Chinatown Angel

by A. E. Roman

  Piles of books lined the walls. Outside the window was an endless row of buildings. Snow covered the rooftops.

  I wobbled back to the bed, wrapped the sheet around myself and went toward what looked liked a bathroom door. The door was open. There she was, naked, between the claw-footed tub and the white sink, reaching slowly for a towel. She looked at me, dark, brown, glowing, and unashamed. Ramona Guzman Balaguer.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, covering my eyes.

  “No. I’m sorry. I forgot to lock the door.”

  “Where am I exactly?” I edged out of the bathroom.

  “You’re on 135th street. You’re in my new apartment.”

  “How’d I get here?”

  Ramona threw on a thick robe. “Cómo estás?”

  “I’m fine. Considering.”

  We walked back to the bedroom.

  “What time is it?” I looked around, uneasy.

  Ramona gave me a strange look and asked me to sit down on the bed. I went to the bed and sat, still wrapped in the sheet. I watched her robe ride up her thick brown legs as she sat down on the mattress.

  Ramona put her right hand on my cheek and my forehead, feeling for a fever.

  I said nothing, gave no resistance. I sank back on the pillow, trying to remember, something, anything.

  “And will you have coffee, master?” Ramona said.

  “Yes, Jeannie.”

  It was nice to hear her talk to me, playfully, like the old days when we were married and happy. I missed that. I reached out and kissed the palm of her hand.

  Ramona left and returned with coffee in a blue mug the size of a giant soup bowl. I moved back on the mattress and began to sip. She smiled sadly. “You okay?”

  I shook my head. It hurt like hell.

  Ramona placed her hand on her chest. “Nicky and Willow brought you here. Nicky saying you had no one to turn to, that you needed me, that you needed me to make a man of you.”

  I frowned. She laughed.

  “Don’t worry. Il est fou,” Ramona said. “I know he’s nuts.”

  “What else did Nicky say?”

  “He said that you needed to begin from the beginning. He said that you needed to be in love again.”

  I sipped my coffee.

  “Nicky said I was perfect for you.” She gave me a big smile. “That he was wrong. That you were all mine. He said life is a book and that every relationship was a chapter, and that our chapter isn’t finished.”

  “Sounds like Nicky, all right,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m sorry about that.”

  “No biggie,” Ramona said.

  I looked down at the floor. “Do you have my clothes?”

  Ramona went out, and came back with all my clothes, now clean and almost bloodstain free.

  “You were shot,” she said. “The bullet just grazed you but you fell over and banged your head.”

  During my life, I had been knocked out before, goes with the territory, but twice on one case? Jesus, Santana, you’re getting old. What’s up with those reflexes?

  After I’d been hit, I remembered hearing someone yell. And then gunshots, and a girl screaming—Tiffany—and then wheels screeching and footsteps running away from me and another set running toward me. And then I remember Nicky helped me to my feet and we jumped into my Charger and Willow wanted to drive me to the hospital and call the police. And I had said no. And then we drove to Harlem.

  We arrived at the back of Ramona’s building, opened a gate, walked through a long hall.

  Nicky rang and rang Ramona’s bell. He yelled out, “Ramona!” Then everything went dark again.

  Nicky was on the Willis Avenue Bridge. He had followed me from Mimi’s. He had been watching me and Albert and Tiffany.

  But who was shooting? Whoever it was had been walking toward us all along, slow, hidden by the snow, waiting to make a move. When he saw his chance, he ran at me, shooting. If Nicky and Willow hadn’t followed me, I’d be sleeping with the fishes.

  “Where’s Nicky?”

  “He hasn’t been back since he brought you here,” Ramona said.

  “Where did he go?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She handed me a piece of paper. “Nicky left this for you.”

  It was a note: I got this. Stay with Mona. Nicky.

  “What did he do? Just before he left with Willow, did he call anyone?”

  “Yes. He called a lot of people.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What else?”

  “He put your car keys in your coat pocket.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He took that ‘Fire’ story.”

  I grabbed my shoes.

  “You can’t go. You need rest.”

  “Lives are in danger,” I said, buttoning my shirt.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Chinatown.”

  “You know why you gave up drawing?”

  “Why?” I said, tucking.

  “Because it was foolish. Like my love of reading and writing. But all the good things in life are foolish, Chico.”

  “Why are you bringing that up?”

  “I’m afraid. I’m afraid something terrible will happen to you. You’re not Nicky.”

  “I’m no Nicky Brown. But I ain’t too shabby, once I get angry. Don’t let what happened last night fool you.”

  “That was two nights ago.”

  “Don’t nitpick,” I said. The truth was, my legs hurt, my spine felt like jelly, and there was a Mexican jumping bean on speed bouncing around in my skull.

  I turned and Ramona grabbed me and pressed up on me.

  “Stop, Mr. Ramona. Don’t go.”

  We stood in the middle of the room, and I gazed around me, at the piles of books that lined Ramona’s walls. I looked at my face in a standing mirror; I saw my eye swollen, my lip busted, my nose scratched to hell. It looked like I’d been hit in the face with a steel bridge.

  Ramona touched the hurt on my face. She leaned in and kissed my battered lips. It was a nice kiss, a healing kiss, a kiss that almost made me forget again as I put my hand on her plump bottom and she dropped her robe down boldly around her shoulders and pressed close against me.

  “You’re making this real hard, Madame Chico.”

  “I could make it even harder, Monsieur Ramona.”

  “If I stay somebody might die.”

  Ramona covered herself with her robe and kissed my face.

  “We can’t still be friends,” she said as I reached the door.

  “We can’t be friends?”

  “I want a husband and children, Chico. You can’t give that to me. You never could. You’re too busy trying to save the world one street at a time. Nicky said he didn’t like you living in that basement.”

  “I don’t either.”

  “There’s room for you here if you stay.”

  “I thought you didn’t want me?”

  “I’m giving you a second chance, idiota,” she said.

  “I’ll be back, sweet-talker.”

  “No,” she said. “If you leave, don’t come back.”

  “I can’t stay, Ramona. Forgive me.”

  “I won’t. I won’t forgive you.”

  “I have to go.”

  “Don’t come back, Chico,” said Ramona. “Not if you leave again. Not ever. You can’t come back again.”

  “Is that some kinda ultimatum, Mrs. Chico?”

  “Something like that, Mr. Ramona,” she whispered and smiled so sad and beautiful, her eyes full of all kinds of hope and promise. I fell in love with her all over again. I didn’t know who was crazier, her, me, or Nicky, but I could’ve kissed her all morning in that green room and then some. A weaker man would have stayed. Or maybe a stronger man. Hell. Who am I to judge?

  THIRTY-THREE

  I found my Charger parked outside of Ramona’s. I tried Nicky’s cell. No answer. Albert. Nothing.

  I called Samantha: “Can you get me a
ny info on the mother, father, relatives, and siblings of Albert Garcia, marriage licenses, birth certificates, rental agreements, criminal background checks.”

  “Is that all?”

  “With cheese, por favor.”

  “Chico? It’s my day off. Is this an emergency?”

  “Somebody tried to kill me on the Willis Avenue Bridge last night. Is that enough of an emergency?”

  “I’ll call you back.”

  I put LL Cool J’s “Mama Said Knock You Out” on the sound system and drove fast to Chinatown, to the apartment over the Wing Wok Restaurant. Albert and Tiffany were not there. No one had seen her.

  I sped to the Arcadia East. Nothing. Arcadia West. Nothing.

  Call me, Nicky.

  Think, Chico.

  Should I call Mimi.

  No. Why? You’re getting punchy, Santana.

  I drove to the Bronx and thought about Albert.

  Albert Garcia was thirty-seven years old and slowly discovering that he knew a lot less about everything than he suspected. He hated his job waiting tables. Without his own money to make his film, he was stuck with Marcos-Kirk-Atlas-Rivera. Maybe he was even beginning to think that he had no talent. He would have to face the writing on the wall.

  He would never be a famous director. He would spend the rest of his life on the Grand Concourse, watching a film every night, getting fat, bald, and blind, waiting tables and bullshitting with beat cops at the Chinatown Angel and arguing with young Chinese waitresses.

  Life would pass him by, and countless films would get made in a galaxy far far away. Just how desperate could a man like that get? How full of spite, envy, and a need for revenge?

  Before my lungs collapsed from chain-smoking while driving, Samantha finally called back: “I discovered something strange about Marcos Rivera.”

  “What?”

  “Albert’s mother had a drug habit and a couple of arrests for solicitation. Her maiden name was Carmen Diego. Deceased. Mira! Carmen Diego had two children. Albert Garcia! And Marcos Rivera!”

  “What?”

  “Nene!” said Samantha. “Hannibal Rivera the Third and Josephine Rivera never had a child!”

  “What are you talking about?” I said, driving.

  “Marcos Rivera is not their biological son,” said Samantha. “Hannibal Rivera wasn’t Marcos’s father. Benjamin Rivera was! And Albert Garcia is Marcos Rivera’s half-brother. Same mother. Different fathers. They all lived together in the Bronx at one time. Benjamin Rivera’s family owned the building on Hunts Point that Carmen Diego died in. There was a fire.”

  I hit the gas. “Criminal background check on all of Albert’s family,” I said. “The whole clan. Take it back to El Salvador.”

  He was sitting on the front steps with a cigar and his silver flask. He was alone. I was sitting in my Charger, waiting for Albert and Tiffany to show or Sam or Nicky to call.

  I got out of the car. I yelled out: “Uncle Dee!”

  Uncle Dee puffed on his cigar and looked down at me from the top stair of his short stoop like he had always been there. Waiting for me. His face was unshaved. His silver hair looked gray. His eyes were bloodshot. His clothes were wrinkled. “Holá, Chico. What happened to your face?”

  “Bad blind date,” I said. “She told me it wouldn’t hurt a bit. She lied.”

  I walked up the short flight of steps. He put out his hand. We shook, all vigorous and manly.

  “Where’s Albert?”

  “He hasn’t come home. Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?”

  I nodded and followed Uncle Dee into the foyer and down the hall and up to his apartment. Uncle Dee turned on a dim light. There were old El Diario newspapers stacked up in piles along the walls, dirty dishes on the floor around the brown armchair, and the faint smell of dog shit but no sign of a dog. All bits of Albert, his movie posters, his milk crates full of films on VHS, even the television, all gone. Like he never existed.

  “It’s a mess in here,” Uncle Dee said, standing in the middle of the room. “They’re planning to destroy rent stabilization, cut the whole building into smaller overpriced apartments. Push the people out and call it SoBro. That’s what the local communists are saying. Shame. It’s a beautiful building. Do you know that they used to call Grand Concourse the Jewish Park Avenue? That was a long time ago.”

  “Yep,” I said. “Long time.”

  “If you need a bathroom, it’s down the hall.”

  “No thank you.”

  Uncle Dee removed his hat but kept his coat on. I sat down on the raggedy brown armchair on a broken spring. Uncle Dee went into the kitchen. I could see him clearly from where I was sitting. He put a pot on the fire and prepared a quick plate of sugar cookies. I was looking around at the now bare walls when Uncle Dee came back to me, carrying the plate.

  I took a cookie, and Uncle Dee put the plate down on the coffee table. He sat on a chair, wiping his silver flask with a handkerchief, and examined my face. “I’m sorry, what did you say you wanted again?”

  “I didn’t say,” I said, taking a bite of the homemade cookie.

  My cell phone rang. I looked at Uncle Dee. “Excuse me.”

  I picked up. It was Nicky.

  “Nicky! Where are you?”

  “Here and there, baby. You know how I do. I lost my cell on the bridge or I woulda gotten back sooner. Heard from Ramona you were feelin’ better. What’re you up to?”

  “Dodging bullets. You know. The usual. You and Willow?”

  “Keepin’ busy. Keepin’ busy.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Albert and Tiffany,” said Nicky. “Night on the bridge. They took off. Me and Willow tracked them down to the Chinatown Angel in the Bronx. They were shaken up by what happened. They said you were right. Pilar Menendez was murdered. They didn’t know. They do now. They were scared. Albert gave me the VHS cassette, the VHS cassette of the night Benjamin Rivera was killed in his restaurant. Olga kept it hidden inside of a white Steinway piano in her aunt Josephine’s apartment in the Arcadia East. Olga gave the tape to Albert after Pilar’s funeral as revenge. I have it now. Because of what happened on the bridge, Albert believes that Pilar was killed by the same person who murdered Benjamin Rivera. The person caught on the VHS cassette.”

  I signaled for Uncle Dee to hold on.

  “Nothing criminal on Albert Garcia’s biological father,” said Nicky. “But I did find out about a murder in El Salvador involving Carmen Diego’s mother. Albert Garcia’s grandmother was found dead at the bottom of a flight of steps in her own house.”

  Uncle Dee stared at me from across the room.

  “Uh-huh?” I said.

  “Ready for the frosting?” Nicky asked. “Do you wanna know who’s on the VHS cassette?”

  I noticed that Uncle Dee had not removed his coat. I looked around the room. I saw a clean spot on the wall. I remembered what was on that spot and now missing. Not just movie posters. I saw the gun in his hand before I could say Boo!

  “I am sorry,” said Uncle Dee, his dark coat open and askew, pointing the Uzi.

  He took and slapped my cell phone shut.

  “Where is Albert? Where is my grandson?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Uncle Dee shook his head. “Are you wearing a wire, Chico?”

  “I don’t need a wire. I have the surveillance tape from the night you murdered Benjamin Rivera in the Chinatown Angel. The police will be here soon. So no funny stuff like you pulled on the Willis Avenue Bridge. I’m not Benjamin or Pilar. Plus, I’m outta Tylenol.”

  “Benjamin Rivera got what he deserved,” Uncle Dee said. “He was a child molester. I did not murder him. When you kill a good man, it’s called murder. When you kill a bad man, it’s called an execution.”

  “That night on the bridge,” I said. “What were you planning to do? Murder? Execution? Tango?”

  “Whatever I had to do,” said Dee. “After Albert learned I had killed Benjamin from Olga at Pilar’s funeral,
I tried to convince Albert that you should not live. He would not agree. I followed you. I took matters into my own hands. I was doing what was best.”

  “You weren’t planning on letting Tiffany leave that bridge either, huh?”

  “I am a man who is not afraid of breaking eggs. What do you think?”

  “I think I don’t like the idea of being any man’s omelet,” I said. “No matter how well I go with hash browns. Albert wouldn’t go for you killing Tiffany if he wouldn’t go for you killing me. Don’t you think?”

  “I would make him understand.”

  “Why didn’t you recover the VHS cassette? That was sloppy, Uncle.”

  “Very,” said Dee.

  “You killed your own wife?”

  “I was a suspect. Nothing was ever proven.”

  “Smooth,” I said. “You walk away from something like that. Murdering your own wife. Must make you feel invincible?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Killing your wife,” I said. “I understand. Fifty years and one day you decide you don’t wanna share the remote anymore. It happens.”

  “You do not know what it is like to live for others, Chico. You make fun. But I lived for my wife and daughter. And when my daughter left I lived only for my wife. And after my wife died—”

  “After you killed her?”

  “After she killed herself. Everyone knew she was cheating on me.”

  “There’s a thing going around,” I said. “It’s really popular in the States. It’s called divorce. Ever heard of it?”

  “Dignity, sir. Reputation. Honor.”

  “So you killed your wife because it was the honorable thing to do?”

  “I don’t expect a boy like you to understand a man like me,” he said. “Benjamin Rivera killed my daughter! He dropped the lit cigarette that burned the building that killed my daughter. He was passed out, filled with drugs, near the children’s room when the fire started. He woke up and grabbed Marcos, his son, saved his life. But did not go back for Carmen or Albert. He did not even think of saving them. He thought Albert had died in that fire with Carmen.”

  “But Albert tried to run away that night,” I said. “It saved his life.”

  “Yes. After my wife died, I came to America looking for my daughter. I found out that she too was dead. After a lot of searching, I finally found Benjamin Rivera with two little girls in Central Park. Olga and Tiffany. He also had a boy with him. Marcos. I looked at the boy’s face. It was my daughter Carmen’s face. The boy didn’t know who I was or who his real mother was. They lied to him.”