Pound for Pound (12 page)

Dan drove the streets of East
Al-Lay,
and other points east. He was on automatic pilot. One day he found himself at East Fourth and Mathews, at Theodore Roosevelt High School. One side of the school was blocked to through traffic, but he drove along the three open sides several times, cruised at ten miles per hour, all the while looking at the predominately brown faces of the students, especially the girls. He didn’t realize that he was less than four blocks from the pink-and-green house of Lupe Ayala. And he did not know that she and her mother had knelt to place two dozen roses at Tim Pat’s grave.

On the fifth day of his peregrinations through inner L.A., Dan found himself parked in the lot at Eighteenth and Grand, at the Olympic Auditorium. It had been painted pussy colors, was now known as the
Grand
Olympic Auditorium, the name changed by order of the International Olympic Committee. Dan replayed his fight there, relived every one of the blows that had wrecked his face. He touched his eye. His cell phone rang. He fumbled with the phone, dropped it in his lap. It got caught in his sweatshirt. He answered during the third ring. His voice was hoarse.

“This is Cooley.”

It was Nájera. “Could you come by?”

“Where? When?”

“I’m at West. I’ll be here the rest of the day,” said Nájera.

“I’m on my way. Twenty, thirty minutes.”

Nájera said, “No rush.”

“Yeah, there’s a rush.”

Dan fought traffic, then picked up Freeway 10 west and raced to the La Brea exit. Fifteen minutes. It took him another ten minutes to get to West. He checked in with the front desk, and Nájera came out to meet him.

Nájera said, “I know how important this is to you. So I read the report
front to back. I interviewed all the officers on the scene. They stood by their call, that it was an accident. Even so, once I read that the ice-cream driver had taken off, I located the company he works for and chased him down.”

“He was the Mexican guy, right?”

“Yes. I interviewed him in Spanish. He’s going to lose his job for taking off from the scene. Up to the DA if he gets prosecuted.”

“The chickenshit,” Dan said. “You think he will?”

“Probably not, since he wasn’t involved in the actual incident. But here’s the point. He confirmed the statement given by the woman who was a witness at the scene, and by the young driver and by her brother, who was with her. The ice-cream guy was very clear about it. The victim tripped and stumbled directly in front of the oncoming vehicle.”

“And the
victim
was my little one, right? We ain’t talkin fender-bender, right?”

“No, but the girl’s vehicle was going only ten to twelve miles an hour.”

“She shouldn’t a passed the truck.”

“It was parked adjacent to the curb, Mr. Cooley.”

Dan leaned forward. “Reckless don’t have to mean speed.”

Nájera said, “True, but there’s no skid marks, no liquor, no drugs.”

Dan said, “I don’t care if she’s the Virgin fookin María! My little guy’s dead. I want the justice he’s due. I want the driver arrested for murder!”

“I’m sure you know I’m in your corner. That’s why this took me so long. I know how you must feel.”

“No, you don’t.”

Nájera said, “But I do. My youngest son was drowned in a neighbor’s pool. He and our dog wiggled under the fence. My son was three.”

“Was she Mexican?”

“Mexican? What does Mexi—”

Dan interrupted. “Was the female witness Mexican? Were the investigating officers Mexican? You’re Mexican. The ice-cream driver’s Mexican, right? So who paid you off, Officer?”

“This interview is over, Mr. Cooley. Go.”

“I want the fuckin chief of police.”

Nájera said, “Please. I know your loss is enormous. Believe me, I do. But the Ayala girl is innocent of a crime. Another tragedy won’t make the first one right.”

“She’s a gangbanger, don’t you get it? I saw her and the boy doin the finger-signal gang shit.” The urge to kill came over Dan; all he lacked was the shotgun. “So how much did you get to sell out my little guy?”

Nájera flushed under his dark skin. He was on the verge of reaming Dan out, but he remembered what he’d felt when the paramedic looked up to tell him that his little Rudy was dead, remembered how he had grabbed the man by the throat.

Nájera said, “The investigating officers gave you a break, Mr. Cooley. You could have been charged with assault with intent to kill. Three were fuckin Mexicans, okay? And one officer was white. They could have nailed you, but didn’t. The girl, the one you tried to strangle, she said not to.”

“Fuck her, too.”

“Mr. Cooley,” Nájera said, about to lose it himself, “I think you’d be wise to quit while you’re ahead.”

Dan pushed through the heavy door.

“Ayala!” Now he had a name.

He stumbled and nearly fell. He gulped deep breaths, but didn’t feel like he was getting air. He leaned against a front fender of the Caddy. His shadow fell across the long hood of the car, made him think of death. He clawed at it at first, broke several fingernails. Then he began to bang on it with his fists. He tore off a windshield wiper. He used the metal part to dig into the paint. He got up on a fender and dented the top of the hood with his right fist. His hand swelled, he barked his knuckles. His bruised hand and wrist bones would ache for weeks. He broke the middle knuckle of his right fist. He kept cracking the hood.

“Fuckin, fuckin, fuckin dicks shouldda done right.”

On the ride back to the shop, Dan felt pressure in his chest. He
couldn’t seem to catch his breath. He didn’t care. He couldn’t go home. He couldn’t keep sleeping in the car.

When Dan pulled up at the shop, Earl saw the Caddy’s scratched paint and dented hood.

Earl said, “Somebody hate Cadillacs?”

Dan showed Earl his hands. Earl walked him up to the office while the crew watched.

Dan said, “Remember Rall Nájera? Knocked you down? You retired him?”

“His left hook got me.”

“Yeah, well. He just retired me and Tim Pat, the fuck.”

“I don’t get it,” Earl said.

Dan explained what had gone down.

“Damn!” Earl exclaimed.

Dan sat at his desk. He looked down. His hands were swollen; one knuckle was bleeding. He looked up to Earl, who was standing in the doorway.

“I got nobody,” Dan said. “You take over the shop. It’s yours.”

Earl shook his head. “No good. A handshake made us partners back when you trained me, and when I worked for you, and when we trained fighters together, and when I bought in as a partner. No paperwork, just somethin between you and me. Ain’t partners if we ain’t in it together.” He slipped some black into his talk. “‘Sides, man, I’d feel like I was pimpin off you, and pimpin ain’t my style. Now ‘ho’in, that be somethin else.”

Dan smiled despite himself. “Earl, you’re all I got.”

Earl said, “I’d feel empty as you if this happened to one of my little girls. Just try to go a little easy on yourself.”

“Was it my fault, Earl? Did I cause it?”

Earl said, “No, no, this could happen to me, and you know how I watch my kids.”

“I’m runnin like a lost dog.”

Earl said, “Maybe you could sleep upstairs in the gym? Fixin up that
room’ll give you somethin to do. Don’t worry about the shop. All the guys can work a little extra. I’ll handle our fighters, so don’t worry about the gym.”

“Somebody’s gotta pay for Tim Pat.”

“Long’s it’s not you.”

Dan fixed up the upstairs room. It took him a week. Once it was finished, he hardly left it except to buy booze and TV dinners. He took tranquilizers so he could sleep, but he didn’t tell Earl that he washed them down with booze, that he gulped whisky from a water glass. He could no longer see colors, only battleship gray. It didn’t matter. All he wanted was to live long enough to get justice. After that, he didn’t care.

But his anger was often undercut by doubts and a slow seepage of guilt. Why had he allowed Tim Pat to go to the ice-cream truck alone that day? Dan tossed back the last three ounces from the Jim Beam bottle. The hit felt as if he’d taken a right-hand shot to the heart. He fell back on the unmade bed. Then, mercifully, he passed out.

T
he police report arrived in the mail. Dan took it to his room. He read it, silently shook his head. He drank. He ate two dry doughnuts with black instant coffee. He opened another bottle. Ten High, bottom-shelf sour mash. Only two weeks before, he drank Old Granddad and Old Forester. Now it didn’t matter. Later on he had pretzels. After that it was Cheerios and evaporated milk. He kept reading the police report. He drank more whisky and passed out. He slept fitfully, finally woke at four-thirty in the dark morning. His mouth was dry, tasted like the bottom of a birdcage.

He drank some grape juice for the potassium and the fructose. He read the police report again, but this time he crumpled it and tossed it in the trash, spat on it, then took the trash down to the Dumpster.

“Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

The next four days were more whisky and pretzels. He thought about blowing his head off with the shotgun and being done with it. That would be consequence.

He looked for the report. Didn’t remember that he’d tossed it. He put on all the lights. Tore up the place. Panting, he sat down, cupped his face in his hands. He poured more whisky in the water glass. He crumpled
the brown bag from the liquor store. As he tossed it into the empty trash can, he remembered the report and having taken out the trash. He grabbed a heavy-duty flashlight from the shop and ran back to the Dumpster, terrified that the trash had already been picked up. He lifted the plastic lid. The Dumpster was full. He climbed in, went through every piece of trash. He was halfway into the soggy mess when the wide beam of the flashlight flicked across the report. Dan squatted down, hoping that the coffee stains and milk and garbage had not erased the full name and address of the driver.

He left the trash on the ground and went to his room. He spread the report on the table and smoothed out the soggy wrinkles. Searched letter by letter, number by number, line by line. And then he saw it. Guadalupe Ayala. Breed Street. He washed and dried his hands. He searched the Thomas Guide for the right map. There it was. In fookin Boyle Heights. It was near where he’d circled the high school, Roosevelt, home of the Rough Riders. He’d been right there. He’d fookin go back. And finish it.

Dan showered and shaved for the first time since he’d met with Nájera. He backed the Caddy out of the shop, then picked up the Hollywood Freeway at Melrose. When he got to Breed, he slowly drove by the pink-and-green house. He circled back around. He parked on Breed, on the same side of the street as the pink house down the way, but north of Sixth so he could have a 180 -degree view of the action. He waited. It was six-thirty. The black sky had gone rosy to the east. Time was back on the clock. He wished he had coffee. He lit a Montecristo, needed the bang. He waited, smoke hovering inside the car despite the open windows. He began to understand how snipers felt. It felt good. He had the shotgun beside him on the leather seat. He’d get her on her way to school. Even if someone picked her up in a car, it didn’t matter. He’d kill her if she was going to confession.

But it didn’t work out that way.

He took up his position for four days. The gun was cocked. The push-button safety was built into the base of the trigger guard. He made sure it was off, meaning that the trigger was ready. Four bullets for her, one for him. On the first day, at five after seven, two boys and two girls, all Chicanos, rounded Inez Street and walked north, toward Dan. They stopped in front of the pink house. One of the boys whistled. A moment later, another girl joined them. The others greeted her, and then all crossed Breed at mid-block and walked toward Sixth Street and Dan. It was the Ayala girl. Pretty as a brown dove, a
palomita.

The other kids chatted, but she remained silent, her dark eyes down. There was something about her that stopped Dan for a moment, made him rethink what he was about to do. He blinked several times, drew on his cigar, then decided he couldn’t do it here, not with her friends around. No. He’d have to catch her alone. He had time, all the time in the world. But he noticed that none of these kids wore a gang outfit. That confused him.

Dan waited until they turned east. He also waited until they had crossed Soto, wanted to be sure they were heading for the high school. As they turned up Mathews, he followed slowly along Sixth. From the corner of Mathews, he saw them turn into the main gate of the school.

“Gotcha.”

He soon established that this was the route she would take every day. Now all he had to do was call the school for the schedule of classes. Say he had to pick up his grandson.

“Classes start at seven twenty-five and end at three-fourteen.”

“Three-fourteen? Really?”

“That’s correct. I assume you are registered with us as a relative.”

Things had changed since Dan had gone to school. It didn’t matter. He’d be there each day, and he’d find her all right, find her all by her lonesome little self. He began to eat properly. He slept well. He cut down on the hooch. He was, so he told himself, almost back to normal.

Earl had noticed it. “You’re lookin better.”

“Feelin better.”

Dan watched as the Ayala girl’s friends stopped by for her each morning at the same time. One morning her brother stuck his head out of the door. He and the girl played little gangbanger sign games.

“Play on,” Dan whispered.

Dan started to wait for her after three in the afternoon. So what if there were witnesses? But, if she walked home, alone or otherwise, she didn’t take the same route that she took to school in the mornings. Dan decided that some gang punk was giving her a lift somewhere. Probably to get fucked.

The following Monday morning, Lupe Ayala was accompanied by the same four friends. That afternoon, Dan found a parking place on Mathews near Roosevelt’s main gate. At three-twenty, the same van that had run down Tim Pat showed up. It was driven by an older woman, who greeted the Ayala girl with a hug. Dan followed the van east through the afternoon traffic. They passed the Nichiren Buddhist Temple at Camulos Street. The van crossed Evergreen, kept going one more short block to Euclid, and turned right. It proceeded along Euclid to Whittier Boulevard. It made a right and then a quick right into a stucco mini-mall a few doors from fire station number 25 . The small businesses in the two-story mall were draped with banners and posters and signs in Spanish advertising bargain prices. Sandwiched between them was a covered stairway leading to the second floor. Above it were signs advertising a dental clinic and a lawyer. There was another sign, initials only: “CFD,” in large black letters.