Part 18 (1/2)

I didn't pause in my approach to the car. As I neared it, I said, ”Excuse me, please,” to the one leaning against the door.

Neither of them moved.

One said, ”You been asking bout La Alejandra.”

”That's true,” I said.

I noticed several other g.a.n.g.b.a.n.gers approaching us from where they had been standing in front of a liquor store.

The one who had already spoken said, ”You need to stop.”

I said, ”Or what?”

One of the newcomers had circled around behind me. He drove a fist into my kidneys. I turned just in time to catch another fist on the jaw. The blows felt like hammers. The guy was wearing bra.s.s knuckles. I managed to deflect a third jab and landed a punch that sent him staggering away, clutching at his throat and gasping for air.

Two others moved in. I kicked the first one in the groin, which dropped him to the pavement. The other one had a knife. He didn't know how to use it. After he took a clumsy swipe at my midsection, I moved in tight before he could pull back and broke his arm just above the wrist. Then the rest of them got smart. They all came at once. I tried to reach my gun, but they were already too close. Two of them grabbed my arms from behind and pinned me while several others took turns landing blows. After a while they let me fall to the sidewalk, where I curled into a fetal position and tried to protect my head as they circled me and landed kick after kick.

All I could do was take it and pray for help.

23.

When they stopped kicking me, I opened my eyes to see two cops emerging from a squad car. As the cops hustled over to where I lay, one of them spoke into a microphone clipped to his uniform blouse and the other watched the last of my a.s.sailants as they disappeared down the block.

”Sir, are you all right?” said the first one to reach me, a Latino about thirty years old.

I said, ”Don't worry about me. Go get those guys.”

”Are you sure you're all right?”

”Just go get them.”

”We called an ambulance for you. Don't move.”

The Latino and his white partner ran down the block.”

I rolled onto my back. I winced as my holster pressed against my kidneys. It was a miracle that the g.a.n.g.b.a.n.gers hadn't noticed the gun. If they had, maybe one of them would have tried it out on me.

A woman carrying a Chihuahua pa.s.sed me on the sidewalk without a glance. The Chihuahua growled. Two old men walked past in the other direction a minute later. Neither of them looked down at me as I lay there, staring up at the cloudless blue above the city. I had a fleeting sense of disappointment. For a moment it had seemed I might be on my way to Haley, but there I was, still alive.

I rolled onto my right side, pushed myself into a seated position, and then rose unsteadily to my feet. I prodded my ribs a little, and while it felt as if at least one of them was broken, I decided it was more likely they were only cracked a little.

Moving gingerly, I made it to Haley's Escalade. I got in. I locked the door and sat there staring through the winds.h.i.+eld. All around me were people going about their business, shopping in bodegas, dining at the Cuban cafe, talking on the corner by the liquor store, leaning against stucco walls covered with graffiti. Although I was sitting in the middle of it all, n.o.body seemed to see me there.

I gave my head a little shake to clear it. I checked my watch. Since I was alive, I would continue. There was time for at least one more interview that day.

I started the engine and pulled away from the curb. I drove aimlessly for a few minutes, then found a parking spot in the shade of a sycamore on Wils.h.i.+re where it crosses MacArthur Park. I decided I might have better luck if I tried talking to some people who were playing for the other team. I drug my cell phone out of my pocket, wincing at a sharp spike of pain from my ribs. I called Congressman Montes and left a message with a man who said he was the congressman's personal a.s.sistant. I leaned my head back against the seat, closed my eyes, and waited.

Time pa.s.sed. I fell asleep.

The phone rang. I woke up and answered, and the congressman's a.s.sistant said he had scheduled an appointment with someone at the US Citizens.h.i.+p and Immigration Services field office in the Federal Building. I thanked him, then started the Escalade and drove out of Pico-Union.

Over at the Federal Building, a woman came into the waiting room and invited me to follow her. I stood up slowly and trailed along a hallway after her. The woman said her name was Elizabeth Peterson. She was large-boned, pus.h.i.+ng sixty, with straw-colored hair as short as mine, that pallid look you get when you spend too much time under fluorescent lights, and a brown suit that looked as if it came off the rack at a men's big-and-tall shop.

She led me into a small conference room. Before I could sit at the table, she looked me up and down and said, ”What happened to you?”

”A little accident,” I said, settling slowly into a chair.

”You look half-dead.”

”Not to worry,” I said. ”The other half is fine.”

She didn't smile. ”Normally I don't liaise with the general public, Mr. Cutter.”

”I'm sure Congressman Montes appreciates it.”

”Yes. And what exactly is your connection with the congressman?”

”Tenuous, at best.”

In spite of my witty banter, her lack of amus.e.m.e.nt seemed to deepen. ”I'm very busy,” she said. ”What can we do for you?”

”I need a copy of everything you have on Alejandra Delarosa; her husband, Emilio; and their daughter.”

”I'm sorry. Who?”

”The woman who kidnapped the congressman's wife, Dona Elena Montes. I'm especially interested in the woman's family.”

”I see. If you would wait just a few minutes, I'll see what we can do.”

She left the room. I remained seated. I swung left and right in the swivel chair while I waited, flexing my midsection to explore the way the motion caused me pain. I took a few deep breaths, just to make sure I still could. I thought of what was excellent and true.

In about ten minutes, Elizabeth Peterson returned with a few pieces of paper in her hand. She sat, slid the papers across the table toward me, then said, ”I'm afraid we are confused.”

I started looking through the papers. ”We are?”

”We are. The congressman's office requested this same information just a few days ago. It seems strange that he would send you here for it again.”

I said, ”He gave me a copy of that file. There was nothing in it about Delarosa's husband or daughter.”

”That is incorrect. We were asked for everything related to the woman, and that is what we sent, because that is all we have.”

”Are you sure? Maybe there was a mistake.”

”That is unlikely.”

I nodded. ”Yes. I'm sure it is.”