Pale Kings and Princes

12

There was only one Esteva in the phone book. Esteva Wholesale Produce, Inc., 21 Mechanic Street. I called the number and asked for Emmy Esteva.

“She ain’t here,” a Latin voice said at the other end. “She don’t work here, she’s at home.”

“Is she Mrs. Esteva?” I said.

“Sure,” the voice said. “You want to talk with him?”

“No, thanks. I need to speak with her. What’s the home address.”

“Sorry, can’t give that out, mister. What’s your name, anyway?”

“Gabriel Heatter,” I said.

“I think maybe you better talk with Mr. Esteva,” the voice said.

I hung up. There was no home listing for Esteva in the phone book. I got in Susan’s car and drove down to the town library.

Mrs. Rogers was behind the desk talking to a large fat-necked teenage boy who looked just like her husband. She handed him a brown paper bag.

“Be sure to put it in the cooler at work,” she said, “or the milk will spoil.”

“Aw, Ma, for crying out loud, I know that. How old you think I am, I don’t know milk spoils?”

“Just remember,” she said.

The kid took his lunch and went out the front door without any interest in me. I walked to the desk and smiled charmingly.

“Good morning,” I said.

Caroline Rogers looked at me without speaking.

“Winter in the country,” I said. “Makes you glad just to be alive, doesn’t it?”

“What do you want,” she said.

“I wonder if the library might have a street directory for Wheaton,” I said.

“There,” she nodded, “past the card catalogue in the research section.”

“Thank you,” I said. The charming smile works every time. If I’d turned it up a notch, she’d probably come over and sit on my lap.

The Wheaton Street Directory was the size of a phone book with a green cover plastered with ads for local establishments. At the bottom was printed A Public Service Publication of the Central Argus. It consisted of an alphabetical listing of the streets, each address and the name of the person who lived at that address. People who go to great trouble to keep their phones unlisted never think to keep themselves out of the street directory.

I started with Acorn Street and went down the list looking at the names listed opposite the numbers. In the best of all possible worlds there was no reason they couldn’t live on Acorn Street. There was no reason to think I’d have to go through the whole book. Early in the afternoon, about one-fifteen, I found the name Esteva on Water Street.

I put the directory back on the shelf, smiled winningly at Caroline Rogers, and left the library. Caroline was still fighting off my charm but it was only a matter of time. Next time maybe the wide boyish grin.

Water Street had no reason for its name. It was high on the hills behind town, and the only hint of water in sight was the gorge of the Wheaton River several hundred feet below. The Estevas lived at number three, at the dead end of the short street, a square two-storied cinder block house painted pink. The roof was flat and the flat, square one-story wing supported a deck which, in summer, was probably used for cookouts. There was a chain link fence around the property, with barbed wire on top. The gate to the driveway was open, but I could see the electronic apparatus on it so that one could close and open it with a beeper. There was a short front yard with no shrubbery. The fence appeared to circle the house. In the driveway was a silver Mercedes sport coupe.

I parked in front and walked through the open gate and rang the front doorbell. A dog barked. There was a hint of footsteps and a pause while someone checked me out through the peephole. Then the door opened.

There was a woman and a dog. The dog was a big Rottweiler, with a chain choke collar held on a short leather leash. The woman was almost as tall as I was and dressed in emerald green silk. She held the short leash and kept the dog pressed against her thigh. The dog looked at me without emotion. The woman was more distant.

“Yes?” she said.

She had on high-waisted green slacks, green suede boots with very high heels, and a green silk blouse with a deep cleavage. There was a green headband that kept her long black hair back off her face. There was a gold and emerald necklace and an emerald ring and a gold bracelet inset with a series of emeralds. She had on a lot of makeup, scarlet lipstick and green eyeshadow. Her face was less Spanish than Indian. A face that was used to looking scornful, used to looking down.

I said, “Emmy Esteva?”

“Esmeralda,” she said.

“I wonder if I might talk with you a moment,” I said.

“Go ahead.”

“May I come in?”

“No.”

“Aw, come on, Mrs. Esteva,” I said. “Don’t beat around the bush.”

“If you have something you wish to say, say it,” she said.

“Did you know Eric Valdez?”

“No.”

“I’ve been told you did.”

“Who told you this?” she said. The dog was motionless against her thigh.

“A person who would know.”

“He lies. I know nothing of Eric Valdez.”

“I am told you were intimate with him.”

“He is a liar,” she said. “If I let this dog go he will tear your throat out.”

“Or vice versa,” I said.

We looked at each other. Then Esmeralda took a step back. The dog moved with her. The door closed. Nothing else happened. I could ring the bell some more, but I didn’t want to have to shoot the dog. He looked like a nice dog. I like dogs. If Eric Valdez had gotten it on with Mrs. Esteva, he was a major leaguer. I’d have been scared to.

I turned around and went back to the car and got in and drove back down the hill. Halfway down I passed a pickup truck with ESTEVA PRODUCE on the side in emerald-green lettering. Caroline Rogers’s son was driving. Son of a gun.

I had nothing else to do so I U-turned with the help of a driveway and went back up the hill. The truck was parked out front of the Esteva house and the kid was just going in the front door with a large cardboard box. I circled past the house and parked halfway down the hill and watched in my rearview mirror. The Rogers kid came out in maybe two minutes and got in the pickup and drove on down the hill past me. I fell in behind him and we went through town. The bright red sports car was not the choice of shadow experts, but I didn’t especially care if the kid spotted me or not. Under the railroad trestle on the east end of town we turned right and the kid turned into the parking lot of a large blue warehouse with the name ESTEVA PRODUCE painted on it in large green letters. Now I knew where 21 Mechanic Street was. The truck disappeared around back of the warehouse and I drove on and parked a way up the road out of sight.

The police chief’s son worked for Mr. Esteva. Mrs. Esteva was said to have had an affair with Eric Valdez. The police chief said Eric Valdez had been killed by a jealous husband.

There were radio controls in the middle of the steering wheel of the sports car. I looked at them. Ah ha! I said.