by Tim O'Mara
She picked up after two rings. “Allison Rogers.”
“Allison,” I said. “Raymond Donne. I called earlier.”
“I was just getting ready to call you back. How long have you been reading minds, Mr. Donne?”
“It’s Raymond or Ray,” I said. “What are you talking about?”
“I just got out of an editorial meeting with my bosses,” she explained. “They made it quite clear that if I don’t get something new on this Douglas Lee piece, I’m on to writing about the living conditions of the animal acts at the circus over by Lincoln Center. Then, I get your message.” She paused. “I remembered you worked over in The Burg, but, Christ. Douglas was one of yours, huh?”
“Yeah. Graduated a few years ago. With Frankie Rivas,” I added, hoping she’d pick up on my angle.
“Right,” she said. “I have to say, Mr.—Raymond—you just might be saving my ass here. The idea of a teacher’s take on the case, and what with your history.… Let’s just say it beats the hell out of smelling horse shit and carnies for the next few days.”
“Glad I could help.”
“How’s four o’clock look for you?”
“Today, four o’clock?”
“Raymond,” she said as if talking to an eight-year-old, “this story’s dead—sorry, bad choice of words—by tomorrow if I don’t get something tight to my editor by eight tonight. So, yes. Today, four o’clock. At the crime scene.”
“Does it have to be there?”
“I’ll need some art. A photo of the hero schoolteacher at the site of a student’s brutal murder? No offense, but that shit’s gonna fly.” Before I could say anything, she said, “I know. I sound heartless and cold. Talk to my ex. But your take on the victim, plus a picture of you looking all sad and pensive, places Douglas’s murder squarely on page four. Let’s see the cops ignore that, Raymond.”
Now who’s the mind reader? “Four o’clock is great, Allison.”
“I’ll see you there. Be on time. I don’t wanna lose that light.”
*
Less than five minutes later, I was in the main office going through old yearbooks, trying to get a last name to go with “Junior.” The process reminded me a little too much of when I used to go through mug-shot books as a cop. After ten minutes, I found the photo and name I was looking for. Junior Alvarez graduated three years ago. Under his picture, where it said “Future Aspirations,” it read “Businessman.” That’s what it always said when the kid didn’t fill out the questionnaire the yearbook advisor sent out.
I went over to the file cabinet where we kept the old contact cards filed by year. School policy used to require us to hang on to them for three years. I hoped that was still the case. It was, and Junior Alvarez did indeed live close to the school. Two blocks away. At least that’s where he lived three years ago. I copied down the address, along with the number listed for his home and his mother’s cell. Then I put the card back.
On the way back to my office, I took out my cell phone. This wasn’t exactly school business, and I didn’t want anyone in the main office overhearing my conversation. I dialed the home number, and after five rings I was outside my room, listening to a computerized voice tell me I had dialed the right number and to leave a message at the beep.
“Hello,” I said. “This is Raymond Donne from the middle school. I’m looking for Junior Alvarez. If this is the right number, please have him give me a call back at—”
“Mr. Donne?”
“Yes. Is this Junior?” It shouldn’t be. Junior should be in school.
“Yeah,” he said. “What’s up? Emily okay?”
“Emily?” I asked as I unlocked my office and stepped inside.
“My cousin,” he said. “She goes to the school now, and her moms put my moms down as an emergency number. What’s up? She okay?”
“No. I mean, yeah. She’s fine.” As far as I knew she was fine. “I’m calling about something else.”
“Emily’s okay, though?”
“Yeah, Junior. Everything’s fine. I called to talk to you.”
He waited a few seconds. “Me? What do you wanna talk to me about?”
“Your cousin,” I said, then realized I probably sounded like a crazy person. “Your other cousin. Tio.”
Silence again. Then, “I don’t talk much about Tio, Mr. D.”
“I understand, Junior,” I said. “And I know you and I didn’t have a lot to do with each other when you were here, but…” I decided to go with the truth. “One of my kids was killed the other day under the bridge. Dougie Lee?”
“Yeah,” Junior said. “I heard about that. What’s that got to do with Tio?”
“That’s what I want to find out. The cops found some beads and a few bags of pot on Dougie, and they’re making some noise it might be gang-related.”
“They mention Tio?”
“They mentioned the Royal Family.”
“Shit.” He paused again. “You know where I live?”
“You still at the same address?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Whyn’t you come over?”
“I don’t know, Junior, I’m kinda swamped here, and I don’t want to impose.”
“No worries, man. My moms went crazy with the food. We can eat some lunch. It’s cool. Half hour, okay?”
I looked at my watch, and it was almost one. “I guess I can do lunch.”
“I just remembered something, Mr. D.”
“What’s that, Junior?”
“Back in eighth grade. The time I punched the kid in the playground.”
I remembered. Alex Something. He’d been bothering Junior’s girlfriend and Junior wanted him to stop. I was on afterschool yard duty and saw the whole thing. One good old-fashioned punch in the nose. “What about it?”
“How come you didn’t get me suspended?”
“Because Alex deserved it. And you made your point.” No cheap shots, no weapons, no threats. “I also remember you helping him off the ground, Junior.”
“Yeah,” he said, reminiscing. Good times. “See you in thirty, Mr. D. Peace.”
After he hung up, I spent some time in the office putting some papers away and closing out my computer for the day. Then I walked around the halls, checking the bathrooms and staircases for any unauthorized extracurricular activities. All quiet. I headed down to the boss’ office to let him know I’d be leaving early. I found Ron Thomas, the principal, as I always did: in front of his computer.
“Everything’s okay, I hope,” he said.
“Yeah. Got a few things to do before heading out to the Island for the weekend.”
“Good, good.” He stood up from behind his desk and stretched. “What was Angel Rosario’s father doing here?”
I was surprised he knew who Angel Rosario was.
“Angel’s been having some trouble with some kids at the bus stop. By home,” I emphasized, knowing Ron hated when trouble got too close to his school. “Just wanted to make sure none of the kids were ours.”
“And…”
“They’re not.”
“Good.” He sat down again to stare at his computer screen. “Have a good one, Raymond.”
“You, too, Ron.”
I left his office, then headed over to Junior’s for lunch to get some information on a gang leader who may or may not have been involved in Dougie’s murder.
Chapter 3
I DIDN’T REALIZE HOW HUNGRY I was until the front door to Junior’s building buzzed open and I stepped inside. The aromas of meat and garlic and spices filled the hallways. It was like walking into the middle of a cooking competition, and if Junior’s mother had indeed gone “crazy with the food again,” I was in for enough of that to last me until tomorrow morning.
By the time I got to the second floor, Junior was already standing in the doorway to his apartment. He was a few inches taller than I remembered, and his upper lip was sporting a bit of brown hair I’m sure he called a mustache. His right arm was in a sling.
“Yo,
Mr. D,” he said, offering me his left hand. “What’s the haps?”
I looked at his wounded arm. “I should be asking you.”
“Ah, this?” He stepped aside to let me in. The smell of food grew stronger, and so did my hunger. “You remember that chick from school? Gladys?”
I thought back a few years ago. We may have had a lot of Juniors, but I could recall only one Gladys. “Big girl?” I said. “Dyed her hair blond? Socially awkward?”
“Yo,” Junior said. “You bein’ kind. She was fat and crazy, and she’s even fatter and nuttier now. She’s like a Snickers bar on steroids.”
The kid knew how to drop a simile. “What about her?”
“We was all hanging out a couple a weeks ago, at McCarren. Playing handball, bustin’ each other’s balls, shit like that.” He closed the door behind me. “Anyways, one of the guys makes a crack about Gladys’s weight and shit, and I guess I laughed the hardest, and she pulls this fucking blade outta nowheres and cuts me right under the armpit.”
“Ouch,” I said.
“Yeah. Doctor says she got a big chunka the muscle and some of the tendon, and I’m gonna be in this sling for a few more weeks.”
“That why you’re not in school?”
He gave me a look like a little kid caught in a lie. “Nah, Mr. D,” he said. “I ain’t been going to school this year. I got a job at the car shop I been working at. I mean a real job, not just sweeping and shit. My boss, he’s training me on the computers and how to do them state inspections. I’m making real money, Mr. D.” He touched his free hand to his chest two times. “Help my moms out around here, y’know?”
As if on cue, and before I could give him the requisite shit about going back to school, his mother stepped into the room. She was wiping her hands with a towel and gave me a big smile.
“Senor Donne,” she said. “Come in. Time to eat.”
Junior took me by the arm. “It’s always time to eat around here.” He patted his stomach. “That’s how she takes care a my arm. She cooks like a crazy woman.”
“I can think of worse ways to heal, Junior,” I said.
“I hear that.”
He took me over to the small table inside the kitchen. I put my jacket over the back of a chair, and the two of us sat down in front of two empty plates. A pitcher of iced tea was in the middle of the table, and Junior poured us both a glass as his mom went over to the stove. Every burner on the stove was occupied. I could make out chicken, beans, rice, and something that looked like yellow potatoes. Within thirty seconds, portions of each filled my plate.
“Eat,” Mrs. Alvarez said.
“Thank you, Senora,” I said. “Are you going to join us?”
“No. You two eat. I eat later.”
Junior put a piece of chicken in his mouth. “I swear. She don’t ever eat until supper. Just drinks her Café Bustelo and cooks or talks on the phone all day.”
His mother hit him with the towel. “You do not worry about me, Junior.”
With that, she left us two men alone at the table. With a lot of food. We ate in silence for a few minutes. Chicken, chorizo, rice, beans, yucca, potatoes. If I ever got my arm cut by some crazy girl with dyed hair, this was where I wanted to do my rehab.
“So,” Junior said, after taking a sip of the tea, “the cops think the Royal Family’s got something to do with the kid why?”
I pushed my plate a few inches away to take a break. “They found beads around his neck. Purple and gold.”
Junior nodded. “Prob’ly a wannabe.”
“Not Dougie,” I said. “He wasn’t the sharpest kid, but I don’t think he’d do something stupid like pretending to be in a gang.”
“Then what?”
“That’s what I’ve been thinking about. One of two things. Someone wanted to distract the police. Get them looking in the wrong direction.”
Junior smirked. “That’s not too hard.”
“Or,” I said, “someone wants to put undue attention on the Royal Family.”
“Why someone wanna do that?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’d like you to ask Tio about it.”
“Tio likes to keep things with the Family on the down low.”
“Maybe he’ll agree to talk to me. Can you get me a sit-down?”
Junior thought about that. Then a smile crossed his face.
“What?” I asked.
“I just remembered something.” He took another bite of sausage before telling me what that was. “Kids used to say you was a cop before coming to the school.”
“That’s because I was.”
“Damn,” Junior said. “You still sound like one.”
“I get that a lot.” I stood up to get my blood flowing. All the food was making me a little tired. “Tell Tio I’ve still got some connections on the force. If he can convince me The Family had nothing to do with Dougie’s murder, maybe I can convince them and help him avoid having to talk to the cops.”
“You can do that?”
“Absolutely,” I said, surprised by how confident I sounded. I looked at my watch. I was going to have to get moving if I was going to get to the Manhattan side of the bridge by four o’clock. “Can you help me out, Junior?”
He stood. “I can try. You got a number I can reach you at?”
I gave him my cell number. “Call me anytime,” I said.
“A’ight, Mr. D. No promises, though. I’ll talk to Tio, but it’s up to him what he does with the info.”
“That’s all I’m asking for. Thanks, Junior.” I grabbed my jacket. “And thank your mom for lunch.”
“Let me go get her,” he said. “She’ll be pissed she doesn’t get to say good-bye.”
I put my jacket on and waited by the front door. Just below the peephole and to the left of three locks, there was a crucifix. You can never have too much security.
“Senor Donne,” Mrs. Alvarez said as she came toward me. “Please, you take some food home for dinner.”
I patted my gut. “I think I already had my dinner, Senora. Thank you.”
We exchanged a quick hug. I stuck out my hand for Junior.
“I’ll call you, Mr. D. Either way.”
“Thanks.”
As he opened up the door, he put his hand on my shoulder. “Be careful.”
I looked at his arm in the sling and said, “You, too.” Then, just to remind us both of the here and now, I added, “And go back to school. Get that diploma.”
“Right,” he said, and shut the door. I looked at my watch again. I had thirty minutes to get to my meeting with Allison Rogers.
Chapter 4
I GOT THERE IN FORTY-FIVE. The walk from the subway to East River Park was longer than I remembered. And I’d picked up a cup of coffee at the last deli before the river.
The air coming off the water somehow smelled better on this side of the bridge. Colder, but fresher. A reminder that maybe winter wasn’t going to be too bad when it officially arrived in a few weeks. When I got to the tennis courts, I saw a woman standing near the fence, her hands deep inside her coat pockets. I hadn’t seen her in a year and a half, but it had to be Allison Rogers. Her blond hair was cut shorter than I remembered, and a pair of striking blue eyes were doing a bad job of hiding behind her librarian eyeglasses. I must have been more stressed out than I thought when we met a year and a half ago to have missed those eyes.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said.
“No worries.” She looked at the cup in my hand. “You didn’t bring two of those by any chance?”
“Sorry.” I held it out to her. “Sugar with half and half. I don’t mind sharing.”
“Thanks.” She took a sip and placed the warm cup against her cheek. “I just got here myself.” She looked around. “Wish I’d thought to bring a hat. Bosses kept me waiting to see if they could get me a photographer.”
“And?”
She handed back my coffee, reached into her pocket, and pulled out a small, but professional-looking, camera. �
��Double duty. Same pay.” She looked up at the sky. “Let’s get a shot of you before we lose this light.”
I looked up. The sun was just about gone, and the little light that remained was sneaking through the buildings and turning the Williamsburg Bridge orange. I followed Allison through the gate and onto the tennis courts as a subway train rumbled by overhead on its way to Brooklyn.
There were three sets of four courts, each set separated by a fence with a little walkway cut out. We took the first walkway. I picked up a slight limp in her walk just before Allison stopped on Court 6 and walked toward the net. There was a piece of black electrical tape on the ground. She pointed to it. “That’s where they found the—where they found Douglas. Maintenance guy called it in right after he opened the courts at seven A.M.”
I knew the courts were supposed to be closed at one A.M., because the sign on the gate said so. That, plus the ME’s report, is how they figured Dougie was killed sometime after one. What the hell brought him out here at that time of the morning?
“If you don’t mind,” Allison said, “stand on the tape and turn toward me. I want a shot with the DOMINO sign in the background.” She had planned this out before I got there. “It’ll help make the connection between Manhattan and Williamsburg.”
I looked over at the old Domino Sugar factory on the other side of the river. “‘Dougie’s Two Worlds,’” I said out loud, imagining the headline.
“Sorry, Ray. It’s cynical, I know, but it works.” She moved about ten feet away from me and looked through the lens. She adjusted the focus and started taking pictures. “Good, good,” she said. “Just like that.”
“Just like what?” I asked, then realized I must have looked sad and pensive. Just what she wanted, without even trying.
I looked at the surface of the tennis court. The normal scuff marks you’d expect—three-to four-inch swooshes—made by the stop-and-go of sneakers. There were other marks, too. A foot or so in length. Tiny skid marks.
“That’s it.” She shut off the camera and put it back in her pocket. From the other pocket, she pulled out a small notebook and a pen. “So, you went to the wake.”
