by Barbara Paul
Those other witnesses would start creeping out of hiding once it was known all fourteen Queens were safely locked away at Riker’s Island. Marian sighed. They had a case. What they didn’t have was a reason. All those girls with their colorful names … Denzella, Little Leticia and Big Leticia, Ti-Belle, Guadalupe, Frisky Nell, Encarnaçion (nicknamed “Ree”), Large Marge—they’d all been counting on fear to keep the witnesses from talking to the police. It would have worked, too, if the Symptom of Death hadn’t seen Mrs. Alvarez’s murder as an opportunity to get rid of a rival gang.
Well, maybe one of the girls would let something slip during interrogation; some of them were very young. Marian finished typing the report and glanced at her watch. Two and a half hours until she met Brian for dinner. If she left right then, she’d have time to wash her hair.
Or, she could go tell young Juanita Alvarez they’d caught the girls who’d killed her mother.
Marian rubbed her eyes tiredly. No real decision. Brian had seen her with messy hair before.
2
Running north and south along FDR Drive, the Jacob Riis Projects sat on a windswept lot surrounded by a low wire fence. The tallest building was a fourteen-story pile of mud-colored brick (shit-colored, Foley called it), with bars or plywood or chicken wire over the windows of the lower floors. Marian Larch had no trouble getting in; all three locks in the double glass doors were broken. Inside, the ubiquitous stench of urine mixed with the smells of spices and marijuana. Spray-painted gang signs were everywhere—on the peeling walls, the doors, even on the ceiling. The elevator was working for a change. Marian checked the escape hatch before stepping in; someone had nailed boards across it. Kids strung out on speed or blacktar heroin sometimes thought it was a gas to ride on top of elevator cars and blast away with a shotgun at unsuspecting passengers.
The Alvarez apartment was on the eighth floor. The decibel level would have made a deaf man wince; TVs were blaring, boom boxes were booming. Twelve-year-old Juanita Alvarez and her siblings were being cared for by an aunt—who Marian suspected was a neighbor bribed to put in an appearance whenever the cops or the social workers showed up. Juanita was a very self-sufficient child.
Marian’s knock was answered by a cherub-faced child of eight or so who had eyes that never quite looked at you. Marian smiled at him and said, “Felipe?”
“Felipe dead,” the boy said tonelessly. “I’m Tito.”
Marian was taken aback; one of the children was dead too? “Oh, I’m sorry! When did he die, Tito?”
The boy gazed at his shoes, said nothing.
Marian hunkered down to his eye level. “When did Felipe die? How long ago?”
Tito stared past her shoulder at open space. “Mama say don’t talk about Felipe and Estella.”
Estella as well? What was going on here? Marian gently took hold of the boy’s arms. “Tito, is Estella dead? The baby died? How?”
He didn’t answer.
“You understand your mother won’t be taking care of you anymore, don’t you, Tito? You have to tell me so I can help you. Is Estella dead too?”
He nodded, wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“But Juanita’s all right, isn’t she? Is she here? Where—”
A high, shrill scream made Marian jump. She looked up to see Juanita flying through the air at her. The girl landed heavily, fists and feet flailing and her mouth pouring out a stream of curses in Spanish. Marian lost her balance and they both fell across the doorjamb, Juanita screaming and hitting and Marian trying to catch the girl’s arms. Three black teenaged boys walked by and laughed. “Thassit, Sugar Doll—you get ’er!” one of them said.
Tito stood by silently watching, or not watching.
Marian finally managed to get the girl turned around and wrapped both arms around her in a restraining embrace. She spoke soothingly into Juanita’s ear and rocked her like a baby; the girl’s fury gradually dissolved into a kind of crying that wracked her whole body. Marian half lifted, half wrestled her into the apartment and closed the door. She told Tito to fetch a cold wet cloth; he moved silently to obey.
Eventually Juanita had calmed down to the point where she could talk, but she still looked as if she wanted to kill Marian. It turned out Juanita already knew about the arrest of the Queens; news traveled fast in the projects. And it also turned out that that was the reason she’d attacked Marian.
“But why?” Marian asked in bewilderment. “Those girls killed your mother, Juanita! Didn’t you want them caught?”
“No! Not the Queens! Not them! Oh, you don’ unnerstan’ nothin’!”
“I most certainly do not. Explain it to me, Juanita. Why should you care what happens to the Queens?” When she was met with only sulky silence, Marian turned to Tito. “Do you know why she wants to protect the Queens?”
The boy stared at her without blinking. “She ast ’em to kill mama.”
“You shut your mouth!” his sister screeched.
Tito’s eyes turned inward.
Marian was shocked. Juanita had asked the Queens to kill her own mother? And they had obliged? Juanita looked as if she was getting ready to attack again, so Marian made her voice as gentle as she could. “What did she do to you, Juanita? What did your mother do?”
The girl licked her lips. “She dint do nothin’ to me.”
To me. “To Tito? Did she do something to Tito?”
Juanita’s eyes flickered toward her brother and back again. “She dint do nothin’ to him neither.” And then in a voice so low as to be almost inaudible: “Yet.”
Yet. “What was she going to do to him?” No answer. In a firmer voice: “Juanita, what was your mother going to do to Tito?”
“She was goin’ to kill him, you dumb pig!”
Slowly the ugly story came out. According to Juanita, Mrs. Alvarez had killed her two younger children—first two-year-old Estella and then six-year-old Felipe. Juanita hadn’t been too sure about Estella but she’d actually seen her mother push Felipe out the window … eight floors up. Keeping out of sight, the frightened girl had followed as her mother went down and wrapped Felipe’s body in a filthy army blanket. Mrs. Alvarez had carried him away in the middle of the night; two hours later she’d returned with nothing in her arms.
The reason? She couldn’t support four kids. The two deaths had gone unreported; and each time a social worker paid a visit, Mrs. Alvarez had borrowed two children from her neighbors so her food stamps and living-expenses assistance wouldn’t be reduced. Even so, the welfare checks didn’t go far enough, and the salary checks when she was working bought less and less. First she’d disposed of one mouth to feed. And then another. And now times were lean again.
“Tito was next,” Juanita said in an old woman’s voice.
Oh dear god; what a thing for a twelve-year-old to have to face. “And then you were next after Tito.”
“Not me!” Juanita said with scorn. “I bring money in!” She glared at Marian defiantly.
Marian carefully did not ask how. “But why didn’t you go to the police, Juanita?”
“I did,” the girl said. “I tol’ a brownie, but he dint listen.”
A traffic cop. Marian’s cheekbone was hurting, where one of Juanita’s sharp little fists had landed. She tried asking Tito a few questions but got only grunts in reply; she wasn’t even sure the boy was still with them. Juanita said she’d told a lot of people, but nobody did anything. So she’d gone to the Queens for help.
“Why the Queens?”
“Because they the only ones ‘round here who take care, you know, look out for things. I tell ’em what happen and they say don’ worry, we take care of it. And now they all in jail—and it’s my fault!” The body-wracking sobs started again. “They all gone now—because of me!” Juanita’s attack on Marian had been some last-ditch attempt to fight off the self-blame that was choking her; but now she’d given in to it.
Oh lord, lord. The Queens were the law in that neighborhood; the murder of Mrs. Alvarez had been nothi
ng less than an execution. She’d been judged guilty of crimes not to be tolerated in even that crime-ridden section of town. Of course Juanita didn’t want the Queens in jail; they were her protectors, the ones who’d helped when no one else would listen. The Queens had done her a favor and now they were going to pay a dreadful price for it.
Marian had thought she’d be bringing consolation to the young Alvarezes; yet there she was with a twelve-year-old drowning in guilt and an eight-year-old hovering on the brink of catatonia. Enough of this pretense that an aunt was looking after them; these kids needed help and they needed it fast.
Marian took both children with her when she went looking for a phone to call a social worker to come take them to a shelter.
Marian would just as soon have skipped dinner, preferring to collapse into bed with a box of sesame crackers and a cold beer. She was tired, tired, tired. But she’d had to cancel their last two dinner dates, and Brian Singleton had been getting antsy enough lately anyway. Besides, if she stayed home alone, she’d just give in to her depression.
A quick shower was an absolute must. She dressed hastily, ignoring the blinking message light on her answering machine. Beneath her left eye a lovely king-sized bruise was blossoming, which Marian covered with make-up the best she could. Taking a cab instead of driving herself saved a little time, but still she was late when she got out in front of the brand-new restaurant on West Fifty-fifth that Brian wanted her to try. Oh lord, the place had a doorman.
Said doorman looked her up and down and autocratically informed her that reservations were required. Marian said she was meeting someone. The doorman demanded her name and that of the “party” she was meeting. After consulting by phone with some unseen guardian of the A-list, he grudgingly granted her permission to enter. Marian did not thank him.
Inside, the restaurant was exactly what she’d expected: a gathering place for trendoids—oversold, overdecorated, and overpriced. It was one of those places where the women tended to wear dresses that cost more than Marian earned in three months. It seemed that more and more often Brian was placing her in situations where she was likely to be uncomfortable; she didn’t need a crystal ball to read that message. And there he was, looking well-tailored and impatient. As always.
“I know I’m late,” Marian volunteered before he could say anything. “I got caught in something that simply could not be put off. Have you been waiting long?”
He didn’t answer her question. “Your face is dirty,” he said.
Marian was startled. “Oh … no, that’s a bruise. I thought I’d covered it up.”
“Been in a fight, have you?”
“With a twelve-year-old girl.” Marian started to tell him about Juanita Alvarez but stopped after a few sentences when she saw his eyes beginning to glaze. A few months ago Brian would have wanted every detail and would have been oh-so-concerned for her safety. When they’d first met he’d been intrigued by the kind of work she did, and he never seemed to stop asking questions. He wanted to know everything about her.
That had changed.
“Let’s order, shall we?” he said. “I don’t know how much longer I can stand just smelling all this wonderful food.” Your fault; you kept me waiting.
After the food arrived and they started eating, they both mellowed somewhat. “I’m sorry you were hurt,” Brian said. “Is that why you were late? Tell me about this Juanita …?”
“Alvarez. I’ll tell you some other time, Brian, if you don’t mind. It’s a pretty sordid little story, and right now I need to put it aside for a while.”
He nodded. “I can understand that. Is there something I can do?”
“You’ve already done it. You’ve provided me with good food and good company.”
His eyes crinkled at the compliment. “Fine. I was afraid you were working on another depression.”
“Not a chance,” she lied.
“Glad to hear it. And you won’t forget the Bergstrom opening, will you?”
Bergstrom, Bergstrom. “No, of course not.” Who the hell was Bergstrom? “Ah, that’s next Thursday, right?”
“Tuesday. You’ve forgotten about it.”
“I remember, I’d just mistaken the day. I’m looking forward to seeing his paintings.”
“Bergstrom is a sculptor.”
“A sculptor? Oh my, I mixed him up with somebody else.”
“The most exciting new sculptor to come along in twenty years and I got him. And you forgot about the opening.”
Whew. “No, I remember your telling me—”
“You’re lying,” he said calmly. “You can’t remember, because I never told you about Bergstrom.”
Marian’s mouth dropped open. “You … set a trap for me?”
“To prove a point.” Brian reached across the table and took her hand. “You’re not tuned in the way you used to be, Marian. Look at what just happened. You sit there and pretend to remember something rather than admit you don’t know what I’m talking about. You’re just not with me anymore. I watch you being sucked into that cesspool where you work and I feel powerless to do anything about it.”
“I’m not being sucked into anything,” she said indignantly.
“You’ve changed since you were transferred, did you know that? When you were working out of Police Headquarters, you were able to keep your professional life and your private life separate. Life wasn’t all police work to you then. You used to want to know everything that was going on at my gallery. You wanted to know everything that was going on with me. But now your head is always … Marian, I want you to ask for a transfer. Get yourself out of that place.”
“It’s only a temporary assignment, you know that.” Too defensive. “Is that what’s gone wrong with us? My job?”
He looked as if she’d committed some unpardonable breach of etiquette. “I’m not sure anything has gone wrong with us,” he said carefully. “I’m trying to stop it before it does. There’s more to the world than the Lower East Side. Come back.”
Marian took a deep breath. “I’m sorry if you think I’m not paying enough attention to you. But you know, Brian, I don’t think you’re paying enough attention to me.”
They stared at each other without speaking while the busboy cleared the dishes and the waiter brought their dessert. Marian didn’t even look at the gingered figs in cream she’d ordered. When they were alone again, Brian said, “I don’t suppose you want to come home with me tonight, do you?”
“Well, it’s hard to resist an invitation like that, but I think I will anyway.” Suddenly she’d had enough of the hurtful game. “Why do you do that? Word invitations in a way that makes it impossible for me to accept? Why not just not ask?”
“My wording offends you? Oh, I do apologize. From now on you must tell me exactly how to say things.” Brian was ignoring his dessert too.
“You do it to me constantly—this isn’t the first time.” Marian put her napkin on the table. “Brian, I’m going to leave before I say something outrageous. Have you noticed how often we’ve been parting on an unpleasant note lately? Of course you have. I suspect you want it that way. Setting that Bergstrom trap for me—sometimes it seems you’re deliberately provoking a scene. Is that what you want?”
“What do you want?”
“I want to leave.”
He picked up a spoon. “But I haven’t finished my dessert.”
“Then finish it.” She got up and charged angrily across the room, ignoring the raised eyebrows of the other diners. She felt used, set up, tricked. Maybe she wouldn’t be so angry if she weren’t so tired. Maybe she wouldn’t be so tired if she weren’t so angry.
Outside, in a voice not to be argued with, she ordered the patronizing doorman to get her a taxi. He gauged the extent of her anger and hastened to comply. Marian paced up and down impatiently as cab after cab passed the signaling doorman; finally one stopped. She climbed in.
“Have a nice day,” the doorman smirked.
3
S
he woke up the following morning thinking of the woman who’d started killing off her children one by one when she realized she couldn’t feed them. What had Mrs. Alvarez felt when she pushed young Felipe out the window? Relief, or remorse? Both? Marian stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. She had a black eye.
Saturday wasn’t one of Marian’s work days, but she was on standby this weekend. That meant she had to carry a pager with her when she went out, one more thing to load down her handbag. She put in a couple of phone calls, once again ignoring the blinking message light on her machine. First she called the shelter to check on Juanita and Tito. The two children were doing as well as could be expected; a counseling session with a psychologist was scheduled for that afternoon. The social worker asked if a date had been set for Juanita to appear in Juvenile Court. Marian said she didn’t know; she hadn’t talked to the DA’s office yet. She wasn’t at all happy about seeing Juanita and Tito go into the city’s foster care program. They’d be better off than with their own mother, but only marginally.
Next she called the precinct house to see how the interrogation of the Queens was going; Marian herself had put in a couple of wasted hours the day before, trying to get Carmen to talk. But that was before she’d discovered the reason for the killing and called it in. Juanita’s story made all the difference; now the youngest Queen had broken down and admitted her involvement in the group killing. Good police work had done the trick. Bullying killer-children, specialty of the house. The desk sergeant reminded Marian she had standby duty and she snapped at him.
Marian didn’t like anything about the case. Juanita had done the only thing she knew to do to protect herself and her brother. Yet she could very well spend time in a juvie detention center; an uncompromising prosecutor might argue that the girl hadn’t tried hard enough to get police assistance. And Marian didn’t like condemning the Queens for this particular crime; if any woman deserved to be punished, it was Mrs. Alvarez. Yet the Queens couldn’t be allowed to set themselves up as the law, meting out justice whenever and however they saw fit; those young female thugs were hardly qualified to make life-and-death judgments. What if Juanita had lied to them? They’d have killed an innocent woman. As far as that went, what if they all—Queens and police alike—had simply been taken in by a very clever and quite conscienceless twelve-year-old girl?
