TWO GRAVES DUG
A Phil Rodriquez Mystery
By
Table of Contents
Title Page
PENNY MICKELBURY
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
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About the Author
PENNY MICKELBURY
CHAPTER ONE
Carmine Aiello is a low-life. I know this because not only do I know Carmine personally, I’d heard about him years before I met him, like you do when you grow up in a neighborhood where everybody knows everybody else, or knows enough about them to think they know them, and what I know about Carmine is this: he’s a whiner and a complainer and a coward and he’d be dead if he wasn’t connected. He’s a low level player in one of the low level crime families— the kind of jerks who brag about their proximity to John Gotti so long and hard you know Gotti wouldn’t recognize them if he tripped over them; the kind of creeps who walk around calling people spics and niggers. The only reason one of us hasn’t popped him is because it would be a waste of good ammunition. A few years back, a couple of East Village skinheads caught him in an alley between Grant Park and Avenue B and beat the shit out of him, helping themselves in the process to his jewelry, his wallet, his snakeskin Tony Lamas, and his leather jacket. Carmine screeched like a damsel tied to the railroad tracks and tried to convince the world that his assailants were “a gang of spics and niggers” even though everybody knew it was the ‘skins; and so much did nobody give a shit that the white punks weren’t even challenged for doing a job off turf. Not even Carmine’s own crew cared.
So. All that to say I wasn’t any too pleased to hear three times in one morning that Carmine Aiello was looking to talk to me. I live exactly eight blocks— five long cross-town blocks and three short uptown blocks— from my office. I wasn’t two blocks from home before the first message came my way, courtesy of Willie One Eye at the news stand where I buy my papers every morning—the Times, the Daily News, the Wall Street Journal, and El Diario. At the next corner, where I flirt with Mrs. Campos and buy fresh orange and carrot juice, I got the evil eye instead of a wicked wink, and the instructions, grudgingly shoved through clenched lips, that I was to call “that Carmine asshole” as soon as I got to my office. By the time I made the uptown turn and my third and final stop— a respect call at Itchy Johnson’s shoe shine parlor and barber shop— I was so pissed off that I barely heard his growled, “What the hell does that ugly piece of shit want with you?” I was thinking two things: that I needed to alter my morning routine; and that I’d have to pay a visit to Carmine Aiello. Soon.
That’s what I was thinking when I stopped in front of my building and surveyed it with pride, as I did every morning and never tiring of the habit. Then, I thought, why the hell shouldn’t I have a routine? It’s how people— my people— know me; know who and what and how I am. Not to mention where. It’s important that they believe they know and understand me and screw Carmine Aiello! Damned if I should change years of carefully crafted habit to thwart a whiney low-life like him.
I’m a private investigator, licensed by the city and state of New York for the last six years. What I really am, though, is a channel. Not the spiritual kind, the worldly kind. I bridge situations. And people. And I fix things— problems, hassles, disputes; and I find things— people, mostly, some of whom really are lost and some of whom know exactly where they are. Mostly I practice my trade in my neighborhood: the lower East Side of New York City, the East Village, Alphabet City. The places that border Little Italy and Chinatown and The Village and SoHo and TriBeCa. Places where rich and famous private investigators, the kind in best-selling novels and block-buster movies, wouldn’t be caught dead. Or maybe that’s the only way they’d be caught in my neighborhood. But when asked, and if I’m interested, I’ll take a job anywhere, even in Queens, which I’ve done on one more than one occasion.
I decided what I wanted to do and be when I read my first Robert Parker book at the age of thirteen, almost twenty years ago. “God Save the Child” was the name of the book and I wanted to be Hawk and Spencer. Tough and smart. So I got a Sociology degree from City College and survived the police academy and four years as a New York City police officer, walking a beat on the eastern edge of Central Park. All the while growing and grooming my reputation in my neighborhood as a tough guy, but a smart one. Too smart to use drugs or get caught stealing or fighting, and too tough to take an ass-whipping from anybody.
I always knew that people in my neighborhood needed a good private cop. God knows the public ones never did much for us. Besides, there’s a lot of life being lived in this part of Manhattan. Just because it’s being lived on slim budgets in narrow tenements doesn’t make it cheap life, or narrow life. I also always knew that I was just the right guy for the job: second generation New Yorican, product of a Black Puerto Rican mother and a brown Puerto Rican father, fluent in English, Spanish, and Spanglish; light-skinned enough not to threaten the cultural racists and yet not so light as to engender the distrust of the Blacks of African descent.
I stood in front of my building looking at it for a moment, looked at the buzzer box with its three names, always feeling a little puffed up at the sight of my own in the third position because I’m on the ground floor: Philip Rodriquez Investigations. There are two other names on the buzzer box: the Dharma Yoga Studio in the middle and Y.M. Aguierre at the top.
Yolanda Maria is my partner and she lives on the top floor of the building because it was her idea to buy it. If we were going into business for ourselves, she said, we should own our own building. When you pay rent to somebody, she said, you’re working for that guy and not for yourself. She also contributed the most money, since my dedication to being smart and tough had included no components of being thrifty. Yo, on the other hand, had determined to be wealthy with the same degree of intensity and commitment that I fashioned my Spencer/Hawk mutation. She’d begun saving money when she was ten, and by the time we met during our junior year at City College, she had a five-figure bank account.
I thought Yolanda Maria was marvelous the moment I met her, even before she began sharing her financial philosophies with me. But before my respect and admiration for her had a chance to flower into something more, shall we say, intense, Yolanda informed me that, one: she was a lesbian and proud of it; two: she did not lend money to friends, no matter how broke they were; and three: she thought I had potential, primarily because our grandmothers had been best friends when they lived next door to each other in Spanish Harlem a zillion years ago. I discovered her potential when she laughed and hugged me when I asked her to marry me anyway, and we’ve been best friends ever since.
I love this building almost as much as I love Yolanda Maria. It’s a small structure, and narrow, like the East Village itself, and interesting only given its history: it began life as a meeting/rooming house for immigrants seventy years ago. The huge one-room ground floor we left open, like a living room with desks and phones, carving out, at the rear of the room, a kitchen and a bathroom and a storage closet. We use Shoji screens to section off private work space for Yolanda. The top two floors once were sleeping warrens for newly arrived Italians, Germans, Irish, Poles: dingy, ugly little spaces which we transformed into a mirrored studio for yoga and an airy loft for Yo, as elegant as any in SoHo with its own roof-top deck. All this I think about every morning upon arrival at my building. I can’t help it. It makes
me proud.
“Peace, Brother Man, and Buenos Dias,” Yo sang out as I walked in the door.
All the blinds were up and weak, struggling sunlight spread out over the office, the shiny hardwood floor surrounding the muted gray carpet in the center of the room bouncing the light back toward the ceiling, adding to the sense of warmth and well-being created by Yolanda’s presence. She is, and I can say this without the slightest trace of machismo, an excruciatingly gorgeous woman. She’s a Black Puerto Rican with a dancer’s body, a model’s face, Einstein’s brain, and Celia Cruz’s personality. The thousand-watt smile of greeting she offered, which outshone the thin stream of sunlight, made me grin like 14-year old. The mug of steaming coffee on a purple napkin in the center of my desk merely served to enhance the warm, fuzzy feeling.
“Back at you, my Sister,” I said, tossing her the bottle of carrot juice, still dripping water and ice chips. Our greeting was as habitual as anything else we did— the carrot juice I brought her and the coffee she fixed for me— and the doubt re-surfaced. “Do you think we’re too much creatures of habit?” I asked. She froze in the act of turning a huge, healthy palm toward the light and fixed me in a stare that unnerved me and I hastened to explain myself.
“You would let a piece of caca like Carmine Aiello disturb your psyche to such a degree?” She asked the question as if to a being unfamiliar with any of the basic principles of self worth. In addition to being the most beautiful woman I know, and one of the smartest, Yolanda also is my best friend, and her opinion of me is as important as that of my mother or grandmother. So, it hurts like a kick in the nuts when she looks at me or talks to me like I’m mentally deficient.
“How the hell would you feel hearing all over the ‘hood that Carmine was looking to talk to you?” I didn’t try to conceal the injury to my feelings her failure to commiserate had produced. Instead, I took too big a gulp of coffee and burned my mouth. I stifled the curse because there was nobody to blame by myself, and glared at Yolanda.
“Probably like taking a shower,” she said, “but certainly not like changing my life.” She crossed mocha arms over a bosom she’d taught me years ago not to drool over and tilted her head to one side. “I’d also be real interested in knowing what he wanted to talk to me about. Mi entiendes?”
I certainly was beginning to understand. Now that the pique was wearing off, the pieces were falling into place. Carmine knows the rules, and he wouldn’t violate my space and my privacy without good reason. And he certainly wouldn’t deliver a message in person unless there was real urgency attached. I still was pissed at him, but there was little edge of concern lurking in the corner, next to the fledgling interest. I sipped a little more coffee that still was too hot to drink, blew Yo a kiss, did an about face, and walked out of the office, out of the building, and back down Avenue C. I zigged and zagged west, toward the Bowery, guzzling the orange juice and missing the coffee. As I’d done on my walk earlier, I let my tan suede jacket flap open in the breeze, refusing to acknowledge the chill it contained. It was the third week of October and, this close to the East River, definitely the beginning of a new season. But for me, the memory of summer’s heat remained too close to bundle myself against fall’s arrival. My mother liked to tease me that I was too many generations removed from my Puerto Rican roots because I preferred cold weather to hot. I loved winter in New York: the skinny island where an icy, slicing wind could find you no matter where you walked; and if you were walking cross-town, into the wind— well, God help you, it was enough to send even an Eskimo scurrying for cover down into the nearest subway station. This was my island by choice, if not by heritage.
Carmine lived on one of those creepy, crowded blocks off the Bowery. I’d know which one when I got there. I knew where he lived because everybody knew where he lived. Because we hated his sleazy guts didn’t mean we didn’t have to acknowledge him. Everybody, in every part of New York City, acknowledges, in some way, the crime bosses who control things. That’s the way it is, the way it’s always been, like rich people live uptown and poor people live downtown. And while it’s possible these days not to have to play ball on some hoodlum’s team— like it’s now possible that rich people live downtown and vice versa— it still is not possible to pretend that the hoodlums don’t exist and that they don’t control a healthy share of the balls and bats and gloves, not to mention playing fields.
Finally forced to concede that my black Hanes thick cotton tee shirt wasn’t keeping my chest warm enough, I was zipping my jacket when I turned the corner into Kenmare Street. I was looking at the zipper instead of at the world when I made my turn and smacked into Carmine.
“What the fuck...” He stopped short when he saw it was me. “Hey, Rodriquez. How’s it hangin’?”
“I hear you want to talk to me, Carmine. What about?” I knew I sounded snarly, but just looking at him returned me to my riled and piqued state.
“Lemme buy you a coffee. I know you ain’t had yours yet.”
Without a word I followed him three store fronts down the block and into a little bakery I’d never noticed before, working hard to control the variety of negative feelings inside. Damn him for knowing so much about my life and habits!
The coffee shop was a warm hug. It smelled of cinnamon and chocolate and rising yeast, and my caffeine addiction reared its ugly head and dared me to be rude to Carmine until it was sated. So I sat across from my host in a back booth and watched him arrange himself. Literally. He unbuttoned his coat but didn’t remove it. Instead, he draped if off his shoulders so that his shiny black shirt was revealed. He smoothed the shirt front and stood the collar up, then pulled the cuffs down over his wrists. His face wore the concentrated look of a surgeon. I wondered what the hell he was doing until I remembered that he claimed familial ties to an actor of the same name. I studied Carmine: short, fat, nearly bald, with beady eyes and a nose like a pickle and acne-scarred skin. And the man had the nerve to envision himself resembling a movie actor? If I were Danny Aiello, I’d kick Carmine’s tubby ass all the way across Brooklyn, back to the Canarsie section of Queens where he’d begun his low life.
“What do you want, Carmine?” I asked after the first hit of cafe con leche was spreading caffeine through me. I was looking sideways at the tray of pastries the fat man had ordered, my desire for a Napoleon dueling with my bruised pride. Did he know about my sweet tooth, too?
“You know Jill Mason, right? The shrink?” he asked, chewing a cannoli and making it look delicious.
I nodded. I knew who she was, actually had met her several months ago at some community affair, had found her polite and pleasant. And, as I recalled, quite a bit more than pleasant to the eyes. “What about her?”
“Somebody beat her up.” Carmine shoved the remains of the cannoli into his mouth and wiped his lips daintily with a napkin. I sat up straight and wiped my mouth, too, hurrying to chew and swallow Napoleon so I could talk.
“When? And where?” I couldn’t believe that somebody as important as Jill Mason had been assaulted on my turf and me not know about it. “And what’s it to you,” I almost snarled at him. “Since when does your heart bleed for spics and niggers?”
He had the good grace to blush and lower his eyes briefly. “Doc Mason is a stand-up lady.” His pudgy hand slapped the table when he said it, as if to add strength to his pronouncement.
“Even if she is a nigger?” No need for me to make it easy on Carmine. He deserved the pay-back for linking his name to mine on my turf, first thing in the morning before I’ve even had coffee.
“Look, ass wipe, I’m tryin’ to hire you. You still work for a livin’ or what?”
“For you, Carmine? I don’t think so.” I drained the mug and stood up.
“Jill Mason gets whacked, I’ll put it out all over the neighborhood that it’s on your head, I swear to God I will.”
I sat back down and looked hard at Carmine. He wasn’t bullshitting. I studied the plate of pastries, contemplated, snagged another Napol
eon, and ate it slowly while my host explained the soft spot in his heart for Jill Mason: She’d saved his daughter’s life. I hadn’t known Carmine had a daughter. But a lot of hoodlums had kids they professed to adore, often tucked away some place where they couldn’t discover what a low-life daddy was. No reason Carmine should be an exception, though I had trouble picturing what kind of woman would suffer his mean, ugly ass. I nodded thanks to the waitress and sipped my refreshed coffee, and wished this place weren’t a Carmine Aiello hangout so I could pay a return visit and bring Yolanda. She’s the one who had hooked me on Napoleons when we were students.
I was wondering how Carmine knew so much about Jill Mason. I knew what I knew because it’s my job to know things, and what I knew about the good doctor I’d only recently learned— that she was born in the ‘hood and had, like lots of intellectually gifted Blacks and ‘Ricans, scholar-shipped out— in Mason’s case to Hunter College and Columbia University for med school. That she had married a rich white guy—a banker—from uptown and had been a partner in one of those fancy East side psychiatric clinics where people are rich enough not to be called crazy. That she had earned high six figures for enough years to be considered rich herself. That her husband and kids had been killed last year in a car crash on the Long Island throughway that she had walked away from with scratches. And after that she’d walked away from the Upper East Side and taken the 6 train back home to the East Village where she opened a clinic and where she worked long and hard and virtually for free. She didn’t need the money and that fit the needs of people who didn’t have much of it but who had plenty of neuroses and psychoses and could be convinced to dump them in the lap of a sister from the ‘hood.
“How’d she save your daughter’s life?” I wanted to smack myself. Here I was, actually interested in something Carmine Aiello had to say. I hoped I’d managed to sound bored and pissed.
Two Graves Dug Page 1
