Blindman’s Bluff

TWENTY

IT’S HIM.” RINA pointed to the mug shot of Alejandro Brand. “This guy is definitely the shorter one who the man called Alex. I recognize the face, but also the tattoos-the snake and the tiger-and the scar. This is definitely the man I saw Harriman with this afternoon.”

“Okay.” Decker checked his watch. It was almost eleven in the evening and he was tired. But he soldiered on, inspired by Rina’s enthusiasm. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.” He typed the name into his computer, but the machine froze. “The computer’s down. It’ll keep until morning. Let’s go home.”

“Would you like me to look for the bigger one? If you give me a little time, I could pick him out.”

“Let’s call it a night.”

Rina’s eyes swept the empty station house and landed on her husband’s face. Although it had been a long day for her, it had been an even longer day for Peter. She had been caught up in the excitement of discovery. “You’re right. I would probably do better anyway if I had some rest.”

Decker shut the mug book and helped her on with her sweater. The two of them left the station house, zooming out of the police parking lot in Decker’s Porsche. “After you’re done trying to ID man number two, your involvement in the case will be over.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll be happy to bow out. I won’t have anything more to add.”

“Having just said that…” He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. “I’m going to be a total hypocrite and ask you another question.”

“You’re not being a hypocrite. You’re just wavering between wanting to know versus thinking about my safety. Stop worrying. They didn’t see me. I was very careful. The men had already left for the courtroom by the time I got to Harriman.”

“What if they had spies?”

“They didn’t have spies, Peter.” Rina softened her voice. “I know that the Bodega 12th Street gang is filled with bad guys, but they’re not the CIA. Now what did you want to ask me?”

Decker had lost his train of thought. “Oh yeah. You’re sure that Harriman didn’t tell you anything about the words he exchanged with Alex.”

“He didn’t say anything about the conversation. He did say that we should talk.”

“That’s not going to happen. Not only do you two have nothing to talk about, if you two did powwow, a clever lawyer could say that you two colluded against the client.”

“Good point, Counselor; your law degree did not go to waste.” Rina sat back in the seat. “I told him I didn’t have anything to say to him. I said if you needed to talk to him, you’d call him.”

“Good answer. He doesn’t have your phone number, does he?”

“No.”

“That’s good. The man twangs my antennas.”

“Harriman? Why? You can’t think he’s making it up?”

“No, he’s on to something, but why is he putting himself in harm’s way by eavesdropping on dangerous guys?”

Rina thought a moment. “Sometimes people jump into situations without realizing the consequences. Harriman has worked for the court system for a while so he’s probably been around lots of unsavory people without any problems. Also, he’s blind, so he can’t pick up on nonverbal cues. And you know the lure of fame. Maybe this is Harriman’s one chance to be a star witness instead of a drone translator.”

MAKING FREQUENT TRIPS from L.A. to Santa Barbara, Marge often passed through miles of rural farms in Oxnard and Ventura, endless acreage of green grids featuring just about everything in the salad alphabet, from artichoke to zucchini. Along the roadways were fruit and vegetable stands advertising recently picked organic produce and locally grown flowers. Many times, Marge would arrive at her boyfriend’s place with bags of heirloom tomatoes, red carrots, candy stripe beets, red onion scallions, and a sack of microgreens.

But within a few minutes of driving the rental car from the airport parking lot into the town, Marge realized that Ponceville didn’t grow for the “farmers’ market” clientele. This place was stone-cold agribusiness with acres upon acres of commercial plots fenced and confined with NO TRESPASSING signs. No cute roadside stands here. Instead she and Oliver traversed fields and groves of crops and cultivation. There were canopies of avocado shading unripe citrus, the silver-green leaves of olive trees, rows of stone fruit trees-apricots, peaches, plums, and nectarines. The area had patchwork quilts of vegetables, and with each one she passed, a different sensation would tickle her nose: cilantro, jalapeños, onions, green peppers.

Street signs were next to impossible to find, and there were no distinguishing landmarks other than a barn here and a plow there. She and Oliver rode on two-lane asphalt streets surrounded by the breadbasket of America, trying to follow Willy Brubeck’s arcane directions to his father-in-law’s farm.

The rental had come with a broken GPS and after a half hour, it was clear that they were lost.

“We could call up and ask for help,” Marge suggested.

“We could,” Oliver answered, “but I have no idea where we are.”

Marge pulled the car onto the shoulder of the street. “Call him up and tell him we’re at the corner of cantaloupes and habañeros.”

Oliver smiled. “Give me the number.”

Marge recited the digits and Oliver punched them in. “In case his wife answers, her name is Gladys.”

“Got it…Yes, hello, I’m Detective Scott Oliver from the Los Angeles Police Department and I’m calling for Marcus Merry…Yes, exactly. How are you, ma’am? Your husband was gracious enough to see us today and…Yes, we are lost. We’re at the corner of two fields. One has cantaloupes and the other has habañeros if that helps…Oh, it does…He doesn’t have to do that…Yes, it probably would be very helpful. Yes, thank you. Bye.” He turned to Marge. “The old man’s coming down to fetch us. She’s got a little something for us to eat when we get there.”

“That probably means a big spread in farmer language.”

“That’s all right by me. I didn’t eat any breakfast. Man, I didn’t even get my coffee this morning.”

“Yeah, the airline was pretty skimpy with the food and drink.”

“What food and drink? By the time the beverage cart came to us, all they had left were water and peanuts. I felt like a damn blue jay. Man, even prison does a better job of feeding its people.”

“If you like starch and sugar.”

“Those penitentiary wardens ain’t no dummies. All that starch and sugar puts their charges in diabetic comas. They, unlike the airlines, know how to keep the masses happy.”

THEY SAT IN the living room on chintz-covered chairs, the area painted a cheery lemon yellow. The floors were knotted pine, and the walls held dozens of family photos-black and white as well as color-along with a good-sized canvas of dripping abstract art that looked completely out of place.

A little something to eat included ham, cheese, fresh fruit, sliced cucumbers, tomatoes, onions, avocados, and a variety of dark and whole wheat breads. Mustard was served in a yellow crockery dish.

At first, Oliver tried to be polite, but when Marcus Merry made himself one honking sandwich, Scott let his stomach do the talking. Willy Brubeck’s father-in-law could have been anywhere between midseventies and midnineties. He was stout with white kinky hair and pale mocha skin. He had on a denim work shirt, overalls, and rubber-soled boots. His hands and nails had been scrubbed clean.

Gladys seemed pleased by everyone’s appetite. “I have some cake.”

Marcus’s wife was petite with gray kinky hair cut close to her scalp. She had round brown eyes and a round face. Gamine-like, she could have been a tanned older version of Audrey Hepburn. She wore jeans with a white shirt tucked into her pants and white tennis shoes, and there were small diamond studs twinkling from her earlobes.

Marge said, “Honestly, Mrs. Merry, this is just terrific.”

“So cake will make it even more terrific. You two go ahead and do your talking with Marcus. I’ll get the cake.”

“I don’t need cake,” Marcus complained. “I’m fat enough as it is.”

“Then don’t eat it.”

Discussion over.

Marge said, “Have you always been a farmer, Mr. Merry?”

“It’s Marcus, and the answer is yes. I can trace my relatives way, way back.” He spoke with a combination of southern drawl and black patois. “The name Merry comes from my great-granddaddy’s owner. After he was emancipated, Colonel Merry gave him fifty dollars and his name.”

Merry took another bite of his sandwich. “I think the colonel must have been my great-great-granddaddy. You see how light we are.”

Marge nodded.

“Comes from both sides. My daughter…Willy’s wife…everyone wanted to marry her. She was a real beauty…like my wife. Damn, I miss that girl. Willy ain’t so bad, either. Don’t tell him I said that.”

He laughed.

“It was my grandfather who picked up stakes and decided to come to California from Georgia. Back then, the state was filled with all different kinds of people: Mexicans, Chinese, Japanese, Indians…a couple of extra black men didn’t bother no one too much. Later on when Dr. King started talking about a dream…that’s when the tension started.”

“Is there still tension around here?” Oliver asked.

“No, sir. We do our job and mind our own business. Now we even got a black man in the White House.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Why am I telling you this? You see tension all the time.” A pause. “Willy tells me his area don’t have much crime.”

Marge said, “Not too bad.”

“Well, then that’s good.” Merry took another enormous bite. “No sense having my boy in danger. Don’t tell him I said that, either.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Marge told him. “So how did your daughter meet Willy?”

“At church.”

“Willy isn’t from around here,” Oliver said.

“No, but he served in Vietnam with a boy who grew up about three farms to the north of here. Willy came out for a visit and I was impressed that he bothered going to church.” He shook his head in fatherly consternation.

“What happened to Willy’s friend who grew up on the farm?” Oliver asked.

“Oh, he went back to his roots. He grows corn and is making money off biofuel. Me, I don’t grow crops for no cars. I grow crops for people.” Another bite. “Is that cake comin’?” he shouted out loud.

“Just hold your socks!” When Gladys came in with the cake, everyone oohed and aahed. It was chocolate with chocolate frosting and several layers of fresh berries in between. When she handed Oliver a slice, he noticed he was salivating heavily.

“Thank you so much.”

“You’re very welcome. And I’ll give you both a slice to take home. He certainly don’t need the whole thing.”

“If you don’t want me to eat it, why do you bake it?” Marcus asked his wife.

“I do it as an artistic project,” Gladys countered.

“Then donate it to a museum.” He finished his slice in four bites. “I know you came here to talk to the sheriff. He won’t be able to see us for another half hour. In the meantime, you can watch us bicker.”

“Oh, you’re so silly.” She gave him a gentle slap on the shoulder. “Coffee?”

“I’ll have some,” Marcus said.

“I’m making up a fresh pot.” She went back into the kitchen.

Marge said, “How well did you know Rondo Martin?”

“Or did you even know him?” Oliver added.

“I knew who he was. Can’t say I knew him well. Did I ever have any business with him? Is that what you’re asking me?”

“Just anything you can tell us about him,” Marge said as she took out her notebook. “You know why we’re interested in him, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do. He was the guard in those murders and he’s missing.”

Oliver said, “What can you tell us about him?”

“Nothing much. We didn’t talk other than an occasional nod. I felt he might have kept his distance because of my skin color, but after talking to others around here, he just wasn’t the neighborly type.

Not too many neighborly types anymore. Most of the farms here are run by big business.”

Marge nodded.

“There are still several holdouts like myself. I’ve been approached a few times about selling my land. It’s my children’s inheritance. Anyway, you don’t want to talk politics, you want to talk about Rondo Martin.” Marcus cleared his throat. “There were a couple of times when I stopped at the Watering Hole for a beer, he’d be there drinking whiskey, talking to Matt or Trevor or whoever was tending bar. We farmers work sunup to sundown when the days are long and the weather’s good. In the wintertime, it can get cold. That’s when the tavern does its business.”

“Is there a lot of crime around here?” Oliver asked.

“Sheriff would know more than me,” Marcus said. “Reading the daily sheet, I think that most of the crimes come from the migrants getting drunk on the weekends and whopping on each other.

There’s not a whole lot to do around here. We’ve got a general store, a church, a movie house, a lending library, a couple of family restaurants, and a street of taverns. That’s about it.”

“Do the migrants go to the same church as you do?”

“No, they do not. We’re all Baptists. Migrants are mostly Catholic or Pentecostal. We don’t have any Catholic or Pentecostal churches. They must have their own.”

“Where do the migrants live?” Marge asked.

“In the outlying areas. We call them the ciudads, which means cities in Spanish. Ponceville is built like a square. Smack in the middle is the town, then the farms, and on the perimeter is where the migrants live. Their living quarters, provided by the big businesses that hire them, are pretty primitive. They got their running water and electrical lines, but it’s still very basic. Don’t matter how basic it is, though, they just keep coming. And they’ll keep on coming as long as conditions down in their countries are poorer than conditions up here.”

“Are they legal?” Oliver asked.

“The businesses get them their green cards. All my workers have green cards. Can’t do it any other way. Otherwise the INS will shut you down. We’re not talking about Martin very much.”

“My partner and I are just trying to get a feel for the town,” Marge said. “Maybe it’ll help us understand Rondo Martin better. Do you know if he spoke Spanish?”

“Anyone living here for some time speaks Spanish.”

Marge nodded. “So…what about you and Rondo Martin…getting back to the original question.”

Marcus smiled. “I never said much to him, honestly. Occasionally, he’d show up at church. I sing in the choir. My wife does as well. He showed up once when I had a solo and told me I had a good voice. That was about as personal as it ever got.” He checked his watch and managed to hoist himself out of his chair. “Well, we’d better get going if we want to be on time.”

At that moment, Gladys walked in with the coffee.

Marcus looked at the tray of mugs. “We can be a few minutes late, I suppose.”

“You certainly can.” She smiled. “We have a…fluid concept of time here.”

Her husband passed out the coffee cups. Gladys said to help themselves to cream and sugar. The detectives thanked her profusely.

Marge said, “I like your photos, Mrs. Merry.”

Gladys smiled. “That’s what walls are for.”

“I also like the artwork.”

“Really?” Gladys said. “I don’t care much for it. It was given to my in-laws by the artist. His father was a farmer in Chino and I think he was a family friend…Did I get that right, Marcus?”

“Something like that. Paul was a weirdo. My mama only kept it because she didn’t want to hurt his feelings.” Marcus laughed. “Turned out he became real famous.”

“Paul Pollock,” Gladys said. “Have you ever heard of him?”

“No,” Marge said, “but he paints like Jackson Pollock. Are they related?”

“That’s him,” Gladys said. “Jackson Pollock. Paul was his real first name.”

“Uh, he’s pretty well known,” Oliver said. “His father was a farmer?”

“Yes, Detective, he was.”

“The painting’s very valuable, Mrs. Merry,” Marge told her.

“Oh yes, it is. And please call me Gladys.”

“And you’re not worried about theft?” Marge said.

Gladys shook her head. “The people around here who see it think it was done by one of my grandchildren.” She stared at the painting. “I don’t bother to correct them.”