Secrets & Lies (34 page)

Mom and Ross went out of the room while the cops were there, but Maggie and I stayed with Dad. The police didn't mind.

“Mr. Talbot,” Detective Jordan began, “we're glad to see you're alert. We're trying to get to the bottom of this, and we appreciate you answering some questions.”

Dad: OK.

“Can you tell me what happened that morning?”

Dad: I WAS WAITING FOR GINA TO COME TO MY ROOM. WE WERE GOING TO HAVE BREAKFAST AND THEN I WAS FLYING HOME TO CHICAGO. THERE WAS A KNOCK AT THE DOOR. TWO MEN SAID THEY WERE POLICE. THEY BARGED IN, HIT ME, TIED ME UP, AND THREATENED TO KILL ME. THEN GINA SHOWED UP AND SAVED ME.

Detective Jordan pondered that answer. “They didn't say what they wanted from you?”

Dad: NO.

When he wrote that, I knew he wasn't telling the truth. Those men definitely knew who my father was. Why was he lying?

“Mr. Talbot, do you know a woman by the name of Betty Dinkins?”

Dad: NO.

“Never heard of her?”

Dad: NO.

“Maybe you have and don't realize it. Recently in the news she claimed to be the Black Stiletto. Were you aware of this?”

Dad: MAYBE. I DON'T PAY ATTENTION TO THAT STUFF.

“Did you know that the two men who assaulted you are suspected in the murder of Ms. Dinkins?”

Dad: I DO NOW.

“Did they ask you about Ms. Dinkins?”

Dad: NO.

Again, I could see Dad's face and I knew he wasn't being honest. I don't know how I can read people's faces that way, but I can. I've been able to do it since I was in junior high school. It was one of the strange things that happened to me and my body when I first got my period. My eyesight and hearing improved, and I had a weird sixth sense that I'd never noticed before. When kids at school lied to me, I knew it. When Mom or Dad told me something I didn't believe, it was because they were not telling me everything. I've never been able to explain it, and I've never told anyone about it.

I wanted to say something. I didn't think he should be lying to the police, especially about something as serious as this. I glanced at Maggie and she had a concerned expression on her face.
She
knew something, too! I could tell. What was going on? She and Dad had some secret together, and they weren't sharing it.

“The men who attacked you—William Simon and Bernard Childers—are residents of Odessa, Texas. Do their names or does that town mean anything to you?”

Oh, my God, my grandma Judy was from Odessa, Texas. Could this be related to her somehow? And for heaven's sakes, why would it?

Dad: NO.

“The men went by nicknames—Stark and Bernie.”

Dad: NOPE.

Why didn't he tell the detective that his mother was from Odessa?

“Can you write a statement of what happened in the room when your daughter arrived?”

Dad nodded and put pen to paper. It took him a few minutes to write nearly a whole page of words. He said that I tricked the men into opening the door by threatening to go to the front desk—true—and that I attacked the guy called Stark—true—and quickly beat him badly enough that he fell unconscious—again, true. Then he said that he saw a gun in Bernie's hand, and that's all he could remember.

“So you don't know if Mr. Childers deliberately pointed the gun at you and pulled the trigger?”

Dad: NO.

“He was trying to shoot
me
,” I said, “and I tried knocking the gun out of his hand. That's when it went off and the bullet hit Dad.”

Detective Jordan held up his hand. “Gina, please, we have your statement. I need to hear what your father has to say.”

Dad: IF GINA SAYS THAT'S WHAT HAPPENED, THEN THAT'S WHAT HAPPENED.

Jordan looked at the other two men. “Anything else for now?”

Dad: WHAT DO THE MEN HAVE TO SAY?

“Well, Mr. Childers is paralyzed. Your daughter broke his neck. He's not saying anything yet. He's barely conscious. Mr. Simon has lawyered up and isn't talking.”

After that, the detectives wished him a speedy recovery and said they'd need to talk to him again when he's better. Detective Jordan said good-bye to me and told me to “be careful.”

When they were gone, the nurse came in and said Dad needed to rest. His eyes met mine. He knew I was questioning some of his answers. I leaned over and kissed his cheek and said, “Get some sleep, I'm not going anywhere.”

Mom and Ross left the hospital for a while. Maggie and I remained in the room. She read a magazine and worked on her iPad while I sat and stared at the IV and the tubes and monitors around Dad. I missed Josh and thought I'd go out in the hall to call him, but then I saw that Dad had closed his eyes and was slumbering. I moved closer to Maggie and whispered.

“What's going on?”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Something's not right. Those men were after Dad for a reason. Do you know what it is?”

She hesitated and didn't look at me when she answered, “No, I don't.” Another lie.

“What's Dad's connection to that woman? Maggie, my grandmother is from Odessa, Texas. Dad's mother! Doesn't that mean something?”

Maggie closed her eyes. She was obviously struggling. She and Dad knew the answers to my questions, and they didn't want to tell me.

“Is my dad in trouble?” I asked softly.

“Gina. Gina, your father and you need to have a talk. It's not my place to say anything. I promise you that you'll understand everything soon. Please, I beg you, let your father answer your questions when he's ready. Let him heal. Let him get back to Illinois. I'm sure he'll tell you what you want to know, but you'll have to be patient. Please. I'm sorry. Just know that your father loves you very much. I do too, Gina, so please don't hold it against me. I made your father a promise and I intend to keep it.”

“So there
is
something you're both hiding from me? And the police?”

“Gina. Trust your father. He will tell you when it's time.”

I then looked over at Dad—and his eyes were open. He'd heard everything Maggie and I had said. He then picked up the pen and paper and wrote: I PROMISE. GIVE ME TIME. We held eyes for a moment, and then I said, “Okay.”

Dad: I LOVE YOU.

“I love you too, Dad.”

1961

O
CTOBER
16, 1961

Monday was a day off from Flickers, so Barry and I set up the Serpientes shop raid for tonight. Well, it turned out that I got in place but never received a signal from Barry or the police backup team that they were ready. In fact, they didn't show up! I waited nearly a half hour, then got out of my car and went to a pay phone. Barry was glad I called. The cops had to cancel the operation because of some other problem in town, and Barry couldn't reach me—he can't, I always have to call
him
. When he said we'd have to reschedule, I said, “Forget it, I'm here. I'm parked two blocks away from La Cantina and the garage, as we agreed. I'm going in alone.” He tried to talk me out of it, but I had an ace up my sleeve—I had a couple of friends inside.

Even so, it was a close one, dear diary.

The Compton Street area in Southeast L.A. was indeed a rough neighborhood and much more sinister at night. If I saw a white person, it was usually an old bum sitting against a dark building with a bottle in a paper bag, and they were few and far between. Mostly the streets were populated by Negroes and Mexicans. From what Barry told me, the two groups didn't get along. There was always trouble.
I could
feel
tension in the air, an electric pulse that warned me danger could be anywhere.

It was around 10:00. Once I was out of the car and found a shadowy spot in which to finish dressing as the Stiletto, I hit Compton and started running south toward Florence. People on the sidewalk—mostly men—shouted or said something as I flew past. At one point a couple of guys thought they could chase me and see what I was up to, but I made a quick left onto 70th Street and then shot up an alley between the backs of houses. It was plenty dark there. The two men ran past, soon realized they didn't know where I'd gone, and gave up. Again, it struck me how different traveling on foot in L.A. is compared to New York. I would have thought my exposure would be more subtle. In fact, it's the opposite. The streets of L.A. are wide open, they're not bordered by tall buildings that create a tunnel effect like the ones in Manhattan, and the sidewalks are sometimes set a good distance from the houses or buildings, especially in residential neighborhoods.

La Cantina appeared to be hopping. Men and women from the Mexican biker world congregated in and out of it. The Tijuana Auto lot, however, was dark and deserted. Everyone was at the bar, if what Gabriel said was true.

Circling the perimeter closest to the shop, I found an appropriate spot where I could climb the chain-link fence. I'd need my hook again to pull down the barbed wire, so I got it ready. I wanted to spend as little time as possible getting over to the other side, but I wasn't fast enough. As soon as I reached the top and bent down the wire, my friends Bala and Hoja came running out of the garage, barking like demons. But I was prepared. I dug into my jacket pocket and pulled out two dog biscuits. Earlier in the day I'd gone to the market and bought a bag of Milk-Bones, the same kind that were in the shop office.

“
¡Siéntate!
” I ordered, holding up the treats. The animals were maybe thirteen feet below me, baring their teeth, and making a
tremendous racket. “
¡Siéntate!
” The command didn't work. I was afraid I might have to forget the job after all and go home; my plan hadn't worked. “
¡Siéntate!
” I tried again, to no avail. Then I tossed the two biscuits to the dogs, and they snapped them out of midair. That shut them up and they chomped the cookies and licked their jaws. I dared to bound over the fence and land on my feet right next to them. The dogs growled again, but they weren't barking. I held out more treats and spoke in my best “friendly” voice, “Bala! Hoja! Remember me? Hi!”

The snarling stopped and they looked at me suspiciously.

I removed the mask and shook my hair out. “See? It's me!”

That did it. The two animals leaped at me, tails wagging and tongues licking. I rubbed them and scratched them and spoke baby talk to them. I fed them more treats. They knew I was their master's friend who was so nice to them the other day.

Now they were quiet and happy, but the only problem with that was that they wanted to follow me wherever I went. I put the mask back on and slowly crept toward the shop. The dogs panted at my side. Every now and then I'd pat them and say, “Good boys!” A treat every so often didn't hurt either.

Los Serpientes were fairly careless about leaving doors open. I guess they figured no one would be crazy enough to try and get past Bala and Hoja. One garage bay door was up, allowing access inside the building. The place was greasy and messy, just like the one the Heathens's owned. Two cars occupied the other bays—a beat-up Cadillac and a crummy Oldsmobile. Several shiny motorcycles lined one side of the garage. An unmarked door led to the sales office, where I'd been the other day. Before entering, I pressed the side of my head on the door to listen for any voices. When I was satisfied, my pets and I entered. A quick look around led me down a hall and to an office that I presumed was Gabriel's. There was motorcycle imagery all over the room, and there was a desk with a skull and a framed picture of a pretty Mexican girl on it. She resembled Gabriel. His daughter?

Barry told me to look for boxes or bags full of bills. They would all be the same denomination—5s or 10s or 20s—and I shouldn't be surprised if they appeared very real to me. The police needed samples and photos to prove the counterfeit money came from the shop.

I spent fifteen minutes searching. I went in every room, even the disgusting men's bathroom. There was nothing.

Just as I was about to call it a night, the dogs perked up, barked happily, and ran out to the garage. I heard a whistle and a man's voice greeting them.
Carlos Gabriel
. He and two other men were walking from the bar back to the shop, and he'd just opened the front gate.

There was nowhere to go. The only way out was through the open garage door, and there was no question that they'd see me. I could possibly hide in one of the two offices, or the parts storage, or one of the bathrooms. The women's bathroom? Did I even see one?

The voices grew louder. I had to move, so I dashed to the Oldsmobile, opened the back door as quietly as possible, climbed in, and shut it. Then I curled up in the floorboard and hoped for the best. The windows were down, so I could hear the men talking. I thought something was unusual about their conversation and didn't know why, and then it hit me—it wasn't in Spanish! They were speaking English.

“Where are they?”