My old man was one of those guys who had no choice but to emigrate when the war broke out in 1936. He was actually one of the last who fled, because he tried to stick it out on the front at Teruel, where he’d quickly earned promotion to sergeant, because there were fewer and fewer men who were healthy enough to fight. It was hell. Once the war was lost, he left for Mexico after being forced to go through a French “welcome center” that sounds nice but is really just a euphemism to refer to something a lot worse: a concentration camp. It’s not a big deal, because he ran into a lot of things that confused him in Moctezuma’s country.
He’d been in the Assault Guard, was a die-hard supporter of the democratically-elected Spanish Republic from before the Civil War, and he wasn’t very optimistic about the future being offered by President Cárdenas. It was possible that the excessive generosity of the Mexican leader had derived more from the huge amounts of money that the Spanish Republic had given him than out of a true desire to help those who’d been exiled. My father always insisted on his personal idea regarding the official version of the kindness shown by the followers of Cárdenas when we talked about those days, which we often did.
In the end he slipped over the border into the United States carrying some smudged papers that certified him as an ex-guard and ex-soldier, things that implied respect for uniforms and people in authority, I guess. With the help of some influential countrymen of his, and after trying to find work in a shipping port as dock loader, he ended up joining the New York police force when he was just thirty. It was at a time when not many Hispanics were allowed in the force. His experience in the trenches and his former employment most likely stood him in good stead to get the job, along with the circumstances created by WWII, because a lot of men had been sent first to the European front and then to Asia, leaving a lot of empty spots for policemen.
Later, my father married the daughter of a couple who’d emigrated from Muros, a village on the coast. She was a little younger than he was, and from that marriage came a daughter and a son. Until his retirement he was a foot patrol officer and was a very popular man, because in those days a policeman was more than just a policeman.
I didn’t follow the saying “the shoemaker’s son always goes barefoot” and ended up joining the police too, although as soon as I could I requested to be transferred to Los Angeles. Part of what influenced my decision to head west was the warm California climate, which was easier on my lungs than New York’s humidity. Then, too, there was the strong fascination I’d felt for Hollywood since I was a boy. After a while I ended up leaving the police force – I’m not going to tell the story of how and why right now, but it was pretty traumatic and not my fault – and I took a chance on becoming a detective on my own.
I think I’m pretty well adapted to life in L.A. and I have a lot of work, although now I only accept the cases that pay the best, except naturally, when times get tough, which they often do. Then you have to take what you can get. After all, I do have my expenses. Besides, I like to live well and I like women, if both of these things are good quality and don’t require a lot of effort. I’m in my fifties and guess I have a resemblance to William Holden when the actor was around my age. I think the comparison is a bit overdone, but I’m also not going to beat myself up trying to prove it. Maybe there’s a bit of a resemblance between Holden and me, because I have pretty good luck with women, can’t deny that. That’s why I don’t need to pay anything to… Well, you know what I mean.
I’m proud of my paternal roots, as you might imagine. Plus, I think it’s good to be proud. I always remember Christmas time, when we’d get a simple card from Breogania (my father talked a lot about Breogán and I like to call his birthplace that to honor him), signed by all the relatives. I also remember the packages we sent them with clothing and toys, because we knew times were hard for them there. We were the “Americans,” but in our home, in a building beside the Hudson River, the conversation always centered on things from “back home.” We used the language spoken there. Especially my father, like I said. He had a small library with Galician books published in Argentina that I ended up inheriting, and he also spent a lot of time in the humble Unidad Gallega of New York. That’s where he’d go every day to play dominoes. (In fact, the heart attack that killed him, after he’d retired, happened right there, next to the dominoes.)
That’s probably why I’m still in contact with my relatives there and if the job and my finances don’t get in the way, once in a while – perhaps less than I’d like – I get on a plane and land in Santiago de Compostela. Then I rent a car so I can drive along the roads and admire the countryside while stocking up on Galician literature and music that my cousins and their kids suggest I should get.
Otherwise, when I’m working as a detective, I try to nourish body and spirit by sinking my teeth into the local dishes, and I go a lot to The Peirao, The Wharf (it’s pronounced just like that, Pay-rah-o, none of that native Peirao’s or the ridiculous Chez Peirao… ). It’s an expensive restaurant run by a fellow from Cambados who, like me, is the son of an exile from the Spanish Civil War of 36. Benito, or Beni to his friends (here they say something horrendous like Beni-tó), has a hell of a good place going on the outskirts of Santa Monica, and he tries hard to reproduce his family’s traditional dishes faithfully. He went back for a while to improve his cooking techniques and returned a very skilled chef. His customers include some of the most sophisticated people in this city, where the dollar flies like a greyhound in a race, and he tries to use top-quality ingredients, imported through Miami. And if he can’t get those, he uses something grown or caught on the California shore. He prepares a polbo á feira, a boiled octopus with salt and paprika sprinkled on top, in a copper pot that many Galician octopus vendors would give their eye teeth to have. He’s also one of the best at preparing meats, especially when it comes to stews.
A number of weeks ago, an editor of pulp fiction, encouraged by a kind article they did on me for the Sunday supplement of the Los Angeles Times regarding a case I solved and that had the media buzzing, offered to publish my memoirs as a “man of action.” But at first I absolutely refused because I didn’t want to spend all those hours writing. Besides, I’m a professional who’s obsessed with saving on bullets, meaning I try to kill and wound as few as possible, even though sometimes violence is unavoidable.
I couldn’t understand his interest in me, a detective who doesn’t shoot much, doesn’t smoke and gets off topic a lot talking about films and cheap literature. The editor kept insisting, though, until finally he got his way because he used the best trick in the book: he offered to pay me an amount I absolutely could not turn down, along with the helpful support of a “slave.” (I know the word is offensive, but that’s what they call a person who writes for others, don’t they?) That’s how they got me to tell about some of my most unusual cases. There are a lot of those, to be honest, because the U.S. is a real Pandora’s box.
My job was just to tell about these cases by parking myself in front of a recorder for dozens of hours and then let the helper rummage through the folders in my filing cabinet. That way he could round out the plots with police reports, use real names and addresses, you know, the things you need to tell a good story and hook your readers. “Hook” is his word, the one the “slave” used. He also had access to my secretary and even some of the characters involved in the cases, I suppose for the same reason of documenting the stories. At one point it got to be a real pain in the ass answering all his questions and adding all the necessary details, but the story was finally done.
They’re stories that’ll end up in the wastebasket of any train station when travelers get off at their stops. Or in the garbage can in an airport after a short flight. I did, however, ask the “slave” (who was, in fact, a mestizo, a mixed-blood from Comala) to keep my story in first person as much as he could. I think things sound more realistic when the main character tells the story. None of that fancy writing style. Straight to the point. If they didn’t agree to these conditions, I wouldn’t let it be published. In exchange, I had to agree to not veto anything even if it seemed offensive or iffy to me.
Well, now that we’ve gotten this show on the road, I’ll start with what happened to me with the mythical Marilyn Monroe – that’s right, with the star of Niagara and so many other unforgettable movies. Actually, it wasn’t really with her, but she was definitely the one who set the ball rolling for the story even though she’d already been dead for a number of years. How’s that possible? Well, precisely because she was dead. Want to know more? Of course you do, but that’s where the suspense lies. You’ll find out. Ah! Thanks for buying my little story. Besides the advance I got from the editor, I’m also getting a small percentage from the book sales. That’s the way it should be, right?
