drug dealing. Wager flipped on his high beams and cruised slowly and steadily toward the cars. As he approached, puffs of exhaust showed their engines starting and they quickly pulled away, turning onto 31st. Wager took their place in the cul-de-sac and waited; five minutes later one of the cockroaches slowed at the end of the block to peer through the dusk and then speed off.
He waited some more as the darkness slowly gathered like rising water, leaving the sodium lights to show brighter and brighter cones of orange light. The kids playing football had disappeared, and now figures approached from the dark, paused and stared, moved hesitantly away; a kid on a bicycle rode slowly past and studied Wager and his car. Then he pedaled harder into the dark, his thin voice calling “Five-O, Five-O” into the waiting silence. It reminded Wager of one of the calls that haunted long summer evenings during his own childhood—“Olly olly all’s in free.” But this message had a less innocent purpose: “Five-O,” part of the title of an old television series, was street code for a plainclothes cop. The kid was a lookout warning his dealer. Maybe even one of those who had been shouting for a pass a few minutes ago. Wager could feel the anxiety in the restless shadows at the edges of light. But no Big Ron. That was OK—Wager didn’t expect to bust the man, just hassle his business a little. Let him know that his silence was going to irritate his customers and even cost him some money.
After a while, it was too dark to make out anything but the vague shapes, probably cursing Wager and sweating with eagerness, who moved back and forth hungrily on the fringe of light.
Yawning, stiff from sitting, he started his car and swung its headlights around the park to catch scattered figures in the glare. Some sat on the park benches, others stood uneasily, turning from the lights. Still no dealers selling, just increasingly anxious buyers; and no Big Ron. But he would know that Wager had been here, and why.
7
J ULIO’S MASS OF Christian burial was Saturday afternoon at St. Joseph’s. Wager had not been inside the redbrick building in years, though he drove past it often enough and had occasionally interviewed one or another of the priests about one or another of their parishioners. He and Elizabeth found a parking place half a block down Galapago Street and walked slowly past other parked cars toward the white stone steps that led up to the heavy, recessed doors. As ever, Wager felt the weight of the towering, sooty brick; the shadowed corners and yawning, dim interior brought back the uneasy sense of intrusion and sadness he had felt as a child when, on rare occasions, the family had attended mass here. Before urban renewal had emptied the Auraria barrio and its church, they had gone to San Cajetano’s. It had been yellow and smooth outside the adobe-looking walls and twin bell towers lifting against the sky; the windows and eaves had been trimmed with bright red and blue paint. Inside, its whitewashed walls had made it light, and the stained-glass windows had brought in sunshine. But in this church, which was narrow and tall, gloomy and cold, and hinted of the grave, the colored glass seemed to keep the daylight out, and even the sprays of flowers by the casket and at the altar seemed leached of color.
The organist had not yet started to play, but the shuffle of shoe leather on a gritty floor and the wet sound of tears and of purses unzipping for handkerchiefs made a constant rustle as viewers filed past the open casket and paused to whisper a prayer. Wager and Elizabeth walked up the aisle, and he genuflected to the cross that loomed over him with almost frightening nearness. Then they joined the line of people saying a last goodbye to Julio. Aunt Louisa, supported by Wager’s mother and Uncle Tony, sat hunched in the front pew. The black of her dress was crisp and shiny—new mourning clothes for a new loss. His mother caught
He waited some more as the darkness slowly gathered like rising water, leaving the sodium lights to show brighter and brighter cones of orange light. The kids playing football had disappeared, and now figures approached from the dark, paused and stared, moved hesitantly away; a kid on a bicycle rode slowly past and studied Wager and his car. Then he pedaled harder into the dark, his thin voice calling “Five-O, Five-O” into the waiting silence. It reminded Wager of one of the calls that haunted long summer evenings during his own childhood—“Olly olly all’s in free.” But this message had a less innocent purpose: “Five-O,” part of the title of an old television series, was street code for a plainclothes cop. The kid was a lookout warning his dealer. Maybe even one of those who had been shouting for a pass a few minutes ago. Wager could feel the anxiety in the restless shadows at the edges of light. But no Big Ron. That was OK—Wager didn’t expect to bust the man, just hassle his business a little. Let him know that his silence was going to irritate his customers and even cost him some money.
After a while, it was too dark to make out anything but the vague shapes, probably cursing Wager and sweating with eagerness, who moved back and forth hungrily on the fringe of light.
Yawning, stiff from sitting, he started his car and swung its headlights around the park to catch scattered figures in the glare. Some sat on the park benches, others stood uneasily, turning from the lights. Still no dealers selling, just increasingly anxious buyers; and no Big Ron. But he would know that Wager had been here, and why.
7
J ULIO’S MASS OF Christian burial was Saturday afternoon at St. Joseph’s. Wager had not been inside the redbrick building in years, though he drove past it often enough and had occasionally interviewed one or another of the priests about one or another of their parishioners. He and Elizabeth found a parking place half a block down Galapago Street and walked slowly past other parked cars toward the white stone steps that led up to the heavy, recessed doors. As ever, Wager felt the weight of the towering, sooty brick; the shadowed corners and yawning, dim interior brought back the uneasy sense of intrusion and sadness he had felt as a child when, on rare occasions, the family had attended mass here. Before urban renewal had emptied the Auraria barrio and its church, they had gone to San Cajetano’s. It had been yellow and smooth outside the adobe-looking walls and twin bell towers lifting against the sky; the windows and eaves had been trimmed with bright red and blue paint. Inside, its whitewashed walls had made it light, and the stained-glass windows had brought in sunshine. But in this church, which was narrow and tall, gloomy and cold, and hinted of the grave, the colored glass seemed to keep the daylight out, and even the sprays of flowers by the casket and at the altar seemed leached of color.
The organist had not yet started to play, but the shuffle of shoe leather on a gritty floor and the wet sound of tears and of purses unzipping for handkerchiefs made a constant rustle as viewers filed past the open casket and paused to whisper a prayer. Wager and Elizabeth walked up the aisle, and he genuflected to the cross that loomed over him with almost frightening nearness. Then they joined the line of people saying a last goodbye to Julio. Aunt Louisa, supported by Wager’s mother and Uncle Tony, sat hunched in the front pew. The black of her dress was crisp and shiny—new mourning clothes for a new loss. His mother caught
Similar Books
