On a list of good ideas, this one was pretty low. It was possible that this guy was Ernesto’s friend, and he’d want to help me find his killer. But it was equally possible-maybe more so-that he was the reason Ernesto died. He was there when I did my thing with the subpoena, after all. He very well could have been the person who went back and got the word out: Ernesto’s going to talk.
In fact, the more I thought about it, the more probable that prospect seemed.
I took the step down into the alley. The door slammed behind me.
He walked toward me. The lighting was for shit in the alley, but he got close enough so I could just barely make him out. It was him, all right, whatever his name was. The scowl, the idiotic goatee, the scar across his forehead. Scarface, I decided. Scarface was wearing a thick bomber jacket, pants that looked like he was warming up for a basketball game, and leather high-tops. Me, I was in a suit with a long coat. He had the advantage, if this turned nasty.
“You got balls,” Scarface said.
“I have questions,” I answered.
He stepped closer to me. Maybe ten feet. “Only reason I’m here is cuz Essie asked.”
“Who killed Adalbert Wozniak?”
“Who?”
I paused. “You know who he is. What do you know about his murder?”
He didn’t answer.
“I mean, that’s why Ernesto was killed, right? Because of what he knew?”
“Don’t say Nesto’s name. You don’t got the right.”
I sighed. I put out my hands. “Okay. Fine. But he knew something. And he was going to tell me. I want to find out who killed him. And to do that, I need to find out who killed Bert Wozniak.”
“Why do you care?”
“Because I think it’s my fault.”
“Damn right it’s your fault,” he spit.
“So help me figure out who did this.”
Sixty seconds passed in what felt like sixty minutes. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, and I had a pretty good idea that those hands weren’t empty.
The temperatures had fallen. I could see my breath. But my body wasn’t cold in the slightest. Because I still wasn’t sure whether this guy Scarface was on the right side or the wrong side. He hadn’t told me anything yet. Could be, he was just letting me talk, to hear what I knew before he decided to adios me.
“They pinned Wozniak’s murder on a kid,” I went on. “A Cannibal. Eddie Vargas. They found his prints in the car and they found the gun at his apartment. But it wasn’t him, was it?”
He didn’t answer. I couldn’t make out his facial expression, not in the dark.
“It wasn’t the Cannibals at all,” I said. “The kid was set up. It was you guys. It was the Lords. I mean, that’s why we’re in a dark alley, right? And why I don’t know your name. Because you don’t want to be seen with me. Because you want to give me a name, and you don’t want it coming back to you.”
Scarface didn’t say anything. He shuffled his feet. Kept his hands in his pockets.
“So give me the name,” I said.
Instead of producing a name, he produced a gun, from his right pocket, and pointed it at me. Had it done any good to try to evade him, I would have done so. But I was boxed in on each side and behind me. This guy was standing between me and my thirty-fifth birthday.
The best play, it seemed to me, was to stay perfectly still. It took some doing. It wasn’t the first time I’d had a gun pointed at me, but it was close.
Scarface walked toward me, keeping the gun trained on me. He was comfortable holding it. Not his first time, either.
I slowly raised my hands, showing my palms, an unconscious reaction, trying to calm a situation. To an outsider, it would look like a stickup.
“Okay, listen. Hey,” I said, as the gun’s barrel pressed against my forehead. I leaned back slightly, another natural reaction, but it had the effect of putting me slightly off-balance. I didn’t have much going for me at the moment, but the balance problem removed virtually any countermove I could possibly make, other than falling backward.
I could only assume that if he wanted me dead, I’d be toast already.
“There’s only one reason you’ve been breathing for the last year,” he said. “And that’s Nesto. He wouldn’t have wanted it. He’d say, ‘Don’t lose your way.’ ”
It was the same phrase Essie Ramirez had said to me.
“You fuckin’ killed him, man. You.” He imprinted the barrel into my forehead. Now it was a struggle not to fall over. I wasn’t in the mood for any sudden movements so this was becoming tricky. “Nesto, he was like my-he was-”
He choked up with emotion. The gun came off my forehead. He moved away from me, the gun at his side now. He put his hands on his knees, bending over like he was going to vomit, and started to cry.
He was like my father, he was going to say.
I didn’t move. He was losing control of his emotions and holding a firearm. A smarter person might have started running. Or knocked him over. Or disarmed him. But I didn’t move.
“I held his head. I held him. I said, ‘Don’t go, Nesto. You can’t go, man.’ ”
He went on like that for a few minutes. I didn’t realize he’d been there when Ernesto was gunned down. I’d never held a dying person in my arms. I couldn’t imagine it.
I took a deep breath. The adrenaline, always lagging behind, rushed through my body. I wanted to tell him how sorry I was, but I couldn’t speak. Neither could he, for a spell. I stood completely still. I could have gone for the gun but the drama had passed.
Finally, he raised himself. He caught his breath. Wiped at his face with his sleeve. Still holding the gun.
“The Polish guy,” he said with no inflection, staring into the wall. “Kiko did that.” He turned his head slightly in my direction. “You know Kiko?”
I did. Every prosecutor who ever worked in gang crimes knew Kiko.
I caught my breath and kept quiet, hoping he would tell me more. I was pretty sure that he knew more, and that he’d passed it on to Ernesto.
“Who told Kiko to kill Bert Wozniak?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Never said.”
“Do you know why?” I tried.
His head stopped shaking. “Kiko and me-our families. Back when we was kids.”
“You were close.”
“Yeah. Not anymore. Not since this. But before.” He took a deep breath. The emotion had drained away. “He was borracho. Drunk. He talks then. Kiko talks when he’s drunk.”
Okay. So far, so good. A drunken conversation with Kiko.
“He said, this better be it. This better be the only one, the Polish guy. I said, why? Why you gotta kill some Polish guy? Kiko said, the Polish guy’s making noise. He said, they gonna start lookin’ at Delroy. They start lookin’ at Delroy, they gonna find out about the connection. Kiko said, I gotta cover up his connection to Delroy. He said, I’ll do this one for him. This one time, cuz of his connection to Delroy and shit.”
He was talking about Delroy Bailey. A connection to Delroy. He was talking, I assumed, about Joey Espinoza, Delroy’s brother-in-law. But I wanted him to say it, not me.
“Someone had a connection to Delroy,” I said. “And that someone was afraid that people would find out about the connection. So that someone asked Kiko to kill the Polish guy.”
“Ain’t that what I just said?” That was his way, I guess, of agreeing with my summary.
“Did Kiko say who that someone was? Did he say who had the connection to Delroy?”
He exhaled loudly. “No, man. Not even borracho, Kiko wouldn’t say that.”
He didn’t move. I didn’t either. We stood in the freezing temperatures, silent, for a long time. I needed this guy to say it, not me.