Humberto Gomez had never been so scared in all his life. He sat at the police officer’s desk, the palms of his hands sweating. He wiped them on his trousers. His parents had wanted to come with him, and the police said they could, but Humberto didn’t want that. He said he could handle it himself because he had done nothing wrong besides making fun of an old bum. It was mean and stupid to do that, Humberto admitted, but he was drunk, and he didn’t know what he was doing. Humberto did not want his parents to have to hear the details of the ugly incident all over again because he was so embarrassed that he’d done something like that.
Sergeant Arriola, a police investigator with short, dark curly hair and a no-nonsense approach said, “Humberto, I know you told us about this before, but now, in your own words, tell me what happened that night as best you can remember.”
“Well, some of my friends threw a birthday bash for me at a condo, and we got to drinking. Somebody brought cases of beer. Clay Aguirre, Rod Garcia—my cousin—and Rick Alanzar, the four of us, we finally left the party in Rod’s car. We were all buzzed. Rod was driving ’cause he claimed he wasn’t as drunk as the rest of us. But Clay got sick. Rod pulled over so Clay could try to sleep it off. Rod didn’t wanna get nailed by the cops. We were gonna go get some coffee or something, then come back to the car.”
Sergeant Arriola asked, “And what did you do?”
“Well, we were walking to the corner to this all-night store to get coffee, and we seen this homeless guy stumbling around. He was a little drunk too. We thought it’d be fun to play tricks on him. Um, we, uh, got some sticks, just wooden slats that were laying there by a store, and we pretended he was a bull and we were matadors, and we kinda surrounded him and yelled and stuff. He got all upset, jumping this way and that, and we were laughing ’cause it was funny. But we didn’t hit him with the sticks. We didn’t touch him. We didn’t hurt the guy, I swear,” Humberto said. He wiped the damp palms of his hands on his trousers again.
“And then what happened?” Sergeant Arriola asked.
“These two guys, gangbangers, you know, came along. Real mean guys. Everybody is scared of them. They tag and stuff. Dom Reynosa and Carlos Negrete. They’re gangbangers,” Humberto said.
“Yes, you said they were gangbangers twice,” Sergeant Arriola said.
“Anyway, they grabbed these big palm fronds … those things are sharp. They can cut you bad. They started yelling at us and swinging those sharp palm fronds, and we took off ’cause we didn’t want to mess with bad dudes like them,” Humberto said.
“Why do you think they did that, Humberto?” Sergeant Arriola asked.
“Uh, well … they were mad that we were, you know, kinda playing tricks on the bum. I guess they were friends of his or something. But we weren’t hurting him. We were just sort of playing around.” Humberto was aware of the look of disgust on the woman’s face and he said, “We never touched him. We didn’t bruise him or anything.”
“And then what did you do, Humberto?” Sergeant Arriola asked.
“We went to Rod’s car where Clay was sleeping. We woke him up. Told him what happened. He yelled and cussed at us. He got so mad he kinda sobered up. He called his girlfriend, Mira Nuñez, to come get him. She did. Then Rod, he dropped me and Rick at my house ’cause Rick didn’t wanna go home drunk. We hung out there till morning. My old man wasn’t there, but Uncle Rob was, and we told him what happened and he laughed. He’s real cool,” Humberto said.
Sergeant Arriola’s eyes narrowed, and she leaned forward. “I want to ask you something now, Humberto, that is very important. I want you to think hard of the time when you and Rod and Rick were poking at Mr. Slocum and pretending he was a bull. Did you notice that the man had a chain around his neck that held a leather pouch?”
“Uh, yeah. I saw that. I saw him kinda clutching at it as we were playing with him, like he was afraid he’d lose it or something. It was funny ’cause it was just a piece of junk with maybe a few dollars in it. But he acted like it was something important,” Humberto said. “I told my uncle Rob, and he said sometimes these old bums have more money than we think. Maybe that’s why he was protecting the pouch, but I remember kinda seeing something half spill out, and it wasn’t even money.”
Sergeant Arriola asked, “What did the thing that half spilled out look like?”
“Nothin’,” Humberto said. “A card of some kind with somebody’s picture on it, like they put in cereal boxes.”
“Maybe a baseball card?” Sergeant Arriola asked.
Humberto shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know,” he said. “Then Uncle Rob laughed when I told him that the bum was protecting an old card from a cereal box or something.”
“Humberto,” Sergeant Arriola said. “You need to call your parents. They might want to get you legal representation.”
Humberto Gomez paled. He had no feeling in his arms or legs. “But I didn’t do nothin’,” he cried.
“Humberto, we have information that you have recently been spending large sums of money on gifts for a girl at your school and on other things. Right after the death of Mr. Slocum, you seemed to be spending freely although your family is not rich,” Sergeant Arriola said.
“No, see, you don’t get it. Uncle Rob gave me and Rick and Rod some money. He said he made a lucky bet and stuff … just a couple hundred. My uncle Rob was the one who gave us the money,” Humberto stammered.
“Why did he do that?” Sergeant Arriola asked. “So you’d keep your mouth shut about something you may have suspected or would come to suspect?”
Humberto sank deeply in the chair. “I wanna call my parents,” he said.
Arturo Sandoval came down to the police station just as Rick Alanzar and his mother were arriving. Sandoval was representing both boys. Rick Alanzar was sobbing as he walked beside his mother. Her arm was around his shoulders.
When Rick sat down with Sergeant Arriola, he was shaking. “I haven’t been able to get it off my mind that it’s our fault the guy died,” Rick cried. “We went back to the house and told that snake about the bum and his leather pouch, about the card. Rob Gomez, he’s into baseball. He figured it was a valuable card. He left the house right away. I could see it in his eyes, and then … Rod Garcia, the creep, he told his cousin’s uncle that Ernesto Sandoval was stirring up trouble, trying to link the harassment of the homeless guy to his murder, and the sneak said he’d come down in his Jeep Wrangler and put the fear of the Lord into Sandoval. I don’t know what he did, but Sandoval got quiet about the incident after that.”
Both Humberto Gomez and Rick Alanzar were released to their families pending juvenile court hearings to determine if they had concealed important information from the police. Arturo Sandoval assured the court that both boys would return for their hearings and would accept whatever punishment they got. Meanwhile, the police in Los Angeles were closing in on Gomez. He had a long criminal record, and he was presently on parole for stealing a valuable painting from a local museum.
At the Sandoval home that night, Ernesto said, “I’m at least glad that those kids from Chavez weren’t the ones who killed Griff Slocum. Yeah, they taunted him, but they didn’t harm him physically. It would have been awful if they’d been the ones who hit him with the pipe.”
“Isn’t it terrible that any human being would love money so much that they’d kill a man over a baseball card that was valuable?” Maria Sandoval said.
“It was a Honus Wagner card,” Ernesto said. “That leaked out. It must be worth a lot, even in less-than-mint condition.”
“Poor Griff,” Luis Sandoval said. “That card was his only treasure. He probably fought for it with his last ounce of strength. The poor guy used to find a little joy in small things, Ernie. Remember when you bought him a sub sandwich that day? He loved the jalapeño peppers. He even laughed when they were burning his tongue.”
“Yeah,” Ernesto said. “I’m glad I did a few things for him. It makes me feel better, you know?”
Katalina Sandoval said, “I hope they catch that bad man who hurt Mr. Slocum and put him in jail for two hundred years.”
With all the dramatic news of the solving of the Griff Slocum murder, Maria Sandoval had held back on announcing her own big news. “You guys,” she said with a triumphant grin, “My Don’t Blink, It’s a Skink book is doing pretty well. I got a royalty check last week, and I was really excited. We’re not rich or anything, but it’ll cover six mortgage payments!”
“Congratulations, Mom,” Ernesto said. “That’s super. But don’t spend it all on mortgage payments. Get something awesome for yourself too.”
Luis Sandoval said, “Right on. Wow, Maria, before long you’ll be making more money on your writing than I’m making teaching. Not that you’d have to do that well to surpass me. With all the budget cuts, we don’t even mention the word ‘raise’ anymore in the faculty lounge.”
Several days passed before the police caught up to Gomez. He had fled his apartment and run the Jeep Wrangler over a cliff in the Santa Monica Mountains. The police found him hiding in a cheap hotel in Houston, Texas. He still had the Honus Wagner baseball card in his possession.
Griff Slocum’s only living relative, his mother, was contacted and told the news. Mrs. Slocum had mixed feelings about seeing the card for the first time in twenty years. She knew her son had it those many years ago, but she was sure he had long since used it for his drug habit. She was astonished that the Honus Wagner had survived with him for so long. The card was from Griff’s grandfather.
When Penelope Ruiz, Richie Loranzo, Bobby Padilla, and Angel Roma met for lunch in their usual spot, there was a newcomer—Gil Patone. Gil was a cute freshman with lots of curly hair and none of the problems that beset his new circle of friends. Gil came from a happy family consisting of four children, and although his parents were lower middle class, they were getting along fine.
Gil Patone really did like Penelope, and he was very appreciative of the times her brother Abel made tortillas for the whole gang. Today was one of those times.
“I got a new pair of athletic shoes from my dad,” Bobby Padilla said. “Now I can really play good basketball.”
“I thought your dad was mean,” Angel Roma said.
“He was sorta, but he’s better now,” Bobby said.
Richie Loranzo said, “Ernie got me a cool pair of athletic shoes for my birthday.”
“We’ll all root for you guys when you play,” Angel said. She really liked Richie Loranzo.
“I’m not much for sports,” Gil admitted. “But I love science. I’m gonna be a scientist, I think.”
“Do scientists make a lot of money?” Angel asked.
“I guess so,” Gil said. “If they invent something really good. Like maybe an energy source for cars that’s clean and renewable and stuff.”
“Basketball players make a lot of money,” Richie Loranzo said. “They make millions and millions.”
“Yeah,” Bobby said, “I wish I could be a really famous basketball player. I’d buy my mom a big house near the ocean or something, and she’d never have to clean houses again. Her back hurts all the time. Dad said he’s gonna send more money so she doesn’t have to work so hard. I hope he does.”
“You know what?” Angel Roma said with a wistful look on her face. “I wish somebody would invent something that’d make my grandmother’s Parkinson’s disease go away. I remember being real little and she was sick, but it wasn’t bad then. We had a lot of fun. It’s hard to understand her now when she talks, and she shakes a lot. I know she feels really bad about being like that. I take my grandma for walks every day, and I don’t mind it now that horrible Lacey and Candy don’t march behind us making fun of us.”
“I’m so glad Lacey’s in trouble with her mom for going out with that creepy Dumberto Gomez and taking that expensive necklace from him,” Penelope said. “I hope she stays grounded all year. She deserves it.”
“It was on TV that the homeless man was killed for his baseball card,” Gil said. “It was a Honus Wagner. I guess that’s the best baseball card in the world ’cause he was such a good player, and it’s so old and there aren’t many of them around.”
“I heard it might be worth hundreds of thousands or something,” Richie said.
“The police found the card. The murderer still had it. The guy on TV said it belongs to the dead man’s mother now because there was a paper in his pocket, like a will, saying that if he died, his treasure should go to his mother. I guess she’s an old lady,” Bobby said. “Maybe she’ll go on an ocean cruise all around the world now and see every country.”
“Maybe she’ll buy a whole pile of diamonds,” Angel said.
“I guess she could have just about anything she wanted,” Penelope said.
“I bet the old lady will be real sad when she sees the baseball card,” Angel said. “Because her son died to keep it. He must have fought real hard with the bad guy to try to keep it, but the bad guy was stronger and hit him in the head and killed him. I don’t think I have anything at all that I would die for.”
“Me neither,” Gil Patone said. “I got some really cool skateboards and a surfboard too, but I wouldn’t die for them.”
“I got nothing I’d die to keep,” Bobby said. “Not even my new athletic shoes.”
Penelope laughed. “Well, that’s pretty obvious, Bobby, ’cause if you died to save your athletic shoes, you wouldn’t need them anymore, right?”
They all laughed then.
Penelope lay back on the grass and said, “I’d like to have a lot of money. I’d do some good things and some selfish things. I’d give some to my dad, ’cause he’s like your mom, Bobby. He works real hard every day putting in cement walls and stuff, and his back hurts like crazy. I’d give him enough money so he didn’t have to work like that anymore. And I’d help Abel with the tuition for chef school. And then I’d buy some awesome clothes for myself, just like those actresses wear when they walk on the red carpet.”
Bobby Padilla said, “I’d buy a real cool car, maybe a race car so everybody would look when it went down the street.”
“You’re not old enough to drive, Bobby,” Penelope said.
“I’d keep it in the garage and polish it every day so it’d look really good when I get to be sixteen and get my driver’s license,” Bobby said.
“How about you, Angel?” Penelope asked. “What would you do with lots of money?”
“I’d find some doctor who could cure Grandma, and I’d give him the money he wanted,” Angel said.
Gil Patone looked serious. “I don’t think there is such a doctor, Angel. If there was, he’d probably do it even if you didn’t give him lots of money.”
Gil Patone finished the tortilla Abel had given them and lay back on the grass, looking up at the cloudless sky. “If I had a ton of money, I’d make sure every single kid everywhere on Earth could get educated and go to college and be somebody wonderful. That’s what I’d do.” He sighed.
“You know,” he continued, “there are millions of kids in this world who will never even learn to read and write. Can you just imagine what the world would be like if every kid got the chance to be educated? Now all those millions of brains are being lost. We’d have an amazing world if they all got the chance. It’d change the world. There’s a kid in El Salvador or the Congo or maybe even in the barrio right here, who could cure cancer or Parkinson’s, but that kid will never get the chance,” Gil said.
The bell rang for afternoon classes, and they got up slowly, brushing the grass off their jeans.
Penelope Ruiz walked with Gil to their next class, which was English. Gil had told Penelope that he liked her, that she was cool. He told her that several times, but still Penelope wondered. Did he really, really like her? They neared English, and Gil reached over and grasped Penelope’s hand. Penelope thought she would die of happiness.