by A. E. Roman
My mother never told me what it was that my father had done in Vietnam or what had been done to him. I do know that his brother was killed in Vietnam by a grenade he jumped on to save the lives of his fellow soldiers and friends. Another brother was stabbed the day he came back from war, fighting some muggers for his wallet fat with thirteen dollars on the 6 train. A third brother, the funny one, was shot in an Irish-Italian bar in Queens for laughing too loud with some white girl he was dating. All of the Santana boys were dead. And my father had his painkiller until he was murdered, too.
Dr. Herman did confess to me once that my father earned a medal for heroism when he served fourteen months as a medic in Vietnam. I never saw any shiny medals anywhere in our apartment. In fact, the only thing I ever heard my father say in relation to Vietnam was, “Don’t let anybody tell you you’re not anything you want to be, tell them you are anything you decide to be as long as it helps and doesn’t hurt life. Tell them your father learned that in Vietnam. Tell them your father said so.”
I didn’t like that Mara Gupta could pull information about me off her little clipboard like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“This is bullshit,” I said, glaring at her. “You leave my father outta this. Why exactly am I here? What have I done? Have I offended you in some way? I can run out and buy some mints.”
She grinned and said, as if reading from a brochure, “TSP is a professional self-help program, operated by men and women seeking a stronger way of life. Members engage with each other to strengthen their productivity and self-confidence, empower their lives, and change the world. We have a total of more than ten thousand members in New York City and we are planning more than sixty similar Superman Project satellites in host countries around the world starting with India, which will assist some six hundred thousand men and women. My job is to find Joseph Valentin and my older sister Gabby while protecting that mission.”
“Mission?”
“Human happiness can be improved. The Kryptonic treadmill of divorce, smoking, TV, drinking, drugs, overeating, sexual deviance, and promiscuity is breaking the world down. It’s literally killing us. We just want the killing to stop. If you have something better to offer, Private Investigator Chico Santana, speak now. Life is short.”
I paused. “Bowling?”
“I didn’t think so,” she said. “Are you familiar with the whereabouts of Joey Valentin?”
“No,” I said. “Are you going to ask me about your sister Gabby?”
Long pause. “Why?” she asked. “Do you know where she is?”
“No,” I said. “But you seem relatively unconcerned about her being missing.”
“Why did you meet with my sister Chase?” said Mara Gupta, ignoring my question. “What did she tell you?”
“I met Chase’s boyfriend, Elvis,” I said. “At a comic-book store on Twenty-third Street. Pablo Sanchez manages the place. I also met Pablo’s mother, Esther Sanchez. They wanted me to find out what happened to your sister Gabby. Now Esther Sanchez is dead and Elvis is being accused of doing the dirty deed and Joey is being sought for questioning because his TSP business card was dropped at the scene but you probably already know all that, since the police have probably already been by here to say hello and como estas.”
“And why did you want to see Hari Lachan, Mr. Santana?” she asked.
“I heard he had a way with cuckoo clocks and I’m cuckoo for cuckoo clocks.”
“Are you investigating TSP or looking for Gabby?”
“Maybe they’re not mutually exclusive.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Where is Father Ravi?” I asked. “Where’s your dad? It’s not just Hari Lachan. I’d like to speak with him, too.”
She shut her eyes and took a deep breath, like I was hopeless and she was exasperated with me. “My father is no longer with us.”
“Dead?” I said.
“No,” she said.
“Where is he?”
“Do you believe in God, Mr. Santana?”
“We had a thing when I was a kid. Why?”
“What do you believe in now?”
“Giving a guy an even break.”
“Do you work out?”
“Work out? That’s why God invented darkness.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in God.”
“I’m moody.”
“We would appreciate if your moods did not include snooping around here.”
“Okay.” I nodded. “But if you ever get an itch to see me again, and you will, instead of Tasers, how about next time you wanna talk we just have a cup of coffee? It’s easier on my ego AND my pants. Dry cleaning is expensive.”
I stood up one final time. “Tell me one thing,” I said. “Are you honestly worried about Elvis Hernandez challenging you in any kind of race for anything?”
Mara Gupta looked at me and said, “Elvis and Chase were thrown out of the Amerasian movie theater for obscene behavior in public. The first time Elvis sent my sister Chase an e-mail, it was a picture of him naked. Do you know what Chase did?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
“She sent him a photo of herself naked,” said Mara Gupta.
“So what?”
“Can you believe Elvis had enough memory on his hard drive for that?”
“I can’t believe you just said that.”
“Love means never having to say you’re sorry,” Mara Gupta said. “And nobody is worried about Elvis Hernandez or my sister Chase or any delusions they may be entertaining about their will to power. And Elvis Hernandez has bigger troubles now, right?”
“Funny how two people running against you for the presidency of this lemonade stand are now in trouble with the law.”
“Hilarious,” Mara Gupta said without so much as a grin.
She didn’t even apologize for my Tasering.
“If you find Gabby or Joey before we do, I would be more than happy to have a cup of herbal tea and whatever else with you,” said Mara Gupta, a seductive tone in her voice. “Until then, happy snooping elsewhere, Mr. Santana. We hope you do find Gabby. Until that time, feel free to stay out of any and all of our facilities and if I can be of any assistance in your search feel free to contact someone else. Shall I have you escorted out of the building?”
“No thanks,” I said. “One electrocution per case.”
She strolled to the door and said, “Try and have a powerful day, Private Investigator Chico Santana. And if you don’t. Remember: It’s your own fault.”
“I knew that already,” I said. “But thanks for the reminder. Every little bit helps.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, throwing open the door. “Also, if you come near Hari Lachan or any of my sisters again, there will be much bad karma.”
I nodded.
She pressed her hands together as if in prayer and gave me a little bow. There will be much bad karma.
I believed it.
I looked in her direction but not at her. I looked at what was behind her and it hit me. Another sculpture in the corner of the room. This sculpture was just like the sculpture spotlighted by the sun shining through the tall window in the conference room, six feet high: two figures, one with wings, wrestling.
Then it all came back to me: “Beautiful. Isn’t it?”
“Yeah. Who did it?”
“He’s no longer a member of TSP.”
“What’d he do?” I said. “Tug on Superman’s cape?”
“Worse.”
ELEVEN
That day was our anniversary. Mine and Ramona’s. I woke up again before dawn, cursing that pain in my side, in my guts, my lower back, passing through me like a breath of razor blades. I climbed out of bed and opened the window to smoke a cigarette before I realized that I had quit.
After Mimi arrived to watch Max, I took two aspirin, swallowed a pot of coffee, got dressed, threw on my Rockports and my Timex, and went out into the hot, wet August morning to pick up Kelly’s fax at Kin
kos, right off the Parkchester Oval, in weather that felt like a hundred degrees in the shade. Giovanni’s background check was interesting:
ST. JAMES AND COMPANY
CONFIDENTIAL
CASE No. 2
Subject: Giovanni Vaninni
Place of Birth: Rome, Italy . . . Hair: Blond . . . Eyes: Blue-Green . . . Height: 6’2” . . . Complexion: Light . . . Weight: 190 pounds . . . Sex: Male . . . Race: White . . . Occupations: Sculptor. Licensed Welder . . . Nationality: Italian
Remarks: Vaninni may walk with an exaggerated erect posture and his chest pushed out due to a lower back injury. Vaninni is also known to smoke heavily. He has ties to anarchists in Italy, Germany, France, and England. Graduated the University of Salerno. Father was a professor of the history of Greek and Roman art at the University of Siena. Mother was a psychiatrist. Both deceased. Vaninni was arrested a few times for altercations at several bars—mostly assault. He obviously has a temper.
Vaninni operates out of Williamsburg on Kent Street where he shared a work loft with Joey Valentin and Gabby Gupta.
P.S. from Joy: “When are you coming in to say hola, Santooma?”
I felt like Boo when he would sniff at a spot on the sidewalk for what seemed like hours. I found my spot on the sidewalk. Its name was Giovanni Vaninni.
I called the number listed on Kelly Diaz’s background check for Giovanni of Williamsburg and told him that I was a private investigator and friend of his old roommate Joey Valentin, and was interested in having a chat. I promised Mimi that I would be back by midnight to take over watching Max and her cat Gizmo and walking Boo.
Giovanni Vaninni, Italian, sculptor, welder, artist, anarchist, violent or passionate, maybe both, I thought as I took the stairs up to the Parkchester platform and my cell went off.
“Chico?” said Pablo Sanchez. “Joey called. TSP knows about you. They’ve been following us, that’s why he didn’t show up at my apartment.”
“I know,” I said. “Where’s Joey?”
“He hung up before I even had a chance to tell him about my mother.”
“I’m going out to meet with a Giovanni Vaninni, today.”
All I heard from Pablo was silence. “Relax, Pablo. I got this.”
“Don’t tell me to relax. You sound like my mother.”
Then, “Giovanni isn’t the one to see. You should be looking at somebody at TSP, not Giovanni. Giovanni’s a good guy.”
“The good, the bad, and the ugly,” I said. “I have to check everybody out. What’s the deal with Dr. Mara Gupta?”
“Mara Gupta,” Pablo said. “She’s not a real doctor. She got a PhD in economics. She used to work as an accountant for a computer magazine until she got laid off. Everybody just calls her doctor. She never corrects them.”
“And Zena Gupta?”
“Why?”
“I got a feeling the sisters don’t really agree on things,” I said. “How does Chase Gupta get along with them?”
Silence.
Pablo’s sense of loyalty to friends could get in my way. He had been sweating me like a poodle at a leg parade, and suddenly when I talk about Chase Gupta, he goes all Helen Keller on me.
“Why are you bothering Giovanni?” Pablo asked. “He’s got enough problems.”
“I gotta check every angle, every clue, even if it leads to a dead end.”
Pablo paused. He sounded defeated. “I guess so.”
“Is there something up with you and this Vaninni guy? Something I should know?”
“No,” said Pablo. “No. He’s a friend. Not really my friend. Mostly Joey’s. Joey met him in art school and brought him into TSP.”
“You know a girl named Kirsten at TSP?”
“She’s nobody,” Pablo said. “Like me.”
“I’ll pretend you didn’t just say that.”
“Would you,” Pablo said. “Would you still go see Giovanni even if I told you that I think that’s a bad idea? Even if I told you that I know for sure that Giovanni had nothing to do with Joey or Gabby’s disappearance or my mother?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Even if you swore on a stack of Bibles that this Giovanni burped rainbows, I’d have to go check him out.”
“The police have a new suspect in my mother’s murder.”
“Do you know who?”
“No. Do you need my help with Giovanni?”
“No,” I said. “You rest up. Your mission is accomplished for now. I’ll talk at ya later.”
“Wait!”
“What, Pablo?”
“I know Giovanni. He has a temper. He’s not a little guy either. He drinks a lot of wine. Things could get rough. Maybe you could use a ride, maybe some backup?”
“Backup?”
“Yeah,” Pablo said. “Somebody to watch your back.”
“My back is fine, Pablo. I wash it myself and everything. I’m a big boy.”
“I know,” Pablo said. “But still. Can I come with you?”
“No.”
“Please?”
“Pablo, I work alone.”
“My mother is dead, Chico.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’m on this. I just need time. Time alone.”
“Okay, fine.”
The line went dead.
I thought that the Pablo drama was over for that day. It wasn’t. When the L train landed at the Graham Avenue Station, three stops outside of Manhattan in Brooklyn, I walked outside and there he was; pudgy Pablo, in a vintage Batman and Robin T-shirt and red shorts, standing beside his raggedy Ford Fiesta, stuffing his face. What the hell did he think he was doing? I was doing my job. I was on the case. And what did I get in return? Amateur hour.
I shook my head but I understood. His mother was dead. Murdered. What wouldn’t I do?
“What’re you eating, Pablo?”
“Pizza.”
“Is that ketchup?”
“Yeah,” Pablo said. “It’s my own invention. Wanna bite?”
He shoved the sweet-sour mess in my face. I pushed it away.
“No, thank you. I like ketchup as much as anybody. It’s my favorite vegetable. But not on pizza.”
“You sound like my mother,” Pablo said, choked up, stuffing what remained of the slice into his mouth as quickly as he could, and pointed to his car.
“Drive or walk, boss?” Pablo asked.
“I’m walking,” I said. “You’re driving home, Pablo. Now.”
Pablo Sanchez was a wannabe detective. I understood, but if I wasn’t careful, the guy could get us both killed. I shook my head, and Pablo gave me a sad look like Boo did when I’d pull him back by his leash to stop him from eating garbage on the street. Pablo looked as if he was about to cry and said, “My mother, Chico. Somebody killed my mother,” until all I could say was, “Walk.”
Pablo looked at me like a geeky kid who just got his first microscope.
“You introduce me to Giovanni and then you step back and let me do my thing.”
“You got it, Batman.”
I winced. “Does Giovanni know about your mother?”
“I don’t think so. I haven’t seen him since Joey ran off.”
I stared at Pablo, huffing and puffing along. There was red ketchup on his white shirt. I thought about Joey and his immaculate clothes, Joey ironing his shoelaces. I watched Pablo, picking his teeth, excited like he’d just heard the chime of an ice cream truck, as we walked to an enormous converted warehouse on South 1st Street.
The clouds got dark above us.
Rain.
It’s coming.
TWELVE
We went in through an open door, down a long spiral staircase to another door that led into the big hall of a windowless basement. It was hot as hell down there.
The muscular, long-haired blond and goateed man, with weird and exhausted gray eyes complete with dark sleepless circles under them named Giovanni Vaninni, stood bare-chested with a large golden crucifix around his neck before two parking-garage-sized doors marked LAVORI IN CORSO we
aring pajama bottoms and sandals.
“Work in progress!” shouted Giovanni. “Ciao, Pablino. I didn’t know you were coming, too!”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“Welcome to the gates of my inferno, signore.” Giovanni held up his beefy arms, a glass of red wine in one hand and a blowtorch in the other. “To enter, you must first pass the Vaninni test.”
“If I knew there was gonna be a test,” I said, “I woulda changed my underwear.”
“Which is the greater masterpiece,” Vaninni continued. “Rodin’s The Kiss or Michelangelo’s David?”
“David,” I said, taking a guess based on who I remembered was considered the greater master in my Art Appreciation 101 class at John Jay (Ramona’s idea), an elective that might come in handy now, along with my years of working security at the Met.
“You may enter,” said Giovanni, dramatically throwing the garage doors open with a powerful ease that said the guy was not just possibly dangerous but strong.
Giovanni stood aside as Pablo and I passed.
“The rent is twelve hundred dollars plus utilities,” said Vaninni. “You cannot beat that with a baseball bat.”
A song from the Italian opera Pagliacci played. I recognized it. Ramona again. Giovanni’s inferno was a huge, bright concrete loft space with thirty-foot ceilings and giant industrial fans blowing humid air. Dozens of dilapidated wooden dressers sat in every corner of the room, holding God knew what. There was a kitchenette with a dishwasher and three walls that probably hid two bedrooms and a toilet. In another corner were sinks full of dirty dishes and a hand-built shower stall made of tin with a garden hose for water. A NO SLEEPING sign hung over a cot, a NO SMOKING sign over an ashtray full of cigarette butts, and another sign read, “Art is a lie in the service of truth and TRUE ART IS NOT A CHOICE.”
“Cigarette?” said Giovanni, offering one of his hand-rolled masterpieces.
“No thanks. I quit.”
“That’s like quitting life,” Giovanni said. “Americans!”
“Thanks for the support,” I said.
“La vita,” said Giovanni, pointing, spanning his arm across the studio. Eighteen-inch molds of two figures wrestling were everywhere. These molds came to life as sculptures standing throughout the studio, repeated again and again with the same theme—two figures wrestling, made of wax, metal, plastic, bottle caps, comic-book paper, male and female wrestling, male and male wrestling, female and female wrestling, naked, and the faces anguished, fearful, and angry, gritted teeth, grimacing faces, hands clasped in a painful and eternal tug of war. It was a depressing sight, a tortured version of the sculptures I had seen at TSP. I didn’t like it. I’m not saying it wasn’t true. Maybe it was true, maybe life, la vita, was like that, or could be, but I didn’t like it. Not one bit.
