Phoenix Noir (31 page)
Ruvin had few hobbies. The only thing he cared about was his identity as a reporter, and the only people he hung out with were the cops and prosecutors he wrote about. In his mind he was famous, his world a black-and-white movie in which he wore a raincoat and fedora with a tag that read
PRESS
, and talked out of the side of his mouth. He imagined the raincoat and fedora so vividly that when you were in his presence you felt like you could almost see them.
When the cops realized that they had Luis, then realized that they didn’t have him anymore, the first reporter they called was Ruvin.
Ruvin and Detective Zack Blantyre had been friends for years. Blantyre had asked Ruvin to write a biography of him, and Ruvin had been sporadically working on it. Now they sat in Durant’s restaurant on Central Avenue, and Ruvin asked Blantyre what had gone down.
“We don’t know what happened,” Blantyre said.
“Zack. You find out you have a triple murderer in your jail. Then you find out he’s not in your jail anymore. And you’re telling me nobody knows what happened?”
“Okay, off the record—for now, okay …”
Ruvin nodded.
“We do know. He just walked out of there, him and four others. Somebody forgot to lock a door, and five of them just walked. We know it happened, we just don’t know
how
it happened.”
“No matter how I write it, you know that’s not going to look good.”
“No shit. No shit. I mean, it’s not like it’s the first time this kind of crap’s happened at the jail … but a fucking three-time killer? You know as well as I do, most of the guys in the jail are in there because they’re fucked in the head and got no money … but you get guys like this sometimes. I’ve been saying for a long time that something like this was gonna happen down there someday if they didn’t start hiring people who know which way is up.”
“He’s from New Mexico?”
“Yeah.”
“So what did he come here for?”
“How should I know, Jer? While we’re asking stuff, what did he kill three people for?”
“I’ll sit on this,” Ruvin said. “But I can’t for long.”
“I’m not asking you to. I just wanted to let you know about it first.”
“Appreciated. Look, I’m not gonna wait and eat lunch. I’ll get something on the run. I’m gonna head out to New Mexico today.”
Luis didn’t expect it to work, but when the other guys started to walk out, he simply followed them. And when nobody stopped them, they kept walking. And when they were outside on Madison Street in the sunshine, and the cops who were entering the building ignored them, they split up and kept walking.
Miguel was in his pajamas eating toast for breakfast when the cops knocked on his door. He let them in, they asked him about Luis, and he lied. Then they asked him where his car was, and he knew he was fucked. They let him get dressed before they put the handcuffs on him.
Luis knocked on the door. Vanjii opened it. She was wearing shorts and a T-shirt with the name of the store she worked for on it. She had been getting ready to head out to work.
Her first impulse was to close the door, but Luis pushed it open with his foot and stepped into the apartment. They stood there in the living room looking at each other.
“You gonna kill me?” Vanjii said, her voice breaking.
“What?”
She began to sob. “I don’t want to die …”
“What would I kill you for? Why would I do that?”
“You killed those other people … I don’t know …”
“You think I would hurt you? You’re scared of me?”
“… Yeah.” She looked so small, her face crumpled, tears and snot everywhere.
“You said you knew I loved you and you’d take that where you could get it …”
He reached out to touch her. She was too frightened to pull away, so she closed her eyes and cringed violently when he put his hand on her shoulder.
Jaimie came out of her bedroom “Vanj? What’s wrong? You okay?”
Luis turned like an animal and ran.
He walked, not trying to hide himself, not trying to stop the sun from burning him. He walked along Camelback until he reached Seventh Avenue, and then he headed south to En-canto Park. It was only a few miles, a distance that would have meant nothing to him in Santa Fe, but the heat of Phoenix made it seem like he was wading through hot water. When he reached the park, his head was spinning and his mouth was as dry as the ground.
He lay down in the shade of a tree and kept still until his vision came into focus. Then he moved around, looking for someplace to get water. The cops had taken all his money. He went up to people and asked them if they’d buy him some water; one guy gave him a couple dollars and told him there was a vendor at the children’s play area, Encanto Kiddie Land. He went there and bought a bottle of water and then lay down under another tree and drank it all.
He remembered how Vanjii had looked when she’d cried. He didn’t know it, but his own face now looked like hers had, twisted like it might come apart, bawling, snorting, so frightened. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t known she would be afraid of him. Who wouldn’t be afraid of him? He thought about the life he always pretended to himself that he had: cooking, listening to music, driving his car, reading books, talking to his friends, falling in love with Vanjii, taking care of his cat. And he thought about the life he really had: people scared, people hurt, people dead.
Vanjii was sitting on the couch and Jaimie was holding her while she cried. She kept trying to explain what had happened, but Jaimie’s head condition made it hard for her to follow because she couldn’t remember things. She just kept stroking Vanjii’s hair and saying, “It’s okay. Nobody’s gonna hurt you.”
Ruvin didn’t have to spend long in Santa Fe. He talked to the cops and asked if they’d let him talk to Miguel, but they weren’t Phoenix cops so they wouldn’t. Then he walked around the barrio, knocking on doors. Some people told him Luis didn’t exist, that he was just a ghost, a legend, a scary story for late at night. Other people gave him names and addresses. He was soon talking to Luis’s mother. She didn’t have much to tell him in terms of facts, but she gave him plenty of color he could use in his story. About an hour later, he was sitting in a living room talking to Vanjii’s father.
As soon as Ruvin left that apartment, he pulled out his cell phone and called Blantyre. He got voice mail. “Zack, it’s Jerry. I’m in Santa Fe. Listen up, I’ve got an address for you …” He recited it twice. “It’s the address of the kid’s girlfriend. They used to live together, and she moved to Phoenix a few weeks ago. He must have gone there to see her. I’m just gonna head to Albuquerque and fly home, so do me a favor—don’t do anything until I get there, okay?”
He put the phone away and got in his rental car.
Luis lay on the ground for most of the day, sleeping on and off. He stayed there after the park closed and it got dark. Then he got up and started to walk. It was hard to move. Each step hurt. He knew he needed more water, but he wasn’t going to ask anyone for money, and he wasn’t going to hurt anyone for it. He walked for two hours, falling a few times, always getting up and walking on.
The apartment door seemed to explode as the cops forced it open. Vanjii, Jaimie, and Carlos were sitting in the living room, and when the cops saw Carlos they pointed their guns at him and screamed at him to get down on the floor. Van-jii and Jaimie screamed back at them. From a safe distance, Ruvin took notes.
Luis couldn’t walk any further, and he’d never known where he was heading to anyway. He saw a public phone outside a liquor store, went to it, fumbled in his pocket for the change he had left after buying the water in the park. The call would cost fifty-five cents, and he knew he had a little more than that. He found it and fed it into the machine and dialed.
“Hello?” said Vanjii.
“It’s me. Listen, I’m sorry I scared you. I don’t want you to be scared …”
“Okay,” she said, and he heard it in her voice.
“The cops are there, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m so sorry, honey.”
“I know. I am too.” Pause. “You don’t sound good.”
“Don’t worry. Can I talk to the cops?”
“What’re you gonna do?”
“I’m just gonna keep on loving you, that’s what. That’s the only thing I can do. And nobody’s gonna get hurt no more. You don’t need to be scared no more.”
She said something to someone else. He couldn’t hear what it was. Then a voice said, “This is Detective Blantyre.”
“Yeah, hey, bitch. Fucking listen. Here’s where I’m at—Eleventh Avenue and Roosevelt. There’s a lot across the street from the liquor store. I’ll be waiting for you there.”
“What are—”
“Shut your fucking hole. Come on down here so I can kill your white ass.” Luis hung up, walked slowly across the street to the empty lot, and sat on the ground.
Vanjii. Vanjii. Vanjii. I’m so scared. I love you and love you and I’m so scared.
A homeless guy wandered into the lot. He came over and tried to talk. “You better get out of here,” Luis said. “The cops are coming. It’s gonna be bad.”
The guy didn’t believe him, thinking he just wanted the lot to himself. But then he heard the sirens and knew it was true, and he ran.
There were six cars. Luis was sitting with his back to the wall; the cops stood behind the cars, forming a semicircle around him. They all had guns aimed at him.
Vanjii. Vanjii.
He kept bringing her face into his mind, remembered how she looked when she was smiling in the bathtub in candlelight and loving him.
“LIE DOWN ON THE GROUND AND PUT YOUR HANDS ON TOP OF YOUR HEAD! DO IT RIGHT NOW!”
He stood up, flipped them off with one hand, and reached in his pocket with the other, pretending he was grabbing for a gun. He didn’t get his hand out of the pocket before the bullets hit him, turning him weightless and throwing him against the wall. It hurt and it didn’t hurt and then it hurt again. The cops kept on firing until there were bullet holes even in the soles of his feet, but he didn’t know that. He thought about Catboy, and hoped that nobody would be mean to him.
BY S
TELLA
P
OPE
D
UARTE
Harmon Park
B
ig Boy’s real name was Edward Ornelas, but nobody ever called him Edward, because by the time he was ten he weighed in at over 150 pounds. He lived east of Nineteenth Avenue, in the Central Projects, close to the neighborhood where the girl disappeared last October. Big Boy lost twenty pounds once he was put in juvie at age eleven, for shoplifting at Woolworth’s, taking things you could buy for nickels and dimes, Batman and Robin plastic figures and a Batman car. The reason he got a term at juvie was because one of the clerks said he had seen him several times lifting things, but couldn’t prove it, so due to suspicious behavior, and to teach him a lesson, he was given six months at Boys Town.
His mother Luz, who subscribed to the
Catholic Monitor
and attended meetings of the Sodality of Mary at St. Anthony’s, was so ashamed of him, she wouldn’t visit him. She had the entire church pray rosaries for the salvation of his soul, and kept a photo of her son on her dresser with a candle burning in front of pictures of saints including one of St. Michael the Archangel with his foot planted on the Devil’s neck. Luz’s sister, Nena, who didn’t subscribe to the
Catholic Monitor
, and could have cared less about sodalities or saints, went to see him with her daughter Atalia, who was a sophomore at Phoenix Central High. Atalia insisted that Big Boy was innocent of stealing the Batman and Robin figures and had been mistaken for another boy, a huge Indian kid nicknamed Squirt.
“He didn’t steal anything!” Atalia told her mother as they drove to see Big Boy. “All he had in his pockets were toothpicks and bubble gum. That guy at the store had it in for him … he’s always watching the Mexican and black kids. I tell you, this time it was an Indian kid … I saw him. Big Boy’s nothing but a cry baby. He’s probably crying every night in juvie. We should talk to the judge.”
“Never mind,” Nena said. “Nobody will believe you, just leave it alone, he’ll be out soon.”
Big Boy was freed from the detention center exactly six months later; thinner, sullen, and reinvested in his life, as his PO, Howard Franco, described it. “Done his time,” Franco said at the court hearing. “Now he’s ready to take his place in the community, finish eighth grade and move on to high school. Right, Ornelas?” Franco never called him Big Boy, as he didn’t think the kids should be identified by anything except a number or their last names.
Luz was there, sitting next to Franco, watching her son one chair away from her. Her eyes filled with tears as she thought of how thin Big Boy had gotten. Maybe she had been too hard on him. After all, he had always been close to her, maybe too close. She worried he didn’t like girls, and now she worried maybe he had a boyfriend in juvie. She worried that other boys his age wouldn’t be stealing Batman and Robin plastic figures, and maybe his cousin Atalia had been right in the first place—the store clerk had it in for him. She cursed the day Big Boy’s father, Edward Sr., had walked out on her to get together with an older woman, a barmaid from the American Legion Hall, the place that boasted a dark, musty bar where Edward Sr. drank himself into a stupor every Friday night. Her boy needed a male figure in his life, she reasoned, and decided to call up Father Leo at St. Anthony’s, the most saintly man she knew, to stand guard over her son’s life.
