“Okay, I know where we’re going,” David said, and put the map away. He made a left turn at the signal and settled back to drive. “Okay, I know where we’re going,” David said, and put the map away. He made a left turn at the signal and settled back to drive.
As they went by the hazy blue ocean, Elena felt more optimistic about finding her father. And underlying that optimism was gratitude. Right now she was grateful to David. He hadn’t questioned why she wanted to go to Emerald Avenue; he was going there because she had asked him to. As she thought back to the last few days, she realized that many people had been kind to her, and her gratitude spread to others. Including Sylvia Lewis.
On the day before Elena left Playa Blanca, she had gone to say goodbye to Sylvia, the woman who had become her mentor and friend. Sylvia lived in a small house that was on the outskirts of Playa Blanca near the sand dunes and the sea. A five-foot wall enclosed not only the house but a large coral tree and a garden that Sylvia tended with loving discipline.
After locking up Doctor Flores’ office for the last time, Elena walked slowly up the Calle Central toward her friend’s home. She said a silent goodbye to the stuccoed shops and whitewashed houses she went by. First there was the Farmacia Argüelles, the small cluttered drug store adjacent to Doctor Flores’ office. And next to that was Gordo’s Panadería, with yeast and sugar smells still coming through its open door. This was the place where she had met Sylvia more than ten years before, a tremulous child stepping in to translate for the confused American lady what Gordo was saying about the bread. In another few steps she went by an ice cream shop with a plastic penguin glued to its window. She had a compulsion to go in, to sit on one of the stiff metal chairs and ask for a pineapple ice just so she could watch old Señor Núñez shave the ice and pump the golden syrup over it once more. But there was no time for that.
She left the shops behind and with them the broken sidewalk. The street here was unpaved, the ground hard and rutted like her aunt’s ancient washboard. There were a few scattered houses and then the dunes, and beyond them a broad expanse of white sandy beach and the clear ocean. Smells of cooking came from the houses. But except for the children playing in their yards, she saw no one.
She closed Sylvia’s gate firmly, and as she turned, she heard her. “Elena, over here.”
Sylvia was sitting on a bench in the shade of the coral tree. Her short gray hair was tied in a loosely knotted scarf and she was wearing a paint-daubed smock. “I know why you’re here,” she said, “and I hate it.” She made room for Elena on the bench beside her.
Elena said, “I hate saying goodbye to you, too. But I belong with my father. Especially now.”
“I don’t like bringing this up again,” Sylvia said, “but is it wise to go? You have your job here—oh, you’ll find a better one—and you have friends. Los Angeles is a big city. What’ll you do if you don’t find your father?”
“I’ll find him, Sylvia. He’ll be there. He always has been.”
“But something might’ve happened to him.”
“I don’t think so. He’s a very capable man.” Elena patted her friend’s arm. “Anyway, I’ve already made up my mind.”
“I knew that,” Sylvia said. “But I thought I’d give it one more try.” She dug in her pocket. “Here, take this. It’s a letter to a friend of mine. Go to her if you find that you need help.”
“I won’t need help. I’ll be all right.”
“Take it,” Sylvia had said. “For my sake.”
Now, Elena glanced at David and thought, I wouldn’t have a job or a place to live if it weren’t for Sylvia.
When they turned onto Lincoln Boulevard Elena’s optimism grew. She recognized La Fonda. The orange door of the restaurant was brilliant in the bright sunlight. The windows, too, sparkled. Juan Otero, a squeegee in one hand, a plastic pail in the other, was standing near the curb gazing with apparent satisfaction at the job he had just completed. Señor Otero knows my father, she thought. I have to talk to him again.
To David she said, “It’s very nice of you. Bringing me down here.”
“When do I start my lesson?”
“When we get to Emerald.”
“But shouldn’t I practice on streets like Lincoln, too? Driving for your mother is part of my job.”
“I know.” He looked mildly puzzled. “Funny you should’ve gotten the job. What made you apply?”
“I didn’t.”
“You didn’t? What do you mean?”
“That I didn’t apply for the job.”
“Then how’d you end up with it?”
“Well, because Doctor Montalvo thought I was an applicant, only I wasn’t. And then he told me I wasn’t qualified because I didn’t have a valid driver’s license… and then…” She paused and frowned. “Then he turned right around and offered me the job. No, wait. I think it was after I showed him the letter from my friend, Sylvia Lewis, that he decided.”
“Sylvia Lewis?” David made a sudden swing into a narrow street and stopped the car by a weed-grown empty lot. Broken bottles littered the ground, glinting green and amber in the sun. He stared at them for a while and then turned toward her, his shoulder pushed against the door. “Sylvia Lewis is your friend?”
“Yes,” she said. “Is there something wrong with that?”
David, she noted, had the courtesy to look chagrined. “No, of course not,” he said in an apologetic tone. “I was just surprised. So the letter’s the reason Montalvo gave you the job.”
“I think so. And it’s a good thing. I have to work, you see. Especially since I’m having trouble finding my father.” In a calm, practical voice she told him about her first day in Los Angeles.
When she was through, David said, “I can see why you wanted to come back to this neighborhood.” He straightened himself out on the seat and reached for the ignition. With his hand over the key, he turned and said, “Look, María Elena, I…”
She stopped him. “If you’ll say Elena, I’ll say David.”
He grinned and started again. “Look, Elena, I’m not trying to move into your act, but…well, maybe I could be of help to you in looking for your father. Ninety percent of being a private eye is asking questions and looking up records, and what else does a lawyer do? So, if you want a hand, I’m willing.”
It was hard for Elena to answer him. A plain old yes, thank you, was in order, but she was afraid that the words would come out in a croak. “I want a hand,” she said finally. “Thank you.”
“Okay then, let’s go.” He started the engine. “Emerald’s just around the corner.” When the car came to a stop at the curb near the numbers 1123 David said, “Where to?”
“Over there,” she said, motioning to a white house next to her father’s address.
Two small boys were playing with an automobile tire behind the wobbly picket fence. When David and Elena walked into the yard, they called, “¡Mamá, Mamá, ven acá!” A woman holding a baby appeared behind the screen door. Elena told her quickly that she was looking for her father, that he had lived next door, and the woman shook her head sadly.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and went on to explain that she had lived in this house only two months. That the only people she had seen next door were the woman with the straw-colored hair and her husband. No, no Gómez family. And, no, she had never heard of Miguel Vargas. Ah-h-h, but one moment. The woman’s forehead puckered. Across the street, yes, right over there, lived an americano who always spoke kindly to the boys and who appeared to know everyone on the block. For a certainty he would be able to help her and the young man.
“Gracias,” Elena said.
“Sí. Gracias,” David echoed her and she turned to him in surprise. He grinned. “Anyone can say, ‘gracias.’” He pushed open the stubborn picket gate and held it for her. “Come on.”
They headed toward a faded turquoise house across the street. Pots of straggling geraniums stretched across the front porch and two graying bath towels hung over the railing. She knocked on the wooden frame of a screen door and, almost instantly, a thin, balding man appeared on the driveway at the end of the porch.
“What d’ya want?” he asked as he leaned on the railing, a mud-caked trowel in his hand.
Elena hurried down the steps. “Do you know Miguel Vargas?” she asked. “I’m his daughter. I’m looking for him.”
He looked at her intently, but said nothing.
“He lived over there with the Gómez family,” she said, and waved across the street at the two-story house.
The man put the trowel down, scratched his thinning hair, and said, “Yep, I knew him.”
“You did? That’s wonderful!”
“He’s your father, eh?”
“Yes. Yes, he is,” she said, and started toward him. “Do you know where I can find him?”
“Nope.”
“Oh.” Elena stopped in midstep. “Well, can you tell me when you last saw him?”
“Been a long time.”
“Like a few weeks? A few months?”
The man shrugged.
David came up behind her. “How long would you say, sir?”
“Why the questions?” The man’s eyes narrowed. “He in trouble?”
“Oh, no!” Elena said. “It’s only that my brother and I came here to live with him and we can’t find him.”
The man shook his head slightly, picked up the trowel and started to turn away. She spoke quickly.
“The Gómez family. Do you know where they went?”
“Yep,” he said. And then before she could ask, “Mexico.”
Elena fought back her disappointment. “Then I can’t talk with them.”
The man scratched his head once more and his face worked in thought. “You his daughter, eh? Might as well tell you. There’s been others with questions.”
“There were?” she asked. “Who?”
“Men. Couple of ‘em. Called it business. Might’ve been. Might’ve been. Wearing Sunday clothes, both of them.”
“What kind of business?” David asked.
“Didn’t say.”
“What did they say?” David insisted.
“Don’t rightly remember.” With an indignant look at David, the man swung around and walked down the cracking cement driveway. As he turned the corner of his house, he looked over his shoulder and grumbled, “Nothing. Don’t remember nothing.”
Elena stared at the corner of the house and thought, there are only two people who say they know my father, this man and Juan Otero at La Fonda. Well, I won’t let go of either one of them. It doesn’t matter that they haven’t seen him for a long time. At least, they’ve seen him.
David said, “What next?” and she pointed to the neighboring house.
They knocked at three more doors. No one had heard of Miguel Vargas, nor had anyone seen two men asking about him.
At the car she said, “I wonder who those men were? I’ve got to know.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Maybe I should talk to more neighbors. There must be someone who can tell me something.”
“Leave it for another day.”
“It won’t be easy to come back another day.”
“On your days off? Why not? Once you learn to drive in this traffic, you’ll be okay.”
Her face grew hot. “The driving! I’m sorry. I completely forgot!”
“There’s plenty of time,” he said as he opened the car door for her. “Get behind the wheel and we’ll get started.” He slid into the passenger’s seat. “If you’re a good student, I’ll buy you lunch.”
“I’ll be a good student,” she said. “And I know exactly the restaurant I would like to go to.”
For an hour and a half she learned about power steering, power brakes, directional signals, traffic signs and what David called “defensive driving.” At the end of that time, according to David, she was ready to chauffeur him to the restaurant of her choice. With his help she found Lincoln Boulevard and brought the Cadillac to a halt by La Fonda.
With a shaky sigh of relief she handed David the keys. “This isn’t Playa Blanca,” she said. “All those cars! Where is everybody going?”
“Hey, lady,” David said, “this is the big time. This is the city. Crazy, isn’t it?”
The restaurant was crowded, but they found an empty booth near the kitchen. Elena kept turning around, hoping to catch a glimpse of Juan Otero, but all she saw were two busy waitresses. David and she sat patiently for what seemed a long time. Finally, she heard a rustling sound beside her. Luisa, wearing a red-tiered skirt and white blouse, stood by their booth.
“What can I get you?” she said without looking at them.
“How about a couple of menus?” David said.
Luisa gave David a long, appraising look. “You mean you don’t have any? Now isn’t that too bad. I’ll get them.” She moved idly toward the front of the cafe.
When she returned, Elena said, “Luisa, hello. Remember me? I’m Elena Vargas.”
“Oh, it’s you,” Luisa said with apparent surprise. “What’re you doing back again? Looking for more help? What happened? Did they kick you out of that fancy place?”
David, shaking his head in disbelief, said, “We came for lunch.”
“And I came to talk to your father,” Elena added, ignoring Luisa’s acid remarks. “I hope he’s here.”
“He’d better be,” Luisa said, “or you don’t eat. What’re you gonna order?”
Luisa served them. While they ate she hovered near the booth, glancing first at Elena, then at David. She wants to say something, Elena thought. I wish she’d do it and go away. Finally, while refilling their coffee cups, Luisa spoke.
“Hey, you, Elena,” she said, “don’t be in a hurry to leave, huh? I want to talk to you.”
Elena looked at the clock on the wall. “I don’t have much time,” she said. “I have to get back because of my brother. Besides, I want to talk to your father.”
“It won’t take forever,” Luisa said. “Just a minute or two.”
David stood up. “I’ll take care of the check and wait in the car.” He hesitated. “That is, if you want me to, Elena.”
“Hey, you don’t have to leave,” Luisa said. “We can talk in the girls’ room. We’re not going to be all afternoon.”
“Girls’ room? You mean the bathroom? Of course not.”
Luisa shrugged. “Suit yourself. But I want to talk to you alone.”
“Okay, Elena?” David asked, and when she nodded he walked over to the cash register.
When David was gone, Luisa slid into the seat he had left. She leaned across the table and, lowering her voice, said, “Are you from Playa Blanca?”
“Yes.”
“I thought so. The day I met you I must’ve been half-asleep, because I didn’t even hear what your name was. Sure, sure, you told me, but it was awfully early, remember.”
“My name is María Elena Vargas.”
Luisa made a wry face. “Sure, I know that now. It finally sank in. That’s what I want to talk to you about.”
“What silliness is this? Why would you want to talk to me about my name?”
“Why don’t you just shut up and listen!” Luisa hissed. “You’re still looking for your old man, aren’t you?”
“Yes, but what has…”
“Let me finish!” Luisa got up, looked into the kitchen, returned and slid into the booth. “I know something you’ll want to hear. It has to do with a man my father hid in the storeroom. Maybe a couple of months ago. He must’ve thought everybody was asleep because it was late. But I wasn’t. I came downstairs and listened. The man in the storeroom was running away from something, and he was scared. Boy, was he scared!”
“That couldn’t be my father,” Elena said, shaking her head.
“I’m not saying it was,” Luisa said. “All I’m saying is that man had a daughter coming from Playa Blanca. And her name was María Elena.”