 
### From Sleepy Lagoon

### to the Corner of the Cats

### By

### Steve Sporleder

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2012 by Steve Sporleder

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

The scanning, uploading, and distributing of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

All rights reserved.

Cover design and illustration by: Letty Samonte

_From Sleepy Lagoon to the Corner of the Cats_ is fiction. The characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Other books by Steve Sporleder

A Fouled Nest

Gallivanting in the Gem City

_Available from_ : www.rp—author.com/Sporleder

http://www.Amazon.com

http://www.Barnes & Noble.com

Contributor to:

Saratoga Fire: A Century of Volunteer Firefighting in Saratoga, California

by April Halberstadt

Contact Steve Sporleder:

www.stevesporleder.com

Facebook: Steve Sporleder

mailto:losgatos.stevesporleder@gmail.com

"He who plants a tree plants a hope."

—Lucy Larcom

19th Century American poet

For my parents, Louis and Virginia Sporleder and

In memory of Johnny Mesa, Jimmy Mesa and

Sisto Arena

_Vaya con Dios, amigos_.

Acknowledgments

Bringing any story to life is an enormous team effort, and in that regard there are numerous people who are due not only credit for this book, but also my everlasting gratitude.

First, as always, I wish to thank my dear companion and confidant, Mary Wolf. She hears my stories, part by part, before anyone. Her opinion of everything I do is immensely valuable to me and I am forever grateful for her support and love.

To my best girl friend, Susie Kankel, who gets the first draft and the last draft. She struggles through my spelling, grammar and punctuation and probably asks herself who taught this mug English? I'm sure I had good teachers during school, but I wasn't there too much! I would have stayed if Susie had been my teacher. Her support and comments on content are extremely valuable to me.

To Parthenia Hicks, a truly professional and thoughtful editor. She edits my work and provides valuable insight into the craft of writing and all things literary. She takes my fabric of a story and resuscitates it to a hale and hearty glow. I look forward to future collaboration. It is always wonderful to meet new friends.

In that same vein I'd like to thank Janet Samo for reading my story and providing valuable critique at an early juncture.

I'd like to thank my friend Letty Samonte, a truly gifted artist and visionary. I know people pick up my books because of her covers.

To Calder Lowe, for her line by line polishing proofreading. Thanks go out to Jonathan and Alicia Robertson of Robertson

Publishing for their support and insight into the publishing world. They put the red ribbon on the package.

Many thanks to Marnya Campbell whose words, "You can write," inspired me years ago.

I voice my gratitude to Jennifer Carson for her inspiration at the beginning of this project and her nudge to move on. I'm forever indebted.

Many thanks to Lucy Crumpton, Butch Lumby, Connie Wulf, Greg Smith, and Ann Allen. I know it was a struggle to understand the story in its infancy and I appreciate your pointed questions and comments.

Huge thanks to Gilbert Mesa, Al Montano, and Rena Gomez Saunders for insights into their families and lives.

I'd be remiss if I didn't pay homage to my family. To my mother and father, Louis and Virginia Sporleder, for their lessons, admonishments, and concern, which make up the underpinning of my writing. To my brothers, Doug Sporleder and Bert Sporleder. They are what brothers are supposed to be—best friends.

Last but not least, I'd like to pay tribute to my children—my son, Lou Sporleder and his wife, Elisabeth, and children, Adelaine and Jakob, and to my daughter Jessica Erkiletian and her husband, Michael, and children, Ethan and Sion. You have given me the most precious things in my life—unconditional love and four perfect and beautiful grandchildren.

## Sleepy Lagoon

"In 1940 East Los Angeles, there was an agricultural area that contained a reservoir nicknamed "Sleepy Lagoon" after a popular Harry James song. It was here that on August 2, 1942, a young man was murdered. His body was discovered later that night on a dirt road and there followed a round up and arrest of 300 Chicano youths. Sixteen were charged, sentenced and later acquitted. The mystery of Sleepy Lagoon was a black eye for law enforcement, the media, and the city for many years and to this day remains unsolved. My novel uses the Sleepy Lagoon incident as the jumping off point for the challenges faced by the Reyes family. All the characters mentioned in the Sleepy Lagoon section are fictional."

— Steve Sporleder

"I could have asked the driver to pull over and let me out. But I didn't.

I was riding in the back seat of a black DeSoto, headed to Sleepy Lagoon for the second time that night, with a baseball bat balanced between my legs. My knuckles were white from gripping the bat so tightly. My older brother, Carlos, was in the car ahead and didn't know I was in the DeSoto, headed for the fight right along with him. He had told me to go home, but did I listen? Hell no. Should I have listened? Hell yes. God-damned Sleepy Lagoon."

— Mickey Reyes

## Chapter 1

Miguel "Mickey" Reyes

Los Gatos, California 2005

I stood at the trunk of the deodar looking up through the drooping branches, as the treetop seemed to rise to a rim of clouds. I tried to be careful not to trip over the expanding roots along the grassy surface or step on the graves nearby. I looked at my father's grave marker and took a small can of Brasso polish and a rag from a cloth sack I carry in my car for these visits. After the marker is shiny and clean, I take fruit from the sack and place it at the base. Today it's five Valencia oranges. At times I bring lemons or plums. He liked all fruit, and could grow all of it. He was a gardener of high standard. Today he'd be called a Master Gardener. I often wonder what our lives would have been like if I hadn't gone to Sleepy Lagoon. Would I still be mowing lawns? Even though I miss those times working with my father and brother, I believe all our lives got better when we got here, to Los Gatos.

I smoothed the area where sod meets cement and remember how my father prided himself on neat transitions between differing surfaces. Sometimes there are tears, sometimes not. Always a conversation, though. I recount events that have taken place since my last visit, and at times I get an answer or comment, usually a wisp of wind on a day when there is no wind. It may be a flock of roller pigeons flipping just above the trees or the sudden sound of a power mower off in the distance. I turn when the mower starts up, but I don't see anyone. That's an answer or comment. I know it. And it's pretty cool.

My father, Ramon Reyes, was a good man. Honest, decent, and the very heart of our family. My mother called him Husband. Of course if she were upset with him, it was Ramon. My sisters called him Papa; my brothers and me, we called him Pop. I turn my head slightly and look at the grave next to Pop's that I always thought would be for Mama when her turn comes. It wasn't supposed to be this way. That's usually when the tears come. I tell Pop, "I hope you are having a wonderful time. I'll see you soon." Two birds flap their wings as they rise and I do the sign of the cross and walk away. I don't spend time at the other grave, the one that wasn't supposed to happen so soon. I intend to, but I can't. I'd never make it out of the cemetery. I always promise myself I'll get to it.

## Chapter 2

Mickey

Los Gatos, CA 1972

Palm trees on the front lawn of the ElGato Hotel swayed with a brisk breeze that blew down the Highway 17 corridor straight down Santa Cruz Avenue. Even though it was July, the fog hugged the foothills at the entrance to the Santa Cruz Mountains. The coolness of the summer day didn't diminish the enthusiasm of children playing tag on the newly planted grass in the park. The park sat on the site of the old Southern Pacific Railroad Depot across from the ElGato. Crows squawked from the boughs of the Redwood tree that stood tall and stately by the bus stop next to the park. A closer inspection of the tree revealed strands of Christmas lights still hung but unlit.

On the veranda of the hotel, a set of large wind chimes sang out a deep rich tone. Vignettes of straw-colored wicker seating arrangements were spaced across the gray-enameled wooden porch. Each space had a two-person settee against the wall with a coffee table in front of it. To one side was a rocker, while the other held a side chair. The pads on the seats were bright pastel stripes. Several of these arrangements across the length of the hotel porch sat in front of huge picture windows. A slice of sunshine warmed a calico cat, the un-official mascot for the hotel, basking on the pad of a chair.

I sat on this porch looking at Los Gatos, a California town that was changing from the town of my adolescence to an upscale municipality catering to well-to-do inhabitants and shoppers. The old grammar school on University Avenue had been rebuilt into quaint shops and fancy restaurants. Antique stores and art galleries took the place of mom and pop establishments along Santa Cruz Avenue and Main Street. Even Fanning's Motel, the place where my Pop and I stayed when we first came to town in the 1940s, had been recently torn down to make room for a new bank and a supermarket.

Next to me was my old friend, Gilberto Morales. We were both in our mid-forties and business owners in town. Gil owned an auto upholstery shop a few blocks from my appliance store. Not bad, considering that his folks and mine were wetbacks. The Anglos called us _pachuchos_. But we weren't, not in the true sense of the word. In the thirties and forties, Mexican kids in Los Angeles developed their own subculture, much like kids on the East Coast. Flashy clothes, Zoot suits, and listening to jazz music set us apart. The whites continued to associate the _pachucho_ style with punks or gangs. Mexicans, including Gil and me, got called spics, _cholos_ , and wetbacks. Sometimes we took it and sometimes we didn't. Some white kids seemed to be afraid of us until they got to know us. The first kid I met in Los Gatos was a freckled-faced red head. To this day he is my closest _compadre_.

I ran into Gil at least a couple of days a week around town, and we saw each other socially with our wives. We'd just finished lunch in the dining room and were enjoying each other's company. "What've you got going the rest of the day, Mickey?" Gil asked as he rocked in the ancient wicker chair.

"Going to the Los Gatos Historical Society meeting. They want to put on some sort of exhibit about Mexicans in the area during the post-war years to celebrate the next Cinco de Mayo."

"What the hell! Why didn't they ask me?" Gil said dejectedly as he scraped a graying sideburn with his huge turquoise ring. His black eyes glistened with emotion and his prominent chin jutted out more. "Can't answer that, Gil. But I'll put in a good word for ya, if you want to be part of it, _mi amigo_." He just shook his head.

"Hey, if they have a portion on fruit picking, you could help with that," I offered. Gil shot me a hurtful look, and said, "We certainly did more than just pick fruit, Miguel Reyes!"

"I know that, Gil," I whispered. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

"Nah, forget it. I'd like to be included, though. Let them know what it was really like to live around here in the 1940s and 50s, ya know, all the dirty little secrets."

I wondered if Gil was talking about his brother who disappeared some years back. Maybe he meant the discrimination that we faced. Hell, for all I know he was talking about _my_ past.

After Gil left, I stayed on the porch wondering what I would talk about in the historical society meeting. I certainly didn't want to dredge up my checkered past. That's exactly what it was: the past. On the other hand, it was the historical society and they deal with the past. What was historical about me and my family? I wondered if I was gonna be the token Mexican.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized there were, indeed, important events from my childhood and teen years that seemed significant. Some of which, I wished I could forget.

I stopped at my store before going to the meeting. In my office, I looked at a black and white photograph of me with my family standing in front of the house where we lived on Palmetto Avenue in East Los Angeles. Carlos had it enlarged and framed, and gave it to me for one of my birthdays. It hangs prominently on the wall.

I remember well the day it was taken. I was ten years old and had just gotten home from playing baseball. I was wearing a ball cap with the visor turned up. I stood next to my father. He was on the far left, with his right foot proudly resting on the stone fishpond we were standing around. His short sleeve white shirt was tucked into a pair of widely pleated trousers, which rode high up his belly. Next to me was _mi madre_ , in a flowered dress. A white camellia rested in her shiny black hair. I think it is one of the best pictures of her that ever was taken. My two younger sisters, Trina and Connie stood between Mama and Carlos, who was trying to look tough. Desi, the youngest, hadn't been born yet. Our neighbor, Mrs. Tanaka took the picture and her shadow shows on the sidewalk. It was taken in 1937 to be sent to _familia_ in Mexico.

Our house had three bedrooms and one bathroom, small for a family our size, but Mama kept it spotless. It wasn't in the swankiest part of town, but Pop said it beat any place he ever lived in south of the border. Palmetto Avenue was wide with not much automobile traffic. There was always a game of baseball going on in the summer, and in the winter, a football was tossed around.

"It's paved with concrete," my father told relatives back in Mexico. "No dust _diablos_."

A lawn parking-strip lined both sides of the four-block stretch of Palmetto Avenue. Tall palm trees dotted the strips, and the fronds swayed constantly. I never felt the houses fit the scene; the street just seemed too fancy for them. But it was home and we were proud of our _barrio_.

That was a good time for us, 1937. A short six years later, however, things started to come apart. The unraveling of our lives was a true test of our family and its bond. We were family, and my mom and pop were the glue that held us together when things got tough.

I pulled out a Manila folder with old newspaper articles and photographs inside, and then put it down. It was a well-worn folder and I could pull it out at a moment's notice, but I knew if I started looking, I'd miss the historical society meeting.

The smell of old books, paper and slight mustiness greeted me as I walked into the meeting room off the main floor of the library. It surprised me to see the pink face of Digby, the old retired cop, sitting next to the only vacant chair in the room.

The rotund man running the session gestured toward the chair next to Digby. As I sat down Digby extended his liver spotted hand and said, "Nice to see ya. How ya getting along? Did ya ever get yerself straightened out?" I shook his weak grip and just nodded. Man, I wanted to squeeze hard. Was I still a sixteen year old to him?

Digby was a county constable before becoming an officer with the Los Gatos Police Department. When he started his career, in the late thirties, the night shift officer walked the business district rattling doorknobs making sure the stores were locked. Digby, from time to time, would make a pass up and down the aisles of the Gatos Theatre, usually on Friday and Saturday nights, shining his flashlight on kids getting amorous. He retired in 1962. Ten years later, here I am sitting next to him in a library. What the Christ?

He was dressed in a pair of dirty jeans and a light blue polo shirt with food stains down the front. On his feet were flip-flops blackened from wear. His toenails were long and yellow and he smelled like an old dog. My damned lunch almost came up. A mild remnant of the onion from my cheeseburger arrived and left. I put a half piece of Double-Mint gum in my mouth and started to chew.

The Los Gatos Historical Society, in conjunction with the Los Gatos Town Library, wanted to have a _fiesta_ for the next _Cinco de Mayo_. They were asking for photographs, memorabilia, tools, and clothing of the day. There would even be Film Study students from San Jose State on hand to film interviews with people that lived in that time.

Some people took notes; others just nodded and listened to the man running the show. As he talked, he removed his light blue blazer and hung it over his chair. He raised his hand to smooth his balding head, revealing a huge sweat stain under his arm.

Digby elbowed me on the arm and whispered out the side of his mouth, "If you don't have any pictures of yourself, I know they still have some in the file room at the department."

I glared at him and he grinned and winked at me. The lady sitting behind the old bastard gave a sympathetic smile, which I guess meant she heard his comment.

I had several dust-ups, but only one serious run-in with the Los Gatos Police Department. I was innocent, but found guilty, and I did time at a youth camp in a rural portion of Santa Clara County. But this buzzard bringing it up was uncalled for, and I was going to tell him that when the meeting was over.

I was so mad that I couldn't concentrate on what was being said, so I focused on the décor of the meeting room and old photos on the walls. I saw one of the Cottage Grove Cannery where my pop worked in the box factory. I'd take a closer look later. I heard somebody mention Zoot suit, and turned back to the facilitator. All eyes were on me.

"What?" I asked.

The man said, "I was wondering if you still had a Zoot suit." The heat of embarrassment and anger enclosed me, and I felt singled out. I hadn't sensed that in years. I opened my mouth to speak before I thought of what I was going to say.

"What's the purpose of this shindig anyhow? What do you hope to prove?" I asked with out-stretched arms. People looked at me with uneasiness.

Finally, the lady behind me, who'd given me a sympathetic look earlier, stood and spoke in a strong and authoritative voice "What we are attempting to do is have an event that serves as a reminder of a time in our history that is slowly being forgotten. We want to honor our Hispanic neighbors. This was a Mexican Land Grant before it became a town, people," she said as she swept her hand around. "Let's not forget that, okay?" She stopped speaking and looked into the faces of those in the room, and then finally her gaze rested on me. "The question was, Mr. Reyes, do you have a Zoot suit? If that insults you, pardon our insensitivity. It wasn't meant to."

I looked at her with a softened face and said, "We didn't wear Zoots here. That was in LA."

She nodded succinctly and sat back down.

The man at the front said, "Thank you, Miss Hollis, for clarifying the question, and thank you, Mr. Reyes, for answering it. Moving on, I would like to split up assignments of who is going to do what."

Digby abruptly left his chair, strode to the door and walked out, the door banging loudly behind him. I thought about going after him, but realized he probably didn't know how abrasive he'd been.

As luck would have it, Miss Hollis and I were put on the committee dealing with agriculture. I told her that I had a friend who was once a farm hand and would love to help.

"Oh? Who might that be?" she asked pleasantly. When I told her, she clapped her hands and said, "Wonderful! I know Gilberto. He used to pick for us. Do bring him the next time. I'd love to work with him on this." She was an aristocratic looking woman, with beautifully coiffed gray hair. Her face was angular with a straight nose. She was rail thin and seemed to be as delicate as a bird's nest. But when she spoke you realized Miss Jane Hollis was not fragile. Not by a long shot.

Before we parted, Miss Hollis told me not to worry about Digby. "He came into the room today to rest, and just before the meeting started, he asked if he could stay. He brings nothing to this event. He didn't have a right to talk to you like he did. There is history and there is the past. Keep that in mind, sir," she said pointing in the air with a bony right index finger.

"She actually clapped her hands when you told her my name?" Gil asked with a wide grin, when I told him about meeting Miss Hollis. We were seated on the edge of a planter box full of geraniums in front of his auto upholstery shop. His foot rested on a watering can, and a flat toothpick stuck out of the corner of his mouth. He told me his mother worked in the Hollis house as housekeeper and cook. Gil and his brother and sister worked picking apricots and prunes at the home piece near Bascom Avenue and Union Avenue. They also often gardened around the place.

"What else did they talk about?" "They asked if I still had a Zoot suit."

"Are you shitting me?" Not waiting for an answer, Gil continued, "What did ya tell em?"

"That we didn't wear our Zoots here."

"I never had a Zoot suit. Can you believe that?" Gil asked. "Couldn't afford one."

"I never really did either. I wore my brother's from time to time. But he never knew," I said sheepishly.

I walked through the parking lots that now cover the railroad right-of-way that ran behind the stores along the east side of Santa Cruz Avenue. A refrigerator truck sat idling behind the Meadow Gold Creamery. From the tire shop the clatter of an impact wrench rang out. _Business as usual_.

I entered the large roll up door into the loading dock area in the rear of the appliance store. The smell of propane exhaust from the forklift remained in the air. My daughter, Rosalinda, told me sales were slow, but the repair and deliveryman had a full service call schedule.

I sat down at my desk, opened the center drawer and took out a switchblade knife I'd picked up off the ground years ago when I was a young boy in LA. The blade sprang out with a distinctive metallic sound and I started opening my mail with it. When I finished, I put the knife back carefully and felt that nagging sense, as always, that if I left it out, there might be trouble.

Then I picked up the Manila file folder I had left on my desk earlier. As I did, a small, yellowed newspaper clipping fluttered like a falling leaf down onto my desk. It read **LG Youth Sentenced**. I thought about throwing it away; it was the past, wasn't it? It sure wasn't historical. I found what I was looking for inside a clear protective sleeve—an article with the banner headline SLEEPY LAGOON MURDERER IN CUSTODY. Across the top, so many years ago, I'd written, _Summer 1943_.

## Chapter 3

Mickey Reyes

The Reyes Family Journal: The War Years

Los Gatos, California 1985

In 1917 my parents fled the mayhem of the Mexican Revolution. Both of their families lost their small holdings to the large estates called _haciendas_. The Mexican government, a majority of which were _padrones_ or Dons of the _haciendas_ , believed that the uneducated lower class of _campensinos_ , or farmers, were good for manual labor only, so property was seized, rendering the _campensinos_ virtual _peons_ , forever tied to the land. In the southern states in America the landowners let farmers live in housing and become sharecroppers. In Mexico, the farmers already owned their land, but the Dons took it from them. If the farmers resisted, they were shot and killed. Those that didn't resist worked their holdings but owed a portion to the _padrones_. The situation was hopeless; the _peons_ could never get out from under the thumb of the _hacienda_ owners. The more the farmers made, the more the Dons wanted. The farmers could never buy their way out from under. Poverty increased as wages plummeted. Some workers revolted and were imprisoned and some eventually executed.

My father, Ramon Reyes and his _esposa_ , Monica, my mother, rarely mentioned our grandparents. When they did, it was only to let us kids know that we _had_ grandparents like everyone else. Once in a while, Pop would mention loud gunfire, and the thundering hooves of the _caballos_ galloping near his _casa_ when he was a small boy.

One time in particular, he told me, "When I was sixteen, _mi padre_ y _hermanos_ were fishing for supper. I'd stepped into the bushes to relieve myself and the shooting started. ' _Vamoose_ , Ramon!' was the last words I ever heard from my father. _Dios Mio_ , we were fishing! I found my brothers and father shot to death. The agony on their faces would haunt me forever. I tried to fix them up the best I could so _mi madre_ would have some relief that they would rest in peace. It didn't work; she went _loco_ overnight. Several weeks later, _mi madre_ and I were in our house when we heard horses headed through our yard at a rapid pace. Mama stood up and grabbed a cleaver and ran out to face the onslaught. She charged a horse, making it rear up. The rider pulled a _pistola_ and shot her. I ran to her and held her in my lap, where she died. Suddenly I was all alone. I quit running then, I didn't care. _They might as well kill me, too_ , I thought.

I picked up the shovel, again, and buried my mother next to my father and brothers. Back in the house I just stared around at what was there. Not much. Some rickety furniture that was only good to kindle a fire, some _ollas_ and tin cups and plates. None of it was ours. At one time, it _was_ and then it was taken from us. On the scarred tabletop was an often-read letter to my parents from a relative that went across to America. It was just lying there. It was like my mother knew what she was going to do when riders came through, and left the letter there for me as a clue. She committed _suicidio_. I didn't want to think that. I just hoped God would understand. I was beginning to doubt God existed.

The letter said to look up the cousin that wrote it, that he could help with maybe a job or a place to stay. It also said _Cuidado_! _The water in the Rio Grande is swift, cold and deep_.

"You cannot leave. Your family is buried here, _amigo_ ," a neighbor said to me when I mentioned about going across.

"It is only their bodies in the ground over there," I answered, pointing to the graves. "Their spirits are what will be with me no matter where I go."

_Go across_? What did that really mean? If it was so good over there, why didn't we go, me and my family? We never got too far off our patch, ever.

As bad as that was, I didn't cross the river. And thank God for that, because after several years and lots of close calls, I met Monica Cervantes, your mother, and my life brightened. There was somebody in this world that loved me again. I was as sharp as a pointy crag and she honed and sanded my jagged edges, and I became human once more, capable of loving and being loved.

Your _madre's_ father abandoned her and your grandmother years earlier; for all they knew, he was dead. Your mother never talked about him. Your grandmother worked in one of the _haciendas_ and lived in a room there, but space was limited. Your mother stayed with her sometimes, but other times she stayed with relatives; she had no home of her own.

_Señora_ Cervantes and I didn't like each other. I stayed out of conflicts between Monica and her mother as best I could, so when Monica agreed to marry me, her mother refused to give her blessing. That's when I got in the middle.

"We will be married with your blessing or not," I told Mrs. Cervantes in the _cocina_ of the _hacienda_ as she prepared a huge _comida_ for the Don and his family. She stirred a pot on the stove and was silent. "This may be your final opportunity to see her before we go," I said over my shoulder as I left. She was quiet as a goose feather hitting the grass.

Your mother was devastated for several days, and I began to wonder if we were getting married or not. I'd go to work in the field and she stayed in bed. When I got home, she was still in bed. One evening I got home and she was cooking over an open fire on the ground. I watched her for several seconds and heard her humming.

She saw me and stood and ran into my arms. I thought that her mother might have come to see her, but she hadn't. "Oh, Ramon, let's get married so we can go across and start a new life," she whispered. "There is _nada_ here for us."

The _padre_ in the mission married us on a Tuesday afternoon and early the next day we paced the river's edge looking for the best place to cross. The bank and rushing water was the same for several hundred yards in both directions, and just as deep. If there was a better place to go in, somebody would have let others know. We stepped into the frigid water of the Rio Grande and sunk shoulder deep. After several yards, our feet no longer touched the riverbed."

My parents didn't just want a better way of life, they wanted freedom, so they risked their lives by jumping into the Rio Grande and swimming toward Texas. At first, it didn't seem that luck was on their side. The small leather bundle of what little money they managed to take with them twisted loose from the cord tied around my father's waist and sank to the sandy bottom of the river. But that wasn't the most horrible thing that took place. The rapid current disoriented my father, who was not a strong swimmer, and he lost sight of my mother, who was an even weaker swimmer. Pop feared the worst for Mama. He dove down looking for her and nearly drowned himself. But when he came up, gasping for air, there was Mama standing waist deep near the shore yelling at him, trying to call him to safety, but the rushing water muffled her voice and he didn't hear her or see her and dove down again frantically looking for her. When he came up empty-handed, shouting her name in anguish, Mama swam out to him, as terrified as ever of the water, but determined they would both make it. Can you imagine? Talk about devotion. I mean, she was safe on the other side and she jumped back in to save him!

The confusion from nearly losing each other in the icy-cold river made Pop lose his sense of direction, and for a time he still wasn't sure they hadn't wound up where they started. Texas, at least the part they were in, looked just like Mexico and he wasn't sure they had really made it to America. Mama assured him that they were, indeed, in the US. "I swam toward Texas, Husband, and I never looked back. I _know_ we are in Texas," Mama told him. So when they climbed the banks into the United States, it was with just the clothes on their backs— wetbacks—that's what the Anglos called them. Once safe on the sandy shore, they embraced and kissed in what was both a joyous and somber celebration. They feared the unknown and darted from out-cropping to out-cropping, sage to cactus, trying to get as far from the border as possible in case any revolutionists or U.S. Army troops were patrolling.

My father remembers looking back from a mesa, across the wide expanse of the Rio Grande, into Mexico and thinking, "I never have to see that place again." All his childhood he heard how _fantastico_ America was. "I had my doubts, though," Pop would say. "When your Mama and I ran away from the river that early morning I wondered if we made a mistake. The rocks looked like rocks in Mexico; the brush was the same in Texas as in Mexico. Dust that blew in our face felt the same, as did the sky and the rising sun. The mud hut buildings were just like the _casa_ we left behind. I was scared, wet and tired. I looked back at Mama. She looked like she was on a stroll in the park and she was smiling—you know that smile. It says _everything will be okay_. She caught up to me and together we walked in America. We've walked side by side ever since. I never walked ahead of her again. On that day our lives changed forever."

With some luck and support from relatives that had already made it across the border, they found a hovel to live in with no electricity, gas, or plumbing, things we take for granted now. It was tough for them, but it beat Mexico, hands down. No shooting or pilfering— well, not too much.

After a year in Texas and two in Arizona, they heard about work in the citrus groves in California, so they hitched a ride on a melon truck and arrived in Los Angeles, in the Golden State. It was 1920, and everyone else had the same idea, so when they got there, all the jobs they heard about were taken. They lived in a tent by a creek for a few weeks. As I got older, Mama would tell me, "We showed up every day at that orchard ready to work, even just for the day or half-day. We'd take whatever they offered. I got hired first because one of the _señoras_ left to have a baby. Soon after, your father got put on and we were able to scrape enough _dinero_ together and move out of the encampment. But this place, Los Angeles, was supposed to the best—green hills, big houses, fancy cars, movie stars. For us, though, it was the flat areas with small houses and a pickup truck, if you were lucky, and ordinary working people. I never saw anybody from the pictures. Still, it _was_ simply the best place ever."

Our LA house was small, but we kept it neat and tidy. Our neighborhood was a _barrio_ , which meant that the residents were mostly Mexican. All we needed was within walking distance of our house— schools, shopping, churches and playgrounds. The one spot that was near and dear to us was the bowling alley, the Palomar Lanes, which served as a community center of sorts. During the daytime, housewives would meet there and have lunch in the coffee shop. At night the lounge was active with men, young and old, relaxing after work. On weekends families played there. Other neighborhoods envied us.

All us kids were born in LA—my older brother, Carlos, in 1924, and I was born in '27. My sisters, Trina and Connie, were born in 1929 and 1933. The youngest, Desmondo or Desi, was born in '44, after we moved to Los Gatos. Public schools in LA were segregated, which meant that we had to attend "Mexican" schools. That didn't bother us, because it was all we knew. At that time I never felt discriminated against. I just thought it was the way it was.

My father wanted to get out of the backbreaking work in the fields and orchards. "I want to work for myself. Be my own boss," he told us kids. "You should want that for yourselves, too." So he started a gardening business. It was a small outfit and when my big brother, Carlos, was old enough, he worked full time with Pop. I put in my time after school and during the summers I worked full time, too. Mama and the girls cleaned houses and office buildings. Us kids got to keep a little of what we earned, but most of it went into jars and cans and sacks around the house. Pop had lost money he put in a bank during the Revolution, and didn't trust his funds with anybody but family. Pop was honest, hard working and respectful. All our clients were white and they seemed to like us, although we never got invited to their houses for dinner, or them to ours, for that matter, but they gave us a nice bonus at Christmas every year. We were hard working and our bills got paid. At least the wolf wasn't at the door.

For a period of time after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, most Asians were "targeted" and the discrimination against them increased. After the relocation of the Japanese, Italians received their share of grief from Hitler and the Axis, giving Anglos another target to zero in on. Shops run by Italians had their store windows shattered. A person with Italian features, which apparently was difficult to tell apart from Persians, Turkish, Jewish or South Americans, was sometimes denied service at Anglo-run establishments. Some minorities left for kinder neighborhoods and created a mix of cultures in the _barrios_.

In spite of this, things seemed pretty hunky-dory for a while. Then came the summer of 1943. East LA became a festering boil. The Japanese got relocated due to a presidential executive order. They were sent to internment camps like Manzanar, and military personnel were arriving by the truckload. Minorities, other than those with Asian features, continued to stream into LA where housing was limited. Forget about buying a home; minorities never owned property then. That was unheard of. There weren't even any houses to rent.

A family rumor went around that Pop found hilarious. Somehow the word got back to relatives in Mexico that he and Mama hit it big in silver and copper while in Arizona. Pop roared with laughter when a cousin told him that and said, "Does it look like I live in luxury, _carnal_?" Still, Mama and Pop got hit on for a loan.

Something else was going on then, too. My generation, born in the US, and some of the migrant kids, were thumbing their noses and rebelling against their parents' values. Looking back, I can see that we thought we were pretty original, but now I can see that we were just like any other group of teenagers looking for independence.

Black musicians on the West Coast and those on the fringes of the jazz scene started wearing Zoot suits. It was a fad that was ready-made for us. And it grew as we kids struggled to carve out a position for ourselves. We weren't Mexican, not like our parents, but we didn't get accepted as American either. The Zoot was a way to establish our own identity. A Zoot or drape was a broad-shouldered suit coat that hung almost to the wearer's knees and the sleeves reached the fingertips. Some were very flashy and colorful; think gaudy. They weren't your typical browns, grays or navy blues. Orange, lime green, and periwinkle were common. The pants, matching or not, were very baggy except at the cuffs, where they were tightly pegged. Shoes, called brogans, were thick-soled with horseshoe taps on the heels. Jewelry consisted of a long key or watch chain looped to the knee. A pork-pie hat, complete with a pheasant feather, finished the ensemble.

Anglos called us _pachuchos_ and _cholos_ —in other words they thought we were punks. To me, a punk is someone who can't back-up his play. Me and mine? We backed our play. Anyhow, the military felt the fabric for flashy clothing was a waste of material and unpatriotic and that a better use of the material would be for soldiers' uniforms and goods. An order from the government created rationing of fabric, and suits for businessmen and civilians were put on hold.

Bootlegging put the kibosh on prohibition. Stop making hooch and some smart aleck will find a way to get it out to the wets. It was the same thing—bootleg tailors continued to make Zoots and kids snapped them up. For the Zoot-suitors, wearing the suit was a testament to hard work. After plugging away all week, we wanted to glam it up. The suit made us feel better about ourselves, and offset the feeling of oppression, which dogged us day and night. Our pride was more important than the laws about rationing. I'm not saying we were right; it's just how it was.

The Zoots gave us an identity and made us different. Anglos started mumbling that if a group of Zoot suit-wearing Mexicans were together, there was going to be a gang fight. GIs would come into the area around 38th Street and the time bomb started ticking. Tensions rose and discrimination was rampant. Sailors, infantrymen and fliers overran our neighborhoods causing havoc by being drunk and unruly. They came on to the _señoritas_ and kids in the _barrios_ retaliated with fists and knives. A number of guys landed in jails, others in hospitals and in some cases, the morgue.

The Mexicans knew that the US was in a war to protect democracy, but some Americans were adhering to Hitler's blather about a superior race. Talk about being conflicted. There was a cop, a guy named Murphy, who said in the newspapers that, "spics were no better than the Japs." Those are his words, not mine. He said the reason the Mexicans are so mean is "because of the Injun blood in em." Can you imagine?

I'm not saying Mexicans didn't commit crimes; they did. However, Anglos did just as many crimes, but the news reports only talked about the Mexican kids. The term prejudice came up every so often. I kind of knew what it really meant by then, but I tried to ignore it. Me, I was just trying to get along. I don't know where my childhood went. _Dios Mio_ , it vanished _muy rapido_.

I always remember my Pop telling me and my siblings to do the next right thing. "Be where you're supposed to be, with who you're supposed to be with, doing the right thing." Sounds simple, doesn't it? Anyhow, I mentioned that up to 1943 things were good. In '43 the bees landed in the butter and I was about to get stung. I was sixteen years old.

## Chapter 4

Mickey

Los Angeles 1943

The heat in the garage was stifling and the smell of rubber tires, old dripped oil, insecticides and weed killer hovered like the smog outside. The window above the workbench had been painted shut years before, and cobwebs drooped around it like angel hair on a Christmas tree. The creaky doors were opened wide to let air in.

I'd just finished sharpening a pair of hedge clippers and a u-bolt hoe, and was fuming because Carlos was supposed to help with cleaning and maintaining the gardening equipment after the day's work was done. "The lazy bastard jumped out of the truck, almost before Pop came to a complete stop," I said aloud as I put the file, my leather gloves, and the sharpened tools in the cluttered bed of the Dodge pickup. I was hot, and I wanted to get cleaned up for dinner, and relax. Gas, fertilizer and cut grass whiffs encircled me, and I'd had it for the day. My feet crunched on the pea gravel driveway as I walked to the house. _God-damned Carlos_! _He's always treating me like I work for him. Who does he think he is_? _He ain't Pop_. I entered the kitchen through the back door.

"The tools are sharp, Pop. I put gas in the mower, too."

"Thank you very much, Mickey," he said smiling while looking up from the day's mail. He smelled fresh after his recent shower and he had on a clean blue work shirt and tan chinos, bright white socks and black leather moccasins.

" _Donde está Carlos_?" I asked my mother.

"I think he just got out of the shower. Why don't you hop in, too? I'll have a nice plate of rice and frijoles for you when you get out," she said as she stirred the pot of beans.

"It smells wonderful, Mama," I said as I hugged her. Before I left the kitchen, I saw my Pop's creased and tan face grimace briefly as he stacked the bills and started to count the gasoline ration stamps. _He's got the weight of the world on his shoulders_ , I thought. I lingered at the hallway and took another look at my parents, Ramon and Monica Reyes. A very handsome couple indeed. Gray hair was starting to show at my father's temples, and gray streaked Mama's hair, but their posture was erect and their eyesight perfect. They were perfect. I wished I was as good a son to them as they were parents to me.

I walked down the hallway and looked into the muggy bathroom. The scent of Fitch's Rose Hair Oil lingered in the steam vapor. The fogged over mirror and the damp towels strewn across the pink tiled floor didn't help my disposition one bit.

In the small bedroom Carlos and I shared, the tan spreads on the twin beds were the only things that matched. The window covering was a sepia colored paper material. If pulled too hard, it wouldn't go back up, and needed to come off the holders screwed into the sash and be re-rolled. The headboards and dresser came with the house. An old oval braided rug lay on the scuffed hardwood floors between the beds. A baby-blue bathroom rug rested at an angle in front of the dresser.

"There better be some hot water left for me," I barked as I entered the bedroom.

"Yeah, yeah. Yer comin' in loud and clear. Why are you such a sour puss?"

"Don't brothers help with the equipment after we get home?" I snapped.

"I'll catch it next time, Mickey. I gotta date."

Carlos was bent over smoothing imaginary wrinkles out of the yellow silk shirt spread out on his bed. I flopped on my bed, watching him get ready for his night out. I was starting to take on a piss-poor attitude. _Why can't I go_? _I never get to go anywhere. I work and come home, work and come home_ kept hashing over in my mind.

"Why can't I go with you? You said I could sometime. Why not tonight?" I asked with more of a whine than I intended.

"Because, Mickey, this may turn into a couples party and things might go on that your innocent eyes shouldn't see. Besides, Cousin Donaldo is going in the Navy tomorrow and this will be his last _fiesta_ for a long, long time."

Carlos sat on his bed and hung his head for a moment and then his face reddened with anger. " _I_ should be goin, too, ya know. _4f. Can you believe it_? A heart murmur! Hell, I'm as healthy as any guy in any outfit," he said as he thrust his fist to his chest.

I knew Carlos had never gotten over his 4f status, and I took advantage of his feelings just in case he might relent and let me go with him that night. "Donaldo is my cousin, too. Why shouldn't I see him off before he goes to war?"

Carlos ignored me and stood to put his tan pants on. He stumbled slightly as his foot reached the pegged cuff. During the entire process, he kept preening in front of the full-length mirror attached to the inside of the closet door. He straightened his thin dark brown belt. He turned to look from the back to make sure he didn't miss a loop. The way he looked must have satisfied him. He had a contented look on his mug anyway.

I knew that girls in the neighborhood were starting to notice Carlos and considered him handsome. Some were looking at me, too. I wasn't playing as much baseball as I had last year, anyway. My dates were meet-ups. "See ya there" kind of affairs.

Carlos and Pop are the same height: five feet, eight inches. I'm two inches shorter. I saw a black and white snapshot of Pop as a young man, holding a wooden box full of apricots, grinning, and he looked just like Carlos. I couldn't tell them apart. Me and the girls favor Mama's side of the family: narrower face with prominent cheekbones and a lighter complexion. We all have ink-black hair.

Carlos was still posturing as he dressed, and it was getting to me. "Jesus Christ, Carlos, the girls don't take this much time to dress. You sure got a fancy idea about yourself."

He stood at the dresser and put a pack of Chesterfields in his shirt pocket, a chromed Zippo lighter in his left pant pocket and his pearl-handled switchblade in the right. He took a stance with his legs spread wide and sneered into the mirror. All I could do was roll my eyes. The word sissy came to mind, and that's where it stayed. He'd have my hide if I called him sissy, or any reference to queer or homo. His sneer turned into a lop-sided grin. He ran his fingers through his hair and used the hair oil to smooth his Zorro thin mustache.

"Well. What do ya think, _ese_?" "About what?" I asked.

"The look. Is it okay?"

I told him it didn't matter what I thought, and he agreed.

Carlos put on his purple drape and fidgeted with jade colored buttons. The drape, or Zoot suit, had wide shoulders and hung to his knees. The pleated pants were baggy except at the ankles. Thick-soled brogans with horseshoe taps on the heels and a wide-brimmed hat finished the ensemble. Some of the other _vatos_ wore really flashy colored Zoots—orange, red, or lime green. Carlos' was pretty tame.

He mumbled to himself, "Should I button it or not? No, best to leave it unbuttoned," and he swished the coat back and thrust his hand rapidly into his pants pocket and pulled his blade out. Then he clipped a thin gold key chain, almost feminine looking, to his left pants pocket, and drooped it to his knee. The Zoot suit looked good on Carlos, I'll give him that. But I never told him.

Once I'd heard Pop tell him he wished he wouldn't wear the drape. We were loading the equipment into the truck to go to another client. It was a conversation that I watched turn into an argument that I knew would end in screaming. Pop's take was that Anglos looked at the drapes as unpatriotic, and a waste of fabric better used for making uniforms for the soldiers. Carlos replied that it was showing that he worked hard, and it gave him an identity. And he couldn't care less what Anglos thought of him, which I thought was horse hooey. He seemed to care what _everybody_ thought of him.

"You don't see that as a problem, Carlos?" Pop said with a rising voice. "That you put a bright light on yourself."

"Nah, Pop. I don't"

"Read the papers, Carlos. That cop Murphy is talking about how much trouble we cause. He says we're mean because we have Indian blood."

Sergeant Murphy was the cop in charge of the unit assigned to patrol the _barrios_ From all I'd heard he was a bully and a bigot. His picture ran in the newspaper constantly, usually with the Mayor and the Chief of Police.

"Man, I'd like to get that goon Murphy alone one time. I'd give him what for," Carlos said.

Pop told Carlos that he was being stupid. I knew what would happen next—Carlos would take it out on me. I said nothing to either one, but still it was gonna rain crap on me. I avoided both of them as best I could the rest of the day. After the yelling they reached some compromise. I'm not sure what it was, but Pop never said anything again about Carlos wearing his drape. Luckily I avoided any wrath from them.

Pop was just afraid for us kids, especially Carlos. I heard him and Mama talking about their hopes for us. Pop wanted us to stay out of the gang life-style that was running wild in LA. Our running wild took place in neighborhoods—mostly fights among other kids from time to time. We acted like dogs pissing out our territory. Some of the _vatos_ were into petty crimes. I went on a joy ride with a kid who hotwired a car. After twenty minutes, I had him drop me off. A few minutes later he ran the stolen car into a tree. The kid that had been sitting next to me ended up in a wheel chair. I visited him when he came home from the hospital and he said he wished he'd been killed. Spending the rest of his life as a cripple was overwhelming. "You're a genius, ese," he told me. When I asked him what he meant, he told me because I got out of the car.

Pop always said, _Be where you're supposed to be, doing the right thing_. "With all the GI's in town there's gonna be trouble. I'd like the children to stay inside," Pop said one night at the dinner table. Us kids started to whine, all except Carlos. He just glared at Pop, saying nothing.

"Husband, you know the soldiers are just blowing off steam before they go to war," Mama answered back.

" _Si_ , I know. But Mexicans in gaudy Zoots just gets em riled up. There's gonna be more fist fights, just you wait and see."

"They're just showing their independence, Husband. The soldiers will ship out and things will get back to normal," she said as she patted his hand.

They were both right. It was a fact that young Mexicans were trying to get away from their parents' control, and drapes were the perfect thing to show freedom. The be-bop music we listened to was like thumbing our noses at our elders and their beliefs. On the other hand, GI's were going overseas to fight for our freedom. For some of them, it was their first time away from home. On weekend passes they came from Santa Barbara and San Diego into Los Angeles looking for recreation and companionship from _señoritas_.

Carlos kept putting his pork pie hat on, and then taking it off, over and over. He'd take the long pheasant feather out of the band, and then put it back. Trying to make up his mind, I guess.

After he failed his military physical, Carlos volunteered at the

USO, but lately he wasn't going down there.

"How come you ain't doing the USO gig anymore, Carlos?" I knew the answer, but I wanted to see him get riled, plus, he needed to be taken down a notch or fifteen. "Because, _mi hermanito_ , I showed up there the first time right after work in my work clothes and the old bag runnin' the joint says I should wear dressier clothes. So, the next time I show up in my uniform," he continued as he pointed to his Zoot suit. His cheeks reddened and his voice got louder. "Seems a southern boy in the Army took exception to me, so Miss Tight Ass says I don't fit in and asks me to leave! I saluted and spun on my heels and marched to the door. When I got there, I turned back to the boys and girls dancing, and whistled. When they turned I gave them a Nazi salute!"

When he said the word, "Nazi" he thrust his right arm out and up at an angle. "Jesus, what does it matter what I wear? I'd just be passing out doughnuts and pouring coffee. They can all rot in hell." Spittle formed on the corners of his mouth and I was satisfied. I got him riled up.

Carlos looked at me with squinted eyes and said, "How old are you?"

"Sixteen," I replied with hope as I sat up.

"If Mama and Pop say it's alright, then you can go with me tonight. But ya gotta change. Wear yer Sunday suit, and take a shower. You smell like a gardener."

I was up in a flash, leaving a trail of dirty clothes on the floor as I headed for the shower. Just before I shut the bathroom door, I heard Pop say that Kenji Tanaka sent Carlos a letter from his internment camp.

Carlos said, "Jesus Christ, that makes me so mad, Pop, when I hear internment camp! Kenji is as American as I am." Mama scolded him for his foul mouth.

As I stood under the spray, I recalled the day I watched the dull gray Navy stake-side truck pull up in front of the Tanaka's house next door and the sailors load the possessions the Tanaka family could take with them. It wasn't much.

President Roosevelt signed Executive Order 9066, which forced the removal of Japanese and Japanese Americans from the West Coast into internment camps as far away as Arizona, Utah, and Wyoming. Even with the Japanese gone, some people blamed the smog on them. "They're using chemical warfare on us," some goon said on a radio show.

In March of 1942, the Tanakas spent the first part of their internment in a horse stable at Santa Anita racetrack, before being moved to a camp called _Manzanar_ , which is Spanish for orange orchard. Manzanar was in the Sierra Nevada foothills only 230 miles from downtown LA. It might as well have been on the moon.

I'll never forget Mrs. Tanaka's heartbreaking expression and

Mama's sobbing as they said their good-byes.

## Chapter 5

Monica Reyes

LA 1943

Sadie Tanaka was the first friend I met when we moved in on Palmetto Avenue. Her oval face was set off by almond shaped black eyes, a small nose and strong chin. Her hair was as black and shiny as mine. I took to her right away and her to me. She saw us taking boxes from my husband's pickup into our new home. I was pregnant with Miguel and was resting on the wall of the fishpond. She introduced herself and told me she was going to get her husband to take my place. Right about then, my son Carlos tore around the corner at a good clip. "How old is your little one," Sadie asked. "He looks to be the same age as my Kenji. Why don't I take him to my house to play? I'll get my husband to help your husband and all you have to do is supervise." She held Carlos' hand as they walked to her house. Over the years we've been available to one another during pregnancies, births and illnesses. We had coffee just about every morning, and from time to time we had a glass of saki in the afternoons listening to a soap opera, but Ramon doesn't know, or maybe he just doesn't mind. I miss her so much. It's just not fair; she was born in Long Beach, California, for crying out loud. Me? I was born in Mexico. She's got to go and I get to stay. There's something rotten about that.

One day, while Sadie was visiting, our toilet overflowed and I became hysterical. The sound reminded me of when Ramon and I almost drowned crossing the Rio Grande. Sadie helped me clean up the mess with newspapers and rags she grabbed. She then returned to her home where she made me a steaming pot of tea. She brought it to me on a black lacquered tray with a delicate china cup her grandmother had given her. I never forgot her kindness to me that day.

Two weeks before the Tanakas were relocated, they held a neighborhood feed to get rid of any stored foods they had and to parcel out the stuff they couldn't take with them.

I listened to Sadie's husband as he talked with a group of men, including my husband, trying to put a positive spin on the whole ordeal. He said that a group of people with distinctive features, such as Asians, could not survive with the hysteria after the bombing of Pearl Harbor. His tailor shop windows had been broken several times and his little girl couldn't get a cola at the soda fountain in the drug store. "They insulted my wife in the grocery store. It doesn't matter that we were all born here in California. No, getting out of here is the safest thing for my family," he said as he thumbed his suspenders.

The man who owned the Tanaka's house said he would try and save it for them. The Italian man that ran the dry cleaners and held the lease on the tailor shop said he would try and keep things going as long as he could. So Mr. Tanaka felt somewhat assured that his holdings would be secure. With a pitiful look, he said, "My family is together at least."

God, I hope we never get relocated.

## Chapter 6

Mickey

LA 1943

When I entered the kitchen I heard Carlos yell, "Holy Crap! Kenji joined the Army!"

"Such a mouth on you," Mama reprimanded.

"Whose mouth?" I said as I swaggered about the kitchen in my charcoal gray suit with a crisp white shirt, the wide collar over the lapels of the coat. I put on Carlos' porkpie hat and stood to pose. I put my hand in the coat pocket and felt something odd. I pulled out my rosary beads that Mama and Pop gave to me for Confirmation, and grinned awkwardly. They all had a good laugh. "You ain't gonna need those tonight, _ese_. Leave em home," Carlos said as he lifted his hat off my head, and returned to finish his preening.

I sat down and Mama put a steaming plate of rice and beans in front of me. She fixed my collar in back and smiled at me and then she looked at Pop with a furrowed brow.

"What troubles you, _mi amor_? You've been reading that letter over and over. What is it?" Their eyes locked, and he slid the letter across the tabletop and it landed in the lap of her housecoat. She tilted her head and gave him a harsh glare. Pop must have forgotten she couldn't read English. "I'm sorry. It is from my cousin in San Jose," Pop replied as he reached out to take the letter back. "He says that there are plenty of jobs at the shipyards in the Bay Area."

"We have a home here, Husband," Mama murmured. "You have enough gardening jobs to pay the rent. Our children have never known another place. Where would we live?"

Pop stared out the window. "You would stay. _I_ will go, live with my cousin for a few months, and get a job. Save some money, ya know. Get ahead. Carlos can run the business."

"When you asked me to marry you, Husband, you told me you wouldn't be a pepper picker all your life. You promised me a better life in the United States. Texas and Arizona wasn't much better than Mexico, but our lives got much better since we moved to Los Angeles. You've always had work."

My plate of food was getting cold because my appetite vanished. I shoved the food away and kept on listening to my parents.

"I thought I was living the American dream," Pop often said. "Oh, the whites called us wet-backs. One thing the whites forget is that their families all came from somewhere else. None of us just appeared. Irish, Jews, Italians. Take the Italians; they didn't come from Italy, USA. They came from Europe."

My folks had worked in Texas, around El Paso for about a year, and then Pop heard about jobs in Arizona, so they headed there. After a few years, they hitched a ride and landed in Los Angeles to work in the orange groves, but there weren't any jobs left by the time they got there. They were fortunate to meet a man who had a vacant studio apartment in a row of bungalows. According to my folks, this was the best place they ever lived in. "Cement sidewalks and grass," Pop would say. "Every place before had nothing but _dirt_. In the summer it was so dusty, and the winter rains turned everything to mud. God, I hate the dust and wind."

"Your father is telling the truth, children," Mama would say. "Mexico, Texas, and Arizona were dirty and dusty. When we walked up the cement steps and across the lawn of our first apartment here, we had to pinch ourselves to make sure we weren't dreaming. The best part was, it came with a two-burner gas stove, and an icebox and the man brought a block of ice every other day. We had running water and an indoor _baño_. So, no more cooking on the ground, or going to the bathroom outside, and food would keep."

Pop started the gardening business with a two-wheel cart that was left in the carport behind the apartments and an old rusted push mower he found in the weeds of a vacant lot. With saved money, he bought a bamboo rake and basket. A neighbor loaned him a file and a can of 3 In-One oil to fix the mower and before long, Reyes Gardening Company was up and running. His first account was for the guy who owned the bungalows. He knocked two dollars off the rent.

Mama got hired on with a house cleaning crew. The money she made, they saved. The money Pop made, they lived on.

"We were used to going without, and we did," Pop said. "But we got along okay. We got credit at the _groceria_ if things got tough, which they did during the rainy season. We got way behind on our bill, and I negotiated with the grocer to paint the outside of his store. He bought the paint and I supplied the labor. I coulda gone into the painting business, but I hate to paint, so I stuck to gardening."

Carlos was born in 1924, when they lived in the studio apartment. It was cramped with three. "Not as cramped as some of the other families," Mama said. "There was as many as eight in one place across the lawn from us. There were always fist fights over there."

When Mama was pregnant with me, they moved to Palmetto

Avenue. Trina and Connie were born there also.

"I can't stop thinking about the dust in those other places. Do you remember how bad it was?" Pop asked Mama. I still hadn't touched my dinner.

" _Si_ , I sure do; it was a dusty day when I first saw you, Husband," Mama said as she picked up my plate and set it on the drain board. "You were walking up the road with a red bandana around your mouth and nose and a sack of tools over your shoulder. I thought you were the sorriest picker I'd ever laid eyes on. Then you removed the cloth when I offered you the crock, and _Dios Mio_ , my heart skipped a beat."

"I shoulda kept walking, that's for sure," Pop said as he winked at me.

Mama spun around with a hurt look, then smiled when she saw us grinning. Then, in fake anger said, "You be careful how you tease in front of the children, Ramon Reyes!"

"Why did you think about the dust, Pop?" I asked. He just sat there with his head slightly hung down, not saying anything. He rubbed his temple, then sighed and said, "I got a feeling today, just like when the revolution was in full swing."

"What kind of feeling, Husband?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe all this malarkey with the cops and the kids in the _barrios_. Just a little fright, I guess. Like they'll send me back, ya know."

"Who? Who would send you back?" Mama asked.

"The government, or maybe the _policia_. I don't know. You remember what happened to thousands of Mexicans in the twenties, don't you? They got deported."

"Why were they deported, Pop?" I asked.

"The Anglos thought the Mexicans were competing for the jobs, Mickey. Mexicans were forced to take jobs and were paid less. They called it working at the poverty level. If a man was going to hire somebody and had a choice between a white guy at six bits an hour and a Mexican for four bits, I know he'd hire the Mexican. When jobs got scarce, the white guy wanted the _peon's_ job. The authorities deported some 12,000, didn't they, Mama?"

Mama just nodded and stood up to stir a pot on the stove. She came back to the table and said, " _Señora_ Gomez says that if we work and don't cause trouble they can't send you back, Husband. We've worked since we got here," she said waving her hand back and forth. "And you haven't been in trouble. Have you?" Mama said trying to lighten the darkish mood that crept into the kitchen.

Pop looked at me and said, "This war is making me edgy, I guess."

Three thoughts were spinning in my head. One, I didn't feel like going out after listening to my folks; the party spirit was gone. Two, if something like this was making Pop afraid, then I was scared, too. My world was unsettled right at that moment. The idea of living someplace else gave me the heebie-jeebies. From all I heard, going back to Mexico wasn't a good thing. Dust, mud and wind— _that's all my folks talked about_! Never once did I hear Mama and Papa talk kindly about Mexico. San Jose and the Bay area? I had no idea where those places were. Pop just gestured toward the front door when he spoke the names. What was right out the front door was just fine by me. And three, _why don't they become American citizens_? Then they could never be deported.

## Chapter 7

Ramon Reyes

LA 1943

My boys worry me. Carlos is like I was at his age, a firebrand. Monica tells me, "Husband, he's just like you." _mi amigo_ s would say, "Ramon, you should be proud of your boys. They're polite and work hard." Don't get me wrong—I am proud of them. It's just lately with all the war news and _pachucho_ bullpucky, I'm scared for them. I worry about Carlos' heart murmur, but not as much as if he were on the battlefield. And Mickey, he's at the age where he wants to be like his brother one moment, and the next he gets riled about his brother's antics.

My brothers, may they rest in peace, and I, were the same way. There's a pecking order, no doubt about it. I grew up with it and so now do my kids. Carlos is feisty and ready to pounce at the drop of a hat. I see the puffed faces and split lips. He's not fooling the old man. I had my share of scuffles in my day. That's on a need-to-know-basis and they don't need to know. I've seen bloodshed up close and way too personal. The kids today think Americans are categorizing them because they're Mexican. How do you think they'd feel if other Mexicans discriminated against them? That's what happened in Mexico when the _hacienda_ owners, along with the government, seized the small farmer's land and consolidated them into the surrounding estates. That was in Mexico and this is California. My boys have no idea how bad it can get and that their mother and I came here to get away from the worst kind of discrimination—discrimination from your own kind. I ain't saying what goes on here is right, but by comparison, it's better here. I just hope it stays that way, for my boys' sake.

## Chapter 8

Mickey

LA 1943

"C'mon, Mickey, _Andale_! Jimmy will be here soon," Carlos said as he stepped toward the front door. I decided that I wanted to have some fun rather than stay with the folks and listen to them talk gloom and doom.

"You make sure you take care of your brother, Carlos," Mama warned.

"We got lots to do tomorrow. Don't be out too late," Pop added.

I could see Trina and Connie walking across the front lawn. When Carlos stepped out on the porch he said in a singsong voice, "Here come my be-bop babies."

"Where _you_ going?" Trina asked me in an unfriendly tone.

"None of yer bee's wax!" I said.

"I saw Jimmy around the corner and I know you're going out to a party. I wanna go, too!"

"Too bad, kiddo. You ain't old enough!" I was a badass and if I had known what was going to happen to Trina later, I might have been a better brother. But I was stuck on myself for getting to go with Carlos and I just saw her as my snooty kid sister.

I could hear Trina rambling on to Connie as me and Carlos left. "Mickey always thinks he's such a big shot, standing on the porch wearing his suit. He thinks it's a Zoot suit. _Hardy har, har_. Don't make me laugh! But Carlos can pull it off. He looks cool with his shiny hair combed in a ducktail. Some of my gal pals think he's dreamy, Connie."

"What's a ducktail?" I heard my baby sister say.

Jimmy Thomas sounded the ahoogah horn on his black 1935 Chevrolet Standard. I was starting to get in a happy mood again. I looked out the back window and saw Trina, with her hands on her hips glaring at me. I thumbed my nose at her.

Jimmy had Negro features, but his complexion was fair and he had blue eyes. His mom was white and his father was black. Although small in size, Jimmy was capable of handling himself in a scrap. He'd proved that numerous times to my cousin, Donaldo. Jimmy and Donaldo met in Juvenile Hall. In there you needed to have somebody watch your back, and they watched out for each other. They went in the hall at the same time, Donaldo for petty theft, and Jimmy for assault and battery. Their release came at the same time, too.

My folks were kinda leery about meeting Jimmy. He was worried, too. Donaldo was family, but this other kid, Pop wasn't sure about, until he heard the whole story. Pop asked Jimmy with disbelief, "You mean to tell me your stepfather beat up your mother, and you beat him up? Is that what happened?" Jimmy nodded his head sheepishly, and Pop told him, "Hold your head up, son. You've got nothing to be ashamed of " and embraced him, holding his head of curly light brown hair to his chest. I don't think Jimmy had ever been hugged by a father figure in his whole life. He slumped into Pop's arms and wept. From that day on, Jimmy Thomas was a welcomed guest in our _casa_. Over the years we all became good friends and Jimmy proved himself by staying out of trouble. He got a real good job at a paper bag factory with a few promotions along the way.

"Where we headed?" I asked excitedly as we crossed 38th Street.

"We're pickin up Donaldo Cervantes and then to the Maywood Ranch for the farewell party," Carlos answered impatiently.

I was steaming in the backseat. Carlos didn't have one good reason why he was talking to me that way. He was treating me like a snot-nosed kid, and man, I was getting sick and tired of it.

Jimmy saw my anger in the rear view, and said, "Maybe you'll find a little _muchacha_ to make out with, eh Mickey?"

Donaldo and I were tossed around in the backseat as Jimmy took curves too fast. He was maneuvering the car with a steering wheel knob that had a drawing of a hula girl in the center. The Maywood Ranch was located in a rural part of the county called Bell. We left Slauson Boulevard and crossed the Los Angeles River. When the Chevy left the pavement for the dirt access road to the ranch our noggins almost hit the headliner. Dust from a car ahead of us was still visible, but not the car. Wheel tractors, bull dozers and spray rigs sat along a chain link fence that surrounded an old quarry pit. The small reservoir in the middle of the quarry supplied water for irrigating crops. The area around the reservoir was nicknamed Sleepy Lagoon, after a popular Harry James hit of the same name.

When we stopped, Carlos announced in a loud voice, imitating a train conductor, "Sleepy Lagoon. Last stop, Sleepy Lagoon. End of the line."

Music from car radios sounded through the Sycamore trees. Cookout fires dotted the landscape. My stomach growled and I wished I had that plate of Mama's rice and beans. The smoke from the barbeques hung in the air, and with the setting sun, cast an eerie orange glow over the area. Clangs from horseshoes hitting steel pegs sounded with regularity. Couples were dancing, but most were just standing around. A few kids were swimming in the reservoir. Mexicans had found the public pools in LA were closed to them recently. For some, it was the first real unfairness they felt, other than being called a wetback or a spic.

Jimmy opened the trunk of his car and took out two quart bottles of beer and a pint of whiskey. "Wanna swig, Mickey?" Jimmy asked me.

Before I could say a word, Carlos said, "He does _not_!" Jimmy gave a suit-yourself shrug and handed Donaldo a bottle of beer and an opener. When he took the cap off, the carbonation blew suds onto his coat front.

"Don't drink, okay, Mickey?" Carlos said.

"Sure, no problem. Is reefer okay?" I asked innocently.

Carlos took a step back, raised his fist and said, "I'll knock yer block off, mister."

Since I got the feeling I'd be cramping the older guys' style, I went and sat on a picnic table under a huge oak tree. Donaldo and Carlos were yakkin' with a couple of gals, and Jimmy was pushing another on a swing.

The moon was starting to rise above the grounds and shimmered on the water. I thought about the conversation in the kitchen earlier and my mood was turning unpleasant.

I sensed somebody behind me, and turned and saw a well-built Mexican woman leaning against the trunk of the oak. She looked older than the others by a few years. She had a white camellia in her jet-black hair, and she was smoking a cigarette. She looked at the crowd and inhaled deeply on her smoke. She exhaled through her nose and looked at me and said, "What're you lookin' at?"

I just shook my head and twisted back to the partiers. Before settling my gaze, I followed the lady's line of sight. She was fixated on a guy that I knew only as Chico. He was one of the leaders of the Olympic Street Boys. "He's a real bad-ass," Carlos told me one time when we saw Chico at the filling station.

A crowd of guys and gals, who looked like they were hanging on his every word, surrounded Chico. He was jingling the coins in his pocket as he talked. Chico was over six feet tall and slender. Even though his face was pockmarked, he was considered handsome. Dark hair combed straight back and parted in the middle gave him a rugged look. I could feel the anger from the woman behind me. She was fidgeting with her hair when I took another look at her. She crossed her arms, which showed off her bosom more.

"What are you looking at, kid?" she whispered. I said _nothing_ , and her face softened and I realized she was kinda pretty. Then she said to me, "Hey kid, would you like to dance with me? C'mon," as she ground out her smoke with her foot.

I looked toward Chico, who seemed busy, and shrugged. In a few short seconds she was standing in front of me, taking my hands and leading me right in front of Chico, who stopped talking for half a beat. Her hips wiggled more enthusiastically the last few steps before she turned and faced me. I saw my brother out of the corner of my eye, and my thought was, _he better shut his yap before bugs fly in_.

"My name is Elena Camacho. What's yours?" "Mickey, I mean Miguel Reyes. Pleased to meet you."

"Don't be shy. I won't bite. C'mon Baby, dance closer," Elena purred.

Her breath smelled like tobacco and booze, but when her raven hair fell around my face and her softness embraced me, I was a goner. Off in the distance somebody yelled that the barbeque was ready. I forgot about my growling stomach and thought only about the grown woman in my arms. And then I saw Carlos talking with Jimmy and Donaldo. All I could do was give a big teeth-showing grin.

I felt a tap on my shoulder, and a guy in an orange Zoot suit said gruffly, "I'm cutting in, _ese_." His name was Diego Cardoza. His stature was slight, but he carried himself large and his scowl was ferocious.

I started to pull away from Elena, but she held me tighter and said, "Tell your story walking, Diego. He don't wanna change partners, do you, Mickey?" I glanced over at Chico, who was smoldering hot enough to light a cigarillo.

Elena said in a loud voice, "He's a real man! The only real man here! None of you _cholos_ can hold a candle to him!"

I saw Carlos headed in my direction, only to have his path cut off by Chico. He talked with Carlos and pointed to the parked cars. Carlos stepped back and gave a gesture that seemed to say he got Chico's message. Carlos jerked me out of Elena's embrace with a tight grip on my upper arm, and dragged me out of the area. I was losing my footing and stumbling, and felt foolish. "What's wrong with you, man?" Carlos whispered harshly. "That's Chico Peralta's girl."

Carlos shoved me into the Chevy and Jimmy drove down the dirt road, and by the time we reached the river, Jimmy and Donaldo were teasing me like crazy. I glanced over at Carlos and he was blistering mad. Jimmy called me a _sancho_ and Romeo. Donaldo piped up with, " _Es muy romantico_ , eh little Cuz?"

Carlos just kept staring straight ahead with a snarl on his lip. I wished he would yell at me and get it over with. But he talked as if I wasn't there. "Can you believe this little prick? I shoulda left him home. It's a wonder Chico didn't take out his blade and cut the _payaso's_ balls off."

"I ain't no clown, Carlos!" I screamed.

"Yeah you are, and you ruined our time. Shit!"

I sulked in the backseat, and thought for the umpteenth time that night that I should have stayed home. The two in the front seat sat in silence.

Just before we pulled onto Slauson, Jimmy said, "Who's that on the road?" just as a man in a black drape stepped out of the middle of the lane.

"I think it's Clemente Huerta, one of the Downey Boys," Donaldo said. Just then a car going up to the ranch stopped and picked Huerta up.

Nothing more was said as we came back into our home turf. We stopped at the Palomar Lanes and bowled until eleven o'clock.

Jimmy and Donaldo left to find some girls. My brother and I gave our cousin a huge _abrazo_ and wished him luck. His hug back was long and heartfelt.

Carlos and I stayed behind to bowl a few more games and would walk the four blocks to our house. Thank Christ his mood got better. He beat me every game, so I guess he felt some satisfaction. He was very competitive, and better than me at most things, except baseball. I ran circles around him on the field. I was smarter, too; I'd gone farther in school.

As we left the bowling alley, I saw Carlos stiffen, then step toward the glass double doors. I looked over his shoulder to the parking lot in front, and saw Diego, the _vato_ that tried to cut in on my sashay with Elena, get out of the driver's seat of a white two-door Ford. He ran full speed at us. Carlos took a wide stance and thrust his hand in his pocket that held his blade. I took two steps to the right. A black DeSoto stopped directly behind the Ford. My thought was that Diego was being chased.

"The Downey Boys beat up Chico and Elena!" he shouted as he opened the doors. "Are there any Olys inside? We need help."

I was confused momentarily at Diego's question, until I realized that "Oly" was a nickname for the Olympics.

"I'll help, Diego," Carlos said faintly.

"Get in my car!" Diego said as the doors closed behind him.

I headed for the car too, and Carlos said, "Where do you think yer goin?"

"With you!"

"Hell no! You get your ass back home and hurry. And don't tell the folks."

I pressed my lips tightly together in frustration. Not only could I not avenge Elena, a lady that I felt an attraction to, but Carlos wanted me to lie to Mama and Pop.

"What am I supposed to tell them, huh, Carlos? Tell me that." "I dunno, Mickey. Tell em I found a dame."

"I can't tell them you found a dame."

"Then make something up. Now get movin," he yelled as he dashed for Diego's car.

I walked behind the DeSoto feeling like a dog chased home. Nuts to him. He's treating me like a kid again. He ain't Pop.

I opened the back door of the DeSoto and told the driver that Diego said I should ride with them. The driver shrugged and gave an I-don't-give-a-shit look. I settled in and thought what in the hell am I doing? My right heel kept rapidly tapping the floorboard rocking the car slightly.

The man sitting next to me said in a raspy voice as he eyed my foot action, "You carrying, man?"

"Nah," I said as badass as I could.

He just squinted and replied, "Never go out without your blade." The driver told me there was a bat in the trunk and I could use it. The cigarette between his lips bobbed up and down with each word he spoke. A bat? Is this guy _loco_? Use a bat to hit somebody? Me?

Pop's voice kept coming in loud and clear, _Be where you're supposed to be, with people you're supposed to be with, doing the right thing_. And here I was being told I can use a bat for a weapon. I'd been in fights before, but mostly schoolyard stuff and scraps in the neighborhood. This was very different. With a shaking hand, I grabbed the door handle to get out, when suddenly the driver put the car in gear and off we went to Sleepy Lagoon. My heart started to beat faster and faster the closer we got. _Why don't I just ask him to pull over and let me out_?

The driver told me that Clemente Huerta and some of the Downey Boys jumped Chico and Elena as they were making out in the back seat of Chico's car. A twinge of jealousy coursed through me, then foolishness, as I faced the cold hard truth; Elena used me to make Chico mad. I guess I knew that all along. "They took Elena to the hospital. She's mighty beat up," the driver continued. "Chico shoulda gone too, but he's on the warpath."

The dust hadn't even settled as we lined up shoulder to shoulder. Chico walked down the line nodding. His eyes were almost swollen shut. His lip was busted, and looked like it should be stitched up, and his cheeks were puffy. Splats of blood stained his tan drape. When he saw me he smiled, then winced in pain. "Well, well, if it ain't lover boy." I looked at my shoes and the hair on my neck tingled. I tightened the grip on the Louisville Slugger and saw my knuckles turn white. I swiveled my lowered head to the right and saw Carlos, out of line and standing with his hands on his hips glaring at me. The moon at his back gave him a menacing look.

Chico stepped back and told the group about the attack on him and Elena. "They're down at that farm house having a grand old time," he said as he waved his arm toward the pond. "Let's go down there and get their ass! C'mon!"

Drapes and shirts were being removed and guys were milling around getting set up for battle. Carlos came up to me and grabbed the bat from my hand. "Jesus Christ, Mickey! Stay out of the way, will ya?" he wheezed.

"He's right, kid. We can handle this," Chico said with a friendly voice. "I sure do thank you for coming, though." He took the bat from Carlos and said to me, "Take the bat just in case. When we get down there, stay by the cars."

I watched as Carlos and the others crept up on the Downey Boy's party. They danced on a patio behind the small white frame house. From the front lawn, I saw a man hurl a brick through the front window. The people in back came around and met the Olys and a vicious fight started. Grunts, groans, and screams rose from the fighters.

From where I was standing, I saw Chico Peralta and Clemente Huerta square off and start exchanging blows, when all of a sudden the glint of a blade flashed in Huerta's hand. Chico had his own knife out and the two crouched and held their blades in their dominant hands. They circled each other with the other arm outstretched as if they were balancing themselves. My mouth was dry and hanging open. I couldn't stop my eyes from blinking. I was watching an honest to goodness knife fight. It was like watching a movie, with one exception—I never pissed in my pants at the movies. I'd never been this frightened before in my life. I wanted to be home listening to the radio with Mama and Pop. I thought about running behind a tree and hiding. I thought maybe I'm dreaming. This must be a nightmare.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Carlos get knocked to the ground. I tightened the grip on the bat and took a step toward him. But in a second he was on his feet and had punched his opponent to the ground. I felt confident that Carlos could take the other guy. Carlos was stomping the guy in the gut with his thick-soled brogans. His hair flailed with each stomp.

Back at the knife fight, I saw Huerta on the ground and Chico standing over him gasping and trying to catch his breath. One of the Downey Boys grabbed Chico from behind, exposing his belly. Clemente got up quickly and came at Chico with his knife directed at Chico's middle. I grabbed the bat tighter and ran up behind Huerta. It felt like I was running through quicksand. I swung with all my might at the back of his head. Jesus Christ! I can't believe I just did that. Shit! It sounded like hitting a watermelon! I dropped the bat in horror. What have I done? Oh my God! Wake up! Wake up! But this was no dream! In the snap of a finger I knew things would never be the same for me.

The man holding Chico let loose of him and walked slowly at me with a sinister look while tossing the knife from hand to hand. I picked the bat up and took a stance like I was waiting for a pitch. Chico spun the guy around and pasted him right in the nose, sending the knife flying and splitting his nose. He hightailed it to the house squealing and bleeding. I picked up his switchblade and pocketed it.

Chico and I looked at one another and smiled between heaving breaths. He grinned at me, and I bobbed my head once and held out the bat and let it drop to the dirt. He looked me straight in the eye and nodded.

Clemente was lying on the ground writhing in pain. He sat up and rubbed his head. He looked at the bat, and then at me. Before he could say a word, somebody yelled that the coppers were on their way. Chico helped Clemente to his feet and said in a sinister tone, "Where do you guys get off beating up a _chica_? If it was just me, it would be my bad luck, being in the wrong place at the wrong time. You assholes stepped over the line this time. And the shivs weren't necessary either."

Suddenly, I remembered pissing my pants, and looked down and realized the charcoal colored material and the darkness would hide any evidence of a stain. I headed for the DeSoto to ride back to town when I heard, "Hey, Lover Boy. C'mon ride with me." It was Chico motioning me over to his car. "It's the least I can do." Carlos looked angrily at me and shook his head.

In the parking lot of the Palomar Lanes, the Olympic Boys were heady with excitement. Chico told them that they did a fine job protecting the honor of the 38th Street area and Olympic Avenue. He looked straight at me and pointed and said, "There you are! That one there has a swing like a big leaguer. He could bat cleanup for the Hollywood Stars! _Gracias, amigo_."

I bowed slightly to the bad ass of the Olympics. Carlos and I were almost home before we said anything. "Are you thinking about joining the Olys?" I asked Carlos.

"Nah. I ain't cut out for it. Are you gonna join?"

"Me? Why would you ask that?"

"I don't know. Maybe you could be Chico's right hand man," he replied snidely.

"Cut it out, Carlos. I wish I'd never gone tonight."

"Well, that makes two of us, _ese_. This thing tonight was stupid. If the newspapers get a hold of it, they'll say it was a gang fight."

"Hold on a second, Carlos. Wasn't that a gang fight we were just at?" "Some will see it that way. The Downeys are close to being a gang. They sell black market shit and charge shopkeepers protection, just like the dagos and Mickey Cohen. The Olympics are more like a club. Most of em have jobs. Some are married with kids. Hell, Chico is a foreman at Knudsen. Most live in the 38th Street neighborhood. They were just defending their _barrio, ese_.

I climbed under the covers, but knew I wouldn't be able to sleep. I couldn't get over the sickening splat of the bat to the back of Clemente's head. What in the world was I thinking? I shoulda gone home with my tail between my legs. Will I ever get that sick splat noise out of my head?

Sea breezes picked up most afternoons, cooling the summer heat. Old people ventured out onto porches with iced beverages to chat with neighbors after being inside most of the day. _Chicas_ played hopscotch, jump rope or jacks. Others ran through sprinklers attached to garden hoses. The boys played chase games or some sort of game with a ball. Cats crawled out from their slumber spots and nuzzled the legs of humans.

"What's a matter boys? You're dragging. Let's pick up the pace," Pop yelled at me and Carlos more than once the day after the Sleepy Lagoon fight. I was tired from being out late and getting no sleep. Carlos must have felt the same effect I did, but with one difference; he'd been in a fight. I could hear him moaning and groaning as he pushed the mower or emptied the basket. Thank Christ I had work to do. I only thought about Sleepy Lagoon every other minute.

"What is with him?" Pop asked, jutting his jaw toward Carlos. I just shrugged, and mopped my brow with my red bandana. Carlos tied his blue work shirt around his waste. His sleeveless undershirt was soaked through with sweat. A tattoo depicting a crucifix with rays emanating from it glistened on Carlos' right bicep. Crudely inked on the back of his left hand between the thumb and forefinger were his initials CR. I wanted to get a tattoo, but made the mistake of asking permission from my folks.

"It's easier to ask forgiveness than permission, _ese_ ," Carlos said with a chuckle when I told him about the denial for my tattoo.

After our showers, the three of us sat in the backyard sipping ice water. The garden hose slowly trickled into the rows of vegetables in our victory garden. Off in the distance a neighbor's radio played Mexican _musica_. The brazier puffed smoke from the coals, almost ready to grill some chops. Our serenity was shattered when the front screen door slammed shut. Foot stomps echoed from inside.

"That ain't the girls. That's for sure," Pop said.

" _Hola, amigos_!" Jimmy said as he picked up the pitcher and poured ice water into a tumbler and sat down on the picnic bench.

"How'd the bowling go?" he asked. We just gave him vague, noncommittal grunts.

"I got Donaldo put on the bus around daybreak. He's in love and hung over," Jimmy snorted. "Me thinks his patriotism is fading slightly."

A blue jay chattered from its perch up a tree. An orange alley cat, with a battle-worn face sat on the back fence, oblivious to the jay.

"Hey! Big goings on last night up at the Maywood Place," Jimmy announced with authority. Carlos and I both looked at Jimmy. When we didn't respond, Pop gave us a questioning look. I realized that neither Carlos nor I had said a word to Jimmy, and I think Pop became suspicious.

"Is that right?" I replied as nonchalantly as I could. "Well, what happened?" Pop asked.

"Well, sir. It seems there was some sort of fight, and a guy got killed.

Carlos and I looked quickly at one another.

"My, my. Who was it?" Pop asked shaking his head in a _what-is-the-world-coming-to_ manner.

I held the icy glass of water to my red-hot forehead, trying to hide my fearful look. I knew they could hear my heart beating.

"Some _vato_ named Clemente Huerta. He was run over, stabbed, and had a head injury. They found his body in the river."

Air was rushing through my head, and I thought I was gonna pass out. If I looked at any of them around the table, I'd start bawling. Instead, I kept my eyes shut. I heard Pop ask if we'd heard of Huerta. Carlos gave a faint answer that might have been, "I've heard the name." I was numb all through dinner. Even Trina, who tried to goad me into an argument all her waking hours, couldn't get a rise out of me. Mom and Pop were giving me curious looks. Carlos gave me that knitted brow look that said _straighten up and fly right_ since I wasn't doing a good job of hiding my feelings about the murder. And then he came to the rescue by asking, "You still don't feel good, Mickey?"

Looks of understanding came across Mama and Pop's faces. I went to bed early that night knowing that I would not be able to sleep. The rest of the family stayed up and listened to "The Shadow" on the radio. Later, I heard Trina ask Carlos, "Did you hear about that guy who was murdered?"

I couldn't hear his answer, but I knew he covered me. Brothers do help each other.

"What am I gonna do, Carlos?" I asked with a trembling voice when he came to bed.

"I told ya to go home, didn't I? But no, you had to be a big shot. A real mean _hombre_. Well, you've stepped in shit now."

I jumped up and ran to the _baño_ and vomited. When I came back Carlos said in a softer voice, "Buck up, Mickey. You didn't do anything wrong."

"When we left, Clemente was alive. Chico even helped him up." "I know. I saw him go into the house," Carlos agreed.

"Should I tell Pop?"

"No. Not yet. Sleep on it, Mickey." But there would be no sleep for me.

The lawn behind the massive Spanish style mansion was shaded with huge cypress trees and spotted sunshine dotted the grass. Low adobe walls, the height of picnic benches, meandered about the yard encasing many different colored camellia bushes. Agapanthus bordered a tall link fence that separated the grounds from a tennis court. The flagstone patio sat under a wooden trellis covered with wisteria. The swimming pool gleamed in brilliant sunlight. At the end of the pool decking adjacent to the diving board was a guesthouse.

I raked leaves and listened to Pop swear as he continuously pulled the rope starter on the Evinrude power mower. Since the war started, it was hard to find parts for small engines. All that kind of stuff was used for the military. Finally, in a cloud of exhaust, the mower started, and Pop started cutting grass again. Carlos was on his hands and knees using a hand clipper along an edge. The fog and smell of the engine fumes lingered and mixed with the freshly cut grass clippings, an everyday odor for me. Sometimes I liked it and other times, by the end of the day, it made me gag.

My mind kept thinking back to what Carlos said, "You didn't do anything wrong." Was that true? I battled between feelings of satisfaction that I did nothing wrong, and that I possibly helped kill a man. I didn't think clobbering Clemente in the back of his head caused him to die, and I didn't run over him and I didn't stab him. A worse scene played out. If I hadn't hit Clemente Huerta, Chico Peralta very well may have been killed. To witness Chico getting stabbed, and do nothing about it would have been a cross around my neck all my days. That very thought is what I hung my hat on. I was right in hitting Clemente and I was starting to feel better. But Jesus, that splat noise as I swung the bat to the back of his head—man oh man, that wouldn't go away. I wanted to heave when I thought about it.

"What did you say, Mickey?" Pop asked as the mower idled and he emptied the grass catcher. Not realizing I spoke out loud, I scrambled to come up with something.

"I said, I wonder why there's never anybody at this house? Never swimming, playing tennis or sitting around on the patio."

"They work hard, Mickey."

"If I gotta work so much that I can't enjoy this," I said sweeping my hand all around me, "then it ain't worth it. And that guest house over there, well heck, that's bigger than two of our houses."

"You movin from the _barrio_ to the Hollywood Hills, Mickey?" Carlos asked as he walked up to Pop and me as he swabbed his brow with a red bandana.

"One of these days when it's really hot, I'm gonna jump in that pool," I said with a grin.

Pop told us to step up the pace. His urging used to inspire me to work harder and faster. Then I realized that we always finished the day's work, and always on time. That was Pop's way.

"We're at it, Pop," Carlos replied. "You get to use the power rig. We gotta do all the push and hand work."

"When I was your age we had power nothing. All by hand," he said flexing both hands.

"When was that, Pop? When you raced chariots in Rome?" I asked. "Knock it off," he answered gruffly, but grinning.

The exterior masonry walls were painted a pale pink with bright white trim. A huge neon sign on the front eave created a fascia that covered the tar and gravel roof. The sign in cursive read: PALOMAR LANES.

The building in East LA, around Olympic Avenue, started out as a warehouse for a moving company. After the first war, rising rents forced the company out and they relocated to San Pedro, California and the shipping trade.

The spacious interior made the building desirable to numerous enterprises. A roller derby team wanted to erect tracks and use the building for practice, and a group of men that operated numerous bowling alleys in the LA area wanted to have the space for bowling, billiards, and pin ball machines.

The owners of the building determined that the best use of the building was for recreation catering to the neighborhood. In a press conference with the Chamber of Commerce, one of the owners, one Gianni Obini, an Italian-Swiss, who changed his name to John O'Brian and understood prejudice first hand, cut the ribbon after an extensive remodel. With his pinkish complexion and straw colored hair, he announced, "this center is state of the art."

New glass front doors were added, a lounge with a full bar, coffee shop with complete kitchen facilities, a billiards room with four tables, a pin ball arcade and a nursery, so mothers could leave their children while they bowled—all this made up the main floor. The desk and Pro Shop were next to the front doors. A wooden fence was built along the sidewalk to block the view of the vacant lot where moving vans had at one time parked. The lot became a hangout for teenagers and the fence a billboard for announcements. Hobo signs were carved in spots discreetly letting those passing through know where a meal could be had. Sadly, parents posted notes for runaway children begging them to make contact.

The main floor was dark blue carpet with thick gold braid designs woven into the fabric. One level down there were booths with cocktail tables to view the alleys. Another step down was a ball rack that created a half-wall behind the bowling area. Each lane had a score table and curved benches. On each side of the hardwood lanes were rails, so pinsetters could send the ball back to the bowlers. Kids in the neighborhood could earn some walking around change. Opportunities for earning money were sparse; at the roller rink, a kid could become a key-boy, helping skaters put on their skates. Once the bowling alley opened there were more chances to earn.

The neighborhood surrounding the building was a blend of different ethnicities: Asian, Pacific Islanders, Italian, Negroes and Mexican. Most established businesses in the downtown area didn't cater to ethnic persons. If you wanted a job, that was just fine, but to eat in the cafes or go to the picture show, well, that was a horse of a different color.

The sound of bowling balls hitting the hardwood floor and the thump of the pins being knocked around echoed throughout the cavernous building. The greasy smell of frying burgers and grilled onions drifted down from the lousy ventilation over the griddle, and mixed with the tobacco smoke issuing from the lounge and the bowling lanes.

Since Sleepy Lagoon, Carlos and I hadn't got too far off our patch. If we went any place it was to bowl, or to the _groceria_ to get something for Mama. One night we entered the Palomar Lanes to bowl a few frames, but the only lane open was next to a bunch of sailors that looked like they'd been there all afternoon. The numerous beer bottles strewn about, cinched it for us.

Carlos said, "Let's have a Coke and go home."

From the booth area, we had a good spot to watch the goings on. Carlos' head swiveled every time a pretty gal wandered by. I watched the sailors bowl, and saw a drunk one walk halfway down the lane and yell to the pinsetter, "Hey Spic. Hurry up with my ball!"

Carlos turned and postured when he heard the word spic. I pointed to the sailors, all of them laughing at their buddy who was wobbling and yelling.

When his ball came back down the rail, he picked it up and there was a huge gob of spit in the thumbhole. The sailor dropped his ball with a loud thump and stood in the middle of the hardwood lane, motioning with his index finger for the pinsetter to come to him. His shipmates gathered around him. Several pinsetters straggled out from the back, and met the sailors and started swapping blows. The brawl took up three lanes disrupting other bowlers. "Let's beat feet, Mickey. We don't need to be interferin' in something that ain't bothering us," Carlos said as he stood up. That was just fine with me.

By the time we got to the house, the crescendo of sirens wailed through the still night.

"What are all the sirens about? There a fire somewhere?" Mama asked.

"Can't say, Mama. Sounds like they stopped at the bowling alley," I said. Pop lowered the newspaper he was reading, and looked at us with a mixture of relief and suspicion.

The morning headlines blasted out: SLEEPY LAGOON MURDERER IN CUSTODY. The article stated that Chico Peralta was nabbed on the way to the hospital to see his girlfriend. Further on, it was written that an unknown male Mexican was wanted also.

In a police interview from her hospital bed, Elena Camacho revealed that Chico Peralta and Clemente Huerta had fought at Sleepy Lagoon. _Am I the male Mexican wanted also_? I wondered. _Who else could they mean? This shit ain't goin away_.

I needed to come up with a plan. I didn't know where or how to begin.

The antiseptic smell from the hospital corridor was overpowering. Bells plinked faintly at the nurse's station, and bedside radios in every room played soap operas or music. The gray linoleum floors were highly polished and glistened in the lights hung from the ceiling. Transom windows slashed out at forty-five degree angles from frames attached above each door. A haze of cigarette smoke seeped into the hall from the doctor's lounge, battling with the sterile odor for a few yards.

I was headed down the long corridor to Elena's room. Only Carlos, Jimmy and Donaldo knew my name or that I was at Sleepy Lagoon, except for Elena and Chico. I wasn't sure if Chico even knew my name. I knew I was taking a chance. The cops might be watching her.

Her face was bruised and without makeup, but she was still pretty. Her black shiny hair splayed across her pillow. The contrast of her hair on the bright white pillow was striking. There was a curtain between her and the other patients in the four-bed ward. She was asleep when I approached, so I turned to leave. "Yes?" she said weakly. She didn't recognize me at first, and then there was a glimmer, but uncertainty about where she knew me from.

I didn't know what to do so I posed like I was dancing. She smiled, then started to laugh, but quickly winced. My heart poured out to her for the pain she was in. Her smile returned, and she said "Get me a wheel chair, and take me for a walk, Baby." She gestured with her fingers to the thumb indicating the talking sign, and then shook her head, meaning this is not a good place to have a word.

We sat outside in a courtyard, and she told me she was feeling a little better. "The tape holding my broken ribs itches something awful," she sighed and lifted her gown exposing the bandage and the side of her breast. I reminded myself to stay focused.

"The nurse says it's a good thing. I don't see that. A good thing is getting out of here," she said as she tried to get into a comfortable position.

"It's so nice you came to see me, but I forgot your name."

I was starting to get scared. Should I tell her my name? Then a little peeved and hurt that she didn't remember my name, I told myself to keep my eye on the ball. I leaned closer to her and whispered, "Miguel Reyes."

"Of course. Mickey, right"?

"Yeah, and I think the police are looking for me in connection with the Huerta murder."

"They got Chico," she whined. "But he says when he left, Clemente was alive. Are you the one that hit him with the bat?"

I nodded. I was lost for words, and I momentarily lost focus as to why I came to see her. I certainly didn't want to re-hash Sleepy Lagoon. "You know when my friends brought me here, I heard _nada_ about the gang fight or the murder. Chico says all the Olympic Boys were down at the bowling alley or home when Clemente got it. It had to be somebody still at the party. Maybe a Downey Boy or somebody not in with nobody."

"Can't one of the Olympics go to the cops and tell them Chico wasn't there?" I asked.

"Nah. The flatfoots won't believe them. They'll say they are lying." We sat silently for several minutes. The air turned cooler, and Elena started to roll toward the door. "Take me to the cafeteria, will ya?" she said.

I got her a glass of orange juice with ice. She stirred her drink with a straw and looked intently at me.

"Do you think I should tell the cops, Elena?"

"No I don't. That would bring heat on you from the Downeys. They'd come after you _muy rapido_. Especially if one of them knocked Clemente off. They'll slice you, and then go home and have _chili verde con arroz_ with _la familia_ , and not give two shits about you."

Suddenly I was filled with dread. The _vato_ with the split nose flashed in my mind, and my hands started to tremble. I wondered if I should carry his knife.

"What is it, Baby? What's the matter?"

I mentioned the guy with the split nose. She told me to lay low and the heat would pass.

"What about Chico? Is he just going to sit in jail for something he didn't do?"

"Chico is a big boy. He can take care of himself. He'll come up with something. Besides, if he wants one of his boys to testify, they will."

Something told me she had it wrong, but I really didn't know, so I clammed up.

I wheeled Elena back to her room, and she kept tinkling the ice in her orange juice. She held me around my neck as I helped her back into bed. She continued to hold and pulled me closer to her face. I thought she was going to whisper something in my ear, but she placed a big wet kiss that was hot, cold and tangy at the same time on my lips and tongue. "We need to finish our dance, Baby. Maybe when I get out, okay?"

I left the hospital that afternoon knowing full well that I would never see Elena Camacho again, and I was sad. She was as brassy as a gun moll, as beautiful as a movie actress and as flirty as a bargirl. I headed for home with her orangey taste in my mouth.

"I'll never understand the silence gangsters have. _Compadres_ will let a _compadre_ sit in the _pinta_. And the poor sap could get the gas chamber," I said to Carlos as we played catch on the front lawn. He said maybe this would stop a gang war where Mexicans might kill other Mexicans.

"Besides," Carlos continued, "The Olys aren't a gang."

"They're sure as hell acting like a gang," I answered back. "They are being stupid."

Most of the streets in the business area of the _barrio_ were mom- and-pop shops. People in East LA didn't spend enough money to create a spot for a large department store. On weekends the buses were filled with people from the neighborhoods going to take advantage of the sales downtown or have lunch at the fountain in the basement of Woolworth's.

In the _barrio_ , the small shops were, for the most part neat and tidy. Most customers were neighbors, and first names were frequently used. Credit was common and late payment of bills even more common. I stopped at the corner and saw Mr. Reynaldo, who owned the liquor store, sweeping glass on the sidewalk. Somebody broke his front window again.

" _Hola_ , Mr. Reynaldo. How ya doing?"

"Oh. Hi ya, Mickey," he said exasperated. "The sons a bitches broke my plate glass window again. Third one this year." Reynaldo was a short man with a thin mustache and gray hair. He wore a white shopkeeper's apron and a white long sleeve shirt and black trousers. He smelled of cigarettes constantly, as did the interior of his store.

"Right about now, I'd like to own a glass business," Reynaldo chirped.

"The guy selling plywood ain't doin too bad," I replied.

"You said a mouthful there, brother," he replied as he kicked at the terra cotta flower pot that was tossed at the window.

The barber next door heard our conversation and joined us on the sidewalk. He had light brown hair and a ruddy complexion. When you saw him, you thought Irish, but when he spoke he had a thick Mexican accent.

"I can't believe they broke your window again, Pepe. Mexicans shaking down other Mexicans. I don't get it."

"The Italians and Jews are doing it all over the city, too, Juan."

The barber continued to rail about the little pricks asking for protection money. "Hells bells, we watched some of those kids grow up. Their parents are our customers, for cryin' out loud. It's bad enough we have the GIs running around our streets raising a ruckus."

"Do you mean to tell me Mexicans are asking for money to protect you?" I asked.

"Yer darn tootin' they are," Mr. Reynaldo replied. The barber just shook his head.

"Protection from who? Them? So they won't break your windows? Is that it?"

"They keep upping the price. So I tell em _no mas_ , and I get that pot airmail through my window. I wish the Downey Boys would stay in their own part. The cops are useless. They say it's a Mexican thing." "Yeah, since Clem Huerta got hit, the price has gone up and up," the barber said with a thumb moving up and down. "The new guy runnin' the outfit is the real problem. He thinks he's Mickey-God-Damned-Cohen," the barber growled as he followed a customer into his shop.

I put a nickel on the counter, grabbed an orange soda from the cooler and took a long pull from it. A tall man in a dark business suit walked in and started a conversation with Mr. Reynaldo, and I moved over to let them talk.

"Just get back to Downey Street. I hear your mama callin," Mr. Reynaldo hissed.

I stood at the magazine rack looking at the covers of girlie books, when the words _Downey Street_ put me on alert. A closer look at the man revealed stitches down the length of his nose. My heart raced. The man noticed me looking at him; I stared back as non-committal as possible, but my stomach flip-flopped and acidic juice lodged in my throat. When he exited, I finally exhaled.

With a shaking hand, Reynaldo lit a cigarette. I watched him as he tried to settle down. A few minutes later a tramp walked in and went over to the shelf of pint bottles. I saw Mr. Reynaldo squint as the smoke stung his eyes when he looked sideways as the tramp picked up a pint of bourbon and turned and dropped it. "Oops," he said as he picked up another and dropped it. Reynaldo tossed his cigarette in the over flowing ashtray and ran around the counter and by me in a flash. He grabbed the man by his collar steering him to the door.

"Hey, you ain't givin me the bum's rush!" the tramp snarled as he squared up and punched Reynaldo in the face. Mr. Reynaldo staggered back stunned, and looked at me. I stepped into his path as the tramp came to the door. I turned the soda bottle over, spilling orange drink, and brought it across the tramp's brow and bridge of his nose.

"You shouldn't a done that, man," he snarled as he left the store. When I understood that the tramp was just dressed as a tramp, my heart beat so much I thought I was gonna pass out.

For some reason, the thought kept going through my mind, _Getting older is tough_. I've had more scary things happen to me in the last month than in my entire life. What is going on?

When Mr. Reynaldo went to the store room to get the broom and dust pan, I asked, "Ain't ya gonna call the coppers?"

"No, I'm not! They're as useless as tits on a boar. All they'll do is waste time rousting some innocent Mexican, and that guy will be back on Downey," he said as he looked out the open doorway.

I followed his look and saw a black car slowly drive by with the man in the suit driving and the guy dressed as the tramp in the front passenger seat giving us the evil eye as he pointed a finger at me like it was a gun. _Keep going; please keep going_ , I thought.

"You better beat it, Mickey."

When I started to go out the front door, Mr. Reynaldo told me to go out the back and take alleyways until I got home.

The familiar alleys are short cuts I'd walked all my life, but never with this much fear. I crossed one street to enter another alley and heard the roar of an engine and spotted the black car racing toward me. I jumped a wooden fence, ran through a backyard, and crossed the next street and hid behind a huge oleander bush. The black car slowly crawled by, searching for me. When it passed, I took the gate adjacent to my hiding spot into the backyard. I saw slanted cellar doors next to the screened laundry porch and quietly opened them and went down into the dark and musty smelling cellar. Cobwebs gripped my head and I brushed frantically at them. When my eyes adjusted to the dark, I noticed an old corduroy jacket and straw hat on a nail. _I'll disguise myself_ , I thought.

Shelves of canned fruit and vegetables stood next to a ground-level window. I opened a jar of sliced peaches and slurped them down. I put the empty jar back on the shelf. I realized I could stay here for a long time. Just then a floor joist above my head creaked and my chin started to tremble and my pulse raced. A thought kept going through my mind: just knock on the back door and have the people inside call my father so he can come and get me. Maybe they don't have a phone. If they do have a phone maybe they'd call the cops on me as a trespasser.

The sun was starting to go down and I thought it would be safe to go home. I had been hiding for at least two hours. I put on the old jacket and straw hat and lifted the heavy wooden door; the creaking sounded very loud. I put the door down as quietly as possible, praying the whole time that I wouldn't drop it. There was a definite thud when it shut completely. I plastered myself against the back porch wall waiting for somebody to come out of the house. Abruptly the back door opened and a housewife stepped into the screened porch. To my relief, she removed laundry from a wooden drying rack. I jumped the back fence and went to a cross street to get my bearings and realized I was only a block from home.

Once I determined I was out of danger, I took off the coat and hat and put them in a neighbor's burn barrel. Too late, I saw the black car parked down the street, and then a shadowy figure lurking behind the trunk of a palm tree. The man in the car ran toward me and the man behind the tree went to my back. As they closed in, I stepped into the street to give myself a chance.

"We been looking for you since Sleepy Lagoon, _ese_ ," the man behind me said. Seeing his pink nose and black stitches crisscrossing it almost buckled my knees. Holy shit! These guys know where I live!

They were on me in a flash. I gave one a slug to the jaw, which didn't seem to have any effect. The guy with the stitches threw me to the ground, and they were punching and kicking me continuously, when suddenly the crush on me became lighter. I saw the flash of a blue shirt and thought, _thank Christ, Carlos is home_.

I scrambled to my feet and there was Pop squaring off with one of the _hombres_. Pop? He stood toe-to-toe with tramp man, and knocked him to the ground. I was amazed at the speed and accuracy of my father's punches. He'd been in fights before—that was for sure—but never talked about it. Who knew? The nose guy took his eye off me and turned to see his ally on the ground. I gave him a jab to his beak, loosening the stitches. Blood was dripping from the scab. He helped his _amigo_ up and they staggered to their car, giving us sinister looks.

Pop and I stood with heaving chests trying to catch our breath.

His lip was split and there were cuts on a couple of knuckles on his right hand. I came out okay. My ribs were bruised from the punches they gave me, but I was none the worse for wear.

"I called the police! I called the police!" Mama kept saying while running at us. Her look was frantic. " _Mi amor_ , are you okay?" she asked Pop with such tenderness, I almost cried.

A stooped old lady with a cane approached and said in Spanish, "Ramon! How could you do that? Now the gangsters will be in our neighborhood all the time!"

Mama screamed back at her in Spanish that he was protecting the neighborhood and his child. Others were murmuring in agreement with Mama. The old lady waddled home.

Pop was holding cubes of ice in a dishtowel to his lips. Trina was dabbing a cotton ball with hydrogen peroxide to his other hand. He listened to the police officer's questions, and kept shaking his head, then turned his gaze on me. Squirming, I told them about the incident at Reynaldo's Liquor Store and clobbering the guy with the soda bottle, and holing up in a cellar for the rest of the afternoon.

Carlos was sitting on a stool next to the sink, his right foot moving up and down in a rapid-fire motion. He'd shown up five minutes after the scuffle was over, and was honked off because there was nothing he could do, and he felt he should do something. One of the cops, a big fair-haired guy, eyed him suspiciously, almost like he was expecting him to spring into some sort of action. Pop gave a look to Carlos that implied _calm down_. Anyway, his leg stopped moving. We didn't give the police too much scoop, not that we were withholding, we just didn't know that much. I told them the shopkeepers referred to the men as Downey Boys. Carlos and I looked at one another. My look was with a flicker of fear, but Carlos' was as emotionless as the gaze of a chewing cow. We knew that Sleepy Lagoon was the underlying factor in this mess, but we kept mum.

The palm trees swished softly in the light breeze. Kids on the street were playing work-ups and the chatter of "Hey batter, batter!" could be heard.

I sat on our front porch step next to Carlos watching the typical street scene. It was as if nothing out of the ordinary happened earlier in the day on Palmetto Avenue. Every car that went by put us on high alert. We were guards of our house. He was silent and moping. The thought came to me that maybe he believed he should have been with Pop fighting the bad guys. Fine and dandy with me. He could've had my place any old time.

After Mama and Pop went to bed, Carlos left the house heading in the direction of the Palomar Lanes. I thought about following him, but decided that I'd had too much trouble lately, and I went off to bed.

Carlos staggered in after midnight, smelling like a brewery. Off in the distance I heard an ahoogah horn. In no time he was snoring like crazy. I threw a dirty sock at his head. He just moved slightly and continued his slumber. I hoped he'd have a huge hangover.

Several months passed after the fight on our street. From time to time I'd hear word that I was still wanted by the Downeys. Every time I saw a black sedan I panicked. But for the most part, tranquility settled in our neighborhood and within our house. In August of 1943 in downtown, GIs were fighting Mexican kids in an area the police dubbed the red zone. Most of the combating took place in several square blocks. A curfew was set, and if anybody was in the _Zona Roja_ after dark, they ended up in the can. The cop, Murphy, was having a heyday with all the publicity.

I knew I wasn't gonna go in _Zona Roja_ , but Carlos frequented it, or some other place where fighting went on. He came home with shiners or a fat lip anyway. Then he stopped going out at night. When I asked him about it he just gave me the air.

One night Trina and Connie were playing Jacks on the linoleum floor in the kitchen and the rest of us were listening to the radio.

"What was that?" Pop asked as he got up to turn the radio volume down.

"Sounded like glass breaking," I said.

"Look!" Mama screamed pointing out the front window. Flames flickered in the window. Our porch was on fire! Pop, Carlos and I went out the backdoor and raced up the gravel driveway to the front. Pop unrolled the hose and I turned it on. Carlos leaped on the porch and was stomping the flaming doormat. Pop squirted water on the flames and on Carlos. The girls left the house and stood in the backyard while Mama ran next door to call the fire department. Connie started crying and Trina picked her up.

By the time the firemen showed up, the fire was out. It didn't take them that long to get there; it was just luck the fire went out due to our efforts. The screen door was scorched and charred at its bottom and the bead board porch ceiling was smoke stained. Broken glass from a jar lay on the pile of ashes that had once been our doormat. Gasoline smells lingered around the front of the house.

"Looks like they tossed a Molotov cocktail at ya. Somebody don't like ya," The fire captain said. "We'll report it to the arson squad and the police."

My family had been attacked, and I felt it was my fault. I was pacing on the lawn itching to go to Downey Street and let them have it. Somehow make it right. Carlos and Pop walked up and stood next to me. Carlos looked as angry as me, but Pop's look is what made me stop. It was a mix of rage and terror. His lips were a thin line and his eyes squinted. He said in a slow and steady whisper, "What in the hell is going on? This is much more than revenge for hitting a guy with a bottle," he said with his hands on his hips. "This," he said jamming his thumb over his shoulder back at the house, "is attempted murder. So somebody better start explaining, and I mean _pronto_!" he said with a violent finger pointed to the ground. He saw our neighbors milling around our front yard, and hissed, "in the house, _now_."

The interior of the house had only a slight smell of smoke. All the windows and doors were open to let fresh air in. Pop slammed the front door and told the girls to go to bed. When Trina started to whine, Mama yanked her up and told her to get going. Trina stomped down the hallway and gave a huge raspberry, and then slammed the door in Connie's face.

The more Carlos and I explained the events at Sleepy Lagoon, the more Pop seemed to get smaller in his chair. Every once in a while Mama would cluck and click or say, "What were you thinking?"

"Mama, I'll handle this," Pop said in a forceful but gentle voice, and she sat back angrily crossing her arms.

"You see it, don't ya, Pop? If I hadn't a hit Clemente with the bat, he would a killed Chico, right in front of me. I couldn't let that happen," I whined as I sat forward, my arms resting on my thighs, hands gesturing with each syllable. Pop scratched his chin thoughtfully and started to speak, then stopped for several repetitions. "What do you have to say for yourself, Carlos?" Pop said.

"What do you mean?" Carlos replied.

"He was your responsibility, and you let this happen."

"Wait just a minute!" Carlos said as he stood up. Pop jumped up and faced off with him.

"Wait a second, both of you!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. They both turned and looked at me. "Carlos told me to go home, Pop. I got in the other car. He didn't know I was there. It ain't his fault. This is all at my feet," I sniffled. "I snuck in the car," I said ticking items off with my fingers. "I had the bat, I clobbered Clement, I hit the guy with the soda bottle, and we got in the fight." I ended with a back and forth motion between Pop and myself. "Carlos did nothing wrong. I just wish I'd stayed home."

"Get to bed, both of you. Your father and I need to talk," Mama announced. "It's been a long day."

I waited for Carlos to start yammering at me when we were alone. Instead he was humming. What the Christ?

"You sure are calm. What gives?"

Carlos just shook his head and put his finger to his lips. We could hear Mama and Pop's muffled voices from their room. It was impossible to understand what they were saying.

I was prone on my bed looking at Carlos out the corner of my eye. "What next, Carlos?"

"I ain't real certain. But I do know one thing."

When he didn't continue, I asked him what he knew.

"Tonight, _mi hermanito_ , you were a man."

I raised my head up from my pillow and looked at Carlos.

"You took the blame. You didn't try and pass it off on somebody else," he announced as he pointed to his chest. "That is what a man does. You showed big _tanates_ tonight, _ese_."

I was perplexed; I thought I was gonna get a thumping or at least yelled at. Instead I got praise for having big balls and being a man for owning up.

Be that as it may, I was stumped about what to do about future attacks. My mind was going full tilt. Pop and I are the ones the Downey goons want. We got family, jobs, and school, God Damn it! I want my life back. Sleepy-God-Damned-Lagoon!

"Why ain't you goin out anymore?" I asked Carlos as we lay in bed. I heard him sigh, and then clear his throat. He rustled under the covers. I thought maybe he didn't hear me.

"I got into it with a sailor, and I wanted to kill him. Not just beat him up, but murder him, ya know. If I'd had a gun I would a shot him. And that scared the be-Jesus out of me. I don't need that. Go to San Quentin for murder? It's not me."

Traffic on Olympic Avenue was heavy. Horns honked, buses spewed diesel exhaust and traffic signals rang as the metal indicators changed from stop to go. Throngs of people scurried about in the mid-afternoon rush. In the distance sirens could be heard. Near the foothills, plumes of brown smoke from a brush fire ballooned up obscuring the sunlight. Every few minutes pungent odor from the blaze drifted down the street.

I told Pop I thought I should stay in, lay low. Tuesdays are our light day, so Pop agreed. After the girls and Mama left, I headed over to the Olympic area.

I'd been following Diego Cardoza, the guy that tried to cut in on my dance with Elena, all morning. He delivered and picked up laundry and uniforms for an industrial laundry service. I waited for an opportunity to talk with him. Numerous chances came up, but I chickened out every time.

I watched him through the window of a diner. After delivering the waitress uniforms and dish towels he flirted with a couple of the gals. When he started to leave, I stepped across the street to continue my tail. Instead of going to his panel truck, he strode purposely straight at me. Horns honked as he jaywalked right up to me and held his face just inches from mine. I was weak in the knees and my head pounded with each beat of my heart. I wondered if this was what a stroke was like.

"What the hell do you want, _ese_? Ya been tailing me all day. I'm working here, and I ain't got time for any monkey business."

I stammered and hemmed and hawed for a few seconds. Finally my voice caught up with my mind, and I blurted out "I need to get to Chico."

"Is that so? Why?"

Man that was the question of the day. I wasn't real sure why I felt I needed to see Chico.

"I need to talk to him. Get some advice, ya know?"

Diego's face became less fierce and he stepped back and said, "Listen, I get lunch in twenty minutes." Pointing to the corner he said, "I'm gonna eat at the hot dog stand down there, we can talk then." He spun on his heels and walked over to his truck.

Diego slathered brown mustard and onions on two fat franks that lay in a cardboard tray. We sat on a wall in front of a bicycle shop. He wolfed the first one down in two chomps. He wiped the corner of his mouth, took a swig from his bottle of Coke and looked at me.

"It's your nickel, _ese_. Start talking."

"I'm in a jam. Since Sleepy Lagoon my life has gone into the crapper. I'm getting into trouble all over the place."

Diego kept nodding his head as he ate and it was pissing me off. "You keep bobbing your head like ya know what's goin on," I said flatly. "I _do_ know what's going on," he replied with a mouth full of hot dog and bun. "Chico hears all the poop from the street. _Vatos_ end up in the can and they yak it up. He told me about the stuff at the liquor store and the fight at your house, and seeing Elena in the hospital."

"Did he tell you they fire-bombed my house? With my mother and sisters inside!"

Now Diego _shook_ his head. We were silent for several minutes, and I finally asked, "How come none of you guys went to bat for Chico? Tell the coppers where he was when Clemente got it?"

He snapped his head around with eyes narrowed and nostrils flared and whispered, "Every time one of em went to the police on his behalf they got arrested. It's not just Chico in jail. A half a dozen guys are in the _pinta_. A couple of _señoritas_ , too." He took a swig of his cola and warned me, "Don't try and see him. If you need to talk to him, do it through me. He gets messages to me through a legal aid lawyer."

"How do I know I can trust you?"

He grinned sinisterly and replied, "You don't. Go on down to the county lock-up, Mr. Louisville Slugger, and tell em you want to see _Señor_ Peralta. See what that gets ya."

He stood to walk away, and I asked him to talk to Peralta for me. I wanted to know if _mi familia_ was safe.

"Palomar Lanes, tomorrow night, seven," he replied as he nodded curtly and walked down the street.

I kept chewing over in my mind how lucky I was I didn't try and see Chico in jail. Blind luck.

The days were still hot and hazy, and were going to get worse as summer turned to fall. A rare and invigorating breeze from the ocean cooled Wednesday evening. In the street young girls played jump rope and sang rhyming songs in time with rope looping and hitting the ground. Leaves were getting crisp and fluttering to the sidewalk in front of the Palomar Lanes.

I sat at a table in the coffee shop waiting for Diego Cardoza to arrive. Several sailors were in the lounge being loud, but I knew they were just having fun. The bowling league teams took all lanes on Wednesdays, and the female players were an added attraction. I sensed somebody next to my table, and there stood Diego. I'd been looking for him and he just appeared. It was kinda creepy.

There was no idle chitchat with Diego; he just started right in. "Chico says he's sorry to hear about your troubles. Says he owes ya one, but can't do _nada_ about it now." He took out a pack of Old Gold's and lifted a cigarette from the pack, and offered one to me, which I declined. He lit up and waved the match out. "He says to stay away from the jail. Some of the Downeys are inside and they'll rat ya out as one of Clemente's killers."

"Is he safe? I mean with Downeys in there?"

"Yeah he's good. There are enough people that know Chico, not just Olys, but kids from all _barrios_ that'll watch his back. Besides, he's gonna be shipped to Q pretty soon."

I must have looked confused, because he said, "Q, ya know? San Quentin."

I heard somebody say, "What the hell?" I turned my head and saw Carlos standing stock-still staring at me and Diego. I should a known he would show up chasing skirts.

I gave an okay hand motion and waved him over. After he sat down and nodded hello, I gave Carlos a recap of what Diego and I talked about.

With an air of authority, Diego announced, pointing at me, "You, _mi amigo_ , are still hot. Not boiling, but at a simmer. Maybe they gotta handle a few things, but the Downey Boys are gonna eventually get around to you."

My heart was racing, and I knew I couldn't take too much more. I wanted to just run off and disappear.

"What about _mi padre y familia_?" Carlos asked.

"Nah. He's got a pass. They respect what he did." He paused. "Beats me why they bombed your _casa_ though."

I was rubbing my chin, thinking. "If they respect Pop, that's fine. But if he's in the way, too bad. Is that what I'm hearing?" Diego nodded, shrugging his shoulders.

"They want him for Clemente. Him and Chico," Diego said pointing at me.

"That don't add up. Everybody knows we ain't with anyone," Carlos said.

"Look, the cops got a dead body. They got a suspect that fought with the dead guy. The suspect has an alibi, but the cops don't believe him. If the cops can put another _vato_ in jail, it puts the Chief of Police and the Mayor in a better light. 'See, Mr. and Mrs. John Q. Public, we're taking care of the Mexicans. You and your children have nothing to worry about.'"

After Diego left, we sat back down. "Well, there it is, as plain as the nose on your face. I gotta go on the lam," I mumbled with a quavering voice.

"You ain't public enemy number one, _ese_. Take it easy," Carlos said. "Man this hole is just getting deeper and deeper. I don't know what to do," I said in a low voice, trying to beat back the sniffles.

The family sat in the backyard discussing the hardship of its recent developments. The trees in the gardens were void of fruit. It had all been picked, eaten or canned. Rows of fall vegetables were sprouting. Woody tomato vines needed to come out and the ground amended. Squirrels scampered with nuts up trees. Despite the serenity on display, the family was miserable.

I was kneeling on the ground, my head in my mother's lap, sobbing with shame for the trouble I had brought to my family and fear of what was next for us. Everybody, even Carlos, was crying. Pop and Mama determined that the only way to be rid of the danger was to have me move away. Pop said, "If you find yourself in a hole, the first thing to do is stop digging."

"Where is he gonna live?" Trina whimpered between tears. "Who will take care of him?" I was surprised at how torn up she seemed.

Pop dropped the bomb then and stunned us all. "Mickey and I are gonna live with my cousin in San Jose," he said as he pointed toward the back fence. "I'll take care of him."

I looked into my mother's face and realized that the deal had gone down before this meeting. Carlos was slack-jawed and speechless, as were my sisters. Connie was silent, but Trina leaped up and ran to her room, slamming the door so hard that we all jumped.

I was relieved and ashamed. My family was separating and it was my fault. Bad guys were coming for me and everybody was at risk. I was willing to go away by myself, but I didn't want to.

"It may not be forever. It may be a short time. Jobs are good up there, and I know Carlos can take care of things here. He can run the business."

Carlos and Pop stayed in the yard for a long time talking seriously. "Mama, do you hate me?" I asked. She turned toward me and fell into my arms weeping.

"Of course not," she said between wracking sobs. "I know you did what you had to do. That man was going to kill the other man. If you'd done nothing, I would have been disappointed in you. We help people in helpless situations. I know you didn't kill anybody. I'm proud of what you did," she sniffed while holding me at arms length. Never in my life had I ever felt more loved than at that moment.

"Go out and talk with your father and brother," Mama ordered as she tried to look busy at the stove.

I heard Pop tell Carlos, "You will understand when you become a father, Carlos, that you do what you have to for your children. It's God's way. Mickey is a victim of conditions he couldn't control, and he needs to get out of harm's way. As his father, I'm going to get him out of here."

"Do you think we can all come to San Jose, Pop?" I asked as I sat down on a picnic bench.

He just hunched his shoulders and said, "Can't say for sure, Miguel. My cousin says it's pretty quiet up there, and about now quiet sounds _muy bien_."

"Do you think Mama and the girls will be okay?"

Carlos sucked in air, and let it out through his lips. "I'll take care of them. I got my marching orders," he replied flatly. "With you gone, it'll be safer. I'll put the word out that you left the country, and are protected."

That night Carlos watched me packing an old suitcase. I was surprised that most of my clothes fit. I wasn't taking all my work duds, so I'd have more room for regular clothes and stuff.

I turned around and Carlos was crying. We hugged, and for the first time in our lives, told each other that we loved one another. I'd never sensed deeper emotions between us than in the last few weeks. This tender moment between us was another. Does something bad need to happen before we feel that? It's a piss poor concept if it does.

The bus depot was crowded with passengers getting on and off. Friends and relatives stood around the waiting area saying their farewells to people or greeting them. Negro men pushed flat wooden wagons loaded with luggage to the idling buses. A wind whipped through the open doors stinging eyes from the exhaust. A voice over a loud speaker announced the departure of the northbound bus that would take me and Pop to San Jose.

Connie and Trina held on to Pop's legs and wept. Mama was trying to get them to stop, telling them everything would be okay, between her own convulsive gasps. Carlos was dabbing at his eyes with the corner of his sleeve and attempting to help Mama subdue the girls.

Finally the reality set in and all of us knew what had to happen. Pop and me needed to leave our family behind. The look on my broken-hearted mother's face was an image I knew would be with me the rest of my life. I didn't dare look out the window at any of them, for fear that I would jump up from my seat and demand the door be open to let me out so I could go home. Connie followed the bus for several yards with outstretched arms wailing, "Papa, Papa!" My heart was in pieces. Would I ever get over this?

Diesel fumes wafted through the coach every time the driver shifted gears. The farther north we got the more open the landscape became. I saw men, women, and children picking produce from neatly furrowed rows. Never in my entire life had I been this far from home, but the idea of open space started to appeal to me. I could find a patch and never get in anybody's way. Hot damn. But what about Mama? Before I had anywhere to go, the idea sounded nice. Now that I was on my way to an unknown town up north somewhere, it plain stunk.

Pop had his hat pulled low over his brow trying to sleep. His cheeks were wet, which caused me to tear up. When it got dark I took out my ball and mitt and tossed the ball non-stop. Thwap, thwap. The old buzzard sitting across from me kept giving me dirty looks, which I ignored. Without lifting his hat, Pop put his hand over the pocket of the mitt and told me to give it a rest.

The monotonous hum of the tires on cement got to me. I tried to sleep, but a man a couple of seats behind snored like crazy. I kept waiting for him to wake, then waiting for him to stop breathing, which he did for several seconds, only to start again.

I sidled my way up to the driver, trying not to wake anybody. "Can you tell me how far it is 'til we stop?" I whispered.

"Holy heck, kid. Ya scared the life out a me. I thought everybody was sawing logs." After a check of gauges and mirrors he said, "We just come through San Louie Obispo. We'll be in King City in just over an hour. Can ya hold it until then?"

I made my way back to my seat. The pinch-faced old buzzard roused, gave me snorts and harrumphs then fluffed up a coat he was using as a pillow.

Pop slept with pursed lips and occasionally whimpered in his sleep.

_What are we headed for_? My heart fluttered when I thought about the sacrifice Pop was making for me and our family. I just hoped I could be as good a son as he was a father.

The de-acceleration of the engine woke everybody up. Men moaned and groaned and women primped, looking in their compact mirrors.

"How'd you sleep, Pop?"

"Just so-so. How 'bout you?" he asked as he did a couple of knee bends trying to get the blood flowing.

I told him I didn't sleep a wink, and he tilted his head with concern. The early morning was cool and we all gave sighs of relief as we took in the fresh air, until a southbound bus chugged in spewing its exhaust.

The depot coffee shop smelled of frying food, coffee and cigarette smoke. I sat at the counter and ordered breakfast for me and Pop. He was on line to use the bathroom when a group of disheveled Army men entered, reeling and wobbling. Pop was next in line, but a soldier yanked him down and put Pop on his backside. I jumped up and ran over to him. "Are you okay, Pop?" I asked as I angrily stared up at the other soldiers milling around.

"Whoa, what a we got, a tough customer?" a corporal asked.

"Let em go ahead, son. I can wait."

"Yeah, let us go, sonny. We been drinkin suds for lotsa miles. You don't want me to piss in yer ear do ya?"

I was fuming at the counter. The southbound driver said he was glad to be rid of the GIs. They were rowdy, crude and harassed the other riders.

"Ya should a kicked em off, Charlie," our driver said.

"Now that wouldn't of been very patriotic, Hank. Just leave them out in the middle of nowhere," he said sweeping his hand toward the fields beyond the depot.

"That's where we are, Pop, the middle of nowhere."

The soldiers left with a roar to connect with the next southbound bus and the depot became eerily quiet. The men's room was in shambles. Vomit clogged the sink and splattered across the floor. Urine and feces covered the toilet seat and wall-hung urinal. I wretched and dry heaved while using the facilities.

Pop announced as he exited the bathroom, "I sure hope they're better shots on the battlefield or we're sunk." Most in the coffee shop in the depot in King City had a good laugh. Even the surly old man cracked a smile.

## Chapter 9

Mickey

San Jose 1943

Most bus depots are the same, located in a seedy part of town, a haggard agent selling tickets and magazines or candy. A lunch counter of some kind with a stooped shouldered waitress looking older than she really is, a well used restroom, uncomfortable chairs or benches in the waiting room, a shoe shine stand and cigar smoke everywhere. San Jose was no exception.

Pop and I walked out the front of the depot to a narrow street with tall buildings that created a canyon-like atmosphere. Newspapers fluttered around our feet and men in shabby clothes walked by with their heads down and their collars up, and sailors and soldiers waited for rides or companionship.

"Ramon! Ramon Reyes! Over here!" a man yelled and waved from the cab of a pick-up truck parked down the block.

Pop introduced me to his cousin, Pedro Melendez. He was a round-faced man and giggled almost every time he finished saying something. I sat in the middle of the two as they chatted. When there was a moment of silence, I asked, "So how are you related?"

After much pondering, they concluded they didn't know for sure, but agreed _la familia Cervantes_ , my mother's family, was the root to the tree. As we drove out of the city, Pedro pointed out the windshield and said, "See those foothills up there? That's where we are headed."

It looked dry and brown, and reminded me of a _barrio_ in LA called Chavez Ravine. The houses in this foothill were more substantial than Chavez Ravine, though. The main arterial street into the hills was Alum Rock Avenue, which led straight back into downtown San Jose. Pedro's house was on a wide, partially paved street. Swirls of dust rose periodically. People on horseback sauntered along and chickens scurried out of the way. I glanced at Pop, who was thin lipped and narrowed eyes. I knew this look; it was disappointment and anger.

It soon became plain to me that Pedro really didn't think we'd act on his invite. His house was smaller than ours in LA. The garage was hastily converted into a bedroom of sorts. Camp cots for beds, fruit crates stacked up acted as shelves.

Sheepishly, Pedro said, "The _baño_ is just down the hall. We'll leave the back door unlocked."

Pedro's wife, Bea, was a rail thin woman with a huge voice. She was pleasant and greeted us with warmth. From our digs we could hear her talking. Just her normal conversation sounded like yelling. Their boy, Petie, was a couple of years younger than me, and it appeared he resented me being there. He tried to antagonize me from the start, but I just ignored him, which made it worse. Trina could teach him a thing or two about antagonism, I thought.

After two weeks, Pop hadn't found work and he looked worried. He had difficulty sleeping and didn't talk much. We'd just finished getting dressed when a knock came at the door to the garage.

"Ramon, we need to take a walk," Pedro announced. I went into the house and saw Petie and his Mother eating breakfast. "Ma, I thought they were leaving," Petie whined. Bea looked red-faced and smiled weakly at me. I knew why my father and his cousin were on a walk.

By the time Pop came back, I was packed and had Pop's stuff almost ready.

"You heard?"

"Yeah, shit-head blabbed. Where we gonna go?"

Pop sat on his cot and replied, "Pedro knows a guy that works at a cannery in Los Gatos. Says they have an opening for a box maker." He looked at the suitcases and nodded. "I'll see if Pedro can take us to the bus."

"Where is Los Gatos, Pop?" I asked as he got to the door.

"Can't tell ya for sure, Mickey," he answered with shrugged shoulders. "It can't be any worse than this though."

After leaving the hustle and bustle of downtown San Jose, the Peerless bus meandered through apricot and prune orchards on serene two lane country roads. Every mile or so, a fruit and vegetable stand was open next to agricultural sheds. The sun was high in the sky and billboards on the roadside advertised products. One sign had a cartoon rendering of a hick farmer in a straw hat with a big grin, and extended hand saying: "Howdy Neighbor! Welcome to the Santa Clara County Fair," and the dates of the fair underneath.

After a few more miles, the bus entered a more populated area. Houses with large front yards and orchards behind dotted both sides of the road. Pop asked one of the other passengers where we were.

"This is Los Gatos," a wiry little guy in a Shell Oil uniform said. He pronounced it ' _Loss Gat Us_.'

The driver slowed as we went down a slight hill and made a wide sweeping turn to the right. The smell of hamburgers grilling from a barbeque restaurant floated into the coach. A huge building with a wide expanse of lawn and tall palm trees was on the right. It looked like a college. "That's the high school. Los Gatos High School," the passenger told us. We passed businesses, churches, and houses. A house next to a gas station was something I'd never seen before. In LA, at least where I lived, there might be an apartment over a store or an apartment house next to a business, but here they all ran together.

Eventually we stopped in front of a two-toned green tiled building. "Here we are," the passenger announced.

## Chapter 10

Mickey

Los Gatos 1943

The bus depot in Los Gatos sat in the middle of a block with single story buildings with parapets that made them look taller than they really were. There was nothing more than two stories.

Several cars drove by at a leisurely pace and people walked slowly on the sidewalk. A cab driver was dozing in his taxi stationed in front of a sign that said TAXI ONLY. Nobody was in a hurry. No horns honked. Music played from a jukebox in a bar a couple of doors away from the depot. Across the street was a Ford automobile dealership.

The depot interior was small. One wall was the magazine rack, the back wall was a candy counter and opposite the magazines there was a lunch counter for standing only and a ticket booth. A highly polished wooden bench sat prominently under the front window. On each end of the bench there were round-chromed cigarette urns. The remnants of cigarettes and cigars stuck up out of the sand like stumps after a forest fire.

There were no customers inside except me and Pop. I looked around and thought this is the smallest depot I've seen, and also the nicest. The chubby man behind the counter had a fat cigar jammed in his mouth reading a girlie magazine. Pop startled him when he said, "Excuse me, can you..." he never got to finish his statement.

"Gee willikers! Ya gave me a fright," the man exclaimed, stashing his copy of Stag. "How can I help ya?"

"We're looking for the Cottage Grove Cannery."

The man took his cigar out from between his lips and squinted, as if he were trying to remember. He walked from behind the counter and to the front door. Pop and I looked at each other. "C'mon. I'm gonna show ya," the agent said while holding the screen door open for us.

He pointed with the sopping wet end of his stogie down the street. "Ya see down there? About four blocks down there's a diner, the 5Spot. Right across from it is the cannery. That's Saratoga Avenue."

The agent wished us good luck. Before I took another step, I asked, "Where is downtown?"

He gave me an odd look and said "Yer kidding, right?" And then laughed long and hard.

"Hey, Denny!" he yelled as he shoved the bumper of the taxicab with his foot, waking the driver.

"What the hell!"

"These boys wanna know where downtown is."

"Tell em to hop in. I ain't gonna charge em neither, it's a short ride," he chortled as he lit his pipe.

I realized that we were in downtown. This is it?

"At that big corner up there," the agent said, pointing in the opposite direction from the cannery "is the center of town. This is Santa Cruz Avenue, and up at the corner is Main Street. It's called the elbow. Down Main are more stores and the creek. Near the end is the high school. You probably saw that on your ride in."

The four-block walk was very quiet. People looked at us with civility, some even nodded a hello. Pop's lips were full and his eyes glistened. If he was happy, then so was I.

Before going over to the cannery, Pop secured us a room at a place called Fanning's Motor Court and Motel. My new neighborhood consisted of a Flying A gas station on the corner next to the motel, a Shell Oil station on the opposite corner, the cannery and the 5Spot on the other corners. The intersection was Santa Cruz Avenue and Saratoga Avenue. Santa Cruz meant Holy Cross in Spanish. I didn't have a clue what Saratoga meant.

Pop entered our room in a flurry. "What gives?" I asked as I was putting my clothes in a drawer.

"They want me to start tonight. Work the night shift. You okay with that, Miguel?"

"That's swell, Pop. You bet I'll be okay."

We walked a couple of blocks to a small grocery store and stocked up on food. On our way back to the motel, Pop put a paper bag down on the sidewalk and pointed to a building on the cannery site, and said "That building there, the one with that huge rollup door is the box making shop. That's where I'll be if you need me."

At 10:45 pm Pop walked to work. He'd be there until seven the next morning. I told him I'd have breakfast ready when he got home. Home, such as it was.

It was strange, being in a room I'd share with my father. There was no bed better or bigger than the other. We'd use the same bathroom like we did at home. The closet was for both of us as were the dresser drawers.

The spreads on the beds were made of the same green and gold plaid pattern as the curtains on the window and the curtain that acted as a closet door. The floor was mousy brown linoleum squares. The walls were painted a cream color. The baseboards were nicked and scarred. Pop told me that pitching pennies was a pastime done in small motel rooms. He told me the first spot he and Mama lived at in LA had nicks too. Next to the closet was a sink, a two burner electric stove with a tiny oven, and the smallest refrigerator I'd ever seen. Above the stove was a shelf with just enough room for dishes and a pot and a pan, and some cups.

I listened and could hear nothing loud. The bells at the service stations rang every so often when a car would roll over the rubber hose while pulling to the pump. The fan in the fridge clanged once in a while, but other than that, this place, Los Gatos, was quiet. It was better than Pedro's garage, anyway.

I opened the door and stepped out onto the front porch. A lawn area occupied the center of the driveway. Large camellia bushes were planted in the lawn. At the back of the property were two larger standalone dwellings. I walked down the driveway to the end and up the other portion of the circle drive. I could see hookups for travel trailers behind a huge hedge. Moonlight reflected off a shiny silver trailer standing all alone in a corner.

In front of the property there was a large two-story building. The top floor was the owners' unit and the bottom floor was offices and other apartments. I stood on the sidewalk and saw our fellow bus passenger working at the Shell station across the street. He whistled and waved at me. The lights on the pump island of the stations shut off almost at the same time. I hadn't realized how bright it'd been.

I counted four cars traveling on the road. I tried to compare this place with where I came from, and concluded that I'd never seen a place like this. Where are the kids? What is there to do here?

I saw cars parked at the 5Spot and people sitting at booths. Two men talked on the sidewalk in front of the Live Oak Inn, a restaurant between the 5Spot and small houses. I turned and walked past the office. At a door in a separate building I almost collided with a little beady-eyed man coming out of the washhouse. His black hair glistened and he smelled as though he'd just finished smoking.

"What are ya doing lurking around here in the dark?" he snarled. Frightened and out of sorts due to my new surroundings, I stammered, "Goin back to my room," as I hurriedly walked past him. Before I went inside I turned around and saw him go down the cement steps and into the basement under the office. The thumping in my chest took a long time to settle. I'd fallen into a sort of calm, and then the jarring meeting with this mug concerned me. The gas station guy, the bus agent and even the cab driver seemed so nice, and then this guy confronting me in the dark put me off. Who is this guy? Maybe the owner? Nah. We registered with a lady. Is that guy her husband?

The late summer heat kept everybody at an even slower pace than normal. People on the sidewalk stopped to talk to one another and the topic was the weather. Each person seemed to know one another. The draft-age men were overseas and women were working. The people on the street were older and slower.

The entire downtown could be walked in less than an hour. Numerous cafes were spread throughout the town, places like The Shore Post, Look In, Sammy's and the Park Café were popular. The sidewalks were clean; the display of fresh fruit on the stand next to the front door of the S&A Market was enticing. The milk shake machine from the soda fountain inside the Corner Drug Store whirred. Wheelbarrows, rakes, shovels and red wagons sat in front of the hardware store. Mannequins clad in scout uniforms were on display in the window of Crider's Department Store.

Pop was on his day off and sat in a white metal chair in front of our bungalow. He'd gotten his first paycheck and wired money to Mama. He kept some for himself and put some in an empty coffee can.

"Miguel come out and sit with me, why don't ya."

We watched Mrs. Fanning, the owner of the motel, struggle with the push mower. The man I collided with earlier in the week was standing by watching. A cigarette hung from his lip. He wore a pair of charcoal slacks with maroon suspenders and a sleeveless white tee shirt. Black and white shoes on his feet.

"I wonder why he doesn't help her," Pop said.

He got up and strode over to her. Her cheeks were rosy and her hair was bright red. I heard Pop say, "I can help you with that, you know."

The man shoved his hand in his pockets and nervously rattled his change.

Mrs. Fanning straightened up and glared at the man, who spun on his heels and stepped away.

"I'm a gardener by trade, ya know," Pop announced with his hands on his hips.

Mrs. Fanning looked at Pop, and then said, "If you want to mow the lawn, that's fine. I'll cut your room rate. I want em trimmed too," she said pointing down.

"Fine, no problem. The camellias need trimming, too."

She told him all the gardening equipment was in the basement. "You'll be happy with my work. Don't you worry."

She glared at Pop, and then grinned and said, "I need happiness right about now. The ponies are treating me unkindly."

Pop must have given her a quizzical look because she next said, "Ya know? The ponies? The horse races?"

Mrs. Fanning was happy with Pop's work because she recommended him to many of her friends. I helped Pop and even got work trimming fruit trees for farmers in the area. I learned how to trim trees at a real young age. We put all our gardening earnings in the coffee can.

I crossed a footbridge and headed up a creek trail toward the motel after spending the morning trimming a small cherry orchard behind a huge house. Very little water flowed in the creek. There were a few pools, but nothing to fish in. I kicked rocks with my boots, and wondered what everybody in LA was up to. I got a lump in my throat when I thought of Mama. I'd battled bouts of homesickness from time to time. At night, while Pop worked, I'd break down once in a while.

The crack of a bat hitting a ball sounded from above me. I walked up a slight embankment full of Scottish Broom. I peered out from the bushes and saw boys that looked to be my age playing ball. I got homesick even more.

I tried to hide the loppers I carried as I walked behind the outfielders and up the third baseline. All the boys had some sort of uniform on or at least a ball cap. Me, I was in coveralls, white tee shirt and heavy work boots.

I sat in the bleachers and watched the game. One of the boys, a freckled face redhead yelled over to me, "Hey, kid. Ya wanna play?"

I didn't move, and he came to the backstop and asked, "Well, do ya?"

I just shrugged, and he came around the fence and put out his hand and said, "I'm Ted Samuels."

"I'm Mickey Reyes," I said shaking his hand.

"Hey fellers, come on over and meet Mickey Reyes," Ted yelled as he motioned the others over.

They trotted in from the field and introduced themselves. A small blond boy asked if I was new in town. When I told them that I was, another boy, who might've been Italian, said, "Where'd ya come from?" I told them I was from Los Angeles. I was getting intimidated because I felt all these guys lived with their parents in houses. What would I say if they asked where I lived? I was about to find out, when Ted queried, "Where do you live now?"

I waved toward the outfield and said at the motel over by the cannery.

"Fanning's?" the blond kid said. "Heck, we're all neighbors. We all live real close to Fanning's. Hey! Are we gonna play, or what?" he shouted as he trotted out to second base.

"C'mon Mickey, take my place in left. It's my turn to bat," Ted said as he tossed me his mitt.

I no sooner got set when the snap of the bat sounded, the ball came right at me, and I didn't have to move. I took it out of the mitt and tossed it to pitcher. The guy at third said, "Nice catch! Yer up!"

Ted handed me the bat. I reluctantly took it. It was the first time I held a bat since Sleepy Lagoon. "Do I run the bases?"

"Nah. Just fielding and hitting today, chum."

After the game Ted and I walked down Santa Cruz Avenue. I stopped dead in my tracks. I was looking at small houses that reminded me of a _barrio_. There was no street, only a cement sidewalk that bisected the houses. Next to the houses on the end was a rise up to railroad tracks.

"Jesus, I'm walking along, yakkin' and wondering why yer not saying anything and you're still here. What are ya staring at?" Ted asked as he walked back to me.

"Those," I said, pointing to the houses.

"Those are cannery houses. Families that work at Cottage Grove live there."

On the porch, Pop sat and read the newspaper. The small space in front of our room provided a nice overflow area. Pop called it the living room. I introduced him to Ted, and got a chair off the porch of the vacant unit next door, so we could all sit. The man in the black and white shoes, who Pop and I referred to as Slick, chirped, "Don't you forget to put that back."

After a non-committal wave from me, I sat down.

" _Dios Mio_. I wish I knew what she saw in that lizard-eyed sap before she married him," Pop said shaking his head.

"Who? Him? He ain't married to Mrs. Fanning, Ted announced. "He showed up a couple years after her husband died. My father says her husband was a real peach, and ran a decent weekly poker game. If you were looking for the cop on duty on Saturday night, well, he was here playing cards. Anyway, this guy shows up," Ted nodded in the direction Slick was headed. "And the games stopped. I guess he got caught cheating too many times."

"He's a lazy bum. Don't you think, Pop?" " _Si_ , he's a no-count, for sure, Mickey."

Pop asked Ted what his father did, and he said he was in the Army. "He's in Germany, I think. We ain't heard from him in months. My ma is mighty worried. He enlisted right after the Japs hit Pearl Harbor." We sat silently for a few minutes.

"What is that fantastic smell? Is that coming from your place?" Ted asked.

Pop started to get up, then sat back down and announced he'd made rice and beans earlier. "Heat up a tortilla and give our guest something to eat, Miguel."

I was scooping rice and beans into a tortilla for Ted, when he asked, "Is your real name Miguel?" I nodded and he added, "That's a lot better than Theodore."

"You got that right, Theodore." "I know, Miguel."

Back in the chairs, the three of us watched the sycamores dropping leaves.

"Holy moley! What time is it? I gotta meet my mom at Crider's Department Store to shop for school clothes!" Ted announced as he got up and scurried down the driveway.

"Where do you go to school?" I yelled after him.

"Los Gatos. I'm a Wildcat! Where are you gonna go?" Ted asked as he walked backwards. I just waved, and he turned and ran off.

I kind of had it in my mind that I would stay out of school. Work and help fill the coffee can. Pop had another idea.

"Your new _amigo_ seems very nice, Mickey. I guess you'll have a friend when you start school."

I snapped my head, and Pop said, "What? Did you think I'd let you stay home and not go?" He continued with a lop-sided grin, "I promised your _madre_ that you would go to school. I registered you this morning."

I sat adjusting my mind to the fact that I was gonna be a school boy, when Pop commanded, "Find out where that boy, Ted, buys his clothes and we'll get you some new school duds."

It seemed that Pop had something else on his mind. He rocked his chair constantly.

"What's eating at you, Pop?"

He pursed his lips and looked sideways at me. "The records from your school in LA aren't here. You are going to start as a freshman," he said with a raised hand stopping me from whining. "The counselor said when your records arrive and every thing is hunky-dory, you'll be put in the tenth grade, okay?"

My hand was dangling over the arm of the metal chair, and when Pop looked at me for a response, I raised my hand in an indifferent way. I wasn't that bad of a student. Shit, I'd made it to the tenth grade. I just didn't like school and wanted to work and buy things.

Pop did okay without school and so did Carlos.

The long pink cement front walkway bisecting the lawn led to steps in front of the school. The first day of classes, kids greeted each other with gusto. They walked in groups with plenty of joking and friendly shoving, all in new crisp clothing. Loud mufflers on hot rods rapped as guys drove up and down Main Street.

I met Ted Samuels under a tall redwood next to the sidewalk. He gave me a hello wave, and said, "I'll show ya the office and where to find your classrooms."

Older boys carried a younger kid across the lawn. The younger boy was screaming and trying to break free. They deposited him in a large raised fishpond with a splash. He came up sopping wet. Moss and other debris from the pond clung to his face and hair. The poor kid was mortified.

"The upperclassmen always get a couple of freshman and dunk em. If they get caught they'll be suspended. They never get caught."

"That ain't funny, Ted. That kid's new clothes are ruined." "If they come for ya, run like hell."

"If they come for me, one or two are gonna land on their keester with a busted lip."

"Those guys are varsity, man. Ya don't mess with them." I gave Ted my best _I don't give a shit_ look.

The difference between this school and the one in LA was Mexicans were the majority there. Here, in Los Gatos, the Mexicans were outsiders. I'd never been in the minority. My _barrio_ , family and friends kept me insulated from the rest of the world. I didn't like this school. The Anglo kids were pompous, and the Mexicans were beneath the whites. I hoped they'd leave me the hell alone. I'd been on campus less than fifteen minutes and my attitude was that of a _cholo_. Let em think that. So what?

I heard one girl gush, "Oh, I just love the first day of school. It's soooo exciting!"

_Yippee_ , I thought sarcastically.

In my homeroom I spotted the kid who was tossed into the pond. He was dripping water on the floor. A couple of older boys elbowed each other and jutted their jaws out and nodded to the wet boy.

I glared at the laughing boys. One, a tall blond, turned and saw me, and gave me the finger. I gave a sinister look, moved my chair back and stood. I wanted to smack him. The bell rang ending the episode.

At lunch Ted asked me how it was going. I just shrugged and took a bite of my bologna sandwich. We were under an old oak in an area called the inner quad. "Hey, are you gonna try out for the lightweight football team?" Ted asked.

"I hadn't given it much thought. I ain't got a uniform."

Did I really want to be at school that long each day? My mind set was to go to class and go home. Wait for baseball season.

I trotted down the dirt trail headed for the football field. I heard the tweet from a whistle and the grunts and groans as pad-to-pad contact was made. All the players on the field wore football uniforms complete with helmets and cleats. I was in orange shorts and a white tee shirt and tennis shoes. I stood at the end of the trail trying to decide if I should turn around and leave. I turned around and ran smack dab into the mid-section of a tall curly headed man with a tan face. He was clad in athletic pants and a jersey that had St. Mary's across the chest.

"Where ya headed, son?"

"I, I was gonna go out for the team, but it looks like they got enough players," I answered nodding my head down to the field.

"We can always use another player. You ever played before?"

I looked him in the eye, and shrugged and said, "I played in a flag football league in LA. I never played with pads and stuff."

He looked me up and down and commented, "You aren't a lineman, that's for sure. I bet you're fast."

"Yeah, I can get away from most things." I realized that's not what he meant and felt my face redden.

He motioned for me to go to the field, and said, "Keep an eye on the lads that run with the ball. Watch their feet. And see me after practice, and we'll get you outfitted with a uniform. I'm Mr. Canrinus, what's your name, son?"

We shook hands and walked onto the field together. It dawned on me that this man was the football coach. He conversed with another man, and they both turned and looked at me. The man I met walked over to another field and blew his whistle and that team kneeled down around him. He was the varsity coach.

Steam from the shower room billowed into the locker area. Guys were singing, some snapped towels. The varsity players shoved lightweight players, some still lathered up, out of the way. Varsity, lightweights and then Mexicans.

The smell of sweaty uniforms, liniment and soap battled for dominance. Wet towels lay in a heap next to a basket. The team manager tried to pick them up, but sopping towels cascaded around him.

"Where's Reyes?" A booming voice yelled. I looked up and saw Mr. Canrinus holding a wooden hanger with a uniform on it. I stood up and when he spotted me he smiled and said, "There ya go, son. Try these on. There's a box full of old shoes in the storeroom. I saw a pair of cleats there."

I thanked him and sat on the bench that was fastened to the cement floor between lockers. Ted motioned me over to him. Other boys were just staring at me. Some made kissing sounds as I walked by.

"Store your stuff in my locker, Mickey." "What gives with those guys?" I whispered.

Ted shook his head and grinned slightly, then said, "Canrinus is the varsity coach."

"Yeah, that's what I figured. So?"

"He's also the Principal."

"No shit?" I said through pursed lips while turning to look at the other players.

"He must like me," I said loudly. "He invited me over for dinner." Some of the boys laughed, but a few seemed pretty steamed up, including the boy that gave me the finger in homeroom.

I rummaged through the box looking for the mate to the cleat I held. I heard rustling behind me and turned and came face to face with the finger guy and another fellow just as big or bigger. I knew full well what they were up to but said anyway, "What's up fellas?" As soon as the question was out, I punched finger guy in the gut, bending him over. His partner came at me and we swapped blows for a few seconds, when a loud voice yelled, "Break it up! What's going on?" It was the lightweight coach. I stood trying to catch my breath. The guy I fought with blurted out, "We come in to welcome this guy and he gives one to Danny's breadbasket, Coach," as he wiped a spot of blood, in mock astonishment, from his nose. I looked out the door and saw the rest of the team members milling around. A voice from the crowd said, "How come ya waited until he was alone?" It was Ted Samuels. "Ya could a' greeted him in the locker room!"

The coach turned and said to the team "Finish getting dressed and go home. And you two," he said pointing at Danny and me, "You'll go one-on-one on the field tomorrow at practice. Now get goin. I'm tired of lookin' at you little goo-asses."

On the way home I thanked Ted for sticking up for me. He told me that's what friends do, stick up for each other. "You just worry about your one-on-one."

"What does that mean, one-on-one?"

He looked sideways at me and grinned, "You and Dan Paulis will get down in your stance and charge each other and try and block the other to the ground. Paulis is one of the best linemen on the varsity team. He'll probably kick the shit out a ya. If it was a fight, though, I'd put my money on you."

"Any tips?"

"Yeah, make yourself as small as possible, and keep your feet moving. He's a slow guy. You just might surprise him," Ted said as he slapped me on the shoulder. "Don't forget to eat your Wheaties in the morning." Pop was upset that I got into a fight the first day of school. My explanation didn't help.

"We left LA because of a fight, and you get in one right out of the gate! Miguel, we have to make it here," he said flatly. "I'm making more money putting wooden boxes together than I ever did mowing lawns. I want us to all live up here. Please, son, stay out of trouble."

When Pop walked out the door for work, we hadn't spoken to one another since I'd gotten home and told him of the dust-up at school.

"To hell with him," I whispered, and immediately thought, _what are you thinking_?

I caught up with him as he walked in front of the Flying A. "What is it?' he asked turning around.

"Have a good night at work. I'll have breakfast for you." He grinned and tousled my hair. I walked back to the room feeling better.

The entire team lined up in two rows with me and Danny Paulis in our stance. Stay low. Stay low. Move before he does. I saw Coach Canrinus, hands on hips, eying us from the varsity practice field.

Paulis was out of his stance before the coach blew his whistle and was on top of me and punching. The coach's whistle bleated four times and Danny got off me.

Paulis! You were off sides. Wait for the whistle or you'll run the hill the entire practice! Now both of you get set."

I was trying to shake off the jump-start. I put my mouthpiece in and got ready. My fist was clenching and unclenching. Suddenly the first tone from the coach sounded and I was at Danny's shoulder pads moving him up and back. My feet were digging in and giving me more traction. Before I knew it, the whistle blew and I'd moved my opponent back five yards! Some of the team clapped and hollered. I thought the one-on-one was over. I was wrong. According to the coach, I didn't knock him down.

The next foray was going to be the last for me. I'd take a dive, so we could move on. We charged and clashed in a loud pop of leather. He forearmed me in the face and put me on the ground. Game over.

The coach blew his whistle and had us gather around. "Listen up, you mugs! We're a team and teammates don't fight each other. Is that clear? Now start yer jumping jacks." Paulis trotted back to his team and was greeted with slaps on the back. The game is rough, football. But if I ever got a chance to run with the ball, I'd follow guys like Dan Paulis and the other bruisers on the team and keep my feet moving and get low as I was tackled.

The second day of practice, I played halfback and ran a sweep. The quarterback tossed the ball to me under hand and I ran up the sideline, when suddenly the blockers peeled off and ran to the center of the field and I followed. It was a clear field ahead, but I followed my blockers. What the heck? The whistle blew and all came to a halt.

"Good job, Reyes!" the coach yelled. "What are you other piss ants up to? That was a sure T.D.! Take a lap. All of ya!"

The huge linemen piled on me every time I got tackled. "Remember the Alamo, Spic. Or go pick some peppers, ya greaser," rang out often. I got up, no matter how much I wanted to stay down. I got up, sometimes before the tacklers did. I'd trot back to the huddle or sidelines at a normal gait. Don't limp. Don't hold your bruised shoulder. Don't let them get to you.

During the games, it was different. It was a team, blocking, running, tackling as a team. During school my teammates didn't give me the time of day. The varsity guys? Forget it. I gave them the air too. Come on baseball season.

"Pop, we got too many cans full of _dinero_."

"Hush, Mickey. I don't want anybody to know we got dough in here. Are you almost ready to go?"

"Yeah. Where we going again?"

"An _amigo_ I work with lives in the cannery houses. He's invited us over for an end of the summer-harvest _barbacoa_."

The front yards of the cottages were hard packed dirt, recently hosed down to keep the dust from blowing. Chickens scurried trying to get away from youngsters riding scooters on the center cement walk.

Smoke from grills lifted in the air at the end of the walk, next to the railroad tracks.

"This reminds me of Chavez Ravine. Don't you think, Mickey?" Pop said out of the corner of his mouth. I nodded in agreement.

Mexican music blared from radios that teetered on windowsills. Housewives put out bowls of rice and beans, platters of tortillas, enchiladas and tamales on tables in front of their _casas_. Fresh slices of watermelon and bunches of grapes on plates made a colorful display. Iced buckets full of sodas and beers sat at every other yard.

"Ramon! _Hola_!" a short man shouted as he approached us.

" _Hola_ , Tino!" Pop replied as he handed Tino some beer bottles. "Meet my son."

Tino Juarez's shake was firm, and his hand was like sandpaper. He wore a chef 's hat and a white apron.

"Help yourself to the food and drinks," _Señor_ Juarez said with the sweep of his hand. "C'mon, Ramon. Get in the horseshoe tournament." The clang of horseshoes reminded me of Sleepy Lagoon and I shuddered. That seemed so long ago.

Pop grinned brightly as he talked and played with his co-workers. Smiles weren't plentiful of late, so this day was good, and I enjoyed watching him. I felt someone standing next to me, and looked sideways at a boy shorter than me. I'd seen him around the halls at school. " _Hola_ , I'm Chepe Fernandez," he chimed in with his hand extended.

"I'm Miguel Reyes," I replied as I shook his hand. We talked about school and everyday stuff. It occurred to me that nobody here knew about me or my past, and that was square with me. Chepe gave me the gossip from around the complex. He called it the cannery camp. He was a funny kid, and I liked him.

"Let's get something to eat, Mickey," he suggested, punching me lightly on the shoulder. " _Mi madre_ makes the best tamale in the world!"

I doubted it.

I wrapped the cornhusks in a paper plate, and sipped on a cola bottle. The tamales were good, but then any Mexican will tell you their mama's are the best.

"Told ya, didn't I?" Chepe said nodding to my hand holding the remnants.

" _Si, Chepe. Muy delicioso_."

He smiled smugly then announced, "Her she comes, the camp queen."

I looked up at a girl I recognized from one of my classes.

"We have geography together, you know?" she said sweetly as her black ponytail swayed with each word and movement.

I stood and said, "Yeah, I know. I'm Miguel Reyes. "I'm Linda Rosa," she answered with a slight curtsy.

The three of us sat on Chepe's front step and talked like we were old friends. Comfort was the word that kept running through me. I was contented, when suddenly somebody said, "Zoot suit riot," and anxiety wiped away comfort like a wave washing on the sand.

"What is it, Mickey?" Linda wanted to know.

I needed to get out of there. I didn't want to even think about LA. "I better get Pop something to eat. He looks kinda tipsy." When I got up to fix a plate, I saw Chepe Fernandez and Linda Rosa exchange curious looks.

"Hey, Pop. I got some nice tamale for ya. C'mon and eat."

We were sitting on the bank of the railroad tracks watching the partiers. Tino sat down next to us. He wasn't there a second, when a fistfight broke out in front of one of the houses. He shot down the hill holding his chef 's hat. Pop and I just looked at each other and grinned. "Too much booze and he-man crap, Miguel," Pop joked, moving his hand to his mouth in a drinking motion.

We left the _fiesta_ just as the sun set. We could still hear the music from the camp cottages as we entered the motel driveway. Mrs. Fanning clipped mums while Slick stood by, hands in pockets and a cigarette dangling from his lips.

Pop peeled off and walked up to her and said, "Mrs. Fanning, I have a favor to ask."

"Oh, boy. Here we go. Probably wants to skip on the rent," Slick sneered.

Mrs. Fanning spun her head around and shot a look at Slick, which made him step back.

"Let's go into the office," she said with a tone that belied her look. When Pop told her he wanted to store cash in her safe, she asked him why he didn't deposit the money in the bank. Pop explained about the Mexican Revolution and the government seizing accounts. "This war," Pop said shaking his head "has me worried, too.

"That was then, Ramon. This is 1943. But I understand your reasoning."

I went and got the cans and Pop and Mrs. Fanning counted it together. She wrote out a receipt for $1,700.00. He watched her put the money in a yellow envelope, place it in the safe and spin the dial. She nodded as if to say, _that's that_.

Before we left her office, Mrs. Fanning told us she'd put a letter in the crack of our door.

It was from Carlos. He wrote that business was good and he was keeping up with the work. _Everybody is doing fine for the most part_. Pop scowled and said, "I wonder what he means, _for the most part_? The letter continued to say that Chico Peralta and the others were getting sold down the river. The judge and the prosecutor wouldn't let them sit with their attorneys. A group called the Sleepy Lagoon Defense League kept filing motions about the lack of due process. They got shot down on every appeal. The prisoners weren't allowed to bathe or get haircuts, and couldn't wear street clothes. The jury looked at this mangy group in prison garb, and considered them guilty almost before the trial started. "Tell Mickey not to worry about not testifying for Chico. Everybody who did was made to look like a liar. His testimony wouldn't have helped."

It didn't make me feel any better. He said that the Downeys were cock-sure I was holed up in Chavez Ravine, and being protected. Stay where you are was his message.

Toward the end of the letter he wrote that Trina was being a real turd, sassing Mama, skipping school and sneaking out at night.

Pop grimaced when he read about Trina. "That's what I was afraid of. Maybe I should have her get on a bus to Los Gatos," he said as he slumped in the kitchen chair.

As much as I missed my family, I didn't want Trina here without the rest. How would that work, her being here without the others?

The Southern Pacific Depot sat at the South end of Santa Cruz Avenue. Its simple wooden architecture gave way to an upgrade that consisted of a tan stucco façade around the perimeter. A covered outdoor seating area with arches created a mission style building. The trains ran daily to and from San Jose and beyond and the train whistle could be heard several times a day as it sounded at cross streets.

"Are you sure you're going to be okay, Miguel?" Pop asked me for the sixtieth time that Wednesday morning. Pop was going home for Thanksgiving. He wanted me to go, too, and after a heated discussion, I convinced him that it would be better if I stayed in Los Gatos. If the Downeys were looking for me, I didn't want to go home.

"Your Mama will be sad that you're not going to be there." I felt sad, too. Sadder than I wanted Pop to know.

"I know that, Pop. Give everybody a huge hug for me, will ya?"

As we waited, we saw people we knew, and they wished us good holidays. Pop said just before the conductor yelled, "Board!" "Ya know, I came to town on a bus and I'm leaving on a train. Not bad, eh?"

I told him it was great.

"You check in with Tino Juarez everyday. And don't forget, you go there for Thanksgiving dinner."

We hugged long and hard, then he put me at arms length and whispered, "I love you, son. I know you will do the right thing." I had a huge lump in my throat and I teared up as Pop boarded. This was the first time in my life that I would be alone more than a couple of hours. I'd never felt this low before.

As I walked down Main Street to go to school my thought was Pop came to town on a bus, and yes, he's leaving on a train, but he looked so small as he waved goodbye from the window.

The Thanksgiving Day football game between Los Gatos and its closest foe, Campbell, was an annual tradition. These two schools' varsity teams played on Thanksgiving every year since the '20s. Meals in both towns were scheduled around the game.

The Juarez, Fernandez, and Rosa families sat savoring the turkey meal. The adults talked politics, the economy, and, of course, the war. The youngsters sat listening, wishing they could go out.

"Looks like they finally got a handle on the Zoot suit riots. About time!" Señor Fernandez exclaimed. "And that murder at that reservoir in the hills didn't do us any good."

I stood up abruptly and strode to the front door, swung the screen wide and stepped onto the porch. I was going to let the door slam, but thought better of it. I walked along the cement sidewalk between the houses toward the railroad track, my hands in my pocket.

"Hey, Mickey! Wait up!" I heard Linda Rosa say and turned to see her walking briskly toward me.

"Where are you going in such a hurry?" "I need some air," I snarled.

I picked up a horseshoe and flung it at a peg. Linda stood and stared at me.

"What are you looking at?" I asked.

She shook her head and said nothing. I headed for the street to go home.

"I know what's eating you," she said with a crooked grin. "Is that so?"

She swayed as she talked and her hands were behind her back. "Every time somebody mentions Zoots you turn dark and sour."

Looking straight at her, I countered, "What do you mean?"

"At the _fiesta_ somebody said Zoot suit and you got up and ran away. Today it was said again and you ran away again."

"I didn't run away. You're _loco_."

Linda smiled and coaxed, "Tell me what's going on." "You ever hear of Sleepy Lagoon?" I asked.

"Yes. It's only my favorite song," she answered swaying and humming the melody.

"Not the song."

"Do you mean the murder at the reservoir? Yes! I've heard of that. What's it got to do with you?"

Over the next forty minutes we sat on a picnic bench next to the last house, and I told her what happened at Sleepy Lagoon, and about my run-ins with the Downey Boys.

"So, there you have it. Get sick, cry for your mama, or run home." "You didn't do anything wrong, Mickey," she whispered.

I looked into her eyes and realized they were light. I leaned in to kiss her, and said just before our lips met, "What color are your eyes?"

"Hazel," she whispered.

The rumble of the train broke our moment. The engineer blew the train horn and waved. I waved back and Linda laughed as she snuggled her face to my shoulder.

I was walking on air when I crossed Saratoga Avenue headed back home. It was dark, but my mood was as bright as noon. Linda and I had sat and talked and kissed for most of the remainder of the day. Chepe poked his head around the corner and saw us sitting on the bench, and backed away, not wanting to barge in.

"Three's a crowd," he said as he took a last look.

I'd just closed the door and turned on the radio when somebody knocked on the door. My heart raced. Could it be Linda?"

I pulled the door open rapidly and Slick stepped back startled. The booze on his breath was staggering when he handed me a piece of pumpkin pie and said, "Er, um, Happy Thanksgiving, huh?"

I stared at the closed door, turned and tossed the pie in the trash. I couldn't worry about Slick. My mind was on Linda Rosa.

## Chapter 11

Carlos Reyes

LA 1943

The sunrise promised a hot day. The Santa Ana Winds blew in from the Mojave like a furnace blast. The broken glass in the streets and gutters of _Zona Roja_ was swept and scooped up by crews from the city street department. Huge metal garbage cans on two wheels were spread out down Figueroa Street. Shovels scraped the street and the crash of the shards of shattered glass dumped in the cans interrupted the early morning.

Handymen were installing sheets of plywood over broken storefront windows. Shopkeepers, some who had stood by their businesses all through the night, were sweeping up debris.

Squad cars sat idling every two blocks, red lights on the front fenders blinked listlessly, while cops drank coffee from paper cups and smoked. Static from the police radios blended with the glass noise.

The jails and emergency rooms dealt with wounded rioters. Shore patrol jeeps cruised up and down _Zona Roja_ looking for GIs still on the hunt for Zoot-suitors. This went on for about a week. In the end, six hundred Mexicans were arrested and the service personnel were taken back to their quarters by the shore patrol.

I'd hit the ground running early, hoping to be done working before it got too _caliente_. Pop always said, _try and beat the heat_. I drove the pickup past Ortega's White Owl Drugs and spotted several cops and shore patrol officers yakkin' it up. One of the cops moved away from the rest and stepped in front of the truck and held up his hand.

"Just where do you think yer goin?" he said as he puffed up his chest. I told him I was on my way to do gardening.

"Didn't I see you running around here last night causing trouble?" I'd made a promise to Mama that I'd stay away from the _Zona Roja_ , and I kept my promise.

"You didn't see me, that's fer sure. I wasn't here," I told him. "Well, ya all look the same. Get goin, and keep yer nose clean or

I'll run ya in," he said as he officially motioned with his hand forward. I looked in the rear view and saw the cop take out a pad and write something, probably my plate number, down.

I was saddened. East LA was in shambles; Mexican boys and girls were getting beat up by cops and service guys. Stores were damaged every night. These clodhoppers, some of which had never been off the farm, were sewing their oats before shipping out. Is the _barrio_ the only place to blow off steam? Probably not, but the Navy erected a Radio Operator training building right near the intersection that led to Chavez Ravine, which made it convenient for the sailors to get to town. The people residing in Chavez Ravine disliked the intrusion and felt violated. Some there fled the _hacienda_ consolidation and now it seemed the same thing was happening.

The shabbiness of the neighborhoods of Chavez Ravine kept most sailors from going there. The bars and cafes in the more populated areas held more appeal. The idea that young Mexican _chicas_ were loose and available agitated the boys. I knew that some of the gals were flirty, but they didn't want to be assaulted. They wanted romance on _their_ terms.

At times _señoritas_ , with promises of romance, would lure sailors into alleys, where Mexican boys jumped them. I'd heard that's what started the riots. I don't know for sure. I do know this—people standing in front of a nearby theater egged the sailors on as the sailors beat a thirteen-year-old boy to a bloody pulp, tore his clothes off, and lit them on fire. The cops stood by and did nothing while the instigators left in shameful disgust. It had gone too far.

I knew I'd keep my promise to Mama, but man I wanted to get in the mix. By November, things went back to normal. The riots were over, GIs shipped out, but I was troubled about Trina. She'd been a real problem since Pop and Mickey went north. She was smoking cigarettes, dressing slutty, talking back, and playing hooky, and our life was in disarray. Her actions weighed on all of us, and trying to reason with her was useless.

"Trina, don't you see how your behavior is affecting us?" I asked one day at breakfast. I saw Mama stiffen as she stood at the sink.

"I ain't doing nothing you or Mickey haven't done. So get off my case."

I sat back and thought about the way Mickey and I acted. Was it different for us because we were boys? Maybe.

Mama spun around and said sternly, "You're too young to be acting the way you do. If you don't stop your behavior it may be too late," she said.

"Too late for what? To end up like you? Forget it!"

Mama shrank back and burst into tears, as if she'd been slapped across the face. Her hand went to her brow and she turned sharply and ran to her bedroom.

I stood and shoved my chair back with my foot, knocking it over, grabbed Trina by the arm and yanked her to her feet.

"You go in and apologize to Mama. Do it now!"

She shook away from my grip and gave me the finger and stomped out of the house.

"Go away, Carlos. I'm okay," Mama said faintly after I'd knocked on her door.

What would Pop do? I kept asking myself that the entire day. He'd have backhanded Trina. That's exactly what he would've done. Should I have done that? Man, I wanted to, but no, I wouldn't. Not yet at least.

I knew Pop and Mickey were coming home for Thanksgiving, and I needed to get a handle on this situation.

My life was in a tailspin. No dates, working all day, doing the billing, paying the bills and acting in the role of a father figure and not doing very good at it. I barely got out once in awhile to go to the bowling alley. I was getting a new appreciation for parenthood. Pop told me I would have _mucho_ responsibility. We sat in the yard the day before he left and I remember thinking, _how hard could it be_? Well, when the responsibility comes up and cuffs you on the chin, you take notice. Plus, I was constantly attempting to cover Mickey's back. Time to time I'd see a black sedan cruise up and down our street. I guessed the guys in the car were Downeys.

Each day as I pulled in the driveway after work I wondered what the next crisis would be. This day, Connie ran up and gave me a huge _abrazo_ and I hugged her back. I didn't realize that she was so lonely. Mama clued me in to what was going on with Connie and asked me to pay more attention to her. Mama said it was like Connie had lost all of her best friends at once. With Mickey gone, me working all the time, and Trina ignoring her, Connie felt lost. Especially because she was the quiet, shy one in the family and didn't make friends that easily.

After dinner Mama, Connie and I walked to the Palomar Lanes. It felt right to be with them. Two blocks from the house I heard somebody yell from behind. I turned around and saw Trina running toward us. "Can I come, too? You didn't even ask if I wanted to go," she said panting.

She was back, but it only lasted two blocks. When she saw the crowd of kids in the Palomar, she became distant from us. Mama and Connie and I bowled and Trina sat looking down at us from a table one step up from the lanes. Despite Trina being up there and us bowling, Mama was happy and laughing. She had just thrown a gutter ball and turned back to us with a toothy grin, which suddenly turned into horror, and she quickly moved toward Trina. I blocked her path and turned to look. A goddamned sailor was sitting next to her in the booth. He was trying to kiss her, and she kept pushing him away.

"I'll take care of it, Mama."

Connie hadn't realized there was a problem, until she looked closely and asked, "What is it, Mama?"

She didn't answer so Connie followed Mama's gaze up the stairs toward Trina and the sailor. "Take Mama to the front door, Baby," I said to Connie as I started toward Trina.

In as polite a way as possible, I asked the sailor to let Trina out of the booth.

"Buzz off, mate. Get yer own prostie. This one's mine," he slurred. He continued to reach for her breasts and Trina kept deflecting his hands.

"She's my sister and she's only fourteen. Besides, her mother is right down there," I said motioning with my head toward the bowlers. "Oh? Is she a whore, too? Bring her over and I'll give her a go when I'm done with this one."

There haven't been too many times when red-hot anger flashed in front of me, but it did then. I grabbed the sailor's white sea cap off his head and flung it up to the coffee shop floor. He stood up and said "You son-of-a-bitch! I'll show you."

As he stood, Trina got up and ran to Mama and Connie at the front door. I gave him a hard punch to his belly and when he bent over, I kneed him in the face sprawling him out. I headed for the door, but stopped and looked at Tony, the guy who ran the Palomar. I gave him an apologetic shrug.

"I seen the whole thing, man. Just get outta here before the fleet comes in!"

I felt really fortunate that none of that mug's pals were there.

"I'm sorry, Carlos," Trina kept saying.

Surprisingly, Mama was calm. She even had a smirk on her face. Connie was wild-eyed from the excitement, more than she had ever seen, and it was hard for me to walk because I was shaking so badly. When Trina apologized again, Mama took over and told us, "We all need to be careful. It isn't safe out there." She jammed her thumb back toward the Palomar like an umpire calling a base runner out. I knew she meant the Palomar and beyond.

The girls bathed and went to bed. Mama sat and rocked in her chair. I'd settled down and thought about going back to the Palomar to see if that shit-bird sailor was still trolling. But then I thought about the next day's work. I looked at Mama. She was still smiling.

"What is it, Mama? Why are you grinning so much?"

She slightly shook her head and said, "I'm proud of you, Carlos. You've been taking care of us since your _padre_ left. Don't think we don't appreciate it." She kept rocking and grinning. "You've kept us together. I've been feeling sorry for myself, but I'm over that now. Seeing you tonight protecting your sister reminded me of what your father would have done. My men are heroes protecting each other, and those who need protecting."

I lay in bed and thought about what Mama said. It was true we did protect others. Mickey clobbered a guy with a bat who was going to kill a guy. Pop ran to help Mickey in a fight and I fought to protect Trina from a drunken sailor. I was proud of all of us, too, but didn't think what we'd done was spectacular. I didn't think we were a family of bad-assed men. We were regular Joes.

Mama had stepped up, for the time being, and taken over the parenting again. I felt weight lifting from my shoulders. For a while, Trina stayed in line for the most part, and Connie felt content again, having her big sister back. I just hoped it would last at least until after Pop and Mickey's Thanksgiving visit.

The smell of sage, dill and onion filled the kitchen. A large turkey sat on the drain board slathered in oleo, a bowl of stuffing ready to be jammed in the carcass. The day was bright and crisp and the house was filled with activity. Orange and brown crepe paper streamers were wrapped around curtain rods and looped to the chandelier. A crayon drawing of a Pilgrim holding an axe, chasing a turkey, was tacked to the inside of the backdoor. Cornhusks, saved from making tamales, served as a centerpiece on the kitchen table.

"I'm off, Mama. We'll be home from the depot in no time."

" _Dios Mio_! I can hardly wait!" she said. "I gotta get this bird cooking, so when they come in it will smell _delicioso_." She opened the oven door and heat whooshed into the room. I picked up the pan and slid the turkey in.

"It already smells good in here, Mama," I said as I wiped my hands on a dishtowel.

"Run along, now, and drive carefully. I hope they slept on the way." Pop stepped off the train by himself. He looked good, even though his face was not as tan as when he left. I looked behind him, and when nobody that I recognized got off, I gave him a huge hug. We held each other for a long time, both with tears on our cheeks, and I didn't care who saw.

On the ride home, I told him about the black sedan going by our house and he nodded and said, "I guess Mickey was right. _Los muchachos muy mal_ are still after him." He asked about Trina, and I told him she had seemed to come around. I left out the part about hitting the pawing sailor. Mama would probably tell him anyway.

Pop entered the house in a flurry. The girls and Mama surrounded him jockeying for a hug and smooch. Mama broke free and looked at me, silent but with a question in her eyes. I shrugged and Pop said, "Mickey felt the heat was still on him from the Downeys. So he stayed home."

Stayed _home_? I thought. It hit me hard then that LA was no longer home to Pop and Mickey and this felt harsh and sad.

Mama put on a brave face and Pop brought us up to date on all that was happening in Los Gatos, where they lived, his job and Mickey's school. We tried to fit four months into four days, and before we knew it, Pop was on a train headed back to Los Gatos and his job. The scene at the train depot was less dramatic than at the bus station. When Pop said they, and he emphasized they, meaning him and Mickey, would be home for Christmas, our anxiety was lessened. All in all, it was a good holiday. It would've been better if Mickey had been there, too.

After most of the sailors shipped out, the tensions eased consider- ably. About the only thing racial printed in the two prominent newspapers was about the Sleepy Lagoon trial, and of course the police blotter.

The Examiner wrote stories about the unfair treatment the defendants received and the Times printed stories about how bad the defendants were. Police-beat reporters wrote stories on criminal activities dealing with Mexicans. The truth was that white kids were committing as many crimes, maybe even more, than the Mexicans, but that seldom got reported.

The words 'corruption in the Mayor's office' were whispered around the city. But the Mayor continued to woo developers to the San Fernando Valley, getting ready for a housing boom just as soon as the war was over. A maneuver that robbed water from the Owens Valley for consumption in Los Angeles County and City, done decades before, was coming to realization and plans for subdivisions were waiting for the end of war.

I followed the trial as closely as I could, but working made it sort of hard. I caught up with Diego from time to time and he kept me informed.

"They ain't getting a fair shake, man. Their rights have been violated." I nodded my head like I knew what the hell he was talking about, but I didn't understand it. "The judge is in the Mayor's pocket," he continued, slapping his hand on the fender of the pickup. I just shook my head.

"That prick, Murphy, the Chief of Police, the judge and the Mayor are buttering each others' balls. They're the criminals in the city, fer cryin' out loud."

I had mixed feelings. I didn't want Chico and the others to go to jail for something they didn't do. On the other hand, I thought once they were indicted, Mickey would be in the clear. The Downeys would lay off of him. Get back to being a family is what I wished for. The more time that went by, the harder it would be to make it as it used to be. Who was I kidding? We could never go back. Mama was talking about moving to Los Gatos.

Several weeks after Thanksgiving I was backing out of the driveway to go to work when Trina came out and put her hand up for me to stop.

"I ain't got time to take you to school," I said as I rolled the window down. Trina shook her head and leaned in closer and said, "I think...I think Mama is..."

"Mama is what?"

"She was sick again this morning. I think she's pregnant," she blurted out, then covered her mouth.

Jesus Christ! What next? "How could that happen?" I whined. Trina tilted her head as if to say, _You're kidding, right_?

That afternoon when I got done with my shower, I walked into the kitchen and sat down. Mama was busy at the stove.

"You were sick this morning, weren't you?"

She looked at me with a slight grin and said, "Yes I was." "Does Pop know?"

She continued to grin and said, "He will know soon. Are you hungry?"

## Chapter 12

Mickey

Los Gatos 1943

Late fall in Los Gatos was very pleasant. Leaves were turning brown and falling and the hills were getting green from sporadic rainfall. Flannel shirts and coats came out of closets. Camphor from mothballs emanated every so often from the men passing by. The smell of leaves burning in the gutter on a Saturday morning wafted in the air as children raked piles over to fathers. Dads, getting back to the earth after spending all week behind a desk, clad in black and red checked woolen jackets, stood guard over this ritual handed down from father to son generation after generation.

Grocery stores were always busy on the weekends with families stocking up food for next week's meals. The economy seemed to come back slightly. Talk of the war ending was heard in the booths of restaurants and on stools in bars. Wives and mothers got packages ready to ship overseas to loved ones.

The hardware store clerks kept busy steering customers to the right aisle to fix a plumbing problem or a squeaky door hinge. The weekend chores were never ending.

Shops stayed open late and store windows were filled with Christmas scenes. Big ribbons adorned shiny chrome handlebars on brightly colored bicycles, holding the gaze of boys and girls walking by. Electric trains ran in a circle on the floor around the bikes. Outside speakers on sidewalks played carols. A huge green wreath with bright red ribbons sat in the middle of shiny tin garlands that hung from street light posts along Santa Cruz Avenue and Main Street.

Linda and I had just walked out of the Gatos Theater after seeing an Esther Williams movie. The Saturday evening crowd in town seemed heavier than usual. Linda held my arm as we strolled and window-shopped.

On weekends we had dates out. On weeknights we got together, on the sneak, at my place while Pop was working. She'd tell her parents she was going to the library. We both felt guilty, but not enough to stop. "Oh, look!" Linda squealed as she dropped my arm and pointed to the wedding and engagement rings in Peters Jewelry window display.

"Oh, that one is soooo pretty," she sighed. "When we get married, that's the ring I want."

What the Christ? I played along and said, "Which one?" as I sidled up to her.

All the time, I kept wondering if I was obligated, in some way, to marry her because we spent so much time together. Being in a relationship was new to me. I couldn't ask Pop for guidance; the jig would be up and I knew that Linda's old man would put the kibosh on our romance if he found out.

Some nights her parents would make her stay in. If she didn't knock on the door by seven, I knew she wasn't coming. I constantly felt guilty before she arrived and after she left, but never while we were together, though. It's funny how that works.

Pretty soon her grades started to drop and her parents became suspicious. On a cold and windy night, just after Linda left me, her father rapped on the door. I opened it and stood face to face with _Señor_ Rosa. He looked around me into the interior.

" _Donde está_ , Linda?" he asked with squinted eyes.

I gave him my best innocent and concerned look and said, "I don't know where she is, is something wrong?" Looking at me suspiciously, her father said. "She told me she was going to the library. I didn't see her there."

I shook my head and held out my hands, as if I didn't have a clue. "Oh, God, Mickey that was close," Linda said as we walked to school. "Last night I saw him go to your door. I stood in the shadow of the washhouse. I ran up the street and cut across to the library and made a loop back home. He was walking right toward me, and boy, did he look relieved when we met. I hate lying."

"Maybe we need to cool it. Take it easy, ya know?" I said weakly. Linda nodded her head slightly. I looked at her and watched her eyes fill up with tears.

I was sitting in my room looking over books on careers my school counselor loaned me. It was difficult to concentrate; I missed Linda. The clanging of the refrigerator got to me, so I stood in a huff and whacked the top of it. All that did was hurt my hand. I wanted to hurl it into the driveway. I unplugged it and sneezed from the dust underneath and on the coils. I removed the cardboard backing and saw the problem. The fan was bent and hit the shroud. I tried to bend it back into place, but stopped for fear of breaking the warped blade. It was quiet for the time being, but I knew it wouldn't last. I went down the steps into the basement under the motel office. The bare bulb hanging from a rough-hewn beam swayed after I pulled the string. I took a pair of pliers, a screwdriver and crescent wrench and went up the stairs to fix the fan on the fridge. Slick was standing at the top, as if he were waiting for me. This shit-head was always scaring me. I think I hated Slick.

"What in the hell are you doing?" he snarled.

"Getting some tools to fix the ice box," I stammered, as I stepped around him.

I sensed he was watching me, but I didn't look back until I got behind the washhouse. From around the corner I saw him looking around. He shut the door and walked down the steps. I snuck over to a ground-level window and looked down into the basement. The light was swaying back and forth, casting eerie shadows. I couldn't see Slick right off, but when the light swung in the opposite direction of the workbench, I saw him standing by the brick foundation for the fireplace. He pulled a brick away and yanked a cloth sack out and peered inside it.

I thought to myself, _this buzzard has a hidey-hole. Why_? I went back to the room sensing that there was something going on and sat at the table wondering for a long time what Slick was up to. Before I shut the career book, I noticed the page displayed was on appliance repair. _What the Christ_?

On Saturday I took some money out of one of the coffee cans and purchased a tool kit from Templeman's Hardware. I asked Mrs. Fanning if I could store my tools in the basement on the workbench. "Just make sure you keep it clean down there," she told me.

I'd always been able to repair small engines, and knew that I could fix the appliances. Within a week I'd fixed our fridge and serviced the washing machines and several other refrigerators in other units. Maybe, just maybe I had a career.

"Hey, Pop!" I announced as I opened the door. I forgot that he'd still be sleeping. "Geez, sorry, Pop."

"S'okay, Mickey. What's up?" he said groggily as he sat on the edge of his bed.

"I got a job! It's just on the weekends, but in the summer it'll be full time."

"That's great, son, where?" he asked during a yawn.

"Clanton's, the used furniture and appliance place. You know, up next to Meadow Gold Creamery. I'll fix the appliances and help deliver."

He lay back down, and said he was happy for me, but he needed more sleep.

"We'll talk later," he sighed while fluffing his pillow.

But later that day, when Pop came into the room, his face was ashen, his eyes wide and his brow arched.

"What is it, Pop? Is everything all right?"

He just stood in one place shaking his head. "What gives, Pop? Yer scaring me."

He sat on a kitchen chair and attempted to speak. "Your mama...your mama is gonna..." His voice trailed off.

"Is mama all right, Pop?" I asked with a slight rise in my voice. "She's gonna be a Mama, again," he said flatly and stared off into space. "I just talked to her on the telephone."

I stepped onto the brick steps leading to Teddy Samuels's front door. I had lots to tell him about my job, and Mama having a baby.

As I stood on the porch I heard muffled voices and what sounded like crying. A board under my foot creaked when I turned to leave, and Ted came to the front door. His eyes were red and swollen. He opened the screen door for me to come in.

"What's the matter, Teddy?"

"My, father...my father was killed in action," he blurted out as he fell into my arms. Tears were streaming down my cheeks as I held my friend. "The Army guys just left," he sobbed. I saw a yellow Western Union telegram on the dining room buffet. I could hear his mother wailing from somewhere in the house. These two people were all alone and had nobody there with them. God brought me here at this moment, I thought to myself. Do something.

"What can I do for you or your mom?" I asked.

Mrs. Samuels stood in the hallway leading to the dining room and whispered, "Grandma needs to know. Maybe Miguel could walk over with you. Bring her here. And maybe he could go ask Father Curtis at Saint Mary's to drop by," she said pointing at me, then turned and retreated back to her room.

Pop and I walked back to the motel after spending most of the afternoon at Ted's house. Relatives and friends came by with food and condolences. I was glad I'd been there first. However, at the time, I wanted to be someplace else, anywhere else.

Pop shut the door and I turned and melted into his arms. We both cried. It was one of those cries where I felt cleaned out after. The shit going on in LA never crossed my mind. _Stay in the present_.

I spent every day with Ted. I went with him to the train depot while the flag draped coffin of his father was placed in the maroon Cadillac hearse and driven to Place's Funeral Home. I was at the cemetery when an Army honor guard played Taps and fired rifles, and at his home after all the people left.

"You're a good friend, Mickey. Thanks for all your help these past few weeks," Ted said as we sat under the huge walnut tree in his backyard after his father's graveside service. We sipped on bottles of Falstaff he'd snuck out of the house. Our ties were loosened, and the sleeves of our starched white shirts rolled up. Pop came out and gave a nod, as if this one time it was okay to have a beer. He had a glass of wine and we toasted Staff Sergeant Harold Samuels.

It was three days before Christmas and Pop and I needed to get packing for our trip home. I had mixed emotions about leaving. Ted and his mom were in for a rough road and I should be there for them. On the other hand, I wanted to see _mi familia_.

"We'll be okay, Mickey. You go be with your ma," he said in a weak voice.

" _Teodoro, mi amigo_ ," Pop said as we rose to go, "If you need anything, anything at all, you can ask me. I can't replace your _padre_. I'm just here, okay?" Pop and Ted embraced and I wrapped my arms around the shoulders of them both and we shed more tears.

The late morning sun gleamed across the ocean just as the southbound train made a sweeping turn toward the blue Pacific. The click-clack droned on and the passenger cars swayed back and forth. Whiffs of tobacco smoke crept in every time a door between cars opened and shut. Most travelers were in festive moods, going home for the holidays with bright Christmas packages stored in and around seats. Parents were admonishing children that if they weren't good, Santa Claus would put coal in their stockings instead of candy. That lasted for about two minutes, until they were back to running up and down the aisles raising a ruckus.

Pop and I sat in the dining car eating meat loaf, mashed potatoes with gravy, and green beans. Over his coffee cup I saw him staring at me.

"What is it, Pop? Do I have something in my teeth?"

" _Señor_ Rosa came and talked to me the other day. He's concerned that you and his Linda are seeing too much of each other," he whispered as he put his cup on the saucer. I didn't say anything and Pop tilted his head and looked at me as if to say, _well_?

"We're good, Pop. Don't worry, okay?"

"I don't want anybody over when I'm not home, okay?"

When I didn't respond he said again, "Okay?"

"Okay! I got it!" I said loudly.

Pop extended his arms out over the table and intertwined his fingers and said, "I know you've had boys over from time to time. I smell the cigarettes and I assume you drink beer, too. Don't do it anymore. Since we moved to Los Gatos, I've been very proud of you. I've always told you do the right thing, and I think you have, for the most. I know you put in more time at your job than schoolwork. But you don't get any cinch notices. Unless you're beating me to the mail," he said as a joke, which I didn't laugh at.

Linda and I had cooled off weeks ago. It was a fact that a couple of fellers came over and brought beer and we played poker. Some of the guys smoked. One night when one of them said, "Let's go find some gals and have a real party," I told them, "My old man don't wanna come home and have a bunch of _borrachos_ sleeping it off."

## Chapter 13

Mickey

LA 1943

Passengers were moving rapidly around the station, like time was running out on the season. Greetings and bon voyage were spoken and accompanied with hugs and kisses. Train whistles blew and horns blared as trains left and arrived. A deep baritone voice announced changes in schedules and track numbers. Uniformed personnel wept with their loved ones hoping for a safe return to camps or battlefields. Others greeted GIs with relief that their sailor or infantryman was home and safe. In a remote area off the main waiting room, doors opened from time to time and a glimpse of flag covered coffins could be seen for a second. It was as though the station manager, in a way, wanted to hide the reality from those in festive moods. As Pop and I walked up the cement ramp to the waiting area, I heard "Hey, Pop! Over here."

I turned toward the voice and saw Carlos, complete with a red Santa hat, waving to us. I thought for a guy that was as vain as Carlos to do that was very cool, man. We all hugged and slapped each other on the back. I even slapped Pop on the back. I don't know why. It just felt right. That was the last thing that felt right on this trip.

It was warm, almost beach-warm and I had to remind myself that it was December. The Christmas lights, manger scenes and decorations seemed very odd.

When Pop opened the front door he yelled, "Ho, Ho, Ho!" The girls screamed as they ran into the living room to greet him. Mama darted from the kitchen, letting her apron drop to the floor, and embraced him. I stood on the porch, out of sight. The giggles stopped and I heard Connie moan, "Where's Mickey?" Before Pop or Carlos answered, I said "Mickey who?"

The reception I received was what I hoped for. Mama's belly was protruding slightly, but she looked happy and content. Her face was fuller and overall she seemed healthier. Connie, ten years old now, was doing a wiggle and giggle shimmy. She looked like she'd grown a foot taller, and Trina looked so adult. When she smiled, however, there was something distant in her eyes.

I was in our house and it felt fantastic, for the most. Don't get me wrong. I was delighted to see everybody. My God, I missed them every day. It's just that I had a nagging sense that was putting me off my feed. It was like an all-over ache you feel when the flu is coming on. But that wasn't it. I wasn't sick. I hoped the feeling would _vamoose_ , whatever it was.

Mama laid out a spread of food that was very inviting. I was starting to feel better as we sat as a family eating tamale, rice and beans. Just like old times. The tinsel drooping on the branches of the Christmas tree glistened in the bright sunlight shining in the windows. The packages sat underneath. Connie had arranged and rearranged the packages several times that afternoon. "Mickey, do you think I should put them in separate piles? You know, so each person has their own pile?"

"Sure, Baby. That's a swell idea. Ask Trina to help you." Connie gave me an odd look.

"What?" I asked.

"She won't help. She stays in the bedroom all day," she answered sadly. "She sneaks out at night. Don't tell anybody," she said covering her mouth with her hands.

I stared at the tree. Mama and Pop were in the kitchen going over business with Carlos and the thought occurred to me, _this isn't my home, not anymore_ , and tears came.

"Are you crying, Mickey?" Connie asked as she got up from the floor and stepped toward me. I put my finger to my lips and shook my head a couple of times.

I whispered to her, "I'm just happy to be here, Baby." She threw her arms around my neck and told me she was happy I was home, too.

I was itching to leave and go somewhere, maybe the Palomar or Olympic Avenue. Carlos convinced me it was a bad idea. "The Downeys don't take time off for Christmas, _ese_. Let's go sit in the yard." Off in the distance, a neighbor's phonograph played Christmas carols. Somebody on a bicycle rode by with playing cards clipped to the spokes with clothespins. A man climbed up on the roof of the house next door carrying a large plastic reindeer and sleigh.

I waved to the neighbor. He said something unintelligible and I just put my hand to my ear and he laughed and started to fasten the decoration to his roof.

"How is it up North?" Carlos asked as he sat in a lawn chair.

"Los Gatos is a quiet place and it's small. Our room is pretty cramped. But me and Pop got it worked out pretty well, ya know? We stay out of each other's way."

I mentioned that some of the Anglos had a high falutin' opinion of themselves, "But the guys I run with are pretty decent."

I told him about my friend Ted's dad getting killed and how tough it was. Carlos was looking at me oddly, rubbing his chin and shaking his head slightly, and I asked what the matter was.

"I don't know. It's just that I don't think of you doing anything up there and you do things. You guys have a life," his voice trailed off. "Yeah, I go to school, Pop works, I played on the football team,

I'm getting ready to play baseball, I have friends and a girlfriend." Carlos arched his brow and snickered, "Is she your steady?

"Yeah, I guess you could say she is."

I could sense him waiting for details, but I changed the subject.

"How is it working alone?"

"It's pretty rotten. It takes over two, sometimes three hours longer a day. I hired an Okie to help. But the son-of-a-bitch is lazy. I have to pick him up everyday, and I gotta get his ass out of bed," he said as he smoothed his moustache. "I ain't cut out to be the boss, not yet anyway. I work better when somebody tells me what to do, ya know?" Mama asked from the kitchen door if we needed anything. Carlos waved her off.

"What's with Trina, Carlos?" I asked. "How do you mean?"

"I don't know. She seems so...so grown up, I guess."

Carlos' right ankle rested on his left knee, and was quickly bobbing up and down, and his jaw clinched and un-clinched. He looked toward the house as if he was gonna say something, but wanted it to be just between us. He started to speak and stopped for a long time.

"What gives, ese? What's goin on?"

"She runs with a pretty raunchy crowd, ya know? Punks, really." "Connie says she sneaks out at night," I added.

His eyes narrowed and he whispered, "Connie and I know it, but Mama doesn't. One night, Connie woke me up and told me about

Trina leaving the house. I jumped up and tailed her to the vacant lot on the other side of the Palomar. A bunch of kids were already there, smoking and making out. A real petting party, ya know?" He said in disgust.

"Hell, we hung out in that same lot, Carlos, doing the same thing." He nodded his head agreeing with me. "It was different for us, don't ya think?"

"You mean because we're guys?"

"Yeah, I guess," he replied with both hands outstretched.

We sat not saying anything for several minutes, and then I said, "That don't sound so bad."

Carlos nodded. "I ain't done. That same night, while I'm standing behind the fence in front of the lot, a squad car drives up the other side, next to the wall of the Palomar and shines the spotlight on the kids. They all take off running in all directions. By God they looked like chickens running around with their heads chopped off," he said as he motioned his hands over his head.

"You remember that goofy looking kid that lived two doors down? You know the family that moved in from Chavez Ravine?"

I nodded that I remembered him and said, "Was he there with Trina? He's a lot older."

"He was there all right, but not with Trina. Anyhow, Trina is sprinting for the sidewalk and I grab her by the arm and pull her away to head in the opposite direction, and the cop that runs after her is that goofy looking kid! I couldn't believe it. He tells me to get her out of there and _pronto_."

Carlos turned grim and acted like bile came up in his throat. I'm waiting for the story to continue and he looks at me with a pained expression.

"What gives, _ese_?"

"She lipped off at me the entire way home. She don't even know how lucky she was. Just before we reached the yard, I grabbed her shoulders, spun her around and slapped her across the face. Oh God, I felt terrible."

"Sounds like she deserved it, Carlos."

"Yeah, maybe. But it didn't do any good. She comes home smelling like booze. She's cutting school, she insults Mama."

"How come you let her get away with it?"

"What did you say?" He snapped.

"I said, 'How could you let that happen?'"

Carlos sat on the edge of his seat, like a _gato_ ready to pounce. "You don't get it do you?"

"Get what?" I asked in more of a challenge than I meant.

"If Pop was still here, none of this shit woulda happened!" How dare you ask, 'How could I let that happen?'" he said as he stood and strode to the house.

"Carlos! Hold up."

He turned and I saw tears on his cheeks. He gave me the two handed shove-off wave and hissed, "Nuts to you."

In bed that night there was no brother-to-brother chitchat like we used to have. This trip was turning out to be a series of "we used to haves."

On Christmas Day _la familia Reyes_ put on the performances of their lifetime. Real Oscar worthy stuff. Everyone was playing a role, except little Connie. She was just her natural, sweet self. The rest of us sat as a family and unraveled. I know I wasn't the only one that felt it. I could see it in their eyes, vacant, but with huge fake grins. Gushes of thank-you's and hurried hugs amid the debris of wrapping paper. Bogus. Jesus, I wanted my old life. I wanted to jump back to just before Sleepy Lagoon. Carlos was right. If Pop was still in LA things would be different. We'd all be together like a real family is supposed to be. I wanted my old life back. Then I thought about Linda.

Connie and Trina dried the dishes that Carlos scraped and I washed. I took a candy dish out of the dish drainer and was going to put it on the coffee table in the living room and heard Pop say to Mama as they sat on the front porch, "It won't be too long and we'll be moving. I'm next on the list to get a cannery house." I found it odd that Mama didn't say anything.

Pop repeated himself, and Mama began, "All I know, Husband, is that you are there and I'm here dealing with all this. Carlos is trying his damnedest to make it work." For Mama to use a swearword way out of character. As a matter of fact, that was the first time I ever heard her cuss. _Unraveling_.

"Don't you see, Monica, it's a chance at something better?" Pop pleaded. "Don't you want us together?"

"How can you ask me that? Of course I want us together. It's just not that easy. You left with a suitcase and Mickey. I'll have to close the house, Carlos will have to shut the gardening down, pack all the stuff, get the girls ready and I'm gonna have a baby."

I could see Mama fanning her reddened face and Pop slumped even further in his chair.

Pop suddenly sat up and said, "Where did our grit go? We faced tougher things than this! Living in Mexico was no _fiesta_. Did you forget coming across? What about Texas and Arizona? We spit in the devil's eye and moved on. Will you ever forget how long our backs ached after we jumped off the melon truck on Figueroa Avenue? I know you remember that. Look, it'll be hard, but if Carlos shuts down the business first, then he can help with the house, ya see?"

"I remember all those things, Husband. How could I forget them?" Pop had a lilt in his voice. "Do you want to know what else?" he asked. Not waiting for an answer, he continued, "We did it together in order to improve. There are better opportunities in Los Gatos." "Go on, Husband," Mama said in a kinder tone.

I got nearer to the screen door to hear Pop's rationale about the move.

"Only bring what you really and truly want and need. Most of these pieces of furniture aren't worth moving. We'll get new furniture, by God!"

"When you put it like that, Husband, it seems clearer. And you're right. This is _nada_ compared to what we faced." Pop was sitting straighter and Mama's face paled to her natural color.

I sat in the living room thinking about what Pop said. Better opportunities in Los Gatos. Is that true? I know I was ready to get back there, but to have everybody there? I wasn't sure. I hated myself for what I was thinking: Mama and Connie? Man that would be aces, but Carlos and Trina were another story. In Los Gatos I was not the kid brother. Do I dare say I was the prince? I knew I wasn't the heir apparent, but it was just me and Pop. And Trina? Why would I want her there? All she does is intentionally piss me off. And her behavior of late, well, she would be an embarrassment. Was I beginning to savor the split? That's what I hated. I think I _wanted_ the split. Me, Pop, Mama and Connie seemed okay. Carlos and Trina? They were round pegs in a square hole. However, I do know this: that was my opinion, only mine, and I felt like a selfish bastard.

Later that afternoon, Carlos, Mama, and Pop formulated a plan to shut Reyes Gardening down. Trina was in her room and Connie wanted to talk to somebody, anybody.

I came into the kitchen and told the three of them that Connie and I were going to walk over to the Palomar. I had a baseball cap and sunglasses on. I felt this was an adequate disguise that the Downeys wouldn't recognize. Before I exited the kitchen, I saw Carlos grimace, and he looked just like Pop. I knew before I left for Los Gatos, I'd try and make it right with him.

Connie held my hand, and my thought was, _she is the bright light in a bleak scene_. She talked non-stop about school and classmates, kids in the neighborhood. And she was skipping. It lifted me up.

Of course, on Christmas Day the bowling alley was closed, but it didn't matter. Connie was happy and she made me happy. We continued for several more blocks. Kids with new bikes and wagons rode around the sidewalks and up driveways. Two boys, probably brothers, wore shiny new Ram's football helmets and tossed a football. Seeing them caused a lump in my throat. I missed playing catch with my brother.

An ahoogah horn bleated, and before I turned around I said, "Jimmy!" He pulled to the curb and got out and gave me a huge hug, and pulled playfully on Connie's ponytail before we all got back into the car and took off. Connie sat in the front seat and me in the back. When she saw some of her friends, she told Jimmy to honk the horn. Her friends turned and she put her head out the window and gave a big wave and hello and an enthusiastic laugh. The thought occurred to me that she hadn't had a good laugh in a long time. That made me happy and sad at the same time.

When Jimmy walked in our living room, it was like the mood lifted and we had gone back to summer, before Sleepy Lagoon and all the rubbish that came after. I went in the bedroom and told Carlos that Jimmy was going to take me for a ride. He was lying on his bed staring at the ceiling.

"Do ya wanna go with us?"

He took in a deep breath, let it out with a sigh and said, "Yeah." We stopped at the bridge on Slauson that crossed the Los Angeles River. We all stood with our elbows resting on the cement wall looking down at old tires, trash and yard waste strewn along the banks and the sickly green trickle of water. I looked sadly at the dirt road to the Mayfield Ranch.

"I wonder if that's where they found Huerta's body," Jimmy said flatly as he pointed a finger upstream. A shudder went through me. Carlos saw me and smiled weakly and said, "Jimmy there's something you should know."

Jimmy arched his brow and cocked his head.

"When you and Donaldo left to hunt for dames, the night before he shipped out," Carlos said in a monotone voice, "Mickey and I went back up to Sleepy Lagoon."

"What the hell! Why?"

"That's a good question, Jimmy," I said.

"The _why_ is not the point. Tell him what happened, Mickey," Carlos said as he turned and put his backside to the abutment and crossed his arms.

"So that's why the Downeys are really after you, huh?" Jimmy exclaimed after I told him the whole story. "They want to get you and maybe stop ya from blabbing. Not for clobbering the guy with the bottle. It don't take Charlie Chan or Boston Blackie to figure it out."

"Yeah and if he went to the cops, Murphy would put the pinch on him, and he'd be going to San Quentin with Chico and the others," Carlos added.

"Son-of-a-bitch, the cops will put you away or the shit-head Downeys will get ya. Not a good hand yer holdin _amigo_ ," Jimmy whispered.

It seemed right to take it a step further, so I mentioned my feelings on my family, Carlos and me, and the fragmentation taking place.

"All the problems sit right on me, this whole enchilada, and I gotta get things squared away, ya know?" I said with outstretched arms.

"We'll get over this rough patch, Mickey. You'll see," Carlos told me as he put his hand on my shoulder. My knees buckled and I fell against the wall and let the tears fly. Man, I'd been doing lots of that lately.

Carlos picked me up and held me in his arms, and all I could do was keep apologizing. How could I not want him in my life? Jesus Christ, Carlos has always had my back. I resented him because he was my older brother. It was just birth order. He had nothing to do with when he or, for that matter, when _I_ was born. Trina must resent me because I'm her older brother. Same conclusion.

Carlos smoothed the back of my head and told me everything was going to be okay, just like Mama used to do, and I believed him.

## Chapter 14

Mickey

Los Gatos 1944

The motorcycle cop, astride his black and white Harley Davidson, circled the driveway going as slowly as possible beneath the canopy of sycamores. The cycle rumbled and the tall aerial whipped back and forth. Every few seconds static from the two-way radio crackled. His shiny black boots rose to his calves. His dark blue woolen uniform trousers, with a white stripe down the sides, were bloused into the tops of the boots. The day was cool, so he wore a black leather jacket with an off-white furry collar and a silver star-shaped badge on the left breast. He put the kickstand down, removed his aviator-style dark glasses and walked up to the three women in front of the motel office. He stood with a wide stance and put his thumbs on the holster belt on each side of the bright silver buckle.

Two of the women were dressed in calico skirts. One had on a bright red sweater and the other a plaid flannel man's shirt. The ensembles each wore clashed. Both had jet-black hair and flashing angry obsidian eyes. Mrs. Fanning, the other lady, stood away from them, like these gypsies might be contagious.

Los Gatos was a usual stop for vagabonds, either on their way to or from Santa Cruz County. Hobos would hop off the freights before the depot and hang out along the creek, which was a natural right-of-way to bypass town. The newcomers would listen to those that'd been around and learn the lay of the land, areas to stay away from and those places where people were soft touches. A system of symbols usually carved on fences or trees gave clues as to who was friendly and who wasn't. A triangle with a hand signified that the owner in the house had a gun. A square missing its top signified a good place to camp, and a cat indicated a kind lady lived in the house.

At night a gravel quarry at the edge of town became a hobo encampment. Mulligan stews bubbled in huge pots. Other cauldrons were for boiling clothes to kill lice. If a hobo didn't have a bedroll to sleep in, he covered up with newspapers referred to as California Blankets. During the day some looked for handouts of food or cash, and were willing to work for either. They were friendly and polite most of the time. They seemed to have a code. The hobos didn't tolerate bums, because they were lazy. Tramps worked when they were forced to. Hobos worked because it was necessary to get a stake so they could move on. Gypsies would roll into town much like the Okies did a decade earlier. The difference was that Okies wanted to work, were willing to work, and did work and became part of the fabric which made up the citizenry of the town.

Bands of gypsies arrived in old high canvass covered trucks, their children rode in the back, dark eyes peering out back flaps amid the clanging of pots and pans hanging inside. They camped along the tracks, usually in close proximity to the creek. Gypsies, for the most part seemed to be looking for people to swindle. The men set out to perform petty larceny, the women looked for domestic jobs, and others whored. They had no ethical code. Parents from town told misbehaving children if they didn't straighten up and fly right they'd be given to the gypsies. Children in town grew up with the perception that gypsies were evil.

Most citizens tolerated the hobos. Some men-folk could be heard saying under their breath "there but for the grace of God, go I," and gave them what they could. Bars of soap were left on fence rails along with cans of condensed milk, beans, soup and cigarettes.

The gypsies, on the other hand, were usually given the air. However, Fanning's was a place that became somewhat of a highlight on maps gypsies carried. With the men from town at war, most women-folk took the factory jobs, making good money, and it was difficult to find housekeepers, and that's where the gypsy women stepped in.

I saw a student volunteer from the office enter my history classroom and hand a note to the teacher. In a flat tone she said, "Mr. Reyes, the Dean wants to see you right away."

I shrugged my shoulders when Chepe gave me a questioning look. I've done nothing wrong. Not a thing to worry about.

When I saw Pop and a tall copper, wearing black calf-high boots, standing in the Dean's office my immediate thought was something is wrong back in LA. Pop's eyes glistened and his lips were drawn thin. It wasn't something in LA. It was about me. But what?

"Miguel Esau Reyes?" the cop asked when I entered.

"Yeah?" I said in more of a gruffer tone than I intended.

"Turn around and put your hands behind your back," the cop snapped.

"What for?"

Pop stood in front of me and said, "Do what the officer tells you, Miguel."

I ignored him, and moved Pop aside and yelled, "What's the beef?" just like I'd seen James Cagney and Edward G. Robinson say in the movies. Real tough guy.

The cop grabbed my shoulders and spun me around. I tried to shake him off, but he was too big and much stronger than me. Information that you would've thought I'd pay attention to, but no. I turned to face him and in a flash he had a Billy club out ready to bring across my noggin. The light went on finally, and I spun and put my hands on my ass. He snapped the cuffs on me, probably tighter than normal. The Dean, a sour faced guy stood to the side and clucked his tongue repeatedly. I saw Mr. Canrinus open his office door and motion the Dean over and ask him what was taking place. Canrinus nodded curtly and gave a slight shake of his head.

I was marched down the main hall toward the West Entrance doors. Is he going to take me to jail on a motorcycle?

The change of class bell rang and students filled the corridor blocking our way and exposing my arrest. Linda, coming out of the auditorium, saw me and ran up sobbing, " _Que pasa_ , Miguel?"

" _No se_ ," I said.

The cop moved in front, stopping her from talking to me. "Stand back, little lady, or I'll run ya in for interferin.' Now go on, get back!" he snarled at her. I was aware of kids standing on High School Court. Some were hooting and _spic_ and _cholo_ could be heard. Ted was over by the carport where the teachers park.

"What happened?" he yelled. I didn't have time to answer; the cop shoved me down into the back seat of a cop car and slammed the door.

As the cop did a u-turn, I noticed Pop and Linda side by side on the steps. Linda was crying and Pop was thin lipped more than ever. In forty-five seconds we stopped in front of the Police Station, located in the basement of the Presbyterian Church, and just a block from the high school.

I could still hear the school bell ringing while the cop led me down the ramp on the side of the building.

The cramped office seemed stuffy and smelled like burned coffee. A counter spanned the length providing a division between a seating space and the working area. The ceiling was a cross-grid of plumbing pipes for the church above. A uniformed officer sat on a stool behind the counter, his soft policeman's hat sat back on his head. The green underside of the visor contrasted with his pink complexion.

"Did ya have any trouble with him, Walt?" the cop asked looking up from his perch as Walt swung a gate open so we could walk around the counter. The gate continued to swing for several seconds with a slight squeak.

"Nah, Digby. He puffed up a bit, but when he saw my persuader, well he got gentle as a lamb," Walt, said as he caressed his nightstick. "Did his records come across the wire?"

"He's clean. No priors, no warrants," Digby replied with authority. Walt had me stand against a bare wall. He removed the handcuffs and said, "Look at the birdie," as he took a picture of my face, and then my profile. I couldn't believe this was happening. _I'm being arrested! These shit-birds are convinced I did a crime. But what_? Next, Digby took my fingerprints. "Let's hold hands," he said faking a girl's voice. He looked at me and winked.

Walt sat behind the desk in a wooden swivel chair. I sat next to the side of the desk. He rocked continuously, and as he puffed on a corncob pipe, the blue haze of the sweet smoke hovered over us. He sure isn't in a hurry. I tossed a paper towel I'd used to remove the fingerprint ink into his wastepaper basket. I noticed a yellow piece of paper and the words Fanning's, gold watch, necklace, from time to time, gypsies and housekeepers scrawled in pencil. Walt saw me looking at his notes, and stopped rocking and glared at me. My first thought was Slick and his hidey-hole.

"I see ya lookin at my notes. Let me add a couple others." He whisked the paper toward him and said aloud as he wrote, "work bench, green tool box."

"Is it startin' to come clear to ya?"

I nodded for a few seconds. "Stuff was swiped at the motel, jewelry and shit."

"Watch yer mouth, son. This is a public building. You ain't home now. But you're right. Things were stolen from Mrs. Fanning. You ain't as stupid as ya look," he said with a grin. "You ever been in the owner's unit? The one upstairs?"

I nodded again and he asked my reason for being there.

"She had a problem with a gas valve on her stove. I fixed it for her," I answered with a sigh.

"Good opportunity to case the joint, don't ya think?" he sneered. "Look, I didn't steal anything."

The cop tapped the bowl of his pipe into a huge ashtray, and took out a pipe cleaner from his desk drawer and shoved in and out of the stem. It went in white and came out a sickly dark brown. "Mrs. Fanning thought the housekeepers were swiping things. Every time she accused them, they would quit or she'd fire them. The two gals this morning denied everything. They seem honest. As much as a gypsy can be honest, anyway."

Walt looked out the window and frowned. I followed his gaze and saw Pop descend the ramp. Pop's face was pale and haggard, his eyes wide.

"Digby, have that man sit tight."

Walt gave Pop a curt head bow and told him he would talk to him in a few minutes.

"Mr. Fairlund suggested I check the basement," he replied.

I shook my head, perplexed. "I don't know any Mr. Fairlund."

"He shacks up with Mrs. Fanning."

"Slick?" His name is Fairlund?"

Walt shuffled a few pages, found what he was looking for and replied, "Nelson Fairlund is his name. He escorted me into the basement and wonders of wonders, there was a beautiful gold ladies Bulova wrist watch, a pearl necklace and a jade ring in a green tool box that seems to belong to you."

"So you stopped searching then?" I asked heatedly. You didn't look anyplace else. Blame it on the Mexican kid. Is that it?" I screamed.

"Look, son. We were getting along so nice-like. Don't get back on my bad side again. I'll put yer ass in the can and you can think about it."

"Fine," I hissed. "Put my ass in the can."

He scooted his chair back and it banged against the wall, which, based on the nicks, looked like it had been hit by this maneuver before. The ruckus brought Digby out from behind the counter. He stood watching the scene and kept hitching his gun belt up with his wrists.

Pop stepped around the corner to see about the ruckus. Digby's look seemed to say, "What next?"

Pop came to my side and pleaded, "Miguel, tell them you didn't do this. Tell them now!"

Walt raised his forearm to stop Pop from getting closer. "He's going to jail, Mr. Reyes. I suggest you get him a lawyer."

Walt held my arms and Digby clamped the cuffs on me. I struggled tremendously. To say I snapped would have been an understatement. I jumped and kicked at the air, at the gate, walls, door and the pipe railing as they hurried and jerked me up the ramp. All the while Pop was pleading with me to tell them I was innocent. Then I did the un-thinkable. I screamed, "Shut-up! They know I didn't do it, you old man!" It was one of those moments where time seemed to stop. The PE class on the field below the police station stood motionless, traffic didn't move on Church Street and birds didn't sing. Nothing was moving except me and Walt. Then it all started again, all but Pop. I caught a glimpse of him at the bottom of the ramp. He had the most wounded look I ever saw on a man, and my heart broke. But did it stop the badass routine? No! I kept it up all the way across Main Street, to the jailhouse behind Town Hall.

The two-cell jail had a thick wooden front door and windows high on the wall of each cell. Vomit and Hexol smells battled for dominance in the muggy enclosure. Walt slammed the barred door; the clank was deafening, but not as loud as when he shut the front door. That seemed so final. Heartbeats rang in my ears and tears welled in my eyes. Son-of-a-bitch, I'm in jail! This is a nightmare. _What now_?

I wiped my eyes as they adjusted to the dimness. A bare bulb of low wattage dangled from the cement ceiling on a black wire. A shaft of afternoon daylight pierced the interior through the window onto the cot of the vacant cell across from me. Each cell was furnished with a cot and a drab gray blanket tucked at the foot end with hospital corners, and a drool-stained, black-striped thin pillow at the head. A metal chair pushed against the wall and a white enameled chamber pot sat on the gray cement floor under it.

Names were scrawled all over the walls. Why would anybody want to put their name on a jailhouse wall? I looked at some of the names. There was Sidetrack, Bertha, Seasick Sid, and Petie A. There were just too many. I'm not a tourist for crying out loud. I sat on the cot and listened to the silence of this block building, and the walls seemed to close in on me. Is this going stir crazy? Wake up! You're in a small town jail. This ain't the big house. The walls are in the same place since they were built. Anyhow, I concentrated on the sky outside the window, and things settled down a bit.

Alone with only my thoughts, you'd think I'd try and figure a plan to get out. To have Pop get me a lawyer never crossed my mind. Tell them about Slick's hidey-hole? No, never thought about it. Be polite to the guys in charge? Nope. I thought about Carlos and Jimmy and Donaldo and what would they think of me being in the _pinta_? Like being put in jail is some kind of credential. Who was I kidding? Jimmy and Donaldo would be sympathetic; they've been in. But Carlos would think I was stupid for going to jail. My heart was going like a jackhammer. The shame I felt at that moment seemed so intense and despairing that I felt like I was being eaten by an evil monster. I couldn't catch my breath and gasped for air. My fingers tingled and spots appeared before my eyes. Thinking about Carlos brought my family into the mix of emotions, and I wanted to have Mama here to hold me and tell me everything would be fine. Thinking about my mother's beautiful face and smile calmed me a bit.

I heard a noise out the window. I moved the chair over and climbed up to have a look. An old mulish faced man wearing a straw hat and bib overalls pushed a cart along the pea gravel path. He stopped and reached down to replace a rock that dislodged from the border of a flowerbed of ferns under a huge redwood tree. He must have sensed me looking at him, because he straightened up, smiled briefly and saluted me in a sympathetic manner. I wiggled my fingers at him. I watched him as he headed for a gardeners' shack between the jail and Town Hall.

The bell from the school rang and I thought about the baseball coach and missing practice. "Holy shit. I got more to worry about than playing baseball. I gotta get Pop to get me outta this fix," I whined.

"Hey Mickey! Are you in there?" I heard Linda say from the path. I stood on the chair again and said "So, what's new with you?" as playfully as I could. She started to cry, and I almost did again. "Hey no need for that, Baby. C'mon buck up."

Sniffling and wiping her eyes with a hanky, she said, "What happened?"

I looked around to make sure nobody was near and told her.

After I was through telling her she blurted out, "That's ridiculous! How long do you have to be in there?" she asked pointing to jail.

"I don't know, Baby. Go get my father for me. Will ya?"

From my perch I relayed to Pop about the loose brick in the wall and seeing Slick remove something from the hole. A look of understanding came over his face, and then a frown. He placed his hands on his hips and whispered angrily, "Why didn't you tell them that? You gotta be the tough _hombre_ , don't ya? Maybe time in the _pinta_ will do you some good," he spun on his heels and marched away.

"Pop! Pop! Come back, please!"

After I stopped sobbing again, I thought about what he said, how being in jail would do me some good. He couldn't mean that. I mentally pieced together the events leading up to getting called out of class. I did nothing wrong. I didn't steal anything from anybody. What happened after I got to the Dean's office? Oh boy, that's when the shit hit the fan.

Why did I become so defiant in the Dean's office? I knew I was innocent, but they already were convinced I did it. Did I really know that? Not really. I was feeling more ashamed by my behavior as I processed the afternoon. What about the scene in the cop's office? That must have been a real keen show. "I had it made for a few minutes.

Walt was talking real nice to me," my moaning voice echoed off the wall. "That would a been a swell time to tell him about Slick. Fairlund? That's a hell of a handle."

More shame engulfed me as I thought about the commotion I raised when they hauled me over here. If they'd of thumped me with their persuaders, frankly, I woulda' deserved it. Jesus, all the kids in the hallways at school, seeing me hauled off to the pokey. I can't go back. I won't go back. I don't care what Pop says. _Careful, you stupid ass. You better care what Pop says_.

At twilight Pop yelled in the window to me. He stood with his hands out at his sides in a gesture that said, _I don't know what to say_ , after telling me he didn't find anything in the basement.

"Did ya see the loose brick?"

" _Si, si_. That's the first place I looked, Mickey. He's on to us."

He stood there looking up at me with a sorrowful gaze. I started to cry, and I was scared.

"Sit tight, Mickey."

"Where am I gonna go?" I snapped.

He stepped back and gave me an upset look again. All the shame and hurtful things I'd done and said flashed by me like a newsreel at the movies. "Pop, listen, I'm sorry about what I said. Please forgive me," I pleaded. "A son should never talk to his father like that, ever. I won't do it again. I give you my word."

"I tried to get you out this afternoon, but the Chief of Police arranges that. It must be a nine-to-five gig. He was gone by the time I got over there," he said, nodding his head toward Main Street. "I'll get you as soon as I get off my shift in the morning."

Nobody came into the jail. I had nothing to eat or drink. It was like they forgot I was a prisoner. Shit, I could have died and nobody would know. I lifted the lid of the chamber pot and wretched. "Who's supposed to empty that?" I yelled, as I slammed the lid down. My scream and the pot clang echoed for several seconds.

Night wind chilled the walls and the floor, which seemed to get slimy. I tried to sleep sitting up. I wasn't gonna lay my head on that pillow. If they wouldn't empty the piss pot, they weren't gonna have clean pillows. I swear I could feel bugs crawling on me, and I tossed the blanket off. I shivered and sat with my knees to my chest for warmth. Something with a long pink tail scurried across the floor; probably a rat. I shuddered and got into a tighter ball and wondered if I had a future. Hell, if I'd gone to jail in LA I could buddy-up with Chico. Damn, I hadn't thought about Sleepy Lagoon today.

A train whistle woke me from a not so sound sleep. The day was just breaking and I thought that when I got out of here I could hop a freight and go on the fly. T _hen you'd be a fugitive, you dumb shit_ , I yelled at myself.

"If you find yourself in a hole, stop digging," is what Pop always said.

Later that morning I heard footsteps on the gravel and men talking. I recognized my father's voice, but not the other.

Suddenly the jail door opened and a shaft of daylight lit the walkway between the cells. Pop stood next to a tall man with a dark mustache wearing eyeglasses. He was festooned in a fancy police uniform with a gold Chief 's badge. I stood with my fingers wrapped around the bars. I must have looked in bad shape because Pop gasped when he saw me.

In a deep but kindly voice the chief said, "Good morning. I trust you found your accommodations satisfactory, son."

"I need to use the bathroom."

The chief looked at the chamber pot and pointed. I just shook my head, and he shrugged and removed hand cuffs from his belt and held them up, "Am I gonna need these?"

Pop and I both answered "No sir," at the same time.

"Fine. Let's go over to my office and complete the paperwork," he said, unlocking the barred door.

When I got outside I inhaled deeply, savoring the early morning wintry aromas of wood chips from the gardens, sandy smells of the gravel, open air and tree bark. We passed a public restroom and I said, "May I please use that toilet? The pot in the cell hadn't been emptied."

The Chief looked sternly at me, then at Pop and said, "Don't try any malarkey with me."

"No sir, I won't."

I heard Pop tell him that I was a good boy, to which the Chief replied, "I wish I had a dime for each time I heard that from a parent. I'd be riding my horse on a ranch in the Sierras. If my kid talked to me the way I heard yours talk to you, why I'da poked em. I don't take any guff."

When I entered the office where I was taken the day before, Walt and Digby were in the same spots. I was embarrassed and wanted to crawl into a hole. They looked like they didn't recognize me. Walt's pipe hung out of the side of his mouth. Digby sat up straighter when he spotted the chief, and started to re-arrange papers on the counter. A white box with glazed doughnuts sat on a drain board next to a pot of coffee. My stomach growled.

The nameplate on his desk read Chief Phillips. Pop and I sat alone while Phillips went into another room. Sitting on a credenza was a framed black and white photograph of the Chief with a wide grin wearing a fancy cowboy outfit and riding a huge palomino leading a parade. Floats were spread out behind him down Santa Cruz Avenue. Photos of family members garnered a prize spot on top of his desk. Ribbons, plaques and trophies with horses on them decorated one wall. Another wall had police department mementos displayed.

Handing a piece of paper to Pop when he came back in, Phillips said, "Here's a receipt for the bail."

"Bail!" I said.

Phillips and Pop looked at me strangely. Phillips grinned and said, "Did you think you were going to just walk away? I gotta submit the report to the District Attorney's Office so charges can be filed for an arraignment hearing." He sat back in his chair and looked at Pop. "This is the important part, Mr. Reyes. I'm releasing young Miguel in your custody. I suggest you don't leave town. And make sure he stays out of trouble," he said pointing at me.

I just kept shaking my head. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Phillips sat forward and put his elbows on his desk.

"That's how it's done, son. Mrs. Fanning filed a complaint. We did a search and found the loot in your tool box."

"But I didn't do it."

"That's what the lawyers will hash out," he said, and stood up as if to say this meeting is over.

"Nobody asked me my side of the story. Nobody."

Phillips sat down with an audible sigh, and a curt angry shake of his head. "Walt come in, please," he yelled out.

Walt leaned on the doorjamb and said, "Yes?"

"Young Miguel says he didn't give a statement. Is that so?" Phillips asked.

"Yes sir. It is. He blew a gasket and I tossed him in the lockup. Let em cool off ya know?" he said as he wiped crumbs from the corners of his mouth with his sleeve. The Chief nodded.

"Nobody went over to the jail last night to get a statement?"

"I don't know, sir. I was off last night."

Phillips looked at me and I told him, "Nobody came in last night. I could have died over there and nobody would know it," I said pointing in the direction of the jail. "And the piss pot wasn't emptied. What kinda two-bit outfit ya running here, Chief?"

Pop put a clamp-like grip on my elbow to quiet me down.

Phillips leaned forward and pointed a finger at me and said in a flat monotone, "What I'm running here is a police department, which I am the chief of. Because I'm the chief I have leeway as to who goes to jail, who stays in jail and who gets to go home. Are you reading me?" He sat back and continued. "I've cut you a break, boy. You can go home after you give a statement to this officer," he said nodding toward the door. "I suggest you do that before I change my mind. Now get out. I have more important things to do."

Walt stopped writing when I started to talk about Slick and seeing his hiding spot. "You don't know what was in the bag, do you?" he asked.

"The only thing I know is that I didn't steal anything. I never have. If I were you, I'd start looking at Fairlund."

Walt stared at me. His mouth was down-turned and his eyes glistened. "If I was you, young man, I'd be playing patty-cake with my girlfriend or playing ball. I wouldn't be facing a burglary beef."

"Are we done?"

He handed me a fountain pen to sign my statement, and I got up and walked out.

An eviction notice was tacked to the door. Pop pulled it off and marched over to the office. I started to follow him and he said, in a voice I'd only heard a couple of times before, "Stay here." His eyes were shooting razors, and I went inside. I heard the office door slam. I took a long hot shower and soaped up and rinsed off several times. The jail stench just wouldn't come off, and I swear to Christ I saw lice go down the drain.

Pop was somewhat calmer when he got back. "Can you stay with Ted for awhile?"

"What's going on?" I whined.

"They don't want you here. I can stay, but you gotta go," he said waving his hand back and forth. "I need to be out in thirty days. It may be sooner if that cannery house comes up."

I started for the door, and Pop stepped in my path and hissed, "Where do you think you're going?"

"I'm gonna have it out with that ass hole," I screamed. Pop put his hand on my chest and said, "No, you aren't."

I grabbed his wrist, and before I knew it I was face down on the floor, and Pop was on my back holding my wrist behind me. He whispered harshly in my ear, "You best start doing what I tell you to do." When I didn't answer, he increased the pressure on my wrist. I relaxed, nodded and wept. I remained on the floor and Pop started to cook something. He walked back and forth over me like I was a pile of dirty clothes. When I finally got off the floor, he acted as if all was square. I curled up on my bed and went to sleep.

During my stay with Ted and his mom, Pop would check up on me every day. He took to heart what Phillips said, and he, Pop, did his best to keep me away from trouble. But, I got expelled from school the first day back after my arrest. Some big galoot started to ridicule me, and I let him have it. That was an offence that garnered detention. Following lunch I went to meet Linda after her English class. She was talking to a mug in a letterman's sweater. She had a huge grin and acted coy. I'd seen that look. I don't know what they were talking about, could of been about diagramming sentences for all I know. I was in a bitter mood and this jerk chatting up my gal pissed me off. Now, I'd be the first to tell you, I should have counted to ten, to cool off, ya know? I barged right in and said, "Tell yer story walkin', buddy. C'mon Linda let's go," as I reached for her hand.

"Well, aren't you the rude one. You're interrupting us," the guy said. "Is that so?" I answered, and turned my back on him. He spun me around and gave me a light punch on the jaw. I retaliated just in time to have the pinch-faced spinster teacher see my blow that knocked him on his keester.

"I've got no other alternative, Reyes. Two fights in one day. I have to suspend you."

"You do what you have to do, Mr. Canrinus. I probably won't come back. This school and this town treat us like scum. So good riddance," I announced defiantly as I stood up and walked to the door. "But you treated me real decent, and I appreciate it," and I walked out. The cops came by to question me, and when Walt heard my explanation he didn't hold me. He did say, "Get your shit out of the street, kid. People are walking in it and tracking it into their houses." I think I understood what he meant. It was the same thing Pop said; do the right thing.

Mr. Clanton was glad to have me full time. He was the only one happy, though. Pop didn't come to see me for a week. I didn't bother to see him either. Is this how it's gonna be? So be it. I'll get my own place. I'm working, ain't I? Only problem with that plan was I had to go to court. I couldn't plan on anything. Who was I kidding? Talk about being in Limbo. That's where I was, on hold.

When I finally saw Pop and told him I quit school, he told me I was making a mistake. "Once you quit something, the next thing will be easier to quit. You end up with nothing.

We Reyes are not quitters, Miguel." "What about Carlos?"

Pop threw up his hands and sighed, "That was then, this is now. That was him, this is you."

I looked Pop straight in the eye and announced, "I ain't real certain if I have a future. The judge may throw the book at me, and if that's the case, well sir, I'll take my lumps. But I promise you this— you'll be proud of me again."

Pop placed his hand on my cheek and said, "Miguel I am proud of you and I love you and always will. But right now I don't like what you're doing." He caressed my face and nodded. The gloominess I saw in his eyes made me doubt if he was proud of me. The love? There was no denying that.

When Pop walked away I felt we just talked _mano y mano_. We will always be father and son, but we talked man-to-man.

## Chapter 15

Carlos Reyes

LA 1944

January and February can at times be very mild in Los Angeles. People have been known to go to the beaches in the winter. Blossoms come out, in what old-timers called a false spring. Smog hovered over the San Gabriel's like a shawl. The UCLA basketball team was on a tear and Hollywood featured searchlights in the night skies in front of theaters that ran premiers.

Jimmy and I sat on the front porch watching the scene on Palmetto Avenue. I'd closed the gardening business, sold the equipment, and was contemplating moving.

"Keep a look out for me up there," Jimmy said. "Maybe there are some jobs for me, _ese_."

"Do ya mean it, Jimmy? That'd be swell. We'd knock Los Gatos on its ass, you and me," I told him with a huge grin.

Suddenly an argument erupted from inside the house. I heard Trina scream at the top of her lungs, "I'm not going! Do you get it? I'm not going!"

Mama yelled back, "Your clothes need to be washed before you pack, young lady. I suggest you hop to it!"

A door slammed loud, rattling the windows, and Jimmy and I both scrunched our shoulders and winced. Jim stood up and said, "I think I'll shove off, man. Too much melodrama going on here. I'll see ya after awhile. Meet me at the Palomar."

The next morning, Connie ran into the kitchen, crying, "Mama! Trina didn't come home last night!" Mama had just put a plate of chorizo and eggs in front of me. I looked up from my food in time to see Mama and Connie embrace.

"Don't worry, honey. She'll come home when she gets hungry. You'll see."

Mama wasn't fooling anybody. Her voice and her flaring nostrils betrayed her. She was irate. Connie sat down with a clunk. She looked at me and said, "You're gonna look for her aren't you, Carlos?" as she wiped tears from her cheeks.

"Yeah, Baby," I said as I pushed my plate of food over to her. "Here, have my breakfast. I ain't hungry any more."

I found another gardener to take over the accounts. He worked with me for a week and I introduced him to the clients. He bought the equipment and the goodwill of Reyes' Gardening. It wasn't much _dinero_ , but it helped buy train tickets. Trina still hadn't come home, and Mama worried. Oh, she put on a mask of indifference and Connie bought it, but I could see right through her.

A few days later I came home early to grab some food before heading out for a night of searching for Trina. Mama was in the shower and there was a letter on the kitchen table written in her bold handwriting. It was to Pop and I couldn't help myself. Mama could only write in Spanish and although my Spanish wasn't all that great, I stayed with it and got the general meaning of it.

Dear Husband,

_It's hard here without you. Carlos does his best, but he has such a huge job to do—looking for Trina, being a big brother to Connie, and helping me and Connie get the house shut and close the business. He's aging overnight. His shoulders are stooped like an old man and he's irritable all the time. But, God bless mi hijo, he's staying on point. "I'll find her, Mama. Don't you worry," he tells me everyday. I have my doubts. "Even if you and Connie leave, I'll stay and find her and try to get her north." This is the kind of son we've raised, mi amor. I know if he says he's going to do something, he'll do his best. But I fear it's hopeless. I don't want to think it, Husband, but our Catrina might be gone. Dead. Oh, Dios Mio, please don't let that be the case_...

The letter stopped there and just as I read the last line, I heard Mama coming toward the kitchen. I hugged her and pretended that I had just walked in and if she knew any better, she didn't show it. Later that night, after I got home, I grabbed a _cervaza_ to wind down before bed. When I cleaned up I saw the letter, torn into neat squares in the garbage can.

The next morning, I promised Mama and Connie once again that I would try to find Trina and convince her to come home and pack so we could all get on that train together and go north. By now, the school had notified Mama that Trina was a truant. During the day I looked for her around the _barrio_. It was like she evaporated. She wasn't in any of the usual haunts where juvenile delinquents congregated. At night I searched the nightclubs and juke joints; she was gone. As each day went by I got to care less and less about Trina, and with all that she was putting our family through, especially Mama, I started to consider her just a selfish bitch kitty.

After Mama and Connie left, I flopped at Jimmy's in his one bedroom bungalow. He replied when I asked him, "Carlos, _mi amigo_ , I'd like the company."

## Chapter 16

Trina Reyes

LA 1944

Word on the street was that Carlos was looking for me. Let him look. I'm done with that life. This is my life now. I spent the first night in the bus depot. I thought I'd made a mistake. Running away, ya know? But after the second night I met a gal that just came in from 'Dago. She saw me sitting on the bench trying to fix my hair and make-up. She sat next to me and asked, "So, what's your story, sister?"

She had beautiful long black hair with striking green eyes and a great smile. I told her my family left to go up north and I didn't want to go.

"How long you been here?" she asked. Not waiting for an answer, she went on. "The cops will bust ya on a vagrancy beef. So ya better get going on out of here."

I started to gather my things when she asked me my name. "Catrina, but people call me Trina."

"That was then, sister. This is now. I'll call you Cat. I'm Betty." She stood to go and said, "When I blew in I didn't have a place to stay. I hit the all night picture show, ya know? Slept there and used their toilet. The kid running the candy counter took a shine to me. He gave me free candy and popcorn, and I let him have a feel, ya know?"

"How'd you get a place?" I asked her.

"A little luck and a little charm," she replied as she wiggled her hips. "Ya know what I mean?"

I knew what she meant, but I wasn't ready to turn on the charm. I might let somebody have a feel, but not yet. "I could sure use some luck right about now," I whispered.

She looked at me and said, "How old are you, anyway?"

"Nineteen, last month," I lied, as I curled a strand of hair behind my ear.

She squinted. "Really? You look younger."

"Mexicans are like that. We look younger than we really are." "Listen you can crash at my place for a spell. Get a bath and a meal. C'mon I've got some canned stew in the cupboard," Betty said as she turned to go. Was this the luck I was looking for? Or needed? A bath sounded like a good idea.

Betty's pad was a place like Mama and Pop described their first home in LA, rows of stucco bungalows with a lawn down the center. Clarita Court was painted across an arch over the entrance at the sidewalk.

A heavyset woman sat on a step in front of the Manager's unit. She wore a sleeveless blouse that at one time may have been white, but now was yellow. Her girth strained the buttons. She had on men's khaki trousers and cordovan penny loafers. On her left flabby bicep was a tattoo of a solid red heart with the name ' _Babe'_ in black across the center. Her face was pink, like she was over-heated and her hair was a blond dye job cut short. Based on her eyebrows, her natural color was brown.

"What have ya got there, Betty? She looks delish."

"Hi, Babe," Betty said as she stepped across the lawn. I couldn't hear their conversation, but I heard the words 'bus depot, kid and square.' Babe looked around Betty and waved me over. "Betty says yer new in town. Just in on the bus. What's yer story? Where ya from?" I couldn't think of anything so I just stared.

"Are the coppers after ya? If they are, I don't need them around, so scram," she said pointing to the street.

"The cops ain't after me, and I'm from San Francisco. My name is Cat."

"Frisco, huh? I know Frisco. What part? The Tenderloin?" She asked as she kept giving me a head to toe read. "Betty says yer gonna shack with her. I get a cut of what ya take in. She'll explain the rest," she said pointing at Betty.

We walked over the lawn to Betty's crib. "Remember, kids, no cops or yer out on yer ear," Babe yelled to us. Betty waved her hand over her head in acknowledgement.

When Betty shut the door, I sighed, "Who and what was that?"

Betty plopped on a lumpy dark blue velvet couch. "That, my dear is Babe Shaddock. She owns this dump. She's jake if ya stay on her good side. I've seen her cold-cock guys cattin around here causing trouble. Some of the gals said she stabbed a guy and killed him."

After my bath, I came out wearing a blue terry-cloth robe that hung on a hook behind the bathroom door. "I hope you don't mind if I use your robe, Betty. My unmentionables are soaking."

"No fuss, kiddo," she answered as she stirred a pot on the stove with a wooden spoon with a burned end.

We sat at a rickety wooden table eating canned stew. It was delicious.

"What did Babe mean when she said she gets a cut of what I take in?" I asked as I rinsed the dishes.

Betty looked at me and replied, "Some of the gals bring guys in for the night, ya know? And some guys pay for the company. This is what ya might call a hot pillow joint."

"Do you do that, Betty?"

"If I get hungry enough, I do. Yeah," she said with a half-hearted grin.

"How much do you give her?" I asked as I dried my hands on a dishtowel.

"There's no set amount, just as long as she gets some. And Babe don't like it when the rent is late either. She has a sign in her office; it says, "A DOG WITH A BONE NEITHER BITES NOR BARKS."

_I'm in the midst of a red light district! I'm perched on a slippery slope_.

Betty sensed my struggle and said, "Look, most of us came here to get jobs in pictures. Do you know how many dames get off the bus to star in pictures? More gals than there are movie roles. That's how many. Ya didn't ask for my opinion, but that ain't ever stopped me from giving it. Go home. Walk away before it's too late, Cat. This life ain't for everybody."

Well, there it was, the best counsel I ever got, and I sloughed it off.

"What happens tomorrow?" I asked.

## Chapter 17

Mickey

Los Gatos 1944

The Santa Clara County Court House in downtown San Jose was a Renaissance Revival building. Huge fat columns stood across the front atop a wide set of cement stairs and rose up to the tall facade that spanned the front. Inside, shafts of sunlight blazed through the windows above the ornate oak doors onto the bright white marble floors. The dark shiny wooden trim on the pale walls and around the doors to the courtrooms gave off an earthy smell, a mix of wood polish and cleaning solvents. In the corridors and hallways, lawyers dressed in suits scurried to meet clients and police officers led shackled prisoners to court dates. Ladies strutted across the hard floors, their heels clicking and echoing above the conversations.

Pop and I got out of the passenger side of Mr. Clanton's appliance truck. He offered to be a character witness on my behalf and was kind enough to cart us over. As I opened the door to the courtroom, my heart was having a slugfest. But all in all, I felt confident, especially if Mr. Clanton, a well-respected businessman, would vouch for me. I hoped the judge would see how innocent I was, that he'd understand I was framed and let me go.

Most in and around court were dressed in their finest. I was, too. It's just that my finest and their finest were miles apart. When I mentioned my clothes, Pop rubbed his nose and said, "You've got nothing to be ashamed of. Your clothes are neat and clean. Clothes don't make the man, Mickey."

I looked around at the folks sitting in the light oak pews. The audience section looked like a church. There was no candle wax smell and no flowers. This was definitely not a holy place. Over my right shoulder I spotted Chepe Fernandez, Teddy Samuels and Linda Rosa. Jesus Christ, I missed her. They all smiled and Linda threw me a kiss. After my arrest and getting kicked out of school, her parents forbade her to see me.

My friends ditched school to be here for me. Friends like that are hard to find. I started over to them, when suddenly Pop gripped my arm and nodded in the direction of the elevated desk just as the judge sat and rapped his gavel announcing court in session. His black robe contrasted with his pinkish face and white hair, a lock of which crossed his forehead like a comma.

Looking into the eyes of the judge, I thought I saw boredom, compassion and scorn. I couldn't get a good read.

The cases dragged on all morning. Just before noon the clerk called my name. Pop and I stood up in unison. The judge looked at us blankly, then gestured to the rail and said, "Move up."

At the rail we waited to be told what to do. A chair in front of us screeched as a little pasty-faced man with Vaseline slicked black hair said, "Your honor, based on the evidence, history of violence, truancy, and no permanent address, we recommend this defendant be remanded to the Boy's Work Farm for one year," and then sat back down.

Who was he talking about? Violence? No address? I wanted to ask if the court was looking at the right info.

"Mr. Reyes?" the judge queried. I knew he had the right file. "Do you have legal representation?"

"No, sir," I stammered.

"Why is that?" the judge asked as he removed his eyeglasses.

I gripped the wooden rail with both hands as Pop said, "I didn't think he needed representation."

"And you are who?" the judge asked, like he didn't know that Pop was my dad.

"He's my son" Pop answered.

The judge folded and unfolded his glasses several times, like he was thinking hard, and looked at me and said, "Who will talk for you?"

I heard the key chain on Mr. Clanton's belt jangle as he stepped to the rail. Pop sat down.

"Your honor, my name is Conrad Clanton and I own Clanton's Appliance and Used Furniture in downtown Los Gatos on Santa Cruz Avenue," he announced with an authority I didn't know he had. "Miguel Reyes works for me. He is a good kid. He's hard working and honest. Do you think for one minute, if he were a thief, I'd have him in my place?" he said with his arms outstretched at his sides.

The judge waited to see if Mr. Clanton had more to say. The moment was awkward and finally Mr. Clanton returned to his seat, his keys tinkling as he walked. The judge looked at me over his eyeglasses and said as he swiped at his forehead pushing that one wild curl away, "You should have a lawyer, young man. These charges are serious."

I said that I was innocent and didn't think we needed a lawyer. "Well, the evidence says you do. It says here you resisted arrest," he shouted in a frustrated manner.

"This is bullshit," Chepe whispered loudly.

The gavel rapped. "I'll not tolerate profanity or outbursts in my court," the judge ordered while staring angrily at Chepe who looked behind himself innocently, as if the magistrate mistook him for the cause of the flare-up. The judge turned his glare on me and said, "If you were older, I'd have you shipped out, but you're not. When you get released, I recommend joining the Army. People like you will always have trouble obeying the law..."

_People like me_. I finally got the read on the judge.

I heard a rustle behind me and saw Pop approach the rail and step through the gate, stopping at the District Attorney's table. Pop looked like an uncoordinated stray puppy that was indoors for the first time. The DA slid his chair away, the judge looked alarmed and the horrified bailiff, who had sat bored in a chair all morning like he was waiting to get a haircut, restrained Pop. The judge told Pop if he didn't get back behind the rail he would charge him with contempt of court.

Pop tried to maneuver around the bailiff, but was countered at each attempt. "Sir, don't blame him for not knowing what to do. We've never been to court before. We don't know these ways."

The judge cut him off. "Don't give me the poor immigrant natter. You people come here and when you get in trouble you play stupid. It won't work! Twelve months in the work farm. Next case!" he yelled as he slammed the gavel.

"Can I say one more thing, please?" Pop asked.

"You can't do anything until you get on the other side, sir!"

The bailiff pushed Pop back on the other side of the gate, but Pop, finally wising up to what was really going on, kept kneeing it open, "You said earlier that you would charge me with contempt of court. Well, sir. I have nothing but contempt for you and your court!"

Murmurs came from the courtroom audience. Chepe whooped and Teddy clapped. The gavel rose and came down repeatedly until the bailiff escorted Pop from the building and I watched my friends exit.

I turned back to the judge, whose face was blood red. I saw him take a deep breath and scrunch his shoulders and look at the clerk and say, "In ten days report to the main jail for processing, then to the Boys Farm for one year."

He motioned to the clerk who gathered papers and walked toward me. The DA gave me a smirk, but when he saw my expression, his face got pastier and he took a step back. The clerk, a tall woman, handed me a packet of papers and smiled kindly and said, "That was quite a show. Good luck."

Ten days and then I'm in the slammer for five days. Man oh man! Then a year at Boy's Farm in Morgan Hill. Wherever the hell that is.

Mrs. Fanning allowed me on the property so I could help Pop load our belongings and move them to the cannery camp. I could see it in her eyes. She knew I was innocent, but said nothing to me. The hell with her, too.

Slick walked around like he was cock of the walk. I wanted to kill him. Then I thought, _No, let him live until I'm gone and then let somebody else do him in_. That would be keen. I'd piss on his grave. Hell, I'd crawl over forty mile of broken glass to piss on his grave.

The last box was loaded and Mrs. Fanning came up to Pop and asked him if he was going to still be the motel's gardener, as she held out the yellow envelope with Pop's money she'd kept in her safe.

"Hah! You've got to be kidding. I don't care if I ever set foot in the shit hole again! Have that lazy thief do your lawns," Pop said as he held the envelope in his fist. Slick looked like a deer caught in the headlights, and backed away.

Mrs. Fanning shrank back, her cheeks rosier. Then Pop said in a softer tone, "He's a louse. Get rid of him."

## Chapter 18

Ramon

Los Gatos 1944

Miguel was like a zombie the last days before he went in. I can't say I blame him. I'd only spent a few nights in jail back in Mexico. I could hardly imagine what was going through his head. I was going to miss him something fierce. Many thoughts came to me those last few days—should I tell his Mama about him going to jail? I decided that it was not a good idea. She'd rush the move and get here before she was ready. Another thought was, _he is going to be in jail with rough characters, hardened criminals. How is that going to work_? I know he's not the first innocent person put in jail, but some of those innocents learn a worse way of life. They buddy up with a bad guy and when released _they're_ bad news. I know that older guys prey on the younger ones. I shuddered when I thought about that. I prayed more those last few days that the Lord would protect Mickey. He tried to stay upbeat. I knew he was doing that for me, but at night I heard him cry. He was just a kid.

None of his _amigos_ came around to see him before he left. _Señor_ Rosa took another, better job with an outfit in another town, so Mickey's girlfriend didn't bother to see him. He had a halo of shit surrounding him. Poor guy. It didn't make a lot of sense to me why Linda gave him the air after standing by his side up to this point.

Mr. Clanton was again kind enough to take us to the county jail. Miguel was silent the entire way over. He just stared straight ahead.

In the booking area Mickey seemed numb. Some might have seen that as being a hard case. I'd seen his hard case routine. This wasn't it. He was scared and mad, a bad mixture when going to jail.

I broke down when it was time for him to be led away. The deputy referred to a clipboard and said, "Miguel Reyes?"

We hugged and I teared up. I heard the deputy clear his throat, like he was on a schedule or something. To hell with him. He can clear his throat all he wants. I heard Miguel sniffle, and then loosen his embrace. He held my upper arms and said, as he looked me square in the eyes, "Don't worry about a thing, Pop. I'll be okay."

He stepped in line with the deputy and marched toward a door that led to the cells. The deputy accidentally dropped his clipboard and with a loud smack it hit the hard floor. A jolt coursed through me and my heart raced. It sounded like a gunshot. The vision of my father's and two brother's bullet-riddled bodies lying on the sandy bank by the river, their fishing poles askew over and around them, and horse hooves flashed in my head. I got a glimpse of Mickey just before the door slammed shut. It felt as final as a coffin lid closing.

I glanced over at Clanton and saw tears streaming down his cheeks. That hit me square in the gut and I let out an audible sob.

As we maneuvered our way between the parked cars toward Clanton's truck, we were mute. All I could think of was the rocky road that Mickey was sliding down. It was like he did _nada_ to help himself. The battle in my head raged. I wanted him to be home with me when the rest of the family arrived. The other side was, maybe some humility would do him good. But I lost that battle every time— _he was innocent_! He needed a break in his string of bad luck. _Dios Mio_ , think about it—he saved a guy from getting killed! True, he hit a guy with a bat, but he didn't _kill_ anybody. Bad _hombres_ chase him and beat him up and we end up in Los Gatos where he gets arrested for stealing jewelry, which he didn't do. He could have helped himself more than he did. The incidents in the dean's office and at the police station could have come out differently. It would've been a perfect time to be respectful and things might be different now. I should talk. I spent my share of time in small _pintas_ in nameless small _ciudades_ in Mexico. Fighting, drinking and stealing. I'm not proud of that time in my life, but it is what it is. _Mi esposa_ changed my life, that's a fact.

Clanton interrupted my thoughts and tried to ease my torture.

"This is temporary, Ramon. Hell, at least you didn't have to send your boy off to war," he said as he pushed the starter button.

He was right. I knew where Mickey would be every night. He'd get fed and have a place to sleep.

Where is your boy, now?" I asked.

He shifted the gears and looked at me sideways and said, "He's in the booby hatch. The medics say he's shell-shocked. He's always been kinda fragile, ya' know? He just wasn't ready to go to war. Shit, nobody is ready to go to war."

He was right again. He pulled up in front of the Top Cat Tavern and said, "We need a drink. C'mon let's get drunk." That was the only thing he was wrong about. I realized the next morning how wrong.

## Chapter 19

Mickey

Boys' Farm 1944

As the door closed, I saw Pop sort of quiver and my heart broke. The deputy, who seemed like a nice guy, led me to a room full of jailhouse clothes. "These look like they might fit. Try em on."

They fit fine. Hell I wasn't going to be in a fashion show, fer cryin' out loud.

The deputy put a hand on my arm and said, "Listen, when you get in there, keep yer yap shut. This will be the worst time you're gonna have. It's only for a few days; just stay out of the way. You seem like a decent kid. I'll have the guards watch yer back."

I thanked him and he rapped on another door. A guard opened up and said, "Welcome to your humble abode."

The deputy must have given some sort of signal, because the guard changed slightly, becoming a little more polite. However, that first guard wasn't always on duty and there are memories of humiliations I will take to my grave, but I got off easy compared to some of the stories I heard. The physical bruises healed for the most part. Another thing I can never forget is how noisy that place was—buzzers were going off, bells clanging, doors sliding open and closed and constant loud voices. To this day, whenever I think about that time in jail, or whenever I hear really loud noises, I get an uneasy feeling.

The bus trudged south through the countryside along narrow two-lane roads. Most of the grass on the hillsides was green except for the black splotches that burned during the summer. The pewter clouds overhead promised rain. There was no sun visible. Walnut, apricot and cherry orchards, with neatly furrowed rows and bright white painted tree trunks, presented a satisfying landscape. The farmhouses and barns had some activity around them and then nothing but row upon row of trees, until another farm. From the windows of the bus, it seemed certain that the earthy aroma would be pleasant. Sadly, though, the windows on this bus didn't open.

This was the worst bus ride I'd ever taken. It picked me up at the jail in San Jose. I was the only passenger on it. The driver, a ruddy faced guy with beady green eyes and a circle of red hair and a bald, pink scalp, nodded to me when I got on and that was all the interaction we had.

I sat in the middle, on the left side. The driver could see me, if he wanted to, in the rear view mirror. I don't know if he was a deputy sheriff or a trusty or what. All I know is he didn't pay me any mind. And that was square with me. To hell with him. All I could worry about was what lay in store for me. When I went into the main jail, the first guard told me that would be the worst time I'd do. It was bad, but it was over. What next?

After an hour or more the bus slowed down and the driver made a left turn toward the foothills. Three strands of barbed wire strung from weathered fence posts the entire length of the gravel driveway. At the end there was an opened ranch gate. High across the top was a sign that read BOY'S FARM SANTA CLARA COUNTY. All the buildings inside the compound were painted white with dark green trim. A lanky blond kid was repairing the shingled roof of a barracks-type building. He held his hammer like a pistol and pointed it at the bus. It gave me the willies.

The brakes squeaked when the bus stopped in front of a single story building. A man with a slight build stood on the porch. He had a pipe jammed in his mouth and his hands were on his hips. His black eyeglasses appeared to be too big for his face. The dark gray sweater matched the sky, and his khaki pants had a crisp look, like they were starched. The driver opened the door and the man got on and looked at me without expression. He said something to the driver and then turned to me.

"Miguel Esau Reyes?" he said in a high voice. "I'm Mr. Morrel, the superintendent here."

I just nodded. He motioned with two fingers for me to follow him. He stepped off and I walked to the door.

"Best to say something when yer talked to," the driver said as I stepped down. I turned to acknowledge him and the door closed in my face with a swish. Magpies cawed from oak trees around the property. Beds of roses held in by white painted rocks sat on either side of the cement steps of what appeared to be an administration building.

Metal chairs sat along the porch. They reminded me of the chairs at Fanning's, and that caused a lump in my throat. And thinking about Fanning's made me think of Slick and the lump gave way to bile.

My eyes squinted from the dust as the bus drove off. The man was on the porch waiting for me. "This way," he said over his shoulder as he went in the door.

"Yes, sir."

He turned back to me and grinned quickly then squinted, like he was measuring me up. I stepped on the porch and looked back down the road and saw the broad rear of the bus disappear over a rise. Bile vanished and the lump came back.

"Most of the boys are in the fields. The bell for lunch will ring and it'll get noisy around here. Come in and we'll get you settled."

I couldn't tell if he was being kind or just matter of fact. He rarely smiled, so I stayed with matter of fact.

A lady, who seemed large, sat behind a desk. The click-clack from her typewriter was loud. Her cheeks were rosy and her gray hair was in a bun. She glanced at me briefly and continued to type.

Mr. Morrel pointed to a chair in front of his wooden desk. He sat down and rocked in an office chair that had a nagging squeak. He shuffled papers and then eyed me and said, "I know you're scared. It's normal."

Funny thing was I wasn't scared. Don't know why, but I wasn't. "You'll be in J Dorm, bed one. We have ten dorms, ten beds in each. We aren't full, but we're getting there. You boys will be boys, you know," he said as he rocked and twirled a paper clip.

"I see from your info, that you have a background in horticulture. That's fine. We grow all the crops and fruit for the jail in San Jose and the girls' farm in Gilroy. The girls make most of the clothing for the facilities in the county."

He handed me a packet of papers and said, "This will give you all the do's and don'ts. You know how to read, son?"

I tilted my head and glared at him.

He cracked a grin and said, "I wasn't trying to be a card.

You'd be surprised at the number of boys in here who can't read. I want you to sit at the table out in the reception area and read all the information," he said motioning with his hand to the front of the building. "When you're done, ask Mrs. McGuffy for a pen so you can sign it, showing that you read the rules and regulations."

Most of the information in the packet was common sense: no fighting, no drinking or smoking. Meal times, bed times and work schedules, stuff like that. Suddenly the door to the office opened and a scrawny blond kid in green Frisco jeans rushed in. His lip was bleeding and blood spotted his tan shirtfront.

"Oh no. Not again, Simon," Mrs. McGuffy exclaimed as she stood up. Morrel heard the exchange and stood in the doorway. "Are you going to tell us who did it to you this time, Simon?" Morrel asked.

"We can't stop this unless you give the guy up." "It was a sneak attack," Simon replied flatly.

Morrel shook his head and said disgustedly, "Go see the nurse in the infirmary."

I saw Mr. Morrel and Mrs. McGuffy exchange looks as Simon went out the door.

At lunch the boys clamored as they filed into the chow hall. "Holy crap, grilled cheese and fruit cocktail again," one of the guys said. Others chimed in, until the din became one voice. Me, I stood out like a turd in a glass of milk. I was the only sap in the hall not dressed in green Frisco's and a tan shirt. I sat at a table and ate my lunch in silence. Some tried to engage me in conversation or confrontation. I wasn't sure which. The boy, Simon, sat down and several guys nudged each other when he passed.

Most of the population in the farm was Anglo, which was a good representation of the county race makeup. I saw several Mexican kids, one or two Negroes and a few others of mixed races.

The dorm was long and narrow with ten beds with drab gray blankets covering them on each side. The floors were tiled with green vinyl and highly polished. The aroma was a mix of Hexol, floor wax and mothballs. At the far end of the dorm was a restroom with three sinks with mirrors, three toilets and three wall-hung urinals. The shower room was in another building.

Each bed had a wooden nightstand with a lamp next to it. There were no personal belongings, no photographs, magazines alarm clocks or radios—nothing but the same thing, bed after bed.

I was loading my few belongings into a metal locker next to my bunk when an older boy came in.

"You Reyes?" he asked. "Yes," I replied.

"Got yer duds for ya. See if they fit," he said as he put them on my bed. "If they don't fit, well, see me over at the washhouse," he said as he walked out.

"Thanks. Where is the washhouse?"

"Next to the shower room, behind the chow hall."

By the time I tried my clothes on and made my bed, boys were starting to straggle into J dorm. Some were dusty and sweaty and others had sawdust on their clothes and still others looked like they hadn't worked at all. I sat on my bed, not knowing quite what to do or say. I got head bobs and "hi ya" from a few, and others gave me the air.

"Where ya from?" a black headed kid asked me as he sat on the bunk next to mine.

"From Los Gatos," I replied.

"Oh ho. We got a rich kid in J Dorm," he announced loudly. "What'd ya mean by that? I ain't rich." I said.

"Most people from there think their shit don't stink," another kid piped up. "Real fat cats."

I just shook my head. "That ain't like it is with me. Ya see, I work in an appliance shop fixin' shit and stuff. Me and my old man live in cannery housing and are on the far side of rich."

"What'd ya do to get yer ass in here?" somebody asked. "They say I stole something."

"What'd ya swipe?" "Nothing. I didn't do it."

A kid of medium height and build who walked to the door with a towel and clean clothes said, "Yer gonna fit in good. Nobody in here's guilty. We all got it up the wazoo," he grinned. "I'm Walker. Who are you?" His brown hair was streaked with sweat and his longish face seemed to have a perpetual frown. I realized that his eyebrows were peaked which made him look sour.

I told him my name and he said, "I'll see ya after my shower. We'll go to supper."

Walker told me that most of the work was done in the fields growing the vegetables and picking the fruit. "The hell of it is, with all the fresh stuff we grow, we only get it maybe once or twice a month."

I looked at the elbow macaroni and ground beef with pale green peas from the can on my plate and shoved it away.

"Don't do that." Walker whispered. Pull it back, now." I did and said, "What gives?"

"When I tell ya, look around at the food line. Okay _now_."

I turned and saw a huge man in a yellowed tee shirt and a stained apron wearing a cook's hat, standing and watching the line and the people eating.

"That's the Admiral. He used to be a cook in the Navy. How he ended up here is a mystery to me, but if he sees ya not eating or if ya complain, he'll nail yer ass."

"How so?" I asked.

"Report ya to Morrel. Too many reports and ya eat left over dinner for lunch, left over breakfast for dinner and so on. No sir, don't get on the bad side of the Admiral."

I nodded over to the kid, Simon, with the busted lip. "What's

Simon's story?"

"Can't keep his mouth shut," Walker replied.

"He was mum when Morrel asked him who clobbered him. I was in the office when he came in."

"Best thing to do is wipe yer face, bandage what needs to be bandaged and shut the hell up," Walker said jabbing his finger on the table with each syllable.

After the meal was finished, Walker said, "What'd ya get assigned to?"

"Horticulture," I said with outstretched hands.

"Covers a lot a things, buddy. Picking, growing, hoeing, trimming," he said with a snort.

I told him my background in gardening and he said maybe I'd be mowing lawns. "Watch out fer snakes, though. Course, this time a year they're hidden. They see you, though."

When I asked Walker, he told me he was arrested for stealing a car. "Did ya do it?" I asked.

All he said was "yeah."

"What happens after dinner?" I asked. "What do you mean?"

"Go to bed? Maybe a camp fire and sing songs, marshmallows," I said jokingly.

"This ain't a boy scout jamboree, man. This is one notch away from the jailhouse. There is a rec room, but most of the guys avoid it. It's kind of an Okie hangout. You'll recognize them. Take my advice and give them a wide path. They think they run the place."

"How am I gonna recognize an Okie? All you white boys look the same to me." Walker snapped his head toward me and saw my grin and he grinned back. I was glad to have Walker as a friend. He was my Teddy Samuels or Jimmy Thomas and that cooled me out.

The first few weeks at the farm were real tough. I didn't want to be there. Who would? I didn't think I belonged there. Who did? I stayed out of trouble as best I could. Some guys needed to posture up and tried to brace me. Let me know they were the bad asses. Fine be a bad ass; just leave me the hell alone. Hoot Walker and I became pretty good pals, even though I only saw him during and after dinner. One night I talked him into going to the rec room. It was a large rectangle of a building. Chairs lined the walls and ping-pong and shuffle board games were in full swing. A pool table took up the center of the room. Groups of boys sat at card tables playing poker and dominos. The din could be heard fifty yards away.

"C'mon, Walker. No ones shooting pool. Let's play," I said giving him a punch on his upper arm. I was racking the balls when the roofer guy walked up and said, "I had the table."

"Oh? Looked like you were playing cards. We're just gonna have one game," I said as I tightened the balls in the rack.

"No you ain't. Thanks for racking them, though." "What's yer beef, bub?" I asked.

He tilted his head slightly and grinned, "Ya wanna know something?"

"Sure," I said. "When there's something worth knowing. You wanna break em, Walker?" I turned my back and heard a rustle behind me. I turned around and saw Walker standing between me and the guy I had seen on the roof. Now I knew why he had given me the willies. "We're going, Lamar," Walker said. "You play yer pool game.

C'mon Mickey, let's beat feet."

I was shivering with anger walking back to the dorm. Walker walked next to me and said, "He was gonna belt ya."

"What the hell?"

"Forget that jerk, Mickey. He's just hot air. A bully's all he is, but if ya get on the wrong side of him; he won't let up. Ask Simon."

Walker pointed out certain things around the compound, things I needed to know, but wasn't paying much attention to.

"You hearing me, boy," Walker said as he snapped his fingers.

"Sorry, I was thinking about that Okie."

"Listen, let me give you a tip—Lamar is a nut-job," he said tapping his temple. "He is plain mean and stupid. He don't know when to quit. He just keeps coming and coming. Stay the hell away from him."

I knew that the time would come that this Lamar and I were gonna cross paths.

My work assignment was the barn and the gardening equipment. I was kind of intimidated when I walked into the barn that first morning. Tractors, bull dozers and trailers with spray rigs hooked up lined the far wall. A guard named Van Pelt was my supervisor. The guards preferred to be called Boss. He said, "Don't concern yourself with the tractors and such. The county hires a local to do the heavy equipment operations. Your bailiwick is the small engine equipment."

I was the gardener for the camp and it wasn't like work at all. I was the guy in charge of the gardens. Mow and rake the lawns, fertilize, feed and weed. Morrel was fond of roses, so I re-constituted the soil and trimmed them up. It was just like when I worked with Pop and Carlos. When they found out I could fix small engines, well I thought I was on my way to being a big shot. The guards asked me about stuff at their houses and I'd say, "Boss, let me go home with you, and I'll take care of it. Just tell yer missus I like apple pie." They'd laugh.

I got to go to the girls' farm on Sundays and do their gardening. I was the envy of every guy at our place.

"You get to do what?" Walker wailed. "Ya lucky stiff! Do ya need help?"

I was the only boy that worked on Sundays, except for the ones assigned kitchen duty. I didn't mind because Boss Van Pelt always stopped at a nursery to pick up flats of flowers and other supplies. Sometimes we went to the hardware store. One time we even stopped at a burger stand and he bought me a root beer float. He warned me not to blab, or it would never happen again. I was out, you know? Like a free-worlder. That's what we called people on the out side—free-worlders.

The drive to the girls' farm was about thirty minutes and it was incredible. I took in huge gulps of fresh air the second we passed through the gate. The first Sunday I showed up, some of the girls hooted and whistled. They were like guys, starved for companionship. Van Pelt told me the quickest way to get rolled up was to get caught dallying with a young lady. "You know what rolled up means, don't ya?" he asked.

Walker told me all about that. If a guy messes up too many times, he gets sent off to the main jail. The staff rolls his mattress up, hence the term 'rolled up.'

Some boys had difficult times in the farm. Homesickness, which sunk to depression, was the most common, that and bed-wetting, which stumped me. What do you do with a bed wetter? Walker told me they got housed in P Dorm. I looked at him and said, "We don't have a P dorm."

"Jesus, Mickey, P as in piss. It's a joke." "Where _do_ they go?" I pressed.

"Can't say for certain, but some of the guards think the guys that piss their racks are trying to get set free as a mental case."

In the spring, I needed to do some extensive re-planting at the girls' farm. The County Board of Supervisors was to host the Governor and his wife. Seems Mrs. Governor's pet project was wayward girls and their rehabilitation. Anyhow, I convinced Morrel that I needed some help with this project, and he let me choose Walker and a couple of other boys to help me.

At noon a matron brought us a basket lunch. I headed for shade, when I realized one of the helpers was missing. I asked Walker where the kid was and he didn't know. I sent word to Boss Van Pelt that one of the helpers was gone.

He strode across the yard to me and stood with his hands on his hips and legs wide apart.

"Well? Where is he?"

"Can't say, Boss," I said around my ham sandwich. "How long has he been gone? Jesus H Keerist!"

Just then a girl sprinted out from a shed giggling and buttoning her blouse with a red-faced boy, the missing helper, chasing her. They acted like they were in her yard playing patty cake. They froze, when they realized their rendezvous was over. The girl was sent to her quarters and the boy was told to stay in the car. The grin on his face seemed permanent.

Back at the boys' farm, I got heat because I chose this kid. I felt it was unjust, but Walker told me to just bow and scrape and all would be okay. When I got out of Morrel's office a group of older boys circled Walker. He was giving them the lowdown on the kid, the girl, and the shed. The kid still had a grin on his face as they walked him to solitary, which was a small room in the infirmary.

Lamar announced, "The next time ya'll need help at the dames place, ya better axe me, get it?"

"Yeah, right. That's just what I'm gonna do. _Axe_ you," I snorted. I turned and walked away from the crowd, but felt Lamar's eyes burning into my back.

I sat on my bunk folding my clothes when a kid that helped at the office came in and said, "Looks like you got friends in high places, Reyes. The guards are on high alert because of this letter," and tossed it on my bed next to me. It had been opened, which was normal. What wasn't normal is that it was postmarked San Quentin.

Hola Amigo,

Sorry to hear about your run in with John Law. Diego told me that you got set up by a gringo. Maybe you should have had an attorney like mine. Everybody says he's good, but here we sit on our asses for something we didn't do. My ma says the defense league hired a new mouthpiece for a re-trial. All the courts are scared of him. We'll see. In the meantime stay out of trouble and go along to get along.

Talk to you soon, Chico

I was glad to get a letter. All the letters I sent to Linda and Teddy were unanswered.

## Chapter 20

Ramon

Los Gatos 1944

I thought my heart was going to jump out of my chest. The day finally arrived when the rest of my family would be in Los Gatos together. Except for Mickey. Still in the _pinta_. I played over and over in my mind what I'd say to _mi esposa_. Every time, it was the same thing. Tell her the truth. In an hour though, I'd concocted a story to tell. I knew that when she found out, she'd be upset with me for not telling her the truth. I was just sparing her the worry.

The bell for the railroad signaled an arriving train. I stood on the platform dressed in my finest suit and tie. My shoes were polished and my hair cut nicely, a bouquet of flowers held tightly in my hand. The train chugged and snorted to a stop and I heard, "Papa!" Connie had jumped from the train before the conductor could get the stool step in place. She ran to me and leapt into my arms. I was bawling like a baby. Then _mi amor_ stepped off. She was beautiful and glowing. Her stomach was evident, but her smile assured me, again, that everything would be okay. I hugged and held her tightly. I kept looking over my shoulder waiting for Trina and Carlos to get off. When the train pulled forward, I knew they weren't on board. Monica and I met eye to eye. She knew there was more to come and so did I.

Monica explained about Trina running away and Carlos looking for her. "I didn't know how to tell you. I didn't want you to worry," she said with a moan.

"Where's Mickey?" Connie squealed. Monica looked at me with a cocked head.

"There's something I didn't tell you, either," I said.

During the short ride from the depot to the house I told Monica and Connie about Mickey being arrested and sentenced to a year in the boys' farm. "I didn't want to worry you, either. I hope you can forgive me."

"Husband, we took care of each other's feelings. There is no shame in that and no need to apologize."

I'd spruced the place up the best I could and hoped it passed muster.

"I know it's small. But it's all there is right now. Do you like the furniture? Connie, go check out yours and..." I stopped and shrugged. "Go see your bedroom, Baby."

"Husband, this is a fine home. You've done a good job. We'll be happy here."

Over the next several hours, neighbors dropped by and greeted my family. They brought us meals for the next few days and I was happy.

Later that night, I listened to my wife breathing as she slept. I was so glad she was next to me, but I couldn't sleep. As quietly as I could, I slipped out of bed and sat by the window looking out at the walkway in front.

"What are you doing, Husband. Why are you sitting in the dark?" I told her about how my sleeping pattern had changed since get- ting off the graveyard shift. "With Mickey in the farm, well that's caused trouble sleeping, too. I worry about him so much. Now Trina, too." I started to choke up, and my wife sat up in bed.

"Come over here, _querido_. I want to tell you about my day." I crawled back into bed, beside _mi esposa_ and felt myself relax into her arms as she began to talk. I felt like a young boy listening to his mother telling a bedtime story.

"This morning," she began, "We stood at the train platform getting ready to board. Carlos was handing our bags to the porter. I kept looking over my shoulder hoping to see Trina. Connie was teary eyed with a longing look on her face. She's been a real trooper these last few weeks, but I could tell she felt forgotten, like she was lost in the shuffle. I vowed to make that up to her. Just get me to _mi esposo_." I could feel that she was smiling then.

"Then I heard someone scream, 'Mama!' I turned around with a delight that I hadn't felt in weeks, but when I saw a little girl rush into the arms of her mother, all my air left me. I watched the mother and daughter embrace and I felt numb. I turned and hugged Carlos, and then me and Connie boarded the train. Carlos placed his hand over his heart, and with the other hand, threw us a kiss. It was a tender and sincere moment, Husband."

"After we boarded the train, me and Connie didn't speak for at least twenty minutes. The train rambled along, and I sat swaying with the rhythm. I looked down at our Connie as she gazed out the window at the passing scenery. Then she turned to me and just opened up, Husband. Started telling me everything she felt. 'Mama,' she said, 'At first I was scared when Papa and Mickey left. Then Trina left and went where? Nobody knew. Those few weeks before Trina took off were pretty awful. She ran all night and slept most of the day. I didn't want to tell you. She'd leave the house for school, but ditched after a few blocks from home. I followed her one day and I got in trouble because I was late for school. She went to the vacant lot next to the bowling alley. There were mattresses on the ground under a makeshift wooden shed. I figured this spot was where she hung out most nights, and took naps during the day. When I told Carlos that scoop, he told me he checks the spot most days and nights and he told me not to tell you because it would only upset you more. So Trina is probably downtown. To tell you the truth, Mama, after a while, I was glad she was gone. I mean she was my best friend, and then, whamo! She starts treating me like dirt. I don't want anything to happen to her, but the first day she left was hard, and then I felt better.'"

"I gave Connie a big _abrazo_ after that and then we both sat quietly for a little while. I couldn't believe that my baby girl knew more about Trina than I did and that she kept it from me for so long. She was trying to do the right thing, Husband. After some time passed, I asked her, 'Did I ever tell you about the first time I left Los Angeles?' She shook her head. 'It was about twenty minutes ago.' Our little girl smiled, and took my hand and said, 'Mama, everything will be all right. You'll see.'"

Monica continued, "And when I saw you, Husband, on the platform waiting for Connie and me to pull in, and didn't see Miguel, I thought it strange." She tightened her arms around me as she said this. "The look you gave me was a swirl of glee and sadness. I worried about telling you about Trina and Carlos, so when you explained about Mickey, I felt a sort of relief."

Monica paused for a minute and just when I thought she was done with her story, she said the most important thing of all. "Let's take this one child at a time, _mi esposo_. Connie is safe and sound in bed in her room. Trina is on the run, God knows where, and Carlos is looking for her. Mickey is in jail, and it's temporary."

Then she laughed out loud and told me that the baby kicked. "As if on cue, Husband! And this one will be just as loved as the others," she added. "But right now, most of my emotions, prayers and love go to Trina."

"Do you think it's right to devote more attention to one than the others?" I asked her.

"It doesn't mean you love one more than the others. It's just that one needs a little more right now." And that's the last thing I heard before falling asleep in the arms of my wise wife.

## Chapter 21

Mickey

Boy's Farm 1944

One afternoon I was sitting at a picnic table and the roofer kid plopped down next to me. His name was Lamar McManus and he was pure Okie. I heard somebody say he was illiterate, but he sure swaggered for a dummy. He looked me square in the eyes and said, "You cause me concern. You know that?"

I started to get up and he grabbed my upper arm. "I'm talking to you, greaser. You're a real kiss ass. That's what I hear."

I shook his hand loose and hissed, "Keep yer glue hooks offa me, ya dumb Okie," and walked away. Over time I discovered that I could wander to most places around the compound without anybody caring. I found a good place to be alone—my own spot under a huge Modesto Ash tree, a spot that became my sanctuary. This is where I'd read my mail, when I got mail, and feel free—look out over the fields and into the foothills and reflect back on all the events that led me here.

I was still seething when I reached my tree. I was spewing out about Sleepy Lagoon, which was the start of all my difficulties, about Fanning's and this shit-hole farm I was in. Suddenly there was a tremendous pain at the back of my head and then everything went black.

The configuration of the infirmary was the same as the dorms: ten beds, five on each side, light green spreads covering them. The walls were yellow with white trim around the windows. Soft music played from a Philco table radio that sat on a bookshelf behind the nurse's desk and rubbing alcohol infused the air.

"Who did this to you, Reyes?" one of the senior guards asked me. I shook my head and winced in pain. My head hurt and it was hard to focus. Closing my eyes took care of the focus, but the pain, man it was the worst headache I'd ever experienced. I whispered, "Can I have some water?"

"Hey Doc, can he have some water?" the guard said too loudly increasing my discomfort.

The nurse brought me a glass with ice chips, which I rolled around in my mouth "I'm telling ya, I was ambushed from behind. I didn't see any body," I told the guard. The bandage around my head felt like it was getting tighter and it itched like crazy. I was trying to move it to get at the itch when the male nurse walked by and said "Quit picking at that bandage. You have a skull fracture, ya know?"

"If ya had to guess who hit ya, who would it be?" the guard pressed. I closed my eyes and said, "When I know, I'll let you know. I'm tired so I'm gonna take a _siesta_.

I was dreaming I was home in Los Angeles. Mama had just finished washing her hands and the distinctive smell of Ivory Soap she always used comforted me. She was washing my face with a cool washcloth and I began to whimper. Then I woke up and Mama was there washing my face! This was no dream. Mama and Pop were both standing by my bed in the infirmary. They were grinning with tears streaming down their cheeks. Morrel had notified them of my injury and told them there were no limits on visitation to those assigned a bed in the infirmary.

The doctor came by and asked if I felt good enough to do a little walking.

"I'd like to get out of this bed for good, Doc," I answered.

"Take it slow. Sit on the edge of the bed until you feel like standing. If you get dizzy, sit back down. It's a beautiful day out. Get some air," the doctor ordered as he smiled at Mama and Pop. We slowly walked to a set of outdoor furniture on the lawn adjacent to the infirmary. Pop helped me sit down and then he helped Mama; her belly was really huge. "How are you feeling, Mama?"

"Oh, I'm fine, honey. Just getting anxious to have this little one out."

When they told me about Carlos and Trina, I could see the distress in their eyes and my heart went out to them. I know I've caused them anguish, and now Trina. I felt certain that Carlos would land on his feet, but Trina was another story. I prayed that the Downeys didn't have their claws in her.

"Carlos will find her, don't worry, okay?" I said. I know it sounded lame, but I didn't know what else to say. A slight breeze wisped around our feet and in the distance boys could be seen in the fields. Pop asked me what I did all day, what my job was.

I grinned and looked him in the eye "I'm the gardener. Can ya believe it?"

He looked around and nodded. It was like an inspection, and that was fine. But the fact of the matter was-I was doing it. All he taught me about gardening was paying off, and if any one had a right to inspect my work, it was Pop. He grinned and said everything looked good. I sensed he was proud of me.

The lump in my throat wouldn't go away, even an hour after Mama and Pop drove away. They promised to visit again, real soon. I looked forward to that, but then thought _it's just too hard when they leave_.

When I asked them about Linda Rosa, they changed the subject abruptly, and it seemed awkward for them. So at the time I let it go. Back in my bed, I hashed over all sorts of scenes about Linda, and why she never tried to contact me. All that did was make me feel worse. What a holy mess.

## Chapter 22

Carlos

LA 1944

The tall twin spires of the church seemed to disappear in the clouds. Pigeons flapped into and out of the belfry constantly in contrast with the quiet gardens below. Cement walkways, recently swept, curved around wooden benches under enormous oak trees. Shrines, statues and meditation areas stood among the lush and mature foliage. Camellias seemed to be the favored flowers, but hydrangeas ran a close second. There wasn't a weed in sight and the dirt in the flowerbeds was raked. This space between the sanctuary and the parish hall was protected from street noise. Every once in a while the organist could be heard practicing or the pigeons cooed, but this refuge was serene.

I watched the uniformed cop for several minutes before he sensed I was there. His smile was kind and his voice low. "Thanks for coming, Carlos. This must seem strange to you."

He stuck out his hand and said, "I'm Bill Rainey."

I shook with him and he motioned me toward a bench.

I was surprised when I'd been pulled over the day before by an unmarked cop car. The detective, a chubby guy in a light gray suit asked me if I was Carlos Reyes.

"Captain Rainey wants to meet with you," he told me in a gruff voice.

"Never heard of him. Why does he want to see me?" I asked.

"Can't say. Just meet him at two tomorrow afternoon in the garden of Our Lady of the Angels Church."

"Why'd ya wanna see me?" I asked, as we sat next to a birdbath. "I was told I could trust you," he said flatly.

"Is that right. By who?"

He squinted and looked me straight on and said, "What I'm about to say is confidential. As a matter of fact, you and I never had this conversation, get it?"

"What's with all the espionage shit? I don't know anything fer Christ's sake. And even if I did, I ain't inclined to tell the cops. Most are _babosos_."

"Not all of us are nitwits, Carlos. And I speak very good _Español, ese_. So don't try and mess with me." We stared at each other for several seconds and he said, "Jorge Montoya gave me your name."

I just shook my head trying to place a face and name together and told him, "I don't think I know who that is."

"Says he's your neighbor, Carlos."

That triggered my memory. He was the goofy looking kid from Chavez Ravine who moved in down the street! He gave Trina a pass when he and his partner raided a petting party next to the Palomar.

"Oh yeah. I know him, but not well."

Rainey looked like he was satisfied that we were on the same page. I didn't feel the same as he did.

"Now, I know your brother had a bout with the Downeys...He's a brave guy, your brother. Anyhow, I need your help finding..."

"Hold on a sec. If yer asking me to snitch, you got the wrong guy," I said as I stood.

"Narcotics are ending up in the Olympic Street area and the

Downeys are the suppliers, Carlos."

I lit a cigarette and blew the match out. I thought about tossing it on the ground, but the prettiness of the grounds made me put the spent match in my shirt pocket instead. I took a couple of puffs and realized the tobacco smoke fouled this place. I stuck the lit end in the bird bath water and put the butt in my pocket with the match.

"What the ass-bite Downeys do is no concern of mine," I said as I sat back down.

"It should concern you, Carlos."

I looked at the steeple and the scudding clouds for several moments then lowered my gaze on Rainey. "Is that so? Why?"

"Because your sister Trina has been seen buying reefer from the

Downeys. That's why."

I hung my head watching my right foot bob up and down constantly. It was like watching somebody else's foot. I had no control over it. "What next?" I hissed.

Rainey placed his hand on my shoulder and said, "What's next is up to you, _amigo_. I know you're hunting for her, and I can help. But ya gotta help me, too. You and your _compadres_ are on the streets and you might hear something. Let me know. You don't need to be Gang Busters, just drop a nickel and let us know what you hear. For that I'll beef up the units to keep an eye out for Catrina."

My foot stopped and now my head bobbed.

"Do we have a deal, Carlos?" Rainey asked as he stood up.

I extended my hand to shake as an indication that we had a deal. I watched him leave the garden, and sat for several minutes.

I entered the church and walked straight up the center aisle and knelt at the altar in front of a statue of The Virgin Mary. I'd been to church before, but never on my own, and never without being told to. It was strange. The smell of candle wax and incense lingered. Shafts of sunlight slashed across the sanctuary through stained glass windows. Off in the distance behind closed doors, muffled voices could be heard. I couldn't understand what was being said, and didn't really care. My head became clear and I knew then and there I had to pray, maybe for the first time in my life. Really pray, for my family and especially for Trina and even for me.

I stood up and walked over to the rack of devotional candles and lit one. I dropped four bits into the donation box and turned to leave. Before I went out in the vestibule, I looked back at the red chimneys of the candles and said another prayer.

A frail looking white-haired priest said as I passed him at the door, "I don't know what troubles you son, but I pray that all will be resolved." I could smell the whiskey on his breath as I looked into his blood-shot eyes.

"Remember, son. God doesn't give us more than we can handle," he said as he shuffled up a side aisle.

Before he entered the confessional he said, "Do you want me to hear your confession, son? No? Maybe another time then. We'll be here."

His booze bottle clanked on the wood sidewall of the confessional and I heard him whisper, "Shhh."

Jimmy Thomas, myself, and Diego Cardoza sat in a booth at the fountain in Woolworths. Remnants of my tuna sandwich sat on the plate in front of me, turning brown. Diego became a great help to me and Jimmy. He'd feed info to me about possible sightings of my sister, Trina. And I kept alert about any scoop that I might filter to Captain Rainey.

"Hey, I saw Elena Camacho the other day," Diego said, using a straw to stir the ice in his glass of cola.

Jimmy and I looked at him with a " _so what_?" stare.

"Says that a gal she knows, Betty something or other, is in a movie." When we didn't say anything he sipped from his glass. "She said a couple of _chicas_ are extras in the movie. I don't know if one of ems yer sis or not, might be worth a look-see."

"Where are they shooting this film?" I asked with slightly more interest.

"Don't know. I'll ask Elena when I see her again," he replied matter-of-factly.

I drummed my fingers on the table when Jimmy said, "That's the most information we've had in weeks."

"You bet it is, Jimmy," I answered back. "Diego, can you remember this Betty's last name? Maybe the cops have info about her."

Diego just shook his head, and then his eyes brightened "Short, that's her last name. Yeah, Betty Short!"

As Diego got up he said, "If I hear anything, I'll let ya know, _ese_." "What kind of movie would Trina be in?" I asked Jimmy. Before he could say anything, I said, "It ain't her, I'm certain."

"Ya gotta follow up on it, though," Jimmy said.

It was the best lead in a long time. I'd do the best I could, but I was beginning to care less and less about finding her. Give it a week, maybe ten days, then I was gonna blow town and head north. Not being able to find her was grinding on me, like I was letting everybody down. But son of a bitch, she knew I was looking for her. She stayed on the sneak. What am I supposed to do?

I slept on his couch. I ran all day looking for Trina, and got home about four in the afternoon and cooked dinner for Jim and me. Later on, well after dark, I started the night shift. When I was gardening I longed to go out evenings. I thought that would be the bee's knees. Now that I was going out every night, it was horrible. I hated it.

"Maybe on the weekends I could help ya look. Two sets of eyes are better than one. What do ya think, _ese_?" Jim said, as he took a swig of his beer.

"That would be a big help, Jimmy. Thanks."

I was very uneasy after I hung up the phone with Rainey. "Come and see me. I have information for you," was all he said.

"It could be anything, Carlos," Jimmy told me as we sat in the lunchroom of the paper bag factory where Jimmy worked. "Besides, if it was bad, he woulda come to you."

"Ya might be right, Jim," I said with an exasperated sigh. Jimmy tossed his paper cup in the wastebasket and asked, "Do you want me to go with you? I will."

"Nah, I can do it. I'll see you later."

I saw Rainey sitting in his office through the window. The blinds were open so he could look out onto the desk areas. He saw me and motioned me in.

"Thanks for coming, Carlos. We have some information about Catrina."

I sat down in a heap and asked "Is she okay?"

"It seems so. Come with me. I have something to show you."

I followed him into a conference room. On one end of a long mahogany table sat a Bell and Howell movie projector.

"We confiscated this reel from a sleaze in Van Nuys." "If Trina is in it I don't want to see it, Rainey."

"Just watch, Carlos," Rainey said as he flicked off the overhead lights, and turned the projector on. The rattle of the reel as it passed the film through the machine sounded deafening. Numbers and bull's eyes flickered on the wall that was used as a screen. Suddenly the grainy black and white film showed a ship in San Pedro Harbor. The next scene showed a cheaply and amateurishly made set of a stateroom on a ship. Drawn on a piece of plywood, which was supposed to be a wall, was a porthole. My heart was thumping like mad. I wanted to get up and run and not stop until I got to Los Gatos.

On the screen two men dressed as sailors with Lone Ranger masks on sat at a rickety table and passed a bottle back and forth. They played like they were drunk. One of the actors got up and opened a door. An actress dressed like a nun walked in. I couldn't see if it was Trina. _Dios Mio_ , my mouth was dry and I instantly smelled of body odor. I looked at Rainey and he gave me a hold on motion with his hand. On screen the sailors removed the nun's outfit. It wasn't Trina. Thank Christ. The men surrounded the naked woman just as two woman dressed as sailors arrived. One of them was Trina! "Jesus Christ! Turn it off will ya!" I screamed.

Rainey turned the projector off and sat down. "The asshole we got this from didn't know the names of the players. He was just the distributor."

"How long ago was this made?" I asked with a tremble in my voice.

"Couple of weeks at the most. We're grilling the hump we arrested and should have more leads soon," he said as he got up. "Carlos, the only reason I showed you this was to let you know she's alive. If she's all right, I can't be certain. But she is alive. I hope that gives you some relief."

I left Rainey's office and passed the conference room and saw a group of policemen watching the film. Trina, on screen naked, was standing and one of the acting sailors was pawing her. I charged into the room and smacked the projector to the floor. Several cops held me on the floor. I was rocking back and forth trying to shake the cops off. "Hold on! Let him up!" I heard Rainey yell.

"He's destroyed evidence, Cap," one of the cops said.

Rainey manhandled me as he led me from the room. "What in the hell do you think yer doing?" he asked me.

"They were snickering and sneering, and man I lost it."

"Are you shitting me? Trina was in a stag film. Holy cow! Was she naked?"

I tilted my head at Jimmy and he put his hands up as if to say he was sorry he asked.

"She wasn't naked," I lied. "She was just an extra, that's all."

I was done with Trina. To hell with it. I'd go home a failure. She could rot in the shit-hole of her life. It was no concern of mine. A day before I was to take off for Los Gatos, Jorge, the cop that lived down the street, told me he had just seen Trina go into the supper club of the Biltmore Hotel. I wanted to give her Mama and Pop's address.

She was sitting in a maroon leatherette booth with an attractive black-haired gal. When she saw me she smiled and waved me over. I stood awkwardly at her table.

"Hello, Baby. Take a load off," she said in a voice that was not hers. "Cat, who is this handsome man," Trina's companion purred. "This is my big brother. Carlos Reyes, meet Betty Short."

I nodded curtly and said, "Trina, I...I'm leaving and wanted to tell you something."

"Well, I'm all ears. What's cookin'?"

Before I could answer, this Betty dame stood up and said, "I'm going to powder my nose.

Here, sit down, Carlos. You two have family business, and she slid out of the booth and her skirt rose up exposing the tops of her hosiery. "Oops," she said with a grin that exposed teeth in dire need of dental work. I was pretty sure this was the nun in the sailor movie.

"Baby, what do you think yer doin' runnin' with this crowd?" I asked.

"I'm having the time of my life. These people are my friends now," she said with a heated whisper.

"Here is where Mama and Pop will be," I said as I flipped a scrap of paper on the table in front of her. "Jimmy's number is there also."

"How are they?" she asked.

"Who? Mama and Pop? What do you care?"

Just then an older, silver haired man in a pin striped double-breasted suit approached the table and said in a loud voice, "Cat, there you are you naughty girl." His bright white teeth contrasted with his swarthy complexion.

"Hello, darling," Trina said as she offered her cheek to the man.

I stepped in front of the man and said, "Trina, please..." before I could finish the man snarled, "Is this mug bothering you, honey?"

I looked at the man and realized this was no _vato_ from the _barrio_. Not by a long shot. This guy was mob through and through.

"No, Johnny. He's not bothering me. He was just leaving."

I took a step closer and said, "Trina, give me another minute." "Hey, bub. Don't brush me off," this Johnny character spewed and terror shot through me, but I stood my ground. "It's okay Johnny. He's my brother."

"Well, okay. We're all over at Jack's table. Join us when you're done," he said as he eyed me and straightened his lapels.

All this time I was worrying abut Trina running with the Downeys and she's in with the Mafia. Holy moley.

"Jesus Christ, Carlos. Do you have any idea who that is? That's Johnny Roselli. You don't insult guys like that," she said while pointing a finger at my face.

"Never heard of him," I lied.

"He's Dragna's top guy. He's out on bond waiting for a rackets beef."

"So what? Top wop. Big deal. He must not be too much if he's waiting on bond," I said as nonchalantly as I could.

"Still the tough _hombre_ , eh, _ese_? Well those people would chew you _vatos_ from the _barrio_ up and put you in their ravioli. This ain't the Palomar Lanes, get it?" she mocked with a sweep of her hands.

"See ya, Trina. Or is it Cat, now? By the way, how was your hitch in the Navy? See any action?" I spun on my heels and walked away.

I ran into Betty and snapped at her, "Ya should a stayed a nun. By the way, she's only sixteen."

## Chapter 23

Trina

LA 1944

I was stunned. Carlos saw the film! Oh man, what he must think. Tears started to form in my eyes. I hurried to the door but was too late. Carlos was out of the parking lot already, I yelled his name, but he was gone.

Betty waited for me at the door. "What gives, Cat?" "About what?" I asked.

"Your brother says you're only sixteen. That's what!"

"He's full of beans. I'm twenty. C'mon. Johnny wants us to sit at Jack's table."

I had a huge lump in my throat and thought, _I just took a huge step that I may never recover from. What have I done_? Betty told me this life wasn't for everybody and to get out while there was still time. It was a good tip, but I blew it off. Now everybody in my family is gone. A voice in my head screamed _get on a bus, dummy_.

But I stayed on with Betty at Babe's motel. I found Betty to be a good companion. She had street smarts, but she was gone lots of the time. Still, other times our front door was like a revolving door. When she entertained I went to the all-night picture show, so she could have privacy, ya know? It seemed to work out okay. When it was just the two of us it was the best. She was the older sister I never had. Funny thing, now I'm the absent older sister in Connie's life. That saddened me, but that's how it is. If I don't get the attention I need at home, why stay? The men in my family treat the gals like servants. That's Mama's life; it don't mean I gotta live it.

When the first of the month was coming up we looked for guys that wanted companionship, maybe buy us a meal and pay for our time. I ain't a _putah_. I was trying to survive. I thought about being with my family, but I'd wait until I was desperate.

On a Saturday afternoon Betty and I walked across the lawn to our place when Babe yelled out of the office window "Yer late on the rent again. Get in here you two!"

I stood behind Betty as Babe sat her bulk in an overused wooden office chair. The frame squeaked and cracked, like begging for mercy. Babe made me nervous, and her constant flirting was upsetting.

"A gal friend of mine is throwing a party for some big shots up in the Malibu hills. She needs to have females there to help serve and what not." When she said 'what not' her brows arched several times, and then she winked at me. Ugh.

"Sounds great, Babe. What's the pay?" Betty asked.

"The pay, honey, is you get caught up on your past due rent. Get my drift?"

Later, as I was getting ready and yanking my nylons off the shower curtain rod with fury, I got real clear that I wanted to date on _my_ terms, not as part of a stable.

"Take it easy, Cat. We got a place to flop for another month," Betty remarked.

I spun around and stared.

"You remember the last party, don't you?" she asked me.

"That turned out okay for ya."

"Yeah, but he never calls," I whined.

Betty was fixing her makeup and looked at me from her reflection in the mirror "Cat, guys like 'Johnny the Stomp' don't make calls; they come at you on their terms."

Johnny Stompanato was a dangerous man, but he gave me a shiver like nothing I ever sensed. Tall, dark and handsome. He was Mickey Cohen's bodyguard and seemed to be in trouble all the time. He ran around with starlets, but one night he ran around with me.

We arrived with several other girls in a shiny black Cadillac. The redwood sided home had a circular driveway. Six or seven other girls were standing around. When we got out and stood next to the other gals, a powerfully built man in a starched white waistcoat looked at us. "Welcome, ladies. Please line up," he snarled as he snapped his fingers.

Betty looked at me and I just shrugged. We followed the waiter into the kitchen where he told us our responsibilities—mingle with the guests, get them drinks, light their cigarettes, and smile. Most of the gals had excited looks, all but me.

"What's the matter with you, cookie? You think your shit don't stink?"

When I didn't answer, he pulled his waistcoat down and pointed to the door, "Get with the program or get out!" I thought about the rent, so I put on my best smile. "That's better," he snapped.

"Will there be tips?" one girls asked.

"Are there going to be Hollywood people?" another wanted to know.

"Who will be here is none of your business, and yes, tips are likely. The guest will be arriving shortly, so I suggest you go and primp. And don't forget to smile," he said as he arranged glasses on a serving tray.

In the powder room Betty removed two white camellias from an arrangement.

"Here, Cat put it in your hair. It'll be pretty."

"I don't have a good feeling about this, Betty. I..."

Before I could finish, Betty flared up, "God dammit! Don't you get it? We do this or Babe tosses us on our ears. Get on board or I'm done with you!"

Her outburst startled me and I began to pout.

"Hey! They're naked in the pool!" one of the girls giggled. We rushed over to have a look. A tall red head standing next to me stepped from the group and started to undress. When she was to her garter, she put her high heels back on and announced "I'm going for the big money, outta my way."

The waiter smiled at her and gave her the tray he was carrying. Later in the evening, I was still serving drinks, lighting cigarettes, and smiling so much my face hurt. Most of the gals realized that to get out of serving cocktails, they needed to latch onto somebody. The girl that walked out naked didn't even finish serving her first tray when she was invited to sit with mixed couples in various stages of nakedness. I wasn't going to do that.

I passed an overweight balding man with a pink face. He motioned me with his right index finger to come over to him. "I've been watching you all evening," he said with a husky voice. "You look Persian to me. I'm looking for a Persian Princess to be in my next movie. Could that be you?"

"I could be from Persian," I answered as nonchalantly as possible. The man laughed and replied, "If you're Persian you are from Persia. Methinks you're straight out of Tijuana."

"I can play it however you want, mister. I'm Cat Ray."

With a sweep of his hand he said, "Have a seat, Catray." "My first name is Cat and my last is Ray."

All he said was, "Meow." It was disgusting. But if he's in movies, what the hell?

I laughed at his jokes, got him high balls, lit his smokes and pretended to be his girl. I even went so far as to call out a girl that was sitting in my seat when I brought him a plate of hors d'oeuvres. The man swelled and told the girl, "She's right, honey. That is her seat." When she got up, she gave me a shoulder and winked, she was on to my ruse, and strode away. I put my hands on my hips and looked angrily at her backside.

"Don't worry, Cat. You're not going to be replaced that quickly," the man said as he shoved a deviled egg in his pie hole. The ring on his pinkie glistened in the light from a Japanese lantern. I wondered where all this was going.

Just then a man in a terry cloth robe came up to the man and said pleasantly "Cosmos, may I have a moment of your time?"

He looked startled, but managed to get out, "Yes, I'll be with you in a moment."

Cosmos? Jesus, who names their kid Cosmos? Anyhow, he never came back.

I walked to the car with Betty after the bash was breaking up. Some of the girls paired off with men and couples and continued partying.

I stopped short and saw Cosmos standing by a limousine wearing a chauffeur's cap. I walked to him and said in a sing-song voice, "Methinks you're not from Hollywood. Methinks you're from San Bernardino," and spun and walked to the car, wiggling my hips more animatedly.

"Who is that, Cat?" Betty asked.

"Just a two-bit player from Central Casting. He's nobody." Betty held her purse up and asked, "Did you get any tips, Cat?"

"All I got was my _culo_ pinched."

"Not to worry, I got plenty. We can eat for a few weeks. Buck up." I wasn't depressed in the least. I was feeling good. I didn't come off as cheap or a floozy this time. I started to laugh as I told Betty about Cosmos, who told me he was looking for a Persian Princess.

"You actually told him you were from _Persian_? Not _Persia_?" Betty asked for the third time. When we reached our place, our makeup was ruined from laughing so hard.

## Chapter 24

Carlos

LA to Los Gatos 1944

My leg was shaking like crazy as I tried to engage the clutch on the truck. "Holy shit, Jack Dragna and Johnny Roselli," was all I could say, and I broke down. All the time I spent looking for Trina and she treated me like a flunky. She had no clue of the mess she was stepping into. "What am I gonna tell the folks?" I realized I had a long ride ahead of me and I'd have plenty of time to come up with something.

Early next morning I took off for Los Gatos. Jimmy and Diego gave me their accumulated gasoline rationing stamps. At the beginning of the war Congress enacted price controls on goods. Each person in a household, including babies and small children, received rationing books issued from the local rationing board. The stamps had expiration dates to prevent hoarding and Jimmy and Diego's were close to expiring. I felt confident I could get gas along the entire route.

I wasn't on a schedule and took my time. I wondered if this is what an adventure felt like. I'd never been on an adventure before. Except for Trina, I felt really free and good. I rolled down the window and took in the fresh earthy aromas of the fields. I saw men and women working in the rows of crops. "I could be a farmer. I come from a long line of farmers. What's the big deal? You work the dirt, plant the seed, water it, and pick the shit. Then start over. I could be a farmer, but I _don't want to_."

At a wide spot in the road, called San Ardo, I pulled over to eat a sandwich I'd packed. The sun was going down and the sky was a nice pink and orange with patches of fading blue. The rhythmic churn of the oil wells sang out, almost lulling me to slumber.

It was after midnight when I pulled into Salinas. Everything was closed up. I needed gas and only had one sandwich left. I pulled behind a row of stores and parked. I prayed that a cop wouldn't roust me and slap a vagrancy charge on me.

I had a frustrating dream where I was trying to catch Trina. She ran across a hardwood floor, her high heels clicking all the way. She looked at me with a blank face, and suddenly a door opened and she went through it. I could still hear her heels. I woke up and still heard the clicking. I looked out the window and a medium sized blond dog, with a white patch on the chest was scraping the running board with its paws. I opened the door and the dog leapt away with its tail tucked under and looked at me from a few feet away.

"What's a matter, little one? You lonely? I bet you're hungry," I cooed.

The mutt just kept staring at me. The wax paper crinkled as I took my sandwich in hand. I broke off a piece and held it for the dog. It just hung its head more and stood still. I tossed the bit and it was gone in a flash. The tail wagged lazily. "C'mon and get it," I coaxed.

The dog inched forward slowly and soon was eating out of my hand. I stepped over to some garbage cans to relieve myself and the dog squatted and relived herself.

When I opened the cab of the truck, she scampered up and in and sat on the seat with a look that said, "Let's get the show on the road." Before I was out of the city limits the dog was asleep with her head in my lap. I scratched her behind the ears and I saw a huge grin on her face. I wept and thought _at least I've salvaged something_. It's not Trina... that thought drifted away and I saw a sign that read entering Salinas Valley. I said, "Salina, that's what your name will be. Do you like Salina as your name?" The dog wagged her tail once.

## Chapter 25

Mickey

Boys' Farm 1944

The five-member probation board met once a month to discuss the possible release of the boys. Was a kid rehabilitated and ready to return to society? That was the question asked about each boy. The panel was made up of Mr. Morrel, the chairman, the doctor, the teacher, and some of the guards.

During a break in the session, Morrel sought out Jack Van Pelt and asked him in a whisper, "This Reyes kid is top notch. Why'd ya give him the nix?"

Van Pelt looked around to be certain he wouldn't be heard, rubbed his chin and replied, "Last year after the baseball season you told me to do whatever we could to win the championship."

"Yes, that's what I said. What does it have to do with Reyes' release?"

"He's a cracker jack of a player, sir. He could beef up our infield, I'm sure, and he swings a good bat."

"How do you know this, Jack?"

"Saw him play in a pick-up game several weeks ago. He hit a few a long ways and he fielded like a pro. He could help you win the championship back from San Mateo County and keep San Benito County out of the running."

"Ya might be right, Jack. I suppose a few more months won't hurt em," Morrel said as he motioned Van Pelt and the others to reconvene.

I walked away from my release hearing in tears. I was certain I was going to go home. I'd served eight months of my year sentence. And I got the kibosh. I told my folks to be ready to come and get me, and now I was going to stay.

I spent the rest of the day under my tree trying to sort things out. The only black mark on my record was the kid who took up with one of the girls at their farm when we went down to do some planting. Even that wasn't really my fault. The other thing was getting clobbered and spending time in bed and on light duty. That wasn't my fault, either. I was helping kids write letters and with schoolwork. Hell, I was doing more than most of the slugs.

I was working on a mower engine at the workbench in the tractor barn. My heart wasn't really in it. Two days before I was denied my release, and I was still reeling. Since my attack, my senses were keen, but my mind was elsewhere. I became startled when someone approached me from behind. I picked up a large crescent wrench and whirled around ready to strike, and looked into the startled face of Boss Van Pelt.

"Hey, take it easy, tiger," he said.

"I don't like people walking up on me. Meant no harm, Boss."

"Yeah, sure. No problem," he said as he leaned against the workbench.

"Listen, Miguel, baseball season is starting in a couple of weeks. I hear yer a good player. We could use you, son. Want to help us out and bring a trophy home for good old Santa Clara County?"

"Nah, I don't wanna play," I said as I picked up a shop rag and wiped off the wrench in my hand.

Van Pelt stiffened and stood wide legged and said, "Why the hell not?"

I touched my forehead lightly, "I still get these dad-gummed headaches something awful," I lied.

"Ya wanna get out of here, don't ya?" Van Pelt said in a softer tone. "Think about it," he said over his shoulder as he walked out the barn door.

Could he possibly mean what I think he means? If I play ball I can go home? He thinks I give a rat's ass about bringing a championship trophy home for 'good old Santa Clara County?' "To hell with him," I said aloud.

I sensed movement behind me and in a split second a rope was around my neck. I heard puffing and grunting as the rope tightened. In a moment of clear thinking, I quit struggling and the attacker let up on his grip. I raised my right arm up and in a rapid motion I elbowed my assailant in the gut. Lamar McManus doubled over and gasped in pain; I'd knocked the wind out of him. He wheezed and rolled around. I stood over him and kicked him several times in the ribs. I hissed, "If you come near me again, I'll kill ya."

I walked to the superintendent's office on rubbery legs. I walked into the office and announced, "I was just attacked again. Lamar is going to the infirmary with broken ribs. I did it to him. He's the one that clobbered me with the bat."

Morrel stood in the doorway to his office and said, "You boys need to play better together, Reyes."

"I think it is a race thing. That white boy don't like Mexicans," I said. "There are a lot of other Mexicans in here, Reyes. He doesn't attack them," he said with outstretched arms. "No, son, it's not race. McManus just doesn't like you," Morrel said without emotion.

"That may be the fact. But if that son-of-a-bitch comes near me again, well, sir, I won't be responsible for what happens."

I spun on my heels and walked out the door. Just before I closed the door, I heard Morrel say to the secretary "I'm getting too old for this malarkey. Get the dorm bosses over here, will ya."

## Chapter 26

Carlos

Los Gatos 1944

The stretch of highway between the south end of Santa Clara County and San Jose, the most inhabited city in the county, was two lanes and rural. The population of Los Angeles in 1944 was over a million and a half people. San Jose had just over seventy thousand residents. Oak trees and Manzanita brush dotted the green rolling hills. Cherry, apricot and prune orchards lined both sides and railroad tracks separated the farms from Highway 101. The neat rows of trees sat in freshly turned soil and the earthy aroma was pleasant and natural.

Salina and I rode along being lulled by the hum of the tires. Every time I looked at the dog she was looking at me. She'd wag her tail and I'd scratch her ears. We were good traveling companions. In the distance I could see the tower of a building standing like a lone oil derrick in a desert.

"That must be San Jose, Salina," I said and Salina sat up, looked out the windshield and gave a curt yip.

I pulled into a truck stop, filled up and decided to take advantage of the free hot shower and change clothes. I stood under the spray and felt tension exiting my joints. Salina was lapping at the spray, and I grabbed and held her under the water. She protested at first, then relaxed and enjoyed the soaping and rinsing action. I think she liked being held.

"Where ya headed, amigo?" an old man in bib overalls asked me as I was getting ready to go.

"Los Gatos," I answered back in perfect Spanish.

He squinted at me and said, "You ain't from around here are ya?" "Why do you say that?" I asked.

"The way ya said it. _Lows Got Ohs_. People in these parts say _Loss Gat Us_. Hell, ya say Lows Got Ohs, why they'll laugh ya out a town, for sure," he chuckled with a wide toothless grin.

"Thanks for the tip, I'll keep it in mind," I said as Salina and I took our seats to continue our journey.

After several miles I turned left at a huge cemetery, passed through several small towns and in thirty minutes was parked in front of the cannery camp. I was barely out of the truck before I heard Connie scream, "Mama! Carlos is here!" She ran and jumped in my arms. Salina was wiggling and squirming at our feet. I saw Mama waddle up to us. She smiled and clapped her hands, then put them to both sides of her face. I could see it in her eyes; she was happy I was here, but upset because Trina wasn't with me.

Connie and Salina played in the front of the house as Mama and I talked.

"She didn't say she wouldn't come, Mama. Give her time and she'll get here."

"I don't know, Carlos. What could be so bad about us that she would run away? I don't get it. Carlos, _mi hijo_ , when I saw you drive up in your truck without Trina, I felt uneasy. I am anxious to have this baby and be surrounded by _mi familia_. I want everyone at my table, having a meal and being happy."

Suddenly Salina went up to mama and sniffed her ankle. I could see that it startled Mama and when I looked into her dark eyes, I sensed her sorrow. I think Salina did, too. She wagged her tail slightly and nuzzled Mama's calves and then Mama really broke down and cried.

After a minute, Connie ran toward the house and Salina playfully chased her. I put my arms around Mama and we followed Connie and Salina into the house.

"Carlos, doesn't this place remind you of Chavez Ravine?" Connie asked. I could tell that Connie was doing her best to make things better.

"It does, Baby. But you know what's better about this place? We're here together."

Connie grinned, and I saw her look at Mama, and then she said with sadness, "All but Trina and Mickey."

I held her shoulders and answered, "Trina sends her love, and she told me to give you a huge _abrazo_ ," and I hugged her.

I sat at the Formica table, while Connie and Mama prepared supper and asked when Mickey would get out.

"He was supposed to be out now, maybe this summer, I hope," Mama replied as she brushed a wisp of hair from her eyes, and then teared up again.

"What is it, Mama?" I asked.

"He gets locked up for something he didn't do, and then gets hit with a bat..."

"Hit with a bat? Who hit him with a bat?" This is news to me," I said loudly.

Mama told me she didn't know who hit Mickey, and I asked, "Do you think it has anything to do with Sleepy Lagoon?"

" _Dios Mio_ , I never thought about that," Mama whispered.

Connie removed her apron and said "C'mon, Carlos."

"Where to, Baby"

"To meet Papa," she said in a 'don't you know anything?' voice.

I looked at Salina, at rest under the table. Her look said, "go on. I'm good here."

I saw Pop walking toward us. Connie said, "Hide, Carlos!" I stepped around the corner of the 5Spot. "Hello, Papa," Connie said with a lilt in her voice.

"Is that my old truck parked there?" Pop asked.

Before Connie could say anything, I got too excited and blurted out "It sure is. _Hola_ , Pop."

We embraced and kissed each other's cheeks. We hadn't done that since I was a child. Our tears were an indication that too much time had gone by since we showed each other affection. This was a new beginning.

"I didn't think she'd come," Pop said when he learned Trina was still in LA. "But I'm not giving up hope, and neither should any of you," he finished as he swept his right index finger at us.

After dinner Pop asked me what my plans were. "Try something different, ya know?"

"I could get you on at the cannery," Pop announced.

"I'll keep that in mind. I don't know what it is I want yet."

Pop looked at his watch and said, "Let's go to the pits, Carlos. I'll introduce you to your neighbors." The men in the camp met each evening after dinner at the horseshoe pits, weather permitting, for feisty matches. Good-humored arguments over nickel-dime bets took place with regularity.

To see Pop happy and the family starting to settle was a tremendous relief for me. Even though I'd arrived just three hours ago, I felt that when the time came, I could move on from this place knowing my family was going to be okay.

Los Gatos is very quiet at night. Back in LA, when it got dark, I would be getting ready to go out and start looking for Trina.

Pop went to bed early, and Mama was knitting a blanket for the baby. Connie was in the bath getting ready for bed, and I drummed my fingers on the arm of a chair. "What's that place next door like, Mama?"

"The Live Oak Inn? I don't know. We've never been in there." "Do you think it'd be okay if I hopped over there?" I asked.

"If you're asking me for permission to go out, well, you're too old for me to tell you what to do or not do, Carlos," Mama said with a grin. "Just remember, you promised to walk Connie to school in the morning."

The Live Oak Inn was a single story bar and restaurant with two entrances in the front. One was a double door that entered the dining room. The other was a single door with a sign over it that read Cocktails. A half wall of bricks spanned the front of the building and off-white stucco rose to the roofline. Next to the bar door was a window with a dark blue tinting that let patrons inside see out and blocked people outside from looking in.

The dining room had a huge oak tree growing through the roof. Spotlights illuminated up into the foliage. Each table had a white tablecloth and a delicate vase with fresh flowers.

The bar in the lounge spanned the entire wall. The outside of the wall was the parking lot of the cannery houses. Shiny red vinyl stools with chair backs dotted the bar front. Adjacent to the bar were cocktail tables and a piano bar. Candles in red glass holders flickered in the dimness.

I stepped up to the stool and the bartender, a huge man, ambled over and twirled a paper napkin down in front of me. "What can I get ya?" he asked in a soft voice, which belied his bulk.

"A glass of draft beer, please." "Lucky Lager, okay?"

I nodded and he said "Good, that's all we got on tap."

Sipping on my beer I watched the slow pace of the bar in the mirror. I saw diners exit out the doors and others walk into the lounge from the dining room for an after-dinner drink.

The hostess, a tall attractive woman with a pencil jabbed into her hair, was counting receipts at the cash register.

An older man sitting a few stools from me was pleading his case for a toddy on the house. "I'll play the piano for ya," he said with a British accent.

"Hey Ruby, is it okay if Trenton plays the piano?"

Ruby, the hostess said back "What're ya asking me for, Bus. You own this joint, too."

"Go on over, Trenton. I'll have Ruby bring you a cocktail." Trenton warmed up with a medley of familiar tunes, stopped to light a cigarette and started to play "The Dark Town Strutter's Ball." Ruby brought him a drink and he stopped playing, picked up his smoke from the ashtray, took a drag, and then a sip of his whiskey. He held up the glass to Bus and said to Ruby, "Thanks, love." He acted like the headliner in an upscale supper club, even if it was only for one drink. He was on.

Before I left I placed four bits into the brandy snifter atop the piano. "Thanks, mate," Trenton said with a wink. Bus gave me a slight nod. The Live Oak was a comfortable place. I'd bring Mama and Pop here for dinner, maybe when Mickey got home. They'd like that.

"What do you think of this place?" Connie asked me as we were walking to her school.

"It's fine, Baby. Do you like it?"

"Yeah. The kids are nice. It feels friendlier than LA. Pop says in a small town, everybody knows your business."

"He's right. Gossip goes on and on. You can be sure of that."

Just before she went into the schoolyard, Connie motioned me toward her face, like she was going to tell me a secret. She kissed me on the cheek and said, "I'm happy you're here," and skipped through the gate and across the playground.

I heard the whirr of power saws coming from Sterling Lumber across the street from the grammar school. I walked up the side street next to the lumberyard and tried to look through holes in the corrugated steel walls to watch the action. Stacks of lumber blocked my view. I stood on the rise next to the railroad tracks and looked down into the yard. Drivers stood next to their flat bed trucks, pick-ups and station wagons waiting in line for yardmen to retrieve materials for them. In covered areas, several table saws were being used to cut special orders. Saw dust swirled around the yard and the scent wafted up to where I stood. I wondered if I could drive a truck. It don't look that hard.

"Pop, you ever drive a truck?" I asked as we walked to the horseshoe pits after dinner.

"No, just that bomber you drove here in. Nothing bigger than that," he said with a lift of his chin toward the parking lot behind the houses. "Why?"

"I wonder if I could learn to drive a truck."

"Of course you can. You can do anything you want, Carlos. This is America. Hey, Cisco, you know somebody that could teach my son to drive a truck?" Pop yelled just as Francisco Fernandez was in his forward motion to toss a horseshoe.

"Pop!" I said embarrassed.

"What? He's the dispatcher. He knows the drivers," Pop said.

" _Si_ , Ramon. I know somebody. Now do you mind if I finish my toss?" he said faking anger as he took up his stance to give a toss.

The radio show was just signing off. Pop got up and turned it off. "Cisco will find a good teacher for you," he said for the umpteenth time that evening.

Mama looked at him and said, "Husband, you've been grinning like the cat that ate the canary. What's going on in your _cabeza_ , eh?"

Before he answered, he looked at each of us.

"This place is good. Walking home after work, I realized there was no dust, people are friendly, and we can come and go as we please," he said as he sat down. "The farther I am from Mexico, well, the safer I feel. As for my grin? I guess it's happiness."

"Pop, I can go to the dispatcher's office by myself. Don't worry, I'll be fine," I said as we got onto the cannery property.

Cisco introduced me to a man named Knox Hardy. "Show him the ropes, will ya, Knox? He's Ramon's boy and wants to learn how to drive a rig."

Knox looked me up and down, shrugged and said, "Why not?" Hardy was a lanky, raw-boned fellow. His face was pale with stubble of a black beard. He seemed to be one of those guys that could shave at six in the morning, and an hour later he'd need to shave again.

He wore a heavy black and red checked woolen jacket, coveralls, and a flat brimmed cap.

I stood next to him as his flatbed GMC truck was being loaded with fruit bins. I watched him secure the bins with ropes using half hitches and other trucker's knots. Before he got into the driver's seat he took a quick walk around the truck. He looked at the tires, kicked one of the inside duals on the rear. He yanked on the ropes secured to hooks welded along the bed.

"Let's ride, pal," he said as he jumped into the cab. I waved to Pop, who was looking out the door of the wood shop, as we passed.

"Where we headed?" I asked excitedly.

"Up the road a piece. But don't concern yerself with where. Concentrate on how," Knox said out of the corner of his mouth while shifting to a higher gear. "Driving a rig like this ain't like driving a car. It's bigger overall and gear ratios are different. And the differential is like nothing you ever seen."

With each turn, a tin of Velvet Pipe Tobacco slid back and forth across the dusty dashboard. At a sweeping turn, Knox pulled on the halyard, blowing his air horn at a man standing in front of a filling station. A sign on a building across from the station said Austin Corners.

Several miles up the road we passed through a town called Saratoga. A right turn and then a left and we were in farming territory. Knox pulled off the highway onto a gravel drive way. He swung the rig around as chickens scurried to get away, and finally stopped in front of a tractor barn behind an old Victorian house. Mixed breed dogs rushed the truck and barked non-stop.

"Shut up you no-good mongrels!" a shirtless man with a barrel chest yelled as he came out of the tank house, and saluted Knox. He had a fat cigar sticking out of the side of his mouth and a sly grin. From around the cigar he rasped, "I was expecting you yesterday, ya son of a bitch."

"Sorry to disappoint you, Jocko. But yer on the schedule for first thing this morning, so here I am. Ya don't want the bins, it ain't no sweat offa my nuts."

I watched the banter between these two like it was a ping-pong game. Soon I realized they were just doing some friendly needling.

"Who's the wetback?" Jocko asked Knox.

Knox looked over at me and replied, "He's my friend Carlos, and I'm teaching him to drive a truck. And he ain't no wetback. You aren't are you?"

In my best Mexican-peasant accent I said, " _No, Señor. Me no wet_." Knox and the man exchanged jokes, while several pickers and I unloaded the truck. I heard Jocko say, "Got into a real donnybrook at the Fir Tree Inn over in Saratoga last night. Got a few licks in ya know?" he said as he chomped his cigar. "Stepped over a couple of em as I walked out the door," he said as he puffed up his chest and flexed his biceps.

"Jesus Christ! Yer getting too old for that crap, Jocko."

The dogs chased us almost to the highway when Knox said, "He's always getting into a scrap. One of these days guys like him," he said with jab of his thumb backwards, "will get into it with the wrong guy." I just nodded and told Knox, "My father is going to ask me where we went this morning. I ain't got one idea of where we are. Where are we?"

Knox stopped the truck at the end of Jocko's driveway and said, "We're in between Cupertino," he said pointing right, "and Saratoga is back the way we came." He pointed right again and continued. "If ya take this road all the way to where there is a huge bread billboard and turn left, you're about forty miles from San Francisco. You take the Bayshore Highway all the way into "Frisco. If ya turn right at the bread sign, well, in about six hundred miles yer in Los Angeles. Bayshore and Highway 101 are the same."

My bearings were getting a little clearer. I figured right of the bread sign I'd run into the cemetery where I turned off 101 to get into Los Gatos.

We made a stop at another farm to pick up crates, and then back to Los Gatos.

"Why ain't you in the army?" Knox asked.

I looked at him sideways and said, "I went down to enlist and the doctor told me I had a heart murmur."

"Ya look healthy to me," Knox said.

"I told the doctor I felt fine, but they rejected me. I volunteered at the USO, but that didn't work out. I was gonna work at one of the plants, to do my part, ya know? But Pop said to let the G.I.'s wives work. He needed me to help him, so I kept on being a gardener."

We came through Austin Corners on our way back to Cottage Grove. Knox pulled into the filling station and said, "C'mon in and meet Andy; he owns this place."

Andy looked to be in his seventies with a bubble of pink scalp jutting out from a fringe of snow-white hair. He had on olive green trousers, and jacket. He had a constant grin.

"Hi ya Knox. How ya keeping yerself?"

"Just swell, Andy. How's the gout?" Knox asked. I felt uncomfortable in the tiny sales office, so I stepped out. Before I closed the door I heard Andy ask, "Who's the pepper belly?" I didn't hear Knox's answer, and didn't care. I watched a man lubricating a car on the outside rack. In the span of a couple of hours I'd been called a pepper belly and a wetback. I don't think this is such a friendly place.

I heard the door to the station office shut, and Knox yelled, "Get in the driver's seat, Carlos. Let's see what ya learned."

The truck lurched and stalled several times, but Knox was patient and explained what happened and how to avoid stalls. Out of the station driveway, he told me to turn left on to a lane called Quito Road. After several yards we were running smoothly and the gears quit grinding.

"Driving a truck is a huge responsibility, but it's not all about steering and shifting. Ya gotta know the rules of the road," Knox said as he opened the tobacco tin and rolled a cigarette. "Ya need to know the length and width and height of yer rig. How to secure a load so when ya make a turn your load don't topple over, learn to tie knots."

I continued down Quito for another few minutes when he said "I see ya can keep her on the road going straight ahead. Let's see how ya fare backing up. Pull into that wide spot," he said pointing with his cigarette between his thumb and index finger.

"Let's see how ya are backing up. Back into that driveway yonder." I put the gear into reverse and put my right arm over the top of the seat to look out the window and saw nothing but fruit crates.

"I knew yer were gonna do that, sure as heck I knew it," Knox chuckled. "Use the mirrors!"

Back behind the wheel, Knox said, "You'll make a fine gear jammer, boy. A couple more lessons and you'll be on yer own. Too bad we ain't hiring drivers right now."

I saw Pop pacing by the gate. Knox stopped and I looked down and said, "What's up, Pop?"

"You're Mama just called. She's ready to have the baby!"

I thanked Knox and asked him if I could get another lesson, which he agreed to. Pop and I ran to the house and took Mama to the hospital. They named the baby boy Desmondo after Mama's grandfather.

Four days later Pop returned to work and passed around El Roi Tan Cigars to his co-workers.

## Chapter 27

Mickey

Boys' Farm 1945

The season was winding down, and I was happy about that. Don't get me wrong, I love baseball, but I wanted to play because _I_ wanted to, not so some sap could boast about our achievements. The games were played on Saturdays, my only day off, but that was okay, especially when we traveled to another county for a game. It was like we were free-worlders for the day.

The bus ride to San Mateo County started at five in the morning; I slept most of the way there. Their field was pretty lousy, and Boss Van Pelt told us to go and check the area around our positions, and remove rocks. Some of the home team greeted us and asked questions about people we might know in common, and talked about trading contraband, which was normal. Girlie books for pruño or reefer, all of which were roll-up offenses.

We won the championship game and were headed home. I was carrying a fruit jar of pruño back with me. I didn't drink the shit. The idea of taking fruit scraps from the kitchen and soaking them in sugar and ketchup to come up with an alcohol drink made me retch. I didn't smoke reefer, either. I knew if I got caught, I'd be rolled up. But, sometimes you have to do things to save face, and if I could pass this to a guy, well I saved face. That's how it is in the criminal system.

The farther south we got from San Mateo County, the more familiar things looked. When we stopped at the Shell filling station across from Fanning's, my heart almost fell out of my jersey.

Boys were using the restroom, but I just stood staring at the cannery housing. All I needed to do was run across the street and I'd be home and safe. Connie wrote me a letter about Carlos coming home, without Trina, and my new baby brother, Desmondo. I needed to get over there.

"Let's go, Reyes. Get on the bus!" Van Pelt yelled.

I just stood there. "C'mon Reyes," he said as he walked up to me. "Boss, my house is across the street." He followed my point and shook his head.

"Can I please go over and see my Ma?" I pleaded.

"You may not. Now get on the bus."

I stepped up into the bus, and saw Carlos walking with a yellow dog in front of the Live Oak Inn. I turned and stepped onto Boss Van Pelt's foot. "Where do you think yer goin?" He shoved me back up. I screamed Carlos' name just as the driver shut the door. I looked out the windows and saw Carlos turn in the opposite direction of my voice. I frantically tried to slide a window down, but couldn't get it to budge. I smashed the palm of hand on the glass to try and get my brother's attention. The bus got out of range, so I quit banging the window. I trembled and welled up with tears. Some of my teammates gave me odd looks, so I turned my head away from the others.

Once out of Los Gatos, Van Pelt sat down next to me.

"Why didn't you tell me this morning when we came through that you live here? We could have made some sort of arrangement." This made me feel worse.

"We came through here this morning? I must a been sawing logs," I sniffled.

Just before supper we arrived back at our farm. The barbeque fire was ready and the entire farm would celebrate our victory. Boys sneered and jeered at us as we got off the bus, making kissing sounds and calling us pretty boys and kiss-asses. We mingled into the crowd and passed off the contraband.

After we ate, Van Pelt asked for quiet so he could present the trophy to the superintendent, Mr. Morrel. He took the trophy from Van Pelt and held it high over his head. There was some applause, but mostly a give-a-shit attitude prevailed. I was unenthusiastic when I was named the most valuable player and team captain. I didn't want the ridicule from the others. When Morrel handed me a five-inch by seven-inch framed certificate I shook his hand.

"Not bad for a mug that brings _pruño_ in!" someone yelled out.

All eyes turned to Lamar, who just gave a _what are you looking at me for_? _I didn't say that_ gesture. I was mortified and sensed my release date being re-upped. Morrel looked at me with concern and I gave him a look that suggested I had no idea why that was said.

I was sitting under my tree, when I heard foot falls on the dried leaves. Two people approached. I sat stock still hoping I wouldn't be seen.

"Damn fine job with the team, Jack." I heard Morrel say

"Thank you, sir. I'm just glad we kept Reyes around."

_What in the hell were these two assholes talking about_?

"It didn't hurt him any to stick around for another three months. Chances are he'd be back anyway if he got out when he was supposed to. I'll have his release ready in the morning," Morrel said as they walked away from the tree. That's when it hit me—they held up my release so I'd play baseball. God Damn them! I can't ever remember being so pissed off. I thought the best thing to do was go to bed and forget it. At that point, if somebody braced me, I'd be headed for the gas chamber in San Q.

I said nothing as Morrel handed me my walking papers. I held them in my hand along with the certificate he'd given me the night before. I waited for somebody to come and get me. Finally Carlos drove up. I hugged him mightily and turned back to the office.

"What is it?" Morrel asked, as he slapped a pencil on the palm of his right hand.

I narrowed my eyes and pointed my finger straight at his nose "The next time you have a conversation under a tree, make sure there ain't anybody on the other side, you prick."

"Mickey!" Carlos said astonished. "You shouldn't talk like that!" "Bull shit! This ass-bite and that slimy coach held up my release so I would play baseball. I heard the whole deal last night," I fumed as I flipped the certificate in the air and watched the glass in the frame shatter at Morrel's feet. "Get me outta this shit-hole, Carlos."

We drove out the gate and I took in the best breath of air I'd ever had. "Man that felt great. Thanks for coming and getting me, Carlos." "No sweat, _ese_. Mama and Pop wanted to come, but she's busy with the baby and Pop had to work."

"And how is our _hermanito_ , Desmondo?" I asked.

Carlos told me about the two in the morning feedings and how everything is different with a newborn. "Things have changed in the household. We got it pretty good. We're on the back porch. It can get cold, but it's quiet."

After a few miles of silence Carlos said, "You heard about Trina, right?"

I told him I knew she didn't come with him.

"She's in with a pretty rough crowd. Mobster types, ya know?" he told me. I worried about her and wondered if we needed to pair up and go rescue her, but Carlos changed the subject.

"How was it really, Mickey? The _pinta_ , I mean."

"Carlos, I thought I was in heaven, until somebody told me I was in jail."

We both had a good laugh at my statement. It was a joke that Pop told about what men said after getting out of jail during the revolution in Mexico. "Do you know that I never had any tamale or enchilada the whole time I was in? We had rice and beans, but never at the same meal. Rice with lamb chops, beans with roast. If ya complained you didn't get fed."

"Well, _ese_ , yer in luck. Mama has a spread for your first meal home," Carlos said as he shifted gears.

## Chapter 28

Mickey

Los Gatos 1945

The next morning I walked to Clanton's to see about getting my old job back. Mr. Clanton gave me a bear hug that I felt for several hours.

"Business is way down, Mickey. But I'll give you as much time as I can," Clanton told me.

Later, I sat in a booth at the 5Spot talking with Ted Samuels. He was bringing me up to date on what was happening in town. When I asked him about Linda Rosa he said, "She moved."

A man in the booth behind me banged his fist on the table.

"All those GIs coming home are gonna need places to live and this back-water town is missing the boat! They don't want growth, ha! Cupertino and Sunnyvale have hundreds of permits for housing tracts."

Ted started to say something, but I put my hand up and he stopped. I listened to the man in the booth say, "And the ripple effect will trickle to all products and goods." That wasn't lost on me. I headed straight for the shop and got in Mr. Clanton's face as fast as possible.

"I'm telling you, Mr. Clanton. Hock everything you have and stock new appliances. The housing market is gonna go through the roof. All the new houses are gonna need new stoves, refrigerators and washing machines."

Clanton puffed on his pipe and said softly, "I dunno, Mickey. Maybe what you say is true. But what if it's not?" he said as he laid his pipe in an ashtray. "What do I do if it's a bust?"

"You know enough appliance company salesmen, ask them," I answered with outstretched arms.

"All I know is that those salesmen are supposed to sell. And with my luck, I'll get sold a bill of goods."

"It's the future, Mr. Clanton. It's 1945. Let's be part of it. Let's make those housewives happy. What do you say?"

The business profile for Clanton's changed from used furniture and appliances to new, state of the art appliances. The business plan was simple—Mr. Clanton would be a wholesale representative for major appliance companies. The company's salesmen would bid the contractors and Clanton's would sell, deliver and install them. When maintenance was needed, we were ready to serve.

Carlos and I were working together for the first time in a long time and I was having a ball. I didn't think too much about Linda anymore.

Business was good and we rented a vacant warehouse at the Cottage Grove Cannery to store all the new appliances. This was going to be Carlos' department as the Warehouse Manager in charge of shipping and receiving. We were getting the interior set up with workbenches for repairs and shipping. Carlos was stocking his desk in his office when Mr. Clanton arrived. "Come here, boys," he said. "I just got back from having lunch with a suit from Hotpoint. He told me I was a visionary and a pioneer in the home appliance industry," he said shyly. "I told him I was just listening to a boy that gave me advice. Anyhow he presented me a check for four thousand dollars. Can you believe that? Four grand! I want to give you half, Mickey. You're the visionary not me. Here," he said as he handed me the check.

I was stunned, to say the least. I looked at Carlos and he gave a slight smile, and pumped his fist weakly.

"Put it in the account, Mr. Clanton. This is the Reyes Brothers buy-in as your partner," I said with a jump in my voice.

Carlos was quiet after Clanton left. As for me, I was walking on air. I went to Carlos's office and said, "Well, what do you think? You and me partners, _ese_."

"I appreciate what you did, Mickey. I'm just not sure this is what I want to do," he said as he swept his hand around the warehouse. "I hope you understand, Mickey."

" _Si, si_. I understand." But I didn't. My feelings were really hurt, more than I ever remember. All the time in the farm I kept wishing for the day when we could work together again. Here it was, put in our laps and Carlos didn't want to do it?

## Chapter 29

Carlos

Los Gatos 1945

"Where does Mickey get the _tañates_ to think I want to be in business with him?" I said aloud when I was alone in the warehouse. "If it were Pop, why, I'd be there in the snap of a finger. I knew how it would end up. I'd be working _for_ Mickey, not _with_ him. No thank you. I don't answer to a kid brother. It hit me then; he's had a swagger since Sleepy Lagoon. He's Chico's pal, he gets to live with Pop and now he's in business. None of this would've happened if I didn't take him with me to Sleepy Lagoon.

I got in that evening and was trying to be as quiet as I could, but as luck would have it, I tripped coming in the backdoor and bumped Mickey's bed. He woke up and snarled, "You best not have a hangover, Carlos. We got lots to do."

It was late but I wasn't drunk. I sat on the bed and tossed my shoe in the air and it landed on Mickey's stomach. I didn't mean for it to land there, it just did. Mickey shot out of bed, like he'd been lying in wait, and challenged me. He had on a sleeveless tee shirt and briefs.

"Take it easy, Mickey. I ain't in the mood. Besides, where's your bat?"

He grabbed my shoulder and stood me up. I shook free and told him to knock it off. He took a swing at me, that I avoided, and I shoved him into the dresser. He ran at me and headed me in the gut and I landed on the bed. He still came, and I lost it. I was a buzz saw of fists. Lights came on in the house, the baby started crying and Mama was screaming. We crashed into the back yard under the clothesline. Mickey was on his back and I was straddling him pounding my fists. Pop grabbed me from behind and yelled, "He's had enough. Let him up!"

Neighbors were milling around wondering what was going on. Mama was crying and Connie was wide-eyed as she held the bawling baby. I walked into the house, put my shoe on and went out the front door. As I left I heard Pop say, " _Está es muy mal_!" My family is unraveling and just as it was getting back together."

I got to the ElGato Hotel and hitched the first ride to Santa Cruz.

## Chapter 30

Mickey

Los Gatos 1945

I was just sick about the fight Carlos and I had. It was my fault. I went into a rage. I wanted him to suffer because he hurt my feelings. Anyhow, he was gone, and I was miserable. Mama and Pop were quiet. Somehow, on some level, I think Mama and Pop blamed me for the dust up, too. I heard Mama tell _Señora_ Fernandez one afternoon as they hung the wash on the line.

"With my family, it is one step ahead and two behind."

"How so, Monica?" Mrs. Fernandez asked.

"Just when we get most of them here, one takes off. My boys had that fight..."

"We all saw that fight, Monica," Mrs. Fernandez said as she clipped clothespins to a towel.

"I know you did. Those boys have had their differences, but never to that extent. I just hope Carlos comes back soon. Maybe someday it will all work out, but right now, I'm not real sure," Mama said as she hefted the laundry basket. "I'm not even sure what it was about, their fight, and Miguel clammed up and didn't want to talk about it."

"Maybe it was jealousy, Monica. The young one envious of the older one."

"You might be right. But do we all have to suffer?"

I wasn't jealous of Carlos. Hell I had more than he did. He's probably jealous of me. Could that be it?

The storefront windows reflected the bright afternoon sun, at times blinding pedestrians and drivers along Santa Cruz Avenue. The sidewalk in front of the shop was swept every morning and the planter boxes of geraniums on either side of the front door raked with a three-pronged trowel to remove cigarette butts from the dirt and any weed that dared to grow.

The bright white appliances sat splendidly on display across the green linoleum floor. The smell of fresh paint lingered and mixed with the smell of coffee. There was a small table and chairs where children could sit and look at comic books while their parents shopped. The store was comfortable and inviting.

For once I had been right about something; the home appliance business went through the roof. Mr. Clanton was relieved, and so was I. To keep up with the orders we hired a couple of kids to work part time. It was like a corner had been turned—all the Sleepy Lagoon mess, the Boy's Farm and Slick were left in the dust. I grew up, I guess.

Linda was frequently on my mind. If she knew I was home, why didn't she contact me? Why didn't I contact her? Sometimes I'd stand in front of the 5Spot and stare at Fanning's and shudder when I thought about my beginnings in Los Gatos. I'm where I'm supposed to be, doing what I'm supposed to do; that's what Pop always told us. At times I thought about Carlos and Trina and how their absence weighed heavily on Mama and Pop. On one level I felt responsible for the rift in the family, but not entirely. I would try and help make things right for _la familia Reyes_. Thank Christ I had a business that kept me busy.

Late one morning Mrs. Fanning waltzed into the showroom. "Good morning, Mickey. How are you?" she said sweetly. To say that I was caught off-guard would've been an understatement.

"Fine," I said flatly.

"That's nice. I need new appliances for the washhouse. Can you give me a quote?"

I wrestled with the idea of kicking her out of the store, and then quickly thought I'll gouge her instead, but then reality set in. This is my business and she wants to buy— get over it.

"I'll drop by later this afternoon and show you what's available." "That'll be great. There's one other thing; Nelson Fairlund will be there. We're married now. I hope that's not a problem for you," she said with reddened cheeks

I almost vomited on the counter. "No problem," I replied. She married _Slick_? _What the Christ_!

Later that day I saw Slick, the lizard-eyed son-of-a-bitch, standing on the lawn in front of Fanning's Motel, dressed in his usual attire of black and white saddle shoes, charcoal gray slacks and a white shirt with a cigarette dangling from his lips. He pointed to objects on the ground to an old man using a rake. Instead of going in, I drove by, and turned the corner and parked. Sitting there, I reflected on what transpired in the last year of my life. I'd moved from the motel, fallen in love, and apparently lost her, been incarcerated for something I didn't do, and became a businessman. You ain't the only one that things have happened to, you ass-bite, I said to myself. Mama and Pop were together, Connie was doing real good in school—she was very smart, college smart—and Trina was on the prowl somewhere. Carlos was a farmer in Davenport, north of Santa Cruz. And I was still in love with Linda Rosa. That was my family in a nutshell, but outside the confines of me and mine in Los Gatos, there was lots more. The war had ended, the Sleepy Lagoon murder defendants were released, and Chico was back in LA. I sat in the truck pissed off at myself because I didn't want to face Slick. How stupid is that? He's just taking up good air!

In the office, I showed Mrs. Fanning the advertising sheets for the latest washers and dryers and explained their features, when suddenly the room smelled like tobacco smoke. Slick stood in the doorway and jammed his hands in his pocket and proceeded to jingle his change. When I met his gaze, he averted his eyes to the picture of the appliances.

"Will you please stop rattling your coins! It's driving me nuts," Mrs. Fanning railed at him. He yanked his hands out and didn't know what to do with them, so he put them on his hips and rasped, "Those aren't made by the Japs, are they?"

I remained silent and Mrs. Fanning said "Of course they're not."

I was writing out an invoice for two new washers and a new dryer, when Mrs. Fanning said, "Don't total that up just yet. I need you to look at the stove and refrigerator in my place. They're pretty old."

The upstairs owner's apartment was light and airy. Sunlight filled the living room. A beige brocade sofa and matching easy chair sat prominently to one side of the room. Doilies lay across the backs. Spaces of highly polished hardwood flooring gleamed between woven area rugs. On a table next to a chair was a picture of a young man in an Army uniform.

"Is that your son?" I asked.

"Why yes it is," she said as she brushed a wisp of red hair behind her right ear. "He's coming home real soon and he's going to help me around here."

I heard Slick cluck his tongue and retreat to somewhere in the apartment.

All in all it was a very lucrative day for Clanton's Appliances. The best part was I'd faced a demon and didn't try and kill him. The assbite lost his power over me and would never get it back.

I drove Mr. Clanton into Campbell to get parts from a wholesaler. As I sat behind the steering wheel on Campbell Avenue, I saw a group of schoolgirls approach in the rear view mirror. I saw Linda before she saw me, and my heart skipped about thirty beats. I slipped out of the truck and stepped up to the tailgate. Linda's face flushed when she saw me. She was dressed in a blue plaid skirt and white sweater. Our eyes locked, and she lowered her head and smiled. It was a nice thing for her to do, but I wanted her to drop her books, run to me and leap in my arms. We walked toward each other timidly and finally embraced and continued to hold on. I could feel the tension between us and I knew what my feelings were about, but I wasn't sure about hers. Her girl friends stood around uncomfortably. Linda broke the embrace and told her schoolmates to go on without her.

"How long have you been home?" she asked and wiped tears from her cheeks. Now I understood that she still had feelings for me and a flood of hope came over me.

I just shrugged my shoulders and she said sternly "You've been home a long time haven't you?"

"How come you stopped writing?" I asked.

She pulled her sweater down and told me that her father forbid her to make any contact with me. Before I could ask her why, she continued, "He said you were a bad influence on me. I told him he was wrong, but he stood his ground."

I slapped the fender on the appliance truck, and said, "You can tell him I'm in business with Mr. Clanton now. We're partners."

Out of the corner of my eye I saw _Señora Rosa_ marching up to us, her apron still tied around her waist. She looked like a Nazi, goose-stepping on the streets of Berlin. She almost ran into Mr. Clanton as he exited the wholesaler's shop.

"Get away from her. Leave us alone!" _Señora_ Rosa hissed.

" _Por favor, Señora_ , all I want to do is talk for a few more minutes." Mrs. Rosa puffed up and said, "Linda, get home, _now_! And if you," she said pointing at my face, "ever come near my little girl again, I'll call the _policia. Comprende_?

Mr. Clanton stood shoulder to shoulder with me and watched Linda and her mother walk briskly away. "Well, that was quite a show. What was that about?"

"Just connecting with the woman I'm gonna marry."

"Marry? Her? Think about it, Mickey. That lady as your mother-in-law would be poison."

Despite the street scene, I was feeling pretty good. I was hoping that Linda saw the phone number of the store printed on the door of the truck and that she would call me.

Weeks passed since I'd seen Linda and she never contacted me. I was grateful I was busy. A new subdivision in Cupertino was nearing completion. The cabinets were complete, but the stoves wouldn't fit, so I drove over to see about it. I pulled down a dirt road that bisected the tract. Ditches for water mains ran down the middle. All trades were busy working to meet a deadline.

A completed single story dwelling sat at the end of a cul-de-sac. The custom paint job, paved driveway, flower gardens and a newly seeded front lawn finished off the model home. Redwood furniture sat invitingly on the front porch.

I opened the glass sliding door that led into what would eventually become a garage, but was now the sales office. Architectural floor plans and artists' renderings were displayed on tripod easels around the area. A man in a business suit was talking with a man in work clothes. Their conversation seemed heated, so I stepped out. The workman asked just before the door closed, "Can I help you?"

I told him who I was and he said pleasantly, as he tossed a pencil on the desk, "Clanton's, oh yeah. Thanks for showing up. Go on over to the trailer and I'll be right with ya."

The inside of the trailer smelled like cigars, body odor, and ammonia from the blue prints. I looked out the window at the stages of construction; some homes were just framed, others were being plastered on the inside and still others looked move-in ready. I glanced at the timecards in a slotted holder. My heart fluttered momentarily "No, it can't be." I looked again and scribbled across the top of one of the cards was the name Lamar McManus. The hair on my neck prickled and I snuck a peek out the window to see if I could spot McManus.

The trailer shook, startling me, but then I saw the workman lumber in.

"That stupid suit over there thinks he can tell me what I should be doing!" he bellowed as he picked up a cigar butt and re-lit it. "He's nothing but a shit-heel with a pocket full of pens and pencils and his brains hanging on the wall," he said, pointing the cigar butt toward the model home.

"Damn, I'm sorry. My name is Warren Stone," he said, shoving his hand out.

Knowing McManus was nearby made it hard to concentrate, but what I got was that the cabinetmaker had moved on and the stoves in some of the new homes wouldn't slide in. This seemed simple to me; modify the woodwork, because the appliances couldn't be altered. I wanted to see what Stone was talking about, so I walked with him several doors down. I scanned the rooftops looking for McManus. I knew he was looking at me. I just knew it.

Inside one of the homes, Stone said to me, "Hell, this isn't a problem. All we gotta do is shave the woodwork slightly, and it should slide in real easy."

I just nodded my head like he was a genius and asked, "What about the houses that don't have cabinets yet?"

"We got a new outfit that's gonna start real soon," he replied.

I told him I'd get new spec sheets to him in the next couple of days. I had a real banger of a headache when I drove out of the subdivision.

## Chapter 31

Ramon

Wilder Ranch 1945

Smoke from the cookhouse stack blew almost horizontally and then suddenly dissipated above the roofs of the packing sheds and bunkhouses. The main house's chimney blew smoke up into the tall eucalyptus trees that rimmed the property. The fog was starting to break up, but it promised to be a cold day along the coast.

Mickey and I sat in the cab of the truck along Highway 1 north of Santa Cruz looking down at the buildings of Wilder Ranch. Trucks speeding by rocked the pickup.

"You ever try a Brussels sprout, Pop?" Mickey asked me.

"Once, gave me gas," I answered.

When Mickey told me two days before that he was going to try and see Carlos, I was overjoyed. When he asked if I wanted to go with him, I felt hopeful. I knew Mickey was nervous; I was, too. It had been six months since Carlos took off.

"Well, what do you think, Pop?"

"Except for no barbed wire and guard towers, it reminds me of the German prison camps I saw on the news reels at the picture show." Mickey nodded in agreement and said, "Reminds me of the boys' camp." I opened the screen door to the cookhouse and rapped on it good. A small man opened it wide, puzzled that someone would knock. Coffee, bacon and cigarette smells swirled out to us.

"I'm looking for Carlos Reyes. I'm his father and this is his brother," I announced pointing with my thumb between Mickey and myself. Somebody inside said that he hadn't come down yet. The man stepped out and pointed to the packing sheds and said, "Take a left after the first building. His shack is the first one ya come to."

Carlos' house was more substantial than a shack. It was neatly kept and the lawn was cut perfectly. Zinnias and hydrangeas flourished nicely in a neat flower garden on each side of the front step. Many of the buildings on the ranch were at one time white, but most were badly weathered now. The house Carlos lived in was recently painted white with dark green trim.

When he opened the door, his shoulders sagged and he seemed to lose his balance. I saw the shadow of a person inside dart into another room.

"What in the hell are you doing here?" he asked in a kindly voice as he hugged me and shook Mickey's hand. The three of us stood awkwardly, and then Mickey blurted out, "I need to apologize. Can we come in?" Carlos opened the door and we stepped into a comfortable room.

Mickey just jumped right in. "I've been in a stew since we fought, and I need to get it out." Carlos put his hand up to stop him, but Mickey continued. "It shouldn't have taken me six months to get here," he said as he hung his head. "I'm sorry, Carlos."

"It's a two-way street, Mickey. I should have come to you. And I'm sorry about the fight, too."

My boys embraced in the living room and I teared up. It was good; some repairs were being made.

"Would you like to meet my wife?" Carlos asked, a grin spreading on his face. Mickey and I exchanged surprised looks and stared at Carlos with our _bocas_ hung open.

"I should probably say my wife-to-be. Chela, come out and meet my father and brother."

Slowly the door opened and a small woman peeked out. She seemed older than Carlos, but it was difficult to tell. Dark ebony eyes sat above prominent cheekbones. Her protruding belly gave me a start.

"That's right Pop, you're going to be a grandfather."

I walked over to Chela and gave her a hug. I saw Mickey give Carlos a tilt of the head and Carlos raised his eyebrows with a "things happen" shrug.

"The griddle still heated up, Danny?" Carlos asked as we walked into the empty cookhouse.

"You bet it is. I seen em earlier and figured you'd want a late set up. Get em some coffee, will ya, boss?" Danny said to Carlos.

I listened to my boys talk, and it was like they were kids in their room back in LA. Carlos blew on the surface of the coffee and asked, "How's Mama, Pop?"

"She's _muy bien_. Desmondo keeps her hopping, to be sure. She sends her love and hopes to see you soon." He nodded with a resolve that said he would make that happen. I asked him how long he had been here and how he got his job.

"I landed here just after I left Los Gatos. I knocked around Santa Cruz for a few days, and then heard about work in Watsonville. They wanted me to run a fruit and vegetable stand along the highway. I ain't cut out to be a store keeper, so after a week I quit and ended up here," he said pointing out the window.

"They asked if I ever ran a crew, and I lied. I told them I worked for a huge outfit in Hollywood, gardening for movie stars. Anyhow, they hired me," he said, sopping egg yolk with a piece of toast.

"What about you, Mickey? How is it going with Clanton's?" Mickey stammered and looked at me, then sheepishly replied, "It's good, Carlos. Real good."

"Darn it Mickey," I said. "I'm telling you—quit being embarrassed about your success. Be proud."

"I know, Pop. But sometimes I don't think I deserve it," he said with a hung head.

"The home appliance gig is booming, Carlos. And it is chiefly because of your brother," I said.

"That is fantastic, Mickey. I'm proud of you," Carlos told him.

"I just wish you and me..." Mickey started to say. Carlos cut him off and said, "Let's not keep repeating ourselves all day. Say, do you hear anything from Trina?"

Mickey and I shook our heads and nothing more was mentioned about her.

I looked him in the eye and asked, "Tell me about your wife-to-be."

He looked over the brim of his cup. "Well. Pop, she's the daughter of a field hand on a ranch north of here," he told us as he flexed his hands. "We met at a barbeque and started dating when we could and then, you know," he paused and his face reddened. "Her father kicked her out and I gladly took her in."

I pointed a finger at him and admonished, "Your Mama is going to want to be involved in your wedding. You know that, don't you?"

"Yes, Pop. I do know that. We need to get Chela's family and us together. Next month there will be a picnic here. Why don't you plan on that? Then you and Mama can meet her family, the Ortega family, if I can get them to come. They're poor but proud."

I asked Carlos as we strolled to the truck, walking into the wind, "Your Mama is going to want to know what your job is. Should I tell her you are a foreman here?"

He nodded and said that's as good an explanation as any. "How it works is this; I got a boss, a huge Italian man, and he tells me what needs to be done and I tell the crew leaders. But I spend most of the time interpreting for the _Braceros_. I always thought the basics of farming were simple; work the dirt, plant and water, then pick. There is more to it, but that's on the farming side. What I do mostly is handle gripes. The guys hoeing want hoes with long handles—shit, I can't blame them. And they don't understand the deductions taken out of their paychecks."

"Does the wind always blow like this, Carlos?" Mickey asked.

"Yeah, most of the time. The ocean is across the road, down to the railroad tracks and over a hill.

"That bother you, Carlos? The wind." I asked. "Nah, Pop. You get used to it."

"I wouldn't. I hate the wind."

"We know, Pop," my sons said in unison. We all laughed.

Carlos looked around, and then offered, "When it's calm, why, you'd be hard pressed to find a better place. And the different smells, by God it is Mother Nature at her best. Salt air, freshly-turned soil. Eucalyptus trees and wood smoke when Danny has the stove going."

Just then Mickey interrupted and asked, "Do you like Brussel sprouts, Carlos?"

"Nah, they give me gas."

Mickey and I had a good chuckle and Carlos just looked confused. On the way back home, Mickey said, "That went better than I thought it would." When I didn't answer him he looked at me and asked, "What gives?"

"Your Mama is not going to be pleased. She's got one on her breast and I gotta tell her she is going to be a grandmother. "

Poor Pop. I didn't envy him having to tell Mama about Carlos and Chela's baby. When we got inside and Pop broke the news, she quietly handed Desmondo to Connie and retreated to her room. Pop was standing outside the bedroom door looking worried.

"What's Chela like?" Connie asked excitedly.

"Well, Baby, she is short with jet black hair and her eyes are like coal. She has high cheek bones; she might have some Indian blood in her."

"How did you and Carlos get along?"

When I told her we were good, she smiled, then looked down at Desi in her lap and said, " _Tio Desi_. How does that sound?" as she ran a finger over his soft fat cheek.

Pop sat in his chair and stared into space. My thought was, he did nothing wrong, why the hangdog look? But that's Pop. If Mama is upset, he is, too.

Connie put Desi down for a nap, and Pop nodded to the front door. I took the hint.

"C'mon, Baby. I'll treat ya to a milk shake at the 5Spot."

As the door closed, I heard Mama raise her voice, "I'm not ready to be a grandmother yet, Husband!"

## Chapter 32

Monica

Wilder Ranch 1945

I sat talking with Solya Ortega, Chela's mother, at a sorting table in one of the packing sheds. The cool wind outside sent us indoors for comfort and warmth. The Wilder Ranch barbeque and picnic was in full swing. I could see Ramon out through the barn doors trying to enjoy the horseshoe game, but the dust _diablos_ were surely making him irritable. I saw Connie pass by pushing Desi in his stroller walking side by side with Chela. Those two took to each other like bread and butter.

_Señora_ Ortega was short and wide. At first blush, I didn't like her. She seemed kind of slow, but the more we talked, I realized I might be wrong. She was very bright, and seemed to have a good head on her shoulders.

"I wasn't very happy with your boy, Monica. I don't want to be a grandmother. I wanted my husband to make sure Carlos never saw Chela again. And then my husband kicked Chela out, and your son took her in. That to me was a measure of a man," she said as she looked me in the eye and smiled.

I was proud of Carlos and his stepping up to be the man I always thought he was. Even more so when she told me, "He also promised to take care of us if things got rough." _Dios Mio_ , my buttons about burst.

"Chela seems so relaxed with children," I said.

Solya looked up at me and replied, "She should be. She's the oldest of eight. From an early age she has had to tend to her brothers and sisters. We travel the state and she never complains," she said shaking her head slightly.

"Where do they get their education?" I asked.

Solya hung her head and seemed embarrassed. "We are always on the road. Some of the farms have babysitters and they try to teach, but they aren't teachers. Maybe when we get to a spot where we can settle, they can start school."

Ramon asked as we drove south on Highway One "Well, what do you think?"

"Chela is so nice," Connie gushed.

"Yes, she is," I said flatly.

Ramon looked over at me as he shifted gears. "I didn't get a chance to talk to Chela's _madre_. Is she nice? Her father is real decent. What's she like?"

"I like her. She's nice." I said with little emotion. I was trying to figure out the afternoon and the Ortega family. It was dark when we got home and I busied myself giving Desi a bath and a bottle and put him down for the night.

"Monica, what is on your mind?" my husband asked.

I was trying to choose my words carefully, but blurted out, "They are so rural. They're itinerant farmers. They have no education, but I do like them. It's just..." I started crying before I could finish.

"Are you trying to say that she is not what you want for Carlos?"

"Yes, Husband! That is exactly what I'm trying to say. She's beneath him. God forgive me."

My husband, truthful as ever, said, "That is bunk and you know it. Carlos chose her. It isn't about you. Don't you think I know what your mother thought of me when we got married? In spite of what your mother thought, you married me. This is no different."

I sat there for a few minutes feeling ashamed of myself. I stood and walked to the desk and started pulling things out.

"What are you doing?" Ramon asked.

"Looking for my knitting needles, Husband. We're going to be grandparents."

## Chapter 33

Carlos

Santa Cruz 1945

The white clapboard church sat on the top of a hill in a residential area of Craftsman and Victorian style houses. Mature maple, bay and oak trees lined the wide streets. Roots lifted some sections of the cement sidewalks, and flat sections were dotted with hopscotch squares, drawn with white chalk.

I could see the spire of Holy Cross Church looming above the city of Santa Cruz, California. It was my wedding day, and Pop was driving me to the church. Chela's mother insisted we get married in a church, specifically a Catholic church. She told Chela that one sin doesn't condone another and I think she was talking about the pregnancy and marriage. I'd have been fine with going to the Justice of the Peace. I told Chela that God was going to love us no matter where we got married, but Chela abided by her mother's wishes. _Señora_ Ortega might have changed her mind if she knew how much the parish priest charged me. I gave him the dough and he heard our confessions, so we were right with the Lord.

I was just glad Chela said yes.

I saw Mickey and Jimmy Thomas standing on the steps of the church. Two of Chela's brothers were there also, but separated by a few feet. We all wore rented tuxedos, and Pop said we looked like waiters in a fancy restaurant. It was definitely a first for all of us, wearing tuxedos.

My family, including me, spent the night at the Terrace Court Motel, across the street from the Santa Cruz Beach and Boardwalk. Mickey drove Mama and Connie over earlier so Connie, a bridesmaid, would have time to get ready under the direction of Mama and _Señora_ Ortega, who, as it turned out, had a keen eye for wedding details. I heard her tell Mama that she'd been to enough family weddings to know what is good and what is bad.

I felt nervous, more than I expected. This was a monumental event for our family, but Trina was not here, so it felt incomplete. "I wish Trina was here," I overheard Mickey say to Jimmy. I knew everybody felt the same.

"I told you, _carnal_ , she's where she wants to be. The last time I saw her she seemed healthy. Stick with that, okay? This is their day, don't throw a wet blanket on it," Jimmy reprimanded Mickey in the way old buddies can do, nodding toward the church. I could see Mickey nod back in agreement.

Mickey led Mama down the aisle to her pew. Pop walked behind us carrying Desi, who was in a tuxedo, with short pants. People in the church _oohed_ and _ahhed_ at how beautiful Mama looked, and when they saw Desi, the murmurs grew louder. _Señora_ Ortega's oldest son led his mother to her seat. The entire Ortega family trailed behind.

I stood next to Mickey, and I was rocking on my heels. "Stay calm, _ese_ ," Mickey said and placed his hand on my arm. He looked at me and grinned. Just then the wheeze of the organ started, and all eyes turned to the foyer. The sunlight shining in the doors gave Chela an aura of spiritual radiance.

"Here comes my wife, _ese_. Can you believe it?" I whispered.

"You have the ring, don't you?" Mickey asked. For a minute I panicked and felt myself go pale. Then he grinned and patted me on the back and said, "Don't worry, ese. I've got the ring," and I saw that he was kidding. He had the widest smile, the kind that made your face hurt.

I hadn't been to too many weddings, but ours had to be one of the best. And by God Chela was absolutely beautiful, and I was happy we married in the church; to miss that ceremony would have been the real sin.

When the wedding party arrived at the parish hall, a small band was playing. Some of the farm hands were musically inclined and brought their instruments. The bandsmen played an accordion, a trumpet, guitar and a snare drum. It wasn't Tommy Dorsey, but it wasn't bad.

The potluck spread was abundant and delicious. Beer and wine slaked the thirsts of folks, and punch was available for those that didn't imbibe. The parish priest, after his third plate of food, walked up to me and Mickey. He had a particle of food in his teeth as he muttered, "Great _fiesta_ , but your time is almost up."

I bristled and Mickey sensed my angst, and stepped in. "How much more, _padre_?"

"Well, the Saturday bingo game needs to set up by six-thirty." "But it's only two-thirty now," I railed. Mickey put his hand up as if to say _I got this_.

"How much more?" he asked.

"Another twenty five should do it," he replied.

Mickey handed him the bills and said, "We'll be out by five thirty." After the priest pocketed his dough and walked away, I said to Mickey, "I can't believe that guy. He gouged us. I had to give him a hundred bucks to let us get married here. Then he wanted thirty more for the hall, and now this.

"Everybody is on the take for something, _ese_. Go and dance with your bride."

Chela and I cut the cake and awkwardly fed each other the first bites. She tossed her bouquet and I tossed her garter. We took off for a honeymoon in San Luis Obispo. Three months later Carlos junior was born.

## Chapter 34

Trina

LA 1947

The bright blue Pacific Ocean glistened like diamonds as the sun went down. The sky was a brilliant rose and the salty breeze rustled gently across the faces of the passengers riding to the mainland. The Harbor Water Taxi Company's boat, the Barney Google IV, just embarked from Coronado to San Diego. The wake led straight back to the del Coronado Hotel and its dock. The huge Queen Anne Revival style building with distinctive turrets shrank as the boat inched to the pier.

On North Island sailors could be seen milling around waiting for rides to head into town to enjoy New Year's Day.

I was standing on the deck of the water taxi looking back at the big old hotel with the red roof. I was glad to be heading back to LA. Betty and I came down here, to San Diego, to meet friends for New Year's.

A week before, right at Christmas, Betty and me had a big brouhaha. She'd become real nuts of late. We'd set up to do something and she wouldn't show or she'd dodge out at the last second. I thought she might be doing dope or making movies. Anyhow, she was different. But when we got to San Diego on the train she seemed to be her old self.

We shacked up with a lady and her daughter, friends of Betty's, who lived in a real nice Spanish style house with a tile roof and a courtyard in front. They made dinner for us and after, Betty, me, and the daughter took a cab to a nightspot, the Hacienda Club. A trio played be-bop music and it was fun. A red headed man, Bob, asked Betty to dance. Two songs later Betty and Bob were out the door. I didn't hear from her until New Year's Eve around four in the afternoon.

"Take the water taxi and come over to Coronado. We'll meet you on the veranda of the del Coronado Hotel," Betty said to me on the phone. I hesitated and she went on. "C'mon, Cat, it'll be a blast. We have a suite and champagne. Hustle yer bustle!" Telling me to take a water taxi to Coronado made as much sense to me as, "When you get to Wisconsin turn left for the moon."

The suite was real posh and Bob was a very generous host; it was a blast. It had been a real nice New Year's, but LA was where I longed to be.

I sat in the back seat of Bob's tan Studebaker headed north. Betty sat in the front passenger seat, her left arm across the top of the seat and her hand rubbing Bob's shoulder. I fell asleep, and before long we were almost in downtown LA. We pulled up in front of the Biltmore near Olive and Sixth Street.

"I need to meet somebody here. Can you get to Babe's on your own, Cat?" Betty asked.

I assured her that I could and walked toward the bus stop. I figured her and Bob were gonna get a room. I turned back and saw Betty enter the lobby; just then Bob honked his horn and gave me a wave as he tooled down the street. It was weird. I walked on and thought I saw Betty go out the double doors toward Sixth. In a flash she was gone.

The morning of January 15, 1947 was damp and the sunrise over the Leimert Park neighborhood in LA was cloaked in mist. A paperboy riding his bike noticed a black sedan parked along Norton Avenue with its light off. He thought it might be a couple necking, and continued delivering his papers.

Later that morning a housewife pushed her infant daughter along Norton, when she noticed what at first appeared to be a broken mannequin lying in the weeds in a vacant lot just a few feet from the sidewalk. Much to her horror, the mannequin was actually a woman's nude, severed body. She ran to a nearby house and summoned the police.

The newspapers ran an EXTRA afternoon edition reporting that another mutilated woman's body had been found. Over the last several years, three young females had been murdered and mutilated. The Jane Doe found on Norton was the fourth. The press nicknamed her the Black Dahlia because of her jet-black hair.

I had a sick and uneasy feeling that I hated to acknowledge. It had been two weeks since I saw Betty at the Biltmore. She'd been gone that long before, but she always contacted me. This was way off kilter, even for Betty. Now with another killing, well, I felt dread and needed to get out of here. I turned my purse upside down and inside out and finally found what I was looking for.

"Where are you now, Trina?" Jimmy Thomas asked me over the phone.

"I'll be there in ten minutes. I'll honk three times."

I crammed what I could in an old hard-shell tan suitcase and waited for the honks.

I was startled when I woke up on Jimmy's couch the next morning. The surroundings were so unfamiliar. I straightened my clothes and went to look around. Jimmy was at work and he left the morning newspaper on the kitchen table. A copy of a mug shot of Betty Short was on the page. Betty was the Black Dahlia! I put my head on my arms and sobbed. I turned my head and saw a note Jimmy left: _Hey, kiddo, did you ever think about going to be with your family_? _I'll be glad to take you. Let me know_.

I sat in the detective bureau relaying to detectives Harry Hansen and Finis Brown the events surrounding the last time I saw Betty. I told them about our trip to San Diego and meeting Bob.

"Is this the man that dropped you and Elizabeth at the Biltmore?" Brown asked as he put a black and white photograph in front of me. I nodded and he said, "We have him in custody, and he claims that he left after dropping you off."

"I did see him drive away; he honked and waved at me," I told him. He looked at Hansen and raised his brows. Hansen shoved his wide brim hat back on his head. "Is there anything else you can tell us?"

"I was at the bus stop and thought I saw Betty walk out of the lobby toward Sixth Street, but I lost sight of her quickly."

"Could you swear that it was Betty?" Hansen asked. I just shook my head.

"C'mon! This was your best friend. Was it her or not?" Hansen pushed.

I just stared at him, and again slightly shook my head.

"We know you two were in a stag film together. Was there anybody bothering you or Betty because of that cinematic episode?" Harry Hansen asked darkly. Head shake again. "You mean to tell me that you don't remember anybody from that reel. I can't believe it!" Hansen said in a frustrated tone as he tossed his pencil on his note pad.

"Look. I was hopped up at the time. I didn't know top from bottom. It was just a blur.

Finis Brown chimed in "Well, your best side was your bottom."

I hung my head in shame and started to sniffle. I gave them my parents' address in Los Gatos if they needed to get in touch with me.

As we headed north I gave Jimmy the lowdown of my life as a party girl. I started to cry when I told him about Carlos and Johnny Roselli, and how I tried to get Carlos' attention as he drove away. "I got so sick of steaks and chops," I whispered.

"What does that mean?" Jimmy asked.

I looked at him sideways and grinned. "The more a guy spent on meals for ya, the more companionship they expected; steaks with all the trimmings. God, you have no idea how much I wanted a grilled cheese and a soda at the Palomar."

I looked out the window at hobos thumbing a ride. Somehow I felt lucky.

"If Betty had a date and I didn't or vice versa, we insisted that the mug buys a meal for the other. Sometimes we went days without eating." I rode on for a few minutes "We were just trying to survive," I said, attempting to justify my lifestyle.

"You could have gone back to school," Jimmy commented. Then quickly added, "Sorry, I didn't mean to lecture.

A few miles ahead he told me, "I kept tabs on you for Carlos. Did you know that?"

I snapped my head around. "What do you mean? What did you see or do?" I wanted to know.

"Take it easy, kiddo. Relax. It wasn't all the time and all over the place," he reassured me as his hand gave a 'calm down' motion. "It struck me odd, though, that your routine never varied too much, and you never once went back to the old neighborhood."

"I guess my thought at the time was there's no future in the _barrio_. A real dumb Dora, huh?"

"What's Los Gatos like, Jimmy?"

"Can't say for certain. I only saw it once after Carlos and Chela got hitched. It seemed pretty quiet, though."

Quiet sounded swell to me, that's for sure.

I stood on the porch with Jimmy. My legs were shaking like crazy and my heart thumped. Everything seemed so fresh and new. I looked through the window and saw Mama busy in the kitchen. Desi was walking between her legs and pulling on her apron. I looked back at Jimmy and started to cry. "They have such a good life here. I don't want to screw that up."

"How could you coming home screw anything up?" he asked with his arm spread wide. "By not being here is screwing up, Trina. They're gonna be happy you're finally home, you'll see."

Before I could say anything more, Jimmy stepped around me and rapped the door solidly. I stepped behind him.

"My God, Jimmy what a nice surprise," Mama said. "When did you..."

"Hello, Mama," I said softly as I stepped around Jimmy.

Mama seemed to lose her balance and leaned against the doorjamb and started to cry.

"You have no idea how long I've waited for this moment," she exclaimed as she hugged me with an embrace only a mother and daughter understood. Through my tears, I saw Desi standing behind Mama with several fingers of his left hand jammed in his mouth. A yellow dog was doing pirouettes.

## Chapter 35

Monica

Los Gatos 1947

The last time I saw Trina she was slamming her bedroom door after an argument about leaving LA. She was just a high school girl then. She's a grown woman now. She looked older than her nineteen years, I thought. She was heavier than she was when I saw her last. She had worry wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. She experienced things, that as her mother, I wanted to know nothing about. I cringed to think what might have happened to her all that time. But, _Dios Mio_ , she was a sight for sore eyes.

"Connie, you be quiet. Desi is sleeping in your room," I told her when she got home from school.

"Why is he in my room?" Connie asked.

"Hush," I whispered. "Just go put your books away and don't wake the baby."

"Oh my God! Oh my God!" Connie screamed. "When did you get here? Mama, Trina is home!"

She saw me standing in the doorway beaming from ear to ear. My grin was because of the trick we pulled on Connie, but mostly because my girls were together laughing and hugging, just like they used to. Tears rolled down my cheeks. I glanced over at Jimmy, who'd watched the scene play out, and his cheeks glistened, too.

"Hey, where is everybody?" Ramon bellowed as he entered the house.

"In here, Husband," I sang out from the kitchen

I was at the stove, Connie sat doing her homework and Trina was feeding the baby. The look on my husband's face seemed blank. He nodded to Trina, not quite grasping the situation, then it registered and he broke down. He put his hands to his face and wept more than I'd ever seen him cry before. Tears of joy. He finally took his hands away, almost like he maybe thought Trina sitting in the kitchen in Los Gatos wasn't real.

I was hard pressed to ever remember so many joyous tears ever being spilled in my life. It was the best. Everybody was there, except Carlos and his family.

Later that evening, I phoned Carlos to tell him the good news and to invite him to come Sunday for a barbecue and family reunion. His attitude was aloof, which was to be expected based on the way he says Trina snubbed him. I hoped he'd be happy for his father and me.

## Chapter 36

Ramon

Los Gatos 1947

Everybody was having a good time. The enchiladas were my wife's best batch ever, and _oohs_ and _ahhs_ were emitted constantly. Carlos and his family didn't show. Maybe the hurt was deeper than I knew. He said they would be here, though. I was irate, and then I got worried. When I opened the door and saw the tall Highway Patrolman on the porch, my heart sank. He told us that there was an automobile accident in Scott's Valley in front of a cider stand. Carlos, Chela and Carlitos were rushed to Dominican Hospital on Soquel Avenue, in Santa Cruz.

We saw Carlos sitting in the emergency room with Chela's parents. When he heard us running toward him, he stood up. My son, Mickey, and our friend Jimmy, surrounded him. I held him in my arms and let him sob. Through sniffles and nose blows, he told us that a driver crossed the centerline and smashed into Carlos' car between the middle of the hood and the driver's side headlamp. Carlos' sternum was bruised badly from the steering wheel. The impact hurled Chela through the windshield and pressed Carlitos, who'd been sitting on Chela's lap, into the dashboard. His injuries were serious, but not life threatening. Chela on the other hand was in critical condition.

"She's got cuts all over her face. All I can see are her black eyes and swollen lips. Oh God," Carlos wailed. "She hasn't woken up yet."

## Chapter 37

Trina

Los Gatos 1947

I never thought I'd miss Babe's bungalow, never in a million years. When Jimmy and me hit the city limits headed north, he blew his Ahoogah horn and I flipped the bird back at LA. I was going home!

The reception was more than I'd hoped for—certainly better than I deserved. Mama and Pop were making plans for a nice Sunday meal, and everybody was going to be there. Desi followed me around and when he realized I wasn't Mama, he stood stock still with a bewildered look on his face. It was so cute and sweet.

I took to Mickey's wife, Linda, right off, and she to me. I don't think anyone could have picked a better mate for him. The love in their eyes gave me warmth I hadn't felt in a long, long time. To think about all those times I antagonized him made me shudder, although he seemed to leave it behind him.

I was looking forward to reconnecting with Carlos—to make amends, ya know? And to meet his wife and hold their baby; then it all crumbled. The traffic cop who showed up at the door said there had been an accident and I knew right then it was Carlos and his family. I'll never forget the black, shiny, calf-high boots the cop wore. That's all I could see from my perch on the couch. I remember whimpering and trying to stand. Jimmy helped me up and I went to Mama's side. The cop pushed his visor up, exposing more of his forehead and said, " Carlos Reyes." I slumped and Jimmy held me up.

I don't know if it was my imagination or not, but I felt everybody's eyes boring into me. I felt like a frog being dissected in Biology class. This is my fault. If I'd stayed in LA, this accident would never have happened.

Two weeks later, I was still wearing the shroud of guilt. I was a wreck. I'd let myself go to hell in a hand basket. I never put on makeup and rarely combed my hair, let alone got out of my housecoat. If I did go anywhere, it was over to see Linda and Mickey. Pop usually drove me.

On this day, I sat with Linda in their living room. It was a comfortable room, I guess. It didn't matter. My eyes were red—shit—my eyes were always red. I sipped the cup of hot coffee Linda gave me.

"If I could just get to Carlos and talk to him," I whispered as I placed the cup on the saucer.

"Trina, dear, this is not your fault," Linda said. I'd heard that a million times, but I wasn't buying it. Pop and Mickey entered just as Linda was saying I wasn't to blame.

"She's right, Baby," Mickey said. "Chela could have tripped on the sidewalk walking down the street."

"I know, Mickey. I just wish I could talk to Carlos...." "Show me your garden, Miguel," Papa said, cutting me off.

I could understand Papa's frustration to a certain degree, but I couldn't let go of blaming myself. Mickey took Papa outside and pointed out the carrots, beets and radishes in his garden. My mind wasn't on the vegetables, but on the pallor that hung in the air. Pallor that I knew they were naming Trina. I overheard them talking from the kitchen window.

"I think I'm going to talk to Father Curtis at St. Mary's. Maybe he can counsel Trina. What do you think, Mickey?"

"Might be a good idea, Pop, but I'm not sure she's gonna want to go through with it," he replied while glancing back at the house.

"By God Damn! If she's gonna stay in my house, she will!" he roared. "We're all walking on egg shells around her. I want my house back!"

I hated to hear them talk about me needing help, but maybe they were right.

## Chapter 38

Monica

Santa Cruz 1947

When my husband and the others tore out for Santa Cruz the night of the wreck, Trina became a zombie. She was in the bathroom throwing up. Her homecoming had been marred by this terrible accident, and she blamed herself. "If I'd stayed in LA none of this would've happened," became her chant. When Carlos refused to let her see Chela or Carlitos when she showed up at the hospital, the die was cast; he blamed her for the accident.

Even Connie had lost her perspective. She had told me that she was so happy when Trina first came home, but that lasted only a day and a half. After that she wished Trina had stayed away—not because of the accident, but because she brought everybody down. Connie knew that nobody but Trina herself blamed her for the accident. Connie thought that maybe Carlos did, but that included stuff that went on between them before she came to Los Gatos.

"Trina cries herself to sleep every night and when she wakes up she cries again, Mama. She shared my room— _my_ room, and she was making me _loco_. I stayed after school so I wouldn't have to listen to her. It was too hard. When I got home, I walked the dog or took Desi out to play to avoid her. My relationship with you and Papa was just wonderful—just us, together—then whamo—Trina came home!"

The grounds around the Villa Maria del Mar conference center in Santa Cruz were scattered with leaves and needles from the huge eucalyptus and pine trees along the coast. Smoke wafting from chimneys smelled like pine and swirled in the wind coming off the ocean. The center at one time had been a hotel, but in recent times an order of Catholic nuns purchased it and it became a retreat house and conference center. The three-story main building just east of downtown Santa Cruz, California, perched on a cliff overlooking the Monterey Bay. The driveway was lined with hydrangeas, agapanthus and camellias. Juniper bushes stood tall behind the garden beds. A trellis covered with wisteria lead to a beach path down the left side of the building. A chapel and several conference buildings were across a side street on the right.

The living room, as well as the dining room and the main conference room looked out on a beach with views from the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk to the right and to Monterey, California on the left. A fire in the huge fireplace generated warmth and welcoming. The comfortable chairs and divans invited visitors to relax and drink in the view.

Trina and I were at the Villa for an overnight retreat. We sat in the living room gazing out at the thundering breakers waiting for a nun that Father Curtis, the Pastor of St. Mary's in Los Gatos, recommended. The windows kept the cold out, but the sounds from the beach still reached us.

My prayer was to get Trina some help with the guilt she felt after Carlos' accident. The crash happened four months ago and Carlos and his son recovered. His wife Chela, on the other hand, was paralyzed from the waist down and would be confined to a wheel chair the rest of her life. My family and I tried to help Trina with the depression, but a more vigorous approach was called for.

A side door opened and a whiff of the fireplace smoke accompanied an older woman in. She wore a pale green terry cloth robe, held a cream-colored rubber bathing cap in one hand, and was drying her short gray hair with a towel. "You must be Monica and Trina," she said as she walked briskly to where we sat. "I'm Sister Benjamin; sorry I'm late. I got down for my morning dip later than usual. Let's get you checked in and I'll take my shower," she said as we followed her to the reception desk area. "Why don't we meet in the dining room," she gestured behind her. "We can have lunch and chat."

## Chapter 39

Ramon

Los Gatos 1947

The kid that ran into Carlos and his family was the son of a wealthy man. After several meetings between lawyers, the rich guy offered twenty-five thousand dollars cash, which Carlos scoffed at.

"That's a lot of dough, son," I told him. "You sure you don't want to re-think it?"

"Hell no! My wife is in a wheel chair the rest of her life. She's now in a rest home trying to learn how to cope without the use of her legs. It ain't enough!" His voice was trembling and his hands shook.

"How much is enough?" I asked.

"There ain't enough money, Pop. Shit, twenty-five million won't cut it!" he said as he paced like an angry caged animal.

"You didn't ask my advice, but I suggest you come up with a counter offer. If they take their offer off _la mesa_ , you might get _nada_ if it goes to a trial; big man means big money for a lawyer. Have a seat, settle down."

Carlos always called before he came over. He wanted to make sure Trina was gone. If she was home, he'd ask to meet someplace else; this day we were at my house.

"Where's Mama?" he asked. "She's at a retreat with Trina."

"Retreat? Shit, I'd like a retreat. What's that all about?"

I stared at him and realized that it was time for a talk that I should have had with him four months ago. I kept putting this off time and again. I told Monica that I would know when the time was right. Well here it was, like a plate of chili tossed in my face. I took a deep breath and said a silent prayer asking God for the right words to say.

"Your sister has been so down..."

"I don't want to talk about her or even hear her name! Do you read me?"

"If you could just let her talk to you, Carlos. _Dios Mio_ , it pains me to see this break between you two. As a parent, you are only as happy as your saddest child and this is a sad situation for both of you and it affects all of us."

He stood up and started to walk to the door. I got out of my chair and blocked his path. "Please sit back down and hear me out," I said pointing to a chair. He heaved his chest and made an effort to move me aside.

"Don't bluster up on me," I commanded in a stern voice. "I'm your father and you'll give me the courtesy to listen. Now please have a seat."

"Why don't you mind your own business," he clamored.

"What did you say to me? Why don't you go into the kitchen and get a knife and cut my heart out? Everything that happens to you is my business!" I yelled.

When he made no effort to move, I asked him as calmly as possible to sit, and I returned to my chair. He stood at the door clenching and unclenching his fists, and finally sat down. Our breathing returned to a more comfortable pace, but his leg constantly moved.

"A man has a huge responsibility when he has children. You know that with Carlitos. It's no different if you have one kid or twenty, your children's struggles become yours," I said, thumbing my chest. "There is no way I can possibly know what you are dealing with—I mean having a wife that is crippled and a baby, too."

Carlos seemed to settle more into his chair and his leg at last stopped. I cleared my throat and continued "Know this, son; I'll do everything I can to help you. I know I give my opinion when it isn't even asked for."

For the first time since Carlos got in my home, he smiled a little and I felt a sense of relief.

"Your mother once told me that sometimes you need to put more effort into one child than the others," I said. Carlos nodded in agreement. "Our family is uneven because of a tragic accident, and as a parent, I wanna fix it. That's what I'm supposed to do."

Carlos put his hand out. "I know what yer trying to do, Pop. But I ain't ready to be in the same room as her."

"It was an accident, Carlos. Plain and simple."

He glared at me and I could see his jawbone getting a work out.

"I know that," he said as he sat forward. "I spent time looking for her in the backstreets and under belly of LA and she shit on me. Then she shows up here and we all have to jump through hoops for her." "Son, don't think what you did wasn't appreciated. And as far as jumping for Trina? Well, you're wrong. You jumped for your mama and me," I said as I rested my hands on my knees. "If you want to blame somebody for the accident, blame us. We're the ones that wanted to have our children back together again; to be a family once more." I took in a deep breath and whispered, "We weren't wrong in wanting that. I hope you understand."

He sighed, "I hear what you say, Pop. I'll see if Chela wants to meet Trina. I can't say I'll be there, though. I need more time."

After Carlos left, I felt a corner had been turned. But I've lived long enough to know there will always be another corner. I looked up and thanked God for the right words He'd given me.

## Chapter 40

Trina

Santa Cruz 1947

Mama, Sister Benjamin and I sat at a table by the window after a lunch of beet salad, broiled chicken breast and iced tea with lemon. The questions Sister Benjamin asked were not meddling, and our answers were explicit. I had the feeling she knew what she was doing, and she did it with the same expression, slowly blinking eyes and a slight smile. She did laugh from time to time, but mostly she smiled.

When I excused myself to use the ladies' room, I heard Sister Benjamin say, "Later this afternoon, I'd like to talk with Trina alone, I hope you understand." I looked out the bathroom window at the sky that was now a bright blue with white puffy clouds scudding out to sea and wondered what Sister Benjamin had in mind for me.

Later in the small room, the corner window gave us yet another look at the coast. I could see Mama walking near the water's edge, her shoes in her hands. Furniture in the room was over-stuffed and expensive. Sister Benjamin must have noticed me looking at the furniture. "When one of our girls dies, sometimes their families donate items to us. This suite of furniture once adorned a rich banker's mansion in San Francisco on Nob Hill."

She sat back and stared at me for quite some time. It made me a little nervous. She placed her hands primly in her lap and said, "Father Curtis told me about the accident. I want to go back before the accident..."

"How far back?" I interrupted.

She motioned back and forth with her hand "That's up to you. When you think it was important. Tell me who Trina Reyes was before."

I started and stopped several times, took a huge gulp of air. "Sometimes I don't even know who Trina Reyes was, is or will be," I started. "Almost like it's another person's life, ya know?"

She nodded and smiled "Let's concern ourselves with was and is. As for the future, well, God is already there."

She didn't ask any questions until I got to the part where I ran away, and she asked me why.

"My family was moving north and I didn't want to go," I said matter-of-factly. I squirmed a bit and went on, "I didn't want to leave my friends. Things were good, and then my brothers got in hot water and things stopped being good."

Sister Benjamin tilted her head as if to say 'that's it? There's more, I know there's more, go on.'

Anyhow, my brother, Miguel, and my father split. And I could pretty much do what I wanted, and I did. Carlos tried to rein me in, but I resisted. I quit going to school and ran with a crowd of kids."

"What kind of kids?" she asked.

I shrugged "Oh, I don't know. They accepted me for me. One cop that rousted us called us juvenile delinquents. I'd never heard those two words together before. I knew I was a juvenile, but delinquent? That was a mystery."

"Well, Trina a delinquent is a..."

I put my hand up and said "I know what it is now, Sister."

"Were you ever arrested?"

I shook my head and she motioned for me to continue, so I eased into the scene with Betty and the reefer use and the party girl lifestyle.

She looked at me with warmth and stated, "I'm glad you got out of LA intact."

I just tilted my chin down and realized I was intact physically, but emotionally I was a time bomb.

She brought the accident up again.

"I know what yer gonna say; it wasn't my fault, it could have happened to anyone..."

In a stern voice she said, "You have no idea what I'm going to say. You've been told ad nauseam that it wasn't your fault," she said pointing at my face. "Whether you accept that or not is up to you."

We sat silently for a few more minutes. Out in the desk area a telephone was ringing and a typewriter click-clacked incessantly.

Her voice startled me. "You're like a trapeze artist flying from one swing to another, and in the period of time after leaving one swing, and before you reach the other; you're in free-fall. You haven't reached the other swing, yet. And when you can grab it, will you? I just hope there's a net."

I sat and soaked in what Sister Benjamin had said. It was like a free-fall. I couldn't put my finger on the feeling, and this explanation was a revelation.

Mama met with us that afternoon. Sister Benjamin had me explain to Mama what took place over the previous ninety minutes.

"What happens if Trina doesn't grab the next swing?" Mama asked. "What do we do then?"

"There is no "we" in this scenario, Monica," Sister Benjamin explained as she squeezed her hands together. "Trina has to grab the bar or not by herself. You can't do it for her."

"How can you say that?" Mama whined. "You've never had a daughter."

She smiled and relaxed a bit. "It's true I'm not a parent, but I am a daughter and I've caused plenty of angst for my parents. I've disappointed them, and they me. But in the end I was left to get out of my own shit."

Mama and I exchanged alarmed looks. This holy woman swearing shocked us.

"Oh c'mon, I grew up in an Irish household. I have three older brothers, all of em burly boyos," she said as she threw her head back and laughed at our shocked faces.

We were wrapping up for the day when Mama asked, "Sister, if there is a loving God, how can He let things, tragic things happen?"

She steepled her fingers and exclaimed, "There are those that choose to believe God controls everything—floods, famine, war and car crashes. I choose to believe in a God that is there to help us cope with whatever befalls us."

The next morning after mass, Sister Benjamin walked us to the car. We all embraced, and before we drove off she leaned in the window and said, "We can't change the direction of the wind. However, we can change our sails. God bless you ladies."

## Chapter 41

Carlos

Santa Clara 1948

My wife's scars were healing nicely and she wouldn't need any more cosmetic operations. The doctor told her the only noticeable mark was at the hairline on her forehead, and a different hair-do would cover it.

On the days I visited Chela at the physical therapy facility, I'd drop Carlitos off at my folk's house, always careful to avoid Trina. Carlitos and his _Tio_ Desi played non-stop in the yard. They were close in age and enjoyed each other's company. She was going to come home soon and I was so relieved.

Chela was toweling her face after a vigorous workout with the therapist "Of course I want to meet your sister. Why wouldn't I?" she told me when I asked her about meeting Trina.

"Are you sure? If it hadn't been for her..."

She put her hand up like a traffic cop. "That's your take on it, honey, not mine. We had a terrible accident. I don't even blame the boy that ran into us. I pray for him."

That rocked me back on my heels. _She prays for him_. "My, God, you pray for that boy?"

She whirled her chair around and faced a mirror to adjust her hair. "I have lots of time on my hands," she said smiling sweetly. "At first, ya know, I felt sorry for myself; bound to this chair and scarred forever. I thought my husband would leave me and my baby would be afraid of me. I wished, for a time I'd died in the crash," she said squinting her eyes. "But what about you and Carlitos? I vowed to Christ I was going to get back to Wilder Ranch and be a wife and a mother again."

I dropped to my knees and hugged her for all I was worth. How lucky can a guy get?

## Chapter 42

Trina

Los Gatos 1949

"Better late than never, eh, Mama?" I heard Carlos say. He was referring to the Sunday meal he was coming to when they had the accident. I peeked out the window and saw him pushing his wife, with the baby on her lap, down the cannery camp sidewalk. It was _Cinco de Mayo_ , 1949. They were all hugging and kissing, and I sat in my room on pins and needles, wondering how this would turn out.

There was a knock on my door and Mama said, "Trina, honey, it's time to re-set your sail."

I stepped onto the porch and Carlos' eyes met mine. All noise and motion, even from the neighbor's celebrations, seemed to stop for me. We were the only people moving in the scene; all the other players were stock-still. Carlos placed his hand over his heart and my hands flew to my mouth to smother a sob. We came together and embraced, for the first time since I was a little girl. After what seemed a very long time, we separated. It was as if a movie director said, _Action_! and everyone started to move again. Then Carlos said, "Baby, would you like to meet my wife and son?"

All I could do was nod my head.

Mama and Pop stood with their arms around each other's waists, grinning wide with tears glistening on their cheeks. They looked at one another and kissed long and hard. All us Reyes kids joined hands and formed a circle around them, grinning, smiling and happy. Salina was weaving her way in between our legs and barking her approval. Chela and Linda joined us in our family circle.

## Chapter 43

Ramon

Los Gatos 1950

The enormous double doors of the bank building were almost all glass and sat in a frame of highly polished oak. The huge brass hinges sang out a distinctive squeak any time someone entered or exited. The interior was narrow and the high ceilings contributed to the cavernous feeling of the space. On one side of the bank the president's desk sat behind a four-foot mahogany paneled wall. Three teller cages ran the rest of the length, situated to give the tellers behind the glass a clear view of the front door. The marble floor was off-white and infused with veins of gold. It seemed like an evening never passed when the floor didn't get mopped and waxed to a lustrous sheen.

On the other side of the room there were counters where a person could fill out deposit slips. In between the counters stood massive round terra cotta pots filled with green indoor plants. Windows lined the wall and gave a view of the train tracks. The front windows looked out onto Main Street.

I sat in a chair beside the desk of the president of the Bank of Los Gatos. I was a little intimidated because I had just left work and still wore my work clothes. The banker, Mr. Hamsher, was dressed in a navy blue suit. But if he gave a hoot about how I was dressed, he didn't let on.

Lately I'd been remembering a conversation I had with a Mexican land grantee. This _Californio_ entertained me with stories about the Golden State before the gold rush and statehood. He'd get a far off look on his face when he talked about the San Joaquin Valley and the fertile soil. Then suddenly his face would sour, and in a hushed tone he relayed to me how cattle barons swindled him out of his holdings. The last I saw him he was thinking about going back to Mexico, but before we parted ways he said something that stuck with me. _If you don't own land, how will anybody know you were ever here_?

It was 1950, I was almost fifty and I realized I had never owned anything. I had an old jalopy of a truck and a good job, and that was okay, but I wanted to own something that mattered. I'd worked long and hard enough, and now it was time for me to own property. Build it up for my kids, leave something, and then people would know that Ramon Reyes lived here. ' _Oh, that place there? It belongs to Reyes_.'

Mr. Hamsher opened his desk drawer and pulled out a yellow pad and placed a shining silver pen beside it.

"I'm aware of the project Mrs. Walton is proposing, Mr. Reyes," Hamsher stated as he rubbed an eyebrow. "Since the downsizing at the cannery, the camp cottages are going to be demolished."

I nodded, and when he didn't go on I said, "She's offering the houses for sale. Included in the purchase price is the moving of them." He acted like he knew what I was talking about, so I continued, "She has lots for sale on the north end of University Avenue. I'd like to buy two of the houses and move them there."

"Well, that's very ambitious of you, Ramon," he said rocking in his chair, studying me. I felt a little intimidated talking to the bank president. I was a customer at this bank, and had been for years. But I only deposited my paycheck, bought war bonds, transferred money to savings, which had been depleted recently, and withdrew cash. This time I was _asking_ for money.

"I have enough money in your bank to buy two houses, but I need a loan to buy the lots," I said matter-of-factly.

His eyes narrowed, making his face seem even longer. "Yes, you have enough money. Why don't you consider buying just one house and the lot; that way you don't need to borrow any money. Why do you need two houses?"

I guess he had a right to know, it's his bank, but I was kind of put off. I wondered if I were Anglo would he ask me the same thing?

"My family is growing. If my son and his family move here, I want to have a place for them," I said as even toned as possible.

He shrugged his shoulders and said, "Your boy, Miguel, he has a successful business, maybe he could co-sign for you. What do you think about that?"

I hissed, "A father helps his children, _not_ the other way around," and leaned back in my chair. It was a stand-off of sorts; he rocked and I glared. "I've never owned anything, Mr. Hamsher. If I can do this with your help, it would be a wonderful achievement, and other Mexicans will understand that they, too, might be able to own land and open accounts in your bank."

Hamsher stood up and said, "I have your application and your credit information. I'll take it to the lending committee and we'll let you know," he told me as he gestured towards the door.

I stopped and looked at him. "Wait a second; I thought _you_ owned the bank. Can't you approve the loan yourself?"

He grinned. "This is 1950, Ramon. Not 1850. Lending was done that way once. It's better for business if shareholders are involved in the lending transactions. I hope you understand that."

He opened the door to let me out, and said, "I'll let you know by the end of the week."

I walked away with mixed feelings; he's trying to be a decent man, Mr. Hamsher, but I didn't get the loan. On the other hand he didn't say no. I'd never tried to borrow money before. All the other times I dealt with this bank it was step up and give them my check or get cash from my account. I thought I'd have the funds in my hands that day and go out the door. Not so; a committee decides if you get the loan. "I guess that's how it gets done," I said as I stepped on the porch of my house. "Baloney! They aren't the only bank in town."

Mickey was sitting at the kitchen table talking with Monica when I got home. Monica got up and fixed a plate of rice and beans for me. "How did it go at the bank, Husband?"

When she saw my eyes "shooting razor blades" as she put it, she turned back to the stove.

"What did ya do at the bank, Pop?" Mickey asked me.

I softened my voice and said, "Oh, nothing big. Just setting up savings accounts for Desi and Carlitos," I lied. I know Mickey saw the look I gave his mother, but he changed the subject. "Say, you and Mama need to come over to the house and see the work on the kitchen. It's coming along real fine."

## Chapter 44

Mickey

Los Gatos 1950

Just after Linda graduated from high school, we started to go out again. She spent most of her time with me and her parents resented it. "I'm eighteen and I can do as I want," Linda cried as we drove away from her house. We tried to talk to _Señor_ and _Señora_ Rosa about our love for one another, but the old man wouldn't even let me in the house. "You can come in, daughter, but not him," he said jabbing a finger at my face.

"What could I have possibly done that was so bad? It can't be the juvie crap," I said. "I've got a good job..." Linda put her hand on my shoulder and said, "I'll tell you why. Are you sure you want to know?"

"Yes, I'm sure."

She sat quietly for a few moments and then slowly took a deep breath and said, "We moved from Los Gatos to the Hyde Cannery in Campbell because I was pregnant. It wasn't because of a better job; my parents were ashamed."

"What the Christ? Why didn't you tell me? What..." "I had a miscarriage," she said matter-of-factly.

I was stunned by this revelation and now knew in my heart that the Rosas would never accept me. I still tried the traditional way to ask for Linda's hand. I even took Mama and Pop over to see the Rosas, but they were not very cordial to them and Mama's feelings were hurt. In the car driving back to Los Gatos, Mama said, "They think they're better than us."

I looked at Mama in the rearview mirror and wondered if I should tell her and Pop about Linda's miscarriage.

Two days later, brand new appliances were delivered to the Rosa home, along with a note:

Dear Mommy and Daddy,

The appliances are for you. Mickey and I are on our way to Reno to get married.

Please be happy for me. Love,

Linda

Several months before Linda and I eloped, I bought a two-bedroom bungalow on the East side of Los Gatos near San Jose Avenue and Los Gatos Almaden Road.

"Why in the hell would you want to live way out in the country?" Mr. Clanton asked when I told him about the house. "There's nothing out there but orchards, fer cryin' out loud!"

I grinned at him. "That's what I like about it; it's quiet and I can pick my own fruit and walnuts. I'll put in a garden so Linda can have fresh vegetables."

"Yeah, but ya can't walk to town," he replied.

"I can be downtown in fifteen minutes in the car," I told him, pointing toward town.

I was bubbling with pride when Linda and I drove Mama and Pop out to see our house. Nobody in my family, or Linda's family, for that matter, ever owned anything. "You and Mama helped us with this, Pop," I said as we pulled in the driveway. "You will always have a place if you ever need it."

"Just make sure you make the payments," Mama cautioned.

Pop shook his head, and turned to her and said in an exasperated voice, "Stay out of it."

That didn't sound like Pop. Mama must have felt the same, because she was steaming mad and hardly said another word the rest of the afternoon. Pop walked through the vacant house with his hands behind his back and our footsteps echoed as we went from room to room.

"Come out to the garage, Pop. It's set up pretty nice with a shop and work bench," I said as I opened the back door.

Inside the garage, Pop looked at me and said, "I hope you're not getting too big for your britches."

Where was that coming from? I was confused and now I understood how Mama had felt earlier. "Can't I be proud of what I've done? With your help, of course," I moaned.

"Of course you should feel pride, Miguel. Just be more humble."

I didn't speak on the way home. My silence was as subtle as a fart in church. My feelings were hurt, man. I wanted my parents to be proud of me, especially Pop.

After I was alone, I reflected on what had happened to me over the past few years, the good and the bad. _Through it all Pop was there to either congratulate me or to help me after a stumble. I should listen to him; he's lived a long time and is very wise_.

## Chapter 45

Ramon

Los Gatos 1950

Monica and I helped Mickey with part of his down payment, and we were happy to do it. He was doing well in his business; in fact, Mr. Clanton was only there part of the time. He trusted Mickey that much. I just hope that I didn't deplete my resources to help our other children. Plus, Mickey had taken on a swagger that was hard to deal with, and at times I would get upset with him. Lately he'd become a member of the Chamber of Commerce, joined the Rotary Club and was very social – a man-about-town. It was all new to me. Where I came from, those were things we didn't do. Chamber of Commerce. Really?

I had the thought that if I hadn't given Mickey the money for _his_ house, that I'd have enough to get what I wanted from Hamsher's bank. Mickey was paying me back with interest, so eventually I could help the other kids if they needed it.

When Hamsher told me he couldn't get me the loan without a co-signer, I puffed up. "I am not going to ask my son to co-sign. Do you understand what I'm saying to you?" I said in an angry and loud voice. I knew the patrons in the bank could hear what I said, but I didn't give a rat's _culo_. Let em hear. "I'd rather live in a tent, than ask my kids for help. I think I want my money out of your bank and I'm going elsewhere."

Hamsher sat in his chair and rocked. His demeanor was calm, but I knew his guts were churning; he's a man that isn't used to having somebody raise their voice to him. Tough luck.

"I'm sorry you feel that way, Mr. Reyes. But I have no alternative. Unless you have a co-signer, my bank can't loan you the money."

" _Your_ bank!" I roared. "Really? This is _your_ bank? It don't seem like that to me," I barked as I stood up. I leaned my hands on the desk and got close to Mr. Hamsher, who sat back, again not used to having somebody in his face, and hissed, "I may be just an ignorant peon to you, but I think you could get me that loan if you wanted to. Maybe you need to have some Mexicans on your lending committee. Think about that."

I rose up and Hamsher said in a calm and polite voice, "Ramon, you have enough money to buy the houses. However, because you are on the note for your son's loan, the committee felt you're overextended and would be a risk. I'm sorry."

I walked rapidly to the front door. I heard a lady's heels clicking on the marble floor behind me. I hit the sidewalk and headed for Santa Cruz Avenue and heard, "Ramon Reyes! Hey Ramon, Stop!"

I spun around and saw Carol Fanning walk up to me "What do you want?" I snapped in frustration.

"Hey take it easy will ya. I might have a solution for you," she gasped trying to catch her breath.

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"I heard you talking to Hamsher. Hell, everybody in the bank heard you," she quipped with a grin. "Can I buy you a cup of coffee?" she asked, pointing to the El Gato Hotel.

We sat at a table by a window, and I watched the waitress pour the coffee into our cups. I stirred cream into mine and stared at Mrs. Fanning. She blew on her coffee, took a sip, and put the cup on the saucer. "I've been in business long enough to recognize what a risk is, but more importantly what a safe bet is. My first husband was a gambler, not always a winner, but he did good most of the time. He taught me the angles, and I was a good student." She sipped her coffee again. "I've known you since you hit town. I know your work ethic, I know you pay your bills and are a good family man. You, Ramon, are a safe bet," she ended with a smug look.

"What are you saying, Mrs. Fanning?" I asked. "I'm saying that if you need a loan, I can help."

I was stunned. I tried to speak and after several attempts I couldn't get my mouth to form the words.

She smiled and said, "This will be a straight business transaction. I'll give you the money and you'll pay me each month, plus interest." She wiped her mouth with a napkin, and then went on. "You get what you want, and I get some return on my investment by letting _my_ money work for _you_."

"What about your husband?" I stammered.

"If he were around, he wouldn't be part of this. I've been doing business for quite sometime, and I'm good at it."

"Where is he?" I asked her.

She shrugged her shoulders and told me her son ran him off. "He was taking my stuff and playing the ponies. You were right; he wasn't any good," she whispered. "Something else you need to know, Ramon. We went to the races soon after you had me put your dough in my safe. I had my field glasses on him," she said as she put her hands to her eyes like she was holding binoculars. "He was standing at the bar, and pulled out a yellow envelope—your envelope," she said sheepishly. "God damn it! I should have known then he was a rat."

Mickey, the jewelry, and his stint in the camp overshadowed the pending transaction.

As if she read my mind, she continued, "I talked to Chief Philips after I filed a complaint against Nelson, or Slick as you refer to him. He told me that Mickey's stuff was expunged because he was a kid.

Mickey had told me that, but the fact that Mrs. Fanning made sure she went to the cops on Mickey's behalf was unbelievable.

"Enough about that, Ramon. How much do you need? I know Effie Walton, and we'll deal with her directly."

I was overwhelmed "This opportunity is _fantastico_ , Mrs. Fanning. Thank you so much.

"Ramon, now that we are doing business together, do you think you might start calling me Carol?" she said waggling her finger at me.

Monica and I walked hand in hand to the lots on University Avenue. Connie was pushing Desi in a stroller. We could feel the rumble of the bulldozer under our feet before we heard or saw it. The lots were being leveled and an engineer from the town was surveying to make sure the houses would sit where they were supposed to. After the dozers finished, stakes would be pounded into the ground laying the plot.

"Where will ours be, Papa?" Connie asked excitedly. I showed her and she smiled and nodded. Monica came up to me and we hugged each other. She had tears in her eyes. "This is a long way from the Rio Grande, Husband."

She was right, of course, and then and there I knew I would never get sent back.

"I'm proud of you, Husband. We've come a long way. When you think about it, really get down to it, we left another country and withstood the struggles in two states before California and then left a home in LA, a rented home, mind you, and came to Los Gatos and bought our own home and another to rent out. _Dios Mio_ , that is something."

I stood on the railroad track looking down at our lot, imagining what it was going to look like. There was Monica, _mi esposa_ , waving at me and I blew her a kiss.

I was happy about the neighbors, too—the Juarez and Fernandez families who were already such good friends. "We can grow old together," Tino Juarez said in a toast after the papers were signed.

The relocated cannery houses on this end of University would set among cabinet shops and auto repair garages. At the end of the street on the left was a big building with a mansard roof that housed a roller skating rink. The garbage transfer station was at the dead end and below was the storm sewer outlet and a gravel quarry.

This was the happiest I'd been in a long time. I wondered if I'd ever be completely happy and satisfied again.

## Chapter 46

Mickey

Los Gatos 1951

The man sitting at the bar in the ElGato hotel was the only patron. He sipped a glass of beer while looking at the back-bar, and every so often toward the lobby and dining room. The bartender tried to engage him in conversation, but it was no use. The man gave one word answers to the bartender, who'd been walking the boards behind a bar long enough to know when a guy didn't want to be bothered. So he busied himself with washing glasses, peeling lemons and stocking bottles—bar tending chores.

The lounge was long and narrow and the ancient oak bar ran down the left wall. Cocktail tables sat under windows that looked out onto West Main Street. Wainscoting provided a chair rail around the entire room. There were booths on each side of the entry into the bar, and maroon carpeting covered the floors

This hotel, in an earlier time, saw rough and tumble action between loggers, teamsters and businessmen. In modern times it had become a genteel establishment. Ladies had luncheon in the dining room most afternoons and service clubs met in the banquet rooms weekly. From time to time a bar fight would break out, mostly after dark when the civilized folks were home for the evening. Once in awhile these flare-ups taxed the small police force, but most of the time the skirmishes were over with a shove or a sock to the jaw.

The man at the bar turned when he heard the double doors to the banquet room open and the Rotarians file out after their meeting. He subconsciously rubbed his rib cage on his right side when he saw the man he was looking for take a seat in one of the booths.

Mr. Clanton and I sat with a couple of other Rotarians after our meeting. One of the guys went to the bar and got us a pitcher of beer and four glasses. This was a weekly ritual for Mr. Clanton and me; others joined us from time to time. It was really the only time I saw him, Mr. Clanton. He'd gone into semi-retirement and we were negotiating a buy-out, and I would be the sole proprietor of the appliance business. But today we just kibitzed with our friends about commonplace things, wives, kids, the economy, and Ike and the congress.

"Hey, Mickey, ya got a phone call," Bert the bartender told me holding the receiver for me to take. I wondered who could be calling me here. "Hello?" I said.

" _Ya got a real pretty wife_ ," his voice rasped.

"Who is this?" I growled into the phone. I looked at Bert who was wiping the bar in front of where a customer had been recently.

" _She's wearing a real short, and I mean short pair of cutoff jeans. She's watering the yard, and that halter-top she's wearing? Well her knockers are about ready to flop out_."

As I tore down San Jose Avenue, trees, houses, and cars blurred by me. I turned on two wheels onto Los Gatos Almaden Road and screeched to a halt in my driveway. Linda was nowhere to be found, not in the house, garage or front yard. The back yard was dry. Nobody had been watering. What in the hell was going on?

I saw a note on the kitchen table from Linda telling me that she was at Elliot's Nursery.

My tires crunched on the pea gravel in front of the nursery, and I felt a sense of relief when I spotted my wife's station wagon parked there. Linda was chatting with an Asian lady as she rang up her purchases of flats of flowers. Thankfully, she was dressed in pedal pushers and one of my old work shirts.

"What is it?" Linda asked when she saw the alarmed look on my face.

At home we sat at the kitchen table and I told her about the phone call. Her face paled and her hands started to tremble. "What is it, Linda?" I asked.

She just shook her head, and knitted her brows. "God, honey, over the last few weeks I've received obscene phone calls..."

"You what?" I roared. "Were you ever going to tell me?"

"I thought it was just a kid getting his kicks. It didn't scare me or anything."

I stood up "It scares the hell out of me!" I shouted as I walked to the phone stand. "I'm going to call the cops."

The cop told me it would be next to impossible to find out who was making the calls, but to notify them if another occurred.

It had been over a month and no more calls came in until I answered the phone at the store. A voice with that rasp said, " _Ya got a real fine wife. She just got out of the shower. She is one real sweet spic-chic._ " Linda took baths not showers, but nonetheless, my heart was racing, but I said nothing. I knew Linda was at the rest home visiting Chela. We'd left the house together earlier this morning. I drove home anyhow, just to be certain.

In Eddie's Northside Market I stood at the butcher counter while Fred, the butcher, picked out a nice beef round with his special marinade. I heard a slight clang of baskets and saw Mrs. Fanning as she tried to untangle from my cart. "Geez, sorry, Mickey. I wasn't paying attention. We exchanged a few words and she started to walk away. "Say, did your friend ever catch up with you?" she inquired.

I shook my head. "Who might that be?" I asked.

"He said he was a friend of yours from Los Angeles. What was his name?" She stood with her finger to her lip deep in thought. "I swear it's getting harder to remember things. Was it Magnus, Mahan; something like that," she offered. "He stayed a few nights; I'll check the register when I get back."

Then it hit me. "Was it McManus?"

"Yes, that's it. Did he ever find you? I told him where your store was. He said he was going to look you up."

I stood, numbed. "Anything else, Mick?" the butcher asked.

"Huh? Oh, never mind, I'll come back." I left my basket and walked to the door.

I needed to get in touch with Warren Stone, the contractor that McManus worked for.

"I had to fire that Okie. I swear he was a fruit," Stone told me when I caught up with him at a new subdivision on the old Lone Hill Quarry site. I hadn't seen Stone since I saw McManus' time card in the construction shack in Cupertino. Stone ordered appliances over the phone and was one of Clanton's best customers.

"Why you looking for him? If ya need something done, I got lots of guys looking for side-jobs."

"No, it's nothing like that, Warren. It's a personal matter."

The uniformed police officer approached Lamar McManus when he walked out of the Western Auto store on Santa Cruz Avenue. "Are you Lamar McManus?" the cop snarled.

"Yeah. What's the beef this time?" McManus said in a tough tone. "No beef, son. I just like to know where the cons live in my town, that's all," he answered in a friendlier tone as he twirled his nightstick.

"You still up at Abbey Inn?"

McManus told him that he still resided there and was doing odd jobs around town.

"Do you have the use of a phone, son?" the cop wanted to know. "Yeah, I have the use of a phone. That ain't a crime is it?"

"No, no crime in having one. I might want to call ya is all. Maybe I have some work for ya."

"Yeah, you do that; give me a call," McManus said as he started to step around the cop. Before he took half a step, the cop put his nightstick on McManus' chest and said, "Keep yer nose clean or I'll run ya in faster than ya can say Jackie Robinson." Then he pulled the nightstick back and put it in a holder on his belt.

The cop hitched his gun belt up several times as he watched Lamar McManus walk out of sight.

Around the corner, McManus slapped the cement wall of the Corner Drug Store, and then kicked some empty cardboard boxes stacked next to a trashcan. Several pedestrians saw him and McManus shot them sinister looks.

"Mickey-God-Damned-Reyes," McManus whispered. _He let the fuzz know about my rap sheet. So what if he knows I'm in town. Ain't no way they know it's me calling his bitch. Or could they? Nah, they ain't that smart. Hell, I've been to prison; I got street smarts and Reyes is nothing but a fat cat business asshole_.

McManus watched Linda vacuum the living room carpet through the screen door. He quickly and quietly took out his knife and slit the screen, unhooked the hook and stepped in.

## Chapter 47

Ramon

Los Gatos 1951

I pulled into Mickey and Linda's driveway to take them a pan of enchiladas my wife made for them. The front door was open and the screen door was slit. Very strange. I opened the screen door and saw the upright vacuum cleaner tipped over on the rug. My heart started pounding. I walked silently down the hall to the bedrooms. Damn me for even thinking this; maybe Linda was having a fling with a _sancho_. That was absolute nonsense. Linda would not have a boyfriend on the side. No way. No how. "Why are you doing this?" I heard Linda whimper. Then the sound of a hard slap and a scream and I knew there was trouble.

I shoved the door open and saw my daughter-in-law lying on the bed with a petrified grimace on her face, and a pink skinned man leaning over her. I flew into the room like a whirlwind. The man held a knife to Linda's throat. I grabbed him by his red hair and yanked him straight up causing the knife to tumble to the floor. He had no chance to defend himself against my flying fists.

Linda scrambled to her feet and ran outside. I heard her scream to her neighbor to call the police. Every time this buzzard moved, I clobbered him in the face, which was becoming a bloody pulp. I kept shoving him back down. If he gained any strength or showed signs of intensifying his struggle, he got socked again. My hand was cut and sore.

"Are the cops on the way?" I yelled to Linda.

She came to the doorway, looked in and cringed. "Yes, they are, and I called Mickey, too."

"I hope the cops get here before Mickey, or this son-of-a-bitch will wish he were dead."

After another struggle and another slap down, I'd quit punching. My open hand was keeping him in check. The walls and ceiling were splattered with his blood. "They better send a meat wagon; this guy is gonna need some medical attention."

In the distance I could hear sirens, and then in a flash, the cops handcuffed the jerk to the ambulance gurney. Linda fell into my arms and we sobbed together. "I don't know what I would've done if you hadn't of shown up. Oh God!" I was smoothing her hair and telling her she was going to be fine.

Like a wild bull, Mickey ran into the house. Linda saw him and they held onto to each other for dear life. It was so tender, that I cried more.

The cops told Linda that they'd need to have her examined because of the rape. She narrowed her eyes and said, "There was no rape. "

The cops looked surprised; it was obvious they didn't believe her. It was also obvious that they knew a lot more about McManus than she did. The cops persisted in their questions, thinking she was holding back because she was ashamed and in shock. When they wouldn't let up, she yelled, "Look, I wasn't raped!"

"Listen, ma'am," one of the officers said.

"No, _you_ listen!" Linda yelled. "He couldn't rape me. His...his... equipment didn't work. I don't need medical treatment or an examination. I just need to be left alone."

The next-door neighbor, Mrs. Rirodan, took charge of Linda and helped her into a hot tub. Mickey and I stepped out into his front yard where Mickey stood over the bloody hump on the gurney and said to me, "At first I didn't recognize this bastard, but the red hair..." He then went over and kneeled down, like he was gonna pray, whispered in the man's ear, and stood up and walked over to me.

"What did ya say to him?" I asked Mickey. He just shook his head. "It's best you don't know, Pop."

As he watched the ambulance pull away, his shoulders slumped and I moved into position. "I don't know how to thank you, Pop. Once again you've picked me up, covered my back. I love you so much for all you do. Where do men like you come from?" he asked me as we embraced.

My thought was, _I'm just doing what a father does_.

## Chapter 48

Mickey

Los Gatos 1951

Once again my father saved me and my family. Was it my lot in life to have turmoil and drama? Was it Pop's lot to always be there to pick me up? How can I ever thank him? My thought was—do what he does, act like he acts—that's what he would want me to do. Do the right thing. Over the next several months Linda had to give a statement about the assault by Lamar McManus. It was difficult for her because it kept the incident fresh, but she knew it was necessary to have a solid case in order to keep this ass-bite off the streets.

I had the opportunity to see his rap sheet. Technically I shouldn't have, but the investigator left the file on his desk then exited the room. The file showed a kid that had been in trouble all his life. He'd been in and out of institutions more than he was free. The one thing that jumped out at me was that he beat up a prison psychologist when he reported McManus felt superior to everybody, and resented being told what to do. Tough titty, I thought. This freak is taking up good air.

McManus was given five to ten in San Quentin. I was in the courtroom, the very same courtroom where I'd been sentenced years earlier, I whooped. He turned and glared at me as his shackles scraped the floor. Me, I saluted him.

It seemed like things from my past were flaking off me, and it felt good. Sleepy Lagoon was back there somewhere, as well as the Downeys and the Boy's Ranch, and now, Lamar-God-Damned McManus was a thing of history.

On a Sunday in the fall of 1953 the sun was starting to set behind the bluffs across Highway 1 from Wilder Ranch. The rose-streaked sky caused motorists to slow down and drink in the sunset. Lovers on the beach sat closer together. It had been a warm summer day and the bank of clouds out at sea welcomed the waning light. The amazing smells the coast offered in the way of eucalyptus and pine trees, salt air and wood smoke, made all people there at that particular time feel fortunate.

Pop and I were with our families at Carlos and Chela's helping with some carpentry chores. Two weeks before we poured concrete walkways so Chela could maneuver her wheel chair without getting bogged down in the soft soil. This one small thing was huge for her self-esteem and independence.

This day we built a ramp to assist Chela in and out of the house. The sounds of hammering and sawing echoed. Once in awhile somebody cussed when a thumb was hit with a hammer or a splinter pierced flesh. Sawdust odors mingled with body odor.

Desi and Carlitos ran across the ridge of trees, Salina chasing them and barking. The women were preparing food, and Connie was feeding my new baby girl, Rosalinda. It was a great time to be alive.

"Carlos, do you have a broom?" Pop asked.

"In the packing shed, Pop," Carlos replied pointing with the hammer handle.

I was putting a primer coat on the rails. "This is gonna last forever, man," I said.

"Thanks, Mickey. You and Pop have been a great help." "That's what family does."

Suddenly, Carlitos came running to where we were working and said breathlessly, "Papa! Bampa fell down. I think he's hurt!"

Carlos and I took off like thoroughbreds headed for the straightaway. Desi was kneeling down next to Pop, begging him to get up. He held out his hand to us and mouthed the words 'heart attack.' The look on his face was an expression of fright that became a grimace and returned to fright.

He was sweating profusely and we tried to get him into a comfortable position. Somebody in the house called for a doctor in Davenport, who called for an ambulance to respond. Mama was wailing and moaning. Connie and Trina tried to get her to calm down because it appeared to upset Pop more.

By the time the ambulance arrived the doctor had given Pop some nitroglycerin to help ease the pain.

Mama was holding his hand as the attendants wheeled the gurney to the rear of the ambulance. Pop looked at her and whispered " _Mi esposa_ , I'm not checking out that easy." Mama seemed relieved after she heard Pop's assurance. She showed a brave face as she sat in the front passenger seat of the ambulance "We'll meet you at the hospital, Mama," Trina told her as the ambulance took off.

At Dominican Hospital on Soquel Avenue in Santa Cruz, I sat with Mama, Carlos, Trina and Connie in a narrow and cavernous hallway waiting for somebody to give an update on Pop's condition. Linda and Chela stayed behind to take care of Desi, Carlitos and Rosie. Occasionally a wide-hipped nurse walked toward us. The first time we stood in unison and rushed her, she told us to be quiet. After the third time this happened, we remained seated. Again she told us to be quiet. Mama watched her waddle away and said to no one in particular. "Hasn't she got more important things to do? If she comes down here again I'm gonna kick her ass."

We all looked at Mama astonished, "Like your father says, 'There are times for such talk' and this is one of those times," she replied with a shrug of her shoulders.

## Chapter 49

Ramon

Santa Cruz 1953

I'd been in a shit-hole they called a hospital for ten days and felt if I could just go home, I'd get better. The hospital is a loud place, patients ringing for the nurse, telephones ringing and people talking.

Tino Juarez and Cisco Fernandez, my neighbors and co-workers, were standing by my bed. "Do you think I can get a plate of rice and beans around here? Hell no! Always bland crap. I never want to see tapioca again for the rest of my life. They wake you up to give you a sleeping pill..."

"Well ya must be feeling better, _amigo_. You're complaining, so that's good," Tino said.

"That's right, Ramon. You'll be outta here in no time," Cisco added.

"I hope so, boys. I don't want no friendly _sancho_ sneaking under my back fence."

After my friends left, I felt that something was going on at work. When I asked about Cottage Grove Cannery, they gave brief answers and then changed the subject.

Everyday Mickey drove Monica over to see me, and today I was finally going home. The doctor was explaining about my medications and dosages, when I asked him about going back to work. His brow became a Roman numeral II and he looked at my son and wife. "Well, that's something you'll need to talk to your family about, Ramon."

Once we were in the car, I turned to them and said, "All right, spill it. What gives?"

I saw Mickey look in the rear view mirror at Monica. "I can get a job. We'll be just fine, Husband. Don't worry."

"What do you mean you can get a job?"

"Hold on, Pop. There's no need to get in an uproar."

My leg was bouncing up and down-rapid fire. "You telling me not to get in an uproar gets me in an uproar faster than anything. What in the hell is going on?" Mickey turned to me. "Pop, they cut out the box factory at the cannery. All the woodworkers lost their jobs. They got a severance check and medical coverage for one month." I rode on in silence for a mile or so. "Man, I never saw that coming. That all happened in the last ten days?"

More silence, more miles. "I'll go back to gardening. I've never been without a job before."

"That's right, Pop. You've worked hard all your life. It's time to take it easy. You've earned your rest."

"When I'm ready for a rest, I'll let you know," I said jabbing a finger at Mickey. "Hell, I'm just in my fifties."

That night in bed I told Monica, "I know your life hasn't turned out the way you planned, and I'm sorry."

"What are you talking about, Husband?" she replied with a catch in her voice. "Look where we are and where we came from; mud hut to an apartment to a nice home and now we own our own home. We've always moved up." She was right; it always got better the farther from Mexico we got.

"Our children are all happy and healthy and have jobs. Connie will be out of college soon and Desi will have it easier than his brothers and sisters. That's because of you, Husband," she said as she snuggled closer. "You taught them to work hard and you've always supported them." We lay silently for several minutes. "I'm not sorry for one moment you and I have had together," my wife said softly.

"I just thought I'd work until I was sixty-five. What do I do now? Just sit home?" I whined.

She rose up on her elbow and said, "I'd rather have you home and reach seventy-five."

"What about after that?" I said kissing her forehead.

"Let's talk about that when you're seventy-five," she answered and gave me a long hard kiss. For a split second, I was thrown back onto the shores of the Rio Grande, remembering the first kiss we shared when we realized we had made it, and were safe and alive, _together_ , ready to start our new life. For a moment, it was as though no time had passed and we were still young, our whole lives before us.

The moment passed as our kiss broke. _Mi esposa_ decided to test the waters. "Do you think it's too soon after your heart attack, _mi amor_?"

"I'm willing to find out."

## Chapter 50

Mickey

LA 1960

Mama and Pop sat in the back seat, I was in the front passenger side and Carlos drove, touring our old haunts before doing what we came here to do. Pop was mostly silent, Mama tsked from time to time, and Carlos seemed to be upset because of the traffic. Possibly he could be perturbed because I kept applying my foot to the imaginary brake pedal on my side. I know it pisses me off when Linda does it, but I couldn't help it, the traffic was horrendous.

The Los Angeles I grew up in was not what I was seeing; the street we lived on seemed seedy and small. The Olympic Street area, once our shopping district, was a place I wouldn't go to now. The stores where we bought all the necessities for day to day living gave way to more pawn shops, liquor stores and other sleazy outlets.

The Dodgers were building a new ball field at Chavez Ravine. Walter O'Malley, the owner of the Dodgers, moved the team from Brooklyn and plunked them down in LA. Brooklynites were devastated when their "Bums" left, and the people in LA had mixed reviews. All those shanties in Chavez Ravine were bulldozed like they were made of matchsticks. I wondered where the people went. The politicians crowed about the boost to the economy. For who? I questioned. Where _did_ the folks from Chavez Ravine end up?

The area around the Mayfield Ranch was now a community and Sleepy Lagoon no longer existed. The only recognizable landmarks were the bridge on Slauson where it crosses the river, and the creamery where Chico Peralta once worked.

We were between eras, Carlos and me. We lived during the _pachucho_ period, him more than me, and now it's the _cholo_ era. Zoot suits gave way to more work-related clothing: starched khakis, with a sharp crease, and plaid flannel shirts.

Tattoos got bigger and more visible; it was rare to see just initials between the thumb and forefinger or a cross with rays emanating from it. The hairstyle was the same, if the hair was long. There were those Mexican kids that buzzed their hair and some even shaved theirs bald. The cars got shinier and fancier and louder.

You could cut the irony with a knife. United States military personnel, mostly World War II vets in dress uniforms, stood at attention adjacent to the American flag-draped coffin of their fallen comrade inside a Buddhist temple. The congregation was mostly Japanese Americans who had been interred which added to the paradox.

Kenji Tanaka, from Palmetto Avenue in Los Angeles, stayed in the service after the war. His parents moved back into their house after their release from Manzanar, and Mr. Tanaka became the tailor for the Italian man that owned the dry cleaners. Mr. Tanaka wanted Kenji to muster out and become a tailor.

When North Korea crossed the 38th parallel and invaded South Korea, they met little or no resistance. The United States and the United Nations went to war against the North Koreans and the rise of communism. Major Kenji Tanaka was among the first casualties of the Korean Conflict. He spent a few years in VA Hospitals, but his chest and lung wounds never fully healed and he died from complications of the respiratory system.

"It looks so small," Mama said as we drove by our old house. "They don't have a green thumb, that's for sure, do you think, Husband?"

I saw Pop smile and nod, "It doesn't look like they do."

Carlos and I drove Mama and Pop to Los Angeles for Kenji's funeral. They were going to stay on for a few days, then take the train home, while Carlos and I were going to drive back together.

My folks and I had never traveled Highway 101 before; all our trips had been by bus or rail. Carlos was the only one that had driven this road. At times I saw things I may have seen from the train, but most of this ride was a discovery trip, not just for me, but Mama and Pop, too.

We left the Tanaka house, Carlos and me, and drove to Chiper's Café on 38th Street. Chico Peralta owned the joint. He took the first three letters of his first and last names and came up with Chiper's; it was pronounced _chippers_. While he was in San Quentin he learned to cook and run a kitchen. Although he was sent to prison for a crime he hadn't done, the end result was positive: he owned a successful business.

When we walked in, Chico was sitting at the lunch counter ordering food for the upcoming week. His white tee shirt was grease spotted and his white chef 's pants had smudges at the pocket and thigh areas where he wiped his hands. His temples were graying, and wrinkles were prominent around the eyes, but his profile looked the same. He turned when he heard the door open. Looking at him straight on, I noticed that his face was more angular and creased giving him an almost professor-like look. He smiled broadly and stood and greeted us. "Hey slugger, how goes it?" he said as he gave me and Carlos hugs.

He showed us to a table and told us to order anything we wanted. We told him we just ate at the funeral get-together. He brought us bottles of Pepsi-Cola. "I gotta clean the griddle; it'll only take a few minutes. Stick around and we'll get caught up."

He told us that he arrived at the café at five o'clock every morning, so in the early afternoon he could get to the neighborhood center and help divert teenagers from a life of crime and gang activities. I was looking at a man I realized I didn't really know at all. Thinking about it, we only spent part of an evening together, but it was a life-changing experience that tied us to one another forever. It's weird; we never saw each other before Sleepy Lagoon or after, until now.

"Did they ever figure out who killed Clemente Huerta?" Carlos asked. Chico took a sip of water. "Can't say for sure. I heard a rumor while I was in the can that the mob took out a guy named Nestor for cutting in on their territory. But when I got out this ass-bite Nestor was still around."

"Jimmy Thomas told me that some _vato_ confessed on his deathbed that he killed Huerta," Carlos offered.

"Yeah, I heard that, too. Supposedly that guy confessed to his sister, but she clammed up," Chico said with a shrug. We sat silently for a few minutes. "So, you and Elena ever get married?" I asked.

"Nah, I wasn't at Q a week and I got a "Dear John" letter from her. It's better we didn't get hitched; one of us woulda' killed the other, and that's a fact," he snorted. "I'll let her know you were looking for her though." I put up my hands in surrender, and extended my ring finger and my wedding band.

"Yeah, I heard you boys were doing well," Chico said with a grin. He told us that Diego Cardoza had remained his good friend, and worked for the state road department. While Diego was doing the laundry route, he attended night school and earned a degree in engineering. "He builds bridges or some shit, but he's good and has a lot of kids."

"Chico, do you ever think about that night?" I asked. "Sleepy Lagoon, I mean?" His eyes narrowed and he said in measured words, "I know I wished I'd stayed home that night. Elena and me had a big blow-out before we left to go to the Mayfield Ranch." He stood up and walked to the front door and flipped the sign to _Closed_ and lowered the shades.

"Yeah, my time in the _pinta_ let me look back too often. Hell, I coulda been a foreman if I still had my job at the creamery. But you know what? I wouldn't have opened this joint and be helping kids in the _barrio_ stay out of trouble. I'm doing something good, man. Slinging hash and saving kids from the gutter."

"We're all where we're supposed to be," Carlos said. "Doing what we're supposed to be doing."

I looked at Carlos and saw Pop. I don't know if it was what or how he said Pop's quote, but it was comforting.

On the sidewalk Chico said, "I used to think there was no future in the _barrio_. I can't say that now," he said pointing to the neon sign in his front window. "You guys got out, and it turned out okay. Some chumps stayed and never did anything in their lives." He leaned on the fender of Carlos' car and pronounced, "Too much hooch and babes, and that's a bad combo, _amigos_."

We drove away from the café, and I felt glad we had stopped. Another chapter had been put to rest. Those that were supposed to survive, did.

"You know, Carlos, we were lucky to live here when we did. Mama and Pop gave us solid foundations."

"Chico is right; we got out and we're okay. We're a strong and good family," he replied with a catch in his throat. "We've had our squabbles, but in the end we are _familia_."

I felt his emotion, but it seemed bigger than what we were talking about. I wondered if he was remembering his search for Trina, or if there were something else.

"We almost lost Trina, but through your efforts, she came back. There ain't no _borrachos_ in the clan."

"No, but we have a few _esqueletos_ in the closet, though," he added with a chuckle. "C'mon, I'll buy ya a beer at the Palomar."

## Chapter 51

Carlos

1960

I spend most days at Wilder Ranch dealing with farm workers' rights. I'm like a peacekeeper between the United Farm Workers and the farmers.

"Don't get me wrong. The union does some real good things. Many of the farmers don't care about their employees," I said to Mickey as we drove past fields on our way north.

"There is filth around the housing; raw sewage runs in streams through walkways between the cabins."

"I don't see that at your place," Mickey told me.

I nodded, "That's right. We are an exception, though. Chavez walked our fields talking to the workers and they told him this was the best place most of them ever worked."

"What's he like, Chavez?" Mickey asked. "Peaceful and soft-spoken."

The unions had made enough of a groundswell that farmers were starting to clean their places up. Clinics were available so families could be treated for illnesses. Babies weren't born in squalor any longer. Mothers could learn about birth control and nutrition.

"Kids in school get shots to prevent disease. Migrant kids don't get shots. But the County Health Department set up service centers so the worker's kids can go and get immunized."

I told Mickey about a planned community the county wanted to create. "There is a map that shows modern housing, recreation centers and schools. It's like the day of the migrant worker is gonna be a thing of the past."

"What do you mean, Carlos?" Mickey asked.

"Instead of working for awhile and moving on, they'll settle in and stay, become part of the community. The minimum wage was a huge development for the workers."

Having said all that, there was still discrimination running rampant; it was like one step forward and two back.

All along the road there were signs announcing farmland for sale. "Hell, the taxes are tough and lots of farmers are thinking that their property would be more profitable if they sold it to developers for houses."

"What do you think, Carlos?"

"Me? I got my eye on some acreage north of Davenport. Work for myself, ya know? Maybe leave something for Carlitos."

## Chapter 52

Mickey

1960

When Carlos mentioned Carlitos, I saw him grip the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turned white "What is it, Carlos?" I asked him. "Is something the matter with Carlitos?"

Carlos sighed and answered, "What do you think about getting a burger at the Corner Club in King City?"

What I thought was that Carlos did an "end-around run" avoiding the topic of his son. I now understood the catch in his voice earlier.

When we passed Soledad Prison, Carlos pointed to the barbed wire and intoned, "The crime rate for the Mexican kids is on the rise. Those people running the community centers for the farm workers tell the kids to run _to_ a cop, not _from_ them. Can you imagine running to any of those ass-bite cops in LA? Man, oh, man."

"How does your boy relate to the Mexican kids on the farm?"

"He works side by side with em," he said as he made slicing motions with his right hand. "The only difference is at the end of the day he comes to my house instead of a picker's shack."

"What about school? I thought he was going to Santa Cruz High." Carlos was silent for several hundred yards, then looked at me briefly and said, "He got expelled."

"Expelled! What for?"

Carlos paced his words evenly. His lips were a thin line just like Pop's when he was upset. "Most days he'd skip school, hang out at the beach. When he did go, he'd fall asleep in class."

I thought he must have got kicked out because of bad grades. Carlos wrapped and unwrapped his fingers around the steering wheel. "The teachers send him off to the office, and one day he slapped the dean of students across the face," he said shaking his head. "The dean called the cops and had him arrested for assault and battery. Me and Chela are just sick about it," he confided in a trembling voice.

"God damn, Carlos. I'm sorry."

Carlos said that he and Chela were keeping a pretty tight rein on him and that work seemed to suit him for now.

"Was there a sudden change in his behavior?" I wanted to know. "My Rosie is approaching her teen years."

"Every morning his mother made him a thermos of hot chocolate to sip on as he rode the bus into Santa Cruz," Carlos said making a drinking motion with his hand to mouth. "When he left the house, he'd go behind the barn and pour the hot chocolate in a rain barrel. Behind the barrel he stashed a bottle of cough syrup. He'd pour the syrup into the thermos and by the time he got off the bus, he was higher than a kite. Everybody on the farm knew but me and Chela."

"So there were no sudden changes, Carlos?"

"Looking back, there were things that took place, red flags, ya know? But we ignored them. There'd be no report card, no homework, no schoolbooks. I'd find paper sacks and tubes of model airplane glue around, but kept my eyes peeled for a slacker on the job, and never once thought it would be Carlitos. We had our heads in the sand."

When I got home I was relieved to see my wife and daughter putting articles about Desi's football games in a scrapbook.

## Chapter 53

Mickey

Los Gatos 1962

I was sitting next to Pop in the stands getting ready for the second half to start.

"Pop, has Desi said anything about the scholarship?"

Pop lowered his binoculars and shook his head. "He pooh-poohed their offer."

"Are you serious? Why in the world would he do that?"

"Says he wants to work with you at Clanton and Reyes Appliance." I was stunned, and didn't move until the kick-off and Desi ran the ball back forty yards.

"Well, what do you think, Mickey?"

"It was a great run-back, Pop. I thought he was gonna break free and score another TD."

"I'm talking about his prospects at your store."

I caught on to Pop's conspiratorial remark. "Geez, all indications point to a recession, and I might have to lay people off. I wonder if he can get the scholarship offer back."

Pop nodded, grinned and brought the binoculars to his eyes.

Desi didn't get the scholarship back, but his grades were good enough to get into San Jose State. He tried out for the team but he was too small, so after three weeks he hung em up. "Man if I hadn't quit, they'd a pounded me into the ground," he told me as we stood in the showroom of the store. The bright white enamel of the appliances glistened in the sunlight shining in the front window.

"I'm gonna miss going to your games, _ese_."

"Hey, you can come watch me march. I'm in ROTC and it is outta sight!" he gushed. "If I finish the courses, I could be commissioned a First Lieutenant."

"Then what? Active duty?" I asked.

He shook his head, "No, then to Leader Development and Assessment Courses at Fort Lewis in Washington. Then active duty."

"Then to Southeast Asia, eh, Desi?"

"I sure hope so. Get over there and kick some commie ass."

I looked at Desi and an image of Kenji Tanaka's funeral flashed in my mind.

"What is it, Mickey?" Desi asked.

" _Nada_ , Desi. Have you ever seen a jungle?" I asked as I straightened brochures on a display table.

"Nah, but before sending you over they send you to Panama for jungle warfare training. I talked to a guy that went. He said it was pretty rugged."

"Then after a day's march ya go into town for a beer? That ain't war, _ese_ ," I said with too much sarcasm.

"So far it is unanimous. No one in the family likes the idea of me going in the military," he railed. "It is my decision and I'm following it through. Why can't anyone be happy with my decision?" he wailed as he turned on his heels and strode to the door.

## Chapter 54

Ramon

Los Gatos 1964

Desi walked out of his bedroom in his Army uniform. He was in his junior year, and his chest was full of medals he earned during his ROTC stint. Carlos was having coffee with his mother and me. "Ta _dah_!" Desi announced when he walked into the kitchen.

"Where are you going dressed like that? To a Boy Scout Jamboree?" Carlos sniffed as he put his cup down. "Hey, Mama, give me your scissors and some padding. We can make a real fine drape coat and pegged britches out of that costume. He'd be a Zoot suit wearing shave-tail."

"Leave him alone, Carlos. I think he looks handsome in his uniform."

"Thank you, Mama," Desi replied as he took a boxer's stance in front of Carlos.

"Don't go there, _ese_ ," Carlos said. "I don't want to have to take you down."

I watched them banter. "Both of ya take it easy, or I'll knock you into the middle of next week," I barked and winked at Monica. After they left, Monica sat next to me and said sadly, "Husband, I'm worried about Desmondo. The news says everyday that the war in Asia is a sure thing. He's too young to go to war."

"I'm scared too, and I don't want him over there. But we got nothing to say about it. He's made his mind up." I felt powerless, really. The other children I could get to and protect and defend them, but if Desi is in someplace I never heard about with a name I can't pronounce, that to me is hopeless.

Most mornings I walk to the park at the end of the street, but I'm a little slower these days because I walk with a cane. The doctor told me I should walk every day. I told him my goal was to keep waking up each morning and then I'd decide what I should do.

"I spent eight years in medical school, and in one simple sentence you captured the secret—just keep waking up," my doctor said with a chuckle. "You're brilliant, Ramon."

Every morning I get dressed and walk into the kitchen to greet my wife, and I'm wearing the same thing: khaki pants, powder blue work shirt, and a pair of brown oxfords. It's the same clothes I wore everyday to the cannery, and every morning Monica says, "Oh, that looks nice on you, Husband."

It took me a few weeks after I retired to figure out she was being sarcastic, but I've played along every time. I find it comforting to know what I'm going to wear each day—no guessing! Does this shirt go with these pants? Even more comforting that my wife is there and talking to me; things are right in my world.

The group that assembles at the park each day is diversified in many ways: economically, ethnically and socially. The Italians play bocce ball, the Mexicans toss horseshoes, and the Greeks and Irish play both. The less active play checkers. Every once in a while somebody brings out a bottle, and if we don't show up at home for lunch, our wives know why.

"Viet Nam?" an Italian man exclaimed. "Hell, that ain't nothing new. We've had advisors over there since 1950."

"Yer right, Joe. But Huntley and Brinkley say that it's starting to heat up, and we'll be sending more advisors over," another man offered.

I brought up the subject and felt obligated to put my two cents in. "If those advisors have been there since 1950, what have they been advising on?" I asked with a shake of my head. "If they are saying go to war or stay out of the war, how many years does it take? They must be piss-poor advisors. I think it's a scam job, by Christ."

My friend Tino Juarez added, "Didn't you hear Kennedy? He said do anything you can to assure the survival and success of liberty." As Tino threw a ringer, he continued. "For two years we've been sending troops to Viet Nam. They call it a build-up. I think the advisors are saying go to war, Ramon."

"You are absolutely right, Juarez," Joe said. "We gotta go to war to stop the pinko bastards."

_They can do it without my son_ , I thought to myself.

After a morning at the park with the boys, I go home, and my wife has lunch ready for me. If she is out, there is a sandwich for me setting on the table wrapped in wax paper. If she's home, she'll serve me something hot. Today she was home and scooped out rice and beans on a plate for me.

"What did you boys talk about today, Husband?" "Nothing," I said around a forkful of lunch.

The ladle landed on the stove top with a clang, which startled me. "You say that every single day! Today I want a conversation, Ramon!"

I knew from experience; when she used my first name, she was upset. "We talked about JFK's inaugural speech where he said to do all we can for liberty."

"What prompted that?" she asked.

"I asked them about their read on Viet Nam, ya know, because Desi..."

"I don't want to talk about that," she said as she whipped off her apron. "I got to go to Mickey's. Rosie is gonna be in a school play and needs help with her costume."

I looked at her and started to say something, but thought it best to keep quiet. First she wants to talk, and I start, and then she stops me. What am I supposed to do?

"Just rinse your dishes. I'll wash them later," she uttered after kissing my forehead and walking out the door.

I usually take a nap in the afternoon, and after, I walk to Mickey's store and roost on a chair in the front window and watch people. If Mickey isn't busy, he'll sit with me. Lately he's been real busy and I'm glad and proud.

## Chapter 55

Trina

Los Gatos 1965

After my parents bought their houses, I rented from them. I got a full-time job with Western Telephone, and ever since getting reconnected with Carlos, I enjoyed the lifestyle here as compared to LA. Every once in a while, however, the excitement of the nightlife called me, and that's when I met Orrin Delaney in the lounge at the ElGato. He was a liquor salesman and was widowed with two young daughters.

Orrin was a true salesman. He had a real gift of gab and a twinkle in his eye. He charmed me and wined and dined me. It took him several months before he brought his girls around to meet me and my family. The folks took to the girls right away, but it seemed that they just tolerated Orrin.

"Where does this man live?" Mama asked me after Orrin and I had dated a few times.

"Somewhere in San Jose," I told her. "Is his house nice?" she asked.

I told her I didn't know, because he always picked me up at my house. Mama became silent. "What is it, Mama? If you want to ask me about Orrin, I'll answer. And if you pry I'll let you know. I'm not a kid anymore."

"It's just that we don't know anything about him. What if he asks you to get married?"

"I'll probably say yes, Mama."

"Does he drink?"

"He does drink, Mama, but so do I."

Mama sat and tinkered with a spoon. "If he asks you to marry, where will you live?" I told her I was going to stay next door, whether I married Orrin or not.

Mama was worried, I could see.

"The thought of having you right next door gives me comfort."

She didn't know I had already overheard her talking to Carlos one afternoon. What she had added on to that sentence was, "On the other hand, having Orrin and his girls over there chips away at my comfort. The first time my Ramon and I got a look at this Orrin, we didn't like him right off. He has the face of a _borracho_. Did you see the gin blossoms on his cheeks?" Mama said to Carlos. And he replied, "There must be some redeeming qualities in him, especially as a single father." Mama went on, "His little girls are cute, and neatly dressed, and we've enjoyed having them around to a certain point, but the more we see them, the more we realize they are "takers," out to see what they can get from us—an extra quarter or another piece of cake. When they come in the house, they look around at our knick-knacks with longing, and it makes me uneasy. And if Trina marries him...well, she'll be going from a standstill to sixty miles an hour—from single to wife and mother of two little girls. It worries me bad, Carlos."

"Be happy for me, Mama," I whispered. "I've found a man that loves me."

"I am happy for you, Baby, but you've been through a lot. I just want you to make sure that it's not too soon."

I sure hoped that Mama's intuition wasn't working for once.

The beatings started almost immediately after the wedding. The girls argued about which bed they wanted, and when I tried to intervene, Orrin shoved me and told me to mind my own business. When I protested and explained it was my house, he backhanded me. The girls giggled, which didn't endear them to me.

I was getting the girls ready for their first day in a new school, and they were treating me real snotty, sassing, talking rudely and doing devilish things like hiding the hair brush or squirming while I was trying to put ribbons on their braids. The arguments between the two of them were driving me _loco_. The best time of day for me was when I was alone. Hell, I had had shack-ups that were more meaningful and fulfilling than this domestic undertaking.

Orrin was out of the house very early and gone three out of five days. Weekends were hit and miss; sometimes he was home and sometimes he wasn't. The girls were always home, and I took on the resentment of the put-upon parent. It felt like I was raising these two by myself and not really bonding with them as I'd hoped.

One morning several months after we got married, I was trying to get the swelling to go down on my lip. I didn't know how much longer I could keep this from Mama and Pop. I wanted to run to Papa and have him protect _me_ , ya know?

I didn't hear the gate between the yards open. So when Papa stepped on the porch, I quickly picked up a coffee cup and held it like I was sipping from it to hide my lip. "Better not come in, Papa. One of the girls has the flu."

"Oh, okay. Well, if you need anything, just holler," he said backing out the door.

## Chapter 56

Monica

Los Gatos 1965

Ramon returned from Trina's place just seconds after going over. "Has Trina gone to work already?" I asked. He shook his head and had a strange look. "No, one of he girls has the flu."

"What?" I said. "I saw them both walk by the house on their way to school this morning. What is going on?" My stomach tightened. I untied my apron and said, "I'm going over there and get to the bottom of this."

"Do you really think you should? Maybe check with Connie first. She might know what gives," Ramon suggested.

Connie and I sat in a booth next to the lunch counter in the basement of Hale's Department Store in downtown San Jose. Grilling onions and fried foods hovered in the air.

"Have you talked to Trina lately?"

Connie stirred the ice with a straw and answered, "Seems like ever since Trina got married we only talk on the phone. Why, Mama?"

I told her about Ramon's visit earlier and she told me Trina was probably in one of her moods. "You know how she gets; she doesn't want to see anybody. Maybe that was the only excuse she could come up with."

I was looking over bath towels and linens while reflecting on what Connie said about Trina and her mood. _She's right. Who wouldn't get moody from time to time_? _She's suddenly become a parent and a wife with a husband that's gone more than he's home. She needs time for herself; who wouldn't_? But there was more going on. I just knew it. A mother knows. _Why is it that Orrin is never around for holidays_? _Cinco de Mayo, Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas. He's a no-show. His girls are there, but he is gone_. I said to Ramon on Christmas, "That's a bunch of malarkey. Nobody works Christmas Eve _and_ Christmas Day. I bet he's got a _chica_ on the side and Trina's his babysitter."

"All I care about is that Trina is here," he said pointing to the floor. I could give a rat's _culo_ if I ever see Orrin again. He just takes up space, anyway."

## Chapter 57

Mickey

Los Gatos 1965

Gilberto Morales walked into the store to say hello. "Hey, I don't want to be nosy, _amigo_ , but I just saw your sister, Trina, at the phone company when I paid my bill," he said as he took a wrapped peppermint candy from the bowl on the counter. "Yeah, she's got a real Jayne Mansfield look goin on today."

"What are ya talking about, Gil?"

"Thick puffy lips, dark red lipstick, ya know like a hoochie mama," he said as he mimicked putting on lipstick. "Like she's trying to cover a busted lip, ya know?" I bristled when I heard what he said. _Nobody is gonna hit my sister, husband or not_.

It was a light afternoon, so I went and sat with Pop by the front window of the store. He showed up most afternoons around four o'clock and helped out where he could, but mostly he sat. After closing up, I'd drop him off at his house and go in and say hello to Mama. It was a routine I cherished. Pop told me about Trina telling him one of the kids had the flu. "Your Mama saw them both walking to school. Connie told her that Trina was probably in one of her moods, and wanted to be alone." I didn't say anything, but a scene that might have taken place came clear in my mind.

"What is it, Mickey? You look like you've seen a _fantasma_."

"No, no ghost, Pop." After I told him what Gil said about her lip and makeup we both exclaimed, "Son-of-a-bitch!"

"Mickey, please. I don't want you to do anything about it. I'll take care of it," Trina pleaded.

"Where is he now? When will he be home?" I asked her as we stood in her kitchen. "I just want to talk to him, that's all."

"Please don't, Mickey."

I rocked on my heels and told her, "If he so much as lays a finger on you again, I'll break his back. You can tell him that for me."

Pop, Carlos, and I came up with a plan of sorts to see what this Orrin guy was all about. Pop, much to his displeasure, buddied up to Orrin, and each night he was home, Pop had a bottle of beer with him.

Several weeks later, Orrin told Pop he was gonna be gone for about a week. He was headed over to the San Joaquin Valley. "Busy time of the year, ya know, Pop?"

"That son-of-a-bitch calls me Pop one more time, I'm gonna give _him_ one between the snot and the spit!" Pop railed over the phone, as he told me about Orrin's sales route.

Early the next morning Carlos and I followed Orrin. We were on his tail as he stopped at small liquor stores in Mission San Jose, Livermore and Pleasanton. He stopped at bars, restaurants and golf courses throughout Alameda County. Around four in the afternoon, he passed the city limits of Stockton and we followed him as he turned into an upscale neighborhood. Carlos said, "What is this shit bird up to? It doesn't look like there would be places to hawk hooch around here."

"He must be headed for a country club or something," I said.

Orrin put on his left blinker and turned into the driveway of a ranch-style house. Bicycles and other kid toys dotted the manicured front lawn. Carlos quickly rolled down the window just in time to hear a little boy run across the lawn and yell

"Daddy!"

"Hi ya, Tiger!" Orrin shouted as he scooped the boy up in his arms.

"I'll be. Mama was right; this _gringo_ is leading a double life," Carlos said.

"What do we do now?" I asked as he drove away.

I wrote down the street name and number. "We gotta get some help to find out who owns that house," I said as I jerked my thumb backwards. "If this ass-bite is a bigamist, he's gonna get it," I hissed.

"We need to think this through," Carlos said. "We can't just spring it on Trina. Your old man has a fine house in Stockton. He goes home there and leaves his two other brats with you while he's with his other family. We can't tell her that."

He kept driving out of the neighborhood and I said, "Carlos, talk to me. Help me out here, will ya?"

"I'm thinking."

"Well, when ya come up with something, let me know."

The night was very dark as we drove through the Altamont Pass and Carlos had been silent the better part of forty miles. He almost skidded off the road when I said, "I'm waiting, _ese_."

"Damn it, Mickey you scared the bejeezus outta me!" After several seconds he announced, "The only thing I can think of is to get the family all together and present the facts to Trina."

"That's it? That's what you've come up with after forty miles?" I asked.

"Yeah, unless you got a better idea."

I'd been rehashing the situation over and over, running it through my mind and I hadn't come up with a single possible plan that wouldn't rip Trina's guts out. There was just no easy way. At least with Carlos' plan, Trina would know that her family was behind her.

"I don't. So we'll go with yours."

Mama thought it best to have a pre-planning meeting before confronting Trina. We all sat in Connie's living room at her home in Cambrian Park. Her husband, David Fell, served drinks. He was a real peach, smart yet laid back. We all liked him. The only one not there was Desi who was with the Army in the state of Washington.

"We need to get our ducks in line," Mama announced.

I pulled a piece of paper from my shirt pocket. "A friend of mine from the county had a counterpart of his in Stockton look up the assessor's parcel number for that street and came up with the name of the owner as Orrin Devlin."

"That son of a whore. He can't even use his real name," Pop said with a clenched jaw. We all turned to Mama, who with just a nod implied, _There are times when profanity is appropriate and this is one of them_.

Chela asked, "What is his real name? Devlin or Delaney?"

## Chapter 58

Monica

Los Gatos 1965

I sat and looked at my boys and what they'd become—successful and happy with careers they liked and wonderful wives and beautiful children. Connie and her man weren't interested in kids yet, but I kept my fingers crossed. They both worked very hard and had a beautiful home. My son-in-law, David, and my two daughters–in-laws are perfect fits for _la familia Reyes_. Not like Devlin or Delaney or whatever his name is.

Carlos' job keeps getting better all the time, and he loves the earth so much. "Why do you love farming so much?" I asked him once. "Because," he replied, "I can walk every field on the farm and know each particular peculiarity about it—the clay soil in one spot, or the dampness in one low corner and I see something growing. I never thought I would like to farm so much, but I really love it, Mama. I don't get to do too much dirt work anymore. I'm in the office most of the time."

And Miguel, he enjoys the retail business, and he's good at it. I've been in the store and watched him cater to the people and his honest and open face gives the customer confidence in him. They know that Mickey wouldn't sell them something they didn't need. Mr. Clanton told me that Mickey's work ethic was a tribute to me and Ramon. What a great compliment to me and my _esposo_.

The only hitch, other than Trina, is Carlitos. I pray constantly that he will come home soon. Carlos and Chela keep me posted on his achievements, and I'm as proud of him as I am Rosalinda, Mickey's little one.

My boys have beautiful silver heads of hair, just like their father, a little too early, but that is their genes. _Mi niña_ , Connie, has jet-black hair that she maintains, just like me, with regular rinses at the salon. She is _muy bonita_ , and wears expensive clothes and stylish makeup. My eyes started to mist over, and I felt pride overtake me.

"What is it, Mama?" Connie asked. "Why are you crying?" They all turned to me, and I smiled as I took a kerchief from under the sleeve of my sweater to wipe my eyes. "No other family could be as close as we are right now--rallying to help a sister. My God, Husband, we did something right, and I have taken another step up in my love for you all."

"We love you, too, Mama," Linda whispered. Chela wheeled her chair over to me and after some awkward maneuvering, gave me a huge _abrazo_.

"Enough of this," I said sitting up straighter. "We need to get a battle plan together so we can get Trina going in the right direction."

It was determined that Connie and I would bring Trina the news about her husband, the bigamist. Mickey and Carlos said they'd gladly stand by if and when Trina confronted Orrin. I knew what they were thinking—they wanted to pummel the stuffing out of him.

"How can you say that, Mama? How can you be _so sure_?" Trina whined.

It wasn't going well. We sat in my kitchen and I watched Trina simmer. My daughters telegraphed their stress in the same way: reddened cheeks, flashing black eyes and flaring nostrils. The fur was about to fly.

"Honey, listen to me. Your brothers followed him to his house," I said as carefully as possible. "We know he's beat on you."

"That's right, Trina. While he's traipsing all over God's creation, you take care of his kids," Connie added.

Trina's hands flew to her face and she started to cry hard. Between sobs she said, "How could I have been such a fool? I knew something was wrong from the start. I should have listened to you, Mama," she said as she squeezed my hand.

"Who knows, Trina? He could be pulling this scam all up and down the state," Connie told her.

## Chapter 59

Trina

Los Gatos 1965

I called Carlos and asked, "Could you drive me to that house in

Stockton?"

He told me, "Baby, if it was to get a drunken sailor to quit pawing you at the Palomar Lanes or get you away from the mob or away from this plug-ugly, I'm there. That's what big brothers do."

I sniffled, and he said, "No need for tears. I'll get you in the morning."

"Carlos, thank you so much. I've treated you..."

"Whoa, Baby. We ain't goin there. It's water over the dam. Now let's hang up and see each other in the morning."

We sat in the car for several moments. I felt safe inside and comforted because Carlos was acting just like Papa would. I kept gripping the door handle, then releasing it. "Do you want me to go up with you?" Carlos asked. I shook my head. "Do you think he's home, Baby?" and again I shook my head. Finally, I let out a huge pent-up breath of air, set my jaw and opened the door.

"Can I help you?" a pinched faced woman asked after I rang the doorbell. Although I had planned to lead up to it so I wouldn't shock her too hard, at the last moment I blurted out, "I'm Orrin's wife. For a second she didn't say anything. Then I said it again, "I'm Orrin's wife. We live in Los Gatos with his two daughters. We got married eight months ago."

Then she came at me. "I don't believe you. My Orrin would not take up with a canal whore like you. Married to you! I dare say." Then and there I could see this was going to be harder than I could ever imagine. This bitch was looking at me like I was the bad guy. Surprisingly, I stood my ground, although I wanted to rip through the screen and beat her senseless. I motioned with two fingers and in a jiffy Carlos was by my side handing me a Manila folder. Carlos stepped back and said, "Good day, ma'am."

"This is our marriage license and our wedding photo. These are his two daughters, who right about now are in custody of the child protection officers. The sheriffs in several counties are on the lookout for Orrin on charges of bigamy." I stopped and took a breath and looked in her horrified face. "So, I may be, as you say, a canal whore, but when he wasn't with you, he was with me and possibly others. How does that make you feel?" Not waiting for her to answer, I continued. "And seeing you, I don't think I'll ever be able to take enough showers to feel clean again. But you have a splendid day. Get me out of this shit hole, Carlos." I spun on my heels and marched to the car.

"Baby, that was bee-you-tee-full! You hit right between the eyes. Bazoom, right in the kisser," Carlos exclaimed.

"Not now, Carlos. Give me some time, okay?"

## Chapter 60

Ramon

Los Gatos 1971

I finished my morning, like I do most mornings, at the bocce court. We jawboned all morning about politics, wives, kids and grandkids, and about our next doctor's appointment—days didn't vary too much. Tino and I walked home and I told him, "I'm feeling kind of tired. I must have missed some sleep last night."

"Oh? Did the wife keep you up late, _amigo_?" he said in an envious tone.

"I should be so lucky, Juarez," I said as I stepped on my porch. "See you, Tino."

Monica had a grilled cheese sandwich ready for me. She was gathering her things to go on a shopping spree with Trina. Chrislow's Department Store was having a white sale. She sat down and said, "You cried out in your sleep last night, Husband."

"I did? What was her name?" She gave me a playful punch on my upper arm. "Was it a nightmare?"

I looked out the kitchen window and said, "No. Not really. I have it every so often. My brothers and father are fishing along a beautiful stream, and I try and catch up to them, but I never get there in time." She took my hand and asked, "Is that hard for you after all this time?"

"No. It's very frustrating, though, but I'll catch up to them one day," I answered gazing into her expressive eyes bracketed with crinkles that sometimes take my breath away.

Trina honked, and I walked Monica to the porch. "Why don't you take a nice nap, and when I get home I'll have some new under clothes and socks for you," she said as she kissed my cheek. I waved to Trina and she blew me a kiss.

After my nap, I walked up University, and waved to the Greek barber who was talking to the veterinarian. I turned on Roberts Road toward North Santa Cruz Avenue. I passed Falaschi's Bar and knocked on the window at the bartender, Nello, who was busy doing a crossword puzzle, or so he'd tell people. He was really looking at the racing form so he could bet on the horses. We used to frequent that place, Falaschi's. At times it could be a real family place. Most of the time, though, it was a workingman's bar. When Connie and Desi were younger, Nello would play the jukebox and ask my little ones to dance, and he'd give each of them a fifty-cent piece. They would shimmy and shake and we'd all clap. The kids would take their newly earned money and head for Eddie's Northside Market and load up on candy bars.

My tooth started to ache as I passed the site of the Cottage Grove Cannery, which was now a shopping center. _God damn it, I don't want to go to the dentist, shit_. I crossed Saratoga Avenue and heard a whistle. I looked up and saw Lou, the guy that owned the Shell Station wave and say, " _Hola, muchacho_!"

I always stopped at the site of the cannery camp and tried to place where things were when I lived there. European-style buildings now set where the cottages once were. I started to feel a tingle in my arm. "This is familiar," I said, remembering my heart attack at Carlos' _rancho_ years ago. But I kept walking, denying the symptoms. There was a roaring in my ears and I saw spots.

## Chapter 61

Mickey

Los Gatos 1971

I was getting worried because Pop hadn't shown up at the store. _Did I forget_? _Did he tell me he wasn't coming today_? _It's not like him to not call_.

An ambulance, siren wailing racing down Santa Cruz, headed north, and I felt a sense of dread. I stepped onto the sidewalk just as the ambulance stopped at the corner of Santa Cruz and Royce Street. I headed down to the scene.

As I got closer, I saw an attendant put an oxygen mask on Pop. "Does anyone know this man," the ambulance attendant asked. "He's my father," I said between my gasps and stifled sobs. Pop's eyes were closed and he looked peaceful.

A man who saw him fall said, "Yeah, just before he hit the ground he said something about going fishing. Or something like that."

## Chapter 62

Trina

Los Gatos 1971

I'd made my third pass by the terminal looking for Desi. _He's supposed to be by the baggage area. Where is he_? I finally spotted him by the large glass doors, and I maneuvered my car to the curb, all the while ignoring the honks from others. I rushed out of the car and met Desi on the sidewalk. "Oh, God, I'm glad you could get leave, Baby," I said as we hugged.

A taxi driver yelled out the window to us. "Get a room, fer cryin'out loud!"

I felt Desi bristle and step to the cab. I grabbed his arm and said, "Let it go."

We headed up Highway 17 toward Los Gatos. "How's Mama, Trina?"

I shook my head and answered, "Not good, Baby. The doctor gave her some pills to calm her down. They aren't working too good." I started to sniffle. "Papa is as handsome as ever, dressed in his Sunday suit—Oh, God! I promised I was going to hold it together."

He took my hand and squeezed it, then brought it to his cheek, and I felt the wetness of his tears.

"How are _you_ doing? Mama told me about your troubles with Orrin," he said. "Maybe this ain't the time to talk about it."

"It's okay. He was a real _rata_ and I'm better off without him in my life."

"What about his girls?" Desi asked.

"That was the tough part. On one hand I feel bad because they're in foster homes. That bitch in Stockton wants nothing to do with them. Her and Orrin are probably going to divorce and our marriage was annulled. Thank you, Jesus," I murmured as I made the sign of the cross. "The girls never knew their mother committed suicide after she found out about Mrs. Tight-ass in Stockton. They thought that she died of cancer."

"Man oh, man he was bad to the bone," Desi said.

"I had the option of taking the girls in, and that's where the hard part comes up. I have enough trouble making ends meet, and I can't count on him for support _dinero_ while he's in jail. Even if he could pay, he probably wouldn't."

"In my opinion they didn't seem to jibe with you, Trina, always lipping off with the sass talk and what not."

"That's what keeps me from feeling too bad. I know it's not their fault, but they were users in training. They'll end up just like their father, and God damn it, they aren't my responsibility," I said when I took the off-ramp into town. "Baby, everybody is at Place's Funeral Parlor. Do you need to go home first?"

Desi shook his head, and stared at the floorboard. "Jesus, I don't want to do this."

The brick steps up to the front door of the funeral home seemed as tall as a skyscraper. People were milling around on the porch, some in conversation and others smoking. A hush spread across the veranda as Desi and I approached. The voices became more solemn and dropped to a barely-audible whisper as we entered the mortuary.

Carlos and Mickey were standing on either side of Connie at Pop's coffin. Desi and I moved in and we all held each other. I could hear Mama sob and I looked over to her just as Chela and Linda were embracing her.

"The Lord will make good use of him, that's for sure. Fruit trees need trimming and lawns tended to," Desi said as he made his way to the kneeler, weeping openly. I heard Mama wail, "My baby!" as she knelt next to him.

## Chapter 63

Mickey

Los Gatos 1971

The next night at the rosary, I sat with my family holding my rosary beads, the same ones I pulled out of my suit pocket so long ago, the night of the Sleepy Lagoon murder. I listened to the Hail Marys and reflected back on the promise I made to myself on the bus ride Pop and I took out of Los Angeles, a promise I didn't seem to have completely fulfilled. _I'll be as good a son as he is a father. It's never too late; my family is the most important thing in my life_...

Tears flowed heavily, and Linda held my hand tighter while Carlos pulled my shoulder closer, which opened the floodgates even more. We were a crying family and I was no exception to the rule.

I sensed Rosie looking at me and heard her say to Linda, "I've never seen Papa like this before. I'm scared." She stood up and knelt in front of me and laid her head on my lap. I patted her head and lifted her chin and smiled through my tears and said, "I love you, Baby." I heard my mother say, "Will you take a look at that, Husband."

After the rosary, people mingled around the casket reflecting on Pop's life and his goodness, his loyalty, and his work ethic. I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned and saw Carol Fanning standing in front of me. "Your father was a good man, Mickey. I was very fond of him and I'll miss him."

"Thank you, Mrs. Fanning, for more things than you know. You gave us a start in this town and Pop was always grateful for your kindness."

She held up her hand and said, "All I did was give him a boost; you and he did the rest." She briefly looked down at Pop, and then said with a curl of her lip, "I remember the time he wanted to borrow money from the bank, and got turned down. He got into Hamsher's face and told him they needed Mexicans on the board of directors. It wasn't too many years later that you were appointed to that board. Talk about giving back; you do that, Mickey, and your father was very proud of you."

The next day at the funeral at St. Mary's Church, as my family walked slowly down the center aisle behind the coffin, I saw Jimmy Thomas out of the corner of my eye, sitting across the aisle in one of the front pews. When Carlos saw Jimmy, he stepped out of line and walked over to him and they embraced. Carlos sobbed on his best friend's shoulder. Trina followed suit. The procession behind the casket clogged for several seconds and Mama yelled in a loud voice to the undertaker who was leading the pallbearers, " _Alto_!" with her hand out like a traffic cop and pointed to the slowdown with a stern look. When Trina and Carlos re-joined us, Jimmy was with them and Mama nodded, and then motioned to the undertaker to continue. Connie, Desi and I exchanged brief grins between our tears.

Pop was laid to rest under the huge deodar tree in Los Gatos Cemetery, just a few blocks from my house. Those at the service were invited to a get together at "We and Our Neighbors Club" hall on the corner of Los Gatos-Almaden and Union Avenue.

The food laid out was a grand _fiesta_ —all of Pop's favorites: enchilada, tamale, and rice and beans. Also available was fried chicken and several types of salad. Beer, wine and punch satisfied thirsts. Someone had several bottles of tequila stashed on a bookshelf next to a stone fireplace that became an oasis for some. Rosie rushed up to me and said, "Oh, Papa, I'm so sad. I'm going to miss Bampa something awful."

I hugged her and told her I was, too. "But think how much you would have missed if you didn't know Bampa. I feel sorry for the people that didn't know Ramon Reyes."

"I do too, Papa. You always make me feel better. Thank you."

Carlos and I stood on the steps of the hall. "I got a letter from Carlitos," he said, then started to cry, but composed himself quickly. "He wanted to be here, but the prison is real strict with felons."

"How's he doing?" I asked Carlos.

Carlos shrugged then said, "It's like Pop told me once, 'Carlos, I don't mean to be cruel, but you can't un-pickle a cucumber.' When Carlitos went in for the second time Pop told me it might be the best place for him. He can get doctors that can figure you out in the head. He also said that maybe this was where he was supposed to be. He's safe and, in a strange way, Chela and I are comforted that we know where he is."

We stood silently for a few minutes, waving to mourners as they drove away. "You know, in Soledad he's a big shot now. He moves from department to department revamping the procedures. He's like a troubleshooter. He started in the grounds-keeping unit when he landed there," Carlos said with a hunch of his shoulders. "The pear ain't gonna fall far from the tree."

"Yeah, all that Reyes Gardening is in his _sangre, ese_ ," I said. Carlos let out a short laugh.

"When they needed more efficiency in the laundry, they tapped Carlitos." He shook his head. "Don't have a clue what he knows about laundering. Now he runs the kitchen. He don't know diddly about cooking, but maybe when he gets out, he can be successful like Chico."

"I hope so, Carlos. You know, I never really thought about it. Something positive can come out of life's _problemas_. His time will come."

"Yeah, you might be right," Carlos sighed. "When he was farming, he was just the boss' kid, and hooch ran his life."

My thought was that there are different degrees of success, and like Pop always said, "We are all where we're supposed to be, doing what we are supposed to do."

## Chapter 64

Mickey

Los Gatos 1971

The door slammed louder than I meant it to when I walked in my house. Linda was on the couch reading a magazine. "What did Mama say?" she asked me. I guess the look on my face said it all and she uttered, "Oh."

"She doesn't want to move; she's happy where she is," I said.

Linda stood up and gave me a hug. "Don't be upset with her, Mickey," she told me as she held my upper arms. "It's a change, and as we get older we don't like change. You know that. You've said it a hundred times yourself."

I paced around the living room, "But it's such a good offer. Anything she gets will be pure profit." She owns those houses free and clear. She could pay cash for a new place and have dough left over."

"Come and sit down. You're getting yourself all worked up. Your doctor told you to watch the stress. You don't want your blood pressure to spike. Sit with me," Linda ordered.

I sat in my chair and looked at her. "I'd call Mama a hardheaded _señora_ , but that would be an insult to a hardheaded _señora_!" "Stop it, right now, Miguel Reyes!" Linda bellowed.

I stopped and stared at the floor. "I know, Baby. I'm sorry. It's just with no neighbors around any more, Mama and Trina are vulnerable."

"They don't think they are," Linda argued.

"It ain't like it used to be. The town is changing. Hell, it changed years ago. We never locked our doors," I said pointing to the kitchen door." Linda frowned. I knew she was remembering Lamar McManus. "I'm sorry. I do get worked up."

An electrical contracting firm was looking for a location to move and expand their business. Of the four cannery cottages moved to University Avenue in the early 1950's, Mama's and Trina's were the only ones left. The electrician wanted the houses and was offering a decent price. Next to Trina was an auto dealership and Mama's house was adjacent to a cabinet shop. The Department of Motor Vehicles built a new office next to the bocce courts and the garbage transfer station had been relocated to the outskirts of town. The entire neighborhood had been re-zoned to light industrial, and smack dab in the middle were these two houses.

Houses original to the street were being renovated into professional offices and architecture firms. At night the street was deserted except for these two women alone in their houses.

Mama wanted to leave something for us kids. I told her, "We don't need anything; we're okay. Take a trip, spend your money. It was always the same thing. "'Where would I go?' I'd mention a destination and she'd say, "'I didn't lose anything there, why would I want to go there?'"

Later I sat at the desk in my home office furiously punching the numerals on my ancient adding machine. When I pushed the total button, I ripped the printout from the teeth.

"She'd have enough to buy that duplex by Connie," I told Linda as I walked into the kitchen. "Trina is all for it. Maybe I'll have Connie take a run at her."

"A run at her! You're making it sound like she's an angry tiger at the zoo that won't leave the cage and go into her den!"

I looked at her with my _what's your point look_ , which pissed her off. "She's your mother, Mickey."

"She's not being practical!" I railed as I jabbed my finger in the air with each word.

"That's not what upsets you, you know?"

"Yeah? Then what is upsetting me, do tell."

"That she's not doing it your way," she replied as she handed me my blood pressure pills.

## Chapter 65

Monica

Los Gatos 1971

Everybody thinks they know what's best for Mama. The idea of leaving the first home we ever owned breaks my heart and I don't think my children understand that. It is quiet around here at night and the traffic is not the typical neighborhood type—more trucks and shortcut drivers avoiding the major streets. I've lived here for twenty years or more, and I've never lived anyplace, since marrying Ramon, where he wasn't a part of it. I don't want to give that up. I know they wouldn't understand that, either.

We sat in Mickey and Linda's backyard. They had moved from Los Gatos-Almaden Road several years ago to a large ranch style home in Monte Sereno on a bluff with a view of the valley. My kids, except for Desi, who was in Viet Nam, were present. Their spouses were in the house and not part of this discussion. My Ramon told our children that there are family discussions where the spouses are involved and there are ones where they aren't. Somebody decided that this was without the spouses. To me, it didn't matter; they're all my children.

"Where would I go, huh? Tell me that," I asked crossly as I looked each of them in the eye.

"Mama, we have been over this a dozen times," Carlos told me as patiently as possible. "You have several options. I'll go over them again." The idea of a townhouse didn't appeal to me. Neither did sharing a house with Trina, and I knew she felt the same. The duplex looked like the best bet. "Did any of you think that staying put was a solution?" I asked.

Mickey sat up and said, "Mama, the offer from the electrician is a good offer. If the town condemns the property, which they may do in a couple of years, the offer could be less. I think the timing is right to do it now." There were nods and murmurs of agreement.

Nothing was said for several minutes until Connie announced, "I have something to say."

"What is it, dear?" I asked her.

"That duplex is only two blocks from my house. I'd love to have my mother and sister that close."

"I'd like that too," I said with a big grin. "But I don't know."

"What don't you know, Mama?" Mickey asked me.

"Well, for one thing the carpets are orange."

In unison they all shouted, "That can be changed." "Would we be in each other's way?" I asked Trina.

"I don't think so, Mama," she said. "It's not much different from how we live now. We'd each have a separate entrance and the back yards are fenced."

"There's no gate between the fences," I stated, and before they could answer as a chorus, I relented. "I know, I know, that can be changed."

The idea was starting to take shape, all except my Ramon not being _a presencia en mi casa_.

"I know that look, Mama. What's up?" Carlos asked. "This may sound _tonto_ ," I said with lowered eyes.

Trina said, "We'll tell you if it's silly or not, Mama. What is it?"

I planned to tell them my feelings about living without their father, but thought it might dampen the mood so I didn't. My kids just don't understand what it's like to lay in bed with the same man night after night, and suddenly find he's gone. There are mornings when I miss Ramon so much that I don't want to get out of bed. There are days when I don't eat and don't clean house. Then I realize he wouldn't want me to live this way, and I get moving. But it still happens now and then. "The appliances on one side are Harvest Gold and Avocado on the other side."

Mickey got to his feet and took my hands, "Mama, you and Trina come down to the store and pick out all the appliance you want, and the color you want, and it will be our housewarming gift to you."

I felt awkward, you know? There was a time when I washed clothes on a rock by a stream, and I cooked on the ground, and now I'm whining about the color of appliances. _Dios Mio, who do I think I am_?

I stood in the living room of my new house with my girls, in-laws included, while my men moved in the last pieces of furniture. "Don't scratch those hardwood floors," I admonished, probably one too many times, based on the eyeball rolls.

"It's starting to take shape, don't you think, Mama?" Connie asked. "It sure is, honey. I hope Rosie gets back with pizza pies soon. Those are hungry men," I said pointing down the hall. Linda started laughing and exclaimed, "Ever since she got her driver's license, she's become much more helpful, especially if it involves driving someplace."

I sat staring at a half eaten piece of mushroom pizza on a paper plate in my lap. I looked up and saw Trina looking at me, and I smiled. "You want to know who'd get a kick out of this?" Trina asked.

"Papa! He would love this day."

"He sure would, Baby," I said nodding enthusiastically. "You know, I've never lived anywhere without your father. That's why I resisted the move. But faced with the facts, your father would think this move was a good idea." I took in the gazes of my children and told them softly, "My God, I do miss waking up next to my man."

"Here's to Pop!" Carlos said hoisting his can of beer in the air.

I walked through my house moving things slightly; putting a vase on an end table, placing a doily on the back of Ramon's chair. I stood back looking at the chair and it rocked a little. _I must have jostled it_ , I thought to myself. I was setting out photos of the children on the mantel and looked in the mirror and saw his chair again. It wasn't moving but it seemed to glare at me. It was out of place. The couch where I sat and his chair didn't fit.

I watched Trina through her front window for several moments before I knocked on her door. I couldn't tell if she was humming or not, but the way she moved while putting the finishing touches on belongings, she had to be. I saw a glimmer of what Trina was when she was younger. The past showed on her face most of the time, but today she was my little girl again.

I rang her bell and heard her say, "We don't want any," jokingly as she swung the door wide.

"I don't want your father's rocking chair. Will you help me move it to the garage?"

We jockeyed the chair and Trina said, "I can smell Papa's aftershave coming out of the cushions."

We set it down and I pointed to the chair. "I know. Every time I look over at it, I expect to see him sitting there." We looked at each other for a few seconds and Trina said, "Let's not leave it here. Let's put it to the curb. What do ya think, Mama?"

"You don't think I'm terrible for getting rid of it, do you?" "No, Mama, I don't."

I pointed to my temple and told her, "I've got enough memories of him right here. Having this chair gone will make it easier."

The sun was setting as we each strolled up our respective walkways. I stopped and said, "I'm going shopping in the morning. Would you like to come with me?"

"Sure, Mama. What are you shopping for?"

"New living room furniture and some things for _Cinco de Mayo_. We're hosting this year in our new homes!"

## Chapter 66

Rosalinda

Cambrian Park 1971

I sat in a small café with my boyfriend, Martin Gomez Hoodler. He was the only child of a Mexican mother and Anglo father, and lived with his mother in San Jose. His parents divorced when he was just a baby and Martin had no contact with his father. He was, however, very devoted to his mother. Martin embraced his Mexican heritage wholeheartedly, but not the traditional values of _la familia_ that his mother hoped he'd embrace, only the ethnic pride of the Chicanos. Inspired by the courage of farm workers, many Mexican-American university students participated in campaigns for social betterment, the end of police brutality, and the end of the Viet Nam War, all of which evolved into the Chicano Movement.

Martin detested the gang mentality, but would fight at the drop of a hat if a Mexican were being discriminated against. He was well-known by the campus police at San Jose State as a rabble-rouser and a vocal participant at protests. The main issue at the moment for Martin was the Viet Nam War.

His long brown hair was in a ponytail and the chin on his angular face had the beginnings of a goatee. His bell-bottom denims were held up with paisley suspenders and his tee shirt was tie-died.

"Rosie, I don't want to go to a _Cinco de Mayo_ barbeque. It's not my thing," he said as he swashed a French fry through a dollop of ketchup.

"I told my folks that you'd be there," she said pouting. "They really want to meet you. Please come with me. We don't have to stay long."

Reluctantly, Martin agreed. As they approached Rosalinda's grandmother's duplex, Mexican music drifted out to the street. "Jesus Christ," Martin spat.

## Chapter 67

Trina

San Jose Airport 1971

Desi called me two weeks before he was to be discharged. "Hey, Baby, I'll be home on _Cinco de Mayo_. Come pick me up! It's a surprise—don't tell anybody, especially Mama. The day of the party I told Mama I had to run an errand and I'd be right back.

There was my baby brother, home from war, waiting for his luggage and glad to be back on home turf. His flight from Guam had been punishing, but the farther west he got, the better he felt. His second tour of duty was over; his two purple hearts convinced him that to go for a third would not be such a good choice. 'Third what? You might ask?' he said. "Take your pick—tour or another wound, neither of which appealed to me. The piece of shrapnel in my left upper thigh will cause a limp the rest of my life. When the doc at the VA told me that, I felt grateful I had a life to limp through and that's when I decided to get out of active duty."

When Desi and I headed down the concourse, a scruffy guy in unkempt clothing stared him up and down. "Can I help you, pal?" Desi asked in a friendly tone.

The guy looked at Desi's medals and said, "No, I don't think you can help me, but I was wondering, though, how many babies you killed today?" Desi's face started to flush and he dropped his satchel as though he might take a swing at the guy. I grabbed his arm, which was as hard as steel, urging him along and said, "Let it go. It's not worth it. We got a _fiesta_ to go to."

On the plane from Guam, a Marine had told him about the protests and how unpopular the GIs were. "It ain't like World War II. Don't go home expectin' a parade and laurel wreaths with dollies throwing themselves at ya. It ain't that way. Some think we're the bad guys. It's a shitty situation. But it is what it is."

## Chapter 68

Monica

Cambrian Park 1971

I was delighted that Rosie was bringing her friend to meet us. That was until I saw him and experienced his surly nature. He sat at a picnic table and didn't interact with anyone. I could tell Rosie was uncomfortable, hopping from family member to family member all bubbly with joy, then back to Martin in a subdued manner. She's not being herself. I overheard Mickey and Linda talking in the kitchen, "Well, what do you think?" Linda asked.

"About what?" Mickey responded.

"Martin, silly."

The pause in the conversation was palpable, like my son was choosing his words very carefully, just like his father. Before he could say anything, Linda said, "I think he's an ass."

I poked my head around the corner and agreed, "You can say that again. I hope Rosie sees it. Sorry, I couldn't help but overhear."

I was going to give this Martin the benefit of the doubt. "Are you having a nice time, dear?" I asked him as I approached. "Do you mind if an old lady sits with you?" Not waiting for an answer, I slid onto the bench across from him. My back was to the house and I could see my family partying on my lawn. Martin seemed uncomfortable, and obviously was short on social skills. He said nothing and didn't make eye contact.

"You remind me of my late husband, Ramon..."

Before I could finish, he interrupted me and spat, "I'm sure I have nothing in common with your husband."

"Maybe not, dear. Rosalinda says you go to San Jose State. What are you studying?"

"Political Science."

"My youngest son went to San Jose State; he was in ROTC."

"I'm not surprised. Is he here today?"

"No. He's in Viet Nam."

He shook his head, "Jesus Christ..."

"Oh, I know. I pray for him every day," I said as I made the sign of the cross. I could see right through this boy. I've lived long enough to know a troublemaker when I see one. I knew to him I seemed like the doddering old fool, but I was giving him enough rope to hang himself.

An audible gasp interrupted our talk. "What is it?" I saw Mickey and Carlos leap out of the lawn chairs and head for the house. Mickey yelled, "What the Christ, _carnal_! What are you doing here?"

I turned around and there was my baby, Desi, in his uniform, "Can a guy get a plate of rice and beans around here?"

"Oh, my God. Am I dreaming?"

## Chapter 69

Mickey

Cambrian Park 1971

I was so happy, especially for Mama, that my hands shook. This is just perfect, I thought. Then I saw Martin and Rosie go into the kitchen and heard him say, "I'm leaving. Are you going with me?"

"I'm going to stay with my family and celebrate with them and my _Tio_ Desi's homecoming. I wish you'd stay."

"No way, Jose. _That there_ in the patio represents everything I despise." He walked through the front door, letting it slam.

I caught up with Rosie and put my arm around her shoulder. "Don't be sad, Baby. Not today. I won't allow it. Look at them celebrating," I said with a sweep of my hand across the yard. " _La familia Reyes_ rejoicing. I won't tolerate unhappiness today. Tomorrow, kiddo, yer on yer own." Rosie was grinning, but not her usual grin. She was trying hard to be happy, but she was hurting, too.

Family pictures were taken of me and my brothers and sisters with Mama. It was the most joyous get-together in quite some time. All the Reyes females waited on Desi hand and foot, and by golly, he deserved it. I got a lump in my throat as I thought about Pop and how proud he would be.

Chela asked Desi about his limp. "I wondered when that would come up," Desi said, and proceeded to tell us about the wounds. I knew he was sugarcoating it for Mama. He mentioned where the wounds were and the treatment he received, but not the circumstances. He stood behind Chela's chair and put his hands on her shoulders. She patted his hands and kissed his right. Two damaged people connecting with one another.

"You mean to tell me you got wounded? Twice! Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want to worry you, Mama. I want you to have my purple hearts," he announced, pulling them from the pocket of his slacks.

"I worry every minute of every day about all of you," she said while pointing to us with her right index finger. "Lately, though, Desmondo, you've received the most," she exclaimed pointing her chin to the East as if Viet Nam were on the other side of the fence, and holding the medals to her chest.

"Those medals are for you, Mama," Desi said. "I don't ever want to see them again."

The men remained in Mama's back yard. Beers turned into shots of tequila.

A little bit later, Chela wheeled herself to over Desi and said, "Honey, there's a phone call for you."

Who knew he was home, I wondered, as he unsteadily made his way to the kitchen.

"Hello?" I heard him say. In the meantime, Chela had whispered to us that it was Carlitos calling to surprise Desi.

" _Carlitos_! _Como está_? "

He lost it. He wept openly. Carlitos was his nephew, yes, but more importantly, his oldest and dearest friend and I knew he had missed him every day. Desi turned the phone to Mama, his _Tia_ Chela, and everybody had a chance to talk with Carlitos. When he composed himself, I heard him tell Carlitos, "I promise I'll visit you as soon as possible." When he hung up the phone, he hugged Chela and said, "That was a fantastic gift. Thank you." She hugged back and told him, "You being home, safe and sound is the best gift of all. We're all so very proud of you, what you did for us and the sacrifices you've made."

Chela put her arm around Desi and said, "You were over there in a war, and Carlitos is in Soledad. I know what it's like to miss a child, but the difference is, I know what's going on with Carlitos. None of us knew from day to day if you were dead or in a field hospital, or what." She let go of his arm and wiped a solitary tear from her cheek. "If asked? I'd have a son in prison rather than in a war. One carries more honor and valor, but for a mother there is _no contienda_."

Jet lag and booze finally got the best of my brother. He was emotionally spent, too, and swayed off the walls to the spare room, collapsed on the bed and passed out. He was barely aware that his brothers and sisters came to the bedroom door to say goodbye.

Later in the evening, I sensed movement, and saw Mama go into his room with a felt blanket for him, and knew she was sitting on the side of his bed caressing his forehead and saying prayers.

## Chapter 70

Linda

Los Gatos 1972

My heart was racing from the jarring ring. I looked at the clock radio. "Two-thirty in the morning. This can't be good."

"Hello?" I said nervously.

Through irritating static I heard, "Mama?" and then the static turned to white noise. The horrified look on my face must have frightened Mickey, because he bolted upright like she'd been hurled from a catapult.

"Who was that?" he asked.

"It was Rosalinda," I said staring at the receiver in my hand.

"What did she say?"

"Nothing. She started to speak and the line went dead," I said as I swung my feet to the floor.

"Damn it!" Mickey yelled. "I knew this trip was trouble!"

A month earlier, Rosie came to her father and me with a cockamamie plan to go to Costa Rica for the summer. Of course we told her no. "It'll be just for the summer," she whined. "I'll register for the fall semester from the road."

"Baby, it's not about school. It's..." I stammered.

"I knew it! It's about Marty. You never liked him," she screamed as she paced back and forth. "Well, I've got news for you. I love him and I'm going to Costa Rica with him."

She stood her ground, with hands on her hips. "I'd like to go with your blessing, but know this—I'm not a child anymore and I don't need your permission. I can make decisions on my own."

Mickey got up and stormed to the door. "You're not going and that is final!" he roared.

"As long as you're living in my house, you follow my rules. You're not going and that is final."

She looked at me and said, pleadingly, "You understand, don't you, Mama?"

I understood Rosie's feelings; they were the same feelings I felt about Mickey when I was her age. My parents didn't like him and they were wrong. But this guy didn't have the sand of Mickey Reyes, and never would. He was surly and impolite with a sense of entitlement he didn't deserve—a real "holier than thou" attitude.

"I know you don't think much of him, Mama, but you just don't know him," she told me. She was pleading now and I wished that I could give her the go ahead, but in my mind I knew it wasn't right. We both winced when we heard the door slam at Mickey's office in the garage.

"Let me think about it, honey. One thing I want to know though, how are you going to finance this trip?"

"I'll use my savings for the plane fare," Rosie said with a hint of hope in her voice. She was frugal. She worked weekends and after classes at the appliance store, so I was certain she could afford the trip. I could tell by the door slam that Mickey and I weren't going to shell out _uno peso_.

"We're headed for a surf camp, so lodging will be taken care of. Marty will catch fish every day, and I'll cook it on an open fire." I shook my head slightly. It wasn't a 'no' type of headshake, it was more of an 'I'm thinking' type. "I'll let you know, Rosie."

"You can't stop me from going, ya know," she said, becoming angry and defiant again.

At that instant my mind was made up. I would not give my blessing to this so-called vacation. I knew Martin was influencing Rosie, and his words seemed to come out of her mouth. I sensed her independent spirit was diminishing and defiance creeping in.

A week later I found a note on her bed. I was crying as I watched Mickey read the note. I was irate and hurt, but not that surprised. After all, hadn't I done almost the exact same thing years ago?

The note read:

Dear Mama and Daddy,

I'll write or call with my location.

We will land in San Jose, Costa Rica,

And a tentative destination is Tamarindo. Please be happy for me. I love you both. Rosalinda

Mickey re-read the note, and held it away from him like it was contaminated, "You know what this is, don't you? This is a run-away note. She's run away, for crying out loud. What the Christ!"

"It's just a summer trip, Mickey. She starts college in September," I said weakly. "She's not a runaway, she's old enough legally to do what she wants."

Surprise of surprises—Rosie didn't return for college. Her letters to us were not real consistent, but to me, any news from her was welcome. She wrote in her first one that the experience was radical.

"Is radical good?" Mickey asked me. I told him I thought it meant good. She described the ocean as outrageous—same question about outrageous from Mickey and the same answer.

She wrote about the poor country folks they lived among. The men were called _ticos_ and the women _ticas_ , about the different types of trees and flowers. Just nothing of substance in the content, but she always signed with an, ' _I love and miss you. Please write soon_.'

"Shit, I don't want to know about the people. I want to know about her. We don't know anything about her lifestyle," Mickey whined.

My thought was: I'm not sure I want to know about her lifestyle.

Rosie had never been away from home more than a week before she departed for Costa Rica. She went to summer camp when she was ten years old, and Mickey and I missed her something terrible. From then on our vacation plans were always the three of us, but now there was Costa Rica. She'd been gone for over six months and we worried ourselves sick. All the letters the family wrote to her were returned unopened with no such address stamped on the envelope.

## Chapter 71

Rosalinda

Costa Rica 1973

We lived in a cinder-block house right on the beach. The ocean was just twenty yards away. There was no running water and no electricity. It reminded me of the stories my grandfather told about his beginnings, and I felt a real connection. There was an outhouse in back next to a raised tank with a rope to yank on to release water so we could shower. A _tico_ delivered water on request. Most mornings Marty would surf and I'd sunbathe. In the afternoon he'd surf cast for fresh fish, and I would cook it. What fish we didn't consume we traded for fresh fruits and vegetables with the locals.

The surfing community was growing and the caliber of people changed with the calendar. When the season was over the rowdiness stopped and life became serene. Sometimes at night I would cry. I missed my family and wondered why they didn't write.

"You do mail my letters, don't you, Marty?"

"God damn it! I've told you over and over that I mail your letters." Most of the time our life was idyllic, but something I didn't know was that Martin Gomez Hoodler had a temper. One morning, one of the few times I went to town, I was on the phone and Marty walked by and heard me say, "Mama?" and he ripped the cord from the wall of the phone booth. His fits of anger took days to subside. After the phone incident, he told me to stay home. I felt the pinch of his control tighten almost each day. But I was in awe of his skills for living sparingly and providing for us. I relied on him for my survival. He didn't hit me, but his abuse smacked me right between the eyes emotionally and verbally. He always managed to make it look like it was my fault. The raging usually was about his inability to have an equal relationship, that is—the man is superior. I quit questioning him, but to myself I was beginning to question how he could protest about the war and yet be okay with the mental torture toward me, the woman he supposedly loved.

Before the start of the next season, Marty announced that we were going to use our place as a restaurant for the surfers. He made tables and chairs from the abundant wood that grew native in the area. He secured credit at the local grocer and ice and beer was delivered regularly. He caught fish and I kept the fire going. I really enjoyed the company of the people that stayed and ate. Anytime someone from California arrived, I grilled them for scoop from home.

At night we slept soundly because of the work. We smoked pot daily, most brought by the surfers from the far reaches of the globe. That season when we started the food we made a profit of seventeen hundred dollars.

"I think I'd like to fly home and visit my parents, Martin."

"Why would you want to go home?" Martin yelled at me.

"They don't answer your letters. This is your home now."

I lay awake that night trying to hatch a plan to see my family. _I guess it's not a good idea for me to go to Los Gatos. Marty wouldn't like that, probably thinks I won't come back. Hey wait a sec! Why not have them come here? Yeah, that's the ticket—have em come here. Do I want them to see this place? No! They won't understand. I'll have them fly to San Jose, Costa Rica. I'll take the bus and meet them there_.

## Chapter 72

Linda

Costa Rica 1973

Racing home to get the mail became a ritual for Mickey and me. The disappointment we felt when there wasn't a letter lasted until the next day. When anybody asked about Rosalinda, our answer was the same: "She's doing just fine. We hope to see her real soon."

Finally it happened—a letter asking Mickey and me to fly down and meet her in San Jose, Costa Rica.

When Mickey and I crossed the lobby of the Camino-Real Intercontinental Hotel, my mind-set was to lay into her and chew her out, but that didn't happen. Instead I started to cry and we both ran to the overstuffed chair she was sitting in. When she heard our commotion she jumped into our arms. She was thinner than before she left, her hair was longer and lighter and she had a bathing beauty tan. The comfort I felt at that moment was a feeling I never wanted to end. We sat in the lobby and talked for over an hour. She told us she was looking forward to sleeping in a soft bed and soaking in a tub.

I knocked on the door between our rooms, and Rosalinda, with a towel wrapped around her, opened it a crack. "Are ya up for some girl talk, Baby" I asked her.

"You bet, c'mon in."

I sat on the bed and shrieked when Rosie dropped the towel to get dressed. "What is it, Mama?" She asked with alarm.

" _Dios Mio_! You have no tan lines up there," I said pointing to her chest.

"Mother!" she said. "We all go topless."

"Well, just don't tell your father. He'll box Martin's ears for letting you go bare-breasted."

"You should try it, Mama. Once you get used to it, it's very comfortable," she teased as she did a quick stripper shimmy.

Rosie oohed and ahhed during the entire meal. She didn't eat; she _dined_.

"Meat and potatoes. It doesn't get any better than that," she sighed.

Mickey asked about the late night call after she first arrived. "Oh, the phones are not very reliable on the beach. As a matter of fact there isn't a phone within miles."

Mickey told her he was not happy that we had no way of knowing how to get in touch with her. She pretty much clammed up. Sensing the angst, I asked trivial questions about the country. Mickey pulled out a map and unfolded it and said, "Okay, on this, point out your beach." She pointed to Tamarindo and the coastline. "What is that country, there?" I asked pointing north.

"That's Nicaragua. We've never been there—just to town and back, that's all we do."

When she asked us why we didn't write, I sat back stunned. I looked at Mickey and pulled a stack of returned letters tied with a red ribbon. "Honey, these are letters from us and aunts, uncles and grandma."

"Oh, God. I thought you were shunning me, ya know," she whispered as her eyes filled with tears. "We have a post office," she said shuffling through the letters. "The address is right." She sat silently with her eyes darting back and forth like she was trying to figure out a formula.

Mickey excused himself and went to the men's room. I could feel his anger about Rosie being so far removed from us. He had voiced his opinions almost daily, ever since she took off for Costa Rica, about how Hoodler was manipulating her. The term Mickey used was brainwashing and I was beginning to think he was right.

I asked, "How are you, honey. Are you doing well?"

"I really am, Mama. And I'm so happy. It's a wonderful way to live." I wanted her to scream that she hated it— _get me outta here_.

"Martin takes real good care of me. We have a roof over our heads and food to eat," she gushed as she stifled a belch. "He's so smart, why he knows all about history and he understands the here and now and can predict the future."

I wondered what future she was talking about. And as far as taking care of her, his efforts weren't extraordinary. He provided food and shelter and he'd do that if she were there or not.

With Rosie between us we strolled around the tropical gardens of the hotel. We crossed the busy street to a mall.

"It certainly is loud here," Rosie said as a police car roared past with a yelping siren. "Do you mind if we go back? My stomach is upset. Not used to rich food, I guess."

Mickey opened the door and stepped back astonished, "What's the matter?" he asked.

"Oh, Daddy. I'm so sick. I can't stop shaking and I got the dry heaves. Nothing left to come up or out."

I was up in a flash and led her back to her bed. Mickey called the front desk for a doctor and was told there wasn't one, but an ambulance could be summoned if necessary. I continuously smoothed her hair and covered her with blankets. Thirty minutes later she became delirious. "I'm calling for an ambulance," announced Mickey.

The shuttle driver drove us to the hospital following the ambulance. I was expecting at best a clinic and I was pleasantly surprised at the multi-story medical facility. She was being treated in the emergency room. A nurse came out to talk with us, and in broken English asked questions about the last time she ate and what it was. Her brow knitted and her nod indicated that didn't seem too bad, but when I told her about Rosie's diet of fish and vegetables, a light went on.

"After such a bland diet, then a steak? Anybody would get ill," she replied. "She's resting and the shaking has stopped."

"When can we see her?" Mickey asked.

She told us the doctor would come and get us. "Why don't you wait in the cafeteria," she said pointing down the corridor. "I'll tell the doctor where you'll be."

The doctor, a tall blond man with a ruddy complexion approached us. I was expecting a Costa Rican; instead, it was this man with a German name and accent. "Mr. and Mrs. Reyes? I'm Dr. Lugar," he said as he shook our hands. I'm the attending emergency room physician."

"How's Rosie?" Mickey asked.

He told us she was resting comfortably and that the fever broke. The introduction of rich food to her system caused the gastro-intestinal episode. "We've done blood tests and everything seems okay." It was the way he said "okay" that put me on my toes. "There's more isn't there, Doctor?" I asked.

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "We found traces of marijuana in her system, and based on her lifestyle and age, that isn't too earth shattering. She is, however, pregnant."

"That son of a bitch! He takes her away, gets her hooked on dope and knocks her up. I'll kill him!" Mickey raged. Doctor Lugar stepped back as if Mickey spit at his feet.

"Let's take this for what it is: a blessed event. You're going to be grandparents, be happy," Dr. Lugar announced as he walked away. I went to Rosie's bedside, and Mickey went another direction.

## Chapter 73

Mickey

Costa Rica 1973

It took me forty-five minutes before I could face Rosie again. She was asleep and Linda was dozing in a chair. Linda woke with a start, as if she didn't know where she was. I started to say something, and she put a finger to her lips and motioned me to the corridor.

"Did she say anything?"

Linda just shook her head and told me Rosie drifted off to sleep before they could talk.

"God, this is a frigging nightmare. I'm going to call the airlines and get us tickets out of this shit hole."

"Daddy, I hear you," Rosie whispered from her bed. "I'm not leaving Marty."

"Baby, you can't get the care you need here..." "Big deal. I got a tummy ache. I'll get over it."

Linda went to Rosie's bedside and gripping the rail, said softly, "Sweetie, you're going to have a baby." She seemed to sink further into her pillows, "Oh." After several long moments she announced, "All the more reason to stay here."

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"Martin is the father and he has the right to know, and if he wants to be with me during my pregnancy," Rosie replied as she patted her mid-section.

I rocked on my heels and said, "I've had enough for one night." I was astonished that she wanted to be with Hoodler at this point. "I'm going back to the hotel. Are you coming with me, Linda?"

## Chapter 74

Linda

Costa Rica 1973

I stayed in the room and watched my husband walk away. I looked back and Rosie was crying, "He didn't even kiss me goodbye," she sobbed. I tried to explain that given the circumstances of all that had taken place since she left, that her father was conflicted with warring emotions.

"Don't blame him. He loves you very much." I picked up the stack of letters and asked, "Would you like me to read some of these to you?" Some of the letters made her cry, especially the ones from my mother-in-law, her grandmother, Monica.

"I just feel awful if Grandma thinks I was disrespectful and ignored her letters." She failed to mention any slight to Mickey or me, but I knew what she meant. Monica is old and may die before Rosie got to see her again.

"I'll smooth that over with her, Rosie. Let's take care of the task at hand, okay?" The task I was referring to was with her father, but she assumed I was talking about the baby.

The next morning when Rosie and I arrived at the hotel, there were three airline tickets sitting on the dresser.

"You've wasted your money. I'm not going," Rosie hissed.

"And good morning to you, too," Mickey said sarcastically.

"Can we please knock off the antagonism for a while? It's been a long night and we need to get some sleep," I said pointing between Rosie and me. "Then we can sit down and discuss this."

"Oh, I know what I'm gonna do, Mama," Rosie announced as she slammed the door between rooms. Mickey laid his hands flat and started to say something. I put my hand up and said, "Please leave me alone for awhile."

Mickey jumped up instantly and before he went out the door, said, "We're leaving here tomorrow. Rosie's ticket is open-ended. She can use it when she wants."

After our naps, Rosie and I stood on the balcony.

"Honey, go sit with your father. He's down in the garden," I said pointing to him over the balcony railing. "Give him a chance, and don't be upset because he's acting like a parent."

## Chapter 75

Mickey

Costa Rica 1973

Her hair was still damp from her shower and she smelled like gardenias. I stood when she drew near. Our hug lasted a long time and when we broke our embrace we had tears on our cheeks.

"Baby, the last thing I want is for you to be mad at me. I hope you understand what a father feels when he can't do anything to help his family." She nodded that she understood. "Your grandfather was always there to help in times of need. I'm trying to do the right thing," I said with an emotion that caused me to gasp.

She looked at me, not as my daughter, but as a woman and said, "I hope you understand where I'm coming from. What happened isn't Marty's fault. We did this together, willingly, and I have an obligation to him," said Rosie with softness in her voice. "I'm going on the bus back to Tamarindo tonight. I'll tell Marty that I want to have this baby in Los Gatos, and when the child is old enough to travel, we'll return to Costa Rica." She sat back waiting for me to say something.

"I love you so much, Daddy, and the last thing I want to do is disappoint you. You always taught me to do the next right thing. I didn't always listen, but this is the next right thing to do especially now that a baby is coming. And Martin needs an opportunity to do the next right thing too."

From the driveway of the hotel Linda and I watched Rosie's taxi turn the corner. Linda looked up at me and said, "Get me outta this shit hole."

## Chapter 76

Mickey

Los Gatos 1974

Martina Ramona Hoodler, my first grandchild, was born without complications. Her head of shiny black hair was abundant, her cheeks pink, and her cry long and loud.

My entire family was present in the maternity wing of Los Gatos Hospital. My mother, Monica, stood next to Rosie's bed, her cane hooked over the side rail. "She is the loveliest child I have ever seen, Rosie," said Mama sweetly. "I didn't think anyone could surpass the beauty of my children, but that little one sure did." Rosie and Mama hugged, and then she stood straighter and smoothed Rosie's hair off her forehead, "Your grandfather would be bursting with pride because you used his name for her middle name; that was so thoughtful." Rosie started to cry, and I let a couple drip out too because I missed Pop.

Linda was bustling around like a doting grandmother should. As for me, I had mixed feelings, and I was hard pressed as to why. The nurse came in and told us, for not the first time, that a few would have to leave because we were being too loud. "This is my first great-grandchild," Mama said to the nurse.

"Congratulations. A few of you will have to leave, sorry."

I stared through the glass into the nursery at Martina. Mama sidled up to me and said, "Isn't she just _preciosa_?

" _Si_ , Mama, she is precious," I answered flatly. I sensed her looking at me, but I kept looking into the room. I could hear her cane stubbing along the floor as she moved away from me. A few minutes later Carlos approached, "What gives, man?"

"What do you mean, Carlos?"

He put his hand on my shoulder, "Mama can see right through you. She said you have a burr under your saddle. What's up?"

I inhaled deeply, "Do you know that Martin's mother won't come and see her," I said pointing into the nursery. "Every time I look at her, I see that son-of-a-bitch Hoodler."

Carlos removed his hand as if my shoulder was burning it. "That beautiful child had no choice in who her parents are," he whispered hotly. "She's your granddaughter, man. Be proud. "You may be here," he said swishing his hand over his head, "but you aren't any better than Martin's mother." He spun on his heels and walked rapidly away from me.

During the next few months I put up a good front; the proud grandpa on the exterior, but inside I was a mess of emotions.

"Are you awake?" Linda asked me one night in bed. "Yeah. What's up?"

"Something fishy is going on. Rosie got a letter from Martin today. In it he told her that the pictures of Martina she sent him were beautiful."

"That doesn't seem so bad." I felt Linda stiffen, and then she sat upright and turned the bedside lamp on.

"What is it?" I asked her.

The letters she sent, from here—her letters got through. How come all the letters we wrote got returned?"

"God damn, I see your point. That little prick is controlling and manipulating her. I knew he was doing it."

## Chapter 77

Rosalinda

Costa Rica 1974

The walk from town was tiring. I carried Martina in an infant seat and had a diaper bag slung over my shoulder. I wanted to surprise Martin with our homecoming, and couldn't wait to see him with our baby. When I opened the door, he was sound asleep on the floor. I put the baby and bag down and knelt by his side and kissed him on the forehead. "You back so soon?" he rasped.

"Wake up. You're dreaming. Do you want to meet your daughter?"

"Oh wow! I was dreaming about _you_ , and here you are, wow."

He held Martina awkwardly and she started to wail. "She hates me," he moaned.

"She's just not used to you. Just relax."

I looked around and noticed that he was keeping the place neat and tidy. I visited the outhouse and shower. I was concerned when I saw feminine hygiene products in the outhouse and bikini bottoms on the line, which were dry to the touch. I put the baby down for a nap and Marty and I went to bed. Afterwards I asked, "Marty, whose bikini is that on the line?"

"Could be anybody's. It was a busy season."

A few days later a slinky blond strolled up to the shack, "Hey, did I leave my...Oh there they are," she said as she pulled the bikini from the line. "See ya next season maybe." And she was off down the beach. I looked at him suspiciously and he said, "What?"

Marty exhaled as if he'd held his breath a long time. He watched the blond until she was out of sight, and then said, "What's for dinner?" We sparred from time to time, usually about the baby and her routine. It seemed he resented the attention, which he mistook for control, Martina needed. It wasn't all about him anymore.

Several months later, I heard the rumble of a motor, which was rare, long before it came to halt at our shack. I went to the door and saw Marty sitting astride a yellow and black BMW motorcycle with a sidecar. "Your chariot awaits you, my lady."

"What have you done?"

"Got us transportation. Maybe we could take an overnighter, ya know? See some of the countryside."

"What about the baby?" I asked.

" _Doña_ Flora can watch her. C'mon we need to get away. What do ya say?"

I knew that he would go, even if I didn't, and it was true, a night away would be nice. _Doña_ Flora was happy to oblige. She babysat for us on the rare occasion we went out for an evening. Flora relished the idea of spending the night in our place by the sea. It gave her a break from her seven children. Her husband was the _tico_ that brought our water and was capable of caring for their children.

The next day we sped down the road. There was no windshield, so we wore goggles to keep dirt and bugs out of our eyes. I was excited to see something new. I saw trees like I'd never seen before, their canopies blocking out sunlight in flashes like a flickering black and white movie. The farther inland we got the more abundant and lush the foliage got. The tropical flowers became vibrant. It was breathtaking. We stopped at a waterfall with a deep pool for lunch and swam naked. It was the most perfect day ever. We decided to spend the night at the waterfall. "This is such a perfect spot, and it's only three hours from home," Marty said.

I was peeling potatoes to fry up with onions to have with the dried fish. The cascading water was lulling us into a serenity that I'd never felt before.

The snap of a twig sounded odd and startled us as we sat by our fire. Four men approached us in mismatched uniforms.

"We saw your campfire while on patrol," one of them announced. The others held rifles at waist level. The birds stopped when the man spoke. I reached for my bag to get my passport. I heard the shot and saw Martin running away and saw a blood stain on my blouse.

Land pirates, disguised as police, roamed the more remote areas inland searching for adventure vacationers. They were easy prey and didn't resist. Collateral damage was part of the game however, and a reach into a bag for possibly a gun could get a person killed. The pirates rifled the meager belongings and came away with a few dollars in cash and the girls gold cross was ripped from her neck. None of the bandits wanted the motorcycle so they left it.

The bodies lay on the ground around the campfire rendering this bucolic place into a murder scene. The birds and wildlife started up again, not caring about the carnage that was below. The girl was shot in the chest and the boy was shot in the back of the head and between the shoulder blades.

Early the next morning vacationers happened upon the horrific scene and contacted the authorities. The bodies were taken to a village with no name and covered with heavy canvass tarps, and placed on wooden pallets in an icehouse awaiting an investigation. During the investigation at the waterfall, the victim's passports were found and taken to the icehouse for positive identification.

After the third day, _Doña_ Flora notified the US Embassy about the missing parents of Martina. That information along with the killing report was collated and notification of next of kin of Rosalinda Reyes and Martin Hoodler were made.

## Chapter 78

Carlos

Costa Rica 1974

Mickey, Desi, Jimmy Thomas, and me, four zombies, walked through the airport in Houston to catch a connecting flight to San Jose, Costa Rica. The devastating news left us all stunned. Linda was on tranquilizers, and when she was awake, she sobbed and wailed. Mickey and Linda's house became base camp. All the family gathered, even my boy, Carlitos, fresh out of prison was there. He said to me just before, I left, "The only event I get to is this. It ain't fair, Pop," he said as we held each other and wept.

Through numerous phone calls and fantastic support from the State Department and the two countries' embassies, the bodies were transported to San Jose for embalming and packaging for transport back to the US. Connie found out that a local in the village was caring for Martina where Rosie and Martin lived.

We sat in a café on the concourse listening for our flight to be called. Mickey wasn't eating anything. My bet was he hadn't had a bite since getting that terrible phone call. Jimmy was using a cane to help him get around. "What happened to your leg," Desi asked.

"I wrenched my knee, and had an operation three weeks ago," he said raising the cane slightly. "I'm glad you asked me to come, Mickey. I can't imagine not being...Sorry," he said wiping his cheeks.

"Thank you, Jimmy. You're a true friend. You all are. Excuse me," Mickey said as he got up from the table.

"You need to eat something, Mickey," I told him.

He waved his hand over his head and replied, "I'll get something on the plane."

## Chapter 79

Mickey

Cost Rica 1974

I sat in the stall in the men's room trying to stifle my sobs. I thought about the group I'd assembled—my two brothers and our old friend, Jimmy. Carlos and Jimmy were in their fifties and I was in my late forties and Desi was in his thirties. I wasn't expecting any trouble, but needed to have support on this journey no parent should have to take. "Mickey, they called for our flight to board," Carlos said, knocking on the stall door.

"Yeah, okay. I'll be right there."

Before I boarded, I called Teddy Samuels, who was helping my sisters run the show in Los Gatos. I called him at each leg of the trip.

"How's Linda?" I asked.

"About the same, Mickey. Your mom and Trina are seeing to her needs. And Gil and his wife are around, too. The priest just left. He's come by every day. I think he likes the food. But Linda seems calm for a time after he leaves."

"I can't thank you enough..."

"Don't say another word, Pal. You stay focused on what you need to do, okay?"

The plane landed in Costa Rica on a hot and humid morning. The moment we departed the airport the heat was like a slap in the face. "Welcome to shit-hole Costa Rica, _amigos_ ," I said as we went to get a cab. The taxi ride was silent, and the check-in succinct. The walk to the two-bedroom suite lasted forever. Jimmy and Carlos shared a room and Desi and I were together in the other.

We all went to bed to try and combat jetlag, but I couldn't sleep. Desi heard me get up and asked,

"Do you need anything, Mickey?"

"No, I'm okay. Sorry to wake you. I'm going to sit down in the garden."

It was difficult to get my mind around the things needed to be done. I knew I had to get Rosie back home, so I'd need to go to the mortuary. A shudder went through me like an electrical current. I'd faced tough things before— _no, I hadn't_. I'd _never had_ anything as tough as this before. In a moment of clarity, I pared the chores to two—get Rosie home and see about Martina.

## Chapter 80

Carlos

Costa Rica 1974

I heard talking from the living room of the suite. I found Jimmy and Desi sitting on the sofa. "Is Mickey still asleep?" I asked them. Desi told me he took off about an hour ago to sit in the garden. Desi started to cry, "God Damn it!" as his head went onto his hands. I stood in front of him and said, "We gotta be strong for Mickey. That's what we're here for."

Desi got up and hugged me and said, "This is hard enough as an uncle. I can't imagine what it must be like for Mickey." I smoothed the hair on the back of his head, then held him at arms length and told him I loved him. Desi seemed to get rubbery legged.

"We can't let Mickey see us like this, you guys," Jimmy said between sobs.

"You're right, Jimmy," I said. "He's angry too. I've seen this look before. He thinks he's in control, but his flashing eyes and flaring nostrils are telltale signs. Watch out for them."

When I got to where Mickey was sitting, I noticed he was asleep. I heard him whimpering, and it broke my heart. A mosquito landed on his forehead, and I waved it away. The movement woke him, and he sat up. After a couple of minutes, he said, "I've been thinking."

"I bet you have," I said. He cracked a brief smile, the first animated emotion, other than grief, I'd see on him in days.

"You and I are going to go to the mortuary to...You know. See about Rosie. And Desi and Jimmy are going to get us transportation to where Martina is. What do you think?"

"What I think is, I'd like to see about the transportation."

"I know that, Carlos. But this is where I need you the most."

I took in a breath to try and stave off a sob, and failed. "Then that is where I'll be."

Mickey started to get up, and then sat back, "Ya know, I've been sitting here trying to figure out what Pop would do. How he'd handle things."

"What did you come up with," I asked.

He shook his head and told me he hadn't a clue.

"Do you ever think about dying, Carlos?"

"Yeah. Sometimes, but never violently. I'd like to pass with as much dignity as possible."

Mickey got up and I asked, "What are you going to do now?" "The only things on my mind are getting Rosie home, and seeing about Martina's care."

"What does that mean? See about Martina's care."

"See if _Doña_ what-ever-her-name is can take care of her." "Do you hate her that much, Mickey?"

"No, no..." he looked at me, and then said, "We got lots to do and we'd better get on with it."

"Hold on just a damn minute," I said as I stood up. "You said earlier you wondered what Pop would do. Think about that," I hissed. "If he were alive he'd be the first one on a plane here and make sure his family, all his family was taken care of, dead or alive."

Mickey gave me his _you don't understand look_ and walked away. "All he wanted to do was help his children, Mickey. You should remember that. The door shut and I'm not sure he heard me. "He doesn't realize this is not about him," I said aloud.

## Chapter 81

Mickey

Costa Rica 1974

The corridor in the basement of the hospital leading to the morgue had an antiseptic aroma that was hard to get used to. It was like I was in somebody else's body watching this scene in a movie. It was physically me, in my clothes, but I was an empty suit. My heart thumped and resonated in my head like a piston on some massive machine. My mouth was dry and I couldn't form a drop of spit.

The technician, who seemed to be overworked, tried to be as compassionate as possible when he announced that clergy was available. Carlos and I exchanged looks, and I told the tech it wasn't necessary.

Carlos asked me if I wanted him to go with me. "No, Carlos. I better do this alone."

The technician said, "We're just going to be on the other side of that window." We followed his finger and looked through a window at the sheet-covered body.

On the other side of the window I looked and saw Carlos with his hand covering his mouth.

"Are you ready?" the technician asked. I nodded and my pulse raced and my eyes widened. I looked up at Carlos, who put his hand over his heart, and tears flowing down his cheeks. The tech slowly removed the sheet and I stared into the dead, misshapen face with bulging eye sockets of Martin Hoodler! I stepped back horrified, and rapidly grabbed the lapels of the white lab coat the tech was wearing, knocking his glasses to the floor.

Carlos was through the door like he'd been shot from a rifle. He grabbed my arms and moved me away. I was aware of guttural noises emanating from my throat. I heard Carlos wail "Jesus Christ!" The tech was moaning, "Mr. Reyes, I'm so sorry," over and over.

The lab supervisor, hearing the commotion ran into the room, "What gives?" he asked.

I saw Carlos wheel on him and say, "What gives is, my brother is here to get his daughter. We've been steeling ourselves for days for this moment and we're shown _him_!" he screamed. The supervisor looked at the corpse of Martin then to his chart.

"No need to look at your chart," I wailed. "That's not my little girl," I said slumping to the floor.

The gurney squeaked as the tech wheeled Martin away. Carlos started to leave when they entered with another gurney. I grabbed his arm and asked him to stay. The tech stood at the head, and when I moved forward he flinched. "I'll do it," I whispered. He moved two steps back.

I pulled the sheet back slowly. I could feel my teeth grinding in tempo with my heart as I looked into the slightly mottled face of my Rosie. I experienced what a broken heart felt like. My lovely girl being murdered was the most life-changing event of my whole life. I never thought anything would surpass the events at Sleepy Lagoon. Hell, Sleepy Lagoon wasn't even a blip on the screen at this point. Bodies of water, an irrigation reservoir, and a jungle pool, were the only similarities.

"Would you like to see her, Carlos?" He stood next to me and put his arm around my waist and wept with me.

"Where's her gold cross?" I asked of no one in particular. The tech told us her personal belongings were in another room. "Would you see if her cross is there, Carlos? Pop gave it to her. I'd like her to wear it."

## Chapter 82

Carlos

Costa Rica 1974

Watching Mickey's face as he looked at the body of his dead little girl will haunt me for the rest of my life. She was such a vibrant child and now he will never see her accomplish anything. Sure, she graduated from school, but all those other milestones will be missed. She became a mother, and a good mother; that will be her living accomplishment in this life. And God damn it, I must make Mickey realize that.

I looked through her belongings. I was startled to see her blood-soaked blouse. I quickly looked for the chain and cross, but it wasn't there. I told Mickey I couldn't find the cross. He bobbed his head once, "Is there anything there her mother would want, Carlos?"

As we started to leave the tech asked, "What about the boy?"

"What about him?" Mickey asked.

"Do you want to send him home too?"

Mickey looked at the tech and then to me with an expression that implied, _handle it_.

I instructed the morgue to send both bodies to the same location in Los Gatos. In the lobby Mickey said he needed to use the bathroom. I stood at the door and heard the heaves and retching commence. The wailing echoed throughout the lobby. Then the smashing started—broken glass, crashing metal and pounding walls, all mixed with wailing.

A security cop approached, but stopped in his tracks when he saw my face. "Go away," I snapped. In broken English he told me he had a job to do.

"All damages will be paid for, just get out of here." "I can't let this go on, sir."

"Go get the person in charge of this so-called hospital."

A stern looking East Indian woman marched up to me, "Do I need to call the police?" She barked. When I explained the debacle in the morgue, she stepped back and softened. "I see. I am terribly sorry. I just wish he would have raged outside. If he needs treatment, take him to the emergency room." She turned to walk away and said over her shoulder "All damages assessed will be added to existing charges."

Desi and Jimmy were sitting in the lounge. They each had a glass of beer in front of them. They started to get up, but I signaled for them to stay put. I was holding Mickey up; his fist had been sewn up and they gave him a sedative that must have been a whopper, because he staggered just minutes after swallowing it.

I put Mickey to bed, and went and joined the others. I told them the entire saga, and saw them pale with rage and compassion.

"What was the damage to the bathroom like?" Jimmy asked.

"Totaled."

"Good," they both replied in unison.

"Carlos, do you hear that?" Jimmy asked in the dark. "Is that somebody singing?"

I turned the lamp on and told him, "Mickey is singing La Bamba; he was singing it in the car on the way home from the hospital.

We went into the living room and saw Mickey sitting on the couch rocking back and forth singing. His bandaged hand had a huge bloodstain soaking through the gauze.

Desi came in and looked at us, then at Mickey. "What are ya doing, Mickey, singing a Mexican song?" I was peeved at Desi, because I felt if he was singing he wouldn't rage again.

"Not just any song, man. It's the one I used to sing to Rosie when she was a little girl; in her crib, ya know?" He hummed a few bars then said, "She'd look up at me with those beautiful eyes and grin...That little girl grin...Ah, shit."

We circled around him ready for him to crash or rage, but he just slumped. He looked each of us in the eye with a look of 'I wonder why they're here?'

Desi moved in and gently nudged Mickey toward the bedroom, "C'mon Mickey."

"Where?"

"Back to bed. It's the middle of the night." Desi shrugged as he shut their door.

The van ride to the village where _Doña_ Flora lived was long and rough. Moments of smooth road would suddenly give way to bone-crunching potholes and ruts. The driver was familiar with the region and enjoyed telling us about the area. "Flora is my cousin. We went to class together." Every time we stopped for gas, or to get a cold drink he'd say, "My Uncle Tino lives just a mile ahead or my brother's son-in-law has a wood business just down that road."

Mickey was sitting in the middle of the back seat, and he leaned forward and asked the driver about land pirates. "Oh, sure, they're around, but I can avoid em. Don't worry."

Mickey leaned back and said nothing. I knew what he was thinking. He was spoiling for a fight. It was a bad idea.

_Doña_ Flora's house was sparse, but neat. She greeted the cousin with a huge hug, then turned to us and asked who the grandfather was. Mickey stepped forward and she embraced him and told him how sorry she was. After an uncomfortable few moments I said, "Can we see the baby?"

Martina seemed well cared for and content. In a moment of grandfatherly tenderness, Mickey held Martina to his breast and wept. All others in the room cried also, including the van driver. Mickey handed the baby back to Flora and said, "I'd like to see where my Rosie lived."

The van stopped next to the shack and we all got out.

Desi said aloud, "Jesus, no wonder she loved it here. It's beautiful." Mickey shot him a look, and started to say something, but clammed up. He opened the door and went inside. He looked around at knick-knacks that adorned the room. I asked as gently as I could, "Is there anything you want to take with you, Mickey?"

He sighed and said, "I don't know. I just got here." We went outside and sat at a picnic table to let him search. "Hey, _amigos_ , you want some beers? They're kinda cold." We sat around a rickety table inside sipping beer.

Then the tirade started.

"This place is worse than Chavez Ravine. No daughter of mine should have to live in a shit hole like this. I raised her to be better than this." It lasted twenty minutes. From time to time the rest of us would make eye contact.

My leg wouldn't stop bouncing, and Jimmy gave me a knitted brow look. Mickey finished his beer and stood and hurled the bottle at the cement wall, sending shards of brown glass on the floor. He stood to go to a drawer, and as he passed my chair, I lifted Jimmy's cane that was hanging on the back of his chair and hooked Mickey's ankle knocking him face down on the floor. I straddled him, and whispered in his ear, "You're not going to trash this place. I won't let you." He was rocking from side to side, trying to knock me off of him. He growled like an angry bear.

"This is the last place your little girl was alive and happy. You may not like the fact she was happy. But by God, you should treat this place as a shrine. Do you understand?"

Mickey relaxed and moved his head in agreement. I got off of him, and he remained on the floor weeping. We again retreated to the beach. Fifteen minutes later Mickey came to the door and said he'd like to spend the night there, alone. I raised my eyebrows and he put his hands out in a placating manner and said, "Don't worry. I'm not going to do anything, Carlos."

He asked our driver if he knew of a place where the rest of us could sack out for the night. "Sure, sure, my brother-in-law has a huge house. He has room."

"Are you sure you want to do this, Mickey?"

"Yeah, I'm sure," he said. "I need to connect." I nodded and stepped for the van.

Just before I got into the vehicle, Mickey grabbed my shoulder and spun me and we embraced.

"Thank you for everything, Carlos. Not just for this," he said encompassing the country-side and ocean, but for all you did for me in my life."

I rode away thinking that what he just said had a finality to it that I would lose sleep over. I just hoped he'd be there in the morning when we came for him.

## Chapter 83

Mickey

Costa Rica 1974

I was sitting in the bus depot waiting for Rosie to come out. She'd been in there too long. I kept asking people over and over if they'd seen her. Nobody answered me. In fact they all ignored me. Then the door opened. "Finally," I said. "I've been waiting for you so long..." I looked up and saw Pop, and he said, "She grew up to be a beauty, Miguel."

I was sweating and crying. I could hear the surf crashing, so I got up and walked outside. A slight breeze was blowing on what had been another humid day. I walked to the shore and stepped into the salty water. I plunged in and body surfed for an hour, then went and sat in the sand, watching the moon rippling on the water. _All I need to do is go in and keep swimming and my troubles would be over_. Linda's voice called to me and said dinner was ready.

I woke up from my dream within a dream. When I saw my father, I woke up. But it was still a dream and when I heard my wife's voice I woke up in the shack and not sitting in the sand. I lay awake until dawn, thinking about my wife and how much I missed and needed her right now. And, Pop; why did I dream about Pop? Then I remembered what Carlos told me yesterday, which seemed like it was a month ago, about Pop being the first one to be there to help his family. The bus depot was a reminder about the bus ride Pop and I took when we left LA, and how I was going to be as good of a son as he was a father. "Son of a bitch, I failed miserably at that!" I yelled.

At daybreak I started to go through drawers looking for anything to take home. I was trying to be the eyes for Linda, but I didn't feel I was doing too good of a job at it. I picked up a picture of me and Martina. I was leaning away from her with a cheap imitation of a grin. I was almost holding her at arms length like she had a contagious disease. "I need another picture of her and me. I'll do it when I get home." At sunrise I had another breakdown, and I knelt in the sand and asked God to give me His guidance in accepting Martina. Just as the sun came up I looked up and whispered, "I'm where I'm supposed to be, Pop, doing what I'm supposed to do!"

## Chapter 84

Mickey

Los Gatos, CA 2007

I sat under the huge cover that shades my entire patio and watched my family and friends, those that are still living anyway, celebrate my eightieth birthday. It was a terrific day, but I missed my wife, Linda. I misted up thinking about her all the time. I hope she is with Rosie, Mama and Pop, and Carlos.

Linda was never the same after Rosie's death. It was understandably hard. We embraced Martina, and raised her, but the wedge carved out of our hearts would never heal. How could it? My wife never got to see her great-granddaughter, Ramona—she would have fallen in love, again. I know I did.

Martina married a decent man, but things happen and they divorced. He took care of their daughter's needs and Martina had a good job as a bank loan officer. We gave Martina our house on Los Gatos Almaden Road and after Linda died, Martina and Ramona moved in with me. I like the company, but when I'm by myself, I enjoy the silence.

"I never thought I'd live this long," I said out loud the entire day. "Hell, all I'm doing is taking up good air."

"You're where you're supposed to be, Bampa," Martina said as she put a piece of burnt almond cake in front of me. The smell of wax from the huge candle lingered in the air. Most of my friends are dead or too immobile to be here. My sisters, Trina and Connie, and my brother, Desi came, so did Chela and Carlitos. Ted Samuels is in a care facility. His mind is good but the body betrayed him. I visit him regularly and I take him to lunch often. Gil and his family moved to Nevada, but they sent a card.

I watched Desi cross the lawn; his limp became more prevalent as he aged. The rest of us are steady on our feet. I enjoy working in the garden, and thank Christ I can do that.

My house sits on about four acres. In back there are cherry and apricots trees in an orchard below the patio. I have a small tractor and till the soil. Somebody else tends to the trees now. The dirt is mine, though. The driveway is lined with orange trees and a huge lawn spreads across the front of the house. I love everything about this house and yard.

But my favorite thing is a huge pepper tree that sits where the orchard ends and drops to a small creek. It's messy, but it doesn't matter. The trunk is about eight feet around and the bark is gnarled. The pale green foliage and the small round pink pods give it stateliness. It reminds me of my family; we were in messes from time to time, we may have been rough like the bark, but we clung to the trunk and prospered, and the pods and leaves flourished. There are chairs and a table underneath. It's like a sanctuary, much like my tree at the boys' farm. This is better, though.

I looked at a picture Jimmy sent me in his card. It was a black and white shot of Carlos, Jimmy and me standing in the front of the Palomar Lanes. Jimmy and Carlos have on their drapes and I'm wearing my charcoal suit. I don't remember when the picture was taken. In fact, the only time I recall being with them while in my suit and they in theirs was Sleepy Lagoon. The mind plays tricks. At that instant a gust of wind, on a windless day, blew a speck of dust in my eye. I smiled. _I know, Pop, you hate the dust_.

Ramona picked up the picture and asked, "Bampa, were you really a _pachucho_? Did you have to run for your life because of Sleepy Lagoon?"

I looked into the hazel eyes of my great-grandchild, the beauty of mi esposa shining in her face.

"How do _you_ know about Sleepy Lagoon?"

"I've heard about it all my life, Bampa! _Were_ you a _pachucho_?"

"Not exactly, Baby. It's complicated. But I've written it all down for you and I've given it to your _madre_."

The next day I went to the cemetery to visit Mama and Pop, Linda and Rosie. It wasn't until Linda died that I could bring myself to pay homage at Rosie's spot. On my first visit to Linda, I sensed her prodding me to acknowledge Rosie. "You've wasted too much time, _do_ it."

Satisfied that the markers are shined and the edges smooth I left. When I got home I sat under the pepper tree and fell asleep and had the recurring dream again. I'm in the bus depot waiting for Rosalinda. Nobody acknowledges me. Nobody answers my questions. Then the restroom door opens and Pop comes out, and I ask him, "Have you seen Rosie, Pop?"

"I have, son. She's where she's supposed to be, and she's waiting for you. We all are, c'mon."

## Epilogue

Ramona Maria Boone

Great-Granddaughter of Miguel Reyes

Los Gatos, California

Mama gave me the Manila folder with the handwritten pages inside it: _The Reyes Family Journal: the War Years_. It also contained photographs of persons and places. I recognized some of them, but some were unknown to me. Bampa had written the names and dates on the backs of the pictures, but, at eleven years old, who really cares about family history? I stuck the journal in the back of my closet and I forgot about it.

May 23, 2008

The next time I opened the journal was after Bampa's funeral. I retreated to my room and pulled it out from the box in the back of my closet, next to the high heels that Mama finally let me wear. The handwriting was neat and easy to read. I looked at the names of those Bampa memorialized: Ramon Jesus Reyes and Monica Cervantes Reyes, my great-great grandparents; Carlos Roberto Reyes, my great uncle; Linda Rosa Reyes, my great grandmother, and Rosalinda Maria Reyes, my grandmother. People I never knew, but was connected to. Then I read the dedication:

To Ramona Maria Boone, my beautiful great-granddaughter. Much love,

_Bampa_.

Everyone tells me crying easily is a Reyes family trait, as if I needed to be told. I thought I had no more tears to shed after Bampa's passing, but found out I was wrong. Tears brimmed every time I thought about those gone before me. All the family I never knew, and all their stories, suddenly mattered. I ached to have my Bampa read these pages to me and that wasn't going to happen, but I heard his voice in every word and as I read, the Reyes saga came to life. What a family we are! How lucky can a person be? I read straight through the entire journal that afternoon instead of joining the others mourning my Bampa. Finally I came to the end. When I flipped through the pages, a faded envelope fell out. Inside was a yellowed wristband from a hospital in Costa Rica. The tragic life of my grandmother, Rosalinda Maria Reyes, became even more real to me and I made myself a promise that I would take up Bampa's ritual at the family gravesite, preparing fruit to honor my loved ones who, thanks to Bampa, I felt as though I really knew.

Also inside the envelope was an outline scribbled on a piece of binder paper: _Moving to LG, Fanning's, Boys' Farm, Linda, Family United, Costa Rica_ and the photo of Jimmy, Bampa and _Tio_ Carlos in their drapes that I first saw at Bampa's birthday party, when I learned about Sleepy Lagoon and how it changed the _la familia Reyes and_ moved us to Los Gatos.

Toward the end, Bampa seemed okay, _almost_ happy. He just kept saying that he was taking up good air. I smiled and whispered, _Bampa, you earned all the air you took. Su aire es precioso_.

September 1, 2011

Today I polished all the grave markers, put figs and oranges out, and smoothed the transitions between the grass and cement. Before I walked away I said aloud, _estoy donde yo deberia estar, haciendo lo que debo hacer_. I'm where I'm supposed to be, doing what I'm supposed to be doing.

Two doves in the deodar tree cooed.

From Sleepy Lagoon

To The Corner of The Cats

Steve Sporleder's Notes and

A word from the cover illustrator, Letty Samonte

## Steve's Notes

_From Sleepy Lagoon to the Corner of the Cats_ is about a Hispanic family's struggle to survive in a world of turmoil and strife, and yes, prejudice. However, my wish is that the story transcends ethnicity to encompass any persons, regardless of nationality, who have felt repression from the majority. And, I'd like to think that my town, Los Gatos, California, was a place that was kinder and gentler to those who moved here.

Write what you know. I've heard that numerous times. I don't claim to know about repression or discrimination or for that matter what it might have been like to be from someplace else. I've never lived any place other than Los Gatos. But I have life-long friends, Hispanic friends, and their stories have given me the inspiration to set this story in motion.

To the Mesa, Arena, Sanchez, Gomez, and Montano families—I will always have a place for you in my heart. This is your story. I just hope I have offended no one, but in case I have, let me apologize now. It wasn't intentional. I couldn't possibly name all the families of Mexican heritage that influenced my story, but know that their DNA infuses this story. _Abrazos_ to you all.

Places and people in my story—some real and some not

Los Angeles

In 1940 Los Angeles there was an agricultural area that had a reservoir nicknamed Sleepy Lagoon. All the characters mentioned from the Sleepy Lagoon section of the story are fictional.

Chavez Ravine was a real place in LA, and is now the site of Dodger Stadium. Go Giants! Actual street names are used, but the locations are made up. The Palomar Lanes and the bungalow-style apartments came from my imagination as well. Leimert Park and the Biltmore Hotel were real, as was the Hotel del Coronado. My maternal grandmother's family ran a water taxi operation between San Diego and Coronado Island. The Hacienda Club in San Diego was an actual place too.

Mickey Cohen, Jack Dragna, Johnny Roselli, Johnny Stompanato and Elizabeth Short, are all "real" people, although their actions in my story are completely fictional.

The Los Angeles Police Officers, Finis Brown and Harry Hansen were legendary.

Northern California

In East San Jose, Alum Rock Avenue, at one time, was rural rather than the busy commercial area that it is today.

The ride from San Jose to Los Gatos feels pretty much the way I remember it long before Highway 17 existed, with the farming areas giving way to more populated areas the closer one got to Los Gatos.

The bus depot in Los Gatos is as I remember it. So is Santa Cruz Avenue and Main Street. The taxi stand in front of the depot was where Denny Rauch parked his cab. I can still smell his pipe tobacco.

The description of the intersection of Saratoga Avenue and Santa Cruz Avenue is like I remember it. My father, Lou, owned a Shell Station across Saratoga Avenue from Fanning's Motel. The cannery stood on the other corner and the 5Spot was on the corner next to the Live Oak Inn, which Bus and Ruby Benson ran for years. Double D's now occupies that spot. The station and the 5Spot were victims to Highway 17 construction and the widening of the intersection. Village Liquors sits where the station stood and the 5Spot is just a memory. My father's business was relocated a block west to the corner of Tait and Saratoga Avenues.

The cannery site is now a commercial hub in town.

Fanning's was sold and a bank and supermarket were built on the site. The bank building is now a real estate office and the supermarket is now a Walgreen's.

The cannery houses next to the Live Oak were moved to the north end of University Avenue. Effie Walton was a real estate lady in town for years and was responsible for developing the Little Village shops. The garbage transfer station, roller rink, and bocce courts were there, too.

The Southern Pacific Depot was as described. The tracks ran between Santa Cruz Avenue and University Avenue and went to San Jose and beyond. There is still a barber shop on University Avenue, owned by Jim Kooper, probably the longest running business in town owned by the same family.

The veterinary building is now a dry cleaners. Falaschi's Bar is called Tommy's today and Eddie's Northside Market is now a Karate studio.

The courthouse, jail and boys' farm are composites of municipal buildings.

There was an actual business called Clanton's. I fictionalized all things about it. The creamery was real.

The creek trails and hobo jungles were also real. I took liberties with the small jailhouse. I'd never been in it. The police station and Town Hall are described as best as I can recall. Chief Ralph Phillips was the long time police chief in Los Gatos and a civic leader and a genuinely nice man.

I remember the high school building, but mostly arriving in the morning and leaving in the afternoon, or before. Mr. Fred Canrinus, the principal and football coach, was a very kind man.

The bank described is a composite of several banks in Los Gatos. Mr. Hamsher was a banker for many years.

The ElGato Hotel was the Hotel Lyndon. Lyndon Plaza occupies that space now.

Chrislow's Department Store was a mainstay in several locations on Santa Cruz Avenue. Other shops in the downtown area are composites of stores from my youth.

Sterling Lumber Company was across the street from University Avenue School. Old Town occupies the school buildings and boutique shops stand on the lumberyard.

"We and Our Neighbors Club House" still exists on Union Avenue and Los Gatos-Almaden Road.

Elliot's Nursery, in my story, is on San Jose Avenue, which is now called Los Gatos Boulevard. A McDonalds Restaurant currently occupies this location.

Just off of Highway 9, between Saratoga and Los Gatos, at the intersection of Quito Road and Austin Way, is the location of Austin Corners. Andy's service station is long gone.

From all I've heard, Costa Rica is a beautiful and gentle place. I needed a foreign location for a portion of the story and I choose Costa Rica. The Inter-Continental Hotel is an actual resort property in San Jose, Costa Rica.

For those of you who lived during the years of this story, I hope you felt a twinge of nostalgia; that is also what I was hoping for.

Steve Sporleder

Los Gatos, CA 2011

Letty Samonte

Cover Design

After reading an early version of Steve's manuscript, _From Sleepy Lagoon to the Corner of the Cats_ , and talking with Steve, we agreed to keep the cover simple and maintain the focus on family. Because the book intimately connects the reader to the Reyes family, it made sense for the illustration to be a family photograph. There is a passage that describes a photo of the Reyes family that Mickey keeps in his office. In it Mickey is about ten years old and wearing a baseball cap. He has just arrived home from practice. The passage describes Mickey's parents, where they are standing, and the white flower that his mother, Monica, has in her hair.

This was more than enough information for me to form a pretty concrete image of the family in my head. I estimated the ages of Mickey's siblings and began to look online for vintage photographs of people I could digitally collage and paint to represent each family member. Final illustrations were taken from a different photograph and placed into the setting that I had selected and altered. The face of each person, with the exception of the sisters, Trina and Connie, was also taken from separate individual photos. I spent many hours superimposing faces and bodies until I came up with a representation of what I felt each character to be.

After I had them all placed, I then went to work making the entire photo feel aged. I tweaked the colors and values until it felt right and moved figures around in the setting until I achieved the composition that Steve and I discussed. I am very glad that the result is believable as a found vintage photograph of _la familia Reyes_.

Letty Samonte Artist lasamonte@gmail.com

## About Steve Sporleder

Steve Sporleder is a lifelong resident of Los Gatos, and the author of three books, _From Sleepy Lagoon to the Corner of the Cats; A Fouled Nest_ , and _Gallivanting in the City_ , all set in the town of Los Gatos, CA. Steve, a former firefighter in Saratoga, CA, for thirty-two years, draws on his experience as a fifth-generation Los Gatos resident to infuse his writing with local flavor and history. His grandfather, father, uncles and brothers were also in the fire service and his family has served the town of Los Gatos and surrounding areas for over 100 years.

His most recent novel, _From Sleepy Lagoon to the Corner of the Cats_ was a Finalist in the 2012 Next Generation Indie Book Awards.

_Gallivanting in the Gem City_ – Whether it's the "Dirty Boys of Boo Gang", when a bucolic 1933 summer day turns tragic at the town swimming hole along Los Gatos Creek, catapulting three young boys toward a decision that will have consequences over three generations, or any of his other energetic stories, _Gallivanting_ will leave you both longing for the gentler days of the past and eerily wary of the darkness hidden within innocence.

_A Fouled Nest_ – Thirty years after fleeing Los Gatos, California, Venice Webb receives a call from his sister with the news that their father has died. In a startling mix of abrupt confessions, resurfacing memories, and disturbing clues, Venice is left to piece together the incidents that have forever marked his family. At once, the truth about his father's erratic behavior and neglect closes in on Venice like a freight train at full speed.

Short Stories by Steve Sporleder:

_Carrying Kerrie_ – In "Carrying Kerrie," we revisit Venice Webb as he travels to the Pacific Northwest to reconnect with his ex-wife, Kerrie, who suffers from a terminal illness and wants Venice to help her locate her daughter, Mandy, from whom she has been estranged for over a decade. This quest puts all of Venice's investigative instincts to the test and underlying the search is the gnawing question: is Mandy my daughter?

_Conversations with Clete_ – In "Conversations with Clete," Cletus Rossiter, a man in his mid-sixties, is concerned about his snoring and sleep apnea, and records himself while sleeping in order to find out how bad his apnea is. But he gets far more than he bargained for when strange voices show up in the recordings and he even hears himself speaking German, a language he doesn't know. He encounters Kruger, a Nazi soldier; Zeralda, a widow from the 1880s, and a club boxer, Kid Pierpont. Clete is left to wonder if these are dreams or if he is dealing with ghosts from the historic past?

"Conversations with Clete" developed from an actual incident in my life. I recorded myself sleeping just to see how badly I snored. As I listened, I wondered if I talked in my sleep. There was nothing but snoring on the recording, but I deliberated on what would happen if a spirit visited me while sleeping and we spoke to each other?

You can find "Carrying Kerrie" and" Conversations with Clete" at www.smashwords.com
