Chinatown Angel

by A. E. Roman

  “Everything is fine.”

  NINETEEN

  I was in bed with Officer Samantha Rodriguez (off duty), who told me that the mother-of-pearl-handled gun in Chinatown was registered legally to Tiffany Rivera. Apparently, Irving had keys to both her new and former apartment at the Arcadia West. He said he had “borrowed” Tiffany’s gun two months ago to commit the murder of Benjamin Rivera. Police were still investigating his confession. I had officially turned in my resignation at the HMD mail room. Meanwhile, Irving sat in Rikers. Murder charges pending.

  I picked up Irving’s stories, glanced at them, then stared at the wall.

  “What’re you thinking about?” Samantha asked.

  “The third story in Irving’s Trilogy of Terror.”

  “That story again?”

  “It’s not just a story,” I said. “It’s a trilogy. That means there’s one more out there. And they’re not just stories.”

  “Why are we here?” she asked, covering her nakedness with my bedsheet.

  “I’m going to start my own detective agency. I’m working on my ties to the law.”

  “We could’ve just had coffee, you know?”

  “I’m trying to cut back.”

  I only felt a little guilty about Samantha. After some José Cuervo and serious acrobatics of the flesh, she was there beside me in bed naked. Her, trying to tell me about growing up in Mexico, of her dream of owning a small house in Astoria one day, filled with children, and starting her own clothing store in Forest Hills. Me, thinking about Ramona, talking about Pilar Menendez and Irving Goldberg Jones. I studied the “Chinatown Angel” story as the radio played music on La Mega.

  “Stupid kid.”

  “Que?”

  “Irving Goldberg Jones,” I said. “The Trilogy stories are real. How real is the only question.”

  “How do you know he didn’t just make them up?”

  “The kid has no imagination,” I said. “His own father said so. He’s a pacifist with magic rocks in his pocket. I don’t think he’s capable of murder. And his old man said he only writes about things that happen to him or stuff that people tell him. But why write down a murder? Why take that chance?”

  “Some men enjoy playing with fire,” said Samantha. “It makes them feel dangerous.”

  “Benjamin Rivera overdosed two months ago. About the same time that Tiffany Rivera disappeared. And then Irving confesses to killing Benjamin Rivera. Why would Irving kill Benjamin? To play savior? Or to cover something up?”

  “Like what?”

  “That Tiffany killed her uncle Benjamin for molesting her.”

  Samantha took Irving’s “Chinatown Angel” story from me.

  “You ever kill anybody?” I asked.

  “No,” said Samantha, scanning the pages. “You?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “Nasty business.”

  “You want to?”

  “Never,” I said. “You?”

  “Nunca. I pray never. But if I have to.”

  “Sure,” I said. “If you have to.”

  Then Samantha said, after studying Irving’s pages, “This isn’t what a heroin overdose looks like.”

  “What?”

  “This Irving kid described the death in his story as sudden. Heroin overdose is not sudden.”

  “So?”

  “Irving Goldberg Jones didn’t know what a heroin overdose looked like.”

  “Poetic license?” I said.

  “Or maybe he wasn’t there. He just made up the parts they didn’t tell him.”

  I snatched up some pages. “That’s it. Irving got these stories from someone else. He wasn’t there. Someone told him how Benjamin died. Someone told him about Tiffany being molested.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Finding Tiffany again might take forever. I go straight at Olga, that might tick Albert off. Could shut me down. No way Irving is going to talk to me, either. Too soon. Would you think me less of a man if I told you that I didn’t know what to do next?”

  Samantha kissed my mouth and she got up, beautifully naked. She grabbed her little Our Lady of Guadalupe pendant from the top of my dresser and played with her hair.

  “Does this mean we’re gonna get married?” she asked.

  “Do you want to get married?”

  “Maybe when you’re officially divorced, I’ll answer that question.”

  She got dressed and said from the front door, “Call me when you’re finished unpacking your old baggage. We’ll have a proper date.”

  Then she turned and said, “If you really believe that girl Pilar was killed and you still want to go after it, go after it hard and soon before they bury her and that Goldberg kid for a murder he didn’t commit.”

  That same morning I was outside in front of the house, walking the Chihuahua and smoking a cigarette, considering my next move. That damn dog ate good. I bought fresh turkey and chicken slices from the local butcher. Boo. That was the new name I had given him because he was always trembling. He would have that name until I could find someone to take ’im off my hands. After that they could call him Spanky for all I cared.

  I hated Chihuahuas less since Boo had been rooming with me. His eyes looked less angry and more wet and sad and his legs seemed perfect for the size of his poor big head. He had this habit of staring with those deep black peepers when I drank too much beer or chain-smoked while watching TV after midnight as if he was saying, “Take it easy, primo.”

  And he would follow me to the front door every morning, looking up at me very intense and concerned. I could almost hear him say, “Easy does it.”

  And he’d be waiting for me at the door when I got back to Pelham, eyes popping, tail wagging, “Where ya been, esay? Where ya been?”

  We had only had one fight, after a walk in Pelham Park. He came into the basement and started wiping his ass on the carpet, dragging himself across the room by his front paws, ass down, wiping himself clean on my floor. That night he ate dog food. Dry.

  But mostly we got along like white on rice. I’d pop a beer and sit on my bed and tell the dog about my day, how the Rivera case was going, and he’d lie at my side, looking up, listening like he understood English or something.

  Now, I’m not nuts. Not yet. I know Boo don’t understand, but it’s nice anyway, having another warm-blooded creature to come home and spill your guts to, even if he is the devil’s spawn, even if he doesn’t understand English. Some nights he’d whimper a lot and lean into me as I slept and he’d wake me up. But I never got mad on account of I knew he was crying for Pilar and I knew what that was like, to miss somebody in the night.

  Hell, most marriages were worth no more than the relationship I had with that dog. Half were worth even less.

  That’s what I was thinking, standing outside my house with that damn dog, when Salvatore Fiorelli’s red Mustang came speeding down the block. I braced myself as Salvatore came hulking toward me outta the car, holding a ringing cell phone. He handed it to me. I flipped it open, and said, “Yeah?”

  “Terrible. Just terrible what happened in Chinatown.”

  It was Hannibal Rivera the Third.

  “I’m glad you called. I don’t believe Irving Goldberg Jones murdered your brother the way he said.”

  Hannibal Rivera the Third took a long pause. “The police are looking into it, Tiffany is safely at home.”

  “She’s home again?” I asked, surprised.

  “Yes,” said Hannibal Rivera. “Tiffany is home. Her father is ecstatic. Her mother is pleased. Marcos is behaving rationally again. Case closed.”

  “I think Irving Goldberg Jones is innocent. I think your brother’s killer is still out there. I think your brother’s killing is related to the death of Pilar Menendez.”

  Hannibal Rivera hesitated.

  “Mr. Rivera,” I said. “You had two brothers, right?”

  “Yes. Two.”

  “I have one brother,” I said. I thought of Nicky. “Do you love your
brothers, Mr. Rivera?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well,” I said. “If I had two brothers and thought someone killed one of them, I wouldn’t be able to simply forget about it, because I had one left.”

  “Some investments,” said Hannibal Rivera, “will only procure diminishing returns. A smart investor knows when it’s time to divest. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  I didn’t answer. “Your silence is making me nervous, Mr. Santana.”

  I glanced at Salvatore Fiorelli, who waited impatiently for the cell phone. “I doubt it.”

  “The next thing you’ll be asking me is where I was the night of my brother’s death.”

  “Where were you the night of your brother’s death?”

  Mr. Hannibal Rivera forced a mechanical laugh, “I was at my club in Old Westbury, eating steak, after a long hard day of golf. You can call if you’d like. It’s over, Chico. Mr. Fiorelli has been instructed to give you a check. That should wrap things up between us.”

  “What about Marcos?”

  “I want you to forget about Marcos,” he said. “Let the police investigate Benjamin’s death and that unfortunate incident in Chinatown. You call Marcos and say your final goodbyes.”

  “What should I tell ’im?” I said.

  “Tiffany is back home. He no longer needs your services.”

  “He’s gonna miss me,” I said. “I’m real good company.”

  “Tell him you have cramps, gout, diarrhea. I don’t give a damn, sir, what you tell him. It’s time to go back to your life and forget the name Rivera, Chico. Spend your money wisely and never let my name, my family name, or the name of my son drop from your lips again. Our business is done.”

  “Mr. Rivera? What about the VHS cassette?”

  There was a dial tone. He had hung up.

  I looked at Salvatore. “Good luck, chief,” he said and handed me a white envelope. He walked away toward the Mustang, motor running, waiting. After he drove off, I opened up the fat envelope from Hannibal Rivera III. It contained more cash: seventy-five thousand dollars.

  TWENTY

  I was treating myself to one last greasy meal at Mimi’s Cuchifrito. I had enough money to live comfortably with Ramona until I found a new career. And for a minute there, I felt free. It wouldn’t last.

  Screw it. Maybe it would last.

  I could retire for good from St. James and Company, forget about the Kirk Atlas case and the idea that Pilar was pushed and Irving was innocent, and most of all get Ramona back. I mean, Irving was emotionally unstable and Pilar was suicidal. Everybody said so. I had nothing that said otherwise. Nothing solid. Nothing that points or convicts. Right? Chico Santana and Company. I could change. I could get out. I could start my own thing, a new thing that included more sleep, no smoking, no drinking, no women except for my wife, and better eating habits, since I could now afford better food. That’s what I was thinking when I took out my cell phone and dialed.

  Someone picked up and groaned, “Don’t you bring me no bad news.”

  Nicky Brown. I only called Nicky when my back was against it. Irving was in Rikers Island prison and refused to see me. Atlas wasn’t returning my calls. Even Albert wasn’t returning my calls and when he finally did once all he wanted to talk about was how much trouble Atlas was giving him on Doomsday and the next time we were gonna do a walkabout. When, Albert? Soon, Chico. I’ll call you back. But he didn’t want to talk about Tiffany or Pilar or Irving or Benjamin and please, please, please, stay away from Olga. It was over. Tiffany was home. Benjamin Rivera’s killer was caught. Pilar Menendez was a suicide. The case was over, Chico. It’s done. Dropped. Finito. I accepted it. I was out but I had an itch in the back of my brain that needed scratching. Nicky was a natural-born scratcher.

  “How are you, brother?”

  “Guess what?” said Nicky. “I’m getting married.”

  “What?”

  “Long story long,” said Nicky. “I was eatin’ every day at this little bar in Madrid. It was this tiny place where I drank beer—Señor Pacheco’s. Señor Pacheco told me there was this American girl who could get me cheap rail tickets to Barcelona. She ran a little travel agency outta her apartment. So I went to see her. She was a reddish brown black girl. I just stood there and looked at her and she looked back at me, not mean but real confident. After I bought my ticket she starts talking to me about the difference between being black in Europe and being black in America and about her favorite architect—Gaudi. We just keep talkin’ and talkin’. She tells me her old man’s a cop in Arizona. I tell her I’m from the Bronx and she tells me she has a grandfather in the Bronx. Next day, I’m still there. Next thing I know, she closes shop, we’re off to Barcelona together, staying in a pension, just a room across from a Catholic church, taking pictures of all the Gaudi buildings in town. After a while it’s like we’ve known each other forever. We’d sit in the plaza and drink coffee with the street musicians or out by the bay watching the boats, drinking wine. It got to the point I thought I’d never get back to America. She had this dog she found with a curled tail, called it Desperado. We took it everywhere. She’s like Ramona, man, she understands Italian and Spanish and she’s reading me passages from this novel called The Leopard. In Italian. Her last name is Johnson, some of her people are supposedly black Cherokees from Oklahoma and North Carolina and Mississippi. And she might even be related to Robert Johnson, who you know sings my favorite blues song of all time—“Rambling.” Her name is Willow M. Johnson. Get this, the M is for Mankiller. It’s her Indian name, baby. Her mama gave it to her. Mankiller. And don’t talk to her about the Lone Ranger or you gonna go seven days and seven nights without sleep.”

  Nicky laughed loud and deep as only Nicky Brown could. “Where are you, anyway?”

  “The gym,” I said.

  “How is Mimi?”

  Mimi set down a plate of bacalaito and poured me a cup of that cold sweet coco. I could almost feel the fried and battered codfish sitting like a salty stone in a chamber of my greedy heart.

  “She’s good,” I said. “I won’t tell her it’s you or she’ll snatch the phone.”

  “Who is it?” said Mimi.

  “Cable company.”

  Mimi frowned. She knew I was lying.

  “You know me, Chico,” Nicky continued. “I’m a wanderer. But get this, Willow’s grandfather died, and he left her that apartment, a co-op, in, of all places, Parkchester in the Bronx. These Johnsons are everywhere, man, Arkansas, Chicago, New York, Los Angeles, Detroit. I told her all about you and how we grew up in the Bronx. Don’t let anybody tell you it’s not a small world. And for some reason, Chico, we got to talking about the possibility of moving in together, me getting a real job, and her teaching in the public schools. Chico, I don’t know why, and it still sounds crazy when I say it, but I asked her to marry me. It’s insane. I know. I don’t know why.”

  “I know why,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “You’re in love, you idiot.”

  “Can you believe it,” Nicky laughed. “I’m getting married, Chico! Nicky Brown is settlin’ down.”

  “Congratulations. I’m happy for you, bro. I really am.”

  Nicky was the coolest man I had ever known. He traced his cool back to two facts: he loved people and he never wanted what he didn’t have. He just loved learning and traveling. And he was mysterious, too. He would call me from Yemen one month and six months later from Zaire and he would never quite tell me how he got the money for all the traveling he did, odd jobs here and there was all he’d cop to, and soon I stopped asking. Mysterious. But now, I heard it in his voice. He was just like the rest of us mortals. Nicky Brown wanted something. And I wondered if that would change him.

  “How’s Mona?” he asked.

  “Don’t ask.”

  “How’s Mona?”

  “I might be getting her back,” I said. “Maybe.”

  “Hey, man! Good for you.”

  “Come on,” I said. “You said
she had me whipped. Bossing me around. Telling me what to do. How to live. How to be. Her rules. Her way. When she tossed me out you said ‘Good for you! You’re free.’”

  “Yeah,” said Nicky. “But you don’t wanna be free.”

  I swigged my coco and washed the taste of Ramona’s memory down. “I need to talk about this case I was working on.”

  “What’s up?”

  “A client gave me seventy-five thousand dollars to drop it.”

  “That’s good money,” Nicky said. “Brother gotta eat.”

  “All I know for sure is a girl fell off a roof in Astoria and she wasn’t alone when it happened. Anyway, nobody’s interested and I’ve got some money to make a new start with Ramona. I shouldn’t even be talking to you. I should be opening up a checking account.”

  “Money’s important,” Nicky said.

  “Money’s important,” I repeated.

  “And if there is a killer on the loose,” Nicky said, “and nobody cares, what can you do about it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How you sleeping at night?”

  “I don’t sleep at night.”

  “Exactly,” Nicky said. “You did your best and maybe now it’s time to walk with the cash and get some sleep and let Chico do Chico.”

  “I have thousands of reasons that say walk.”

  “What more do you need?”

  “I live in New York, one of the most expensive cities in the world. I could fight.”

  “You could fight and continue your investigation and waste months, maybe years, that you could use to get Ramona back. So why even think about fighting? Deposit the cash and walk away. What’s the problem?”

  “Two people are dead and one possibly innocent kid’s in prison.”

  Nicky cleared his throat, “Are you getting mushy in your old age?”

  “A rich guy named Benjamin Rivera died of an overdose two months ago. His niece Tiffany runs away. I’m hired by this cat calls himself Kirk Atlas through Albert Garcia. You remember Albert, from St. Mary’s.”