Woman of Light (36)

Luz shook her head.

“Now if anyone should stop by, you’ll greet them. Say, ‘Good afternoon, sir or madam, the attorney will see you in a moment.’ I’ll teach you how to take appointments soon, but for now, check everyone into the ledger, but wait five minutes before knocking on my door. If I’m in a meeting already, never interrupt.”

Luz said she understood.

David paused his instructions for a moment and glared at Luz’s blue dress. He smiled, his perfect teeth glinting against the office lights. “Do you own anything black or gray?”

“I have a navy blue dress. It almost looks black.”

“That won’t do,” David said with a warm smile. “You’ll still look too pretty.”

Luz blushed.

“I’ll give you an advance for some new dresses. They should be modest yet chic.”

The front door opened then and a tall and commanding white man with a black cane entered from the street. The hissing sounds of trolleys and automobiles rose and fell in volume as he opened and closed the door.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Luz said. “The attorney will see you in a moment.”

David grinned. He said, “It’s fine, Luz. I’m right here.”

Wiping his patent leather shoes on the doormat, the man removed his gloves, and without so much as looking at Luz, handed her his cap and jacket.

“Let’s get on with it,” he said, pegging the wooden floor with his cane as they stepped into David’s office.

When she was alone, Luz sifted through the paperwork, documents she decided were insurance notes on various Denver neighborhoods. In the top corner, neighborhoods were listed, and all along the middle sections the percentage of foreign-born residents, homeowners, and Negroes were tallied, along with other notes concerning the area’s makeup. Trying to decipher the papers reminded Luz of learning to read tea leaves. There was a language, a set of rules, a particular style laid out by generations before her. Sure, these papers were stamped and notarized, but with their watermarks and fading ink, all of it could have been alchemy. When she came upon the Westside, Luz was surprised by what she read.

In this old area, flanked by industrial sections, there are many terraces containing approximately 1,000 living units. Bordering the industrial district is a Mexican concentration. Structures near the railroad yards are cheap, having deteriorated considerably since 1929. Detrimental influences include unpaved streets and the stench from packing plants. Some of these ramshackle terraces have been picked up by speculators.



It was the last part that gave her pause. How could any speculators take interest in the Westside?



* * *



—

When the man with the cane eventually exited David’s office, he walked toward Luz and crunched his hands like flippers. Luz handed him his hat and jacket.

“Consider what I’ve said about this latest manslaughter,” said the man. “It gives you an idea of the prosecutor, to go for such a lenient charge.”

“What else can we expect with the current governor?” said David.

“Human decency,” the man said, stomping past Luz, slamming the front door.

After some time, when all the papers were filed, the bookshelves dusted, and the windows washed, David called Luz into his office, where he was hunched over his desk. Behind him, sprawling over the wall, was an enormous map of the city, Colfax a central stream. Each neighborhood was displayed in a different color, the Westside in red. Along the edges, David had pinned photographs to the wall. Luz shivered at the images of crosses burning over Table Mountain, Klansmen in white hoods marching down Seventeenth Street, the stark photo of a man’s torso flopped over gravel, a group of burned shops, and many empty storefronts like poked-out eyes.

“All finished?” David asked, without looking up from his desk.

“Yes, it wasn’t so bad at all.”

“Very good. You can leave early today to find a new dress.” He reached into the drawer at his side and rummaged around for a moment before handing Luz a five-dollar bill.

“I appreciate it very much.”

David set down his pencil. He glanced up, showing off his comely face and curly hair. “You’ll learn quick.”

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Luz pointed to the picture of the man’s beaten face, the trail of blood, “who’s that man?”

David turned in his leather chair to an untidy pile of publications on his left. He scrambled papers around for a moment before handing Luz a copy of The Colorado Call, the socialist newspaper published on the Northside. Maria Josie never allowed it in the apartment. She said the government people kept track of who read that sort of thing. The article was dated the previous December. “One of my cases, a civil suit, wrongful death. He’s from your cousin’s neighborhood. Familiar?”

Luz lifted the paper into the light, a tiny block of text. Twenty-three-year-old Estevan Ruiz had been loading scrap iron into a flatcar at the Union Pacific freight house when his shift supervisor claimed he had stolen another man’s lunch. It was three o’clock in the afternoon. The responding officers claimed the young man took off on foot and was found dead after falling from a rail bridge into an empty freight car. Luz stared at the man’s photograph. His face concave, a black pit.

“No,” Luz said, shaking her head. “He fell?”