The Chicano war Read online

  The

  Chicano War

  William Campbell Gault

  1986

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  1

  It was Orlando Davis who conned me into the Chicano caper. Orlando is big and black and mean. He had spent six years with the former Oakland Raiders, now the Los Angeles Raiders, and several years in various penal institutions around the state.

  As a major benefactor of the Tomorrow Club, which Orlando ran with an iron fist, I would drop in from time to time. The Tomorrow Club was founded by civic-minded people who believed that if the underprivileged kids in mostly over-privileged San Valdesto were given some attention, latent athletic, creative, or mechanical talents might be nurtured and the kids might wind up on the sunnier side of the law.

  I had not been one of the board members who had voted for Orlando. An all-American boy like Roger Staubach would have been more to my liking. But the board was probably right; blacks and Chicanos would not be likely to accept a square, rich, and forthright whitey like Roger as a soul brother.

  Still, as a man who had spent years among the seedy and the shiftless, I made it my duty to keep an eye on Orlando. And I got to like him--and so did the kids. At least most of them did. The harsh truth is that some kids, thanks to us, are beyond redemption.

  It was after our regular Thursday morning workout on the handball court, where I beat him for the first time in two months, that Orlando told me about Peter Chavez.

  But he didn't start by mentioning Peter. He asked me if I knew Karl Kranski.

  "I know who he is," I said. "I knocked him on his ass often enough when he was playing for the Dallas Cowboys."

  Orlando smiled. "I'll bet you did. In your dreams you did."

  "If you know him," I said, "you could ask him. What's he doing now?"

  "Working for the city. He's a juvenile parole and probation officer. He came up here a month ago."

  "From where?"

  "From Los Angeles, from the L.A.P.D. He was on the street down there for a while. But he was a cowboy on the street, too. So they took him off the street and put him on parole and probation. And then he married money and came up here."

  "And they stuck him into the juvenile division?"

  Orlando nodded. "Chief Chandler Harris thought a famous athlete like him would be a model to the kids."

  "A model? Kranski? The word I had on him, he was a womanizer and a barroom brawler in Dallas."

  "That's the same word I had. But the chief is not a sports fan."

  "I've noticed that. He thought I played basketball. If Kranski married money, why the day labor?"

  Orlando shrugged. "Maybe he likes the action. Maybe he thinks it's sissy to live off a woman."

  "It is," I said.

  He shook his head. "Not if you believe in equal rights. Anyway, there is this borderline kid I'm working on, a kid named Peter Chavez, ready to go either way. He's the best damned mechanic we had in the shop here. He got into a little trouble a couple weeks ago and Kranski is really laying on the heavy hand."

  "What kind of trouble?"

  "He stole a car. Just one of those joyride deals. He left it as clean as he found it. I've got this hunch Kranski is a bigot."

  I shook my head. "No way! He roomed with Jess Washington for three seasons and Jess is blacker than you are."

  "Nobody," he said stiffly, "is blacker than I am. Maybe Kranski specializes in Chicanos."

  "Maybe. You said Chavez was the best mechanic you had. Did he quit?"

  Orlando nodded.

  "What's he doing now?"

  "Working as a parking attendant at some fancy restaurant. I don't know the name of the place. He drops in here from time to time to yack with the kids in the garage."

  "And now," I asked, "what do you want from me?"

  Orlando smiled again, his con man smile this time, for which he had been sent to prison on his first offense. "Well," he began, "I happen to know this famous Ram now enshrined in the Hall of Fame at Canton and I thought he could use his influence to get Kranski to cool it."

  "I doubt it. If the kid isn't working for you any more, what's your interest in him?"

  The smile faded and he looked at me dolefully. "You couldn't mean that! He's a kid, a kid with a future. Jesus, that was a rotten thing to say!"

  "It was," I admitted. "I'll talk to the man."

  His smile was back. "I knew you would. You're all heart. Brock!"

  "Drop dead," I said.

  Karl (Crazy) Kranski; his teammates had nicknamed him Kraz. From my limited knowledge of him on the playing field, I had to assume he would be a hard man to cajole.

  I climbed into my ancient Mustang, kept in top condition by the boys in the auto shop at the club. They owed me; I had been the one who had suggested the shop. But they were the ones who had suggested the free repair work (except for parts). Owing and being owed— Orlando had taught them that.

  The office of Sergeant Karl Kranski, according to the sign on the door, was shared with a sergeant named Ethel Wingram. It was a small office and Kranski was alone in the room when I entered.

  He seemed to be a few pounds heavier than he had been in his playing days. He had weighed in around two hundred and eighty pounds then.

  "Remember me?" I asked him.

  "I sure as hell do," he said, "and not kindly. What's on your mind, Callahan?"

  "A young man named Peter Chavez."

  "That Spik punk? Is he a friend of yours?"

  "Kraz," I said, "let's make a deal. You don't use the word Spik and I won't call you a Polack."

  "That's what I am. And I'm not ashamed of it."

  I stared at him. I sighed. I shook my head.

  He smiled. "Sit down, you Mick bastard, and tell me why you're here. Do you live in town?"

  I nodded and sat on a chair near his desk. "I do. And I was one of the founders of the Tomorrow Club. And Orlando told me this morning you have been even more nasty than your usual self with young Peter Chavez. He asked me to use my NFC influence to get you to lighten up on the lad. If you remember, Orlando was in the AFC."

  "I remember. He was also in the can a couple of times. Did he mention that?"

  "He didn't have to. I knew it."

  "Did he tell you that Chavez no longer works at the Tomorrow Club—and right now might be working for a hoodlum named Chris Andropolus?"

  "He told me the first part but not the might part. Are you sure he's working for this hoodlum? Orlando said he was working as a parking lot attendant at some fancy restaurant in town."

  "He was. At the Le Bon Appetit. But not any more. As for his working with Andropolus, I'm sure enough to keep investigating it. And I can't find Chavez to ask him. Does Orlando have his current address?"

  "I don't know. You'd have to ask him."

  "I will." He smiled again. "I understand old Homer Gallup left you all his money."

  "Half of it. Did you know Homer?"

  "Sure did. Great guy. A Cowboy fan and a real swinger. We went on a couple of binges together. He used to come from L.A. on the weekends for the games. In his own plane! A lot of class to that guy."

  As much as I loved Homer, I had nev
er thought of him as classy. Probably to Kranski, class was his euphemism for money.

  I stood up. "Well, I have done what Orlando asked me to do and now I will let you get back to your paper work."

  "What's your hurry? It's almost time for lunch—on me."

  "I'd like that," I lied, "but I'm due in Ventura in half an hour. Some other time maybe."

  "Sure. I'll call you."

  "Do that," I said. Some time in the next century, I thought.

  I drove over to Kay Decor from there. Jan was talking with a client when I entered. I sat with Audrey Kay, her boss, and drank strong, thick coffee out of small, thin cups and talked about our Dodgers, who, in the middle of June, were already seven and a half games behind the leader in their division.

  Refined and genteel Audrey used some words I'd rather not record about our formerly esteemed heroes, and then the customer left.

  "I came to take you to lunch,'* I told Jan.

  "How nice! Where? Not Harry's Chop House?"

  "Don't be vulgar. I was thinking of Le Bon Appetit."

  She looked at me suspiciously.

  "I'll go along," Audrey said. "Blanche can watch the shop. She's a brown bagger."

  Blanche was their drudge and could not afford to buy her lunches yet.

  We took Jan's Mercedes; my old clunker would look gauche on the Le Bon Appetit parking lot, they decided. What those two know about cars would fit comfortably in a gnat's eye.

  I'm not sure what we ate; Jan ordered for me in her new night school adult education San Valdesto City College French.

  It wasn't bad, though I thought the sauce tasted better than the meat it was supposed to enhance.

  They turned to shop talk over our coffee. I excused myself and went to the bar and ordered a beaker of draft Einlicher, the restaurant's major claim to fame.

  Gus, the bartender, looked at me dolefully. "Those goddamned Dodgers!" he said.

  "I'd rather not talk about them," I said. "Tell me, do you have an address for a young man who used to work here? His name is Peter Chavez."

  He shook his head. "But he might still be living with his girl friend. She's a waitress here but she only works nights."

  "Do you know her address?"

  He shook his head again. "The boss does, but he's not here. They lived in her apartment and I know it was somewhere on Alvaro Street. How many Felderstadts can there be on Alvaro Street?" He reached under the counter and brought out a phone book.

  There was only one—747 Alvaro Street.

  "A real bright and beautiful girl," he told me. "I always thought Pete was an okay guy, too. Now, I heard, he's out for the big buck. That's why he quit here. Man, there wasn't a garage in town that could keep my Datsun perking like Pete did."

  I nodded. "The head man at the Tomorrow Club rated him tops. But there are still some sharp boys working there. Try them."

  "I will. Tell me, Mr. Callahan, what in hell is wrong with the young people these days? They're all out after the fast and dirty buck."

  "It's probably contagious," I said. "They caught it from us."

  I had a pleasant surprise waiting for me in the restaurant; Audrey had picked up the tab.

  "I invited myself," she explained, "and I can always call it a business expense. What do those IRS people know?"

  I could have explained to her in intimate and sordid detail what those IRS people knew about every taxpayer in America above the poverty line. But it would have cost me a sixty dollar lunch. I smiled and thanked her.

  She and Jan continued with their shop talk on the way back to the shop. I thought of phoning Orlando from there to learn if he had Peter's current address.

  But Gus had described his girl friend as a bright and beautiful girl. And though I am a faithful husband, I do love to look at bright and beautiful girls.

  I climbed into my scorned steed and headed for 747 Alvaro Street.

  2

  747 Alvaro Street was an eight unit, one-story apartment building of fieldstone, redwood trim, and brown stucco. It was on a corner lot, four units facing each street. They formed an el, which shielded the swimming pool area in the rear from the prevailing wind.

  The mailboxes were in a shake-roofed shelter over the front gate. S. Felderstadt had apartment number five.

  There was no answer to my ring. I heard voices coming from the pool area. Through the archway, I could see a pair of middle-aged women in terry cloth robes playing gin rummy at the shaded end of the pool.

  At the far end, a short, slim, dark-haired girl and a tall young man with a dark bronze tan and sun-bleached long hair were stretched out on a pair of chaise longues.

  I told one of the card players, "I'm looking for a woman named Sarah Felderstadt. I wonder if you could--"

  She didn't wait for me to finish. She pointed to the girl on the chaise longue, laid down her cards, and said, "Gin!"

  "Damn you!" her companion said.

  I walked to the other end. Sarah Felderstadt was wearing a minimum bikini; I kept my gaze rigidly on her face as I approached. The man was asleep, dark sunglasses shading his eyes.

  "Ms. Felderstadt?" I asked.

  She nodded.

  I pointed at the man. "Is that Peter Chavez?"

  "Not even close," she said. "I wish he was. Are you a police officer? Is that why you're looking for Peter?"

  "No. My name is Brock Callahan. I'm doing a favor for a friend, a man named Orlando Davis. Do you know him?"

  "Not personally. Peter used to talk about him." She pointed at a vacant chaise longue. "Sit down, Mr. Callahan, and tell me why you're looking for Peter."

  Her sleeping partner began to snore softly.

  I sat down. "A police officer I know told me that he thought Peter might be involved with a local hoodlum and Orlando's worried about him. Do you know where he is?"

  "I don't. Was the police officer named Sergeant Kranski?"

  "Yes."

  "And is the hoodlum Chris Andropolus?"

  "Yes. Do you know him?"

  "Only by sight. He comes into the restaurant quite often. I've seen you there, too. I suppose you got my name there. Sergeant Kranski has also questioned me about the connection, but I have no idea if it's true and I told him that."

  "And you couldn't even make an educated guess where Peter might be now?"

  She shook her head. A gurgling sound replaced the snore of the sleeper.

  "Don't mind my friend," she said. "He hibernates when he's not on a surfboard. You'd think with a body like that he'd at least be good in bed, wouldn't you?"

  "I don't know. I never slept with a surfer."

  She laughed. And then she looked sadly out at the pool. "You know, the way Peter kept talking about the big money, I have this feeling he wasn't planning on being too particular about the way he got it. He's a bitter boy. His father deserted the family when he was only eight and his mother left town about a month ago. He has an eleven year old brother he has been trying to support but you can't do that on what Le Bon Appetit pays its parking lot attendants. The boy is in a foundling home—St. Mary's—and Peter is determined to get him out of there."

  "He could be a bitter boy but that sounds like he is also a pretty solid young man."

  "He is—but God knows where he's heading, chasing the big buck."

  "We Anglos call it being upwardly mobile," I said.

  She shrugged. "I guess. So Peter leaves and I wind up with that!" She looked at the sleeper.

  I laughed.

  She smiled. "That thing has wheels, but I'm not sure I'm strong enough. Would you help?" She pointed to the pool.

  "I am your humble servant."

  We gave it a good running start, enough momentum to send the chair and the sleeper well out into the deep water. From the gin rummy players at the other end came the sound of clapping and the cry of "Bravo!"

  I thanked them on the way out for their show of approval.

  "He is such a big hunk of nothing!" the laydown player complained. "Sarah deserves so
much better. Before he came on the scene, there was this sweetest Mexican boy—"

  "Keep the faith," I told them. "I think she is about ready to dump the bum."

  * * * * *

  Orlando had told me that Chavez dropped in to yack with the boys from time to time. When, I wondered, had been the last time? I drove to the Tomorrow Club next.

  Orlando was in his office but not alone. A thin, olive-skinned youth of about eleven was sitting rigidly in a chair near the doorway. He looked unhappy.

  Orlando said, "Meet Pete's brother. Brock. This is Juan Chavez."

  "Hi!" I said.

  He looked me over coldly, head to toes, and nodded.

  Orlando sighed. "He came here looking for his brother."

  "And where's his brother?"

  "I wish to hell I knew. He hasn't been around for two weeks."

  "He no longer works at Le Bon Appetit," I told him. "And his former girl friend doesn't know where he is."

  He frowned. "How did you learn all that?"

  I told him how I had learned all that, starting with Kranski.

  He stared at me. "Man, you have been working, haven't you?"

  "It wasn't all work. I had a free lunch at Le Bon Appetit and a poolside conversation with a luscious brunette."

  "Is her name Sarah?" Juan asked.

  "Yes. Do you know her?"

  He nodded. "She came to see me. She told me she and Pete were going to get married and get me out of the Shelter. She's nice."

  "She sure is." I looked at Orlando. "That would be the St. Mary's Shelter?"

  He nodded. "Juan ran away from there this morning. I phoned Father Murphy and he's coming over to pick him up."

  "That's no place for a kid, Orlando. I've seen it. Juan can come home with me."

  Orlando said, "Are you crazy?"

  And Juan said, "No more gringo foster homes for me!"

  "Not even one with a pool?" I asked him. "One where you can have your own room in your own building and good Irish cooking?"

  He looked doubtful.

  Orlando said, "And what am I supposed to tell Father Murphy?"

  "My intermediary, Mrs. Casey, will explain it all to Father Murphy. I am sure he will listen to her or have reason to regret it."