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1088 Words
“Can I ask why you waited so long to call the police about him?” Herbert asked.
“I have no telephone here. And I cannot get around too good without Uncle Freddy. I think he will come home anytime. But he does not. I finally ask a neighbor to call for me.”
“Okay. Do you remember what he was wearing when he went out?”
“His blue sweatsuit. He liked to wear it, but he didn’t like to work out. I thought that was funny.”
“Was he not in good shape?” asked Anthony.
Carmen made a motion with both hands to indicate a large belly. “He liked his comida and his beer,” she said simply.
“How would he usually get home? Did he have a car?” asked Herbert.
“We have no car. He use bus or train.”
“Did he tell you he might go for a walk after dinner?” asked Anthony.
Carmen’s face started to tremble and she pointed to the little TV perched on a particleboard stand. “I see what happened. The bomb. Uncle Freddy, he is dead?” A tear slid down her cheek.
Herbert and Anthony again exchanged a look. “Do you have a photo of your uncle here?”
Carmen pointed to a lopsided bookshelf against one wall. There were a half dozen framed photos on it. Herbert went over, checked them out. Alfredo “Freddy” Padilla was in the third from the right. He wore jeans but also the same blue warm-up jacket in which he had been blown to bits. Herbert picked it up and showed it to Anthony, who nodded, instantly recognizing the man from the countless times she’d watched him on the video. Herbert put the photo back down and turned to Carmen.
“Do you have any family who could come and stay with you?”
“Then he is dead?”
Herbert hesitated. “I’m afraid so.”
She put a hand up to her mouth and started to quietly sob.
Herbert knelt down in front of her. “I know this is a really bad time, but can you think of any reason why your uncle would have wanted to take a walk through Lafayette Park that night?”
The woman finally composed herself, finding some internal strength that Herbert was frankly surprised she possessed.
“He love this country,” she said. “We only recently come here. Me for the medicos to help with my legs. Uncle Freddy he come with me. My parents are dead. He get job. It not pay much, but he was doing the best he could.”
“Your English is very good for only recently coming here,” commented Anthony.
Carmen smiled. “I take it in school from when I was little. And I travel to Texas. My English is best in mi familia,” she said proudly.
“So Lafayette Park?” prompted Herbert.
“He liked to go and look at your White House. He would tell me, ‘Carmen, this is greatest country on earth. A person he can do anything here.’ He had me go one time. He carry me on his shoulders. We look at the grande casa blanca. He say your president lived there. And that he was a great man.”
Herbert stood. “Again, I’m very sorry.”
Anthony asked, “Is there anyone who can come and stay with you?”
“It is all right. I have been by myself before.”
“But do you have other relatives?” persisted Anthony.
Carmen sniffled but nodded. “I have people who can come and take me back to Mexico.”
“Back? But what about your doctors?” asked Herbert.
“Not without Uncle Freddy,” she replied. “My parents were killed in a bus accident. I was also on the bus. That was how my legs came to be like this. Uncle Freddy, he too was on bus. They take out his spleen and other things, but he got well. And he was like a father to me.” She stopped. “I… I don’t want to live here without him. Not even if this is the greatest country in all the world.”
“If you need any help will you contact us?” Herbert wrote his phone number down on a piece of paper and handed it to her. He paused. “If you could give us something of your uncle’s? A comb or a toothbrush. So we can…” His voice trailed off.
They left with a couple of articles containing Alfredo Padilla’s DNA to compare to the man’s remains. They sealed them in evidence bags Anthony had brought. Herbert was certain it was the man. But the DNA would be conclusive.
As they were walking back to the car Anthony said, “Okay, I’m an old cynic, but I want to start crying my bleeding eyes out.”
“Alfredo Padilla was clearly in the wrong place at the wrong time,” said Herbert. “And she has to pay the price.”
“He paid a pretty big one too,” Anthony reminded him.
They got back in the car. She said, “What now?”
“We hope Agent Birdman has better luck than we did. But something tells me not to count on that.”
They left a message for Birdman and grabbed some Chinese takeout on the way back to Herbert’s cottage. The weather was nice so Herbert carried his little round kitchen table and two chairs out to the front porch. He laid out two plates and utensils and pulled two beers from the small refrigerator in his kitchen.
They sat down and Anthony held up her beer and clinked it against Herbert’s.
“Cheers. You know how to treat a lady.”
“You bought the food. And I have no idea how old the beer is.”
She took a spoonful of wonton soup, extra spicy that made her eyes water, and retreated once more to her beer.
“Too hot for you?” said Herbert as he eyed her with some amusement.
“Actually, I’m into pain. One of the reasons I do this job, I reckon.”
“I worked with MI6 back in the day. Didn’t know any female agents then.”
“Still aren’t that many. Testosterone world plain and simple.”
- Writer
