Brown's Requiem - James Ellroy [71]
I was getting nervous and sweating in the sealed-up house, so I turned off the light and gave the kitchen a quick going-over—boxes of canned tuna fish, a refrigerator packed with leftovers, and a dirty sink. But I had a lead. I went out the way I came in, closing the door gently.
I consumed time on Sunday with swimming and aimless sightseeing. I located the fish cannery, a smelly factory on a low, flat wharf. I got up at four on Monday morning and drove there dressed for work.
It was lucky that I got there early. Some hippie types and destitute Mexican Nationals were milling outside the gate when I arrived, passing a bottle of Gallo White Port. From them I learned that there was a fleet of tuna boats coming in today and that a large number of swampers would be needed to unload them at eighteen dollars American or x number of pesos. I decided it was worth a try.
The crowd of work-hungry men swelled to about forty. At dawn a group of officious-looking Mexicans came down and began handing out “work cards” which we were exhorted to keep in our pockets, lest we lose them and forfeit our day’s pay. Next we were formed into work crews of ten men each, and sent down to the dock to await the arrival of the tuna fleet. I was hoping they would never show, allowing me plenty of time to gently question my coworkers about Reyes Sandoval. But it was not to be—after a half hour’s wait the ocean was churning and bubbling with scores of small fishing craft heading straight toward us.
It was the hardest day’s work of my life. We formed a line at dockside and huge oilcloth bundles of smelly, greasy fish were passed to us from the ships. We passed them on up the line where pickup trucks waited to take them to the processing area. Soon I was drenched in sweat and my brand new work clothes were covered with fish oil. When one boat was unloaded, we took a two- or three-minute break while another one moored to the dock. There was little time for conversation. At eleven o’clock we took forty-five minutes for lunch. A vendor came by and dispensed chorizo, tacos, and burritos to the hungry slaves.
During our break I broached the subject of Reyes Sandoval to three gringos and three Chicanos. They didn’t know who the hell I was talking about and couldn’t have cared less. We resumed work and I vowed never to touch another tuna sandwich, ever again.
At long last the workday ended. I was beyond tired, the resident of a new realm of exhaustion. As the last tuna boat headed back to sea a beaming Mexican came down to the dock and distributed our pay envelopes.
As we filed out toward the gate in small talkative groups, I saw her. I knew I knew her, a severe, fiercely sexual woman in her mid-twenties with a red natural. A gringa.
I followed her. She was walking ahead of a crowd of women dressed in smocks—assembly line workers in the cannery, probably—but she was no factory peon. She walked ahead, aloof and proud, smartly dressed in a tailored pantsuit. I wondered what she would look like nude, then I remembered—she was the girl performing in the porno photos I had found in Fat Dog’s arson shack! She was older now -a mature woman with the mien and sexual charisma of the very worldly. I remembered that she was the only girl in the pictures not performing with animals. It was too good, too right to pass up.
Keeping a safe distance behind, I followed her out the gate and down the broad boulevard that led into Ensenada. After a block she got into an old Mercedes. I dashed for my car, got in and jammed a U-turn up to the first parking space available behind her. Then I waited. She was still sitting at the wheel of her car, as if deciding on a course of action. Finally she pulled out, turning left into the middle of the Ensenada shopping district. I was right behind her. She turned left again on Ciudad D’Juarez and drove north, out of the city. Soon we were heading across the scrubland that fronted the bluff where the Sandoval family lived.
Keeping a car between us, I followed the old Mercedes up the bluff and around a mile or so