“With what money would that be, miss?” Sandra demanded. “Your trust—”
A loud crash, glass shattering in the rear of the house, interrupted her. I had my gun out and was running through the dining room to the kitchen before either of them could react. The kitchen was empty but I heard someone moving in the lean-to. I pulled the door open, crouching low, and hurled myself at the legs.
The space was too small for the intruder to fall over, but he crashed against the worktable, and I backed away just out of his reach to hold my gun on him.
“Freddy Pacheco!” I was panting heavily, and my words came out in short bursts. “We can’t keep meeting like this. What the hell are you doing in here? If you’ve come for the picture you drew, you are way, way too late.”
He straightened up and tried to come at me but backed off when he saw the gun. “You bitch, what you doing here? You following me? What you want from me?”
“So much I hardly know where to begin.” I leaned over and smacked his mouth, too fast for him to react. “Respect, for beginners. You call me ‘bitch’ one more time and I’ll put a bullet in your left foot. Second time, in your right foot.”
“You wouldn’t fire that, ’hos are too—”
I shot at the wall behind his head. The noise vibrated horribly in the closed space, but Freddy turned a greenish tint and collapsed against Bron’s worktable. An unpleasant stench rose from him, and I felt ashamed once more for using my gun to terrify someone—but the shame didn’t make me send him out into the alley with my blessing.
I heard Sandra tiptoe into the kitchen behind me. “You have a creep in your house, Sandra. Call 911. Right now.”
She started to argue with me, her reflex, but when she looked past me and saw Freddy she scuttled away. The phone was by the stove; I heard her shrieking into the phone, and yelling at April to stay the hell out of the kitchen.
“So, Freddy, tell me about the frog. You drew this picture for Bron and he was going to make it for you, is that right?”
“It was his idea, man, he said his kid told him the pastor put out Diego’s stereo. So Bron wanted to know how, man, and I told him, so he had me draw him a picture.”
“So you drew the picture. And then you went and put the frog in the drying room at the factory.”
“No, man, no way. I never killed nobody.”
“Then what were you doing the morning I found you there, huh? Looking for work?”
He brightened. “Yeah, that’s it, man, I wanted a job.”
“And Bron found one for you: burning down the factory, killing Frank Zamar.”
“It was an accident, man, the only thing supposed to happen was the electricity go out—” He shut up, suddenly realizing he was saying too much.
“You mean you killed a man because you didn’t know you’d be starting a fire? You were surrounded by fabric and solvent and you didn’t know they’d burn up?” I was so furious, it was hard not to shoot him on the spot.
“I didn’t do nothing, man, I ain’t saying one word more without my lawyer.”
He eyed my gun uneasily, but I couldn’t bring myself to brandish it again, even to get him to choke out a few more words. I was beside myself, though, at the mayhem he’d caused, all out of his colossal stupidity.
“So what are you doing in here?” I demanded. “What did you break in for? To get the drawing?”
He shook his head but wouldn’t speak.
I looked around the worktable. “The leftover tubing? Leftover acid?”
“Acid? What are you talking about?” Sandra said sharply behind me.
“A little trick Freddy learned from Pastor Andrés,” I said without turning around. “How to use nitric acid to short out a wire. Bron made a device for Freddy and Freddy burned down Fly the Flag. Although he says he didn’t mean to. Are the cops on the way?”
Sandra grasped only one part of my statement. “How—dare—you! How dare you come in here to my house of mourning and say Bron was setting fires? Get out of my house! Get out now!”
“Sandra, you want to be alone with Freddy, you and April?”
“If he’s going to tell lies to the police about Bron, I don’t want them arresting him.” She started kicking at my calves.
“Sandra, stop! Stop! This guy broke in, he’s dangerous, we need to give him to the police. Please! Do you want him to hurt April?”
She didn’t hear me, just kept kicking me, pulling at my hair, her face red and swollen. All of her furies and griefs of the last week—the last thirty years—were spilling out of her onto me.