25
Surviving Guaman Daughter
I drove east until I found a forest preserve where I could take time to pull myself together again. I dug through my case for the notebook that Scalia had mutilated. He’d pulled three pages out of a section where I’d been researching title changes last year. The case was coming to trial next month. I’d been deposed, I’d written the report. It was just the violation of having my papers attacked that I minded.
You might say I had provoked him by shredding the bogus résumé, but his reaction had been designed to humiliate, and, unfortunately, it had worked. My own response, with the tampon, had been briefly satisfying but not too bright. Someone who had as much need to be in power over others as Scalia did would feel it as real indignity, especially since a subordinate had witnessed it. Who knew what he might do next.
I opened one of my notebooks and started doodling. What had I learned? That despite the twenty thousand or so employees Tintrey had worldwide, and the nine thousand in Iraq, there was something about Alexandra Guaman that kept her in the foreground of the company consciousness—so much so that a senior officer had to be summoned when someone asked questions about her. I wished I knew what QL stood for—that was what Vijay had called Alexandra’s file. Maybe “quit living.”
I stared at the bare trees. Even if Alexandra had known Chad in Iraq, why would that be important to Tintrey? Unless Chad had been on some mission that involved Tintrey and he’d learned a discreditable secret about them? If Alexandra had died as part of a truck convoy, maybe Chad had been in one of the trucks. That black oblong he’d waved in front of Nadia, was that something he’d picked up from the detritus around her exploded truck? But a piece of black fabric, something that might be a scarf, as Tim Radke had suggested? I slapped my notebook shut. All this speculation, it led nowhere.
Gilbert Scalia had come to Club Gouge with the head of Tintrey, Jarvis MacLean. If Alexandra Guaman was this big a hot button at Tintrey, I had to believe they’d gone down there to see if the Body Artist’s tribute to Nadia included anything about Alexandra.
More speculation.
I would have to move fast to get some answers before Gilbert Scalia closed every door I knocked at. Rainier Cowles was already hovering over the Guaman family, but maybe if I drove down there now I could find out something from Ernest or the grandmother. That didn’t seem likely, but I didn’t know what else to do. And I felt an urgency to be doing something.
I pulled onto the road and turned back to the Tollway, covering the thirty miles south as fast as I could. Giant tractor trailers roared around me all the way down as the open land bordering the Tollway changed to the bungalows lining the Kennedy and then to the scrap-metal piles and grocery warehouses that bordered Pilsen where the Guamans lived. It was a relief to get away from the noise and into a residential neighborhood, although parking was a challenge. People who’d shoveled out spaces had blocked them off with garbage cans or broken-down furniture, a Chicago tradition. I found a half-legal space around the corner, not quite blocking a fire hydrant.
Bungalows and two-flats stood on lots so small that the buildings almost touched. Many were decorated with ceramic tiles; one even had a mosaic of a jaguar worked all the way across the front. Nativity scenes and Santas still stood in front of some of the houses. The Guamans didn’t have tile or a crèche, only a statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe. She was knee-deep in snow, a black ribbon around her neck serving as a heart-troubling reminder of loss.
A woman came out of a nearby house. She had a wagon, a toddler, and a drawstring bag filled with laundry that she was carrying down the stairs. I hurried over and took the wagon and bag from her. She thanked me but looked me up and down frankly. In my Lario boots and tailored coat, I wasn’t dressed for the neighborhood.
“Is that the Guaman home?” I pointed at the black-ribboned Lady of Guadalupe, just trying to get the woman talking.
“Are you from the lawyer?”
“The lawyer? No, I was a friend of Nadia’s. That was terrible, how she died.”
The woman nodded solemnly. “But why was she in such a place as that nightclub to begin with? It’s very hard on Cristina to have her daughter in the news that way.”
“Nadia told me she and her mother had quarreled. That must be hard, too, on Cristina, to know her daughter was killed while they were estranged.”
“They’re a strange family. Ever since the oldest girl died—”
“I know. In Iraq.”
“Alexandra’s death deranged them all,” the woman said. “Next thing you know, the boy turns into an idiot from a motorcycle accident, then Nadia fights with her mother and moves away!”
The toddler began to fuss. I pulled a sheet of paper from my case and folded it into a cocked hat while I spoke. The child stopped whining to watch me.
“Poor Nadia was angry and upset all the time,” I said. “She took Alexandra’s death very hard.”
“Cristina will never talk about Alexandra to anyone. Maybe to the priest, although he’s not a man who inspires confidences.”
I handed the cocked hat to the child. “I guess I’ll try to pay a condolence call, anyway.”
“Cristina works during the day. Only Ernest is there, with Lazar’s mother. They take him for therapy, they hope he’ll learn to live on his own one day. Of course, he can walk, he can dress himself, he can talk, but in many ways he acts like a child. Almost like Fausto.” She pointed at the toddler. “How they can bring back his memory, that I don’t understand. They’re lucky they got a little extra money.”
“Extra money?” I blurted. “Nadia never mentioned that.”
“Oh, everyone knows it’s why she fought with her mother. They got some money, I think from Ernest’s accident, and Nadia, she thought her mother shouldn’t take it. Although, why not? What are you supposed to do, live on air and water?”
“What, the person who caused the accident paid them something?”
The settlement hadn’t shown up in any of my databases, but if it had been done through mediation it wouldn’t be part of the public record.
The neighbor shrugged—the money was old news, not interesting anymore. “Wherever it came from, they need every penny of it. His therapy, all the extra care. Why couldn’t Nadia stay at home and help instead of fighting with her mother and leaving?”
“It must be hard on Clara,” I suggested. “Two sisters dead, her brother seriously injured.”
“Everyone’s life is hard.” The woman settled Fausto into the wagon and started down the street. “My husband, he left me when I was pregnant with Fausto. But I keep going, and the Guamans do, too. And maybe the therapy will help Ernest. Two days a week, off he goes with his abuela to see if he can learn to behave normally around others. He can’t work unless he knows how to control himself.”
It was far too cold to stand around talking. I walked with her, pausing at the Guaman home.
My acquaintance shook her head. “I’m sure it’s hard on Cristina, seeing her son like he is. He used to be such a great boy, wonderful brother, good son. Shoveled the walks in the winter, took his sisters shopping. Whatever you wanted, he would do. And to see him like this—” She shook her head again, pitying.
“And they’re safe living here even though they have more money now?”
“Everyone knows them. No one wants to bring them any more sorrow. Punks did try to break in twice—we have gangs here, same as everywhere—but Lazar, he put in all this new security—wires, new glass, everything. One of the punks cut himself so badly, he lost the use of his right hand. And then, a few days later, someone shot another of the gangbangers, killed him as he was going into a drug house over on Nineteenth Street. We were all just as happy.”
We’d reached the Laundromat. I held the door for my acquaintance while she wrestled the wagon inside. The child had been chewing on the cocked hat, and it was pretty much a pulpy mess now, but the woman didn’t seem to mind.
I returned to my car and backed into the intersection so I could drive east, past the Guaman house. I don’t know what I was hoping to see, but just as I was about to turn north, the front door opened. I stopped at the corner and watched in my wing mirror while Ernest and his grandmother came down the stairs. She had a firm grip on his left arm, but his right arm gesticulated wildly.
They walked down the street away from me. A couple of left turns caught me up with them. I drove past them and turned again. After a number of similar maneuvers, I watched them turn north on Western Avenue. The grandmother’s head only reached Ernest’s shoulder, but she was definitely in charge of the expedition, propelling him along whenever he wanted to stop.
One storefront completely engaged him, and she had a hard time moving him on. When I passed a few minutes later, I saw it was a pet store. Puppies in cages—the kind of thing that makes you want to join an animal liberation army to set them free—but utterly entrancing for children. Propped in the window was a glossy picture of a puppy licking the face of an ecstatic child. On impulse, I went inside and got a flyer.
After a few blocks, the grandmother stopped and seemed to be forcing Ernest to decide where to go. He turned right, and she shook her head. He waved his arms and shouted, loudly enough that I caught the echo down in my own car, but finally he turned around and headed west.
Lotty’s hospital, Beth Israel, runs a rehab place down here, one of the ten or fifteen health-care centers that fill up Chicago’s near South Side. I figured my quarry was heading there. I drove past them and found street parking where I could keep an eye on the entrance. Sure enough, in another few minutes Ernest and his grandmother turned up the walk and went through the revolving doors.
I followed them in, not sure what I was hoping to accomplish. Women with infants, women with boyfriends on crutches or in wheelchairs, women looking after aging parents, old women like Se?ora Guaman taking care of grandchildren, filled the lobby. One television was blaring in Spanish, another in English. Children were crying, mothers stared ahead in stolid resignation.
Ernest and his grandmother were standing in line to check in. The grandmother had found someone she knew sitting nearby; the two women were talking in Spanish. I bent over, pretending to pick up something from the floor, and held out the flyer with the puppy’s picture to Ernest.
“Did you drop this?”
He looked at me, not understanding what I was saying, but then his eye fell on the picture of the puppy, and he snatched it from me.
“My dog! Nana, my dog!”
His grandmother turned. She sighed with fatigue when she saw the picture, and I felt ashamed for exciting him—looking after her grandson must be a hard enough job without a private eye rousing him.
“Your dog, Ernest?” she said. “You don’t have a dog. This is a picture of a dog.” Her English was fluent but heavily accented.
“I’m sorry,” I smiled at her. “I found this next to him on the floor and thought maybe he’d dropped it.”
“He wants a dog, and maybe we should get him one, but I don’t want to care for a dog as well as for Ernest. Anyway, his sister is allergic.”
“He’s here for therapy?” I asked.
“I don’t know how much they can do for him, but we come two times every week. After all, if you give up hope, you have nothing left.”
“It’s hard,” I said. “One of my cousins was shot in the head. He can still walk and talk, but he’s lost his impulse control. He behaves so wildly in public we don’t know if he can ever live on his own again.”
Lies. The detective’s stock-in-trade was really making me squirm today.
“With Ernie, it was a motorcycle,” she said. “We kept him out of the gangs. He was a good boy, always, but not a scholar like his sisters, They all are brilliant students. Were brilliant students.” Her face creased in sorrow. “Two of them are dead now.”
“I’m so sorry! Was it in the same accident where he was injured?”
It seemed disrespectful to talk about Ernest as if he wasn’t there, but, in a way, he wasn’t. He was crooning over the picture of the puppy. My guilt mounted.
“The oldest, she died in Iraq. These two were close. Her death hit him in the heart. I think that’s why he was careless with his motorcycle. Six months after Allie’s death, he ran off the expressway. Somehow, the motorcycle climbed over the railing. I don’t understand how, I wasn’t here. And my son couldn’t explain it to me.”
“Allie!” Ernest heard his sister’s name and dropped the picture. “Allie is a dove. She flies around with Jesus! Now Nadia is a dove. Men are shooting my sisters. They’ll get Clara next! Bam, bam! Poor Clara.”
“What, Allie was shot in battle?” I asked the grandmother.
“They shot Allie, bam, bam!”
“No, Ernesto, poor Allie was killed by a bomb.”
“They shot her, Nana, bam, bam! They shot Nadia, bam! Next, Clara, bam, bam!”
He was getting more and more agitated. I picked up the picture of the puppy.
“The puppy will kiss Clara and make her all better,” I suggested, holding it out to him.
“Yes! Nana, we need to get Clara a puppy. No one can shoot her if she has a puppy.”
In another minute, he was crooning happily over the picture again. I apologized to his grandmother for stirring him up.
“How could you know?” she said. “The death of his sister, he still can’t understand what really happened to her. And his mother, she won’t allow us to mention Alexandra’s name. So he never has a chance to talk. Maybe one day his poor brain will clear, and he will understand what happened to her.”
“The third sister isn’t really in danger, is she?”
The grandmother’s eyes clouded. “I pray night and day for her safety. When you have lost two—three, really”—she nodded toward her grandson—“you are frightened all the time.”
The clerk called her by name. “Daydreaming, Mrs. Guaman? It’s your turn! Ernie, your friends are waiting for you.”
I slipped away as the grandmother began to chat in Spanish with the clerk and drove to my office in a sober mood.