Bill Pronzini: Breakdown

The Latinos were partly responsible for its present state, in particular the disillusioned young and the steady influx of frustrated and sometimes desperate illegals. So was the heavy concentration of drug dealers and cocaine, heroin, crack, and methamphetamine addicts in the four-block area around Sixteenth and Mission that has been dubbed the Devil’s Quadrangle. So was its floating population of drunks, hookers, misfits, drifters, and homeless citizens. So were the impoverished elderly, forced into the area’s shabby residential hotels by redevelopment projects in other parts of the city. So were the predators who preyed on the unfortunate and the unwary, and seemed to take periodic delight in setting fire to buildings both abandoned and occupied. So were the neighborhood activists, who had brought about small cosmetic and public-service improvements and who continued to lobby long and loud for major ones. And most recently, so were the New Bohemians, once entrenched in North Beach and then in the Haight-Ashbury, who had been drawn to the Mission by its still-affordable rents; who had opened repertory theaters, avant-garde art galleries, funky cafes where you could listen to poetry readings while you sipped espresso, bookstores new and used that specialized in radical political and feminist literature, and legitimate nightclubs as well as the bandit variety that operated without business permits. You could buy or do or see just about anything in the Mission these days, from the simple to the depraved. You could also lose your money or your life if you weren’t careful-and not just after nightfall.

I drove up Sixteenth past Mission Dolores. Some of the older wood-frame homes and gingerbread-adorned apartment houses in this area had been damaged by the October quake, especially along Shotwell a few blocks east; but the structures flanking Albert Alley, the narrow little side street on which Rafael Vega lived, seemed to have survived with a minimum of harm. Parking on Albert or in its immediate vicinity was impossible; finding a space within walking distance took me fifteen minutes of circuitous driving. The rain had quit for the time being, but the wind still blew cold and damp. I was chilled by the time I completed a vigilant five-block walk and located Vega’s address.

He and his family occupied the lower flat in a well-maintained two-unit Italianate Victorian, set back behind a gated fence and a nice little garden. By Inner Mission standards, it was a pretty affluent residence. The Vegas had cut themselves a slice of the American Dream, and never mind that it was at least partially at the expense of their Latino brethren.

Lights glowed behind a drawn shade in one of the front windows, so somebody was home. Huddled on the porch, I rang the Vegas’s bell. Almost immediately, hurrying footsteps sounded inside. A porch light flicked on, locks clicked, and chains rattled, and then the door jerked inward-all as if the woman who stood there had been waiting eagerly for a caller. She was in her mid-forties, plump without being fat, with coffee-dark skin and black hair pulled into a tight bun. One hand came up to her mouth when she saw me. The worried look in her eyes staggered over the edge into fear.

“Si? Yes? What do you want?” Her English was heavily accented, her voice a little thick-the kind of thickness that comes from alcohol. I could smell the wine on her breath.

“Mrs. Vega?”

A convulsive nod. “?Esel mi esposo? Dios mia, my husband?”

“He’s why I’m here, yes, but I-”

“What has happened to him? Where is he?”

“Mrs. Vega, I’m here to see your husband, not to tell you anything about him.”

She stared at me for two or three beats. Then the fear-shine in her eyes dulled and she sagged a little against the door, crossing herself. Relief seemed to have clogged her throat; she had to clear it before she could speak again.

“Who are you? What do you want with Rafael?”

“Just to talk to him.”

“You are not from the-” She bit off the rest of the sentence: “police,” maybe, or “Immigration Service.”

“I’m here on my own,” I said. I told her my name, but not what I did for a living. “Your husband and I work for the same man-Thomas Lujack.”

“Ah,” she said, but it was just a sound without meaning.

“May I come in, Mrs. Vega?”

She hesitated. “Rafael … you know he is not here.”

“I’ll talk to you instead, if that’s all right. It won’t take long. Con su permiso.”

Again she hesitated, longer this time. Finally she made a motion with one hand, almost of resignation, and drew the door wider. “Come in.”

I followed her across a short hall and through a doorway on the left. She was steady enough on her feet, but slow and deliberate in her movements: not drunk yet but working on it. Alcoholic? Her appearance said no. Her face was free of the blotchiness and doughy laxity of the habitual drinker, and her hair and her brown wool skirt and white blouse were in neat array.

The room she led me into was a high-ceilinged front parlor. It was overstuffed with a hodgepodge of good quality but mismatched furniture, and dominated by religious paintings and a large statue of the Virgin Mary on the mantel above a walled-up fireplace. Two odors lingered on the too warm air: scented candle wax and red wine. There was a bottle of burgundy and a half-filled glass on the table next to a Mexican rocker.

“You will have some wine?”

“No, thank you,” I said. “Nothing for me.”

We both sat down, her on the rocker and me on a carved rosewood settee. She looked at her glass but didn’t pick it up. Instead she plucked at her skirt as if removing invisible flecks of lint. I noticed then that her hands were remarkably young and delicate-the hands of a woman half her age.

“Mrs. Vega, will you tell me why you’re so worried about your husband?”

“He … since last night he has not been home. Always before he tells me first before he goes away, but this time …” She shook her head and sighed and said, “Ay de mi,” as if in supplication.

“You have no idea where he might be?”

“No one has seen him, no one knows. Paco has gone to ask others, friends of my husband. …”

“Paco?”

“My son. He believes … ah, no. No.”

“He believes what, Mrs. Vega?”

“Nada. No es importante.”

“What time did you last see your husband?”

“Half past ten. Here, in this room.”

“Did he say where he was going when he left?”

“No. He said nothing.”

“Why would he go out at that hour?”

“The telephone call … it must have been.”

“Someone called him right before he went out?”

“Si.”

“Do you know who it was?”

“No. He talked in the kitchen … not long.”

“How did he act after the call?”

“Act? ?Que quiere dear?”

“Was he upset, angry, excited?”

“Upset … disconcerto? Si, disconcerto.”

“Who might he have gone to meet? Someone from his work, maybe? Or a close friend?”

I thought I saw her wince before she said, “Rafael knows many people. Many people …” She shook her head again; reached for the glass of burgundy and took a small swallow and then held the glass in both hands, as though they were cold and the wine radiated warmth.

“You said he always tells you when he’s going away. Did you mean away on a trip?”

“Si.”

“Does he take many trips?”

“No. Not many.”

“How often?”

“Two times, three times each year.”

“For how many years now?”

She made a vague gesture.

“Where does he go on these trips?”

“San Diego sometimes. Mexico sometimes.”