Crooked Numbers

by Tim O'Mara

  “A gang leader?” he filled in for me, with the serious tone of a bad newscaster.

  “Yeah,” I said. “You don’t fit the type.”

  Tio smiled again, took one more bite of his omelet, and pushed his plate away. It was a good half-minute before he spoke.

  “I grew up ’round here. Coupla blocks away. My dad did the restaurant thing in Manhattan and my mom was part-time home health care. I was ten when they split. Legally separated. Just like the white folks do it in the burbs. No big deal. Lived with Mom during the week and Dad on the weekends, but ’cause he worked as a cook, I didn’t see him too much. Weekend was my time to be a street kid, hang out late, run around with the wannabe bangers, know what I mean?”

  I nodded. “Until your mom figured it out.”

  “Got that right. No more Saturdays bouncing ’round The Burg, no more Monday mornings always being late and dragging my tired ass to school. Got me back on track, she did. But not before I saw the need.” He pointed toward the front door of the pizza place. “Kids out there that shouldn’t be, y’know? Running nowhere fast, my moms would say. Soon’s I could, I dropped out, got my GED, and started making some real moves of my own to earn some green.”

  “Restaurant gigs?” I guessed out loud.

  “Dishwasher, busboy, line cook. You name it. Always worked the daytime shift. Made sure I kept my nights free, though, so I could fill the need I saw.” He sat back. “Ever read Dickens?”

  I leaned forward. “Excuse me?”

  “Charlie Dickens, Teacher Man. Great Expectations? Oliver Twist?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’ve read him.”

  “Last book I checked out before droppin’ out. Thought it’d be cool to be like Fagin, y’know? Buncha kids following me around, doing my shit, learning from me.”

  “Stealing and dealing?”

  Tio spread his hands out. “I ain’t saying. But I tell my kids to get their asses home by ten and stay in school and respect the folks you got putting food on your table.”

  “What does your mom think of all this … Dickens stuff?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, his eyes locked on mine. “She died four years ago. Got stuck by a needle shouldn’ta been where it was.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Is what it is.”

  I finished up the last of my coffee and piled fork, knife, and napkin on top of the plate. As if on cue, Boo came out and cleared the table. He didn’t ask if I wanted more coffee, and I took that as a cue it might be time to leave.

  “So,” I said. “Dougie Lee?”

  Tio stroked his mustache again. “Name don’t ring a bell.”

  “Any idea why someone would want to point the cops in your direction?”

  “A couple,” he said. “But that’s Family business.”

  “And you don’t discuss Family business outside the Family.”

  “Man’s nothing without some rules.”

  “I understand,” I said, feeling like a bit player in The Godfather. I grabbed the newspaper and slid out of the booth. Tio didn’t move to get up, so I stuck out my hand. “Again, I appreciate the meet, Tio. I know you didn’t have to agree to this.”

  “We all do things we don’t hafta every once in a while,” he said, looking at the newspaper in my hand while shaking my other one. “Got a feeling you know that.”

  “Life’s like that sometimes,” I said. “I’ll see ya around, maybe.”

  “Maybe. By the way, the owner of this place?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You looking at him.”

  I smiled and nodded. “Cool.”

  “Yeah,” Tio the gang leader said. “It is.”

  *

  I was a few blocks from the subway station, wondering what to do with the rest of my Saturday, when I realized I was being followed. I normally wouldn’t have noticed, but after seeing black-and-gold jerseys this morning, it was hard to miss the two behind me, one on my side of the street and one on the other. Maybe Tio wanted to make sure I wasn’t going straight to the cops with what little info I’d gotten from our meeting. I was about to turn around and say something, when I noticed another black-and-gold heading my way. The one coming at me was wearing a matching baseball cap and speaking on a cell phone. When we were about half a block from each other, I saw she was female. Asian-looking. She ended her call, stopped walking, and waited for me to get closer.

  I stopped a few feet in front of her and said, “Tell Tio I’m just going home. And thanks again for breakfast.”

  She sucked her teeth. “Don’t give a shit about breakfast,” she said. “You need to come for a walk wit’ us.”

  I felt the other two moving in behind me and I turned around. Two more girls, both Hispanic. They spread out so I was in the middle of a triangle.

  “I’m going home,” I repeated, and tried to move past the one with the cell phone. She stepped in front of me, and the other two closed in from behind.

  “You wanna get stomped, Mister Man?” the one in front asked. I could see now she was Hispanic, not Asian. “Right here on the avenue? By a buncha girls?”

  “Not if I can help it,” I said, trying to figure a way out of this. Before I could come up with something, a van pulled up alongside us. The windows were tinted, so I couldn’t see inside.

  “Then you either let us walk you to the subway, or”—she gestured with her thumb toward the van—“you go for a ride.”

  I considered my options and knew from experience nothing good would come from me getting in the van. I thought about running, but with my fucking knees, and three young girls and a van chasing me, I didn’t think I’d get too far.

  “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to have you all walk me to the train,” I said.

  “Yeah,” the girl said. “And it might hurt if ya didn’t.” She linked her arm through mine as if we were a couple. “Let’s go.”

  And we did: the two of us arm-in-arm, the other girls staying a couple of steps back. The van followed along slowly, a block away.

  “So,” she said, “what’d you and Tio conversate about?”

  “Why don’t you ask him?” I said, and she dug her nails into my wrist. “Jesus!” I pulled my arm away.

  “You want me to ask you again?”

  “Not if you’re going to ask like that,” I said, looking at the red crescents forming on my wrist. “I asked him if he knew an old student of mine.”

  “Kid who got hisself killed on the tennis courts?”

  “Yeah.”

  She smiled. Without the toughness, she might have been pretty. “We seen you over there yesterday. But you ain’t no cop. Why you all up in this business?”

  “I promised someone I’d look into it for her.”

  She seemed to consider that for a bit and then nodded. “What Tio tell you?”

  “He didn’t know Dougie.”

  She grabbed my arm again and tightened her grip. “Anything else?”

  “It was my only question.”

  “Long meeting for one answer.”

  “I got invited to stay for breakfast.”

  She nodded again, understanding. “Then we shouldn’t be seeing you over on the other side of the bridge no more, right? Or having no more brunches with Tio?”

  “I don’t know why you would.” Those were almost the exact words I’d said to Dennis Murcer the day before.

  She loosened her grip a little, ran her fingertips over the area she’d just dug her nails into. “That wasn’t so bad now, was it, Mister Man?” Her voice was lower now, trying for seductive.

  “Could’ve been worse, I guess.”

  “Yeah,” she agreed. “Coulda been a lot worse.” We were a half a block away from the subway. She woke up her cell phone, punched a number, and said something in Spanish. She spoke too fast for me to understand it. After she ended her call, the van pulled over in front of us, and the side door slid open. “You sure you don’t want a ride? Getcha home real quick.”

  “No,” I said. “I�
�m good.”

  “Whatever,” she said, and slid into the van, taking a seat in the front as the other two climbed in the side. The van took off, speeding through a yellow light. I pulled out my cell and found Junior’s number.

  “What’s up?” he said. “How’d it go with Tio?”

  “Good,” I said. “Thanks again for hooking me up. Any idea why I was just accosted by a group of girls wearing Family jerseys?”

  A brief pause. “Ah shit, Mr. D. What’d they look like?”

  “Three girls,” I said. “Hispanic. Another one in a van. The one who did all the talking looked kind of Asian. Almost pretty, but a bit quick with the nails.” I waited for a response. After ten seconds, I said, “Junior? You still there?”

  “These jerseys,” he said. “Same as Tio’s?”

  “Black and gold, yeah.”

  “Even numbers?”

  “I don’t remember, Junior. What the hell does—?”

  “Tio’s boys,” he said. “They all sport odd numbers.”

  He was right. I wasn’t paying much attention at the time, but now I recalled the girls all had even numbers on their shirts.

  “Sounds like it was probably China,” he said.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “China,” he repeated. “Chee Nah.”

  “Okay. Who’s China?”

  A longer pause. This time I waited. “Ahh, Mr. D,” he finally said. “I told you, I don’t like talking ’bout Family business.”

  “Come on, Junior. The girl threatened to toss me in the back of a van and practically drew blood from my wrist. The least you can tell me is who the hell she is.”

  Again, I waited. Junior was probably wishing I’d never called him.

  “She’s Tio’s cousin,” Junior said. “She’s from the other side.”

  The other side? “What? She’s a vampire?”

  That got a laugh. “Other side of the bridge, Mr. D. She kinda runs things over there. I don’t know how much she and Tio talk these days.”

  “Not too much, I’d guess. She pretty much told me she’d been watching me the last two days but didn’t know why I was talking with Tio.”

  “And you told her?”

  “Yeah, I told her. It was either that or risk the nails again.”

  “Sorry, man. I’m gonna give Tio a call and let him know.”

  “Whatever,” I said. “Thanks again, Junior. Tio said he didn’t know Dougie. His mom’ll be glad to hear that.”

  “All good, then,” Junior said. “See ya ’round, Mr. D. Stay cool.”

  “I’ll do my best. You, too, Junior.”

  I was about to go down to the subway but decided to walk the rest of the way home. I needed the air.

  *

  I got back home about twenty minutes later. A large man wearing a trench coat, standing with his back to me, was waiting in front of my apartment. He held a rolled-up newspaper and tapped his leg with it. His other hand was up by his face, and then a plume of smoke rose above his head. Oh, boy. What the hell was he doing here?

  “Uncle Ray?” I said.

  He turned to face me and grinned. He spread his arms out and said, “My nephew. The famous Raymond Donne.”

  I stepped into his arms, and we gave each other a hug. He patted me on the back a few times, and I knew I’d be feeling that spot for the next hour.

  “Why are you here?” I asked after we broke the embrace.

  He held up the newspaper. “Had to swing by and congratulate you on your appearance in one of our fine city’s respected papers of record. What’s this? Something you do every eighteen months or so?” He stuck his cigar in his mouth, opened the paper, found the page he was looking for, and folded it over. “There you are, Raymond. Your mother must be so proud.”

  “I haven’t spoken to her yet,” I said.

  “Well…” He folded the paper back the way it had been and handed it to me. “I see you’ve got your own, but take mine, too. For your scrapbook.”

  “Thanks.” I took the paper and put it under my arm with the copy Tio had given me. “You came all the way to Greenpoint just to give me a newspaper?” I asked, both of us knowing the answer to that question.

  “Actually,” he said, then took a long drag from his cigar and let out a smooth stream of smoke. “Having lunch at Peter Luger’s this afternoon. Bunch of us from the academy—those of us still alive and not in Florida—still keep in touch, try to get together once a year before the holidays. Reminisce, shoot the shit, you know.”

  I smiled. “That’s cool.”

  He pointed to the newspapers. “Seems like you’ve been taking a little stroll down memory lane yourself, Nephew.”

  “Yeah. I ran into Dennis Murcer yesterday. The reporter covering my kid’s—”

  “I read the paper, Raymond.” He looked at the tip of his cigar and blew off the one-inch layer of ash. Eyes back on me, he said, “Had the weird feeling of déjà vu after reading that story. Made me very uncomfortable.”

  “And why’s that?”

  He grinned. “A year and a half ago, Raymond. Didn’t we have this very conversation a year and a half ago?”

  I considered that for a while. “Absolutely, Uncle Ray. This has nothing to do with that, though. This was just me—”

  “Sticking your nose into police business.”

  “Keeping Douglas Lee’s story in the papers for another day or two.”

  “Raymond,” he said, still grinning. “Don’t bullshit the man who taught you how to bullshit. It’s insulting.”

  “Uncle Ray, all I wanted to do was get the reporter to do another piece on Dougie. I had no idea Dennis was the detective in charge. Even if I had, it wouldn’t have mattered. I’m glad he caught the case. He’s a good cop.”

  “Damn straight he is,” said the man who had the most invested in that idea. “So your involvement in this case is over?”

  “My involvement in this case is over,” I said, knowing my uncle liked to have his exact words repeated back to him to make sure I got it.

  He dropped his cigar to the ground, stepped on it, then kicked it into the gutter. “Good,” he said. “Because I have no desire to go through what we went through the last time.”

  “I have no intention of that happening either, Uncle Ray.”

  He let out a big laugh. “The road to Hell, Raymond. I believe you had no intention the last time, as well.” He held up his hand, anticipating my next words. “I know. This time is different.”

  “It is,” I said.

  He looked me in the eyes for a few seconds. “Okay,” he said. “We going to see you and Rachel for Christmas dinner?”

  No one changes a topic faster than Uncle Ray. “That’s the plan,” I said.

  “Good.” He stepped over and pulled me into another hug. “Your mom’s gonna be there. And Reeny’s brother, Max.”

  Reeny was my uncle’s second wife, and her single brother was always invited to family functions—I think with the intention of him and my mom getting together. Not only was this never going to happen, I had the strong feeling Max was gay. An issue never discussed at Raymond and Reeny Donne’s very Catholic kitchen table.

  “I’m there,” I said.

  “Outstanding,” my uncle said. He motioned with his head up the block at a black town car illegally double parked, and said, “There’s my ride. Don’t wanna keep the boys—or my steak—waiting. Stay in touch, Nephew.”

  “I will, Uncle Ray. Thanks for the extra copy.”

  *

  When I got upstairs, I threw the papers on the couch, and went to the kitchen. I needed something hot to drink and started up the coffee machine. It probably wouldn’t be as good as Boo’s, but it’d have to do. My kitchen is almost all windows, and they provide me with an outstanding view of the Manhattan skyline. A mess of gray and white clouds was coming in over the buildings from Jersey, and I remembered the guy on the radio this morning saying we were probably in for some flurries.

  I took two steps back from the
counter and got into a runner’s stretch position. My knees were starting to feel the walk home in the cold. A hot shower would help, but I knew I needed to get my ass—and my knees—over to Muscles’s and do some real rehab. It had been over a year since I’d last had to use my umbrella as a cane. If I didn’t keep ahead of it, I knew I was going to be right back where I had started.

  When the coffee was done, I took a cup into the living room to check out the paper. I was about to open it, when I noticed the message light blinking on the phone. The number next to the light blinked, “9.” Uncle Ray wasn’t the only one to read about me this morning. I took a sip of coffee and pressed the PLAY button.

  Ten minutes later, I had listened to messages from my mother, my sister Rachel, Edgar, a few others from The LineUp, Uncle Ray, and Elaine Stiles, the school counselor. Edgar thought the article and picture made me look “cool.” My mom was proud and had already bought out all the papers in her neighborhood. Only Elaine and Rachel asked me how I was feeling. Good question.

  I opened the paper and turned to the article. It was a half page—Saturdays are slow news days in the big city—and the picture of me looking down at where Dougie’s body had been found took up a chunk of that. Allison had done a good job recapping the story, connecting me to Dougie, and commenting on how the cops were conducting a thorough investigation. All in all, exactly what I had hoped for. I grabbed my cell phone off the coffee table, scrolled down to Allison’s number, and dialed.

  “Hello, hero,” she said.

  “Don’t start. I just called to say thank you.”

  “I was about to do the same, Ray. Really. My bosses loved the piece, and they promised to let me get at least one more in. How about Dougie’s mom? She happy with the way we handled it?”

  “She’s my next call,” I said.

  Pause. “You called me first?”

  “To say thanks.”

  “Okay.” She cleared her throat. “Hey. What are you doing tonight?”

  In a day full of surprises, here was another one. “I’m not sure,” I said. “I guess I don’t really have any plans.” Great, Ray. You don’t sound too much like a loser.

  “Well, now you do,” Allison said. “You know the new club on Metropolitan Avenue? Used to be a kosher deli or Laundromat or something?”