Wolf in the Shadows - Marcia Muller [55]
“You mean one of those people who move illegals across the border?”
“That’s why I said ‘sort of.’ He picks them up at the border, takes them where they want to go. He’s a roofer by day, belongs to an organization called Libertad and works for them at night. The way Pete tells it, those guys’re like an underground railroad. He says Abrego is completely honest, charges only what he needs to keep going.”
“Why is it that Pete makes everybody sound like a saint?”
John shrugged, annoyed. “Why is it that you’re so cynical?”
“If you’d seen what I’ve seen—”
“All these years. Yeah, yeah.”
“John!”
“Shit, let’s not fight, okay?”
I didn’t reply. Then I told myself it was silly to get angry over nothing. “Thanks for making the call.”
“De nada.”
“I didn’t mean to put your friend down.”
“I didn’t mean to put you down. I just don’t understand why you can’t see some goodness in these people. After all, you’re the one who was championing the rights of illegals this morning.”
It was a good point. Maybe I was more fond of championing minority rights in the abstract than in the concrete. And if so, that bothered me a great deal. I said, “I guess I’ve become conditioned not to accept anything until proven.”
“Conditioned by what?”
I sighed. “Let’s not get into all that now. When this is over, I’ll try to explain. By then I’ll owe you an explanation.”
“You’ll owe me a damn sight more. You’re already in to me for breakfast, a couple of phone calls, the use of the Scout, and two hundred bucks. Plus when Karen gets back I’m gonna have to explain why her clothes have disappeared. And she’s one scary lady.”
I smiled, looking at the clock on the dash. “Well, it’s five now. What do you say we try to find the Tradewinds?”
He grinned. “No problem. I looked it up in the phone book. It’s three blocks north on Highland.”
* * *
It was fortunate he had looked it up—even though his foresight had made him smug beyond endurance—because the Tradewinds was the least prepossessing building on an undistinguished strip of fast-food restaurants and small commercial establishments. Wood frame with no windows and only an unlit neon sign with the name and a wind-tossed palm tree—that was all. I parked down the block and told John to wait for me. This time he got out of the Scout. “No way!”
I got out too and glared at him across the hood. “I thought we’d established some rules here.”
He crossed his arms and glared back. “No National City bars for you without me.”
“This is ridiculous!”
“Say another word and I’ll cause a scene.”
Already he was causing a scene. A couple of sailors some ten yards down the sidewalk had paused to watch. I said furiously, “Why the hell do you have to be so obstreperous?”
“What’s that, your new word for the week?”
“Dammit, you son of—”
“Don’t say that about Ma. Hey, look—those nice sailors are coming to your rescue.”
I looked. The two—who were all of twenty and probably had never gone up against a serious bar brawler like my big brother—had started toward us. I grabbed John’s arm and said loudly, “Come on, darling.” Then I muttered, “I’ll get you for this.”
“That’s what you’ve been threatening ever since Joey and I rolled you up in the rug.”
“Don’t mention that.” As far as I was concerned, it was a particularly dark event in our personal history. “I will allow you to go in there with me,” I added grimly, “because I don’t want you to have to punch out those poor sailors. But you are to sit at the bar and leave me alone. Do not follow me, do not say one word, or so help me—”
“Yeah, yeah.”
As soon as we entered, I realized Tradewinds was a misnomer. Not the slightest current of air moved in there, and when I drew a breath my lungs filled with cigarette smoke. The darkness blinded me for a moment. Then I saw neon beer signs and an illuminated backbar stocked with every brand of liquor known to mankind. A babble of Spanish rose to my ears as I waited for my eyes to adjust enough to distinguish the customers. John tensed, put his hand on my shoulder, and tried