Snitch Factory: A Novel Read Online Free PDF

Victorian perennially occupied by aging bikers; the landlord used to ride with the Gypsy Jokers. Huge body bags of garbage were piled up on the curb. The bar next door was overflowing with the intoxicated shouts of unemployed men whooping it up with a live mariachi band.
    None of the bikers were around when I clambered up
the stairs to Frances’s tiny porch. I scraped my feet on a red, white and blue rubber mat, got my hand inside my blouse to adjust a bra strap, then rang the doorbell.
    The bell’s hyper trilling caused the door to open, exposing a woman’s wan face. She had chopped black hair, age spots intermingling with the lines on her forehead and shaved eyebrows. She peeked out, nose first, puzzled, as if she’d been woken up from a deep and terrible sleep in a dimension where no one had ever returned, an underworld.
    “Frances? Mrs. Dominguez? Hello, it’s me. Charlene Hassler. We talked earlier. I made an appointment, remember?”
    “ Chale, you were making so much noise with the chingadera, I thought you were the police. But now that you’re here, why don’t you come in.”
    She stepped aside and let me pass over the threshold. I discreetly shook a fleck of dog shit off my left shoe and adjusted my eyes to the mean, small angles of the apartment. I was struck by how much it affected me; the cobwebs on the high ceiling, the flaking paint in the vestibule, a neighbor’s television blasting through the floorboards. The living room was devoid of furniture; the hardwood floor, the walls and windows were bare.
    Taking me by the arm, Frances ushered me into the kitchenette; her fingers were butterfly-light on my sleeve. I saw a woman, a stranger, sitting at the table in the breakfast nook. A rugged looking woman in a vinyl windbreaker, spike heels and a miniskirt. Who was that? Mrs. Dominguez did her best to play the accommodating hostess.
    “This is Mary Louise Klein. She’s just been released from, uh, Frontera Women’s Prison in Southern California. Mary, this is Charlene Hassler.”
    “Pleased to meet you, Charlene.”

    My client was grizzled and stocky, and Mary was tall and voluptuous. And a convict, too. I had no idea where she fit into the scene, but Mrs. Dominguez, with the wisdom of a veteran client sensed my consternation, knowing that I wouldn’t tolerate any complications. She said to me in a reassuring, buttery tone of voice, “Mary is here to have coffee and rolls with me this morning as part of a community mental health outreach project.”
    “Who’s sponsoring it?”
    “The Wells Fargo Bank, the Mission branch.”
    “And you’re part of this program, too?”
    “Sure am. I’m doing it, too.”
    I noted that she didn’t offer me any coffee. After a few seconds of grotesque silence, both of us were aware of what was going to happen next. I said to her, “Ah, Frances? Do you mind if I ask you a few questions, and have a peep into your cupboards and refrigerator, you know, the routine?”
    If there had been any cheer in that squalid, diminutive kitchenette, it died on the last syllable of my question. Mary Klein froze in her chair; she glanced at me with eyes that said I was a charlatan, an oaf, a pustule that needed to be excised. She was no doubt on parole and to her, I was just another cop interfering with her life.
    Mrs. Dominguez stood near the stove, manufacturing a smile that must’ve taken a toll on her mouth.
    Was I feeling guilty? Who knows. I did what I was supposed to and explored her cupboards, where I discovered the usual suspects. A box of Morton’s salt, two bottles of Walgreen’s brand vitamins, a can of Del Monte halved peaches in a viscous syrup, a jar of chili powder, and a pile of paper napkins.
    Actions like this symbolized the essence of my career. It wasn’t poetic and Frances Dominguez’s refrigerator was the same. I opened the door and found a quart of milk,
three Safeway chicken dinners defrosting on a shelving grid, a bag of apples and a pitcher of iced