After the photography shoot at Mrs. Murguia’s, which was more of a chase around the house after prancing cats with loose bow ties, the three started back to the apartment. Uncle pounded on the car radio with a clenched fist, and once again a country-western song twanged through the loudspeaker. When the song ended there was a report of an armored-car robbery in the area of Central Avenue. The drivers had been bound and gagged, the newscaster reported, and authorities said that fifty thousand dollars had been stolen. The drivers could not describe the robbers.
Hector looked up at his uncle, bright-eyed. He swallowed and stuttered, “Unc, you thinking what I’m thinking?”
Uncle looked at the boys. He pounded the radio when country-western music started to play again. The song ended as quickly as it had started. “Híjole, I think we got something here.” He touched his chest, where his shirt pocket drooped with three rolls of film. A scene of the robbery was in one of the rolls.
Uncle sped up, the windows of the Ford station wagon vibrating. He had thought of stopping for burgers and fries, but developing the film seemed more urgent than the hunger tying knots in their stomachs. When they arrived at the apartment, they skidded to a halt in the driveway, scaring two fat pigeons dunking their faces into a puddle.
The three unloaded the photography equipment. Without his cane, Uncle trotted to his mailbox and jumped for joy when he discovered a check that had been owed him for two months. He tore open the letter; a check for $79.59 stared at him.
“I thought your leg was hurt?” Hector asked.
“Running for money doesn’t give me any pain,” Uncle answered. He folded the check and slipped it into his wallet. “We eat out tonight. But let’s develop these first.” He took the rolls of film from his shirt pocket and juggled them as he limped up the steps to the apartment.
Uncle checked his answering machine with the hope that there might be more business. He played it back and heard a woman yelling, “Is Rick there? I wanna talk to Rick!”
Uncle’s face spread with a smirk. He pressed the erase button and said to Hector and Mando, “The ruca’s got the wrong number. Let’s develop the film. Remember, once we close the door, you guys can’t open it. It’ll ruin the film.”
The three huddled together in the bathroom, a makeshift darkroom with a red light over the mirror. After developing the negatives, Uncle shot the images onto photographic paper. He placed the paper into a pan filled with a chemical solution and, whistling through his mustache as he worked, swished the pan back and forth. Slowly images appeared on the paper.
“Hey, Mando, it’s you and me at the train station,” Hector said with happy surprise.
“Yeah, we look cool,” Mando said. “Hey, wait a minute, it looks like my eyes are closed.”
Hector looked closely. “Yeah, but I can see some laganas in their corners.”
“No way, ese. Chále,” Mando responded, pushing his friend playfully.
Other images began to appear, images mostly of the Inouye farm. But the third roll held pictures of the armored car. Uncle rocked the pan, cooing, “Man, I can get a job with the The Fresno Bee. Maybe win the Pulitzer Prize for photo journalism. Be a famous Chicano photographer!”
Uncle was giddy with excitement. With wooden tongs, he raised the pictures out of the solution. He shook them lightly, a sprinkle of solution splattering to the floor. He held them up to the red light, one eye squinting. “Yeah, we even got a license plate number on that car—XJIP30.”
“Let me see, Unc,” Hector begged. He took the pictures and examined the images. He saw two men bending over a trunk of a car—one fat guy and one guy skinny as a hoe. He was excited. He felt that if he could solve a crime, especially one involving big money, he could return by jet, not train, to East Los. He could return with his pockets brimming with dollar bills.
“This is bad.” Hector smiled dreamily as he handed the images to Mando.
The three gave themselves high-fives and left the bathroom. Uncle said he would make larger prints after lunch. They washed up and ate their Super Bowl salad, grinning over their discovery.
“You think you should call the police?” Hector asked. His cheek was fat with olives. The tip of his fork was red with a speared cherry. “The salad’s pretty good.”
“Simón,” Mando agreed. He speared two cherries with one thrust.
“Yeah, we’ll call them in time. I’m gonna call the newspaper first,” Uncle said. He balanced a forkful of peas—the spectators—and shoveled it into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully as he looked at his small apartment, where the furniture was all brown. He got up from the table and called directory assistance for the number to The Fresno Bee.
“City desk at the Bee,” Uncle asked with a pencil in his hand. He looked up from the telephone, his hand over the mouthpiece. “Eat your peas, escuincles.”
Hector and Mando shoveled peas into their mouths and had to agree that they tasted better than the peas they got at home.
When Uncle got the number he immediately called the city desk.
“Julio Silva,” he said. “You know that robbery on Central. Well, I got a hot tip….”
Uncle started from the beginning. He explained that he’d gotten a job shooting the Inouye farm in Parlier. He explained that they were flying a Cessna 143 and that he had brought his nephew and his nephew’s friend along for the ride. He explained that they first thought the armored car was a UPS delivery van. He explained how they flew two times over the scene of the robbery, and was starting to explain how he and Stewart had met on a “thirty and over” softball team when a voice on the other end screamed, “All right already. Get down here. Show me those negatives!”
Uncle held his hand over the mouthpiece. He said to the boys, “I got the vato’s attention. You have to just lay it on thick when you talk to the Man.”
Uncle scribbled down a name—Clarence T. Wearwell. He hung up and told the boys, “It’s half time. Leave the salad for later.”
They left the apartment and drove across town. Uncle was happy and excited, but every time he saw a car like the robbers’ car, a blue Caprice, he shuddered. At a red light, he got nervous when a Caprice pulled up next to them. But when he craned his neck to look over, he saw that the driver was an older woman wearing navy blue gloves. She looked like she was off to church. A bud of red lipstick darkened her mouth.
They squeezed into a narrow parking space at The Fresno Bee building. As they climbed out of the car, Uncle touched his shirt pocket. “Here goes,” Uncle said, as he led the boys inside the gray building to the reception desk. A security guard led them to a conference room, where Hector and Mando helped themselves to bottled water in little paper cups. The water was so cold it almost hurt when it flowed down their throats.
A man in a rumpled suit came into the room. He held out a meaty hand and said, “Clarence T. Wearwell.”
“Julio Silva,” Uncle said. “These are my boys.”
Clarence T. Wearwell nodded at Hector and Mando, and then turned his attention to Julio. “Have a seat. Let me see what you have.”
The four of them sat down. Uncle brought out the negatives and gave them to Wearwell, who held them up to the overhead light, one eye winking as he studied the images. He took his eyeglasses from his shirt pocket, breathed on the lenses, wiped them, and put them on. He studied the negatives a second time. “Hmmmm,” he said finally as he stroked his chin. He handed them back to Uncle. “Seems like you have plenty of evidence here, even the license plate. We could use this.” He thought deeply and then looked at Hector and Mando. “But first, have you boys ever been interviewed?”
“Us?” the boys nearly shouted as they suddenly became big-eyed with excitement.
“Well, the police interrogated me once,” Mando admitted. He gazed down at the floor and muttered, “My stupid brother wrote his name in wet cement, and he blamed me. The tonto! It wasn’t even my name!”
“This is different. We have a column called ‘Today’s Youth,’” Wearwell said cheerfully. “We have a reporter who’ll interview you about your little escapade. What school do you go to?”
“We’re from East Los,” Hector answered. “We’re seventh-graders at Virgil Junior High.”
“This is even better. Kids from the big city.” He unhooked his walkie-talkie from his belt and called, “Ms. Moreno, please come to conference room B.” He then looked at Uncle, his thumb tapping the end of the table. “If you don’t mind, can we make prints of these?”
“Well, yeah, but I was thinking—” Uncle started to say.
“Of course, we’ll pay you for your services. Three hundred about right?”
“Sounds good,” Uncle said, gulping at the figure. He began to wonder if he had to share the sum with Stewart. He decided he would.
When Ms. Vicky Moreno came into the room, Uncle stood up with a smile, dazzled. Ms. Moreno was tall, slender, and with a slight overbite that made Uncle touch his throat. He thought she was beautiful. Her eyes were clear and her mouth was pink as the inside of a rose.
“Vicky, I wish you would interview these two boys,” Wearwell instructed. He rose from his seat and muttered into his walkie-talkie, “I want a rush in the lab. I need some prints immediately.”
Vicky smiled at Hector and Mando. “We’ll find out first who they are.”
“I’m Hector Beltran,” Hector said.
“I’m Armando Tafolla the first,” Mando said.
“What do you mean the ‘the first’?” Hector asked his friend.
“I mean I’m the one and only.”
“I know a guy in San José who has the same name. It’s real common, dude.”
“He’s the second, I’m the first,” Mando argued, jabbing a finger at Hector’s chest.
Uncle butted in and said, “And I’m the uncle of these two sweet knuckleheads. My name’s Julio Silva.” He offered his hand to the woman reporter, who shook it lightly, a cool smile starting at the corner of her mouth.
“Mr. Silva, I would like you to come with me,” Wearwell said. He looked up at the clock that read two-thirty. “I have a meeting at three o’clock, so why don’t we move on?”
“Can’t I stay here?” Uncle asked with the painful look of a scolded dog. “Maybe I can help?”
“Vicky can handle the interview. I think it’s best that we get these negatives developed. If we have time, I’ll show you around.”
Wearwell started to lead a reluctant Uncle from the room by the elbow, but he pulled away and whispered in Hector’s ear. “Listen, Hector, I want you as cleverly as you can to tell Ms. Moreno that I think she’s sweet-looking. Can you do that? Can you tell her I’m an all right uncle?”
Hector looked up and said, “Vicky, I think my uncle likes you.”
“Cállate,” Uncle scolded playfully. He smiled at Vicky. “The boy has an uncontrollable mouth. And sensitive ears.” He pulled on Hector’s ear, and left with Wearwell.
After they left the room, Vicky asked the boys to sit down. The interview began with questions about family, friends, hobbies, pets, favorite food, and movies, and finally aspirations.
“Well, I’d like a little of the reward money,” Hector said after much thought.
“What reward money?” Vicky asked.
“Didn’t the guy tell you?” Mando asked.
“You mean Mr. Wearwell? No.”
“We saw this robbery,” Hector began to explain. “I was at the controls of the airplane when I told my uncle, ‘Hey, ese, there is trouble down below.’” Hector gave a mean look at Mando, as if to say, “Don’t rock my story.”
Vicky was busy writing in her pad.
“Yeah, that’s right,” Mando agreed. “Hector was at the controls because I was tired of driving the plane.”
Hector shot a stern look at Mando but didn’t say anything to ruffle his version of the story. Mando continued: “Yeah, Uncle Julio was—”
“Julio is your uncle?” Ms. Moreno asked.
“My uncle,” Hector said, pointing a finger at his chest. “I’ll explain it all. I’m better at words than Mando. You see, I was flying the plane and I saw some heavy chingadasos on the ground and lowered the plane so that my uncle could take some pictures.”
“Yeah, I had to help Hector’s tío aim the camera,” Mando interrupted, “because he didn’t get too much sleep because this woman kept calling him and asking for Rick.”
Hector gave Mando another mean look. “What are you talkin’ about?”
“What are you talkin’ about?”
“I asked you first.”
“I asked second.”
“Boys! Hector, Mando! Let’s not argue,” Vicky scolded lightly. She shook her pad and then said, “I need your help and cooperation. I heard about the robbery. Can you tell me exactly what you saw?”
Hector and Mando leveled with Vicky. Hector even said that they were scared of flying, that neither of them helped fly the plane or take the picture. They said they mostly wished that they had stayed on the ground because it was cold and the plane had rust holes that scared them to death. Mando said that he was scared that his foot would punch through one of the holes and that he would be sucked out of the plane and that his body would end up splattered in a cow field. He said that he would rather be killed by Bertha Sanchez than fall from an airplane.
“Really?” Hector asked with surprise. “I would rather get killed in a plane crash. Bertha hits too hard.”
Hector went on to describe the armored car and the blue Chevy Caprice license plate number XJIP30. He told Vicky that there were two men, both in greenish jackets. One was as thick as an oil barrel, and maybe just as greasy. He explained it all without a touch of fantasy, and then, with a sigh and nod of his head, confessed, “I think my uncle likes you. And that’s the truth.”
Vicky smiled from embarrassment. “That’s nice to hear. Now let’s get a picture of the two of you.”