She taught me a lot of things, my ma. Love, empathy, patience, perseverance, self-sufficiency. Forgiveness, too, except where my old man was concerned. On her deathbed she’d begged me to forgive him his sins and excesses, and I’d said I would try; and I had tried, for her sake. But I couldn’t do it. He’d lived and died a son of a bitch and he’d left me with nothing except contempt for his memory. I was Ma’s son, not his — and thank Christ for that. I would not have been any good to anyone, least of all myself, if I’d grown into his kind of human being.
The house was gone now, long gone. I’d sold it after Ma died — too many mixed memories for me to want to live there — and the new owner had fallen asleep with a lighted cigarette one night in 1964 and burned himself and the house to cinders. What few homes of the same style and twenties vintage that still stood in the neighborhood today were tumbledown and graffiti-scarred, their porches enclosed by security gates, their windows barred, their once well-kept yards weed-choked or paved over with cracked concrete. The ethnic mix was much different too: Latinos, blacks, Asians. I barely recognized the neighborhood these days. Whenever business brought me out here I was a stranger in a strange land. Even so, the memories good and bad always seemed to come flooding back...
Richard Rodriguez’s address was a half block off Mission on Lowell. Two-story private house, newly painted and in better shape than its immediate neighbors, the lower floor converted into business premises. Over the business entrance was a sign that said RICHARD’S TV & APPLIANCE SALES & SERVICE. Parked in the driveway was the older Ford van, this one painted midnight blue, with the same words on its sides that were on the sign. I didn’t see the white van anywhere in the vicinity.
I parked and went inside under a jangling bell. One long, weakly lighted, low-ceilinged room, two thirds of which was packed with new and repaired television sets, VCRs, and the like; the other third, behind a short counter, was a work area. The man back there turned my way as I entered, letting me see a broad, dark face split by a cheerful smile. He wasn’t the balding guy. He was in his mid-forties, Latino, with a full head of hair and a thick brush mustache.
“Morning,” he said. He laid down the soldering gun he’d been using and came forward to the counter. “Nice day out there, huh?”
“Nice day,” I agreed. “I’m looking for Richard Rodriguez.”
“You found him. What can I do for you?”
“Do you own a white Ford Econoline van, Mr. Rodriguez?”
“That’s right. Well, it’s my wife’s, but we put it in my name. Why?”
“Can you tell me who was driving it last night?”
“Why you asking?”
“Do you know a short, balding man with a reddish baby face?”
What was left of Rodriguez’s smile upended itself into a disgusted scowl. “Ah, Christ,” he said. “What’s he done this time?”
“Who?”
“My wife’s no-good brother. If he did something to the van, wrecked it or something—”
“What’s your brother-in-law’s name?”
“Cahill. Eddie Cahill. Listen, what’s going on? Who are you?”
I showed him the Photostat of my license. His mouth worked itself into a sour-lemon pucker that conveyed even greater disgust. “I knew it,” he said. “I knew he couldn’t stay out of trouble.”
“Cahill’s been in trouble before?”
“Most of his miserable life. I told Marj; I said, you watch, inside of six months he’ll be back in prison. He’s got wires loose in his head, that cholo. But no, she don’t want to believe it. Not about her baby brother.”
“When was he in prison?”
“The last time? He got out about a month ago.”
“Convicted of what?”
“Felony assault. He beat the hell out of some guy, damned near killed him. For no reason. Argument in a bar over baseball, can you believe it? Baseball.”
“When was that?”
“Couple of years ago. They gave him eighteen months.”
“Which prison?”
“Lompoc.”
“And you say he was in jail before that too?”
“Four years, in the early eighties.”
“What was the rap that time?”
“Grand theft. He worked for a microelectronics outfit in San Jose. Him and another guy were stealing them blind.”
“What’s he been doing since he got out of Lompoc?”
“Doing?”
“Does he have a job?”
“Supposed to be working for me,” Rodriguez said. “My wife talked me into it. Give him a chance to start over, she says. He knows electronics, doesn’t he? she says. So he works two days and I haven’t seen him since.”
“He’s had your wife’s van since he got out?”
“Most of the time, yeah.”
“Where’s he living?”
“Daly City. Marj got him a cheap house rental.”
“Mind giving me the address?”
“Castle Street, off Hillside. I don’t know the number but it’s in a bunch of row houses, they all look alike, take up half the block. Third one from the corner, across from an empty lot.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“What about the van?” he asked. “He didn’t have an accident, did he? Or hit somebody with it? My insurance don’t cover other drivers...”
“No, no accident and no hit-and-run.”
“What’d he do then? Why you looking for him?”
“He’s been bothering some people I work for. Harassing them. First with telephone calls, then last night he attacked the man, broke his nose.”
“Felony assault again,” Rodriguez said. “Right back into prison, huh? I told Marj. I told her.”
“Do you know a woman named Nedra Merchant? A graphics designer who lives in Forest Hill?”
“No. Why?”
“Your brother-in-law ever been in trouble over a woman?”
“Not that I know of. Is that why he broke some guy’s nose? Over a woman?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t think he cared about women that much,” Rodriguez said. “I never saw him with one. Not him. Baseball, booze, electronics — that’s all he ever talks about.”
“He’s never been married?”
“Never told Marj if he was. What’re you gonna do when you find him? Arrest him?”
“I don’t make arrests, Mr. Rodriguez.”
“Have him arrested then? Send him back to prison?”
“That’s not up to me.”
“What’s the guy with the busted nose gonna do? Isn’t he gonna sign a complaint?”
“I don’t know. Maybe not if your brother-in-law promises to leave him and his family alone from now on.”
“I wouldn’t bet on that. Eddie’s got wires loose, like I said. And he’s stupid-stubborn. He gets an idea in his head, you couldn’t pull it out with a pair of pliers. You want my opinion?”
I shrugged. “Go ahead.”
“Have his ass thrown back in prison,” Rodriguez said, “any way you can manage it. That’s where he belongs. That cholo‘s no damn good. Just no damn good.”
The row house on Castle Street in Daly City was easy enough to locate. It was in a run-down, working-class neighborhood that seemed to be mostly the domain of Latin and other ethnic families.
But the trip out there was a waste of time. The white van wasn’t there and neither was Eddie Cahill. And none of his neighbors knew where he was, when he’d be back, or anything about him.
Chapter 9