Crooked River

17

Roger Smithback DROVE his Subaru along Cypress Lagoon Drive. For the last half hour, he’d been cruising around some neighborhoods south of Fort Myers — supposedly this was the more dangerous part of town, but he had seen mostly well-kept apartment buildings, schools, bodegas, small houses, even a decent-looking country club straddling Whiskey Creek.

This wasn’t what he’d expected at all.

Smithback had done his research. He knew that the tattoo he’d surreptitiously photographed was most likely a gang symbol of some kind. After he’d blown up and sharpened the image, it had become much clearer. It was definitely a cross, with lightning bolts coming out diagonally from the lower intersections of the crossbeam, and what looked like animal claws protruding from the top — although their tips were not visible, thanks to the tearing and nibbling of the torn skin. It was surrounded by two letters: a P on the left and an N on the right, done in the usual blackletter font of gang tattoos. Its color was the blue of prison tats, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything: it could just as well have been done at some Central or South American tattoo parlor. Because his research had indicated crosses done in this particular way — with a distinctive fleur-de-lis styling at the tips and an unusual method of decorative shading — were a trademark of gangs from south of the border.

But conventional research could tell him nothing further. And there were a shitload of gangs out there. He’d done his share of guessing about what the P and N could mean — Panama? Padre Nuestro? — but if he really wanted to learn more, he’d have to hit the pavement.

As a reporter, he’d heard back in the day about the troubles in Fort Myers — the Latin Kings, Surf 69, and the others: lots of drugs, lots of bad hombres killing other bad hombres. But there had been a concerted effort to clean this up, and the neighborhoods he’d previously heard mentioned, like Dunbar and Pine Manor, felt safe. Now, however, he found himself southwest of those, closer to the Caloosahatchee River. And as the blocks passed by, and he noticed more and more shuttered storefronts and graffiti tags sprayed on the sun-bleached walls, he grew confident he’d found a good place to start sniffing around.

He drove a little farther west, letting things get worse, then pulled over to the curb. He was on a block where old bungalows — the worse for wear — stood cheek by jowl with family businesses. About half the businesses were closed, windows painted white and front doors shuttered. Smashed or dented trash cans lay strewn about. Pickup trucks and a few old boat skeletons sat on cinder blocks in driveways or on front lawns, slowly moldering in the heat. A stray dog wandered by, tongue lolling. The air smelled of burnt rubber and garbage.

Smithback got out of his car and walked up to the first bungalow, which, not uncommonly in older and poorer communities, was half-hidden in overgrown tropical vegetation. The once-bright coat of paint had been reduced to faded and peeling strips. He pushed the doorbell — busted — then knocked. After a few minutes, he heard shuffling inside. Then the door opened halfway.

Hot as it was outside, he could feel even more heat radiating from the house. An old Hispanic woman in a housedress stood, peering at him in curiosity.

“Buenos días,” Smithback said. He explained, in halting Spanish, that he was a student, working on a research project. Then he pulled out the enlarged and sharpened photo of the tattoo.

“¿Ha visto esto antes?” he asked.

The woman squinted in the semidarkness of the front hall, putting her face close to the image.

“¿Qué es esto?” Smithback asked.

Suddenly, the old woman’s eyes widened. The curiosity was replaced with suspicion. “¡Vaya!” she spat at him, abruptly slamming the door in his face.

Smithback rapped again, then again, but there was no response. Finally, he shoved his card under the door, went back to the curb, and looked around. A few houses down, he saw a short, wiry man of about sixty mowing his lawn. Smithback walked toward him.

At his approach, the man cut the motor. He was smoking a small, foul-smelling cheroot and wore a filthy T-shirt emblazoned with the logo of a landscaping company.

Smithback nodded at him, and the man nodded back. Encouraged by the logo, the reporter launched into his explanation, in English this time. After a minute, the man interrupted him. “No hablo inglés.”

Smithback showed him the picture. “¿Qué significa eso?”

The man looked at the image — barely a glance, really — then shook his head. His face was a studied blank.

“¿Lo ha visto antes?” Smithback pressed.

The man shrugged. “No hablo inglés.”

Christ, it wasn’t even English. But the man just stood there, shaking his head and shrugging, and eventually Smithback gave him his card anyway, thanked him, and turned away. Immediately, the man fired up his old mower and went back to work.

He glanced around again. A little farther down the block, another woman — slightly younger, slightly better dressed — was approaching the front door of a two-story apartment building, arms full of grocery bags. Instinctively, Smithback trotted forward in time to hold the door open for her.

“Gracias,” she said with a smile.

“De nada.” He dug out the picture of the tattoo. “Por favor — qué es esto?”

The woman looked at the photo. Almost immediately he saw, despite her initial friendliness, the same look the old lady had given him — a combination of suspicion and dread. As she turned to enter the building, Smithback stopped her one more time. “Por favor, por favor. ¿Quién lo lleva?”

From the shelter of the doorway, the woman glanced around nervously. Then she jerked her head westward, indicating a spot farther down the block. And before Smithback could give her his card or say anything more, she scurried into the apartment lobby, shutting the door behind her.

Slowly, Smithback walked back to his car. Christ, it was hot. So far he hadn’t learned anything concrete. Nevertheless, the very silence and agitation of the people spoke volumes. Starting the engine, he pulled away from the curb and began heading down the block, looking for whatever or whoever the woman with the groceries might have been indicating.

He found it at the next intersection. A dilapidated social club stood on the corner, front door open, what sounded like narco-rap filtering out from within. Three young men were lounging outside the door, dressed in T-shirts and old jeans. One sported several tattoos on his arms; the others appeared unmarked. Their expensive sneakers and gold chains looked out of place with the rest of their ratty attire.

Smithback pulled over. He had good street instincts, and at this moment they told him to keep his engine running.

He rolled down the passenger window and gestured to the youths. “¡Hola!” He had to say it again before one of the three pushed himself away from the wall and sauntered over.

Smithback showed him the picture of the tattoo. “¿Qué es esto?”

The youth looked at it for a minute, then turned to the others and muttered something Smithback couldn’t understand. Now they, too, approached the car window. Smithback’s sense of danger spiked dramatically.

“¿Quién lo usa?” he asked as calmly as possible.

Abruptly, one of the three tried to snatch the picture away. Smithback pulled it back just in time, crumpling it and throwing it in the backseat. At the same time, he put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb.

“¡Vaya de aquí!” said the tattooed one. “¡Hijo de puta!”

“¡Pendejo!” yelled another, spitting in the direction of the passenger door.

Smithback drove away, glancing frequently in his rearview mirror. None of the youths followed him, but it was clear they were watching him as closely as he was watching them. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly. McGregor Boulevard wasn’t far away, and from there it was half an hour’s drive back to the place he’d rented on Sanibel.

Had he made progress? Very likely.

Had he nearly shit his pants just now? Absolutely.