The Chinese Beverly Hills (12 page)

“It’s her holy helper complex. Maybe she agreed to be a drug mule for one of them. She’d figure nobody would ever search a Chinese girl on a day trip to Mexico. If she went, it was by herself.” Ellen swirled her straw. “It was maybe ten days ago if it happened, and I don’t know if she went or even if she made it back.”

There was a squeal, followed by a bray of anger. Jack Liffey’s eyes slipped reluctantly to the table nearby, just in time to watch the woman stand up. She wrenched open her blouse angrily toward her companion. He could see she was flashing the little man and the world at large with large, firm breasts. The man with the scar jerked back in his chair.

“Happy
now
?” the Chinese girl shouted. She clutched the blouse tight as she glanced at Jack Liffey with murder eyes, and then scrambled over the low wall to the outside world. He guessed he’d just seen something to do with the parity adjustment that he’d wondered about.

“What else do you know about Sabine’s big Mexican trip?”

She shook her head. “I’m mum now.”

“Would you give me the names of any of the Latinos who contacted her?”

“I’m no snitch.”

He had a sense he’d reached the end for now. “Tell me where the keg is,” he said.

*

Gloria sat at the kitchen table and offered cooking instructions in her most lackluster voice. She was guiding Maeve in working up a complicated
mole poblano
for the chicken that was browning in lard in a cast-iron pot.

“
¿Qué hubo, señor pito negro?
” Maeve said, addressing a foot-tall dried black chile that she held in front of her face and then licked to taunt Gloria.

The odd slang pun—
What’s up, Mr. Black Penis?
—only really worked if you knew both languages.

“Use proper Spanish, girl. That thing’s not no pecker I ever seen.”

Maeve held up another chile. “
¿Qué es esto, mi reina?
”

“
Una pasilla, mi chica
. The pasilla’s not terribly hot as chiles go.”

There were also three fat green anchos, and a mulatto that looked like a big raisin. Real Mexican cooking could be damned complicated, Maeve knew. Her old boyfriend had been satisfied with ordinary burritos and tacos, which he’d splash all over with dollops of hot sauce.

“I thought you were decidedly not Mexican,” Maeve said.

“If you stand up and burn in a church long enough, you’re a candle, hon. My
pendejo
fosters insisted I learn to cook
their
way. No frybread or roadkill stew. I must admit, American Indian cuisine leaves a lot to be desired.”

“How about telling me about your growing up?”

“What do I get in return, chica?” Gloria was sipping her beer slowly.

“What do you want to hear?” Maeve said.

“I want to hear the whole truth about Mr. Gangster Alberto Montalvo next door, your irresistible impregnator. I knew him way back to a sullen nine-year-old and a twelve-year-old wannabe, throwing gang signs at me like an animated little monkey. I also want to hear the whole truth about who you’re fucking now, or whatever you call it with girls.”

“My two for your one.”

“My one is
mucho grande
, sweetie. I haven’t even told your dad about the fosters in Baldwin Park.”

“Deal. You first, Gloria.”

Gloria went on giving cooking instructions on the complex recipe, but interlaced the “stir in”s with a tale of being dumped by Child Services into an East L.A. she’d never seen before. After her mother’s death in Inyo County, the disorderly little Indian girl had been found breaking dishes and throwing food against the walls in her trailer.

“More beer,” Gloria demanded.

Maeve took no time deciding. She brought a Corona and had one herself.

Gloria karated the bottle caps off with the heel of her hand against the edge of the table, as she liked to do. “These two scumbags took in foster kids as their only source of income. If they wasn’t both dead now, I swear I’d drive out there and kill them.”

The household had averaged about six, and the Delgados regularly pitted the kids against each other, to teach them about “real life.” Boxing, wrestling, even spelling bees—whatever they weren’t good at. Those not directly in combat had to watch and root. The main bout was always boxing at the end.

“Bless me, curse me. I’m sorry, my chica, I couldn’t rise above any of this.”

What Gloria had learned was how much she could enjoy hurting—sometimes to escape her own pain, but sometimes for nothing more than riding a wave of cheers. Early in her tenure there, the stringy little girl had resolved to get herself out of the house on top or die at it. She still had visceral memories of punches that had drawn screams.

“That’s so awful,” Maeve said.

“Or is it just the way things are?”

“I totally deny that,” Maeve said. “People can cooperate.”

“Come along with me on a few night patrols—if the brass ever reinstates me. America is an ocean-to-ocean freak show.”

“Some people are decent. Like Nelson Mandela.”

“Like your dad, hon. He’s the second-best man I ever met. And years ago, your dad briefly met the love of my life.”

That hurt, Maeve thought, but it must have welled up from somewhere deeply honest. Truth night stumbled on. Maeve noticed that Gloria had become withdrawn, maybe even crying a little inside with the memories of her big love. It was startling. Maeve had never seen anything but ferocious strength in the woman.

Suddenly Gloria leapt to her feet with wide eyes and staggered straight toward Maeve like a Frankenstein, some kind of urgency driving hard against her broken hip. Gloria gave a terrible bawl of pain but wouldn’t quit the mad charge until the hip gave way and she began to crumple. “Freeze!” Gloria shouted. She rammed her hip against the old O’Keefe & Merritt for support and slapped at Maeve’s back. Maeve winced and turtled her head down, expecting another blow. Then she noticed that her blouse was on fire and ripped it off.

Gloria hissed on an inhale and swallowed back her pain. “Chica. You were going to turn into a human torch.”

“My bad. I thought you were going to teach me Challenge Night.” She put her arm around Gloria’s ample waist and helped her back to her chair. “I guess I’ll do better when I’ve grown up.”

“Hon, you’ve used up that line. They don’t make bras any bigger.”

“Oh, I’m sure they do.”

Gloria settled with a sigh and smiled for the first time. “Your turn now, or I
will
teach you challenge. Tell me about Beto next door.”

Maeve could feel herself blushing. “That’s tough.”

“So was my turn, hon. Flip the chicken over now and turn it down to simmer. You can start chopping up the onions.”

“You know I was really—what?—insane with sex. I would have jumped off a cliff for him. And I had a really bad time when I submitted.” Luckily, the banger was off the grid somewhere now, probably Mexico.

“Anybody would’ve had a bad time with that kid, hon.”

“I had a real fight deciding on the abortion. It wasn’t the best year of my life. Thank god Beto didn’t learn he’d knocked me up. He’d probably have killed me for the abortion.” She was trying hard to be suitably tough, but didn’t feel she was doing very well at it.

“Is that what turned you against guys?”

She shrugged. “It’s not that crude,
Tia
. But I guess it left a big sore spot that a gentle girl could caress.”

“I’m missing something here. Can you tell me what it is with girls that makes you feel so good—is it just looking into each other’s eyes? The lack of all the
pendejo
swagger? What’s the really big thing for you: fingers or toys or tongues?”

“Gloria!”

“This is truth time. I want another beer. And I genuinely want to know what it is that turns you on with girls.”

Maeve took her time getting the beer. “Something inside me just clicks. I’m not hiding any secret.” As Gloria opened the bottle with her chop, Maeve abruptly put it together. Gloria was interested in turn-ons, not because she was considering the lesbian thing, but because she was caught up in a non-arousal funk of her own with her father. This is for professionals smarter than me, Maeve thought. She could barely cling to the edge of her own sexuality.

There was a scraping sound outside, and then the familiar muttering exhaust of her dad’s pickup on the driveway.

“Saved by the bell,” Maeve said.

“Not forever, chica.
Y no me vienes otra vez tus quentos de hadas pendejos
.” And don’t bring me any more lousy fairytales.

“
¿A un tiempo, que si… todo en la vida eras mierda?
” Maeve said.

Gloria laughed conspiratorially as a key fussed at the door.

Once upon a time, what if everything in life was shit?

*

Seth Brinkerhoff found the big man lying on a chaise out by the pool of the Washington Plaza. The amenities of the hotel were something of an afterthought, since the pool was surrounded by asphalt and squeezed between a parking lot and an alley. Not quite five stars.

Hardi Boaz was all by himself poolside. Maybe the Chinese didn’t swim. It was the top hotel in Monterey Park, and had been basically a Chinese hotel since about 1980. In all his years representing rich white clients in the San Gabriel Valley, Seth Brinkerhoff had never been inside the Washington.

He paused a moment at the pool gate, held by the altogetherness of the big hairy man on the chaise who wore only swim shorts. His head was thoroughly tanned like a day laborer, but the rest was a big white side of beef with the letters AWB tattooed across his chest. There was also a flag, a whirl of three black sevens in a white circle on a red background that looked dangerously like the Nazi flag.

What have the Reiks done to me? Brinkerhoff thought. He’d asked for an inspirational speaker, wanting somebody like Ron Paul or Michelle Bachman for his Tea Party dinner dance, and this was what they’d sent. Apparently, “inspirational” was a flexible concept.

This man was the founder of a border watchdog group along the California line east of San Diego. “Don’t worry, sir,” the Reiks’ gal Friday had told him, “this guy looks like a rough edge but he’s a really rousing speaker.” Like the damn overpowered rifle the Reiks had made him shoot. The episode still smarted.

Brinkerhoff was perfectly content to lend this side of beef to the lowlife bikers who were run by the son of his old realtor pal; Zook was actually his godson. But Brinkerhoff was not quite so content to have the man address his dinner-dance fundraiser in the Legion Hall the next day. At least he’d get an advance look at the keg party.

“Mr. Boaz,” Brinkerhoff announced as he entered the pool area.

“Me.”

The big man stirred and the chaise under him groaned, but he didn’t meet Seth’s eyes.

“I’m Seth Brinkerhoff, chairman of the Tea Party Express here.”

“Hardi Boaz. I’m your Commie-stomping Christian patriot. Lock up the virgins.”

The accent was bizarre. “I guess that’s what I’m here to talk about,” Brinkerhoff said grimly.

“You got me some virgins?” The big man pretended to come alert.

“We’re in the process of becoming a respectable part of the Republican mainstream, Mr. Boaz. So we’re all virgins in public. Can you tell me what that AWB on your chest stands for?”

“It’s ancient history.
Afrikaner Weerstandsbeweging
. Afrikaner Resistance Movement, to you. We did our best to keep the
kaffirs
from taking over our lovely birthland, but our leaders sold us out. That’s a long time ago, and I’m an American now. Hail Washington. I got real fraternal feelings for all the San Diego ranchers afraid of the Beaners coming across every night. If you got a nice car outside, they’re probably stealing your hubcaps this minute.”

“Mr. Boaz, the borderlands are apparently a little bit different from the rest of California. Up here we gave up that kind of talk a long time ago, even if we believe there’s a grain of truth in it.”

Boaz squinted. “That why you stuck me in this dink hotel? The beds even
smell
yellow.”

“This place is ranked two stars. It’s the best in town. If you want to move to a Big 6 Motel, let me know.”

“I’m bighearted, ma’an.” He slapped the left of his chest, quite hard, as if to demonstrate the location of his big heart.

“What’s your border group called?” Brinkerhoff asked. Bernadette had been unwilling to tell him, and he was worried that they might have a really embarrassing name that would leak out, like the Bean Stompers.

“The name ain’t important, man. They can call us anything they like, long as they quake in their bloody boots. I hate sissies who’re afraid of words.”

“Who is it supposed to quake? The wetbacks?”

“Sure, long as it’s you saying it in this super-pure ecology, in the homo-commie part of California.”

“Mr. Boaz, you can say anything you want at the keg party tomorrow, but at the dinner, please try to stick to a Christian and patriotic agenda without mention of race and without profanity.”

“Fuckin’-A right!”

Brinkerhoff turned to go, but turned back after a few steps to stare at the neo-Nazi tattoo. “By the way, sir.”

“Ya—here we go. Rub us enough snake oil over the world of ideas, we got us a bright tomorrow.”

“Please wear a very opaque shirt.”

Rosa/Ellen summoned Jack Liffey with a phone call early the next morning. She opened quickly, the blue hair especially brash in the glare of the sun.

“Good morning, Mr. Liffey,” she said.

“Ohio,” he said brightly.

She smiled. “Don’t even try.”

He’d been told it meant hello in Chinese, but without the right intonation it probably meant
My penis is on fire
.

She thrust a flier into his hand, a Xeroxed invitation to a keg party that afternoon with a hand-drawn map.

Patriot Beer Bash!

Meet an American Hero!

“How did you get it?”

“It’s like a rave by invitation. They stand on street corners and leaflet only the target audience. I’m not sure how they define their demographic, but it certainly isn’t me. I got it from a neighbor kid who looks like Elvis Presley. I want my report.”