said.
She stared past me at the empty tables beyond my right shoulder. She shook her head slightly.
"You don't have much hope of getting the truth," I said, "if you think you know in advance what the truth ought to be."
She shifted her eyes back at me. "Look at you," she said. "Drinking beer and preaching against drugs."
"I'm not preaching against drugs," I said. "I'm just trying to earn the money they paid me to find out who killed Eric Valdez."
"Haven't you ever wondered why some drugs are legal and some not?"
"I've never wondered that," I said.
"The ruling class does not make alcohol illegal, or nicotine. It makes cocaine illegal. It makes marijuana illegal. It makes illegal the drugs of the powerless. The drugs it doesn't use, or is not addicted to."
"That's why I never wondered," I said. "It has also made killing Eric Valdez illegal and it has hired me, so to speak, to see who did that. You say you want to help. And you want to protect the Hispanic populace of Wheaton. Maybe you can't do both. Maybe he was killed by a Colombian coke dealer. Maybe not, Maybe the truth is the best we can do."
She stared at me.
"Better than speeches about the class struggle," I said.
She stared at me some more.
"Why do you think you can do something," she said.
"I'm pure of heart," I said.
"One man, alone, in this town?"
"But devious," I said.
I drank the rest of my Sam Adams. Juanita ignored her Perrier.
"Want to feel my muscle?" I said.
"Emmy Esteva," she said.
"Thank you," I said.
Tears began to form in Juanita's eyes. She stood up suddenly and walked out of the bar and through the lobby and into the parking lot and got in her car and drove away.
Emmy Esteva.
Chapter 12
There was only one Esteva in the phone book. Esteva Wholesale Produce, Inc., 21 Mechanic Street. I called the number and asked for Emmy Esteva.
"She ain't here," a Latin voice said at the other end. "She don't work here, she's at home."
"Is she Mrs. Esteva?" I said.
"Sure," the voice said. "You want to talk with him?"
"No, thanks. I need to speak with her. What's the home address."
"Sorry, can't give that out, mister. What's your name, anyway?"
"Gabriel Heatter," I said.
"I think maybe you better talk with Mr. Esteva," the voice said.
I hung up. There was no home listing for Esteva in the phone book. I got in Susan's car and drove down to the town library.
Mrs. Rogers was behind the desk talking to a large fat-necked teenage boy who looked just like her husband. She handed him a brown paper bag.
"Be sure to put it in the cooler at work," she said, "or the milk will spoil."
"Aw, Ma, for crying out loud, I know that. How old you think I am, I don't know milk spoils?"
"Just remember," she said.
The kid took his lunch and went out the front door without any interest in me. I walked to the desk and smiled charmingly. "Good morning," I said.
Caroline Rogers looked at me without speaking.
"Winter in the country," I said. "Makes you glad just to be alive, doesn't it?"
"What do you want," she said.
"I wonder if the library might have a street directory for Wheaton," I said.
"There," she nodded, "past the card catalogue in the research section."
"Thank you," I said. The charming smile works every time. If I'd turned it up a notch, she'd probably come over and sit on my lap.
The Wheaton Street Directory was the size of a phone book with a green cover plastered with ads for local establishments. At the bottom was printed A Public Service Publication of the Central Argus. It consisted of an alphabetical listing of the streets, each address and the name of the person who lived at that address. People who go to great trouble to keep their phones unlisted never think to keep themselves out of the street directory.
I started with Acorn Street and went down the list looking at the names listed opposite the numbers. In the best of all possible worlds there was no reason they couldn't live on Acorn Street. There was no reason to
She stared past me at the empty tables beyond my right shoulder. She shook her head slightly.
"You don't have much hope of getting the truth," I said, "if you think you know in advance what the truth ought to be."
She shifted her eyes back at me. "Look at you," she said. "Drinking beer and preaching against drugs."
"I'm not preaching against drugs," I said. "I'm just trying to earn the money they paid me to find out who killed Eric Valdez."
"Haven't you ever wondered why some drugs are legal and some not?"
"I've never wondered that," I said.
"The ruling class does not make alcohol illegal, or nicotine. It makes cocaine illegal. It makes marijuana illegal. It makes illegal the drugs of the powerless. The drugs it doesn't use, or is not addicted to."
"That's why I never wondered," I said. "It has also made killing Eric Valdez illegal and it has hired me, so to speak, to see who did that. You say you want to help. And you want to protect the Hispanic populace of Wheaton. Maybe you can't do both. Maybe he was killed by a Colombian coke dealer. Maybe not, Maybe the truth is the best we can do."
She stared at me.
"Better than speeches about the class struggle," I said.
She stared at me some more.
"Why do you think you can do something," she said.
"I'm pure of heart," I said.
"One man, alone, in this town?"
"But devious," I said.
I drank the rest of my Sam Adams. Juanita ignored her Perrier.
"Want to feel my muscle?" I said.
"Emmy Esteva," she said.
"Thank you," I said.
Tears began to form in Juanita's eyes. She stood up suddenly and walked out of the bar and through the lobby and into the parking lot and got in her car and drove away.
Emmy Esteva.
Chapter 12
There was only one Esteva in the phone book. Esteva Wholesale Produce, Inc., 21 Mechanic Street. I called the number and asked for Emmy Esteva.
"She ain't here," a Latin voice said at the other end. "She don't work here, she's at home."
"Is she Mrs. Esteva?" I said.
"Sure," the voice said. "You want to talk with him?"
"No, thanks. I need to speak with her. What's the home address."
"Sorry, can't give that out, mister. What's your name, anyway?"
"Gabriel Heatter," I said.
"I think maybe you better talk with Mr. Esteva," the voice said.
I hung up. There was no home listing for Esteva in the phone book. I got in Susan's car and drove down to the town library.
Mrs. Rogers was behind the desk talking to a large fat-necked teenage boy who looked just like her husband. She handed him a brown paper bag.
"Be sure to put it in the cooler at work," she said, "or the milk will spoil."
"Aw, Ma, for crying out loud, I know that. How old you think I am, I don't know milk spoils?"
"Just remember," she said.
The kid took his lunch and went out the front door without any interest in me. I walked to the desk and smiled charmingly. "Good morning," I said.
Caroline Rogers looked at me without speaking.
"Winter in the country," I said. "Makes you glad just to be alive, doesn't it?"
"What do you want," she said.
"I wonder if the library might have a street directory for Wheaton," I said.
"There," she nodded, "past the card catalogue in the research section."
"Thank you," I said. The charming smile works every time. If I'd turned it up a notch, she'd probably come over and sit on my lap.
The Wheaton Street Directory was the size of a phone book with a green cover plastered with ads for local establishments. At the bottom was printed A Public Service Publication of the Central Argus. It consisted of an alphabetical listing of the streets, each address and the name of the person who lived at that address. People who go to great trouble to keep their phones unlisted never think to keep themselves out of the street directory.
I started with Acorn Street and went down the list looking at the names listed opposite the numbers. In the best of all possible worlds there was no reason they couldn't live on Acorn Street. There was no reason to
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