Джо Горес - Cases

“I tell my mom something like that, she’d have a bird.”

“Oh, I can tell Aunt Goodie anything. Can you come? About seven-thirty?” Could he? She gave him the street address. “We’re in Highland Park two blocks off Figueroa. It’s a little white two-story house in the middle of the block with an old-fashioned swing on the front porch.”

They were pouring the second-story walls. The grout had to be wheelbarrowed up two flights of plywood ramps, then out across empty space on two-by-twelve planks that bounced and shivered under their weight, to the open forms. At first Dunc had been terrified, but by now he and Gus were nonchalant about it.

Samuel was wetting down the forms so they could splatter in shovelfuls of grout to prime the rebar. Joshua was on the ground two stories below, using a garden hoe to mix up more grout in a wooden trough. He tipped back his head and shaded his eyes.

“Come an’ get it!” he yelled up at them.

Samuel pointed the hose straight down the face of the building. The water blasted Joshua right in his upturned face. He lowered his head, carefully laid down his hoe, turned and plodded slowly away from the building. Samuel kept moving the hose outward to keep the stream on the top of his head.

Out of range of the hose, Joshua stopped and turned and slowly looked up. And slowly raised one fist and slowly shook it at Samuel. By that time, Dunc and Gus were laughing so hard they almost fell off the narrow planks.

At quitting time, still soaking, Joshua pointed a bony forefinger at Samuel’s gut as if the finger were a knife blade.

“Open,” he intoned. He made circular motions with the switchblade finger. “That’s all-l-l-l gonna be open in there.”

Then he started to laugh along with the others.

“They just stuck ’em in the van and they were gone,” Dunc was saying. “What if they had families or—”

“They don’t bring their families,” said Uncle Carl with vast authority. “They come to make money to send back home.”

“That isn’t all. They brought a new crew in on Monday — one of them was at Rephaim’s Sunday service. I saw him myself.”

“Everybody at Rephaim’s says they’re farmworkers,” said Aunt Goodie.

“Farmworkers, construction workers,” said Penny. “People see Mexicans and they see illegal aliens.”

They walked from the ice cream parlor on Figueroa through the warm flowery August evening back to the house, two abreast on a narrow sidewalk made uneven by tree roots. Aunt Goodie said, “I think it’s time us old folks went up to bed.”

“I’m not tired,” said Carl.

“You are now.”

“Good night, Uncle Carl,” said Penny with her silvery laugh.

“Why do I get the idea I’m not wanted out here? Dunc, defend me, men against—”

“Good night, Uncle Carl,” said Dunc.

Carl followed his wife inside, laughing. Dunc and Penny sat on the old-fashioned front porch swing. He moved them lazily forward and backward with little shoves of his toe. The moment of truth: was Penny the still water that didn’t run very deep, or...

“Dunc, I’ve been thinking about those men the Immigration Service picked up. How often do they come out there?”

What had Joshua said? “Every two weeks.”

“Can’t you do something?”

Her hazel eyes were wide with compassion. Responding synapses seemed to suddenly crackle in his brain.

“Maybe there is a way — I’ll tell you in a week.”

She said teasingly, “Why do I have to wait so long?”

“So you’ll have to go out with me again to find out.”

She nudged him with her shoulder. A comfortable silence fell. Dunc found himself edging an arm around her.

“Aunt Goodie didn’t suggest asking you over,” she said abruptly. “I did. To thank you and apologize for getting—”

“Apologize? You don’t—”

“So drunk. Gerald and I had a big fight about what I was wearing and...” She was watching her fingers twist together in her lap as if by their own volition. “He was sweet as pie Sunday before he left, he said he was sorry he’d hit me—”

“ Hit you!” Dunc realized he was on his feet.

“Dunc. Don’t. Please.” She tugged him gently down beside her again. “It’s just so... Nobody’s ever...”

“Nobody ever should.”

“He wants to talk it all through when I go back for the fall quarter.”

He didn’t like anything about that, her going back to Iowa, her talking things over with Gerald. He put his arms around her and kissed her. Her lips responded. It was a long kiss, closed-mouth but tender and passionate. When they finally drew back, he felt dizzy, as if he’d drunk too much.

“I didn’t want that to happen,” said Penny. “Not yet.”

“I’ve been wanting it to happen since I first saw you.” His voice was shaky. Their faces were still only inches apart. “And that was in a dream I had on the road.”

“You saw me in a dream?” She was pleased. “When you hadn’t met me yet? How can you be sure she was me?”

So he told her about it, though not about the killer being a dead man from a Georgia chain gang with a new face. “She was you, Penny. She was wearing your same red knit dress.”

“Maybe your mind supplied the dress after seeing me in it.”

“Nope,” he said, “that dress, exactly.”

She believed him, but almost wished he hadn’t told her. It was too strange. She gently disengaged herself to stand up.

“I have to go in, Dunc. It’s really late...”

“Tomorrow is Saturday. You can sleep in.”

“We’re going down to Newport Beach for the weekend with some friends of Aunt Goodie’s...”

He stood up and took her upper arms, drew her close. “Okay. But don’t forget we have a date next Friday night for the next dynamic installment of the Saga of the Misplaced Mexicans.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

They both laughed, she raised her face to be kissed. For a long moment she melted against him, then stepped back hastily.

“G-good night, Dunc.”

He went back to Grey Ghost Two, wondering if she’d stepped back so fast because she’d felt the instant erection he’d got from kissing her. Or maybe he’d been too insistent... No matter. Penny was going out with him next weekend!

On the way home he got lost, didn’t care, finally got back onto the parkway and drove to Eagle Rock singing “Vaya con Dios” at full voice. Go with God. And God, what a great girl!

When he went down to breakfast on Saturday morning, Gus waylaid him to shove a letter under his nose. It was from the office of architect Frank Lloyd Wright in Chicago. Gus Trabert had been accepted for a two-year all-expense-paid architectural fellowship. He was supposed to show up at Taliesin West in Phoenix by the end of the month.

“Hey, Gus, that’s great! Tonight I guess we’d better—”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” Gus led him out on the porch where the rest of the family couldn’t hear them. “I... ah... want to spend the weekend in the sack with Birdie.”

“Sure,” said Dunc. “I don’t blame you.”

“Thing is, I... ah, well, I’d like to take her somewhere away from the trailer park. You know, get a motel room, really have a weekend with her.”

Dunc dropped the keys to Grey Ghost Two into Gus’s palm. “This’ll give me time to finally get caught up on my notebook.”

He was really just looking forward to some time alone. That was one thing being on the road gave you — time alone.

He walked all the way to downtown Pasadena, in the huge old ornate library returned the Faulkner and checked out The Long Goodbye . Two of his favorite movies had been based on Raymond Chandler novels: The Big Sleep and Murder, My Sweet .