Hollywood Moon

TWO

A RED FLAG UP on a mailbox is like a party invitation,” Tristan Hawkins said to the man he called his apprentice, Jerzy Szarpowicz. “Outgoing mail. Come and get it.”

His passenger flipped down the car’s visor when the afternoon sun hit him in the eyes, surprisingly harsh rays given the layer of summertime smog they had to penetrate, smog lying low over the Hollywood Hills.

Jerzy Szarpowicz was the second Jerzy who’d worked for the boss, Jakob Kessler. The boss told Tristan that he liked to hire people of Eastern European ethnicity and also said that he was born and raised in the former East Germany and believed that Poles, Serbs, Hungarians, Czechs, Romanians, and those from other former Soviet-bloc countries were more reliable than Americans. He said, however, that he never hired Russians or Armenians, who were too ambitious and dangerous, too given to extortion and violence.

But the only thing Polish about Jerzy Szarpowicz was his name, thanks to a Polish great-grandfather who’d immigrated to America from just outside of Radom, Poland. On one of his meetings with Tristan, Jakob Kessler admitted that he was sorry to learn that he hadn’t hired a real Pole, but he’d decided to give Jerzy a chance anyway.

Until the older Jerzy, whose surname was Krakowski, failed to show up on a scheduled job and was not seen again, having two Jerzys in the group confused some of the other runners. So Krakowski was called Old Jerzy, and Szarpowicz New Jerzy. When Tristan inquired after the fate of Old Jerzy, Jakob Kessler simply said that his employment had been terminated.

New Jerzy seldom spoke to Tristan, communicating with grunts and mumbles in response to the running commentary from the loquacious driver of the battered sixteen-year-old Chevy Caprice. Jerzy knew his partner only as Creole. When the car slowed and stopped at the next street mailbox with the flag up, Jerzy opened the box and scooped all of the outgoing mail through the open car window into his own lap.

Tristan said, “Man, I knew a crew of tweakers that used to steal the blue mailboxes right off the street corners. Took some tools, a pickup truck, and lots of sweat, but they’d do it. Or they’d break into a mail truck and steal keys and mail. I knew one street whore that was blowin’ a mail carrier, and she made her own key from his and sold that to the tweakers.”

“So what happened to the tweakers?” Jerzy muttered.

“What always happens to tweakers? Their teeth fall out and they end up in the joint. They’re doin’ federal time. How about you? Smokin’ much crystal these days?”

The fucking nerve of this dude, interrogating him, Jerzy thought, but he said, “I do pot and booze. And maybe I do a little crack or crystal once in a while.”

“Mr. Kessler will let you go if he thinks you’re a tweaker,” Tristan said. “He don’t like tweakers.”

Jerzy gave a noncommittal grunt while eyeing the multimillion-dollar homes on both sides as the car snaked its way along the residential streets overlooking Hollywood. As he saw it, the problem with stealing mail was that down in the flats, there weren’t street mailboxes. Most down there were attached to the walls of homes or businesses, and mail thieves would have to get out of the car and run to the box, taking a chance of being gang-tackled by some fucking neighborhood heroes or of giving some nosy neighbor enough time to take down their license number. That’s why they were cruising these fancy streets in the Hollywood Hills, but it was risky because the only people who drove crap cars like this one were Mexican gardeners or housekeepers. And since neither of them was a greaser, Jerzy didn’t like it a bit. Any cop who took a close look would jack them up for sure.

Jerzy Szarpowicz had been in Los Angeles for twenty years, having drifted in at the age of nineteen after receiving a bad-conduct discharge from the US Navy for grand theft. He’d thought about returning home to Arkansas but decided that with his dicey discharge and the several runins he’d had with LAPD narcs that got him three trips to L.A. County Jail for selling meth and crack, he wouldn’t even be able to get a shitty construction job like his father and both his brothers. Besides, he liked the climate in L.A.

What he didn’t like were all the goddamn nonwhite foreigners who lived in the city, and what he especially didn’t like was this dude next to him, who said Creole was his “nom de guerre” instead of just his street name. Creole seemed to think he was some kind of master criminal and Jerzy was his lackey. What Jerzy said behind Creole’s back to the few other runners he’d met was that Creole seemed to forget which one of them was the nigger.

Creole, who was nine years younger than Jerzy, wore his hair in dreads to his shoulders, and Jerzy thought his skin was the color of a buckskin mare his uncle used to own. Creole had delicate, almost feminine features and could nearly pass if he shaved his head. Jerzy decided that Creole’s momma was fucking white men and that’s how she ended up with a buckskin boy.

Creole claimed he’d lived for a time in New Orleans, long before Hurricane Katrina, and seemed to think he was some kind of artiste, always going on about some dance or other he’d choreographed back when he worked in a dance studio part-time. That’s when he wasn’t yapping about something he’d learned “back in college.” Jerzy figured him for a closet faggot that never got out of high school. His dance studio was probably a three-room rat hole he shared with streetwalking dragons, and the only dancing he did was when he got a ten-inch cucumber up his ass.

Tristan Hawkins didn’t like Jerzy Szarpowicz any more than Jerzy liked him, but he was under orders to train the surly redneck, and that’s what he was doing. Tristan looked at the pile of mail accumulating at his partner’s feet and said, “Okay, let’s call it a day up here. We gotta get our other job done and head back to the office.”

That’s another thing that made Jerzy sneer. The “office” was what he called the duplex apartment in east Hollywood where meetings were held with the boss in order to trade loot for pay.

“About time,” Jerzy said. “This is way stupid to be cruisin’ up here.” And he waved his hand to indicate the hills of Hollywood with all the multimillion-dollar homes. “Maybe you figure to outrun any cops that might come after this piece-of-shit car of yours?”

Tristan couldn’t contain his own sneer. This biker-ugly cracker calling him stupid? Tristan looked at Jerzy’s belly, hanging in two blubber rolls under his sweaty black T-shirt. Jerzy was tatted-out on both arms, Navy shit and women’s tits. And of course the dumb Polack wore a baseball cap backward on his football-shaped skull, with tufts of rhubarb-red hair sticking out over his wing-nut ears, and with eyebrows like balls of rust clinging to his lumpy forehead under the cap band. And those faded blue eyes of his, Tristan thought they looked too shallow to drown an ant, but the grungy little teeth were the worst, like you’d see on the pancaked carcass of roadkill that spent its life eating grubs, insects, and worms. When they went on certain jobs, Jerzy wore a long-sleeve shirt to cover the ink and turned the bill to the front, but it didn’t help at all, and Tristan hated to be seen with him and always walked several paces ahead.

“Never fear, my Polish apprentice,” Tristan said with a smirk. “I won’t try to get away in this piece-of-shit car. I’ll bail and get away on my two feet. You can try it too. You can waddle up one of them steep streets fast as you can and see how far you get. You’ll drop dead of a heart attack and the cops won’t end up with nothin’ but a pile of mail and a car that’s registered to a dude that died two years ago. And three bills of dead goober coolin’ out on the curb. So I don’t see no problem with this here car, wood.”

“You’re gonna woof on me once too often,” Jerzy said. “I ain’t no goober. And I don’t weigh no three bills.”

“Hey, if it don’t apply, let it fly,” Tristan said.

“And I warned you before, I don’t like bein’ called a peckerwood.”

Tristan’s mouth smiled and he said, “I dropped the pecker. You okay with that, wood?”

Jerzy glared with watery blue eyes at the brazen little nigger, the scar across Jerzy’s eyebrow flushing through the frown, and said, “Someday, Mr. Bojangles, you’re gonna dance too far.”

“Somehow I get the idea that us two ain’t never gonna get all ‘Kum Bay Ya,’ ” said Tristan Hawkins.

The next and final job of their long working day was at a popular Gym-and-Swim in the San Fernando Valley. It boasted an enormous workout room with state-of-the-art equipment and an indoor pool, and Jakob Kessler had arranged a membership card for Tristan under a fictitious name. This kind of job was not for Jerzy, who looked too much like street trash to get through the door without someone grabbing weapons of self-defense. Tristan, on the other hand, was clean-shaven and untatted, wore wire-rim glasses even though he didn’t really need them, and always dressed in a clean Polo shirt and Banana Republic jeans and the kind of Nike sneaks that white men wore. He figured that his dreads even enhanced his aura of respectability, making him look more like the sensitive artistic type he felt he was.

Tristan parked the car in the Gym-and-Swim lot, where Jerzy pulled his baseball hat over his eyes to snooze. Tristan opened the trunk, took out his gym bag, and entered, showing his card to the kid at the desk, who barely glanced at it before giving him a locker key and a towel.

There were no members in the locker room, so Tristan walked along the double rows of laminated wood lockers and tried them all before putting down his bag. You never knew when somebody might forget to lock his, but not today. He put the bag on one of the benches and took out his tiny eyeglass screwdriver and a pick. He could open a locker in less than a minute, and he opened two that turned out to be empty before he found one that was in use. The clothes hanging there looked promising, and the Rolex inside one of the Ferragamo loafers looked very promising, possibly indicating a large line of credit for this dude. It took all of Tristan’s self-control not to steal the Rolex and the wallet, but Jakob Kessler had drilled it into his head that discipline would make money for them and keep them out of jail. And that greed would get them jailed, “or worse.”

Jakob Kessler, which Tristan figured was a bogus name, looked to Tristan like an accountant. He was an unimposing guy, maybe in his late fifties, with a full head of slicked-back silver hair, and maybe six feet tall but with posture somewhat stooped. There was something about those eyes, so pale that the irises looked more white than blue. Tristan thought from the beginning that he shouldn’t fuck with the guy, at least not until he saw how much money he was going to make through their association. He took the “or worse” to mean something very bad might happen to him if he disobeyed orders.

Kessler had explained the game to Tristan in that accent of his, saying, “If you steal money, the man can figure out how it happened. If you replace the card and steal nothing, he will be confused and try to think, when was it he had his last restaurant meal and mistakenly got given back the wrong card?”

“What if he goes to a gas station right after his workout and finds out he’s got a wrong card?” Tristan had asked Kessler.

His employer had said, “Even if he discovers the replacement card today, he is going to take time to ponder and to maybe call the last restaurant he visited. He will not think that the card could have been stolen from his wallet, because nothing else is missing-not his money, nothing. His belief will be that the restaurant made a mistake. And we may have the use of the card for perhaps one day. Perhaps two. Perhaps longer, you never know. So you see, Creole, why we do not steal money, rings, or wristwatches? It would end that specific game for us.”

When he spoke to Kessler, Tristan was conscious of his own grammar and diction, never talking street to the man. He said, “You mean at that specific location?”

“Exactly,” Kessler said. “We can visit the Gym-and-Swim at least once a week for a very long time if we are patient and not greedy. You must never surrender to greed.” Then his employer said, “There must be discipline.”

Tristan did not like the way Kessler’s eyes bore into his when he uttered that last word, and he didn’t think it wise to push it. Instead he said, “What’s the longest you ever had a card before it got canceled?”

“For almost a month,” Kessler said.

“And how much did your people charge on it?” Tristan asked.

Kessler chuckled and said, “You have a curious mind, Creole. I don’t mind that. I like curiosity in a man as long as he is loyal and obedient. To answer your question, many thousands were charged in small amounts for three weeks before the switched card was discovered and reported.”

“That ain’t-that’s not bad,” Tristan said. “Not bad at all.”

“Think of what one location like Gym-and-Swim could do for us in a few months, Creole,” Kessler said to him, “if we never surrender to greed.”

There it was again: greed. When Kessler said it that time, his eyes seemed to grow deader than Old Jerzy Krakowski. That’s where Tristan figured Old Jerzy was-dead. He figured that’s what Kessler really meant when he’d said that Old Jerzy’s employment had been terminated. He wondered if Old Jerzy had surrendered to greed.

Tempted though he was, memories of all of those conversations with Jakob Kessler made Tristan leave the Rolex inside the loafer. Tristan opened the wallet and found three credit cards. He removed the American Express card and, choosing from among the several cards that Kessler had given to him, replaced it with a stolen and expired American Express card.

Tristan picked six more lockers and was disappointed that only one had clothes inside. He removed a Visa card from the wallet in that locker, and was in the process of replacing it with a stolen and expired Visa card, when a customer in a Speedo walked into the locker room, drying off with a towel. Tristan was ready to bolt if this was the guy’s locker and he started yelling.

But the man, a flabby fifty-something with a bad transplant and a worse dye job, just smiled and said, “The pool’s too cold today in case you plan to try it.” He went to a locker on the other side of the benches and unlocked a lower one.

Tristan said to the guy, “I just had a workout on the treadmill. I’m ready to go home.”

Then a naked bodybuilder suddenly entered from the pool area, a white guy with shoulders like a buffalo who was all sleeved-out with tatts, from his wrists to his bulging biceps. On his belly he had an attention-getting tattoo of a semiautomatic pistol, muzzle down. With his shirt hanging open, it would look like he was packing, a handgun tucked inside his waistband. His head was shaved, and even his skull was inked-up. Just over his left ear, where a gold loop dangled, a tatt on his skull said, “What’re you looking at, bitch?”

Tristan froze. The guy was between him and the exit. If he was into this ’roid monster’s locker, he was one dead identity thief. But the guy walked past him and opened a locker near the end of the row.

Tristan hurriedly completed the switch, closed the locker, and left the locker room, making sure to slip past the desk when the kid was on the phone and not looking, because he hadn’t been in there long enough for a workout or a swim. His only regret was that the Rolex would’ve looked very fine on his wrist. He was definitely a Rolex type of dude.

Officer Sheila Montez, the heavy-lashed, sloe-eyed P2 who was currently the heartthrob of both surfer cops as well as half the midwatch, had just finished doing her nails with clear polish, all the while shooting peevish glances at her slightly older partner. Aaron Sloane, at age twenty-nine and with eight years on the LAPD, certainly did not look older than Sheila Montez, nor anyone else at Hollywood Station, and that included twenty-two-year-old rookies. The boyish-looking cop was too heavy-footed on brake and throttle for Sheila’s taste, and he caused her to smear polish on her fingertip.

Both partners had the windows rolled down on this warm summer twilight as Aaron drove through the streets in the Hollywood Hills, where a number of car burglaries had taken place during early evening hours. After Sheila finished with her nails, she held all ten fingers in front of her, blowing lightly on them. Like all women patrol officers at LAPD, she had her hair pinned up so that it did not hang below her collar. And like all women officers who favored lip gloss and nail polish, she wore a pale unobtrusive shade while on duty. Aaron Sloane liked watching her do her lips and nails and thought her dusky good looks could be enhanced by a more crimson shade, especially if those lustrous umber tresses were unpinned and draped across her shoulders.

Sheila had almost seven years on the Job, and though she’d recently transferred to Hollywood from Pacific Division, she was comfortable enough with Aaron to be tending to nails and makeup while riding shotgun in unit 6-X-66. When she’d been a rookie at Northeast Division, her field training officer, an old P3 named Tim Brannigan, would’ve had apoplexy if she’d tried this in his shop. Tim Brannigan had been the kind of FTO who resented women working patrol in the first place, never talked to her when he could yell, and made her call him sir right to the end of her probationary period.

Since he’d hated writing reports, Tim Brannigan had let her drive only about once every four or five days. The rest of the time she was the passenger, doing the report writing. His favorite response to her requests to drive had been, “Rookie, you’re taking the paper.”

Sheila figured the old bastard probably wasn’t breast-fed as a baby, so he never learned to appreciate or respect women. But at least he wasn’t one of the handsy partners who’d “accidentally” touch her when reaching for the MDC dashboard computer. There had been more than a few of those in her career.

Sheila recalled a night two weeks earlier when Aaron Sloane was driving and a code 3 call had interrupted her nail polishing. She’d had to hang her wet nails out the window to dry while he drove with lights and siren to a check-cashing store where a clerk had accidentally tripped the silent robbery alarm. Aaron never complained about her dangling fingers and never told the others about what he called her girl stuff and she called her ablutions. And he never complained about the car mirror being turned so she could touch up her lips.

Part of the reason Aaron never protested about anything was that he was one of the smitten ones, as Sheila had suspected from their first night together. But she’d never encouraged him, even though now, glancing over at him, she had to admit that he had boy-next-door good looks and was buff from a lot of iron pumping. It was just that the sandy-haired, baby-faced reticent types like Aaron had never appealed to her.

And as though he had read her mind at that moment, Aaron said, “I got carded Saturday night when I had a date with a girl I met in my poly sci class.”

Like many of the young cops at Hollywood Station, Aaron was taking college classes, and he was only six units away from a bachelor’s degree.

“Does that surprise you?” Sheila asked. “Getting carded? I wish I could get carded once in a while.”

“Don’t tell me you’re worried about getting old,” Aaron said, gazing at her with that moony expression of his.

“Less than two years from now I’ll be thirty,” she said. “It’s hard to believe.”

“I’ll be thirty in four months,” Aaron said. “And I get carded just about every damn time I go to a bar. It’s embarrassing when I have a date.”

“You’ll be glad someday to be looking like a perennial frat rat.” To tweak him she added, “Do you have to shave every day, Aaron, or just a couple times a week?”

Aaron reddened and said, “You know, my youthful DNA almost got me killed before I got off probation. Did you know I worked UC for a while? I mean deep undercover.”

“No,” she said, quite surprised. “Where was that?”

“I was one they took right from the academy and put into the buy program,” he said, “back when they still liked to do that. I was twenty-one but looked sixteen. They put me in high school in the Valley, where teenage gangsters were selling pot and meth on campus. It was when a couple kids got killed in a four-car TC after they’d smoked crystal in the gym. It was mostly an intelligence-gathering job rather than making buys of dime bags. I was in school for two months as a senior transfer. My UC name was Scott Taylor, and I actually tried out for the baseball team. One time a very aggressive LAPD officer stopped a few of us in the school parking lot after a game, and he yelled to me, ‘Get your hands up!’ I put them up really high, thinking, if he shoots me, the trajectory test would get my mom and dad some big bucks in the lawsuit.”

With a sly smile Sheila said, “Did you score with any of the cheerleaders?”

“I was warned about fraternizing with the other kids, especially of the female persuasion,” Aaron replied. “And just as I was getting close to the adult gangster that was supplying the high school kids, I screwed up and ended my UC career.”

“How’d you do that?”

“By getting in a fight in shop class. Some little dude in one of the Hispanic gangs kept picking on me, always calling me puto and maricón, shit like that. I got sick of it, and one afternoon he dumped a soda on me and I kicked his ass. Beat him bad right there in class. Our instructor called Security and had us both taken to the vice principal’s office. He happened to be the only one that knew I was cop.”

“Damn, Aaron!” Sheila said. “There’s another side to you. Where do you park your Batmobile?”

“We were both given a suspension,” Aaron continued with a self-conscious smile. “Which was fine with me, except when I drove home from school that afternoon, I got tailed by two tricked-out low riders packed with crew. I figured they were tooled-up, so I tried to call for help, but my cell was dead. And that happened to be the day I was so late for school I ran out the door, leaving my Beretta on the kitchen table instead of taping it under the seat of my UC car like I was supposed to. With that posse driving up my ass, and me all helpless, I can tell you I was scared.”

“So what happened?”

“Of course, there’s never a cop around when you need one, so I drove that shitty UC car straight to the nearest mall with the lead lowrider locking bumpers with me, and me thinking the crowds of people might scare them off. When I got there, I looked in the mirror and saw one dude leaning out the window, aiming what looked like a TEC-nine at me. And I kinda panicked and burned a fast left but lost it and went skidding through the window of a Big Five store, where luckily nobody got hurt but me. Two cracked ribs and a busted collarbone.”

“What happened to the gangsters?”

“They split and got away. I wasn’t really able to ID any of them later when gang cops showed me six-packs. I got removed from school real fast and from the buy program too. And after I recovered, I got sent to Wilshire patrol, where I finished my probation. All that drama because I looked way young. I’ve never found any advantage to it.”

“That’s quite a story, Aaron,” Sheila said.

Aaron was pleased to see that for the first time, Sheila Montez seemed to be watching him with a bit of interest. Known for being supercool and unflappable, she’d told him she’d worked down south at both the busy Seventy-seventh Street Division as well as at Newton Street for three years. And she’d also done a couple of dangerous UC assignments where they’d needed Hispanic women. Aaron had felt that his police career had been tame next to Sheila’s.

Aaron had also heard that she’d been married to a sergeant at Mission Division for about a year but had divorced him shortly after her baby was stillborn. It was not something she’d ever talked about to him, but nowhere on the planet was gossip as rife as in the police world, and secrets were nearly impossible to keep. Well, now he’d shown her that he too was someone with a history. It wasn’t everyone that was chased through the window of a Big 5 store.

“My picture and UC name are in the high school yearbook,” Aaron said. “I have one at home. I’ll bring it in if you’d like to see it. I look really dorky.”

“Sure, let’s have a peek,” Sheila said.

Their second call just after dark gave Aaron Sloane a chance to see another side of supercool Sheila Montez. After reading the southeast Hollywood address on the computer screen, she rogered the message and hit the en route key. When they arrived at the call, they saw a rescue ambulance already parked on the street, and a Latina in a lavender dress was waiting under a streetlight in front of a stucco duplex that had been tagged from roof to concrete slab with gang graffiti.

When she saw Sheila Montez, the woman started to speak Spanish, then saw that the male cop was a gringo and said in English, “My neighbor. Her baby…” Then the woman shook her head and walked back to her apartment.

The two cops entered just as the paramedics were leaving. Before exiting, the older paramedic said, “The baby’s probably been dead for a few hours. Letting a sick infant with a respiratory infection sleep next to a broken-out window night after night wasn’t helpful, that’s for sure. And today Little Momma gave the baby a child’s dose of medication, not an infant’s dose. Then she put the baby facedown on a bulky quilt and decided to take a long nap after downing a glass or two of cheap chardonnay. It looks like the baby’s illness, the overdose of meds, and the quilt around the baby’s face resulted in accidental asphyxiation. But it’s yours now. Catch you later.”

The young mother was not Latina. She was rosy-cheeked and freckled, the teenage wife of a Marine deployed in Iraq. She was sitting on a kitchen chair, crying, a wineglass beside her on the table. The crib was in the only bedroom. Sheila Montez hesitated for a moment but walked to the crib to look at the infant.

The baby might have had her mother’s rosy cheeks in life, but in death she was already turning gray, now lying faceup, nesting in the heavy quilt. Sheila Montez stared down at the baby for a long time, and Aaron Sloane was more than happy to let her take charge, figuring this was a job for a woman.

“She was like that when I woke up,” the young mother said between sobs, looking at Aaron. “She was ice-cold, and I knew right away she was gone!”

Sheila Montez picked up the medicine bottle from a table beside the crib, looked at it, and put it back. For no apparent reason, she reached down and lifted the baby from the quilt that had smothered her and put her back down on the sheet. She adjusted the pink pajama across the infant’s chest and, using a towel that was draped over the crib, wiped some dried mucus from the baby’s face and smoothed back her corn-silk hair.

Aaron Sloane didn’t learn until later that night that this was the first dead baby Sheila Montez had seen since the night that her own lay lifeless in her arms, when a nurse had let Sheila hold her dead baby for a few minutes before taking it away forever. He was just getting ready to put in an obligatory call to the night-watch detective so he could verify on-scene that it was an accidental death before the body snatchers took her away.

All of a sudden his partner advanced toward the young mother. Sheila’s wide-set dark brown eyes looked black now, and her face had gone very pale around the mouth. Trembling with rage, Sheila Montez said, “You… ignorant… pathetic… little -”

She didn’t get a chance to say more because Aaron Sloane leaped forward, grabbed his partner by the arm, and dragged her outside, from where he could hear the young mother sobbing loudly. And there on the sidewalk in the darkness, Sheila tried to say something to him. She tried, but her fury utterly overwhelmed her and she started to weep. Aaron put his arms around her for a moment and she didn’t resist, her body shuddering against him.

He saw the headlights as another patrol unit drove up, and he said, “Come on, partner, let’s get you back to our shop.”

While she was sitting in their car, trying to control the tears, Aaron waved off the second patrol car, indicating that no assistance was needed, returned to the duplex, made the calls, and did the paperwork until the coroner’s van arrived.

Later, Sheila apologized to Aaron Sloane for what she wryly called “the Montez meltdown.” She also told him about her own dead baby, and a little bit about her bad marriage to the sergeant from Mission Division, something she’d never spoken about with any other officer, male or female, at Hollywood Station. She did it because she had to, and she could only hope that Aaron Sloane was that most rare of creatures, a partner who could actually keep a secret in the gossip-riddled world of street cops.

“What happens in our shop stays in our shop,” Aaron Sloane at last said to Sheila Montez, trying to reassure her when he saw the anguish in her eyes.

As for Aaron Sloane, he realized that he had been her confessor that night only because he was there, such being the strange and unique intimacy that can develop quite by chance within a police partnership. But in this case, it was an intimacy that set his heart racing. And being true to his word, nobody but Aaron Sloane ever learned what had happened to imperturbable Sheila Montez the night she stood in silence beside a dead baby’s crib.