“He spoke to me so nice, like he did last year, before he made María Inés inside me, like I was beautiful, all those things. So I dug it out of Sammy’s box and gave it to him, and then he left, not even a good-bye kiss, not even ‘How is María Inés?’”

“Congratulations on a close escape,” I said drily. “The farther you stay away from him, the better off you are. When was this?”

“Three weeks ago. In the morning, after Ma went to work and everyone else left for school.”

“Did he say why he wanted it?”

“I told you! He said because he wanted something from me, after all, and he was sorry, all those things!”

“Where is Freddy now?” I demanded.

Julia looked at me nervously. “I don’t know.”

“Guess, then. Where does he hang out? What bar, where are his other babies? Anything.”

“Are you going to hurt him?”

“Why do you protect him?” Rose burst out. “He’s a bad man—he left you with a baby, he steals, he cares for no one but himself! His mother brought him to church every Sunday and what does he do but hang around outside in Diego’s truck, insulting the service with their music. In five years, his pretty-boy looks will be gone and then he will have nothing.”

Rose turned to me. “Sometimes he goes to Cocodrilo, it’s a bar across from the church. The other girl who also has his baby, I don’t think he sees her, either, but she’s over on Buffalo. If you kill him yourself with your bare hands, I will swear to the police you never saw him, never touched him.”

I couldn’t help laughing. “I don’t think I will come to that. But if it does—muchas gracias!”

40

An Acid Touch

The lights were on in the church when I pulled up to the corner of Ninety-second and Houston. I went up the shallow step to the front door to see what was going on. Thursday night Bible study, six-thirty to eight, November topic, the book of Isaiah. It was just after six-thirty now, so the pastor was hard at it.

Directly across the street from the church was a vacant lot where a handful of cars and trucks were parked at skewed angles—including a Dodge with big speakers in the back and a license plate beginning “VBC.” Next to the lot, three decrepit houses propped each other up. Cocodrilo, the bar where Freddy drank, was on their far side. The bar was really just the ground floor of a narrow two-flat, whose clapboard sides were sagging and peeling. The windows were covered with a thick mesh screen that didn’t allow much light to seep out.