Exhaust swept through the passenger side window and drifted through my nostrils. This combined with my non-existent shocks on this torn up country road was nauseating. It didn’t help that the radio was indefinitely stuck on 94.3, playing continuous sappy Latino pop. I could barely see the long stretch of dusty dirt road through the film of soot covering my windshield thanks to my repulsive smoking habit. My long straight black hair slapping my face was a constant reminder of how unkept I have become.
I had heard of Mickey before through Cecelia and a few other of the kids that hang around La Camarón, but had never made his acquaintance. No one really understood what Cecelia saw in him, but gradually stopped questioning her, as they dated for about four years. Mickey Destillo was not the type of guy you would take home to mom. He was known for his extreme disrespect towards women. When he was six, his mother left him and four brothers, three of which are now missing or dead.
I turned onto Pimpollo Drive. This road was much worse than Marrazo, gravel flew at my windshield creating a beat much more complicated than the Latino pop. My 1963 El Camino awkwardly shimmied its way over the rough road. Gnats surrounding the strawberry fields to my left and crept through my windows. I slowly made a right into a long gravel road. The sign read:
The Village of Serillo
Population 98
I could not for the life of me imagine why anyone would choose to live in a town like Serillo. A family-owned general store stood at one corner that sold stale chips, cheap beer, and freezer burnt ice cream. To the left of me was a strip of rundown old mission-style office buildings that hadn’t been used in I don’t know how many years. Across the street was the local hang out, a decaying tavern called Vinnie’s. Neon lights illuminating the word ‘_innis’ suspended down from a wooden post. Based on the dilapidated cars parked along the street I could infer the bar’s typical clientele. But amidst the rusted out Ford pick-ups there stood a 1969 Z-28 cherry red Chevy Camero, the diamond in the rough. The town’s biggest attraction appeared to be a decrepit movie theater where a several middle school-aged students loitered, while discussing the week’s gossip. Vinnie’s was my best bet on finding the infamous Mickey Destillo.
As I entered, I was overwhelmed by the scent of stale cigarettes, cheap booze, and ammonia. I felt everyone’s eyes cover my body. “Free Bird,” by Lynard Skynard aggressively shot through my ears. The crusty black paneled ceiling matched the dark chipping tiled floor. The walls were mostly bare with the exception of a few cheap beer posters. A sickly looking pool table was nestled in the back right corner being violated by two sixty something men that were engaged in a verbal argument so intense that I feared the one in the blue would have a heart attack. To my left was a small bar seating approximately ten people one of which was an elderly man desperately staring into the bottom of his empty whiskey glass. The conscientious bartender noticed the depressed soul and quickly poured him a drink. The Bar tender was a middle aged man with long greasy hair and a precisely shaven mustache that hugged his sleazy grin. It was obvious he was a fan of tacky jewelry given the gleaming gold hoop earring that dangled from his right ear and the gaudy five rings embracing his long alien-like fingers.
My attention was drawn to a bright red baseball cap that hovered above the crowd. The tall man was in his late 30s and dressed in an acid washed jean jacket and tightly fitted blue jeans. He was whispering to man of similar age who was listening attentively while sipping on his beverage. His face was skeleton-like with bags under his hollow eyes. It seemed as if this man had never smiled a day in his life. Premature grey surrounded is bony frame and if it hadn’t been for smooth skin he would have appeared to be in his late 40s. A plain white Hanes t-shirt wrapped his scrawny figure.
I decided to make myself comfortable and spotted an open bar stool at the far side of the bar. As I initiated my first steps I felt as if gum was holding the soles of my cheap flip-flops to the grimy floor. I managed to awkwardly maneuver myself to position I had claimed.
The skillful bartender promptly greeted me, “Good evenin’, doll, ain’t ever seen you ‘round these parts.”
I responded with a generic comment, “I’m just passing through on my way to L.A.”
This was as far as the conversation went when I requested my typical Bud bottle. As I provided him with a five-dollar bill, his cold, clammy paws caressed the fatty part of my right hand below my pinky, instantly turning my stomach. I could feel a slimy grin growing, although I refused to look at his face. My stomach attempted to return to its normal state as I watched him walk away. I studied his strut; how sly, yet uncoordinated it was. My gaze drifted back to the red cap; I was able to catch a glimpse of the man’s round, grizzly face. This, and his course, thick, wavy, dark proved him to be subject of my search. His deep brown eyes sat beneath his bushy, thick eyebrows and his large mouth with paper-thin lips made him appear like the relative of some wood dwelling mammal. Judging by his broad crooked nose, he had gotten into more than a few physical altercations.
I fumbled around my pocket in search of my Zippo, pack of Marlboros and lit up. I looked up and noticed that the two men, one being Mickey, were walking out the door. I immediately got up, pounded my beer, and followed their trail. As I walked outside I noticed either how cold it was outside, or how warm the bar was inside, or both. The two men stood so close to one another that they could have tasted each other’s breath. At first glance it appeared they would kiss, but after closer observation it was evident they were in a heated discussion. Within a few seconds, the scrawny man in the white tee tossed a piece of paper onto the ground in front of Mickey and scurried away. Mickey then mimicked the same action and stormed away in the opposite direction. Without missing a beat, I picked up the piece of paper and shouted to Mickey, but not before I glanced at it myself; 56ChB90.
“Hey there, you dropped this!” I shouted.
He stopped on dime and turned in my direction.
His eyes were fierce and his face hard. He glared at me as he approached. “This is none of your business, lady.”
I simply remarked, “Cecelia Barros?”
This might not have been the most tactful approach, but it surely got his attention, which was what I was looking for.
“What do you know about Cecelia? Where is she and why hasn’t she called?” His feet shifted forward.
“Oh, spare me Mickey; I don’t have time for this. When did you last see her?”
He turned slightly sideways towards me. “I don’t know who you are or how you know Cecelia, but I don’t deserve this. I haven’t seen her in about three weeks, when we went to the river to hang out, just the two of us.”
This seemed very suspicious to me, as Cecelia had disappeared four weeks ago, although for some reason I thought him to be truthful.
“I thought you guys were close and three weeks is a long time, Mickey,” I said.
“I know, that’s why I’m so worried. Do you have any clue where she is?” He said this with such warm sincerity that I was expecting a tear to follow any moment.
He began to ask another question when he was abruptly interrupted by what I had thought was a car backfiring. His facial expression turned to a look of terror and his eyes went from deep set and alert to shocked and confused. He began to slowly stumble back and forth and grabbed his abdomen. As my eyes trailed down his jean jacket I noticed a red blotch slowly growing as he fell closer to the ground. As he reached the ground, the outline of a thin woman emerged from the shadows behind him. Her features were indistinct but the outline of her body led me to believe she was faced in my direction. She began to step forward in sleek, controlled, steady movements. At first I recognized her hair, its long, thick, and wavy texture. This was the hair everyone envied in school. Then came her facial structure, just as round, feminine and soft as I remembered it years ago. However her eyes were cold and her mouth was pressed into a thin line.
“Hey Lola.”
It was Cecilia.
I could feel the color drip out of my face. My stomach contorted into a tiny ball that I felt rest in my throat.
“You seem to have a history of always messing up my plans, Lola.”
My frame remained in my frozen position as I attempted to muster some words, “I thought you were dead.”
“Good, it’s nice to see my plan had been working as planned, that is, until you showed up.”
The sleazy bartender, who I
had found repulsive only five minutes before, came out of the bar to look
around. I had never been more grateful to see a person. By the time I turned
my head back towards Cecelia, she was darting into the shadows.
I crawled out of bed after a sleepless night due to the police interrogation at the station as well as the vivid image of Mickey Castillo in my head. I repeated what I was going to say to Mrs. Barros, on where her daughter was, over and over again in my head. How was I going to hide the fact that I saw her daughter kill Mickey Castillo last night?
Despite the Serillo P.D.’s order for me to drop the case, my investigative instinct was getting the best of me. I decided to tell Mrs. Barros that I would be dropping her daughter’s case, but I would actually continue the investigation for my own purposes. With this in mind, I got to work.
I began with studying the periodicals at the L.A. North Branch Public Library in attempt to determine Cecelia’s motive for killing Mickey. After hours of analyzing articles having anything to do with Mickey I found nothing. I knew I had to return to Serillo and find the information I needed through the residents there.
I tracked down Mickey Castillo’s father’s house. It was larger than I expected but as unkept as I thought it would be. Considering I needed to keep a low profile, I decided to break in through a basement window. I used a rock to shatter the dusty, film covered window with ease. As I shimmied through the narrow opening I sliced my abdomen on a shard of glass. This was the least of my concerns, considering I was breaking in to a home. Luckily, I found Mickey’s room at the top of the stairs.
As I crept into the room, I felt as if I had stepped back 10 years ago into high school. I began sifting through items on his bookshelf, noticing many letters from ex-girlfriends, sports awards, and random photographs. There was one photograph of a Mickey and another boy smiling in front of his house. As I began to feel sorry for Mickey, I felt a sneeze coming on…they must have cats.
“Aaaaaccccchhhu!” I sneezed.
I gasped, realizing I had made my presence known. I heard slow, laborious footsteps coming towards the door. Realizing I was going to be caught, I grabbed what I could fit and stuffed it in my overcoat.
Mr. Castillo was a heavy man, with sad eyes and a solemn face. “May I help you Miss?”
“Yeah I’m looking for Mickey,” I said, astonished at my ability to remain calm in this situation.
“Then we’re in the same boat aren’t we? I’ve been lookin’ for Mickey for nine years.” He said sadly, “what made you look for him here?”
“He wasn’t listed in the phone book and you’re the only Castillo listed.” After and awkward moment, I said, “I guess I should be going.”
“I’ll walk you out.” He said while looking at me suspiciously.
I could tell he wanted me out of his home.
As I exited through the front door he said, “hey miss, if you find him would you tell him to call his dad.”
Unable to break the horrific
news I said, “I will,” I said with a country girl smile.
After finding the closest coffee shop, I made my way to the back stalls of the Café. Carefully I pulled out the book that rested between my coat and chest. I put it down on the table as a blonde young waitress came to take my order.
“Medium coffee in a large cup,” I said.
“Comin’ right up,” she stated as she ran off behind the counter.
I opened the dusty, old book and was surprised to see the words Santino High School Yearbook in front off me. I turned the first page, holding back a sneeze from the dust that flew up at my face, nothing looked important. Another 14 pages in however, was a dedication to Anthony Barros who had died in a moter cycle collision with a car driven by non other than Mickey Castillo.
Every thing was starting to fall in place in my brain.
“Mickey’s car killed Anthony in an accident in high school….Anthony Barros, Cecelia Barros, she must be his sister, but why would she want to kill Mickey? I mean they seemed to be such close friends….” Speaking out loud was one of my many weaknesses.
The waitress placed my coffee in front of me. “Is everything okay?” she asked.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah….but I just can’t figure out why Cecelia would go out with Mickey.” The waitress walked away,“Anthony and Cecelia must have been close to be in high school together…”
“Twins.” Cecelia slid into the booth across from me.
“Is that why you killed him, Cecelia, revenge?” I asked
“You know the answer to that, don’t you?” she smirked, “I have to say good job, Lola, I never thought you’d get it.”
“Mickey really liked you, was that part of your plan too?” I asked
Cecelia turned her head and looked strait into my eyes. “You weren’t part of my plan.”
I took a huge gulp and felt the coffee burn down my throat. It was time to leave. “It was to see you Cecelia,” I stood up.
I stepped out the doorway and started to walk towards my car. Although I was walking at what seemed like seven miles per hour, it didn’t feel fast enough.
Bang.
“Lola Walker, beloved friend and daughter, was killed today after an argument with Cecelia Barros, also wanted for the murder of Mickey Castillo. She will always be remembered for her help in the…” Cecelia put down the newspaper and lifted herself off the chair. She took a small, short sip of her coffee and strutted strait towards her car.
Sappy Latino pop took over her ears as she turned on her radio to 94.3. Her gas tank was full.