Lara Reznik - The Girl From Long Guyland (17 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Back to Bridgeport

New Mexico, 1970

I reeled out of the Santa Fe hospital in tears. The melodrama of Joey losing his toes left me with a revolting sense that everything had spun out of control. I reminded myself that Dr. Yellow Horse was way cool and Joey would be fine. Okay, maybe not fine, but he’d survive the surgery.

Had I honestly thought this trip was a game? These people were deranged and dangerous. Joey had been used and abused by them. And I had followed in his footsteps. Did Angel have a hit out on me? Isn’t that what those mob guys did? If only I could stop thinking so much, hang a
DO NOT DISTURB
sign on my brain.

The snow had finally stopped, but a mass of scalloped clouds still hung over the mountains. The sun scattered through fissures in the thick clouds. I cruised down
I-25
and slipped Simon and Garfunkel’s
Scarborough Fair
tape into the 8-track player. The ride seemed longer than I had remembered. Could I have missed the airport exit? At
9:10
signs for Albuquerque International Sunport finally appeared. That left me fifty minutes to park, get in line, and check the bag. My life depended on catching that ten o’clock flight.

Once again I found myself asking a higher power for help.
Please God, if you’re up there, let me make this damn flight. Excuse me, sir, I didn’t mean to say damn.

Did I even believe in God? It couldn’t hurt to ask the guy for help. Maybe
he
was a
she
. But would he/she know I wasn’t a true believer? And would that hurt my chances for him or her to answer my prayers? Ben had quoted Karl Marx, who said that ‘religion was the opiate of the masses.’ He mocked all conventional institutions such as churches, corporations, the military, the police, and the government itself. “Politicians are the real criminals,” he had said. “If you play by their power hungry rules, you’re nothing but their slave.”

I exited onto Gibson Boulevard and followed the signs to the parking lot. After locking the Mercedes, I raced to the terminal with the plaid suitcase and pink overnight bag thumping along the snowy walkways. My breath formed clouds in front of me. When the terminal doors slid open, a blast of hot air caused my whole body to quiver like I’d entered the warmth of heaven.

Saltillo tile floors, colorful rugs, and Indian paintings flashed by me as I lugged the suitcases to the
TWA
check-in area. The pungent smell of New Mexico
ristras
emanated from the red chili pods strung everywhere in the airport.

According to a giant wall clock, it was
9:48
when I finally arrived at the
TWA
counter where a multitude of travelers stood in line with suitcases, skis, and duffle bags. Toddlers ran about squealing with delight. With minutes left to make the flight, I snaked my way through the line, becoming an instant piranha and recipient of angry glares. I kept shouting, “Excuse me, my plane is leaving in minutes.”

No one really cared. After literally shoving my way to the counter, I tearfully attempted to explain my dilemma to the
TWA
agent.

She looked annoyed. “Didn’t you hear my announcement?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, I just got here.”

“Your flight’s been cancelled. Next one to New York is tomorrow morning. Get in line and I’ll reissue you a new ticket. Now please move so I can help someone else.” She looked away. “Next.”

“Tomorrow? There’s no other flight today?”

Her eyes snapped back in my direction. “We only have one flight to New York a day. You’re holding up the line, Miss.”

A guy wearing a felt cowboy hat grabbed my arm. “Come with me, young lady.” A wry smile was hidden under the umbrella of a fake mustache. Was he a narc? A hit man sent by Angel?

I was hyperventilating when the man pulled off the ridiculous mustache and big hat and swept strands of red waves behind his ears. “Rojo.”

Did he have orders from Angel? I dug out the Mercedes keys from my bag and handed them to him. “The car’s outside.”

“Keep walking,” he said in a gruff voice. He tailed closely behind me until we reached a series of gates that looked closed. Other than a Mexican guy sweeping a broom, there was no one else around.

“Stop here,” Rojo said.

I turned back at him to face my fate. “Is Angel going to kill me?”

Our eyes connected. “He would have been furious if he knew you stole the Mercedes.”

“I-I borrowed it.”

He shook his head. “Makes no difference. You don’t fuck around with a guy like that. When I found your note, I ripped it up and got Jaws to give me a lift down here.”

I felt choked up. “You did that for me?”

“You’re a decent girl. I couldn’t bear the thought of what Angel… never mind.”

“No, tell me.” I said.

“Let’s not go there. It never happened. I drove you down here this morning, right?”

I nodded. “Yes, of course.”

“Whatever happened to fat-face anyway?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Last time I saw him he was a human snowman. Maybe he froze to death.”
God forbid.

Rojo gave me a quick hug, and then handed me an envelope. Before I had a chance to ask him what was inside of it, he had vanished among a flight crew headed down the terminal. I owed a lot to him. Crazy Rojo was okay.

As I walked back to the
TWA
area, I passed by a row of phone booths and entered a vacant booth. I stuck a dime inside the coin slot, and dialed the operator. When she asked how she could help me, I gave her a phony credit card number Chris had provided me.

Chris answered the phone on the second ring. “Hey, baby.
Qu
é
pasa
?”

I told him about the plane cancellation and said everything had gone okay in Taos, leaving out the part about Joey. I planned to set the record straight when I got back home.

“So you definitely won’t be home until tomorrow?” he asked. He sounded disappointed.

“I don’t know what to do.” I said.

“Relax. Buy a burrito and a few magazines.”

“But what if—?”

“Don’t say another word!”

I sniffle. “Okay. Then I guess it’s goodbye.”

“I love you, baby,” Chris said and hung up.

He’d never told me that before.

I felt bemused by this declaration of love as I dragged the bags over to a row of plastic chairs. It would be a long night. Then I remembered the envelope Rojo had left me, and opened it up. To my surprise it was an American Airlines ticket to Hartford, Connecticut for one
MARY JOHNSON
. The flight left in two hours. Rojo must have purchased it for me after he’d heard the announcement about the flight cancellation to
JFK
. No doubt he’d paid for it himself. A true friend. Or did he have another motive?

Either way, I’d be on my way to Hartford soon enough. Home with Chris and Ben. Someday, I hoped to return to The Land of Enchantment under different circumstances. My momentary happiness was interrupted as six men in sports jackets and khaki pants darted into the terminal.
Are they narcotic agents here to bust me? Did Angel set me up for revenge?

Pools of perspiration filled my bra as I waited for my inevitable arrest. Then a tall guy with a big nose and a pinstriped suit stepped through the door of a gate flanked by two more dudes in sports jackets and khaki pants. The tall guy smiled and waved at a crowd that had gathered in the area. A freckle-faced kid yanked at his mother’s dress and yelled, “Mommy, who is that?”

His mother pointed at the grey-haired man now engaged in shaking the hands of people in the crowd. “Son, that’s Spiro Agnew. He’s the Vice President of the United States.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Past & Present Collide

Austin, Texas, 2012

Rather than drive home to the lake house and the
FBI
agent waiting at my door, I head south onto First Street to confront my husband at the rental where he’s temporarily living. It’s time to find out whether my marriage is a over,
terminado, finito
. A serious migraine throbs in my temples.

Hispanic families sit in lawn chairs on their driveways and porches. An old couple holds hands next door to our house, and I ache with doubt whether Eduardo and I will be like that when we’re old. Will our marriage even survive?

I park the Acura behind Ed’s white truck in the driveway and march up the walkway of the small brick house. The blinds are closed and all the lights are off inside. I rap on the door, then pound on the door, but no one answers.

Across the street Juanita’s Mustang is parked in the driveway. Pastel reflections from a flat screen
TV
appear in through the living room window. I consider bursting into her house, demanding to know if my husband is there. What’s the worst that can happen? I find them together? Ed has never broken his marriage vows before. But then he’s never moved out of our home before either. And he’s mad at hell at me. If he’s screwing Juanita, better to find out now.

I psyche myself out for a showdown at the
OK C
orral. You go, girl. March right over there and give that woman a piece of your mind. How dare she try and steal your husband away. Then spit in Eduardo’s face for cheating on you after twenty-five years together.

But I take the coward’s way out and dial Ed’s Blackberry. It rings once, twice, and then goes to voicemail.
Is he so mad at me he’s succumbed to Juanita’s charms?
What choice do I have but a face-to-face confrontation?

Chin held high, shoulders back, chest thrust forward, I strut across the street to Juanita’s house. A brass wind chime on the overhang of the porch resonates in the breeze. My heart races like it’s competing at the Indy
500
.

Juanita opens the door. Her face burns crimson and she raises her painted brows. “Laila!” She’s dressed to the Southwestern nines in a broomstick skirt and snakeskin cowboy boots ready for the annual
CMA
music awards. “Would you like to come inside?’ she says. “How about a glass of wine or something?”

My throat is so parched I can barely get the words out. “Is, ah, Eduardo here?”

Before she answers, Ed appears at the door. Fully clothed, thank God.

I let out my breath.

“This isn’t our lake house.” He checks his watch. “And you’re four hours late.”

“Darlene had an emergency. I left you half a dozen messages.”

“What emergency could be more important than our marriage?”

“She tried to commit suicide.”

He slouches against the wall. “Jesus.”

“Come sit down,” Juanita offers.

I enter into the living room. Cute place. Wood floors, vaulted ceilings. I’ve rented the house many times to prospective tenants over the years we’ve owned it. Never has it looked so nice. Juanita’s got Louis Shanks style furniture. Not my thing, but the place looks classy.

Juanita sits down on a plush recliner and offers me a seat on a rose-colored silk sofa. Very sleek.

I look at her. “Maybe I will have a little wine.”

“I’ll get it,” Ed says.

Juanita tells him there’s a bottle of Chardonnay in the fridge. “Bring me a glass, too,
por favor.
”

Ed heads off to get the wine.

Juanita smiles at me. “Agent Lopez is still at your house. I can call him. He’s an
amigo viejo,
an old—”

“I know what
amigo viejo
means. I accused you of sleeping with him, remember?”

“Marty… Agent Lopez and I went to the police academy together many years ago. He left
APD
to join the
FBI
. For your information, I never slept with him. He had a
esposa
and a couple of
niños.
”

Like she gives a shit whether a guy is married.

She rambles on about spending fifteen years in vice before venturing out into private investigation. “I don’t have much time for men. My career is everything.”

So you’re not interested in Eduardo?

Her cell lights up ding-a-linging the Hank Williams tune, “Hey, Good Looking.” She flips the phone open. I can hear a deep voice on the other end but can’t make out the Spanish.

Juanita chews her lip as she listens.
Sí, está aquí. Estamos en mi casa en Austin
.” She turns to me. “It’s Agent Lopez. He’s offered to drive here to meet with you.”

AN HOUR LATER
a thin Latino dressed in khaki pants and a navy sports jacket arrives at the house. Memories of the secret service so many years ago in the Albuquerque airport race through my head.
I was scared shitless then, and I’m scared shitless now.

Lopez enters the living room, flashes his badge then introduces himself.

Ed whispers in my ear, “I’ll call Steve Berman.” Steve is a prominent Austin labor attorney and one of our best friends. I figure if Ed cares enough to call Steve, maybe there’s still a chance for our marriage.

Eduardo takes charge. He tells Agent Lopez I won’t speak to him without an attorney present and proceeds to call Steve, who says he’ll be here as soon as possible.

Juanita and Lopez chat in Spanish in the kitchen while Ed and I sit in agonizing silence in the living room as we await Steve’s arrival. Fifteen minutes later, Steve arrives dressed in white tennis shorts. He shakes hands with Agent Lopez and Juanita and confirms his representation of me.

Lopez responds that he’s gathering evidence to reopen a missing person’s case on one Joey Costello that’s over forty years old.

“There should be a statute of limitations on that,” Steve says.

Lopez raises his bushy brows. “Not on murder, there isn’t.”

“There was no murder,” I say, but I’m no longer certain of that.

“Can I speak with my client in private for a moment?” Steve says.

Agent Lopez and Juanita retreat back to the kitchen.

After they’re gone, Steve tells me to sit down. “Answer his questions as honestly as you can. The worst thing you can do is commit perjury. If a question is controversial, I can help you respond, or we can plead the fifth.”

When Agent Lopez returns, he pulls out an iPad and a small cassette player from his briefcase. He clicks on the tape player after asking Steve’s permission to do so. Juanita hands him her black notebook opened to a specific page containing yellow highlighted sections. He checks out her notes before asking, “So Ms. Levin, can you tell us how you knew Joey Costello back in 1970?”

“He was my roommate’s boyfriend.”

Lopez flips through Juanita’s notebook. “The night before Kent State, were you at a party with Joey Costello?”

Did Chris tell this to Juanita? So much for the pact.

Steve nods at me, affirming it’s okay to answer the question. “We were at the same get-together that night,” I finally say.

Lopez’s eyes open wide. “Were you in love with him?”

I almost fall off the couch. “Where did you hear that?”

“I’m asking the questions,” Lopez says in a gruff voice.

“He was my friend, nothing more.”

Lopez turns the pages of Juanita’s notebook and checks out more of her highlights before asking the next question. “How do you know Chris Reynolds and Ben Franklin Jones?”

Ed’s whole body stiffens. Once again I pause before responding. “I briefly dated Chris Reynolds when I was a freshman in college. Ben was his friend.”

Lopez types something into his iPad. “Can you tell us what you said to Mr. Franklin Jones at Denise’s funeral?”

Jesus, who told Juanita about that? Who even knew Ben was there besides Katie and me? For a brief second I think that Katie… No, of course. It was Chris. It’s clear to me now that he’s spilled his guts to Juanita. The hell with anyone else. Chris is out for himself.

Lopez blinks hard before asking, “Did
you
push Joey Costello out the window of a third story building on the evening of May
3
,
1970
?”

I shudder in shock. What the ef is going on? Why on God’s earth would he think that? My lips part but no sound comes out.

Lopez looks solemn. “Ms. Levin, answer the question, please.”

Steve starts to speak but I interrupt him and shriek, “I wasn’t even there when he fell out of that window.”

“So you admit you know
when
and
how
Joey Costello died?” Lopez asks.

Juanita smiles slyly. I immediately realize my colossal screw up. Steve says, “My client is going to plead the fifth at this time.”

Lopez clicks off the recorder and zips up his iPad in a leather case. “We’ll be in touch.”

I turn to Ed, who is standing with his arms folded in the back of the living room with a blank expression on his face. At my husband’s suggestion, Steve and I join him at the rental across the street. Ed’s current house. Lopez’s car screeches out of Juanita’s driveway and motors down the road.

Ed brings out a few bottles of Dos Equis and hands one to each of us. He looks at Steve. “How do you think it went just now?”

Steve clears his throat. “What I gathered from Lopez’s questions is that after forty years, there appears to be some new evidence this Costello guy was murdered. The bad news, y’all, is that Laila is a suspect.” He turns to me. “As your friend and acting attorney, you must tell me what really happened that night. If need be, I’ll recommend a good criminal lawyer.”

Ed paces back and forth in the room as I gather my thoughts. I don’t understand how it has come to this. Why is Chris trying to pin this on me? Did Ben push Joey out the window in self-defense like Chris said at the Margaritaville?

Ed grabs my arm. “For crissakes, Laila. What did you do?”

I lower my head. “I’m not sure where to start.”

“Start at the beginning,” Steve says.

I steal a look at Eduardo. His mouth is twisted, his hands folded like he’s preparing himself for the worst. I start by explaining about Bridgeport, Denise, and Joey.

Ed starts pacing again. “Who are these Ben and Chris characters?”

Why can’t he sit down next to me on the couch and hold my hand? I launch into how I got involved with Chris, who then introduced me to the family. I see no reason to mention my one-night-stand with Ben. What difference does it make in the scheme of things? It is challenging to describe what my life was like all those years ago. How I got tangled up in the family’s web of deceit. How I wanted to leave, but kept getting in deeper.

After telling them about Joey and the missing suitcase, I pause before confessing that I, too, flew cross-country to New Mexico to retrieve a second suitcase for them. I know Ed will find this part despicable. His nephew has a serious cocaine addiction. It has cost his family a lot of pain and suffering. Not to mention money.

The color drains from his face. “You flew across the country with a suitcase of grass?”

“I thought so back then.” I bite my lip. “Chris recently told me it was
PCP
.”

Steve shakes his head. “Wow. That’s powerful shit.”

Ed glares at me. “Is Chris the guy on the phone that you told ‘a part of me always loved you’?”


How do I answer him? What will he think of me? “No, that was his friend Ben.”

Ed looks at Steve, who shrugs. “Let me get this straight. You were dating Chris but were in love with Ben?”

Oy vey.
“Something like that.”

Steve says, “What happened when you got home from New Mexico?”