The World's Finest Mystery Part 91

"Well, the joke's on him, Jacovich, and you, too. Because there isn't going to be any blowup. We've got every cop who can drag his or her a.s.s out of bed with riot gear and tear gas, ready to uphold the Const.i.tution and protect the rights of a bunch of mouth breathers with pillow cases over their heads. Or we will have," she said pointedly, "if you get the h.e.l.l out of my office and let me do my job."

"Good luck this afternoon."

"Are we going to see you at the rally?"

"And listen to that kind of filth? No, thanks. I have better things to do with a summer Sunday afternoon."

"Like what?" she said.

"I was thinking about straightening out my sock drawer."

I didn't go near my sock drawer, after all, but I did stay home and watch the Indians play the Oakland A's on television. Jim Thome didn't hit a dinger, but the Tribe won anyway.

I stayed around for the six o'clock news, though, and was delighted to hear that the Klan rally pa.s.sed without incident that afternoon. Less than a hundred Klan supporters showed up, probably because the keynote speaker was in cold storage with a tag on his toe. About twice that many anti-Klan protesters linked arms and sang "We Shall Overcome." The biggest contingent of all was the press, and they had precious little to write about when it was all over. No incidents whatsoever, no sound bites for the networks to use to castigate poor old Cleveland, and when it was all done, the mayor came out smelling like the Rose of Tralee.

I was d.a.m.ned proud of my city that day. Cleveland can be a tough town, but it's always, always fair.

Clark Howard.

When the Black Shadows Die.

THIS SECOND of the brilliant Clark Howard's stories to grace our collection this year, "When the Black Shadows Die," shows off his strengths in full force as he chronicles the lives of several outsiders in southern California. This piece first appeared in Mystery Scene Magazine, issue 67.

When the Black Shadows Die.

Clark Howard.

As Tony parked his rented car on the East Los Angeles funeral home parking lot, he saw that he was being observed by two men posted at the entrance driveway. One of them spoke at once into a palm-size two-way radio. It did not surprise Tony. He was a stranger, an outsider. Strangers did not attend the wake of a man like Frank Barillas. Not if they were smart.

Tony locked the car and walked toward the funeral home, a tall, lean man with the easy movements of someone with self-confidence and skills, someone who did not fear to walk an unknown path, such as the one to the wake of Frank Barillas. He wore a dark suit and dark tie, which made his light nutmeg complexion seem even lighter; much lighter, for instance, than the darker brown men at the parking lot driveway.

There was a small group of people congregated outside the funeral home entrance, a few of them smoking, all talking in subdued voices. They stopped when Tony approached, their eyes appraising him, the women because of his clean, handsome features, the men because of his obvious macho bearing. Tony made his way through the group without making eye contact with any of them.

Inside, in the silent foyer, there was a directory that read: FRANCIs...o...b..RILLAS SLUMBER ROOM 3.

At the open double doors to Slumber Room 3 were two more sentry types, one with another palm-size two-way radio in his hand. Just inside the doors, at a podium holding a large open book, were two scrubbed, dark young women in plain black dresses with white orchids pinned to them.

"Good morning," one of them greeted him in English, as if he might not understand Spanish. "Will you sign the visitors memory book, please."

"Si gracias," he replied. She offered him a pen but he removed a Mont Blanc from his inside coat pocket and signed with that: Antonio Marcala.

The slumber room was softly lit, cool and quiet, with only barely audible organ music coming from unseen speakers. The fragrance of flowers permeated the room. As Tony walked toward the bier where the open casket rested, he saw that the mourners already in the room also wore orchids of various colors, larger ones pinned to the dresses of the women, smaller ones on the lapels of the men's coats. The bier and the casket were likewise trimmed with trains of multi-colored orchids, and when Tony stepped up to the casket he saw that the dead man in it had a white orchid on his lapel and held a larger purple one in his clasped, embalmed hands.

Frank Barillas, Tony thought, looking down, a legendary killer of men, was leaving the world surrounded by many of the two hundred different species of orchids indigenous to his homeland of El Salvador. Back there, he likely would have been tortured to death and thrown in a ditch. In the U.S. he had the luxury of dying in a clean hospital bed of kidney failure and having the privacy of his wake protected by somber men with two-way radios. Lucky. Very lucky.

Tony knelt at the bier, made the sign of the cross, and lowered his head. But he did not pray. What good would it have done? After all, the soul of Frank Barillas, if he ever had one, had already gone to wherever it was supposed to go, so prayers after the fact of death seemed pointless. But since Tony knew he was being observed curiously by every pair of eyes in the slumber room, he simulated prayer for what he deemed to be an appropriate period of time, then made the sign of the cross again and rose.

Walking back up the aisle toward the scrubbed, dark young women, ignoring the inquisitive eyes that followed him. Tony wondered how far he would get before being stopped and queried. Not far, he guessed. And he was right. Before he reached the funeral home's foyer, he was stopped by three men, one in front and one on each side, all wearing orchids in their lapels.

"Excuse me, would you mind coming with us?" said the one facing him.

"Where to?" Tony asked.

"Just in here." The man indicated the open door of an anteroom.

Tony let the men walk him inside and close the door. It was a small room, comfortably furnished for use during moments of unmanageable grief. Two more men and a woman were already in the room, standing, waiting for him. They all wore orchids and were not friendly looking.

"Who are you?" one of the men asked. He was about Tony's age, twenty six or so, and had the same look of confidence that Tony had.

"My name is Antonio Marcala," Tony said.

A hint of irritation flashed in the other man's eyes. "I know your name, hombre," he said quietly. "I read it in the visitors book. What I want to know is who are you? Why are you here?"

"I am here to pay my respects to my patron, Senor Barillas."

"Your patron?"

"Yes. The man who got my mother and me out of El Salvador. The man who gave us a place to live in the U.S. The man who sent me to college."

Looks of incredulity seized the expressions of everyone in the room. They exchanged glances of complete disbelief. Brief disbelief, that quickly became doubt, then even more quickly suspicion.

"He's lying," said the lone woman. "He's an agent."

"Shut up, Tela," said the other man who had been waiting in the room.

"Don't tell me to shut up, Perico," the woman snapped. "Shut up yourself!"

"Both of you shut up," the first man said firmly.

"Okay, Monte," the other man said quickly.

"Sure, Monte," the woman called Tela said.

"Show me some ID, man," Monte ordered.

"Why should I?" said Tony.

Monte nodded to the man called Perico. He immediately drew a Glock 17 automatic from under his coat and placed its muzzle against Tony's temple.

"Why? Because," said Monte, "if you don't, I will tell my friend Perico to kill you."

"Will he do it?" Tony asked calmly.

"Yes, I think so," Monte replied, just as calmly.

Pursing his lips just slightly, Tony said, "I am convinced." He unb.u.t.toned his coat and indicated his inside pocket. "May I?" Monte nodded. Tony brought out his wallet and handed it over. "Would you tell him to take the gun away, please?" Another nod from Monte and Perico lowered the automatic.

Monte examined Tony's drivers license, voters registration, draft card, medical insurance card, American Express and Visa cards, ATM card, Blockbuster Video rental card, and an employee ID card from a firm named EBC, Inc., in San Francisco. "What is this EBC?" he asked Tony.

"Executive Business Consultants," Tony said. "It's a firm that helps businesses improve their operations."

After looking at each card, Monte pa.s.sed it to the woman called Tela. She was young and thin, with not much figure, and one cheek carried a small patch of pock marks. Her eyes were cold and critical, the line of her jaw rigid, the curve of her lips severe. But there was something about those lips, something about her mouth, a slight overbite, that made her also look pensive, vulnerable. As she finished examining everything in Tony's wallet, she shook her head resolutely.

"He's an agent."

"An agent of what?" Tony asked.

"How the h.e.l.l do I know, man?" she challenged. "Why don't you tell us? Immigration? FBI? ATF? State Department?"

"Why would I be an agent?" Tony challenged back. "Are you criminals?"

Monte got right in his face. "No, man, we're not criminals. We're revolutionists. And if Francis...o...b..rillas was really your patron, you would know that."

"I know nothing like that," Tony said adamantly.

"What do you know, then?" Tela demanded. "Tell us what you know about Francis...o...b..rillas!"

Tony shrugged. "As a boy growing up in San Francisco, I knew that he was my mother's friend-"

"Friend?" Tela's eyes flashed. "What kind of friend?"

"Good friend." Tony glanced down. "Lover. She slept with him. He visited us a couple of times a month. My mother told me that he had been a friend of my father and had helped us get out of El Salvador during the civil war. She said I should think of him as an uncle-"

"Ha!" Perico cackled. "An uncle who slept with your mother!"

Tony turned icy eyes on him. "That gun in your hand does not mean that I will allow you to disrespect my mother. If you think it does, then shoot me now."

Monte reached over and touched Perico's arm. "Put the gun away, Perico." Then, to Tony, "What else did you know?"

"I thought that he was a successful importer of Central American handicrafts. When I was older. I presumed that he was probably married and had a family down here somewhere-"

"He never married," Tela declared. "We were his family. The movement. The Mara Salva-"

"Tela, shut up!" Monte ordered.

"What is the Mara Salva?" Tony asked.

"Nothing to concern you," Monte said, "unless, as Tela believes, you are an agent of some kind."

"Look," Tony tried to reason, "I would be lying if I said I had no knowledge of Frank Barillas being involved at one time in the trouble in El Salvador. I know he was a member of Farabundo Marti, the National Liberation Front. I know he was a guerilla fighter. At my mother's funeral last year, he said-"

"Your mother is dead?" Tela asked suddenly, frowning.

"Yes. She died of pancreatic cancer. At her funeral, Uncle Frank told me that in El Salvador he had killed many men, and that he was a fugitive down there. He said that was the reason he had never married my mother, and he asked my forgiveness for that. Of course, I forgave him. But I thought all that was in the past, twenty years ago. I had no idea he was still involved."

"He was never not involved," Monte said quietly. "Freeing El Salvador from the rich landowners and the military was his whole life." Monte held out his hand. "I am Monte Copan. Francis...o...b..rillas was my patron also. I understand your loss."

"And I yours," Tony said, shaking hands.

"You believe him?" Tela bellowed.

"I do, yes." Monte gathered all of Tony's cards together and handed them and his wallet back to him.

"Monte, this is insanity!" Tela pleaded. "He is an agent!"

"I am now the leader of this organization," Monte stated unequivocally, locking eyes with the woman. "That was the wish of Francis...o...b..rillas. Would you question his judgment if he were alive?"

Tela lowered her eyes. "No."

"Then do not question mine, please." He turned again to Tony. "You have my apology."

"Not necessary," Tony said. "It was an honest mistake, nothing more." He shook hands with Perico and the other men in the room, but when he offered his hand to Tela, she refused to take it and looked away.

"I'm sorry you don't trust me," Tony said.

Then he left.

Monte returned to the slumber room where Frank Barillas lay. Tela, with two of the others, Benito and Armando, remained in the anteroom and watched from a window as Tony left the funeral home and walked across the parking lot.

"He is an agent," Tela said, quietly but grimly. "I can feel it." Turning to the two men, she said, "Benny, you and Mando must follow him. We've got to find out more about him."

"I don't know, Tela," Benito said reluctantly. "Maybe we ought to clear it with Monte-"

"Monte is grieving," she said. "Much more than we are. Francisco was like a father to him. His mind is not as alert right now as it should be. We must help him through this trying time by thinking for him."

"I don't know, Tela," said Armando, as hesitantly as Benito.

"Jus' do it," Tela directed. "I am a senior captain in Mara Salva. I will take responsibility for it." Out the window, she saw Tony reach his car. "Move, before he is gone!" she insisted, and sent the two men hurrying from the room.

Tela watched as Tony backed out and drove off the lot, then waited to be sure Benito and Armando left quickly enough in one of their own cars to follow him. Satisfied, she went back into the slumber room with Monte and the other official attendants at the wake.

Benito and Armando were gone for nearly four hours. Tela saw them when they returned and motioned for them to join her in the anteroom again.

"Well?" she asked impatiently. Both men shrugged.

"Nothing, Tela," reported Benito. "He drove to LAX, turned in the car at Avis, and got on the next commuter flight up to San Francisco."

"He didn't stop anywhere? Speak to anyone. Make any phone calls?"