Shaunessy Goes West in Winter. by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Chapter 6

The Ninth Avenue Rescue Mission was housed in a derelict brownstone on the corner of 37th Street and Ninth Avenue in Manhattan, the heart of the city’s transvestite and transsexual population. The pastor, Eartha Carpenter, was successful in making the case to the Catholic Church authorities that Jesus saw his flock as the lowest of the low and poorest of the poor, so why don’t we follow his lead? She further stated that the population of what was once called “Hell’s Kitchen” fit the bill. She was somewhat surprised that she was granted approval, though not surprised to see the tenement, which the Church already owned and didn’t know what to do with and the modicum of funding they gave her, ensuring that she would remain with the poorest of the poor.

A scant two miles away someone else had her mind on the Ninth Avenue church. She knew the area all too well and though she wouldn’t call herself a religious person, she was troubled by events in her life, couldn’t find any solutions elsewhere and on a particularly bleak winter Sunday morning decided to give church at least a small try. She needed something to do, so that her mind wouldn’t wander to the three quarters full bottle

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of pain medication in the bathroom vanity and consider how easy it would be to let the pills do their job forever.

She took the two mile subway trip to the area, feeling even colder in the unheated cars and sitting on the icy metal seats.

She took a strange solace in seeing her few co-passengers, dressed in clothes that didn’t show evidence of being washed in years, sneezing, coughing, some with bandages on an arm or leg.

She was with her own. She tried to look at them without being obvious, as they made her feel that she was perhaps not the most unfortunate person on the planet. She felt sorry for them as she thought; “I know how badly I often feel. Imagine them.”

Her gazes became more direct when she saw that they all kept their eyes on the stained linoleum floor and paid no attention to her, lost in their own dreams, or more likely, nightmares.

She was roused from her reverie when the conductor’s voice came through the ill-connected sound system saying; “Crackle, crackle, oomph, thoity-eighth, crackle, crackle.”

She got up and took one last look at her co-riders, wondered where they were going, guessed that it was nowhere and that for some reason they merely preferred the rapid movement of the frigid train cars to the vapid stillness of the frigid concrete outdoors. For a moment she considered why they all remained solitary and immediately thought of many possible good

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answers, to her, the most likely one being; “No one could possibly understand or care.”

She climbed the concrete stairs of the subway stop, which were resplendent in a colorful accumulation of the last month’s vomit, frozen piss and garbage. The empty street was similarly decorated, perhaps the “World of Bizarro” equivalent of the rolled out red carpet enjoyed by the rich one percent. After carefully walking a block she saw the hand painted sign of the mission anchored above its heavy black painted wooden door. She climbed the eight patched granite steps and entered to see that a mass was underway in an open room at the end of the short hallway. The congregation sat on folded wooden chairs facing away from her and the civilian attired pastor, Eartha Carpenter, had just introduced a guest speaker, who was about to deliver the day’s sermon. She took a seat in back, near the door, prepared for a possible quick escape.

The young black man was already behind the podium, taking a last minute look at his notes, as she found an empty seat at the rear. He cleared his throat and his confident voice said; “Good morning. I’m Michael Streets, from Paterson, New Jersey and I’m here to give you the minority report. I think I’m qualified because I have a lifetime of experience.”

He paused, waiting for the anticipated polite laughter, but had to settle for blank stares.

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Michael looked around the room at despairing and grimacing faces and said; “Tough audience. All right, now I know you’re tough; let’s see how smart you are. Can anyone tell me the name of the first trans-sexual?”

The crowd was very familiar with trans-sexuals and transvestites from the neighborhood and in some cases, from the nearest seat, but the reaction was one of surprise. Some mildly objected to the subject being discussed in church, but only mildly, as there was at least a grudging recognition of its reality under God’s sun.

She thought this was an unusual topic for any church she had ever previously attended, but that was precisely why she was here and not there. Self-consciously it also crossed her mind that he might be directly referring to her presence, but looked around the room to see that she had plenty of company. Someone called out, “Christine Jorgenson.”

Michael again surveyed the room and asked if everyone agreed with the answer. He looked for nodding heads and found many. He said; “I guess the rest of you don’t have any idea.”

Hearing no other answers or objections, he said; “Well, you’re all wrong. Now, point number two; Do you all believe that God is perfect, as they teach us in Sunday school?”

When the crowd was quiet, he added; “You know, always was, always will be, always remains the same, all-knowing, all-good,

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blah, blah, blah?” His smiling face again confronted his audience. He saw looks of discomfort, looks of disinterest and looks of “What the hell?”

He continued; “I’m going to answer for you, since you prefer to hold back. You all believe that God is perfect, or you really don’t believe in him at all, no in-betweens.” He raised his voice and went on; “I don’t blame you. It’s the clear doctrine of every religion I know of.”

“What, you say, is the point of this sacrilegious preacher?

I’m not being the least bit sacrilegious, I read the Bible.

That’s the source of the official dogma, isn’t it? Well, let me ask you a logical question; If God is all-good and all-knowing, how can he allow a soul to be created that he knows will eventually burn in hell? He is either not all-good, or he’s not all-knowing. I know, I know, I know, when priests are confronted with this they say that it’s due to free will, whatever that means and leave it unsatisfactorily at that. But, okay, I’ll play their game and take it another step. If God is all-knowing, why doesn’t he know what will be done with that free will before it’s done? It’s inescapable, God is not perfect. He’s pretty damn good, but he also experiments in areas beyond his grasp.”

Michael paused to take a drink of water from the plastic bottle resting on the podium. “You probably think I’m still

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being sacrilegious. Wrong. The Bible is viewed as the word of God, correct? In it he admits his own imperfection. I’m just preaching the word of God, as that is accepted by Jews and Christians. So, what’s the point with Christine Jorgenson, you probably ask? Simple. Eve was clearly the first transsexual and her very existence was the result of God changing his mind, an open admission of the incorrectness of his first judgment.”

He again surveyed the room. “I can see that if I don’t have your agreement, I have your attention. That’s all I ask.

Here’s my case. This is from the very beginning of the Bible, the root, Genesis. I’m surprised no one read the chronology before. First, God made a living soul, man. Then he planted a garden, eastward in Eden, created four rivers and THEN put man in it, the garden, that is, not the river. We have to wait for John the Baptist for that one.” Streets chuckled at his own attempted humor, glanced around the room and saw a smile on Eartha’s face and curious, wrinkle-browed looks elsewhere. He continued; “Hey, that’s an improvement and I’ll settle for it.

If I was any good at making people laugh I’d be on TV. Anyway, so we have this living soul, man in the garden and then, only then, God decided it was not good for man to be alone. Why didn’t an all-knowing entity know this would happen to begin with? He tried to rectify that admission of an initial mistake by then forming every beast of the field and fowl of the air and

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Adam named them. When God again saw that that wasn’t enough, he put Adam to sleep, took a rib and made a woman, called that because she was taken out of man and they shall be one flesh.”

He paused and looked at his notes. The room was silent.

“Well, that’s my case, taken from God’s own words. TWO

CORRECTIONS OF PRIOR ERRORS. That doesn’t sound so perfect to me. Woman was once part of a man and through what sounds like an anesthetized operation, was made. That’s my understanding of transsexual. The mind changing is a further open admission of initial mistakes. It’s either that or the very core of the most important book in the Judeo-Christian religion, perhaps the world, is wrong at its core. I don’t want to believe that. It would mean that all the great minds that have studied it for centuries merely wasted their time with something ridiculously CONTRADICTORY, RIGHT ON PAGE ONE.”

“So, the point is, be proud of whatever you are. God loves you and corrects his mistakes, after he’s had some time to think about it. In the meantime, remember we are all of one flesh.”

He collected his notes, put them in his pocket and left the podium. The audience was still silent, not sure if they should applaud, boo, or blow a raspberry. In any case, Streets thought that he had stimulated enough interest, that many would review, at least, the beginning of the Bible when they got home, which is the main thing Michael wanted.

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She was favorably impressed in her back seat. She was embarrassed to and didn’t ask it, but she wondered if God supported prostitution as a means of correcting his errors. She was compelled to say something or ask something, to prolong the comforting words. She wanted to hear more, so she called out;

“I’m sorry. I didn’t follow all of that. Could you say it more simply and succinctly?”

Michael was pleased he got her attention, but chagrined that she didn’t understand what he considered fairly simple logic. He looked at her, returned to the podium and fumbled with his notes and considered reading them out loud, but dismissed the thought as he thought the result would be too sketchy. He decided to focus his main point in one sentence.

With some trepidation he said; “It seems abundantly clear to me that God took something that was male, performed some type of operation and the result was female, one flesh and an admission of error in initial judgment.”

Rather than leave in the position of being the only one making a statement which could be picked apart, he wanted to have the audience formulate their own theories. So he issued a challenge, saying; “To those who don’t think this is true, tell me or yourself why God didn’t merely take the dust of the earth when he wanted to create Eve, as he did with Adam.”

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Ignoring Michael’s intended direction, a gruff male voice called out; “Eve had children. Transsexuals can’t.”

Michael waved his right arm dismissively and calmly replied; “That’s because God’s a better surgeon.” He raised his chin, peered downward at the audience and when he heard nothing more, he said; “That’s what I thought,” and left.

The Vista de la Feria day started out as bleakly as the rest Shaunessy had experienced in his new hometown’s winter. He looked up from his desk as Striker said; “This is impossible. A forty year old white John Doe, 5’7”, buried in a decaying, non-descript trunk three years ago on land held by an absentee owner. Cause of death- undetermined.”

Shaunessy looked up from the file of New Mexico’s missing persons he was reviewing and responded; “Patience. These things take time. We’ll cover all the bases, rattle some cages, maybe someone will get stupid and the answer will be right in front of our faces...........Maybe somebody saw it and didn’t know what they were seeing.”

“Even if they did, do you think we’d get a good description three years after the fact? And before you answer that, how many others will vaguely recall something of no relevance?”

“I’m getting antsy sitting here, too. By the way, I got that statement signed by Frank Gentile. It came by courier just

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before you got in. I researched him and found out that though he’s never been convicted of anything, he’s been charged with two big ones; conspiracy to defraud and extortion. And Collangelo is known to be a mob attorney.”

Striker said; “None of that surprises me, but so what?”

“So, maybe nothing, but now we’re certain that Gentile and Collangelo are not above reproach. Why don’t we put a tail and wire on them?”

“They probably think we already have and are acting accordingly, by staying close to home. But, if you think it will do any good, go ahead.”

Shaunessy replied; “I’ll make sure it’s a loose one. I’m hoping that when Gentile doesn’t see anything, he’ll start trying to cover his tracks. If they’ve got a reason to be nervous they may not be able to control themselves. There’s always one little detail to clear up.”

Striker shrugged; “Sounds fine to me. Can’t hurt anything, I guess.” He put a call in to the Albuquerque Police Department and made the arrangements. He then said; “Shaunessy, do you want to come with me? I’m going to knock on some doors near the crime scene.”

Shaunessy thought that his perusal of the missing persons file could wait and he was anxious to meet more local people.

He said; “Yeah.”

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They put on their winter leathers and Striker first drove to the crime scene. They greeted the officers from the Albuquerque investigative unit, one digging with a backhoe.

Striker purposefully walked the land, Shaunessy behind and curious. The older cop asked; “Looking for anything special?”

Striker shook his head slowly and said; “Nah. You know sometimes you can just look at a place with nothing definite in mind and you see something that just doesn’t look right. I had kind of a weird thought, but I was thinking that we’re assuming that the body was buried here at the time of death, three years ago. Maybe that’s wrong. Maybe it was moved here recently.

Maybe someone like Collangelo did it, knowing that it would implicate Gentile, benefitting him in some business way.”

Shaunessy was impressed with his partner’s thought process and shook his head slowly up and down and said; “Good point.

Could be.”

Striker added; “I know that’s pretty far out, but we don’t have anything else.” His neck craned around as he walked slowly around the lot and a stiff breeze kicked up, moving the stubborn winter clouds enough to allow the distant sun to peek in and out for brief, but regular intervals, causing a kaleidoscope of changing perspectives, the most useful being the increased ability to see through the bordering clusters of elm trees.

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From the overgrown lot the officers got glimpses of two houses; one right across the street and the other further down the dirt road. Striker said out loud, but really to himself;

“Which one has the better view? Look at that one.” He pointed at the larger, oddly shaped house on the other side of Vista de la Feria Road. “It’s got three windows with a permanent vantage point.”

Shaunessy looked in its direction and wondered who was responsible for the design. The gray stuccoed exterior was one level facing the road, devoid of any decoration other than the outline of a chimney. Its roof was flat. Behind and attached to it was a two level wing, the second story containing the three windows with a Vista de la Feria Road view, under a sloping red tile roof. What was front and what was back or side was not obvious. If viewed from the air it would appear a polygon with some limbs evincing stunted growth; while the two story segment attached to one created a lopsided countenance.

He then eyeballed the house with the lesser view. It was a smaller mustard colored, stuccoed, one story, flat-roofed structure further down the dirt road and was octagonal, small and simple. The casita had one window facing the crime scene.

He said; “All right, let’s try the architectural gem first.”

Striker told him; “Years ago, the owners lived in the one story section, but after selling off some land to developers

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built the larger two story structure behind it.” They entered its driveway and went only about fifty feet where they were blocked by a jutting entranceway on one side and coyote fencing on the other. They looked at each other and shrugged, not certain if the entranceway was front, back, or other.

Striker stopped the car, knocked three times and got no answer, then did it again with the same result. He said; “Let’s try another door. They’re probably home,” pointing at the two cars to the side of the gravel path; one an immaculate, newer, black, two-door Chrysler, the other a vintage four-door Chevy, with dried mud splashed on its lower half and a bit on the side windows.

As they walked they passed small thorny bushes, probably roses in season, planted close to the house. Beyond was an open field in all directions, currently host to twelve inch bent dirty yellow straw and dining cranes. When they got to the side opposite Vista de la Feria Road, they found an elaborate huge antique double door with faded blue paint. The wainscot panels were surrounded by borders with appliquéd carvings of lions and bears. Striker pushed the concession-to-modernity button and chimes played something soft, but slightly discordant.

The door opened and a thin old man in his sixties appeared.

Striker said; “Ishmael, I hope we’re not coming at a bad time.”

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Ishmael intended humor successfully and flatly said;

“There’s never a good time for police business.” He gestured mildly toward Shaunessy with his right hand and in an amused tone added; “Who’s your old assistant?”

Striker smiled, making no attempt to modify the joking question and said; “This is Shaunessy. He’s pretty new here, at least in some respects.”

Ishmael offered his hand and Shaunessy took it. Both displayed one quick nod of the head, Ishmael stoic and a broad grin on the cop’s face, fully appreciative of the improvised comedic theatre. Ishmael said; “Well, come in. It’s too cold to be standing here.”

The duo followed him through an eight by ten foot hallway, decorated with paintings of bullfighting scenes hung on the green pastel painted adobe walls, into the living room and he said; “Sit anywhere you’d like.”

Shaunessy and Striker chose to sit together on opposite ends of a dark traditional cushioned Spanish bench. As Ishmael pulled around a similarly styled armchair to face them directly, Shaunessy gazed at the adobe walls of light pink pastel and the paintings of Spanish men and women wearing eighteenth and nineteenth century dress apparel. He said; “Are the paintings of ancestors?”

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Ishmael got his chair to the right position, sat and said;

“No. My ancestors never dressed like that. Mine were likely dressed much more simply and carried swords.” He didn’t smile.

Striker said; “Let me get right to the point. I guess you know that a body in a trunk was found buried across the street.

We know it was an adult male and he’s been dead about three years....” He stopped talking when Ishmael’s wife Theresa entered the room and the trio looked her way to see a thin, small Spanish woman in her sixties, with her still black, long hair pulled back into a bun. Introductions were made and she too moved a chair to the appropriate area and sat.

Striker again spoke; “A body in a trunk was unearthed across the street. It’s been dead about three years. Can you recall seeing any suspicious activity there back then, or even subsequent to that? This house has the best view of the lot.”

Ishmael blinked, turned his head to one side in thought, then again faced forward and replied; “Nothing.”

Theresa added; “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone on the property at all, until the backhoes showed up. You mean the one with the old junk house, right?”

Striker nodded. “Yes.”

Theresa said; “No, sorry.”

Unseen, their 42 year old, mildly retarded son was listening at an open door, extremely concerned with what he was

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hearing. Though he had difficulties understanding most things, many people who had used his gardening services failed to detect any impediment, as he spoke with the sound of complete understanding, when the topic was plants, trees, weather and their interactions; at times so impressive, listeners thought he was making larger, poetic statements. The investigative conversation at a momentary pause, the silence magnified the shuffle of his feet, now noticed by Ishmael, who called out;

“Jorge, come on in here.”

Jorge slowly moved his thin, muscled, six-foot, 185 pound body into the room, remained standing at a distance and said;

“Dad!”

Ishmael faced the officers and said; “He probably wants to get across the street and work in Carla’s garden.” He re-directed his comments to his son, saying; “Oh, come on in.

Carla already has the best tended garden in Vista de la Feria, because you’re always over there.”

Jorge said; “It’s not always,” his face blushing and his mind full of embarrassment and the fear that somebody might know his “secret,” still not fully aware that some already did.

Ishmael continued; “No reason to feel silly, she’s a fine looking woman. Anyway, Shaunessy and Striker are investigating a dead body found on the front property, the one with the old

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junk house. Have you seen anyone around there the last three years?”

In a high-pitched voice Jorge quickly answered; “No.”

Shaunessy thought he detected something that didn’t sound quite right, so he incredulously said; “You pass by the place regularly and you’ve NEVER seen anyone in there?”

Jorge felt eight eyes on him, wondered if they had all ganged up on him and somewhat angrily replied; “No, never.”

Ishmael sensed Jorge’s discomfort and said; “All right, son. You can go now.”

They watched as Jorge did as he was told, while he casted a few wrinkled-browed glances back at the group.

Ishmael held up his right index finger to the group, got up and went to the door to see if Jorge was gone. When he came back in, he remained standing, while saying for Shaunessy’s benefit; “Pay him no mind. He’s not all there. Born like that.

It’s strange in a way; he knows everything there is to know about plants, trees, soil, gardening and weather, but everything else confuses him.”

Striker rose and Shaunessy followed suit, Striker saying;

“He’s a good boy. Vista de la Feria is a much prettier place because of his work.” He made a small bow to the still seated Theresa and added; “Thanks for your time. If you remember anything, please give us a call.”

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Shaunessy said; “Nice meeting you. Thank you.”

Ishmael led them back to the double doors and asked; “You say the man has been dead three years, but that doesn’t mean he was buried there three years ago, does it?”

Shaunessy said; “No, the body could have been put there last week, for all we know.” He put his hand on his partner’s shoulder and added; “This young genius clued me in on that.”

They shook hands and the cops followed the trail of dormant rose bushes back to their car. Upon entering Shaunessy said;

“The DNA research has run into an impasse. The corpse doesn’t match anything on the national files.”

Striker said; “Sounds like more of a dead end than an impasse.”

“Not entirely. For the most part the national files only contain records of convicted criminals, so we can be pretty sure he’s never been convicted of a felony. What I’m checking now are state records of DNA taken during ‘missing persons’ reports.

It’s slow going.”

“How do you get DNA from a missing person?”

“Toothbrush or something. The one making the report is asked to give it and they usually do, because they’ll be a prime suspect if they don’t.”

“What if it’s an illegal alien?”

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“Not likely, because he’s white. But, if he’s an illegal or someone who no one is looking for, we’ll probably never find out who he is. Do you know how many people live alone in this country?”

“No.”

“Neither do I. But it’s a lot and it’s one of the reasons I’ve almost hired a housekeeper. I’ve just about committed to the agency.”

Striker laughed and Shaunessy continued; “I couldn’t believe it. They told me she had nineteen kids. I’m going to feel guilty as all hell if I see her doing any work.”

“Oh, you got Isabel. Don’t worry, she won’t do much.

Guess how many kids her sister had?”

Shaunessy just shook his head side to side slowly and said;

“And back east we stupidly think that the wild-west is over.”

Striker said; “Gotcha, she doesn’t have a sister,” and gave him a backhand across the shoulder. “Ready to meet Jorge’s girlfriend?”

Shaunessy simply said; “Sure,” and he was reminded of Jorge’s demeanor, wondering if the man’s agitation was caused by a lack of understanding or too much of it.

The car crossed the road, the duo ceremoniously waving to the disinterested police crew monotonously combing the burial site and continued down the dirt road. Striker saw the two or

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three room mustard colored casita which seemed at odds with the million dollar landscaping, resplendent with stone paths, one leading to a desert oasis garden containing native and South American bushes and trees, unfortunately not now in their summer glory and an iced over pond brittle in its inability to move.

Not at odds was the 2003 dented silver Toyota sitting on the crusher-fine gravel driveway. They parked behind it, got out and again felt the stiff breeze add insult to the injury of the cold dark day.

Carla Steeples looked out the window when she heard the sound of the tires, shut off the sound system, putting an end to David Bowie’s live rendition of “Rebel, Rebel,” and sighed, thinking “Oh, shit.” She went to the door wearing her gray hooded sweatshirt and loose heavy black pants, her long black hair pulled back in a pony-tail. When she opened the door, she got hit with an icy blast. She kept it open only a crack and peered through it at the brown uniforms bearing ominous official insignias topped by open leather jackets. To her their slow silent march evoked the thought of a “visit from death.” At least her position at the cracked six panel, red door would prevent the insistent cacophony of their knocking.

When they reached the small overhang she opened it widely and said; “Come on in quickly, I want to close this door.”

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The officers nodded, complied with her wishes and perched on the brick floor of her living, dining, family room and kitchen.

She gently closed the door; and Shaunessy said; “Please excuse us for barging in. May we have a few minutes of your time?”

Carla said; “Sure,” and gestured to a plaid couch with her right hand, adding; “Have a seat.” She squatted on the black futon opposite them, necessitating her to look up at their faces.

Shaunessy said; “I guess you know that a body was discovered on the lot of the abandoned house.”

Carla said; “I’ve heard about it. Now I know it’s true.”

Striker said; “We think the murder happened three years ago. You know, I’ve never met you before. How long have you been living here?”

Carla said; “About three years. Do you know who the victim was?”

Striker said; “No. Are you from New York?”

Carla said; “As a matter of fact, yes. Why did you say that?”

Striker said; “Your accent.”

Shaunessy laughed and said; “What accent?”

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Striker said; “I’ve heard enough of them to pick it out.

Do you live here alone?”

Carla replied; “Of course. There’s hardly enough room for one.”

Shaunessy said; “Let me come right to the point. We’re desperate for leads. Have you ever seen anyone on that property?”

Carla hesitated a second, then said: “Not very often, but yes.”

Shaunessy said; “Can you describe them?”

Carla said: “Not really. I try not to stare. I’ve seen some beat up old pickup trucks parked there and I’ve seen a few probably illegal aliens.”

Striker said; “We don’t mean in the last few weeks, but farther back.”

Carla said; “That’s what I’m talking about. I’ve seen them seven or eight times.”

Shaunessy said; “How do you know they’re illegal aliens?”

Carla said; “Sorry, I just made an assumption. All I could see was the baggy dirty clothes and olive skinned faces.”

Striker said; “What were they doing there?”

Carla said; “I really don't know. Walking around with their hands in their pockets, mostly. I thought they might be using the old house for temporary shelter.”

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Striker said; “Couldn’t you describe them better? Young?

Old? Tall? Short?”

Carla said; “Like I said, it’s only been seven or eight times in three years and I don’t stare at people. They were probably on the short side, but I’m really not sure.”

Shaunessy said; “Then they all looked the same?”

Carla showed a bit of frustration and said; “Look, each time there were two or three. They might have been the same people each time, might not. From a distance, they all look alike in their baggy clothes. They probably want it that way.”

Shaunessy said; “Like you?”

Carla was uneasy about the possible implication, but chose to show bravado, pulled at her sweatshirt, smiled and said;

“Like mine. I adopted the local style, I guess.”

Shaunessy said; “What else do you remember about the beat up pick-up truck?”

Carla replied; “Only that it was a small one. White.

Dented. With large letters across the back. I don't know what they said; maybe Toyota.”

Striker said; “Same vehicle every time?”

Carla said; “I didn’t see a vehicle every time, but when I did, it was always the same one.”

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Shaunessy saw Striker’s eyes light up and said; “Thanks for your time.” He looked at Striker and said; “Unless you have anything else.”

Striker shook his head; “No.” They got up, thanked Carla again and left.

When they got into the car, Shaunessy said; “What interested you?”

Striker said; “I think I know that truck.”

Shaunessy just looked at him as he drove, so Striker continued; “I haven’t seen it for a while, but I used to see it being used by the illegal aliens who work on the tree farm.”

“I wonder why Jorge never noticed it.”

Striker shrugged his shoulders and said; “I don't know.

Maybe they’re his friends.”

“Do you think he might be covering up for them?”

Striker again shrugged at what he considered a premature question and said; “I don’t know.”

“Doesn’t mean they did it.”

“Right, right, I know. But at least we’ve got something concrete to go with, so let’s focus on that. Maybe we can shake things up a bit. It’s owned by Joaquin Gonzalez, at least he says that’s what his name is, who lives in a trailer on the other end of the tree farm. I don't know if he owns it or just

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manages it. Property is in the name of a corporation with a lawyer’s address.”

“Not Collangelo?”

“I don’t remember. We’ll have to check later. But I do think Joaquin gets involved in some less than legal operations.”

“Ever have enough on him to arrest him for anything?”

“No, just suspicions. He keeps things quiet and maybe he is only a tree farmer. I’m not sure.”

Shaunessy said; “Let’s make another house call.”

During the half mile drive to Joaquin’s trailer, Shaunessy asked; “How do you pick up ‘New York accents’? I thought it was everybody else that had one.”

Striker laughed at the implied admission, not sure if it was purposeful and said; “This town is now full of you guys and you all talk something that takes some getting used to.”

“You all? How about y’all?”

Striker considered a few different replies, but decided on none. Instead, he got back to business, saying; “I think we can lean on Joaquin. He’s pretty close to some crap, likes where he is and doesn’t want any jail time.”

“Who does?”

“A lot of the Mexicans here really don’t care. In jail they get a warm place to sleep, regular food and medical attention for free. It’s more than they get at home. In fact

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the medical attention is better than most working U.S. citizens get and they have to pay for it. It’s just plain stupid. And some of the young Mexicans talk about prison like it was a college graduation. Surviving jail without being punked is proof they’re a bad ass.”

The car turned onto a dirt road bordering the tree farm and proceeded another quarter mile to an open gate fifteen feet in front of a white trailer. The acre property was also host to a number of other structures; tin barns and small buildings with coyote fencing exteriors. They all had one thing in common; smoke rising from the chimneys. There were ten to twelve vehicles parked at different spots, ranging from newer SUVs to well-used pickup trucks, to cars obviously not in running order.

Not in evidence was the small white pick-up or any people.

They parked in front of the trailer, got out and Striker knocked hard at the jiggling light front door. Receiving no response he rapped again and called out; “Come on, Joaquin. I know you’re in there. This is serious business.”

The door opened and the officers were hit with a strong scent of burning leaves. Joaquin’s forty-five year old, swarthy, lined face showed wide-eyed resignation and his mouth uttered; “It’s medical, man.”

Striker stepped in and Shaunessy followed. Striker said;

“Let me see your card.”

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Joaquin said; “That’s what I just been looking for. It’s around here someplace.” He walked to an antique or thrift shop cabinet of drawers, opened one and started pawing through a pile of clothes. A nervous, long haired, olive-skinned woman of about twenty-five cautiously entered the room and gently said something in Spanish. Joaquin responded more forcefully, saying what sounded like a rapid recitation of; “Tom Delay,” and she went back through the door.

Striker said; “I guess she’s got a card, too.”

Joaquin answered; “She’s not smokin’.”

Shaunessy and Striker sat at the kitchen table and Striker said; “Forget that for now. Come on over here. We got more important things to talk about.”

Temporarily reprieved, Joaquin took a seat and said; “What can I help you boys with today?”

Striker said; “Where’s that beat up old white pick-up truck?”

Joaquin thought for a moment and in his usual evasive way, with which Striker was well familiar, said; “I got a lot of beat up trucks. I don't know which one you mean.”

Shaunessy leaned forward and in his direct New York way said; “Don’t give us any shit, asshole, or we’ll ransack the place and run you in for drug use and trafficking in illegal aliens.”

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Joaquin said; “Oh, yeah, the white one.”

Striker said; “Yeah, the one that was always used in the fields.”

Joaquin said; “Junk yard, man. I got all I could out of it; 700,000 miles.”

Shaunessy said: “No matter. The problem is that it was sighted at a crime scene; a body burial. What have you got to say about that?”

Joaquin threw up his hands, replying; “I don't know. I never drove the thing myself. Like Striker said, it was used by the field workers.”

Shaunessy said: “It wasn’t seen in the fields. It was seen on the lot of the old wrecked house where the body was buried.”

Joaquin blinked his eyes a few times and said; “Maybe the workers got a bottle and wanted to find a private place for the day. You got to watch them like crazy. You know, one time.....”

Shaunessy cut him off, saying; “You’re not being very helpful.”

Joaquin said; “I don't know what to tell you. I don't know anything about it.”

Striker disgustedly said; “Okay, we’ll need the names of the people who used the truck.”

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Joaquin said; “Jose, Jose, Jose and Jose. The workers come and go. I don’t take names.”

Striker stood up and said; “Okay, maybe your memory will come back while you’re sitting in a jail cell.”

Joaquin, desperate, pleadingly said; “C’mon, Striker. You know the game. ‘Kid’ brings them in and I use them. I pay

‘Kid.’ Maybe he knows their names. I’m just a tree farmer.”

Striker sat back down and Shaunessy said; “Who owns the farm?”

Joaquin said; “I don't know.”

Shaunessy stood up and said; “I’m running this stupid, dick-head in for drug use, trafficking in illegal aliens and hindering a police investigation. I’ve had it.” He took out the handcuffs and walked to Joaquin, who said; “All I know is that once in a blue moon I get a call from this lawyer guy.”

Shaunessy said; “Collangelo?

Joaquin closed his eyes and said; “Yes.”

Shaunessy said; “What does he call you about?”

Joaquin said; “I haven’t talked to him in a year. The last time he called he wanted to get rid of the trees as soon as possible, because the land was being sold to a developer.”

Shaunessy said; “So?”

Joaquin said; “So, I sold them to a tree farmer from Santa Fe cheap and then the deal must have fallen through.”

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Shaunessy said; “So, who told you to replant everything?”

Joaquin said; “You know, man, you’re gonna get me killed.”

Shaunessy said; “We don’t talk. Come on.”

Joaquin said; “He’s gonna know it was me.”

Shaunessy again rattled the handcuffs and said; “I don’t give a shit. When you get involved in bullshit, sometimes you pay the price.”

Joaquin looked at the floor and murmured; “Little Manny.”

Striker said; “What’s he got to do with all of this?”

Joaquin said; “I don't know. But Little Manny knows everybody and he doesn’t talk shit, you know what I mean.”

Shaunessy looked at Striker and said; “Do you have anything else to ask Mr. Helpful?”

Striker shook his head no and the duo got up to leave.

Shaunessy looked back and said; “Joaquin, it’s in your best interest to remember things, especially about dead bodies. We can look the other way for our friends, but we could also come back here and have you put away for ten years. Think about it.”

Joaquin stared at the uneven linoleum floor.

Back in the car Striker said; “You really like that F-word, don’t you and now a D-word has been added to your vocabulary, too.”

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Shaunessy said; “I spoke a language he understood well enough. And, in a way I was ready for a fight. If he didn’t come up with something useful, I would have run him in.”

Striker shrugged the slightest bit, indicating no large objection, but not complete approval, either.

Shaunessy said; “I’ve about had it for today. We can look up some more people tomorrow.”

“I’m with you. Sounds good to me.”

“I think his name came up a few weeks ago, but my memory isn’t what it used to be. Tell me, who the hell is Little Manny?”

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