Tony Resolvo – Private Ojo
She turned and left, her high heels calling me a heel all the way down the stairs. To tell you the truth, I didn’t know what to think. Was I losing a well-off client or a bien loca?
I spent the next week thinking of her. But it went from wondering about a questionable client now gone to wondering about what a beautiful doll had come and gone. The only other person to visit me was George Itazmo, detective, Los Angeles Police and former partner of mine. George was one of those personas Jung referred to as petrified pillars of the past. George will be trying to solve a crime his last day, his last moment on earth with no change in method or approach.
“You’ll be crying to come back soon,” he said as he sat on the same chair the angel had occupied. He didn’t fill it nearly as well. Still, I listened to what he had to say. “You gave up a pension for this?”
He waved his hand around the room, his face frozen in a tragic grimace, much like the mask of Melpomene, the Greek Muse of tragedy as he tossed his Fedora on my desk as if to emphasize my sad state.
“It takes a while to get rolling. Word of mouth, you know.”
“Word of mouth is that you soon will be begging to be reinstated.”
“No, I like being free.”
“Free? Looks like you’re a slave. To poverty,” he said, now looking around the office just like…then it hit me like a sack of frijoles to the head. I didn’t know the dazzling woman’s name. I have to ask for names. Names are important in my business.
“I didn’t get her name,” I cried to the world, which happened to be represented by police detective George I. at the moment.
“Who is that?” he asked, ever the detective.
“My first client.”
“You have one?”
“Can you blame me?”
“Did her husband get himself lost and now she wants you to bring him back hog tied?”
“Her daughter ran away con un mariachi sin vergüenza?”
“She is a missing person but can’t remember who she belongs to?”
“To whom she belongs. No.”
“She found a man’s cold body in her bedroom and wants you to justify it being in her bedroom?”
“Close. She doesn’t want to be a cold body in her bedroom.”
George looked at me and I could hear the rusty tornillos turning in his head, rusted from all that Kentucky bourbon he had downed over the years. Then the light turned on in his alcohol-soaked head.
“You mean, someone tried to kill her?”
“No. He just whispered in one of her pretty ears that he would love to do that.”
“I have to get back. Still trying to nail a bartender and his pal who pushed some wanna-be-actress over a cliff at the end of Franklin in Hollywood. All because she didn’t want to do a romantic scene with one of them in the back seat of a car. But first, I’m going to get me a big ham sandwich at the Grand Central Market. Come along, I’ll buy.” He said this while again examining my surroundings.
“Thanks but I have to find clients. Tell you what, once I’m on my feet, we’ll go get some Barbacoa at the Azteca Restaurant on Main Street. It’s been a couple of years since I been there. And I’ll buy.”
He got up, paused then he looked at me with what looked like disenchantment. He then put on his Fedora and headed for the door then turned for a postscript.
He left without telling me why.
So, here I was once more alone with my problema. Should I treat this spooky woman as a victim or vampire? I needed a drink. I put on my own Fedora, grabbed my coat and headed for the door. Standing there as if materializing upon demand was the victim. Or vampire.
She, framed by the doorway again, looked at me with a smirk. Ordinarily, smirks count a lot from a wonderful-looking gal, but at the moment, I got nervous. Her smirk shot out from under another wide-brimmed hat, this one pink.
“You’re back,” I croaked in uncertain complaint.
“I came back to see if you wanted me.”
She said this while repeating her walk toward me wherein she unloaded all her sex had to offer in a walk. Her hips moved from north to south and back, while the black dress she had on was doing a dance of its own.
“It’s not a question of possessing,” I said in a fatherly tone, “it’s a question if I can help you.”
“Sure you can. Someone from long ago has come back and for some silly reason is trying to kill me.”
She stared at me as if expecting an answer quickly and expecting it to be the right one. I was at a loss. Then it hit me like the sweet aroma of a Banana Daiquiri. I could just tell her my fees, ask her name, address and anything else that came to mind. That would call her bluff. I put on my own smirk before I spoke then I proceeded to do so.
“By the way, what is your name?”
“Carmen Fiolencia,” she shot back without hesitation.
“Oh, yeah?” I said with a frown, wondering if it was her name or one she had just pulled out of the city air.
“What’s wrong with it? You don’t seem to like it.”
“I think it’s a swell name, but—“
She laid her purse on my desk with a thud and sat down empathically on my one client chair. I accepted her challenge and sat with a firm thump on my own chair. She pulled out a utility bill and handed it to me. It reflected her name and her address on Lorena Street. She then pulled out her driver’s license which also reflected the same name and address. I tried to look at the birth date but she pulled it away before I could. None of these documents had her photograph so I could not match her face to any of them.
The brim of her pink hat now shadowed her eyes but their brilliance shot out like two rounds from a .38 Special.
Okay,” I said, trying to regain control, “there is the question of money.”
“Money?” she said as if it were a new concept she had to familiarize herself with. The two blazing bolts from under her hat went dark. I assumed she had her eyes down in shame for being broke. I began to feel sorry for her, thinking of a way to tell her that she would have to move to another part of the planet to avoid being murdered, which would be cheaper than hiring me.
For Installment 1, click: Tommy-WhisperofDeath
Tommy Villalobos, an inveterate serial thriller writer, regales us with another of his novel affairs, set as usual in Los Angeles and its environs, filled with characters larger and funnier than life drawn from the streets and callejones of the City of Angels (and Devils). His first of five novels, Lipstick con Chorizo, was serialized in Somos en escrito ala Carlos Dickens. He lives incognito in northern Califas.
This feature first appeared in Somos en escrito on January 11, 2017.
Guess who wins!
Excerpt from Outline for Love, a novel
By Tommy Villalobos
Mona Rinistor stepped out of her office for a breath of fresh air. Chava Absuena, likewise, stepped out of her office for one reason or another. She was not sure. Mona had been in the same office complex for several years, although it felt like only a few months. Chava had been working in her office for several hours, and it seemed like several years. The offices opened out into the second floor balcony and city smells and ruidos.
Mona walked toward Chava. Chava, in turn, wanted to turn and dart back into her office. She thought Mona was some kind of dueña, for Chava had bad experiences with bosses and landladies. Her first job was at an ice cream parlor in Nogales, Méjico. Then a beauty parlor in Juarez. Then a poker parlor in Amarillo. Then the Sunshine Tattoo Lounge in San Diego. She also had to stretch her paychecks. When a landlady was close at her heels, Chava, a quick packer, hopped on a bus.
Now Chava Absuena worked in a fashion parlor in Los Angeles. This time her dueña was a dueño, Max Lipiz.
A few writers in the past, Thomas Hardy dancing among them, have pointed the ironies of life. Here was one. Max was a barrio sort who, for some reason (his Tía Minstra Telamacundra said it was due to a good kick to the head he suffered when a boy at the hands of some primo), decided one beer-soaked evening at The Green Bar to become a women's fashion consultant.
His friends said it was just to get girls. He said it was simply his chosen career path. His Tía Minstra reminded him that his whole family from his father's side going way back before the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo was a family of contented carpenters. The fact did not move him.
“Hello,” said Mona, sticking a hand toward Chava before she could close the door.
“Hi,” said Chava defensively, hesitating before sticking out her hand from the small space left by a nearly closed puerta. Mona had to reach for it and their fingers barely made contact before Chava withdrew hers behind her back as if to prevent Mona from grabbing it again.
“Do you work for the Women's Fashion Consultant?” asked Mona looking at the sign on the door.
Chava followed her eyes to the sign on the door as if to confirm that Mona had correctly defined the sign.
“Yes,” she said with hesitation as she looked back to Mona.
“Are you her?”
“Where is she?”
“She ain't anywhere.”
“We all gotta be somewhere.”
“My boss is some guy.”
“Now is he?”
Chava nodded vigorously as if to latch on to stark reality.
Chava drew a blank. She then tried to phantom in her mind what was interesting.
“So you just started working for him?” said Mona.
“How many people work here?”
“Are you his partner?” she said while appraising Chava's purple abstract printed tunic and faded denim leggings.
“No. I just answer phones.”
On cue, the telephone rang.
Chava stared at Mona as if wanting direction.
“I better let you answer that,” said Mona, giving her some.
Chava closed the door.
Mona slowly walked back to her office, the office of a thriving accountant. Mona thought. Rules change. I deal with cold numbers and here's a homey who deals with warm figures. Go figure.
Mona had spent her early life in and around East Los Angeles since birth. Her brain then took her to Villanova then to various parts of the world, including Houston where she obtained her first employment with an accounting firm that accounted for big perfume, little diapers and mediocre law firms. Tiring of endless parties and shopping sprees, she decided to come back home and account in L.A.
“Welcome home, mija,” her mother had declared when Mona returned home. “We have your room ready and your father is inviting his best friend's hijo to meet you. He is a metal polisher and makes good money to support you and all the chavalos you're going to push out.”
Mona had already secured a condominium along the beach at a good price. How does one tell amá and apá that the nest is even a tighter fit than before?
Way Numero 1: Mom, dad, I have been to three colleges, two countries, four states and several republics of various political persuasions, if one interprets that word loosely, so home would be a lame environment.
Way Numero 2: There are not too many big accounting firms in our Hood.
Way Numero 3: I need my space which apá considers met by an 8 by 8 foot bedroom, dinner and a sala with plenty of boxeo and one or two telenovelas.
Way Numero 4: One outing a year to visit parientes in San Fernando is not the social life I envision lasting until my dotage.
Way Numero 5: I like my privacy, which is nearly non-existent with family, neighbors, and dad's ne'er-do-well amigos parading through the house at all hours.
Mona, with a frowning father and a disappointed mother, set up homemaking by herself—and eventually one aquarium fish—in a roomy place with a great view of Pacific sunsets. The life of a successful accountant, certified, and daughter, not certified, pleased her.
Therefore, Mona floated into her office every weekday morning, gathering accounting accounts as little girls gather daisies. She had a knack for selling her skills that she developed at nine when she made Christmas ornaments and sold them outside of supermarkets. From there, she began making little trinkets and selling them outside of bars where men snapped them up to give to girlfriends and even wives. Then she washed perros but no gatas because of one scratch she got on her forehead, which, to this day, she claims is a scar she will carry forever. No one has ever seen the scar but she claims, nonetheless, it is there.
Back in her office, Mona went to her desktop and began in earnest an accounting services proposal for one women's fashion consultant. He has one employee, one office and seems to have no clientele in sight. She was witness to one phone call, which could have been a wrong number, or worse, from family.
At the same moment, Max Lipiz was in front of his cracked mirror in a trailer he rented. The old, rusty trailer sat behind an iron works shop, which sat behind an auto paint shop that sat behind a pickle factory. This made for absorbing and enchanting noises and odors that floated into his trailer round the clock.
He dressed meticulously, spending nearly all his money on clothes and accessories that make the man, for who wanted an unkempt slouch advising them on fashion, especially women. His rent was minimal as well as his eating. He was slim, neat and eager. Only his nose gave away his gaunt figure as it protruded dramatically from the rest of him.
Max's Smartphone let out a tune, “Sabor A Mi.” This was his only other luxury. “This is Max,” he said into the phone.
“Maximiliano Rudolfo, this is your Tía,” said his Tía Minstra, her voice a foghorn of robustness.
“Yes, Tia,” said Max with all due respect to the tía who looked over him like a guardian angel, who had slipped in other duties and, therefore, as punishment, had been given the assignment of watching Max.
“Come over and eat. I made huevos con chilaquiles. You used to like them.”
“I still do, Tía, but I've got to get to the office and make money.”
“Money can wait. Chilaquiles can't.”
“¿Me estás oyendo?” she then said as if Max were a fair piece down a country road. He moved the phone nearly half a foot from his ear.
“I have to make a living. I'll eat them next time I'm there.”
“It's been a week. My brother, your Tío George, offered you a good job in his landscaping business. He has clients from Beverly Hills to Thousand Oaks.”
“I have my own business, Tía.”
“Advising women how to put on and wear a dress? Men want to undress women, not dress them.”
“Dresses and men don't go together.”
The conversation ended because his aunt ended it with a slam of the phone.
And Max took that slam with ringing ear to his office. Mona jumped out of her office to intercept him.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hi,” he said, rushing past.
“Are you the fashion guy?”
“Yes,” he said as he turned and stopped.
“Sure is,” he began to turn and walk again.
“No, I mean, you being a fashion advisor for women?”
“Yeah, my aunt thinks it's hilarious.”
“Reminds me constantly how silly I am.” He then took a few more steps and reached for the doorknob to his office.
“I'd like to talk to you,” she said in her never-ending search for accounting clients.
“Sure,” he smiled, looking for his first fashion client. “We'll be talking, I'm sure.”
He disappeared. Then Mona did. The walkway was at rest once more, void of accounting and fashion folks.
So went the days, then weeks. Mona did obtain two clients during this period. Max received phone calls but only two made appointments and only one showed up. She was a council member from a small city somewhere.
When Lora Milinda wearing two-inch, black opened toed wedge heels walked through the door, Chava was going to tell her that the accounting office was next door, for she was dressed to kill men or numbers.
Her outfit consisted of a black and white plaid knee-length body hugging dress, and a blue long sleeve tailored blazer that accentuated her small waste. Her dark brown shoulder length hair curled outward on the sides as if she had just stepped out of the celebrated Grove Salon. Her makeup had a professional touch. There was nothing wrong with her that Chava could see. Nevertheless, before she could tell her, in so many words, Lora Milinda, used to beating fellow politicians to the punch, spoke.
“I have an appointment to see the fashion person.”
“No kidding?” said Chava with genuine wonderment in her voice.
“Is he ready for me?”
“I'll check,” said Chava without taking her eyes off the woman while getting up.
She walked over to Max's office and peeked in. Before she could say anything, Max also beat her to the punch by waving an arm from the direction where the female voice had entered his ears to the chair stationed in front of his desk.
Chava turned around from where she stood and mimicked Max's wave, waving from Lora to the chair in front of Max's desk. Lora quickly and obediently followed the waving Chava to the chair.
Max stood and extended a hand toward her. Lora touched it with three fingers then sat.
Max, too, was impressed with her trappings, so much so that he, like Chava, stared.
“I'm Lora Milinda.”
“Hello. I'm Max. How can I help you?” A standard greeting for any business, but in Max's case, he meant it. He actually was wondering how he could help the woman who already looked much like the After photograph of any Before photo anyone could come up with.
“It's not me. It is my niece. She is nineteen. She also has been hit by that worm that hits many chavalas in the barrio—she fantasies herself a Chola. She dresses more like one than acts like one. That's one saving grace.”
“I see,” he said, without seeing.
“I've taken her to beauty parlors and she looks okay for a day then back to the slouch look with a hairdo that maybe lasts another day. Can you do something?”
“For a poor soul who will never have a good man kiss her.”
“Good man kiss her?”
“Can you say anything on your own?”
“Sure,” he said with delight, like a pupil answering a tough question from a tough teacher.
“Go ahead then.”
“How come you didn't bring her?”
“I had planned to but she must have got wind of it and went to her welding class.”
“Like a boilermaker. And she likes caballos. And baseball. And I mean, hardball with the guys. See, we're dealing with someone that if she doesn't watch it, will end up slugging beers with old veterano cholos in some dive, unmarried, unloved, smelly and unattractive. I want to make a grand lady. You know, a woman you guys can't help but want to carry off and spend your lives going broke over.”
“I got the broke part down.”
“I wish I could see her.”
“Here she is,” said Lora while whipping out a photograph of a girl, a little one.
“How can I work with this? She's little here.”
“Picture her a few feet taller with the latest chola hairstyle, the same scowl, but stylin' like only cholas can.”
Tommy Villalobos, who lives somewhere in Northern California, has several e-books out, Lipstick con Chorizo, the story we serialized ala Carlos Dickens in Somos en escrito a few years ago, Love thy neighbor, Oro and Elo were Buddies, and Unos Marranos Plus Una Vibora Equals Romance. This excerpt is from his latest novel, a love story laced with his droll Chicano humor, Outline for Love. Look for this and his other works among the e-book sellers.
The cover illustration is by Helene Thomas.
"Stuck outside Tenochtitlán,