Part 14 (2/2)

Neither Lucy nor I could figure out what Birdie ever saw in the prissy old Russell Watson, or why she had long ago settled for their joyless fifty-year marriage. She was as generous as he was penurious, as outgoing as he was fusty.

Birdie channeled her creativity into sewing exquisite applique quilts. Because she and Russell were childless, she directed her natural affections toward everyone else around her. No matter where she was, Birdie became the beloved sister, friend, aunt, earth mother, or, in Carl's case, grandmother. Birdie's sweetness was a gift Russell Watson didn't deserve.

The closer we got to the bottom of the path, the more I saw that the wildlife reserve covered dozens of acres. In the near distance, a man-made lake offered habitat for local and migrating birds. Right now, a few Canadian geese foraged for food in the gra.s.ses and reeds on the edges of the pond. A white egret had flown the short distance from the coast over the Santa Monica Mountains to pluck an unwary frog or lizard for lunch. A family of mallard ducks occasionally quacked as they lazily pedaled across the water.

The older cottonwoods and willows chirped with the songs of dozens of avian species from tiny hummingbirds and blue grosbeaks to the raucous cawing of big black crows. The wildlife reserve was one of the few places left in Los Angeles that provided nesting ground, food, and shelter for over two hundred species of birds and dozens of other small animals.

The shade of the trees offered prime real estate for the homeless during the hot summer days. In spa.r.s.er areas, pieces of canvas and sheets of blue plastic hung from the branches of scrub oak and taller bushes to provide shady crawl s.p.a.ces. Several one-person pup tents in faded colors peppered the area like igloos. Plastic tarps covered with sleeping bags and bedrolls were scattered on the flat ground or were shoved under low-growing bushes as bivouacs.

A miasma of untreated sewage and stagnant creek water hung in the warm air. I pushed an empty sardine can off the path with my toe. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a sc.r.a.p of something white, caught on a twig nearby, fluttering. It was a piece of used toilet paper.

Lucy pulled a clean tissue from her pocket and covered her nose. ”Mother of G.o.d. What do they do for toilets down here?”

Hilda pointed to a ridge of dirt near a clump of coyote brush. ”There's an open latrine over there, but some of the crazier folks just squat wherever they feel like it.”

Lucy still pressed the tissue against her nose. ”How do they stand this?”

Hilda shrugged. ”Where else are they going to go?”

Lucy wasn't satisfied. ”Well, what about social services? Shelters? Government aid?”

”Government aid? The homeless don't vote. Who's gonna give them aid?”

By the time we arrived at the truck, Crusher and the other bikers had removed the tarp and were encouraging people to form a line, advancing the women to the front. Most of the homeless were compliant. Two rough-looking men yelled profanities and tried to muscle their way forward. One look from Crusher and the boys calmed them right down.

The diversity of the homeless population surprised me. I a.s.sumed the homeless were pretty much the same as Hilda. White, jobless, English-speaking adults either mentally ill or down on their luck. I was learning differently.

Sonia stood at the back of the truck, poised to hand out blankets and supplies. ”There are too many people, Martha. How do you want to do this?”

I hated to send away people empty-handed. ”Why don't we give them a choice? Either a bag of toiletries or a blanket. That way we can help twice as many people. Lucy and Birdie can help you distribute the items. Hilda and I are going to walk around.”

As I expected, everything ran smoothly after a couple of minutes under Sonia's direction. Bikers stood in the truck and unloaded items, handing the quilts to Birdie and bags of toiletries to Lucy. Sonia directed people to one of the two women, depending on the item they wanted.

Hilda and I headed toward a cl.u.s.ter of tents and bedrolls. ”This is where you're gonna find your witnesses. The Hispanics stick together in their own section.”

Undoc.u.mented immigrants made up the largest proportion of homeless in the Sepulveda Basin. They were usually single men with no English-language skills, no jobs, and no family to help them. We found several men who seemed afraid to join the line at the truck.

I hoped a smile and my high-school Spanish would be enough. ”Buenos das.”

They just looked at me.

”Javier and Graciela? You know them, you guys? Los conocen ustedes?”

No response.

One of the men stood. He wore a frayed white T-s.h.i.+rt and jeans covered in plaster dust. ”Porque?”

Now I was in trouble. How to explain in Spanish what I needed? In slightly off-kilter Spanish, I tried my best, but when I said the word ”polica,” the man's face turned blank and he stepped back. The other men on the ground tensed up, ready to run.

I held up my hands. ”No, no, hijos. Yo no soy de la polica. Solo quiero ayuda mi amigo.” (”No, no, sons. I do not exist of the police. Only I wish help my friend.”) With my broken Spanish, I explained Javier and Graciela lived near the river behind my house and might have seen the murder. I merely wanted to talk to them to discover if they saw anything.

The man stepped back, broke eye contact, and studied his calloused hands.

Hilda whispered in my ear, ”Did you bring any money?”

I'd come prepared. I reached in my pocket and pulled out a twenty. ”Informacin?”

The man looked at the others and wiped his nose on his arm. ”S, seora.” He stared at the money in my hand. The couple's last name was Acevedo, and he confirmed they were looking for a ride to Mountain View, four hundred miles north of Los Angeles. They were taking temporary refuge with a church in Van Nuys.

I turned to Hilda. ”Do you know which church they're talking about?”

”I think so. A group from a little place called The Heart of Zion comes down here pretty regular to help these people.”

I smiled at the man and handed him the twenty. ”Muchas gracias.”

I needed to get over to the church today to find our witnesses before they left Los Angeles.

We walked back toward the truck and pa.s.sed a wiry old man watching us from behind a tall bush. His wild hair and beard were full of bits and pieces of what looked like crusts of food and dried leaves, and he stank of urine.

Hilda put her hand on my elbow and hurried me forward. ”That man is probably an old vet. Most of 'em are loners. Either the fighting or the drugs made 'em crazy. Best to keep a distance.”

She told me most homeless veterans ran out of government resources. They usually suffered from brain injury, PTSD, or drug addiction. Like other individuals who were mentally ill, they tended to be unpredictable loners who avoided contact with the world except when they went out to panhandle or scrounge for food. Because of their survival training, the vets were the ones most likely to adapt to the harsh outdoor conditions.

There were two families with children, folks who were victims of the economy and first lost their jobs and then their homes. Hilda told me I wouldn't find many single homeless women in the wildlife reserve who weren't prost.i.tutes. Unless they were protected by a pimp, a partner, or a family, they could be raped and a.s.saulted.

”Hilda, you're a single woman down here. How do you manage?”

”These people come to me when they're sick. They need me because I'm the only 'doctor' most of them will have. If anyone dared to hurt me, the rest of them would probably kill him. I'm prob'ly safer down here than anyone else.”

She pointed to a small tent under the trees. ”Switch got hold of some runaway kids-boys and girls. In exchange for food and a raggedy bedroll, he pimped 'em out in parking lots and behind seedy bars in Van Nuys. The tent is where he used to keep 'em.”

I stopped and looked at her in shock. ”Where are those kids now?”

She shrugged. ”In the wind, I guess. As soon as your guys took out Switch, they saw their chance and ran.”

We were now close enough to see all the packages and blankets had been distributed. Many of the homeless stood around the truck, smiling and chatting with Lucy, Birdie, Sonia, and the bikers. One woman rubbed soothing hand lotion into the skin of her cheeks and cracked lips. Another gently fingered the ties on a quilt made up of multicolored square patches.

The sound was faint at first; but as it got closer to the basin, the chopping helicopter became unmistakable. The big black-and-white bird stopped above us and hovered. A police helicopter. Not low enough to kick up dust, but near enough to send people scattering.

As I looked up, someone in fatigues stood next to an army jeep parked above us on the Sepulveda Dam service road. I suspected it was Army Specialist Lawanda Price.

I moved sideways. The ground gave way slightly under my foot and something wet seeped through the bottom of my shoes. I'd just stepped in a pile of garbage reeking of rotting fish.

Hilda wrinkled her nose and looked at me. ”I told you to watch where you stepped down here.”

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