It was late and the man in the small white truck was frustrated. He had seen the three men on the corner but by the time he doubled back they were gone, giving up on work until the next day. But the next day would be too late. The man in the truck had a timetable and he became anxious when something disturbed it. Anxiety was noticeable. It would be reported. Once it was reported it was so hard to make things right. But it wasn't his fault that he had been late getting back to the city. There had been traffic. They had kept him an extra half hour at work.
He took a deep breath to calm himself. He must do his chore today because the next day he had drawn the mid-day shift at his ridiculous job. A real job they called it. A second chance. Bull.
No illores.
Don't cry.
Se agradecido de que vivirás.
Be grateful you'll live.
He shook those words out of his head and drove a little further, complaining to himself that the city had become too big and unwieldy. He listened to every word he mumbled since no one else did. He was his own best friend; he was the only one who cared about the great pain inside him. His lips moved against teeth that didn't feel right because they weren't his. If he opened his mouth too wide, the scars on the side of his face where his lips had been sewn back together were unbearably painful. And there were the other places on his body that hurt; places too intimate to speak about.
Sometimes he would have flashes of those horrible days and nights. When that happened, when he felt himself starting to shake and tremble, when he felt the ghost pain, he bucked himself up like a man. Nothing hurt as much as humiliation and helplessness and all that was behind him. Now he was in charge.
He was mentally conversing with himself in this manner when he saw them. His mouth went dry and his hands became moist in his excitement. His eyes darted to the traffic that penned him in. People drove like maniacs, slamming on their brakes flipping him off. Him! As if he had done something wrong. Just like before. He had never done anything wrong and still he was blamed.
Before his anger got the best of him, he took a deep breath and amended the conversation in his head. All he had to do was change lanes. There was always a way to get where he was going if he remained calm. His head swung to the right and he saw his opening. It was nothing short of a miracle that he made it across the lanes and coasted to a stop on the side street.
The five men on the corner fell upon the truck. They did this with desperate respect and that pleased the man. If there had been a little respect all those years ago, a little understanding, none of this would be necessary. But one could not rewrite history so here they were, face to face, the tables turned.
The oldest one of the bunch had a deeply lined face, proud eyes and a fine bearing. Those eyes made the man in the white truck want to laugh. Proud, indeed. Proud of what? He was a speck of dirt, the leader of more specks of dirt. He nodded in greeting. The man in the truck nodded back and then pantomimed like he was shoveling. Two of the men turned away. They did not shovel.
Screw them.
The man's lips barely moved when he dropped his hands and said:
"Quince dólares la hora."
Ah, he had them now. Fifteen dollars an hour was too good to pass up. Even the one with the proud eyes looked hungry for that payday. If they had a brain between them they would know it was too good to be true; if they looked into his eyes they would know. The proud man held up three fingers and said:
"Go faster. Tres hombres."
He pointed his finger at each man in turn. The man in the truck saw the logic of that and he was tempted. Perhaps if it had been the end of the season he would have challenged himself and taken two but it wasn't. He shook his head and the two younger men backed off as the older one went for the passenger door.
"No!"
The man shouted and the pain he caused brought tears to his eyes. He shook his head, shook away the tears, and shook away the anger. Anger would scare them off and this wasn't about anger. It never had been. He pointed to the youngest man, skinny and haunted looking. That one was truly hungry.
The older man stepped back but the young man shook his head. The driver pulled his thumb toward the back. When the worker hesitated, the older man spoke to him and the younger one nodded and nodded. His eyes went to the truck and then down to the ground again. Finally, the skinny young man agreed. He clambered over the gate and into the bed. He sat among the shovels and stakes and yellow tape. He sat next to a pile of pipes.
The older man stepped back as the truck pulled away, happy that one of them would have money in his pocket soon. The man in the cab looked in the rear view mirror and saw the man in the bed of the truck waving and waving.
Goodbye.
Oh yeah.
Hasta la vista, baby.
Finn saw no reason to do it, but he did it anyway. He Googled CHIRLA – Coalition for Human Immigrants Rights, Los Angeles – to determine if there was an office within the boundaries of Wilshire Division. He did this out of curiosity and because the memory of Sister Stella, the fifth grade teacher in his village school, was bright.
"Ah Finn O'Brien," the good sister would say. "I will burn God's lessons into your wee soul even if it kills us both."
Sister Stella had won the battle for that soul of his, and his brain, and his conscience and now those lessons were leading him down the path of the better man. A good man, Sister Stella would reason, would make up for the secret he kept from his partner by honoring the unspoken promise made to her daughter.
Finn, being a man of conscience, would not lie by omission or shading to Amber as he had to Cori. Conscience also told him that there were more Cori's in the world who looked at the poor souls on the corners and saw an amorphous cloud of humanity than there were people like Amber who were ready to see the one human being in their midst.
So, to keep his soul from going to the hell if he was not charitable, Finn drove himself to the offices of the Coalition for Human Immigrants Rights, Los Angeles. The place was not so much out of his way as annoying to get to at that time of the day. To him, the name of the establishment was distasteful, a condescending mouthful. The place itself was even worse, filled to bursting as it were with good, sweet, arrogant intentions. It was enough to make one's teeth ache.
The goodness, sweet intentions and arrogance were wrapped up in the person of a man/boy who went by the name of David. He was wound as tight as a spring, ready to fight for his undocumented, downtrodden, illegal men if the LAPD brought that fight to his doorstep. He seemed disappointed when Finn didn't present a challenge to his authority but only showed him the picture of Pacal and asked if he knew the young man's whereabouts.
"Oh, yes. Yes. Of course. Well, let me see."
David reached for the photo. While he took a good look at it Finn took a good look at him. His hands were parchment white and his fingers long and bony. He wore a short-sleeved shirt, the sleeves of which seemed more like wings fluttering about his reed thin arms. Finally, he flapped the photograph against a fingertip and said:
"No. No. I honestly can't say that I remember him, and I try very hard to know every one who comes through the door." He gave the picture back. "He's a nice looking young man. You say he has family?"
"That is my information, but I don't know where to find them."
"And you're not likely to…"
He paused, his attention caught by a man whose presence Finn had registered but not really attended to. He was neatly dressed, middle age, strong and, if Finn had to guess, under-employed. He was sweeping David's office.
"Gregorio! Gregorio!" David put fluttery fingers on Finn's sleeve as an apology for his distraction, but he directed his words at the janitor. "I am sorry but you need to move the desk so you can get right under it. Yes, move it."
David bent his knees and made a sweeping movement with those skinny arms of his, pantomiming so that the man understood he was to move the extraordinarily large and heavy desk. It was an impossible task for one man and, since David seemed not to realize that, Finn went to help.
"Here you go, my friend."
Finn lifted one end of the thing. When the man was done sweeping and the desk was in place, Finn found himself looking directly at the janitor. They locked eyes for no more than a second but something passed between them. Before Finn could put his finger on what it was, the man muttered:
"Gracias."
He went on his way. Finn looked after him but he didn't look back. Instead, David came to his side.
"Really, you have to let these people fend for themselves, detective. That's how they learn the way things are done in this country."
"I'll remember that should you ever find yourself in need of a helping hand," Finn answered and David laughed.
"You are so funny. And I am not reprimanding you. That was a lovely gesture, detective. I'm suggesting you give them more time to figure it out on their own."
"I'll keep that in mind," Finn said and pocketed the picture. "I won't be taking up any more of your time."
Finn started for the door. Like the geeky kid in school who follows the cool kids around just to say he hung out with them, David stayed tight, chattering, not understanding that his every word set Finn's teeth on edge.
"There are so many reasons why you won't be able to find this young man, but I imagine you've thought of most of them…"
Finn palmed the door. It flew open with such force that David took a step back. Sadly, it did not deter him. He caught that door and raised his voice.
"He could have simply gone back to where he came from. Maybe he's gone to Canada. Our political climate is spooking so many of these poor people. Don't you agree?"
Finn turned back fearing that if he didn't the man would follow him all the way to his car. David grinned, happy that his audience hadn't fled at intermission.
"I'm sure I don't know," Finn said.
"Well, it is. We're a sanctuary state but these people don't trust us. That's a pity. It's a pity they are afraid of people like you."
"Not like me," Finn answered. "And I don't think Pacal would leave his family."
"Oh detective, the survival instinct is very strong. If that were what this young man had to do, he would do it no matter who he left behind. Believe me."
Finn opened his mouth but he had nothing to say that this man would understand. Pointing out that Pacal held two jobs, cared for his family and loved a girl who had a child that was not his seemed to speak to the young man's character. It took a good man to do those things but David was on a roll and barely breathed between his ever-so-deep thoughts.
"Of course, he could have fallen in with a gang. Easy money. I've seen more than one go that way." He put a finger to his chin. "And, well, there is one other thing."
David took two steps forward and lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper. He stole a glance behind at Gregorio who was now sweeping under the chairs and within earshot.
"The girl in the picture. She's not…well…you know. Those types of relationships seldom work out. Perhaps that's all it really is. The boy is trying to get out of a bad relationship."
Finn stared in disbelief. This man had no idea that he sounded like the people he professed to stand above: racist, bigoted, condescending, intellectually bereft. Finn did not wish to debate him so he did the only thing he could think to do: he smiled.
"Sure, your insights have been most enlightening," he said.
"So glad to help. Feel free to come back. Maybe I'll have something for you. Las paredes tienen orejas." David said with a flourish. But his face dropped when Finn was not impressed. David touched his ears as he whispered. "The walls have ears? You know. I might hear something."
"Ah, of course. That's fine." Finn bit his lip. He nodded. He smiled. "You have my card. Thanks again."
"Oh, I didn't think to ask," David called. "Have you checked County? That's where they take most of these people if they're hurt or sick. Better, yet, check the morgue. I'm surprised you didn't think of that."
"'Tis an optimist I am." Finn raised a hand over his head. He was done with CHIRLA and David.
Finn pulled out his phone and put on his sunglasses as he made his way back to his car. Once there, he rested his backside up against the fender, crossed one boot over the other and banished the arrogant do-gooder from his mind. It was a perfect L.A. afternoon, sunny and bright and mild. There was a little breeze that he swore carried the scent of the sea even though they were miles from it. He used his thumb to scroll through his messages, tapping the ones that interested him. His sister had written to remind him of dinner at their mother's on Sunday. He was welcome to come early and join them for mass. Mass was an invitation often extended and seldom accepted but he wouldn't miss Sunday dinner.
He tapped on a message that indicated it was of some urgency but it was only a company suggesting it was time to change the filter in his refrigerator. They provided him with a convenient link to order it. He deleted that one though he had a healthy respect for whoever wrote the subject line that got him to open it in the first place.
Pocketing his phone, Finn took one last look at the CHIRLA building. The day was done and he was glad for it. His conscience was eased now that he had put a bit more effort into the Pacal mystery than he had originally intended. It would have been lovely to have drawn a bead on the man for Amber's sake, but now he could honestly say that he had asked and come up empty. He thought to call Cori and ask if she made it home safely, but then he remembered that she had plans.
His own plans suited him well. He would stop at Mick's for dinner and a pint and then spend an hour or so with the dartboard. If Andrew were there that would be a good day's end for the man had a nice touch with the arrows. After that, home to catch up on sleep for certainly he had no more than four hours the night before and tomorrow would be another long day.
His eyes roamed over the landscape as he opened the door to his car and took off his jacket. Apartments were built in rows and businesses smashed willy-nilly between them. Laundry hung on lines strung across windows, balconies were rotting and the metal railings were rusting. The balconies were crowded with old bicycles, dead plants and children's toys. There was a furniture refinishing shop that seemed to be open but there were three times as many storefronts that had long ago been abandoned. And there was CHIRLA. If that didn't make for a depressing sight each morning, Finn didn't know what would.
He tossed his jacket into the passenger seat and then got behind the wheel. He had the key in the ignition, one hand on the wheel and was thinking that perhaps he should check the morgue and hospitals before he spoke with Amber. It would take no more than a few minutes, and he could fit it in during the next day or the one after that. Finn was thinking that if he found Pacal at either of those places it would be hard news to deliver to the girl when there was a knock on his window.
Keeping his eyes forward, Finn hit the button to lower the window and waited to hear David's sanctimonious voice waxing poetic about the poor downtrodden sots he served, but it wasn't David at all. It was Gregorio, the man with the broom. He put his hands on his knees and leaned down so that Finn could see his face.
"Can I help you?" Finn asked.
"I hear what you say," the man answered. "There is a boy missing."
"Yes. A friend wanted me to try to find him." Finn hesitated and then added: "I'm sure he's fine."
Suddenly Finn realized how much he did not want to have this conversation. Until that moment he had driven the narrative, asking his questions, showing his picture of Pacal, expecting little and getting little back. But now here was a worm working its way out of the can. There was only one way to solve the problem of the worm. He must chuck it back in the can. Finn pulled out his credential.
"Just so you know. Policia."
Gregorio nodded, his expression grave and his gaze steady. Finn reached for his jacket and pulled out the picture once again. The man barely glanced at it but Finn asked:
"Have you seen him? This is the missing boy."
"Not that one," Gregorio said. "My son. My son is missing."