America Libre (15 page)

M
ano’s mind was churning as he entered the DDP conference room. His plan to locate the leader of the vigilantes had gone well
enough, but a major hurdle still remained. How would they get to Walter O’Connor? He hoped this meeting would sort that out.

Ramon, already seated at the oval table, held up a copy of the
Los Angeles Times
as Mano sat down. “Your attack on the vigilantes has really helped our cause, amigo. This publicity is a godsend.”

Dominating the paper’s front page was a grainy still-frame image from the E! footage. It showed Mano and Jo in black fatigues
peering around the corner of a building, weapons at the ready, faces hidden behind black masks.

“I’m more concerned with catching O’Connor.”

“Jo says she’s got a plan in mind. She’ll be here soon.”

Despite his focus on O’Connor, Mano’s thoughts wandered to Jo. She was unlike any other woman he’d known. Yes, she was achingly
beautiful, but it was more than that. Jo’s rare mix of courage and class made her seem raw and silky all at once. He found
the contradiction strangely seductive.

Mano pointed to the newspaper. “I asked Jo why someone with her kind of money would get involved in this stuff, but I didn’t
really understand her answer.”

“This isn’t the first time Jo’s picture has made the front page.”

“What do you mean?”

“I met Jo’s father in Uruguay a few years back and he told me an interesting story. When Jo was nine, she talked a group of
children in her neighborhood into attending a Tupamaro demonstration against the government in Montevideo. It turns out over
four hundred thousand people showed up. The next day, a picture of Jo and her friends holding their hand-lettered signs was
on the front page of the paper in Montevideo. The photo eventually appeared on TV shows, magazines, and posters. It became
a symbol of government resistance. It’s hard to forget that kind of excitement. Jo’s father was a rebel, too. She grew up
with revolution in her baby formula. Jo tries hard to look like a rich liberal. But believe me, Mano, that’s a pose. Jo’s
got a fire in her belly.”

“She’s no stranger to guns.”

The sound of footsteps in the hallway announced Jo’s approach. “Ah, I see the fair damsel from Montevideo has arrived,” Ramon
said with a mock bow as she entered the room.

Jo smiled. “Cut the bullshit, Ray. I’ve got a plan to nab O’Connor that I want to discuss—and we don’t have much time.”

At the CIA, Hank Evans tossed a copy of the
Los Angeles Times
toward Maria Prado, a blurry picture of two black-masked guerrillas on the front page. “It looks like we’ve got some commando
wannabes in East L.A., Maria. Any idea who they might be?”

Prado leaned back, thrusting her chin in the air. “If I recall,” she said, “you felt my investigation of the Eslos wasn’t
a high priority.”

“OK, Maria, maybe I was wrong.”

“Maybe?”

“All right. I admit it. You warned me and I blew it off. Now, help me out here. This is starting to look serious.”

Satisfied by his admission, Prado began briefing her boss. “Well, as always, I think it comes down to means and motive. The
gangs certainly have the means—but I can’t see their motive here. A number of the gangs are extremely well-armed, but this
operation seems out of character,” Prado said, tapping the newspaper photo. “The gangs are driven mostly by profit. Some call
them the barrios’ best entrepreneurs. And everybody knows the gangs fight each other for turf. But what most people overlook
is that the turf they fight over is an exclusive franchise to traffic in drugs, prostitution, gambling, and extortion. That
produces some serious cash. But there’s no money in taking out a bunch of rednecks,” Prado said, her enthusiasm growing.

“Then there are the radical groups—and there’s a lot of them, too. Student groups, union groups, community groups—they’re
coming out of the woodwork in East L.A. They’ve got the motive but not the means—most of them are just hot air. They prefer
to fight in the courts and in the media. La Defensa del Pueblo is probably the most visible of these radical groups right
now.”

Hank nodded. “Yes, I remember your report on them.”

“If a group like the DDP could somehow enlist the help of the gangs, that could be real trouble. You’d have a hybrid group
with both means and motive. I think that’s what we’re seeing here, Hank.”

“You still want to get a mole into La Defensa del Pueblo?”

“I do,” she replied quickly. “The DDP seems the logical place to start. But I’m not certain they’re the ones behind this violence.
The leaders of the DDP appear way too effete for wet work. At the very least, a mole at La Defensa del Pueblo will help us
rule them out, and maybe lead us to the real troublemakers.”

“You have my authorization. Get on it, Maria, and keep me posted.”

Pedro made sure his mother was busy in the kitchen, then carefully unfolded the cover page from the
Los Angeles Times
stashed in his math book. “Here, Julio. Lamp this,” he said, passing the torn-off page to his brother.

“Tight!” Julio replied excitedly, staring at the photograph of the guerrillas.

Pedro pointed to the weapons held by the pair in the photo. “Those are AK-47s,” he said, trying to impress his sibling.

“I know that,” Julio said indignantly. “Everybody in school was talking about Agnes Street.”

“Yeah, that was way tight.”

“The big guy in the picture sorta looks like Papi.”

Pedro sneered. “Papi? He was probably with his guerra again.”

“Where did you hear—” Julio stopped in midsentence as Rosa entered the living room.

Pedro hurriedly folded the newspaper page and tucked it back in his book. The furtive gesture caught Rosa’s attention.

“What have you got there, Pedro?” she said, drawing closer.

“Just something from school.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing, Mami.”

Rosa held out her hand. “Let me see.”

His head bowed, the boy gave her the newspaper page.

Rosa unfolded the sheet and scanned the front-page article. At the bodega, she’d overheard people talking about the gunfight
on Agnes Street, but this was the first time she had seen any news coverage on the event. She crumpled the paper and held
it away from her like something rotten.

“These men are not heroes, do you understand?” Rosa said sternly. “They’re fools—and they’re going to get more people killed
in the barrios. This is why I won’t let you bring any newspapers into this house. The people who write this don’t care how
it affects kids like you.”

“But, Mami, the gabachos had it coming,” Pedro protested.

Rosa’s face hardened. “Pedro! You will never use that word again, do you hear me? You’re insulting yourself when you use words
like that. How can you expect to be treated with dignity if you don’t do the same?”

Pedro stood silently for a moment, then sulked into the bedroom. Julio quickly followed him.

Rosa sighed heavily. Mano’s example was hurting their sons. Staying out late at night was not how a decent man behaved. Even
if Mano was doing nothing wrong, everyone gossiped and assumed the worst. She could see Pedro’s respect for his father fade
more each day—and the influence of the streets grow in its place.

She walked to her shrine, knelt before the figurine of La Virgen, and made the sign of the cross.
Thank you, Señora, for your blessings
, she prayed.
You brought us Mano’s job and the new car. But I would give it all back if you’d let my husband be a good father to his children
again
.

J
o parked the rented Chrysler Sebring facing away from the Hopewell Realtors storefront and fussily adjusted her pinned-up
hair in the rearview mirror, giving her a chance to survey the strip mall. There were no uniforms or plainclothes security
lurking outside Walter O’Connor’s realty office.

As she approached the storefront, Jo saw two conservatively dressed young men with shaved heads sprawled indolently across
couches in the lobby. One was flipping through a magazine while stroking his goatee. The other was immersed in a game on his
vu-phone. O’Connor was apparently taking the precaution of a personal security detail, but judging from the caliber of his
bodyguards, he was not taking the threat too seriously.

As Jo opened the door, the young men glanced up, then ignored her. Crossing the lobby, she heard a voice from somewhere deep
in the office. “Is she here yet?”

“Yeah,” the young man nearest her shouted back without looking up from his magazine.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” the voice said, louder now.

“I’m not your receptionist, OK?”

Walter O’Connor burst into the room and glared at the two young men. He was a man who would have blended into the landscape
anywhere in the United States. Around forty, average in height and build, O’Connor was wearing a tan sports coat over a buttoned-up
white polo shirt and black pleated trousers. His brown hair was streaked with gray and parted neatly on the side.

“I’ll deal with you later,” O’Connor said to the young security guard, then turned toward Jo with a smarmy smile. “Mrs. Steele”—he
extended his hand—“I’m Wally O’Connor. Please let me apologize for our trainees; they’re just getting started in the business
and they ain’t learnt their manners yet. Won’t you please come on in?”

Jo returned the smile. “Please, Wally, my mother-in-law is Mrs. Steele. Call me Bonnie,” she said, entering his private office.

O’Connor gestured to one of the chairs in front of his desk. “You mentioned on the phone that Colonel Steele’s just been transferred
to the base out here, right?” he said, dropping into a high-backed swivel chair.

Jo folded her hands on her lap. “Yes. Frank wanted me to get started on our house hunt right away. He’s still back in Dayton
finishing things up at Wright-Patt.”

Jo had selected her clothes for this role carefully. Her silk blouse, calf-length skirt, modest gold necklace, and black leather
purse projected the conservative style O’Connor would expect from the wife of an Air Force colonel. From her research on O’Connor,
Jo knew he’d see a colonel’s wife as a plum client—he normally worked with blue-collar customers.

“Do you know this area at all, Bonnie?”

“Not really. Frank has a friend who was transferred out here a few years back. In fact, his friend recommended the house I
mentioned when I called.”

“Well, that’s why I asked you if you knew the area. You see… well… your husband’s friend, is he a… a… person of color, by
any chance?”

Jo had not expected O’Connor’s question. “I’m not sure—I’ve never met him myself. Frank just said his friend assured him this
property was a good deal.”

“OK, Bonnie, now, I’m gonna tell you something I’m not supposed to.” O’Connor paused, lowering his voice. “There’s a bunch
of people in Washington that believes Realtors shouldn’t be allowed to tell the truth about certain neighborhoods. You understand
what I’m saying?”

Jo knew exactly what he was saying. O’Connor was redlining—steering Jo away from a neighborhood with a large population of
Hispanics. His bigotry had not hurt his realty business, Jo supposed.

“No, Wally, I’m not sure I do.”

“I’ve made a good living by treating people fairly, even if that means breakin’ the rules. So I’m gonna tell you straight
out. That neighborhood’s not fit for decent white people like you and your husband.”

Just to see the look on O’Connor’s face, Jo was tempted to say her husband was black, but instead she continued her charade,
producing a slip of paper from her purse. “What’s wrong with the neighborhood at this address?”

“It’s north of Long Beach, see, and most people who live there these days ain’t white—they’re Hispanics. Now there’s some
folks, mostly liberals, who like to look down on me for telling you this. But I’ve noticed one thing, Bonnie: even the liberals
won’t buy in a neighborhood where they know the property values are gonna go down. They don’t want to send their kids to schools
with a bunch of greasers who’re gonna cut up their sons and molest their daughters.”