Avenida Constitución in the nightlife district. A revolving police-style light on the sidewalk stand
threw whirls of red across the scene. Neon glowed, music pounded in the curtained doorways of nightclubs. Encircling the taco
stand were families with kids bundled against the evening chill,
cholos
in hooded sweatshirts, uniformed cops. All devouring food or watching the taco man work his magic, his dark artful hands
chopping and slicing with controlled violence. Méndez spotted Athos and two officers spreading their feast on the hood of
a car.
“Come on,” Méndez said, sweeping open the car door for Puente. “Let’s go hear about the adventures of your Agent Valentine.”
3
V ALENTINE PESCATORE SAT in the sun with his back to the wall, drowning his sorrows in a Woptown feast.
He occupied a table on the sidewalk outside his favorite joint on India Street. He had eaten an Italian beef sandwich with
hot peppers, a slice of Sicilian pizza and a cannolo, accompanied by three beers. Now he was having his second espresso to
counteract the effect of the beers. He needed to stay sharp.
Little Italy was his private refuge in San Diego, fifteen miles from the border and a world away from The Patrol. Compared
with his Taylor Street neighborhood in Chicago, it was tiny. The surviving Italians clung to a few blocks of India Street
and a church around the corner. Little Italy was a skeleton, a movie-set streetfront. But he liked the Sicilian bakery, the
barber- and butcher shops, the mix of old-school eateries and sleek new establishments for the lunch crowd from the downtown
office towers. He liked the fact that the owners were Italian but most of the workers behind the counters were Mexican. Despite
his Italian last name, he spoke only the language of the workers. He liked the graffiti of the local Mexican-American gang.
They called themselves Woptown. They sprayed the name on the white walls and cement stoops of three-story walk-ups that reminded
him of home.
One afternoon he had passed a faded storefront on India Street. Glancing through the open door, he had spotted half a dozen
old-time
ginzos
in folding chairs playing cards at a table in a carpeted, otherwise empty room. A handwritten sign taped in the window read S.D. ITALIANAMERICAN CLUB. The scene recalled the social club where his uncles hung out in Chicago.
The next time he went by the place, the shutters were down. The sign was gone. He never saw any of the old-timers again. He
began to think that it had been an urban mirage. Or a dream.
He wished the past two days had been a dream. But the bandages on his forehead and his left hand were real. He entertained
notions of getting in his car and hitting the interstate. He wondered how long his ten-year-old Impala, formerly property
of the Chicago Police Department and complete with spotlight and monster engine, would hold up. Probably not long. The FBI
and Office of Inspector General would track him down at some desert gas station and pile on additional charges for running
away.
The only bright spot was that he had attained renegade-hero status at Imperial Beach station. Until the Tuesday-night incident,
he had been considered a loner who talked funny—in English and Spanish—and hung out with Garrison’s outlaw clique, causing
most agents to keep their distance. That changed dramatically after the Pulpo incident. No one said anything out in the open.
But he got furtive handshakes and exultant comments from agents such as Galván, who was always trying to set up fellow PAs
with a visiting female cousin from Guadalajara.
“Chased that
pollero
halfway across TJ into his
house,
kicked his ass, and made it back again!” Galván had whispered within earshot when Pescatore had arrived painfully early Wednesday
morning, as ordered, his head and hand still bandaged. “What kind of
pantalones
does that take?”
Sipping hot espresso, Pescatore smiled weakly. Whatever the
threw whirls of red across the scene. Neon glowed, music pounded in the curtained doorways of nightclubs. Encircling the taco
stand were families with kids bundled against the evening chill,
cholos
in hooded sweatshirts, uniformed cops. All devouring food or watching the taco man work his magic, his dark artful hands
chopping and slicing with controlled violence. Méndez spotted Athos and two officers spreading their feast on the hood of
a car.
“Come on,” Méndez said, sweeping open the car door for Puente. “Let’s go hear about the adventures of your Agent Valentine.”
3
V ALENTINE PESCATORE SAT in the sun with his back to the wall, drowning his sorrows in a Woptown feast.
He occupied a table on the sidewalk outside his favorite joint on India Street. He had eaten an Italian beef sandwich with
hot peppers, a slice of Sicilian pizza and a cannolo, accompanied by three beers. Now he was having his second espresso to
counteract the effect of the beers. He needed to stay sharp.
Little Italy was his private refuge in San Diego, fifteen miles from the border and a world away from The Patrol. Compared
with his Taylor Street neighborhood in Chicago, it was tiny. The surviving Italians clung to a few blocks of India Street
and a church around the corner. Little Italy was a skeleton, a movie-set streetfront. But he liked the Sicilian bakery, the
barber- and butcher shops, the mix of old-school eateries and sleek new establishments for the lunch crowd from the downtown
office towers. He liked the fact that the owners were Italian but most of the workers behind the counters were Mexican. Despite
his Italian last name, he spoke only the language of the workers. He liked the graffiti of the local Mexican-American gang.
They called themselves Woptown. They sprayed the name on the white walls and cement stoops of three-story walk-ups that reminded
him of home.
One afternoon he had passed a faded storefront on India Street. Glancing through the open door, he had spotted half a dozen
old-time
ginzos
in folding chairs playing cards at a table in a carpeted, otherwise empty room. A handwritten sign taped in the window read S.D. ITALIANAMERICAN CLUB. The scene recalled the social club where his uncles hung out in Chicago.
The next time he went by the place, the shutters were down. The sign was gone. He never saw any of the old-timers again. He
began to think that it had been an urban mirage. Or a dream.
He wished the past two days had been a dream. But the bandages on his forehead and his left hand were real. He entertained
notions of getting in his car and hitting the interstate. He wondered how long his ten-year-old Impala, formerly property
of the Chicago Police Department and complete with spotlight and monster engine, would hold up. Probably not long. The FBI
and Office of Inspector General would track him down at some desert gas station and pile on additional charges for running
away.
The only bright spot was that he had attained renegade-hero status at Imperial Beach station. Until the Tuesday-night incident,
he had been considered a loner who talked funny—in English and Spanish—and hung out with Garrison’s outlaw clique, causing
most agents to keep their distance. That changed dramatically after the Pulpo incident. No one said anything out in the open.
But he got furtive handshakes and exultant comments from agents such as Galván, who was always trying to set up fellow PAs
with a visiting female cousin from Guadalajara.
“Chased that
pollero
halfway across TJ into his
house,
kicked his ass, and made it back again!” Galván had whispered within earshot when Pescatore had arrived painfully early Wednesday
morning, as ordered, his head and hand still bandaged. “What kind of
pantalones
does that take?”
Sipping hot espresso, Pescatore smiled weakly. Whatever the
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