, lost his balance, and collapsed into the chair again. “That car of mine been stole again?”
“Then you’re James Thornberry?”
“Who told you that?”
“You did. I said I wanted to talk to James Thornberry about his car, and you said . . . never mind. Does your car get stolen often, Mr. Thornberry?”
“Too often. These niggers around here, they don’t have no respect for nothing.”
Frank opened the gate. “Do you mind if we look in your garage to see if your car’s there?”
“Help yourself. My legs are too weak to get up right now.”
Frank and Monica looked into the narrow windows of the empty garage. “There’s no car here, Mr. Thornberry. What kind of car did you have in here before it was stolen?”
“You know so much about my car, you tell me.”
“I think it’s a 1990 Cadillac, a Seville. It’s black. Does that sound like your car?”
Thornberry cocked his head to one side. “You from the police?” He moved to the edge of the chair and struggled to get up. “I have to get inside. It’s starting to get cold out here.” He tried to push himself up with his hands on the arms of the chair.
“No, we’re not from the police, Mr. Thornberry. I know where your car is—that is, if the Cadillac I described is yours.”
“I’m too old to drive anyway. Could you folks help me up so I can get in the house?”
Monica and Frank each took one of his arms and lifted him to his feet. They steered him toward the front door. “Do you live here alone, Mr. Thornberry?” Monica asked.
“Yes, ma’am! I wouldn’t have any of my children living here with me if my life depended on it.”
“You have several children?”
“I got six—four boys and two girls. Only one worth a damn is my daughter Bertha. She comes by now and then and checks on me.”
Thornberry’s legs seemed to gain strength as they crossed the front porch. Frank pushed the door open with his left hand as he continued to hold the old man with his right. “I think we should call your daughter. Maybe she needs to come and stay with you for a bit till your legs get stronger.”
“Bertha don’t have a phone. She don’t have a regular place to live, neither. I don’t have a phone to call her on, anyway. She’ll be by one of these days. I’ll be fine till then.”
They walked him through a morass of stacked newspapers, unopened mail, dirty clothes, and trash. “Let’s go in the kitchen,” Frank said. “We’ll get you something to eat, and maybe you’ll be stronger.
They sat Thornberry down at the kitchen table, and Monica opened the refrigerator. “Whew! There’s an opened can of sardines in here. I think they’ve been here several days. There’s a quart of milk, but it feels like about two tablespoons left in it.”
Frank opened a cabinet door, and roaches scurried every which way. “Dishes in this one. Do you have any food, Mr. Thornberry?”
“Try that shelf over there.” He gestured toward the cabinet nearest the door.
“There’s a can of chicken noodle soup in here, and nothing else. What kind of food do you like?”
Thornberry grinned. “You know what my favorite thing is?”
“What?”
“Church’s Fried Chicken.”
Monica opened the doors under the kitchen sink and took out some dish detergent. “I’ll start washing up here if you’ll go get him some chicken.”
Frank felt for his truck keys in his jeans. “Where’s the nearest Church’s”
“Three blocks down the street. Down toward town.”
“Come lock the door behind me, Monica. God, the lock on this door wouldn’t hold anyone out. I don’t want to leave you here alone.”
“I’ll be alright. I have a revolver, and I know how to use it.”
“You have a revolver? Where is it?
“In my bag. I’ll explain later. Go get the chicken.”
Frank drove as fast as he dared and found the Church’s five blocks down the street rather than three. Four other customers were lined up at the counter ahead of him. He took his place, his stomach churning. Even if Monica did have a gun, this was no neighborhood for leaving her alone. Maybe he should have sent her for the chicken, or maybe he should just go back right now. Then the old man wouldn’t have anything to eat. He should have brought Monica with him and left Thornberry alone. One customer took his food and walked out, and the line moved up.
What the devil was Monica doing with a revolver? Of course, he was glad she had it this afternoon. Did she have a permit, or was she just carrying it without one? Had someone threatened her? A feeling of creeping helplessness sneaked over him as he thought of Monica at the house with a feeble old man and a flimsy lock on the door.
And what if Thornberry still couldn’t walk by himself, even after eating the hefty meal Frank planned to buy? They could get him to bed and clean up his kitchen, but what if he had to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night? What if he wasn’t able to get up in the morning? Jesus! Maybe Monica would know of some agency that could help him.
Only one customer stood between Frank and the counter now. He heard the clerk say, “It’ll be just a few minutes. We’re frying another batch right now.” He ached to turn around and drive back to Monica, but he needed to take the food to Thornberry. Her cell phone had been soaked while she was swimming out of the San Gabriel River. They should have replaced it this morning, before they did anything else, but they were in a hurry to check out body shops.
His turn came finally, and he ordered the biggest box of chicken available, coleslaw, mashed potatoes, and a dozen biscuits. Thornberry could have biscuits for breakfast. Maybe this would hold him till someone could do something for him. And if they could get the kitchen cleaned up enough so they could stand to eat in it, he and Monica could have some of the food also. They hadn’t eaten lunch, and it was after four.
He paid and the clerk handed him the box and some bags. He raced back to the house and squealed into the driveway. The dog was barking in the backyard again. He trotted up the steps and banged on the door. No answer. He knocked again. This time he heard someone say something inside the house, but he couldn’t tell what it was. He tried the knob, but of course it was locked. He couldn’t get to the back because of the privacy fence that enclosed Thornberry’s backyard.
One more knock, and he’d break the door down if necessary. Still no answer. He set the food on the porch, raised a foot and slammed it into the door beside the knob. It gave way with a splintering sound and swung open.
Thornberry sat at the kitchen table and looked at him expectantly. “Where’s the chicken?”
“Where’s Monica?” Frank shouted.
“Who?”
“Monica! The lady who was here with you!”
Thornberry was beginning to look sullen. “Ain’t no lady here, you crazy honky. Where’s my food?”
Frank grabbed the front of the old man’s flannel shirt. “Where the hell is she, you stupid old coot?”
The back door swung open, and Monica stood there looking at him, a .38 caliber Taurus in her hand. “Frank, for God’s sake, what are you doing?”
He sank down on a chair beside Thornberry and put his face in his hands. “I thought something had happened to you.” He raised his head.
Monica slipped the handgun into her bag. “The dog was making a terrible racket. I went outside to see what the problem was. There was a cat in a tree back there, but I shooed it away.”
“Monica, I love you. I thought you were gone. I thought something terrible had happened to you. You mean so much to me now.”
The old man was staring at him. “Spare me the romance and get me that food you promised me.”
Back at the front door, Frank discovered that the inevitable had happened—the food had disappeared.
