And suddenly, in this church, in the midst of a wake for this woman’s longtime live-together mate and our beloved colleague, I’m being confronted with the same kind of bullshit I’ve been getting for days. Especially from Ramon.

“Oh, señora. What can I say? It pleases me that Ramon thought enough of me to tell you that, but…I’m just in no position to offer that kind of financial help right now, much as I’d like to.”

“Si, señor. Forgive me for saying. It’s just…”

“I understand, Juanita. Yo entiendo. Do not worry. And you have my word, if things change, and I’m in a position to help, I certainly will.”

And I start to pass her to go back down the aisle. But she’s holding her place.

Suddenly there’s some kind of bad vibe hanging in the air. I can damned near taste it.

“No, señor. No.” And now I’m looking at a different Juanita. Much of her accent is gone, replaced by what sounds like assertion. Her posture stiffens.

“No. Mira,” and she’s got this piercing look in black eyes that one minute ago were bottomless wishing wells, and are now ablaze with anger. I actually rock back on my heels.

“Mira, I know about you and Ramon.” She actually gestures to his corpse. “I…know. He told me all about it. Your business together. Your moneymaking business. So, you want to…help me? So I say nothing? Then, share. Comprende, señor?”

I swallow hard. And I don’t need a translator.

“Look, we’re in a church. We’re here for Ramon’s service, for Christ’s sake.” It’s all I can do to keep my voice down.

“Share Ramon’s business with me. Or, no se what happens.”

Only one way to put an end to this shit, for now.

“Okay, okay. I will make some arrangements. Tell me how to reach you and I will do something. I am sure there are many people at the agency who will want to help, too.”

“Aqui,” and she hands me a crumpled piece of paper, obviously prepared for this moment. I open it and there’s a Brooklyn address scrawled on it, barely readable, with a cell number.

“Send money order. Then we see. Juanita Cisneros. C…I…S…”

“Yes, yes, got it. Okay, I will. Count on it. I…want to help. I do.”

And I’m looking at another metamorphosis. She’s reassuming the humbled look of a law-abiding illegal alien who has just suffered a painful loss, and is once again unclear about what tomorrow will bring….

“Muchas gracias, señor.” She imposes another hug, and I see now we’re being watched by some of the agency folks down by the coffee urn.

“De nada” is what I say, but not what I’m thinking.

I’m almost sympathetic, because of my relationship with Ramon.

Ay dios mio!

Chapter 20

I want to join some of the agency folk for a minute before I go—now more than ever. As I’m walking back down the aisle…there’s Detective Quinn, sitting in the last pew, way over on the far side.