Coyote (13 page)

Had they had a fire here? Did it smell like this all the time? I could see three women shoehorned into a cubicle office, typing and chattering, not calling for help. The atmosphere must seem normal to them. I licked my lips and rubbed my mouth. I could feel something cottony on the back of my hand.

The women were conversing in animated Spanish, but they froze when I approached, like startled deer poised to flee. I yelled “
¡Buenas días!
” loud enough to make myself heard over the machinery, but that didn't seem to reassure them. They shot anxious looks at each other. I studied them, checking for my dumpy informant in her flowered dress.

A phone rang. The oldest of the three, who must have been all of twenty-five, picked up a dusty receiver from her cluttered desk and answered in an accented voice. She directed the call to Mr. Hunneman, pressing buttons on a console and hanging up with a loud bang, as if she'd once been accused of eavesdropping.

One of the women probably would have said something to me sooner or later, I guess, but they were saved by the arrival of a guy. A big guy.

“You ring the bell?” His voice was a low growl that carried.

“Yeah.” He wasn't any taller than I am, but he must have outweighed me by a hundred pounds. A lot of it was stomach, but some of it was muscle. He wore a once-white T-shirt with a Coors Beer logo. It didn't quite meet a massive silver belt buckle but tucked easily into his jeans in back. It was just his belly that protruded.

“No soliciting,” he half hollered over the throb of the conveyor belt.

My eyebrows inched up. He looked like the kind of guy who only knew one meaning for
soliciting
, and I haven't been accused of that since my police department undercover hooker nights. I smiled in spite of myself.

“I'm not selling anything,” I yelled. “I'm here to see Mr. Hunneman.” Since he was taking phone calls, I figured he must be somewhere in the vicinity.

“Oh, yeah?” Beer Belly said. He seemed amused.

“Yes,” I said politely. “Which way to his office?”

“What's this all about?”

“I'll tell Mr. Hunneman when I see him,” I said, keeping a set smile on my face.

“You tell me or you won't get to see anybody,” the fat man declared. He took a step forward.

“It's about a job,” I said, lowering my eyelashes and making it sound like employment was the furthest thing from my mind. Maybe he'd let me pass if he thought I was some fling his boss had going on the side.

“For you?” His smile broadened. He was missing a tooth.

I indicated the Hispanic women, who stopped all activity and gazed at me wide-eyed. “Maybe one of them could tell him I'd like to see him, check if he's too busy, you know.”

“He's busy,” Beer Belly said flatly.

I cursed inwardly. My coloring eliminated any chance of passing for Hispanic, but I should have faked an Irish accent. My dad was half Irish, and we used to kid each other in hokey overdone brogues. This jerk might have bought the tale if I'd come on like an illegal immigrant.

“I won't take up much of his time,” I promised.

“Who wants to see me? Why didn't anybody call?” The voice was tenor, but the man was large: broad-shouldered, barrel-chested, with legs a bit short for his girth. Otherwise he'd have towered over me instead of topping out at six feet. He had the florid complexion of a heavy drinker. His reddish-blond hair was fine and a little frizzy, like misplaced baby hair. His features were regular—far-apart eyes, wide bridge to his nose—blurred a little by extra weight. Twenty pounds lighter and he'd have been a very handsome man.

His tone was good-natured, but there was strain behind it, wariness.

Beer Belly seemed struck dumb by Hunneman's sudden appearance, which gave me a chance to get in the first word.

I stuck out my hand eagerly. “Pleased to meet you, sir,” I said. I've found a little respectfulness can generally get you an audience with anybody short of the Pope.

“She says she's looking for work,” Beer Belly chimed in.

Hunneman stopped mid-stride. He turned his eyes on me, gave me a thorough exam that made me feel naked. I got the feeling there was more than sexual interest in his glance. “Oh,” he said carefully, lightly, “and how did you hear about us?”

“A friend,” I said, matching his casual tone. “She said you needed a secretary. I'm a great secretary. Dorothy Gibbs. Not my name, I went to school there. Practically got my certificate, but then I got the flu. Real bummer, you know?”

“Who's your friend?” Hunneman asked with a charming, smile. He wore a well-cut navy business suit that would have looked fine in a bank or a boardroom. It seemed pretty formal compared to the fat man's T-shirt. Cuff links gleamed at his wrists, gold or brass.

“She make a mistake?” I asked. “Maybe I misunderstood her.”

“I don't need a secretary,” Hunneman said.

“Too bad. I'm good at shorthand, and I can run a computer and everything.”

“Your friend work here?” Hunneman walked into the tiny office. The three women busied themselves filing papers and typing, faces set, eyes downcast.

I watched Hunneman and I had the feeling that the Coors man was watching me just as avidly. The factory owner's suit looked expensive; so did his highly polished black loafers.

“What's your friend's name?” Hunneman snatched up some papers from a desk. He wore a domed ring on his left hand. High school or college, not a wedding ring.

I didn't want to part with Manuela's name. Not yet.

“Hey, what difference does it make?” I said cheerfully. “Her English isn't so hot, and I probably misunderstood her, like I said.”

“No difference.” Hunneman came up beside me, stood a little too close. He had a few reddish-gold hairs on his upper lip. “I thought maybe you'd like to stop in and say hello to her, that's all.”

Sure, I thought. But I pretended to give his suggestion some consideration before turning it down. He smiled at me, but his eyes stayed cool and remote. I thought he might be wearing cologne, but in the poisonous atmosphere I couldn't be sure. His eyes were slate-colored, like a winter sky.

“Sorry to take up your time,” I said.

“No problem,” he answered. He nodded to Beer Belly. “Show her out.”

I opened my mouth to protest that I could find my own way to the door, but I was interrupted by a deafening whistle. The narrow corridor filled with women heading toward the door in quick, grim march-step. They didn't speak. Most of them had handkerchief triangles tied across their mouths like bad men in old Westerns.

Hunneman disappeared through a doorway beyond the secretarial cubicle. The fat man said, “Outside, okay?”

He took a step toward me, and since he blocked the whole corridor, I didn't see that I had a lot of choices. I nodded and joined the flow, towering over the women, sidestepping outside the front door, no longer part of the parade. An observer.

As they stepped out the door the women loosened their masks, a few whipping them off over their heads, some going to the trouble of untying, balancing handbags precariously while they used both hands for the maneuver. The majority just pulled the masks down over their faces until they turned into neck scarves.

Most of them coughed and snorted at their first breath of real air.

The faces seemed predominantly Hispanic, but there was a sprinkling of fair hair and freckles, as well as a contingent of dark-skinned women who seemed to crowd together.

Which of them had come to the
Herald
this morning with the message? I stared at them, searching for a twentyish, dumpy woman in a flowered dress.

A face jumped out of the crowd.

Marta inched along slowly, minus her cane, leaning on the arm of another woman, a woman who looked like her in a vague, familial way. Cousin Lilia.

So Marta didn't know my Manuela.

Maybe my anger beamed across the driveway. Marta glanced over suddenly, caught my eye. Her face turned pale and she stumbled. She murmured something to her cousin, kept her gaze fixed on the broken concrete. Lilia turned back to the factory door to see if they'd been observed, to see if someone was watching me.

Marta wasn't embarrassed at being caught in any lie. She was scared. Plain scared.

She walked right by me, still staring at the ground, her back unnaturally straight. She seemed to be holding her breath.

I pretended not to know her, giving all the women the same careful scrutiny. I noticed the Coors T-shirt framed in the doorway. Was Marta afraid of the fat man?

I'd mentioned my “friend” inside. Now I looked from face to face, as if I couldn't spot her. I glanced at my watch, tapped my foot, acted out my impatience in mime. Maybe this wasn't her shift. Well, I'd give it a few more minutes, see if she came out. Be nice to say hello, but no big deal if this was her day off.

I waited until all the women came out, the last few rushing to keep up with the crowd. Beer Belly watched me from the doorway. I was afraid I might have reacted involuntarily when I saw Marta, so I decided to spread the suspicion around. I asked a fat lady of fifty if she knew a woman named Hester Prynne. I asked a tiny redhead and a black girl of no more than sixteen the same question.

They gave me curt, negative shakes of their heads, kept on walking.

They were all scared of me.

19

I found a space at the curb two blocks from Marta's project. I quickly locked up, ignoring the
RESIDENT PARKING ONLY
warning again, and practically ran to Marta's door. I didn't want her to climb the steps twice, and I figured she probably had the smarts to realize I'd be right behind her and wait for me in the vestibule. Waiting in the vestibule of a place like hers could get you mugged or worse, so I hurried.

She was inside the front door, breathing hard, seated on the steps. She hauled herself up by the banister when I knocked.

I didn't bother with hello, just blurted out, “That woman I asked you about, the one who called herself Manuela Estefan. You told her about me.”

“
Hablemos
—” she began, and then stopped when she realized my Spanish wouldn't be up to it. “We talk upstairs.” She coughed a couple of times, and it shook her whole body. I helped her with the stairs.

“You heard anything about getting a ground-floor place?” I asked, my voice tight with anger. I wanted to rain questions on her, but I had to admit she was right. It was a conversation that ought to take place behind closed doors.

She replied with bitter resignation, “There is a list.” I mean, what can you do if there's a list?

Goddamn the housing authority for putting a woman with bad arthritis up a flight of steps. And damn Marta for not trusting me.

“Why did you send her to me?” I asked as soon as we got to Marta's door. There was nobody around, and I couldn't take the silence any longer. Wordlessly Marta handed me her keys so I could work the locks. Inside, there was no noise from Paolina's room, no response when Marta called out her name.

“I didn't send you nobody,” Marta said wearily, sinking into the chair in front of the TV. “Bring me a glass of water, no?”

I sighed and brought her water from the kitchen, running it for a long time, thinking about lead pipes and chemical residue and bottled water.

When I got back to the living room, damned if she hadn't turned on the set. I punched the off button and stood in front of the screen. “Somebody told me today that Manuela Estefan worked at the Hunneman Pillow Factory, had something to do with the pillow factory. So I go there and you and Lilia march out the door. That's a coincidence?”

“
No comprendo
‘coinci'—”

“Come on, Marta, spare me the
no comprendo
crap.”

“Okay, sit down, I tell you this. I don't know the name Manuela. I don't know no names. That place is a place where people don't got no names, no faces, just hands to work with. I work there just a little while, just some days. I don't know no Manuela.”

“Maybe she had another name there. Maybe Aurelia, Aurelia Gaitan.”

“That name I don't know either. And I never talk about you—” She bit her bottom lip and stopped abruptly. “No, I'm a liar, maybe I did. Maybe I show off your card. Maybe when I'm there, I talk too much and somebody hears.”

“Hears what?”

She took a long drink of water, coughed, drank again. “I talk, you know. Maybe I say there's this Anglo woman who's nice to my daughter. A woman lives alone like a man and helps people, who don't think I'm so stupid 'cause I don't
hablo perfecto inglés
.”

“You're not stupid. I know it, so don't try to pull any fast ones on me.”

“Talk to the Welfare. They think I'm stupid. The men at the factory, they think I'm
muy estúpida
. All the women are stupid.”

“You don't have to work in a place like that, Marta.”

“No?” she said, her fingers playing nervously on the armrest. “And my sons don't have to go to school, either, no? Let them be janitors, pick up Anglo trash the rest of their lives.”

And your daughter
, I wanted to scream. What about her?

But I held my tongue. It's an old battle in a long war. If Paolina wants to go to college, I'll pay her way. Marta sees no use in it.

She acted as if she could hear my thoughts.

“Paolina should be at home,” she said fretfully. “I should make the girl come home after school and do the housework. Look at this place, this house for pigs. In the school they teach her to make stupid gold fishes, not bread, not stew. She shouldn't be staying after school for the band, for the play. Soon she is old enough to quit.”

“If she wants to,” I said.

“If I want her to. Remember that. She is my daughter and she does what I say.”

Sometimes there's no talking to Marta. If we were going to have an argument today, I didn't want it to center on Paolina.