the living room and dining room, on the north side of the house. I figured I had close to a minute, and began to quickly but systematically go through the desk and dresser drawers.
I saw nothing unusual and turned to the closet. Shirts and pants, all neatly pressed, hung from hangers; half a dozen pairs of shoes were lined up on the floor. There was nothing remotely resembling gang attire.
I stepped out to the hall and found it empty. I stepped back in, kneeled down, and looked under the bed, but found only more spotless floor.
Then I lifted the mattress.
Tucked deep in the center was a copy of Frontiers , a local gay magazine, open to a page of bar listings. Next to it was a package of latex condoms.
I heard a floorboard creak from the direction of the hallway and quickly lowered the mattress.
As I stood and turned, Paca stepped in with a tall glass of water over ice cubes. I sensed from her averted eyes that she’d also seen the items hidden in the layers of her brother’s bed but was pretending otherwise.
I drank the water halfway down, then asked her if she thought Gonzalo would talk to me in jail.
“He won’t even see us, Mr. Justice.”
She went to the bed and straightened out the wrinkles I’d created in my haste. This was a family, I thought, that would prefer to smooth over troubling matters than deal with them directly, if at all.
“I tried to speak with Gonzalo right after his arrest,” she said, “but it was like talking to a stranger. He pretended to be so tough, all his talk about a gang, pretending to be a cholo vago . But I know my brother. That wasn’t Gonzalo.”
As we turned to leave, the last thing I noticed was a portrait of the Virgin Mary above the light switch, next to a picture of a praying Jesus.
In the living room, the old woman was still engrossed in her soap opera, talking earnestly in Spanish to the TV as if the characters were real.
“We haven’t told the old ones,” Paca said. “But they keep asking where he is.”
I thought about where Gonzalo Albundo was at that moment, and Paca apparently shared a similar vision.
“He’s just a boy, Mr. Justice. Gonzalo won’t survive in a place like that.”
She opened the door, and sunlight sliced across the dim interior.
“You said you know your brother, Paca.”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps you know more about him than you’re willing to admit. More than you’re willing to share with me, or even with your parents.”
She dropped her eyes uncharacteristically.
“My mother and father are very religious, Mr. Justice. Their faith, their church, its rules are all very important to them.”
“More important than the survival of their own son?” She looked up at me but said nothing. I thanked her for her help, and said good-bye.
*
Down on the street, I found Luis Albundo sitting on the hood of the Mustang, flipping the wrench in his right hand, watching me as I approached.
He slid off and stood between me and my car.
“I’m not looking for trouble, Luis.”
“Sometimes, trouble finds you, pendejo , whether you look for it or not.”
The exaggerated accent was back, along with a nasty sneer that was more laughable than frightening. Still, the man had a two-pound wrench in his hand.
“Did you ever stop to think how much damage someone could do with a heavy tool like that, Luis?”
“Yeah, I thought about it.”
He flipped the wrench menacingly again, but failed to catch it as it came down. It clanged to the street like a bell chiming to the world what a screw-up he was. As he bent awkwardly to snatch it up, I tried to gauge the depth of his humiliation, and how much more anger it might generate.
“Of course, a real man wouldn’t hide behind a weapon, would he, Luis?”
The question cracked his surly facade. He cocked his head and waited.
“I mean, a five-year-old girl could probably hurt me with a weapon like that. Or even a puto .”
He slammed the wrench down on the hood, and left it there.
“I
I saw nothing unusual and turned to the closet. Shirts and pants, all neatly pressed, hung from hangers; half a dozen pairs of shoes were lined up on the floor. There was nothing remotely resembling gang attire.
I stepped out to the hall and found it empty. I stepped back in, kneeled down, and looked under the bed, but found only more spotless floor.
Then I lifted the mattress.
Tucked deep in the center was a copy of Frontiers , a local gay magazine, open to a page of bar listings. Next to it was a package of latex condoms.
I heard a floorboard creak from the direction of the hallway and quickly lowered the mattress.
As I stood and turned, Paca stepped in with a tall glass of water over ice cubes. I sensed from her averted eyes that she’d also seen the items hidden in the layers of her brother’s bed but was pretending otherwise.
I drank the water halfway down, then asked her if she thought Gonzalo would talk to me in jail.
“He won’t even see us, Mr. Justice.”
She went to the bed and straightened out the wrinkles I’d created in my haste. This was a family, I thought, that would prefer to smooth over troubling matters than deal with them directly, if at all.
“I tried to speak with Gonzalo right after his arrest,” she said, “but it was like talking to a stranger. He pretended to be so tough, all his talk about a gang, pretending to be a cholo vago . But I know my brother. That wasn’t Gonzalo.”
As we turned to leave, the last thing I noticed was a portrait of the Virgin Mary above the light switch, next to a picture of a praying Jesus.
In the living room, the old woman was still engrossed in her soap opera, talking earnestly in Spanish to the TV as if the characters were real.
“We haven’t told the old ones,” Paca said. “But they keep asking where he is.”
I thought about where Gonzalo Albundo was at that moment, and Paca apparently shared a similar vision.
“He’s just a boy, Mr. Justice. Gonzalo won’t survive in a place like that.”
She opened the door, and sunlight sliced across the dim interior.
“You said you know your brother, Paca.”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps you know more about him than you’re willing to admit. More than you’re willing to share with me, or even with your parents.”
She dropped her eyes uncharacteristically.
“My mother and father are very religious, Mr. Justice. Their faith, their church, its rules are all very important to them.”
“More important than the survival of their own son?” She looked up at me but said nothing. I thanked her for her help, and said good-bye.
*
Down on the street, I found Luis Albundo sitting on the hood of the Mustang, flipping the wrench in his right hand, watching me as I approached.
He slid off and stood between me and my car.
“I’m not looking for trouble, Luis.”
“Sometimes, trouble finds you, pendejo , whether you look for it or not.”
The exaggerated accent was back, along with a nasty sneer that was more laughable than frightening. Still, the man had a two-pound wrench in his hand.
“Did you ever stop to think how much damage someone could do with a heavy tool like that, Luis?”
“Yeah, I thought about it.”
He flipped the wrench menacingly again, but failed to catch it as it came down. It clanged to the street like a bell chiming to the world what a screw-up he was. As he bent awkwardly to snatch it up, I tried to gauge the depth of his humiliation, and how much more anger it might generate.
“Of course, a real man wouldn’t hide behind a weapon, would he, Luis?”
The question cracked his surly facade. He cocked his head and waited.
“I mean, a five-year-old girl could probably hurt me with a weapon like that. Or even a puto .”
He slammed the wrench down on the hood, and left it there.
“I
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