Pale Kings and Princes (7 page)

I waited.

She drank some Perrier. "Do you have any suspects in Eric's death," she said.

"No," I said. "Eric was down here looking into the cocaine trade in Wheaton and a logical assumption is that he was killed because of that."

"By the savage Colombians."

"Maybe," I said.

"It's not a logical assumption," Juanita said. "It's a racist assumption."

"One doesn't exclude the other," I said.

"Racism is not logical," she said.

"And logic isn't racist," I said. "I'm not pointing at the coke trade because it's Colombian. I'm pointing because that's what Eric was involved in and it is a hugely profitable illegal money machine."

"And you're so sure that cocaine means Colombia."

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure of that."

"I'm Colombian," she said. She straightened as she said it and leveled her black eyes at me.

"Got any on you?" I said.

Her face colored. She said, "That's precisely my point."

"I know," I said. "Mine too. I tend to tease more than I ought to, and sometimes I'm funny at the wrong time."

"I don't think you're funny," she said.

"Why should you be different," I said. "Do you have a theory on Eric's death?"

"I think the police killed him," she said.

"Why would they do that?" I said.

"The chief is a bully and a bigot," she said. "Eric was Hispanic."

"That's it?" I said.

"What do you mean?"

"You think the chief just up and shot him one day because he was Hispanic?"

"I do not know. Eric uncovered things the chief wanted secret."

"You think the chief has secrets?" I said.

"He is an evil man," she said. "He is a cruel man. That I know."

"Tell me about the coke trade around here," I said.

"There is some, and Colombians are involved. That is true. For us coca is simply part of life. It was part of life before Columbus."

"Coca's not cocaine," I said.

"It is where cocaine begins," she said. "Cocaine is a Colombian heritage. Like corn for many native American tribes."

"Corn's better for you," I said.

"Not when it is made into whiskey."

"Probably not," I said. "Who runs the cocaine business here?"

She shook her head.

"You don't know or you won't say?" She shook her head again.

"Cops know about it?"

"Of course," she said.

"And take money to let it alone."

"Of course," she said again.

"All of them?" She shrugged.

"So just what kind of help do you want to give me?" I said.

"I do not want all of us, each of us who is Colombian or of Colombian descent, tarred with this brush," she said, leaning forward toward me with self-conscious intensity. "And I want to catch the people who killed Eric."

"Were you and Eric intimate?" I said.

"Not in the way that you imply," she said. "We were friends."

I nodded. "Did he have other female friends?"

"Yes. Eric was very social with women."

I nodded. "Chief Rogers says he was killed by a jealous husband."

"That would be a convenient cover-up, for the chief," Juanita said.

"Was Eric dating any married women?" She didn't look at me.

"Married Colombian women?" I said.

She stared past me at the empty tables beyond my right shoulder. She shook her head slightly.

"You don't have much hope of getting the truth," I said, "if you think you know in advance what the truth ought to be."

She shifted her eyes back at me. "Look at you," she said. "Drinking beer and preaching against drugs."

"I'm not preaching against drugs," I said. "I'm just trying to earn the money they paid me to find out who killed Eric Valdez."

"Haven't you ever wondered why some drugs are legal and some not?"

"I've never wondered that," I said.

"The ruling class does not make alcohol illegal, or nicotine. It makes cocaine illegal. It makes marijuana illegal. It makes illegal the drugs of the powerless. The drugs it doesn't use, or is not addicted to."

"That's why I never wondered," I said. "It has also made killing Eric Valdez illegal and it has hired me, so to speak, to see who did that. You say you want to help. And you want to protect the Hispanic populace of Wheaton. Maybe you can't do both. Maybe he was killed by a Colombian coke dealer. Maybe not, Maybe the truth is the best we can do."

She stared at me.

"Better than speeches about the class struggle," I said.

She stared at me some more.

"Why do you think you can do something," she said.

"I'm pure of heart," I said.

"One man, alone, in this town?"

"But devious," I said.

I drank the rest of my Sam Adams. Juanita ignored her Perrier.

"Want to feel my muscle?" I said.

"Emmy Esteva," she said.

"Thank you," I said.

Tears began to form in Juanita's eyes. She stood up suddenly and walked out of the bar and through the lobby and into the parking lot and got in her car and drove away.

Emmy Esteva.

There was only one Esteva in the phone book. Esteva Wholesale Produce, Inc., 21 Mechanic Street. I called the number and asked for Emmy Esteva.

"She ain't here," a Latin voice said at the other end. "She don't work here, she's at home."

"Is she Mrs. Esteva?" I said.

"Sure," the voice said. "You want to talk with him?"

"No, thanks. I need to speak with her. What's the home address."

"Sorry, can't give that out, mister. What's your name, anyway?"

"Gabriel Heatter," I said.

"I think maybe you better talk with Mr. Esteva," the voice said.

I hung up. There was no home listing for Esteva in the phone book. I got in Susan's car and drove down to the town library.

Mrs. Rogers was behind the desk talking to a large fat-necked teenage boy who looked just like her husband. She handed him a brown paper bag.

"Be sure to put it in the cooler at work," she said, "or the milk will spoil."

"Aw, Ma, for crying out loud, I know that. How old you think I am, I don't know milk spoils?"

"Just remember," she said.

The kid took his lunch and went out the front door without any interest in me. I walked to the desk and smiled charmingly. "Good morning," I said.

Caroline Rogers looked at me without speaking.

"Winter in the country," I said. "Makes you glad just to be alive, doesn't it?"

"What do you want," she said.

"I wonder if the library might have a street directory for Wheaton," I said.

"There," she nodded, "past the card catalogue in the research section."

"Thank you," I said. The charming smile works every time. If I'd turned it up a notch, she'd probably come over and sit on my lap.

The Wheaton Street Directory was the size of a phone book with a green cover plastered with ads for local establishments. At the bottom was printed A Public Service Publication of the Central Argus. It consisted of an alphabetical listing of the streets, each address and the name of the person who lived at that address. People who go to great trouble to keep their phones unlisted never think to keep themselves out of the street directory.

I started with Acorn Street and went down the list looking at the names listed opposite the numbers. In the best of all possible worlds there was no reason they couldn't live on Acorn Street. There was no reason to think I'd have to go through the whole book. Early in the afternoon, about one-fifteen, I found the name Esteva an Water Street.

I put the directory back on the shelf, smiled winningly at Caroline Rogers, and left the library. Caroline was still fighting off my charm but it was only a matter of time. Next time maybe the wide boyish grin.

Water Street had no reason for its name. It was high on the hills behind town, and the only hint of water in sight was the gorge of the Wheaton River several hundred feet below. The Estevas lived at number three, at the dead end of the short street, a square twostoried cinder block house painted pink. The roof was flat and the flat, square one-story wing supported a deck which, in summer, was probably used for cookouts. There was a chain link fence around the property, with barbed wire on top. The gate to the driveway was open, but I could see the electronic apparatus on it so that one could close and open it with a beeper. There was a short front yard with no shrubbery. The fence appeared to circle the house. In the driveway was a silver Mercedes sport coupe.

I parked in front and walked through the open gate and rang the front doorbell. A dog barked. There was a hint of footsteps and a pause while someone checked me out through the peephole. Then the door opened.

There was a woman and a dog. The dog was a big Rottweiler, with a chain choke collar held on a short leather leash. The woman was almost as tall as I was and dressed in emerald green silk. She held the short leash and kept the dog pressed against her thigh. The dog looked at me without emotion. The woman was more distant.

"Yes?" she said.

She had on high-waisted green slacks, green suede boots with very high heels, and a green silk blouse with a deep cleavage. There was a green headband that kept her long black hair back off her face. There was a gold and emerald necklace and an emerald ring and a gold bracelet inset with a series of emeralds. She had on a lot of makeup, scarlet lipstick and green eyeshadow. Her face was less Spanish than Indian. A face that was used to looking scornful, used to looking down.

I said, "Emmy Esteva?"

"Esmeralda," she said.

"I wonder if I might talk with you a moment," I said.

"Go ahead."

"May I come in?"

"No."

"Aw, come on, Mrs. Esteva," I said. "Don't beat around the bush."

"If you have something you wish to say, say it," she said.

"Did you know Eric Valdez?"

"No."

"I've been told you did."

"Who told you this?" she said. The dog was motionless against her thigh.

"A person who would know."

"He lies. I know nothing of Eric Valdez."

"I am told you were intimate with him."

"He is a liar," she said. "If I let this dog go he will tear your throat out."

"Or vice versa," I said.

We looked at each other. Then Esmeralda took a step back. The dog moved with her. The door closed. Nothing else happened. I could ring the bell some more, but I didn't want to have to shoot the dog. He looked like a nice dog. I like dogs. If Eric Valdez had gotten it on with Mrs. Esteva, he was a major leaguer. I'd have been scared to.

I turned around and went back to the car and got in and drove back down the hill. Halfway down I passed a pickup truck with ESTEVA PRODUCE on the side in emerald-green lettering. Caroline Rogers's son was driving. Son of a gun.

I had nothing else to do so I U-turned with the help of a driveway and went back up the hill. The truck was parked out front of the Esteva house and the kid was just going in the front door with a large cardboard box. I circled past the house and parked halfway down the hill and watched in my rearview mirror. The Rogers kid came out in maybe two minutes and got in the pickup and drove on down the hill past me. I fell in behind him and we went through town. The bright red sports car was not the choice of shadow experts, but I didn't especially care if the kid spotted me or not. Under the railroad trestle on the east end of town we turned right and the kid turned into the parking lot of a large blue warehouse with the name ESTEVA PRODUCE painted on it in large green letters. Now I knew where 21 Mechanic Street was. The truck disappeared around back of the warehouse and I drove on and parked a way up the road out of sight.

The police chief's son worked for Mr. Esteva. Mrs. Esteva was said to have had an affair with Eric Valdez. The police chief said Eric Valdez had been killed by a jealous husband.

There were radio controls in the middle of the steering wheel of the sports car. I looked at them. Ah ha! I said.

I drove back to my motel. As I drove west the late afternoon sun slanted directly in through the windshield, and even with sunglasses on and my Red Sox cap tilted way over my nose, I had trouble seeing the road. The car had a button to push so that the radio would scan the dial locating the local stations. It had a thermostatic heater/ cooler so that you set the temperature digitally and it stayed that way winter and summer. It had cruise control and turbo intercooling and a beeper to remind you that your fly was open. But if you drove west in the late afternoon, it couldn't do a goddamned thing about the sun. I kind of liked that.

I scanned the dial on the radio but the local stations all played either Barry Manilow or an unidentifiable sound which someone had once told me was heavy metal. I finally found a station in Worcester that called itself the jazz sound, but the first record was a Chuck Mangione trumpet solo, so I shut the thing off, electronically, and sang a couple of bars of "Midnight Sun." Beautifully.

The "ah ha" had probably been overoptimistic when I followed the Rogers kid to Esteva's, but compared to what I'd been coming up with before, it was a smoking pistol. It was a pattern. Coincidence exists but believing in it never did me any good.

The sun had set by the time I got to the Reservoir Court. I parked in front of the motel and went in. The desk clerk, a little pudgy guy with a maroon three-piece suit, smirked at me as I came in. He wore a flowery tie and his white shirt gaped out under his vest by maybe four inches.

"A gentleman wishes to see you in the lounge, Mr. Spenser." He said it in the way Mary Ellen Feeney used to say, "The principal wants to see you."

There were a couple of guys sitting near the front door with overcoats on not doing anything. I unzipped my leather jacket and went into the bar. Virgie was on station. There were a couple of people having late lunch or early supper down past the bar in the dining room, and at a round table for six in the bar sat three men. The guy in the middle was wearing a double-breasted white cashmere overcoat with the high collar turned up. At the open throat I could see a white tie knotted against a dark shirt. His face was shaped like a wedge with the mouth a straight line slashed wide across the lower part. His forehead was prominent and his eyes recessed deeply beneath it. It was not a Spanish face, it was Indian. The man to his left was tall and thin with long hair and a drooping pencil-thin moustache. He sat languidly back in his chair like a cartoon Hispanic. His green Celtics warm-up jacket was open over a T-shirt that said "Anchor Steam Beer" on the front. The other guy was squat and his body jammed into a green and blue wool jacket that seemed about two sizes too small. The jacket was buttoned up tight to his neck. His hair was thick and curly and needed cutting. On top of his head was a small flat-crowned hat with the brim turned up all the way. His nose was wide and flat and so was his face. His eyes were very small and dark and still.