Paul van Wagoner swiveled in his desk chair, observing the bustle at the Hog's Breath Inn below, indulging himself in a pat on the back. You couldn't pick a more beautiful place on earth than Carmel, California. He'd seen the world, and remained unimpressed. What did Italy have that California didn't have? Ruins? California had missions. London? San Francisco had sexier water. Well, okay, there was no Himalaya to climb. But from his front door, it was five hours to the Sierras, max. Here he could enjoy a sea as blue as the Mediterranean and beaches lounged upon by people as cosmopolitan as any in Nice.
He had started his morning with a steaming espresso at a sunlit café for breakfast, and finished it up with a few phone calls to organize his subcontractors for the next day. He would leave about four, he decided, and take a long fast walk up the beach, get his feet wet, let the waves bury his feet and the sandcrabs tickle his toes. In the late afternoon on a glorious blue-on-blue day like today, all the pretty women would still be out baring their midriffs to the air and his gaze. He didn't want to miss that. And now that he had his own business, he could do as he pleased on any fine afternoon.
After spending years getting educated on the East Coast, he loved everything about California. Even crime paid here, for him as it did in Hollywood. California could transform the most venal crime into a song and dance and success for somebody.
He liked his work. He dealt in issues of life and death. What could be more important? And if lately the rest of his life seemed less vital than usual, well, that was subject to change. That could be remedied instantly, with a certain sway of the right someone's hip.
Today, he had new clients coming in at two o'clock, the Maldonados, Victor and Delilah. They were parents whose son had been shot four times, allegedly by a drive-by shooter. In the hospital now, in intensive care, the teenager was just barely alive. When Paul spoke on the phone to the parents right after the incident, their son had not been expected to live.
Matter-of-fact people who never expected a tragedy to blow their simple dreams for their son and themselves sky-high, he could tell the Maldonados had gone through several phases by the time they called him, using voices calm and hopeful. They had entered the denial phase, one that Paul recognized all too well. Years ago in Nepal, Paul had seen a woman hang a strip of cotton with inked messages on it onto a line, next to a dozen others, multicolored, at various stages of fading. She hung it there as a message to a presumably benevolent god. As the flag faded, her god absorbed the message. The Maldonados had been hanging out their prayer flag, not giving up. He didn't know what to expect from them.
He poured himself another jolt of coffee for fortification. This part of his job could get him down.
Victor Maldonado entered the room first. His wife trailed in behind. They sat side by side in his client chairs, not touching, but bouncing thoughts off each other the way married people did, flinging questions and arguments his way. He imagined they'd been married for a very long time. The wife's whole milk-colored face seemed to be a frame for a generous mouth with perfectly straight white teeth. Her skin had lost its youthful flush, and lines ran along the edges of her lips, but the lines told Paul about a life full of laughter and smiles.
She didn't smile now; the face that was made to smile looked painfully tense. Her husband sat close by, tall and dark and round around the middle, his voice booming, and his body movements closely aligned to hers, responsive to her nuances, physical and verbal. They were close; Paul could see that. Good. They needed each other now. Roman, the shooting victim, nineteen years old, was their only son.
“How's Roman?” Paul asked.
“We called this morning,” said Victor. “They took him out of intensive care. The doctor said he was ‘cautiously optimistic.'”
“Great,” Paul said, surprised. He had steeled himself for bad news, he realized now, as the tension in his neck relaxed, and he felt the ache of holding it stiff for the past few minutes. How amazing to be shot four times and hang in there anyway. Good for Roman. He asked them to fill him in on the events surrounding Roman's shooting.
They explained that he had been working for two months at Taylor 's Corner Store, north, up near Gilroy, being paid under the table, in cash.
“We can't afford college, even though he really wants to go.” Roman's mother spoke in a voice loaded with regret and guilt. “We have just enough on paper so nobody would give him the financial aid he needed, and his test scores were okay but not great. He was sick the day of the test, and too demoralized to try again. He's actually a smart kid. Always got real good grades. I worry about what's going to happen to him. You can't get anywhere today without a college education.”
“Don't beat yourself up about that anymore, Delly. He'll get there. Have a little faith.”
Delilah adjusted her purse on her knees. “Victor buys twenty bucks' worth of faith every week. Thanks to the lottery, he dreams away our bills, our bad health…”
“Our mortgage,” teased her husband, shrugging, looking okay with the characterization.
“Lord,” she said to Paul, “if dreams were real.”
“So your son went to work to save money for college?” Paul prompted.
“So he got this dumb job that hardly kept him in black T-shirts. He never meant to stay long, just until he could get something that paid better and had some benefits,” said Victor.
“He should've been looking for a better job then, shouldn't he have?” his wife said. “None of this would have happened if he had a decent job. Roman's so young. He thinks he can play around, and everything will turn out right anyway.”
“Nothing wrong with being young and expecting a lot of the world, Delly,” her husband said. “Keeps the spirit happy and engaged.”
“His boss, Bert Taylor, has owned that store for twenty years. Now he claims Roman never worked there, that he's always run the place on his own,” Delilah went on. “But why in the world would Roman make up a job?”
Paul could think of a few reasons. Maybe Roman had another way of making money that he felt shy talking about, or maybe he just wanted out from under his mother's eagle eye for a few minutes every day.
“I can't see why it makes a difference,” Victor said with exasperation. “They found Roman lying out front, didn't they? It's nothing to do with his job.”
“He's not out of the woods yet, the doctors say,” said Delilah, reality breaking through as her flag faded but her wishes remained undone. “He could still take a turn… I can't stand to think…”
“Did you talk with Roman's boss, with Taylor, after the accident?” Paul asked.
“Went over to the store when Roman got shot, on Sunday,” Delilah said. “The ambulance had just gone. We were going to hustle over to the hospital. But they said he wasn't expected to make it. We needed a minute… our son's blood was on the sidewalk and Taylor was inside, doing all the normal end-of-the-day stuff. Wiping counters, tidying. You know. It seemed so strange to me.”
“You shouldn't have yelled at him, Delly,” her husband said, looking softly at his wife.
“No, I guess not. But my son nearly died in front of his store and he's so concerned about all that blood on his precious sidewalk.”
“People don't know what to say,” said Victor. “Keeping busy helps. You know that.”
“But Roman wouldn't lie to me,” Mrs. Maldonado said, getting a little weepy.
Putting an arm around his wife, Victor gave Paul a look. The brown depths of his eyes told Paul he knew their son better than his wife did. All sons lied to their mothers.
“Have you talked to Roman since he was shot? Is he conscious?”
Victor Maldonado picked up the thread while his wife sniffed into a tissue. “He is. He's foggy about what happened. They say it's a miracle he's survived. Nobody expected it. The police said they'd send someone over to see him today, see if he remembered anything helpful about the car.”
“We're going over there to see our boy right now,” piped Delilah, obviously relieved by her tears, more relaxed, ready to reenter the fray.
Paul decided to tag along. He could walk down to the water tomorrow.
He followed the Maldonados in his car to the hospital in Monterey, met them in front, and walked with them up slippery floors to Roman Maldonado's room. The boy's parents kissed him gently. His mother smoothed the hair off his broad, wet forehead. A mouth as wide as his mother's, but wrecked and torn, was patched together with neat black rows of stitches ending in small knots. The couple introduced Paul, and left their son with promises to return shortly. Until Paul knew if the kid was lying, the parents were better occupied elsewhere.
Roman lay on the bed, his muscular body so long his feet hung off the end. Thick white bandages broke the dark expansive skin of his chest, a sheet furled down around his waist, and his eyes remained closed.
“Roman, I just want to ask you a couple of questions about what happened, okay?”
Roman nodded slightly, opening his eyes.
“You know you've been shot?”
He nodded.
“Were you clerking at Taylor 's store yesterday?”
He nodded again.
“He paid you in cash?”
“Yes.” He groaned. The puffy red lips strained against their stitches.
“We'd like to find out if you saw the person in the car. Do you remember anything about that person? Or the car? What color was it?”
The boy's face, splotched white and red, screwed up. “What car?” he asked.
“You remember going outside right before you got shot?”
He shook his head, eyes wide-open now, looking perplexed.
“You don't remember going outside?”
“No.”
The word came out simple and clear. Dang, no memory of the incident. Well, these things sometimes came back with time.
“I never went outside. There was no car.”
Paul looked at him for a moment, hands in his pockets, pondering the many lies he had told his mother and other inquisitive adults while he was growing up. Then he said, “You know you're in the hospital, Roman? You know how badly hurt you are?” He didn't add, They took four bullets out of you yesterday and you could die any minute.
From Roman's face, his father's clear brown eyes told Paul Roman knew he could die.
“Who shot you?”
“I never saw him before.”
“Okay. Then what happened in the store that day?”
But Roman had closed his eyes again and sunk back into his pain. He stiffened his body in the bed as if preparing for some private ordeal.
Paul pushed a button to call the nurse, who took the time to frown at him on the way to her patient.
Well, thought Paul, a mystery. He trotted off to bribe a talkative cop.
He invited Armano Hernandez out for a beer after his shift.
They met at five that evening at the Pine Inn, a few blocks from Paul's office. A decade younger than Paul, around thirty, Hernandez had worked under Paul when he had managed a special homicide task force a few years before. Small and agile, with fine features, he was a handsome and funny guy who loved being a cop; when Paul left his job in minor disgrace, Hernandez took his place. Hernandez seemed to feel he owed Paul something, and although Paul couldn't agree, he found Armano's loyalty both touching and useful.
Hernandez needed two beers and several long minutes to vent his misgivings about sharing cop business with Paul, the latest fracas between him and Chief Carsey and a brief update on the ongoing soap opera starring his younger sister Lena before settling into a conversation.
“There's two things you got to remember, Paulo,” he started out. He never intended to patronize Paul, but to him and to all of his friends on the police force, Paul fell into that category of pitiable creatures, cops without a badge. Once an ex-cop, always a disreputable failure. “Number one, the parents know nothing. Correction: the dad knows more than the mom and he doesn't know shit. Number two, when you're talking to a nineteen-year-old boy who's got nothing going for him, assume a drug connection.”
That said, he apparently felt he had imparted something valuable, for he tossed a handful of nuts down his throat, crunched forcefully, and smacked his lips.
Paul liked Armano. He only hated the way he ate. “What's the blood evidence, Armano?” he asked eventually, giving him the chance to polish off a second handful.
“Forensics took some off the sidewalk, all his. No evidence of a fight. Nothing under his fingernails. Nothing like that. Just four messy shots.”
“They find the casings?”
“Yeah, two lying on the ground near him. From the same weapon, a thirty-eight. One funny thing. One of the casings had a partial print on it. Turned out to be Taylor 's. He said when he got outside and saw all the blood, he picked it up without thinking. With all the TV, you'd think people would know better.”
“That's worth looking into.”
“ Taylor didn't shoot the kid. Roman would say so right off the bat.”
“Your people go inside the store?”
“Had to interview Taylor in there. The store's kept really nice-you been in there? Painted blue all around the top of the walls with some nice-looking murals of fruit. He's got the veggies laid out in these little plastic things that look like grass, and he buys his produce from farms in Salinas, so it's good fresh stuff. Not only is it sweet-lookin', it's clean as a whistle. The guy takes a lot of pride in his business.”
“What's he like? Taylor?”
“Normal. Businesslike. Trying to make money and stay out of trouble. We talked to a few of the people around that day. Nobody admitted knowing Roman but they might lie to stay out of it, or to protect Taylor. Then again, the store's on a busy street. I don't know how much repeat business the guy gets. Roman says he worked oddball hours, so he might not have been noticed in particular. We're believing Taylor until we've got a good reason to believe Roman instead.”
“Why don't you believe Roman? He says he worked there. Seems like a strange story.”
“Look, it wouldn't surprise me if Taylor slipped the kid a few bucks under the table and lied about that. He doesn't want to have any run-ins with the tax man. But, it's a fact that Roman got shot. It's a fact we found the kid lying on the sidewalk in front of the store. Whether he worked for Taylor or not is moot. He ran into someone who went joyriding with a pistol. I'm not even sure the kid's lying intentionally about being out there on the street. That kind of shock is bound to upset anyone. Now there was a theory floating around…”
“What theory?”
“Seems the owner complained to the cops several times about people taking potshots at his store. He's Anglo operating in a neighborhood where he's a minority. Maybe there is some tension. Maybe that's why he might hire Roman, who's at least partly Hispanic. But he says in this case, the guys pulled up, aimed at Roman, and shot. It's nothing to do with him. Course, if Taylor knew someone had a grudge and came after him, he might lie.”
“Any estimate as to how far away the perp was when he fired?”
“Close. Maybe six, eight feet.”
“Did he see the car?”
“Actually, no. Says he was in back. Just heard a car tear away when he came running out.”
“What are my chances of getting something out of the medical examiner?”
“Susan? She's got a soft spot for you, Paul. All the muchachas do. I've been meaning to ask you about that…”
“Armano, you don't need any tips from me. I'm a two-time loser with wives.”
“Who said anything about marriage, besides my mother?”
Paul jogged on the beach the next morning, working up a good sweat, running along Carmel Beach toward downtown, circling back, and running at the foot of Thirteenth. He was good and tired before he saw Susan Misumi making her way down a hillside pathway to the beach, dragged by a diminutive dog, a royal blue sweatshirt hood covering her head.
A woman of regular habits, she usually walked the beach very early in the morning. She was late. He must have run an extra mile. He'd skip tomorrow without guilt. He waved and ran toward her, slowing his pace.
“Son of a gun. It's been a while. Paul, right? After you quit, I thought you'd be heading back up to San Francisco.”
“Where there's money, there's crime. Plenty of work for me right here. I could mention you're still here.” He tried to catch his breath. He didn't feel very smooth with Susan. She was a type he found hard to understand, a woman happy in a man's job.
“Like you said, crime pays.” She fell into step with him. They walked toward a large piece of driftwood and sat on it side by side. Small and delicate-looking, Susan did not look strong enough to cut through bone. “And I like my job.” Her dog, a brindle-colored Lhasa apso, began a frantic search for something, flinging sand in all directions.
Paul moved out of the line of fire. “What got you interested in forensics?”
“In med school I quickly discovered my fatal flaw: I'm damned squeamish about cutting into living, breathing bodies. With dead people, you do no damage.”
She looked up at Paul, grinning. “I've seen you on the beach a couple of times before, but you have that don't-bug-me-I'm-communing-with-nature look.”
“Probably just in a hurry to answer nature's call.”
Her dog must have known the meaning of the phrase. He raised his leg against the log a foot past Paul. Paul stood up and moved away. “Whew. Dangerous neighborhood.”
“Speaking of which…” Susan said, apparently recognizing the lack of coincidence in their meeting.
“I'm working for Roman Maldonado's family. I wondered if you'd mind sharing a little of what's on your mind in that case.”
“Oh, yes. What a mess. A drive-by, according to the police. Always hard to find those guys, unless they're dumb enough to brag about it. Amazing how many do.”
“Did you go to the scene?”
“No. Earl Cummings from our office went over there because the owner of the store said the boy that was shot was dead. From what Earl said, and from the photographs, there's a problem with the blood at the scene.”
“What's that?”
“There's blood on the sidewalk. Just not much. Strange, isn't it, when the kid got shot four times?”
“You think he was shot somewhere else and brought there?”
“No sign of blood in the store or the alley nearby. The first cop to arrive did a thorough survey of the area.”
“How soon after the shooting did Earl get there?”
“About an hour. Should have been sooner. I've got a regular beef about that with Chief Carsey.” She leaned over and scratched her dog behind the ears. His head moved ecstatically along with her fingers while his little body remained alert, the picture of eager anticipation. She got up. “Gotta go. Can't keep a good dog waiting.”
She took off down the beach. Paul waved once more and then allowed his eyes to snap his standard body shot. She had good legs, muscular and balletic, a small waist, and long, developed arms. Susan was stronger than she looked. When she'd scratched the dog, Paul wanted to offer himself up for a good scratch, too. He watched her break into a carefree run. That woman probably plucked hearts out of men by the dozen. This level of cool, he could never quite approve.
After he had showered and dressed, he fired up his van and headed up 101 to Gilroy in a good mood, playing the radio and enjoying the cloud show on the green hills and dales flanking the freeway. He stopped at Chevy's for a breakfast burrito and drove up the hill toward Taylor 's store. Parking in front, he noted the freshly painted angled spots and meticulously clean, well-swept walkway in front. No trees marred the shining asphalt with their leaves.
Armano hadn't exaggerated. Bert Taylor's market was definitely a cut above the average corner store. The windows sparkled, the floors shined. The area behind the counter looked like something organized and maintained by Paul's scrupulous Dutch grandmother, who had never made her peace with all the dirt in the world.
A woman with a baby in a stroller monopolized the man behind the counter for a good ten minutes trying to decide between what looked to be identically jumbo plastic packages of disposable diapers. One pass by the stroller, and Paul stayed away. Baby needed those diapers badly and had made bad use of them. Baby agreed, letting loose with a murderous howl. Her mother and the clerk ignored her, unconsciously adjusting the volume of their voices to be heard. Mom decided to take both packages, and then had the long job of figuring out how to carry them and push a stroller with a hysterical child at the same time.
“Bert Taylor?” Paul asked, after she was out of screaming distance.
“That's my name,” said the clerk. Very tall, he would have been fairly good-looking except for a jaw that ended somewhere around his knees. The long face held an easy grin.
Paul introduced himself as an investigator. Taylor didn't ask him for further ID, assuming him to be yet another agent of law enforcement coming around to hear his story for the millionth time. Paul did not disabuse him of the notion, secretly marveling at how accepting people were when they shouldn't be.
Taylor was very interested in Roman's condition. “I coulda sworn that boy was dead as a doornail,” he said in amazement. “I guess if you're here, he's not talking much. He remember what happened?”
“He's still confused. But he'll come out of it.” Paul didn't know if that was true; he watched for a reaction, but missed it when Taylor turned away to adjust something on a shelf behind him.
Paul began to ask him a few questions, which Taylor answered. As they talked, Taylor moved stock on shelves, dusted for invisible dust, rearranged a sagging sign that read “If you look under a hundred years old, we want to see your ID for liquor purchases,” and sprayed his counter with what smelled like poison gas, wiping it all down with an immaculate new sponge.
“A hundred?” Paul asked. “That's about how old I feel some days. You wouldn't really ID me, would you?”
“No,” said Taylor.
“So why the sign?” Paul persisted.
“I put that sign up so maybe some people would quit making such a stink. You'd think they would be flattered I want to check their ID, but they get really ticked off.”
The man's sudden show of anger piqued Paul's interest. “Ticked off enough to shoot someone?”
“No!” Taylor looked shocked. “That's ridiculous.”
“So why make such a big deal about ID?”
“The penalties for selling to minors are fierce. Plus I'm not about to get in trouble so some sixteen-year-old can get loaded on my beer and crack up his mom's car.”
Taylor swore Roman Maldonado had never worked for him. He said there were some rowdies who'd threatened him about being in the wrong neighborhood, but he wasn't about to cop to bullies. He'd opened a “dialogue,” he said, and was working on making friends in the neighborhood. In general, he appeared to be a good-natured guy with nothing to hide. Only when he talked about Roman did he show his defensiveness.
“Look, I've seen him around, okay? I can't keep the kids from hanging around in front of the store. It's public property once they are out there. I've tried chasing them off, but I don't like to alienate anybody, especially potential customers. I turn a blind eye. But some of them are out there selling drugs, I know it and you do, too.” He looked hard at Paul. “I bet you experimented when you were young. Most kids do.”
“You're saying he was mixed up in a drug deal gone bad?”
“I wouldn't suggest that. I'm just trying to help you out, help you understand. He didn't work for me. If he had an income, that's one way people get it around here.”
“When the Maldonados came by, you said you didn't know Roman. You lied, Bert. Why'd you lie?”
“They were upset. They remember wrong.”
Paul wondered if they did.
On the way out of Taylor 's, Paul ran into the stroller. Baby now sat quietly, calm as a cow chewing her cud, face covered with chocolate.
“ Taylor sure keeps the store nice,” Paul said to the baby's mother.
“Yeah, I hardly recognized it today. I'm here at least once a week. You notice when things change.” She riffled for something in a voluminous straw bag, found what she was looking for, and brought out a crumpled cigarette.
“He really fixed it up, huh?”
“When he bought it, he put in the fresh food and painted the inside. I noticed today, the place is real clean.”
“Ever see a big kid named Roman working the counter in there?”
“I don't want to get Bert into trouble.”
“Kid got shot here a couple of days ago. Bert said it was a drive-by.”
“Here?”
“Right in front of the store.”
“Shit.” She sighed, lighting up. “Might as well go out smoking.”
Long shadows crept along the street shading the building opposite Paul's office, blurring as twilight hinted its approach. The shoppers were going home. If he wanted to make his evening walk on the beach, he would have to hurry. The thought, which ordinarily made him happy, irritated him for a moment. He didn't like routines. And he was tired of walking alone.
He called Taylor 's insurance company, then pumped a workers' compensation lawyer he knew in Salinas for information. He had tried earlier in the day to talk with Roman again, but had another brief unenlightening conversation. The boy was in pain and too sick to talk on the phone.
But Paul was satisfied he had a solution. This wasn't the standard whodunit. The facts in the case had been deliberately muddied but he thought he knew now what had happened to Roman Maldonado.
Hurrying to his car, he clocked his trip to the hospital at four minutes. Another record.
Up in his room, Roman lifted himself out of his fog long enough for Paul to hammer the final nail in his solution: Taylor had a baseball bat he resorted to in a pinch to cool down hotheaded patrons.
He made the trip back up to Taylor 's store, only once having to slip out of cruise control when a middle-aged flea marketeer cut him off at the Red Barn intersection.
“You again,” Taylor greeted him. “Like Columbo. ‘Oh, let me ask you one last thing.'” He laughed.
“That's right.” Paul smiled. “I'm back and I'm bad.”
“What's on your mind?”
The store was quiet, perhaps as quiet as the day Roman got shot. “Where are all your customers?”
“They come in waves. Sometimes we get ten people, then nobody for ten minutes.”
“That way on Sunday?”
“Always is.”
“That's right. There were no eyewitnesses. It was just you and Roman here, all alone. Just you two and a little under-the-table job, and a baseball bat.” Paul strolled around picking a few things off the shelf, placing them carefully, neatly back. Behind the counter, he caught sight of the bat. “Self-made man,” said Paul.
“That's right,” Taylor said, wanting to throw him out, but nervous about it. “Nothing wrong with that.”
“Self-sufficient. Hate hiring people. Bet you get worked up around tax time. Want to keep the government out of your business. Avoid insurance like the plague.”
“Who doesn't?”
“I like that sign you've got in your window there. ‘Survival of the fittest.' I've got to get one of those.”
“Something I can help you find?” Taylor said impatiently.
“You know, I don't think so. This last thing I want to see here, I'll swear you haven't got.”
It took him a long time to wear Taylor down, but in the end he admitted it. Taylor just didn't carry what Paul was looking for.
The Maldonados were due in his office at about four o'clock. Stuck at a long light, he spent an extra minute on the return trip there, and ran up the stairs to make up the time. He was going to have to stop all these little games he played, find something a little more satisfying than competing against himself.
Puffing hard and inspired by the thought, he punched in the number for the medical examiner. Since that morning on the beach, he had thought a lot about Susan Misumi and that pip-squeak dog of hers.
She wasn't part of his grand plan, but dreams had a way of changing on you.
“Fancy an evening walk?” he asked.
She did.
The Maldonados arrived on the button. They took seats across from Paul. The long afternoon light from the window behind his desk slanted through blinds, striping their faces gold and gray.
“Did Roman tell you anything? We can't get him to talk. His mother cries when she goes there. It's tough, seeing him like that.”
“He's confused about the details of what happened,” Delilah said. “He remembers working behind the counter and he's sure he never stepped out that front door. Says he always used the back door. Too many smokers and winos hung around in front.”
“So what the hell happened?”
“Victor!” his wife reprimanded.
“I'll send you a written report,” Paul said. “But this was no drive-by shooting. There was no spatter on the wall, and at least some of the blood he lost ended up somewhere besides the sidewalk in front of Taylor 's store.”
The parents looked at him, flummoxed. The father slammed his open hand down on the Formica. “ Taylor shot him! I didn't like him the moment I saw him.”
“No. Taylor didn't shoot him. Roman says it was someone he didn't know. But Taylor 's got plenty to answer for.”
“Well, then…?”
“Here's my take on it. Number one problem. Not enough blood on the sidewalk. That's easy. Roman was shot inside the store. Number two problem. Where's the blood? Well, we've got an immaculate store all of a sudden. Taylor 's been mopping and scrubbing like a maniac. You said the day your son was shot, you got there and Taylor was cleaning. He probably had cleared away the blood seconds after Roman got shot right there behind the counter. Problem three. Who shot him? I don't think it was someone Roman knew. I don't think it had anything to do with drugs. I think Roman got shot the same way most people get shot in convenience stores. He got shot during an attempted robbery.
“My guess? It was a young-looking customer, a nervous one. Maybe put a six-pack on the counter thinking he'd get your son to open the register, then he'd make his move. But the owner's been on the warpath about selling to underage drinkers. Your son demands some ID, which is not something a thief is eager to show. The thief balks.”
“Roman would stand up to the guy,” Victor said sadly. “He's got a temper.”
“So, okay, at this point Roman's already defensive, maybe a little mad. The customer looks young. Maybe he's a little fellow. And Roman's big, intimidating. Roman says Taylor keeps a baseball bat under the counter in case things get rowdy. So, let's say, Roman reaches under the counter. Anyway, for that reason or some other one, the would-be thief gets nervous and pulls a gun. Your son gets shot. Happens all the time.”
“It doesn't make sense. They found him outside.”
“That slowed me down a little, too. That's where your friend Taylor came in. He moved him.”
“He dragged Roman outside?” asked Roman's horrified mother. “After someone shot him?”
“Let's give him the benefit of the doubt. He thought Roman was already dead.”
“But why would he do that, Mr. van Wagoner? Why leave our son dead on the sidewalk?”
“Bert Taylor didn't carry workers' compensation insurance. He knew he'd be liable if your son was shot in his store. Outside, he might be able to avoid any financial responsibility. He's not a murderer. He's just another small businessman trying to protect himself. Almost everybody lies to save money. He figured your son was dead already, so why invite trouble?”
“My God!”
“My ex-fellow cops are over there right now. I'm sure Taylor will be persuaded to help them identify the person who shot your son. He probably saw the whole thing.”
“They better catch him,” said Delilah, “before I do. Boys with guns. I never let Roman play with guns.”
“By the way, I had a talk with Roman's doctor,” Paul said. “In spite of being only a few feet away, the shooter missed anything vital. The doctor says Roman's as strong as a prizefighter. He'll be out of the hospital soon.”
“Without a job to go to,” worried his mother.
“No troubles on that score now. Taylor will make it up to him,” Paul said. “I'll see to it.”
“If he can't even afford insurance, we're not going after Bert Taylor,” said Victor. “We don't want to put him out of business or anything. What he did was really low, but he didn't actually harm our boy.”
“Oh, but Taylor can afford insurance. He just prefers to put his money into real estate. He owns a section of coastline south of Carmel.”
“He can help us with Roman's medical bills?”
“I'll give you the name of a fine workers' comp attorney in Salinas who will make sure Mr. Taylor takes care of all Roman's needs for now and for a significant chunk of the future, guaranteed.”
“You mean…” Delilah began, but her husband interrupted.
“Hot damn,” cried Victor Maldonado, knocking the chair over as he stood up. “Roman's going to college!”