The Chicano/Latino Literary Prize (42 page)

“You
do
have a fat lip, Lu.”

She chuckled and poured herself another cup of coffee. “Also hope you're not getting into a macho mood and going back there to ‘straighten' her out.”

I lit a cigarette and took a long drag. “So what if I did?”

“Give it up, Ron.” She reached over and touched my hand. “Man, you need to find yourself a woman again—not her. Ever since you and Lydia split up, you've been in a funk.”

“Don't talk about Lydia.”

Lu took her hand away and leaned back in the booth. “We've been through a lot together, man. When Wardell was killed, I would've gone crazy if it hadn't been for you. You were the one I counted on then, remember?” Her large eyes grew soft. “I care about you, Ron. Shit, if you were just a little darker—and if I didn't know so damn much about you—I could go for you myself.”

I laughed at that.

“I do know some fine lookin' Latina sisters—from my old neighborhood in South Central. Told you before—say the word and I'll introduce you to them.”

“Lu—butt out and finish your coffee.”

She grabbed my cigarette and snuffed it. “Only if you promise to put Pat Ramos out of your mind. She's a fox—no doubt about it.
You
just ain't her type.”

“I wonder why Margie never told me about her.”

“Maybe Margie doesn't know. Looks like a lot happened since their high school grad night.”

“How do you figure it, Lu?” I lit another cigarette and she bummed one off me. She quit smoking at least twice a month.

She exhaled slowly. “Some folks are born different. Some never figure out
why
they feel different from everyone else. Sometimes it's 'cause they're the only black family in the 'hood. Other times it could be 'cause they're skinny and everyone else is fat. Or maybe it's like the Ramos chick—she goes for women. Must be kind of a shock to realize you're
that
different. Must be double hard when you're brown, too. All I know is, I have a hard time with black bulldaggers. They freak me.”

“Why's that?”

“Probably 'cause black folks have called
me
that. They see a black woman in uniform and they right away label me. Shit.” There were sparks of anger in Lu's eyes. “Black women
have
to be tough, man.
I
sure don't have to be a bulldagger to be tough.” She downed some coffee. “That Pat Ramos—she's
damn tough herself. Can you see her telling that scum Becerra his brains are between his legs?”

We laughed together.

“She was a feisty little kid, too. She'd just better not let her temper get the best of her where Becerra's concerned.” I finished my smoke. “Ready?”

Lu nodded and stood up. “My kids must be wondering why I'm not home yet. 'Course, I'll blame you.”

“Who else?” I winked.

The living room windows of my sister Margie's house were dotted with red paper valentines, her older daughter's handiwork. When I noticed “Uncle Ron” had been neatly lettered on one of the larger hearts, I smiled.

“It's a good thing you phoned, or I'd never be opening the door this late.” Margie gave me a quick hug and gestured me inside. “¿Qué pasa, hermano? Can't you sleep?”

“Thought I'd pop in on my way home. Am I keeping you up, Margie?”

“Pues, no. I've been busy with the baby—he's teething.” Margie was wrapped in a quilted pink robe and looked sleepier than she would admit. “It's a good thing Pete's on duty at the fire station. Otherwise, he'd never get any rest around here. ¿Quiéres una cerveza, Ron?”

“I'd love one.” I slumped on her overstuffed sectional couch and rested my head on its back. Though I missed seeing her kids, I was grateful to have a chance to visit alone with my sister. It wasn't often the two of us had that chance.

“How's Lu?” Margie came back with a glass of Miller's. She handed it over and sat beside me.

“Still worries bringing up her kids alone, but—hey, Lu's doing it fine—like she does everything else.” After I took a swig of the beer, I set the glass on the low coffee table. I gave my sister a quick look and came right to the point. “How come you never told me about Patty Ramos?”

Margie's drowsy expression vanished. “What about her? Something happen to her?”

“She's a dyke, Margie.”

She glared. “Correction: she's a lesbian activist.”

“You know then.”

“Sure. Where've
you
been?” She took on the same combative attitude she used whenever we argued about politics. “Pat pops up all over. She's been interviewed on KCRW and on cable talk shows. She even spoke in the human sexuality class I took at Santa Monica College.”

“Jesus.” I took another gulp of beer.

“Ay, Ron. You act so surprised.” Margie's face eased into amusement “Don't you remember what a tomboy she was?”

“You were a tomboy, too.”

“And Pat was my friend when we were kids.” She glared again. “What're you saying, anyway?”

“I'm saying Lu and I took a call from Pat tonight. A fat pendejo across the street's been harassing her. He knows she's a dyke and he's trying to intimidate her.”

“Ay, Dios. Is she all right?”

“So far.” I leaned toward her. “Margie, why didn't you ever tell me about her?”

She sighed and curled her bare feet beneath her. “When I saw how you reacted to Lydia's brother coming out of the closet, I decided there was no point in telling you about Pat.”

I stared across the room. “Lydia—and Beto—have nothing to do with this.”

“Yeah, sure, Ron.” She tossed me a skeptical look. “Why do you think Lydia divorced you? You couldn't handle Beto's dying of AIDS. He was her only brother. She loved him—and you couldn't even handle
that
.”

“Look—I don't want to talk about
them
. I mean it, Margie.”

“When do you want to talk about them, huh?” My sister was not about to let go. “Don't you think it's time to start? You lost a fabulous woman, Ron—a woman like Lydia isn't easy to find.”

I got up so suddenly Margie flinched. My back to her, I stalked across the room and gazed at the silly cut-out valentines taped to the picture window. “Lydia never told me about Beto, not till he got sick.”

“She was being protective of her brother.”

I turned around. “Protective?”

“You're a cop, estúpido. Lydia's quite aware of
that
.” Margie took a sip of the beer I'd left on the coffee table. “You have a certain at-ti-tude. Lu has it, too. You both swagger around Santa Monica like you own the whole town.”

“You're such a damn bleeding heart, Margie. Jesus! Ever since you've been taking those college classes—”

“What's wrong with getting an education?” she challenged. “There's life beyond the Police Academy, you know. Or maybe you
don't
know. Obviously, you don't if you're so shook up about the existence of Chicano gays and Chicana lesbians right here in our home town.”

I looked away from her and didn't say anything for a long time. I kept eyeing those little paper hearts and wondering where Lydia was, what she was doing. And I didn't want her on my mind anymore. I didn't want to think about anything.

“Look, Margie, it's late.” I moved to the door. “We both need our sleep. I'm going home.”

“Fine.” She reached my side faster than I expected. “Ron, next time you come by—let's
really
talk. You need to.”

I wasn't about to commit myself, and leaned over to kiss her instead. “Do you still see Pat Ramos?”

She met my gaze. “Once in a while I run into her at the mall, or somewhere like that.”

“Still friends?”

Margie shrugged. “We don't have much in common anymore. I
do
like her, Ron. Always have. I think she still likes me, too.” She touched my cheek. “You look tired, hermano. Get some rest.”

“You too, Margie.”

After being at Margie's for that little while, I felt even more pissed off. She took every chance to tell me how wrong she thought I was about everything. I gunned my Cherokee up the coast to Sunset [Boulevard], then swung around and headed back to town. It was past midnight when I aimed the Cherokee down the unlit street. I found a spot next to a fig tree, right below Pat Ramos's window.

Her kitchen light was on, but I couldn't see her. I wondered what she would do if she saw me, not that it mattered. What mattered was, I didn't want to go home to spend another long night trying to quit thinking about Lydia. Whether I agreed with her or not, Margie's words had struck hard. Lydia hadn't trusted me enough to tell me about her brother Beto. And, damn it, her instincts had been right.

Finding out Beto was a faggot had turned me against the kid. Before that, I had been like a big brother to him, teaching him to drive, lending him money, talking him into staying in school. After I found out what he was, I couldn't even look at him. And when he got sicker, all I could picture was baby-faced Beto getting butt-fucked by some leather dude. Toward the end, Lydia spent every free moment with him, while I signed up for overtime. When he was gone, she told me to get out.

Sighing, I wanted those memories to disappear like the haze from my cigarette. I sat there and smoked it down to the filter. After I snubbed it out, I leaned against the head rest and tried to doze. Next thing I knew there was a light shining in my face. Pat Ramos and another lezzie—a regular Dyke Patrol—stood outside the Cherokee, pointing a flashlight at me.

“Officer Velez?” Pat Ramos called.

“You
know
this guy?” Her long-legged companion seemed wary.

“Yeah, Jackie. He's one of the officers who was here earlier.” Pat Ramos watched me unfold myself from the car. “What're you doing here?”

“I'm off duty. Thought I'd stop by on my way home to see if everything was all right. Must've conked off.” I stifled a yawn. “Hope I didn't scare you.”

“We thought Pat had another creepster hanging around.” Her friend Jackie was a lanky white girl with a brush cut. “Came out to investigate.” She crossed her arms and scanned me, like she couldn't wait for me to get lost.

Embarrassed to be caught napping, I took the hint. “Everything's fine, I'm shoving off. Good night.”

They both nodded and didn't budge till I'd driven down the block. Through the rear-view mirror, I saw them holding hands as they headed upstairs.

Lu and I had a busy shift for several nights. A string of car jackings kept us hopping and we had our usual series of complaints about the homeless panhandling outside of restaurants. We didn't have much chance to shoot the breeze till we picked up some coffee to go a few nights later.

“Her girlfriend's name is Jackie. And Becerra works security at the 7-11 down the street.”

“What?” Lu almost spilled her coffee. She gave me a piercing look. “What the hell have you been up to, boy?”

I grinned. “Some informal stake-outing.”

“While simultaneously getting the hots for Ramos.”

“Nope. Just trying to make the most of my insomnia.”

“What
am
I going to do with you, Ron?” Lu was exasperated. “You're going to get yourself in a mess of trouble.”

I lit a cigarette. “Maybe you should marry me.”

“Sure. And make Wardell roll over in his grave. You are one crazy muchacho.” She took one of my cigarettes from the pack I'd left on the dashboard. “Well, has Becerra been up to his old tricks?”

I shrugged. “Think we scared him—for the time being,” I added while I offered her a light.

“Maybe you've picked up his fascination with the beautiful Ms. Ramos.” Her cigarette's tip glowed in the darkness of the squad car.

“You're weird, Lu.”

“
You
need a vacation, man.” She was about to say more when the dispatcher cut in. Lu flipped her cigarette out the window and veered the car west on Santa Monica Boulevard.

Sergeant McNeill and Officer Sánchez were already at the shooting scene at the 7-11.

“A regular gunfight at the O.K. Corral.” McNeill pointed to the dead man lying spread-eagled in the rectangular parking lot. The paramedic team was busy loading an injured black guy into their ambulance.

“What's the story?” Lu started her questions before she was even out of the squad car.

Sánchez came over and nodded to us. “Possible self-defense. We have several corroborating witnesses, both inside and outside the store. The black
dude in the ambulance is a homosexual. He says the security guard watched him through the store window as he drove up and right away started hassling him once he got inside.”

“Accusing him of shoplifting?”

“Nope, Lu. Making anti-gay remarks,” Sánchez clarified. “The guard followed him out here and kept it up. Pushed him around a little, knocked him down. Looks like the gay dude may have a rib injury. Anyway, he says he carries a piece in his car for protection against this sort of thing—he's got the permit to prove it. When the security guard—who outweighed him by about 100 pounds—tried to grab him again, the gay dude reached inside the car real quick, whipped out the .38, and let the guard have it.”

I felt my skin crawl as I squatted next to the big body. “Lu, take a look.”

She did not flinch. “Gus Becerra.”

McNeill overheard us and stared. “You know him, Jackson?”

“We took a report on him last week. He was harassing a lesbian in his neighborhood.”

McNeill whistled. “That dyke sure lucked out. Don't that beat all?”

“You do the honors, Ron.” Lu gave me a half smile when she parked the squad car outside Pat Ramos's apartment. “I'll wait out here.”