Chapter 9

What Cecelia and I call cell phones are actually satellite phones. I got 'em last year, before our August trip to Lanfair Valley, having decided that the cost was worth it – there are times when it's nice to be able to call for help, say if one of us broke a leg climbing the Grotto Hills, or got throwed off the horses we borrow from the OX Ranch. Of course Cecelia would gig me for "throwed," but no cowboy ever says "thrown," and a lot of times it comes out "th'owed." In fact, there's a rodeo saying that there ain't no horse that cain't be rode, and there ain't no rider that cain't be th'owed – but I definitely don't dare repeat that one to her.

I opened my phone and ran through the menu until I came to the entry for Rudy Delgado, and punched the button to dial it. After a couple of rings I heard his voice in my ear.

"¡Hola, amigo mio! ¿Cómo estás hoy?"

"Bien, Rudy. ¿Y tu, y la familia?"

"Todos estamos muy bien, Darvin. ¿Cómo están tus mujeres?"

"They're doin' good, Rudy," I said, switching back to English before I ran out of his language altogether. Rudy's a native New Mexican, with roots here that go back something like 300 years, and he spoke Spanish before he did English. "In fact, I'm sittin' with 'em right now, just about to get on 25 off of Rio Bravo."

"And what are you doing in the South Valley?"

"It's a case. I needed to know whether Cecelia could be an interpreter for me, 'cause I'm gonna need to talk to some dudes who'll probably pull the 'me no spik English' routine with me."

"And how did she do?"

"Perfect. She translates simultaneously – and it's the only time she doesn't use all those humongous words." Cecelia reached over and poked me in the thigh with a thin finger at that one.

"So she's got multiple talents, but I knew that anyway. It's not everyone who can pick up Spanish the way she did. So what can I do for you?"

"You know, Rudy, I do sometimes call you just to talk."

"But not in the car, amigo. Tienes que recordar que te conozco."

"You do know me, that's true. Okay, I do need to ask you something. Who should I talk to about Hispanic gangs in the South Valley?"

"Um, let me think..." Rudy's been in Missing Persons for several years, and therefore isn't as up on some things as the officers who patrol the various commands, or work Homicide or Narcotics or whatever. "I'd say Porfirio Aragón. He's a patrol officer down there, but he's been with the department for years and he knows that area like it's his living room."

"I guess it don't hurt that he's Hispanic."

"No, it don't," Rudy said with a laugh, losing his usually good English grammar in the face of my own habits.

"Okay, then, thanks much. Tell Sara and Gacela I said hi – that we all did, for that matter."

"Okay, will do. But maybe I better dig up the number for you."

I made like a V-8 commercial, and slapped my forehead. "Yeah, that might help. Is it right handy?"

"No, but I can find it."

"Why don't you call me when you've got it?"

"Okay, good. Bye, Darvin."

"Bye, Rudy." And I closed the phone. Rudy's been my best friend for years, longer than I've known Cecelia, and Sara and Gacela are Cecelia and Darlia's best friends. They're Rudy's wife and daughter, though the girl's real name is Graciela. We all call her Gacela because she's as graceful as a gazelle, and that's the Spanish word for the animal. Well, Cecelia and I call her Gacela, and her parents do – Darlia for some reason always uses the English version.

I stuffed the phone back into my pocket. I'm glad that phones have gotten so small these days – the one I had before was an older model, which I hadn't replaced because it worked as well as I wanted and needed it to, and it took up enough room to be uncomfortable at times. This one wasn't much larger, folded up, than a credit card, and rides pretty well among the coins that collect in that pocket.

"Progress?" Cecelia asked.

"Yeah. I gotta wait for Rudy to get the number, and then call the dude, but I'm getting there. I'll give you details later." We've never tried to shield Darlia from life, but at the same time 11-year-olds don't need necessarily to know that their daddy's going to go down and have a pleasant conversation with people who sell drugs and do drive-by shootings. There'd be plenty of time for Darlia to be terrified for me, if that ever proved necessary; while she was still a child wasn't that time.

But Darlia is not dumb. "Are you going to talk with a gang?" she asked from her seat behind Cecelia.

"Yeah, I gotta."

She's not pushy either. "You be careful when you do it, Daddy."

I smiled at her, turning in my seat. "I'll do that, 'Lia. I'd hate to show up at the front door some day leaking from about 35 holes."

Darlia giggled. "Yeah, I don't want no monster movies coming home saying they're my Daddy."

"Not me neither. If I did that, Mommy would probably toss me in the trash."

"And that would be bad," Darlia said. "So don't do it."

"Okay," I told her, "I won't do it."

When we got home there was a message on the answering machine. I played it, and it was Rudy with the number he'd promised. He knows I hate talking on the phone, even when it's with him, and that I especially hate cell phones, so he'd called the house. I've said on occasion that a friend is someone to whom you can say any idiotic thing that pops into your head without wrecking the relationship, but a friend is also someone who knows you and acts for your benefit. Rudy is one of those rare birds – a true friend, rather than someone with whom I'm friendly, or a mere acquaintance.