Wolf in the Shadows - Marcia Muller [59]
* * *
The address Abrego led us to was on Island Avenue in downtown San Diego. Although it is only five blocks and scant minutes from Broadway, the street might as well be on another planet. On Broadway you have distinctive and sometimes outlandish architecture, such as that of the new Emerald Shapery Center, which is designed to look like cut green crystals. You have distinguished old hotels, such as the refurbished U.S. Grant. You have upscale boutiques and the expensive shops of Horton Plaza. But turn off this main drag to the south, and the architecture becomes squat and functional. The hotels become flophouses. The shops slip downscale, their windows heavily barred.
By the time you reach Island Avenue, you’ve hit rock bottom. Once-grand Victorians have been turned into rooming houses and allowed to decay. Derelicts sleep in doorways. Drug addicts and dealers conduct their business in plain sight on the sidewalk. There are rescue missions, one with a sort of parking lot for shopping carts loaded with the possessions of the homeless. There are vacant lots littered with broken glass and trash. There are bars and liquor stores and hookers on the prowl. The squalor is heightened by the affluence that exists only blocks out of reach of the avenue’s wretched and desperate population.
As Abrego’s Dodge pulled over to the curb and stopped, John said, “Christ, I hope we still have wheels when we come out of wherever he’s taking us.”
“You can always stay behind and stand guard.”
“No way you’re leaving me here alone!”
“My stalwart protector.”
“I’ve just decided you don’t need protecting.”
“About time.” Then I took Pa’s gun from my purse, handed it to him, and said, “Stick this in that recycling carton behind you and cover it up.”
His eyes widened and he stared at it as if I’d given him a scorpion. “What’re you doing with—”
“Please, John, just put it where it’ll be safe.”
“It’s Pa’s, isn’t it?”
“Yes, I borrowed it.”
“Well, we can’t leave it here. What if somebody broke in and took—”
“It’s safer leaving it here than taking it into Salazar’s place. If he’s as slimy as Luis says, he might search us, and then you don’t know what he’d do.”
John swallowed hard, nodded, and did as I told him. Then we got out and met Abrego on the sidewalk. He flashed us a reassuring grin and said, “Don’t let the neighborhood fool you.”
Luis led us to an alley entrance between a defunct market and a thrift shop. The alley was dark, blocked by a steel mesh gate. Abrego pushed a button on the gate and a male voice spoke in Spanish through the intercom; Luis answered it, and the gate swung open.
As we started along the alley, I braced myself for the usual smells found in such places, but breathed in a sweet fragrance instead. Star jasmine. Now that my eyes were more accustomed to the darkness, I saw that flowers bloomed in profusion on the walls on either side of us. We walked the length of the buildings in single file to an ornate wrought-iron gate built into an archway. Through its scrollwork I saw a floodlit patio where plants grew in tubs and hanging baskets.
I glanced questioningly at Abrego. He grinned again, said, “Salazar keeps a low profile.” Then he thumbed another button and a bell rang somewhere inside.
Heavy footsteps sounded on the terra-cotta tiles. Abrego cocked his head, listening. “That’ll be Jaime, one of Marty’s people.”
“People?” I asked.
“That’s what he calls ’em. I call ’em thugs—and worse.”
A very large man loomed before us, peering through the gate. He had an odd bushy haircut and close-set eyes, and his shoulders bulged under his dark suit coat. “Que?” he asked.
Luis spoke rapidly in Spanish, something about an appointment. The man unlocked the gate and let us into the patio. After motioning toward its center, where a scattering of white wicker furniture stood inside a ring of potted palms, he left us.
Wordlessly Abrego led John and me over there. They both sat, but I remained standing, looking the way the big man—Jaime,