Southtown (9 page)

Only then did I realize who she reminded me of—her small frame, her stubborn expression, the tense set of her shoulders, as if she were ready to lead a charge. She reminded me of Erainya.

I managed to say, “I’ll tell him.”

Sam Barrera came back inside. He muttered an apology. He slipped the cell phone into his pocket, looked around the room as if he’d misplaced something.

“Are we done?” he asked me.

It seemed a strange thing to say, since he hadn’t participated in any of the conversation. Perhaps he could see from my expression that I’d learned what I needed to know. Or perhaps he saw the goat’s milk and Folgers on the stovetop and decided not to risk it.

“Yeah,” I told him. “I guess we’re done.”

On the drive back through Castroville, we passed our friend the deputy. He was leaning against the hood of his unit, supervising a group of men placing sandbags across the entrance of Haby’s Bavarian Bakery. He tipped his hat to us. I imagined he was congratulating himself on being right—the city folk were beating a hasty retreat after a hopeless visit with the crazy woman.

The hills retreated behind us. I waited for Barrera to speak.

When he didn’t, I said, “You framed Will Stirman. Gloria Paz lied for you.”

Just when I thought he wasn’t going to acknowledge my statement, he said, “So now you know.”

“At the risk of sounding rude—were you fucking insane?”

“Did you miss the chains?” Sam asked. “The bloodstains on the wall?”

“That was McCurdy. Will Stirman had nothing to do with those women.”

“Not
those
women, maybe. But a thousand others. He sent them to sweatshops, brothels, slave ranches. Fred and I knew. We had both crossed paths with Stirman before. He was a monster. This was our chance.”

“You used the public outrage about the McCurdy case. Your clients wanted a scapegoat and you knew Stirman was an easy sell.”

“We started the investigation thinking it was him. Fred and I both. When we found out . . . Gloria admitted there was no supplier. McCurdy handpicked the women he wanted. Fred and I were too far along at that point. We’d gotten in Stirman’s face. We’d already convinced a couple of his men to turn on him and provide evidence. How did we know they were lying? That they just wanted an excuse to divide up the boss’s business? After we realized the truth, we decided . . . what the hell? Gloria was willing to cooperate. We would bring Stirman down.”

“You. Sam Barrera. Mr. By-the-Book.”

“Circumstances were different, eight years ago.” His voice was tinged with bitterness.

“Erainya knew about the frame-up?” I asked.

“Fred wouldn’t have told her.”

“Then why is she reluctant to call the police?”

He hesitated. “We have too much to lose.”

“
Your
reputation. She did nothing wrong.”

He gave me a wary look.

There was more to it. He wasn’t worried about looking bad, having his frame-up exposed eight years later. Who would believe the truth anyway, or care? No prosecutor would be anxious to file charges against Barrera and an old Mexican lady for taking a demon like Will Stirman off the streets.

We were back in the city now. Barrera turned south on I-10—not the way to my place.

He exited on Commerce and headed through downtown.

I didn’t want to talk to him, but finally I said, “Where the hell are you going?”

He drove to South Alamo and turned right, into Southtown.

Under different circumstances, this would’ve been fine with me. Invariably, Southtown was where I ended up whenever I had free time. I loved the dilapidated houses, the palm trees and crumbling sidewalks, old cantinas next to new art studios, tattoo shops, folk magic
botánicas, pan dulce
bakeries.

Back when I was still speaking with my best friend Ralph, we would kick around down here, occasionally kicking heads when business called for it. Two Northsiders, we would joke that this was the neighborhood we should have been born in. Southtown was where San Antonians came to remember why we lived in San Antonio.

Barrera parked on Cedar, in front of a big blue Victorian with a
FOR SALE
sign out front.

“What?” I asked.

He looked at me like the answer was obvious. “Home.”

I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about. Sam lived in an upper-middle-class two-bedroom in Hollywood Park. His street was sleepy and safe and white-bread and about as far from Southtown as you could get.

“Look, Sam, as much as I love shopping for houses with you—”

“Real estate agent called. She’s got an offer of a quarter million. A quarter goddamn million.”

I hesitated. “This is your family place?”

He kept his eyes on the house. “I was walking home as a kid—right on the corner there. Couple of
cholos
drove by and shot at me. The bullet ripped a hole in my jacket, embedded in our front porch. You can still see the groove in the floorboards.”

“Wow,” I said. He was starting to scare me.

“Mom was too afraid to call SAPD,” he continued. “They wouldn’t have done shit anyway. Next day at school, those
cholos
asked me how I liked the drive-by. They laughed, like it was a big joke. I beat the shit out of them. Otherwise, they would’ve tried it again. That’s the day I decided to become a cop. Not the local assholes. Somebody bigger. FBI.”

“Sam?”

No response.

I touched his shoulder. “Sam.”

He started, as if I’d appeared from nowhere.

“Just remembering,” he said.

His face had gone pale. He looked sick with worry.

“Let’s call the police,” I said. “You’re not in any shape to be running down Will Stirman.”

“I’m fine. I’m just tired.”

He started the car, pulled away from the curb. In a few minutes, we were back on 281, heading toward the North Side.

“What did you take from Stirman?” I asked Sam. “What is it he wants back?”

Sam kept driving, checking his rearview mirror as if looking for a tail. “I got a full slate of meetings today. Missed a lot, carting you around. Unlike Erainya, I’ve got accounts to handle.”

“You’re not sure,” I said. “Are you?”

He shifted the strap of his shoulder holster. Sweat stains had appeared in the armpits of his shirt. “I know where to find Stirman. I don’t need anyone’s help bringing him down. Not from you. Not from that goddamn Manos woman.”

It was something he might’ve said at any time during the years I’d known him, as his company rose to power at the expense of that goddamn Manos woman.

Same old Barrera. Irritating, arrogant, dependable.

But as he drove me home, I felt an uneasy pull in the pit of my stomach.

Barrera’s hands stayed steady on the wheel, his left turn signal still blinking from the entrance ramp on Commerce, blinking all the way across town with a reassuring, meaningless rhythm.

11

“That your old place?” Pablo asked.

Will didn’t answer. He closed the car door, brushed the rain off his shoulders.

They had parked outside the abandoned plumbing supply shop on Avenue B—a big white building with a razor wire fence and stacks of corroding pipe in the yard.

Will had walked the perimeter first. He’d noticed how much thicker the honeysuckle was on the fence, how the roof was falling apart. The windows on the second story, where he once lived, were now painted over. There was still a bullet hole visible in one pane of turquoise glass.

Finally, he’d built up the courage to go inside.

Upstairs, ratty sleeping bags, old needles, piles of clothes indicated junkies had been using the place to shoot up. Nobody there at the moment, which was fortunate for them.

Will found what he was looking for under a loose floorboard, right where he’d left it, as if it were too small, too insignificant to have been disturbed. He took what he needed to take, then left his sketch of Soledad in exchange. It seemed the right thing, to leave her image here in this building—the place she’d been happy.

Or perhaps that wasn’t his only reason.

Crouching in the silence of the ruined apartment, Will thought about his encounter with Tres Navarre and Jem Manos. Revenge would be much harder, much more complicated than he’d imagined.

Perhaps he was leaving Soledad’s picture here because he was no longer sure he could do what she would’ve wanted.

It was a long time before he trusted himself to get up, walk outside again, and join Pablo in the car.

“We shouldn’t be here, man,” Pablo said.

Will knew he was right.

Dimebox Ortiz had found this place for him, years ago. He had said,
Nobody will ever think to look for you here, man. It’s one of those places that you just drive by. It’s invisible.

They had searched all morning for Dimebox Ortiz. Will wanted to make him eat those words.

“Any news?” Will asked.

Pablo shook his head. He’d been manning the phone. They had hired a guy to tail Erainya Manos, just to make sure she didn’t do anything stupid.

Pablo had made the calls, dropped off the payment, just like he’d done the face-to-face work asking after Dimebox Ortiz. Nobody knew Pablo in San Antonio. That’s why Will kept him alive.

Across the street, the San Antonio River was flooding its banks. Soledad used to walk along the edge of the water there. She used to talk to the man who sold hubcaps from his front porch. She’d make jokes with the boys who fished off the oil drums in the shade of the sycamore trees.

The tail on Erainya was costing them two hundred bucks. The video camera they’d gotten for a hundred bucks at one of the Arguello pawn shops.

Even with the stash Gerry Far had provided, they were getting low on money and food. Will hated banks. He hated anything that left a paper trail. But he should risk a trip to the ATM, dip into the emergency fund his friend had set up for him. He didn’t have time to be knocking around the old neighborhood.

Will put the car in drive.

He eased across the Grand Avenue Bridge, through a half foot of water. He parked in front of the San Antonio Art Museum.

“Hey, man . . .” Pablo again, nervous.

The museum was a big limestone castle with two turreted towers, a glass skywalk connecting them. It used to be the Lone Star Beer Brewery, and in Will’s opinion that had been a better use for the building. He’d only been here once before, with Soledad, and for her sake, he hated the place.

It had been two weeks after the McCurdy Ranch story broke. Will had been pissed about the media coverage. It would mean trouble for him, for everybody in his line of work. Then came the call—the invitation for a meeting he never should’ve attended.

He got out of bed at midnight, as quietly as he could. A full moon was coming in the window.

Soledad sighed in her sleep. Her silver Saint Anthony medal glinted at her throat.

Four months she’d been sharing his bed. He kept waiting to get tired of her, for the feeling of wanting her to pass. But the feeling didn’t pass. He was no longer worried about her running away. He didn’t have her watched, or lock the doors when he left.

She said she loved San Antonio. This was where she was meant to live. And the way she treated him in bed—maybe it was a lie, but she acted as if she wanted to be with him. If it was a lie, he didn’t want to know.

She had put on some weight since he’d bought her, but he didn’t mind. She had been too thin, anyway. Now she looked healthy. Her skin and hair had a glow that hadn’t been there before.

She stirred as he was getting dressed, and opened her eyes. “Where are you going?”

“The museum.”

The answer, he realized, was absurd. She laughed, and it was impossible not to laugh with her.

“It’s closed,
loco
boy!”

“Not for me,” he said. “I’ve got to meet somebody there.”

“I like the museum.”

“You’ve been there?”

“Got to do something while you’re gone all day. Take me with you.”

Her smile made him want to take off his clothes again, join her under the covers. A lot more pleasant than what he had to do.

“I can’t,” he said. “These aren’t good men I have to see.”

Her eyes widened. “Are they worse than you?”

“No.”

“Then I got nothing to worry about, do I?”

He couldn’t tell her no. She dressed quickly. Together they walked down Jones Street in the dark, holding hands under the full moon.

The museum was all lit up.

They walked straight up to the doors. The security guard wore an I-Tech patch on his uniform.

He didn’t look happy about it, but he let them in. “Fourth-floor skywalk.”

They walked upstairs, Soledad pointing out paintings. She made faces at the abstract stuff. She thought the nude models looked sad.

“You draw better,” she told him. “Why couldn’t your stuff be in here?”

She was one of the few people who’d ever seen his sketches—the drawings he did late at night, when he woke up haunted by some illegal immigrant’s face, one of the hundreds he’d imported that week. He didn’t know why some faces stuck with him and others didn’t. He didn’t know why sketching them made him feel better. But it allowed him to sleep. It got their faces onto the paper and out of his dreams.

Soledad stopped in front of an eighteenth-century seascape. “I wanted to live on the beach, when I was little.”

Another security guard passed by, pointedly ignoring them.

“Why San Antonio then?” Will asked her. “No beaches here.”

Soledad pinched her medallion. “My father’s. He gave it to me before I left. San Antonio was his patron saint. Said the city would be lucky for me.”

San Antonio. Saint Anthony. Will had lived here since he was eight, when his parents moved from West Texas hoping to escape the oil fields, but he’d never thought about what the city’s name meant. “Why lucky?”

Soledad raised an eyebrow. “You don’t know about Saint Anthony?”

Will shook his head. At the time, he knew almost nothing about religion.

“I’ll tell you sometime,” Soledad promised.

On the fourth floor, she squeezed his hand. She let him go forward without her.

Two men were waiting for him on the skywalk.

“Hey, Stirman,” Fred Barrow said. “I see you brought your daughter.”

Will said nothing. It had been a mistake to bring Soledad. If Barrow said another word about her, Will would break his neck. He could fix a lot of things with the police. He spread money around in a lot of places. But he wasn’t sure he could fix murdering Fred Barrow, not with a witness, with armed security guards.

Barrow took the unlit cigar from his mouth. He had a nose that had been broken at least twice, a knife scar on his jaw. He wore a suit that fit his broad shoulders poorly. His eyes were not very different from the eyes of Will’s clients—the ones who appraised women for purchase.

“We want a confession,” Barrow told him.

Will looked at the other man, Sam Barrera. It was common knowledge the two PIs hated each other, which was why Will had agreed to this meeting. Despite the risks, despite Will’s dislike for them both, he was curious. He wanted to hear what they were calling an “urgent business proposition.” What could possibly bring these two men together?

“You give us a statement,” Sam Barrera said, “we can talk to the D.A. this morning. He’s willing to go with human trafficking only, drop the accessory-to-murder charges. You’ve just got to admit to supplying the women. You’ll be out in five to ten.”

Will shook his head. “What are you talking about?”

The two private eyes exchanged looks.

Immediately Will remembered why he hated them. They thought they were so goddamn superior. Will had crossed paths with both of them before, on separate missing persons cases. Families in Mexico had hired them to find kin who had crossed illegally and disappeared. Unlike most gumshoes, Barrow and Barrera wouldn’t take Will’s money. They wouldn’t go away. They just kept digging as if Will was beneath them, as if it would be insulting to cooperate with him. So Will had taught them a lesson. He had made sure the people they were looking for disappeared permanently, all traces of their existence wiped out. He’d made sure the PIs knew it, too. Their investigations went nowhere. They couldn’t touch Will.

“You went too far this time, Stirman,” Fred Barrow said. “Six women were murdered.”

Will made the connection. “You’re talking about the McCurdy Ranch. Those women weren’t mine.”

Fred Barrow laughed. “Every slave laborer in South Texas has your handprints all over them.”

His eyes drifted over to Soledad.

“You look at her again,” Will said, “I’ll kill you.”

“That wouldn’t be wise,” Sam Barrera said.

A security guard drifted into view at the far end of the skywalk.

Will had been stupid to come here. Barrera controlled the guards. They could set Will up, find some pretext to kill him.

“I’m not confessing,” he said. “I didn’t do anything.”

“We’ll get you anyway,” Sam Barrera warned. “This is huge, Stirman. People want blood on the McCurdy case. We’re going to give it to them.”

“Not my blood.”

Barrera said, “We’ve got witnesses who can tie you to McCurdy.”

Will knew he was bluffing. He had to be. There’d been nothing for anybody to witness.

“Thanks for the private tour, Barrera,” he said. Then to Fred Barrow: “Stay the fuck away from me. You understand?”

Barrow bit off the tip of his cigar, spat it at Will’s feet. “Stick around and enjoy the artwork, Stirman. We’ll meet again soon. And, um, give your Mexican daughter a kiss for me, okay?”

The two men walked back across the skywalk.

Will found Soledad running her fingers over the head of a Greek statue—a half-naked woman lying forlornly on a sofa. The card said,
Ariadne waits for Dionysus. do not touch
.

“Don’t let them anger you,” Soledad told him. “They aren’t worth it.”

“You heard?”

She turned, wrapped her arms around his waist, kissed his chin.

She made him feel worse than Barrow and Barrera ever could.

He was a smuggler. A murderer. He had disposed of human bodies like they were animal carcasses. He had put Soledad up for sale, and a thousand women like her.

“You can leave, if you want,” he told her.

She looked up at him, mystified. “I told you,
loco
boy. San Antonio is my lucky town.”

“Wherever you want to go,” he said. “The seashore. Wherever. I’ll give you money. You’re free to leave me.”

She grabbed his wrist, moved his hand to her belly, warm and slightly swollen under the cotton dress. She said, “That wouldn’t be a good idea,
mi amor
.”

Somewhere in the middle of a long kiss, he finally understood what she was saying, and the knowledge terrified him.

It was months before Barrow and Barrera found him again. Long enough for Will to lower his guard, and believe that they had forgotten about him. Long enough for him to come to terms with his fear, and believe that Soledad might be his salvation.

Eight years later, the museum hadn’t changed. The towers were still there, the skywalk and the glass entrance.

An idea started to form in Will’s mind. An idea that had some justice to it.

He got out of the car, ignoring Pablo’s protests.

He walked to the entrance. It was the middle of the day, but the sign said
CLOSED
.

Inside, he saw shattered windows in the back of the entrance hall, tables covered in plastic. He tried the doors. They were locked.

Will knocked on the glass, knowing he was taking an absurd chance. But no one expected him here. No one would think to look for Will Stirman at an art museum.

Finally a guard came up and frowned at him.

The patch on the guard’s uniform said
I-Tech
. Sam Barrera’s company still held the security contract. Good.

The guard unlocked the door, cracked it open. He kept one hand on his holster. “We’re closed, sir.”

Stirman said, “Why?”

“Flood damage.”

The guard said it like it should be obvious. The broken windows. Plastic covering the patio tables. Pools of water on the tile floor.

Perfect.

What had Sam Barrera told him, when he called to set up the meeting, eight years ago?
It’ll be a private place to talk. Secure. Hell, I own the security.

Will smiled apologetically at the guard. “Okay. Sorry.”

The guard locked the door. He stood at the glass, his hand still on his holster as Will walked back to his car.

Pablo waited on the hood of the car, trying to ignore the rain.

He wanted to throw the phone across the museum parking lot. He’d just heard from their man watching Erainya Manos, and the last thing he wanted was to share the news with Stirman.

It had been bad enough, dealing with a private investigator. It brought back too many memories of his big mistake—the stranger he’d found in Angelina’s bedroom, four and a half years ago.