Silence enveloped the store for a long moment, then shouts erupted. Frankie's first thought was another terrorist attack. He'd spent 9/11 pulling people out of the World Trade Center. A part of him had been on edge ever since, always halfway expecting a repeat performance. His heart raced into fourth gear. He whipped out his phone, praying that the cell towers were still relaying calls.
"Seven-three Precinct," a voice snarled. Frankie never thought he'd be so glad to hear PAA Malloy's nasal twang.
"Hernandez here. What's going on?"
"I'm busy. Whadaya mean, what's going on? With what?"
Lovable old Malloy, the best police administrative aide in the department. Frankie gritted his teeth. "With the lights. The lights are out. Is it citywide? What's happening?"
"I don't know nothin' about no lights out. We got plentya light here. Whyn't ya come in and use the lights here? Maybe you could see to make out the reports right once in a while. Say, is that it? I gotta get back. Somebody has to do some work around here."
"Yeah," Frankie said, "that's it." He pressed the End Call button.
His heart downshifted to third gear. The chaos that had threatened to erupt calmed to a dull murmur. Late afternoon light streamed in through the front windows, diluted by the grime. Drawn like moths to a flame, shoppers swarmed in the sunlight, their intended purchases clutched uncertainly to their chests. Store security was already in action. Uniformed guards gathered with the store managers near the exits to make sure no one took advantage of the power outage to sneak merchandise past the electronic monitoring pedestals.
Electric signs on businesses across Queens Boulevard were illuminated, so maybe it was just the store's system that had given up the ghost. That's why the PAA at Frankie's Brooklyn precinct didn't know anything about it. He smiled grimly, gently chiding himself for jumping the gun and heading right to thoughts of disaster. He turned back to the cashier. "Uh, what about my refund?"
She looked at the cash register without focusing. "It won't open without electricity," she said.
"I understand that," he said slowly, patiently. "How can I get my money?"
"We'll mail it to you, I guess." She consulted the tape where he'd identified himself as Colonel Parker, with an address at 12 Finger Lickin Lane in Fried Chicken, Kentucky. "You're from Kentucky?" She squinted uncertainly. "They got mail there, I guess. We'll send it to you."
A knot formed in Frankie's stomach. "I need it now," he said.
She shrugged. "I can't give it to you. Hey, I got kids. I better pick them up from day care." She shuffled off, leaving Frankie standing at the customer service counter by himself in the dark.
Fuck! Who would have thought giving a wrong name and address would come back to bite him in the ass? No cop in his right mind handed over that information to strangers. Now he was out the money and the merchandise. He glanced behind the counter, but efficient old Shaquanna had hustled his returns to the back, so he couldn't even take them with him.
The crowd thinned rapidly as people poured outside. Maybe he could find the manager. And then what? The guy would grab the money out of petty cash and hand it over to Colonel Parker? Shit. Frankie cursed himself silently. He'd just fucked himself out of almost two hundred dollars.
He got back into his family-sized gas-guzzler and took off to finish the rest of the errands on his wife's list. Her family came from the Mexican state of Puebla. Frankie's family, which hailed from the West Coast state of Jalisco, secretly looked down their regal noses on Puebla, which they considered to be the asshole of Mexico. (When you looked at Puebla on the map, it really did look like the end of the long intestine, which made Oaxaca and Chiapas and a few other states the shit end of the country, as far as Frankie's parents were concerned.) Frankie himself didn't really have an opinion, having never spent more than a few school vacations in any part of Mexico. All he knew about the people from Puebla was that the food they cooked in the local Woodside restaurants wasn't as good as his mother's.
He had to admit that his wife came from a long line of savvy politicians. In Mexico, that meant that they stole with both hands and lied out of both sides of their mouths. Some of the family had emigrated to the States, where they continued the family tradition by becoming involved in New Jersey politics.
Maria was a perfect blend of North and South. She ran their little tribe with an iron fist, the way the matriarchs in her lineage always had. And she was clever, much like the rest of her family members. She had a number of friends, but the relationships were always transactional, rather than emotional. Maria had no interest in socializing with anyone who didn't trade in the currency of favors. If she couldn't get something on somebody, she wasn't interested in pursuing the friendship.
Of course, she had plenty to hold over Frankie's head. She was also bewitching. She would dazzle you with her smile and enchant you with her personality. Once in a while, Frankie caught glimpses beneath Maria's charming veneer to a heart of stone. Other times, he thought he must be imagining things and that she was the best thing to ever happen to him. Occasionally, he thought that if it weren't for Maria, he could have had a much different-probably better-kind of life.
He followed the directions on his list, the chores taking him out to Nassau County, on Long Island but close to the Queens border. He listened intently to the radio, changing stations to catch any news about the power situation. The oppressive heatwave that was plaguing the New York Metropolitan Area was taking its toll. A blackout was focused mostly in western Queens, caused by excessive demands on the power grid. Too many people in illegal apartments running extra air conditioners. Astoria, Woodside, and Sunnyside bore the brunt. But, the announcer said, residents in that area shouldn't feel too badly-people in other areas of the city were also suffering.
Frankie felt much better hearing that. Wow, other people were suffering too. Yippee.
His wife called his cell to report that their lights were still on, but their neighbors' houses had lost power. "Thanks for the update," he said. "Does that mean you're gonna cook dinner?" She hung up on him.
On his return trip to Queens, he was going against rushhour traffic, but the cars still crawled. He decided to stop on the other side of Woodside before heading home. He owed TIa Alba a visit. He lived only a five-minute drive away, but didn't see her as much as she wanted. He parked outside Sean Og's, the Irish pub on Woodside Avenue. It was 8:30 and the darkness was settling in slowly. He loved the way the day took its time ending during the height of summer. The extended daylight brought back memories of riding his bike at dusk and playing ball with the other children. Remote, simpler times, when the most important decisions he made revolved around which kids to torment for the day.
Most of the businesses on Woodside Avenue were dark, but a few had lights. Weird how the power grid worked, skipping over certain places but hitting the ones next door. He briefly wondered whether someone got paid off to keep the lights on in certain places. Nah. That was too paranoid, even for him.
The big wooden sign on the side of Sean Og's read Drinking Consultant. He wondered about that every time he saw it. He could picture the scene inside: A guy walks up to the bar, says, "I want to consult you about drinking." The bartender says, "Yes, sir, what would you like to drink?" Frankie wondered if the consultation cost fifty bucks an hour, like a shrink. Probably, he thought, if you downed the booze fast enough. Then again, you'd probably wind up lying down in Sean Og's, just like at a shrink's, you drank enough. He remembered when the place was some other Irish joint where you could bet on soccer games and horse races. Of course, the son of a bitch running the place taped the soccer games and got suckers to bet on the losing team when he rebroadcast them, but it only took a couple of losses for people to wise up. The guy went out of business years ago, go figure.
Frankie's family had been among the first wave of Latinos to settle in Woodside. He'd gotten his ass kicked a few times before the other kids in the Irish working-class neighborhood accepted him. It helped that his fa
mily was Catholic. Also that his old man brought them here when Frankie was young enough that he didn't grow up speaking with an accent. His pop, on the other hand, had the whole Senor Wences thing going.
Now, of course, it didn't matter. Aside from a few old, entrenched Irish families, the neighborhood was predominantly Latino. Not too many Mexicans, but a few here and there. Mostly Dominicans, Salvadorans, Guatemalans, some Puerto Ricans. Plus your Indians, Pakistanis, and Koreans, of course. Most of those were in neighboring Jackson Heights, but a lot of them had slipped over into Woodside. And now the Russians were discovering the neighborhood. Not to mention the blacks who were swarming into the projects the next block over from Frankie's house.
He glanced up Woodside Avenue and suddenly felt old. He could remember when almost every business had been something else. Except the Astoria Federal Bank. They'd been annoying people in the same spot for years. A fee for this, a fee for that; I'm sorry, sir, we've misplaced your records ... He couldn't think of a place that gave him more heartburn than that bank. Well, maybe the DMV, but it was close.
Get a grip, Frankie told himself. He knew his thoughts were careening crazily because he had to go see his aunt. She wasn't his real aunt, of course; that was just what everybody called her. At the corner of Woodside Avenue and 62nd Street, he glanced at the building on his right. The lights dotted the windows of The Jefferson. It figured Tia Alba's building would still have electricity. She would keep the power on through sheer force of will. He stepped into the vestibule and took a deep breath. He pressed the buzzer for her apartment. After a pause for whoever was manning the door to look at him through the camera, he got an answering ring. He dragged himself up the three flights, prolonging the inevitable.
Tia Alba threw open the door. `Ay, Paquito!" she squealed. "Ven aca!" She held her arms open. Paquito was Spanish for "Frankie." He hated to be called Paquito. His aunt smelled of lavender water. He was mildly allergic to the scent and felt his nose tickle uncomfortably. He hated lavender water. He embraced her quickly and stepped back.
"Come in, come in," she said. "Sit down. I have some empanadas heating up." She bustled toward the kitchen.
"No, gracias, tia," he said. "I'm not hungry, really." He patted his stomach to indicate how full he was. He hated her empanadas.
"Okay, some coffee then, s? You'll have some cafe conmigo?"
Sure, he would have coffee with her. Her coffee was tolerable. Besides, it would take her a few more minutes to pour.
But no, she was back instantly with two steaming cups. "Just perked," she said. She still used a stovetop percolator, rather than a coffee machine, although God knew she could have had a new one every week. She claimed the machines didn't brew the coffee properly. "I knew you were coming."
This prescience was less a function of her mind-reading abilities and more the result of the phone call he'd made to her in the morning before leaving the house, telling her he planned to stop by later.
And now it was later, and he owed her money, and he didn't know how to tell her he didn't have it.
She got right to the point. "What did you bring me?" She beamed at him.
"Well, listen, tia, it's like this . . ." he started.
Her face darkened like a storm cloud. "Don't tell me any stories, Paquito. I'm not in the mood for stories. Just give me what you owe me."
Don Pedro stuck his head out of the back bedroom. "Trouble?" he asked. He and Tia Alba had been together for longer than Frankie could remember. Hardly anyone saw him unless something bad was about to happen. Don Pedro had an uncanny sense of when things were going to shit.
"No, no trouble," Frankie croaked.
"Depends on what you mean by trouble," Tia Alba said. "I think Paquito is a little short today."
Don Pedro hauled his bulk into the living room. "Short? How can that be?" He looked genuinely puzzled.
"Well, listen," Frankie said, looking up at the big man. Don Pedro towered over everybody, especially when he was standing and they were sitting. "I ran into a little trouble today. Because of the blackout." He shrugged, letting them know that he could hardly be held responsible for the vagaries of Con Edison.
"No excuses, Paquito," Don Pedro said. "We don't tolerate excuses here. You know that." He sounded almost regretful.
"I have almost all of it. Here," he said, and pulled out his wallet. "I owe you another two hundred. Less, even." He handed over a fat wad of bills.
TIa Alba counted them quickly. She shook her head. "Two hundred dollars. That's not acceptable." She brightened, as though struck with an idea. "Why don't you go down to the bank and get the rest?" She turned to Don Pedro. "Walk him down to the ATM. You could stand to get a little air. You've been inside all day."
"That's a fine idea. Come, m'ijo." He beckoned toward the front door.
"I ... I can't," Frankie said. He swallowed hard. "I don't have that much in my account."
Don Pedro loomed over him. "Listen, cabron, you better figure out a way to get the two hundred. Or we'll have to figure it out for you, comprende?"
"I don't have it," Frankie repeated. A voice in the back of his head told him he was being ridiculous. He had an NYPD shield in his pocket and a gun in a holster. He had nothing to fear from this lug. The voice of reason cut in and told the other voice to shut the fuck up. He cleared his throat, started to explain.
Don Pedro got red in the face, but Tia Alba spoke calmly. "It's all right, Paquito. These things happen. Don't worry, Pedro, we'll work it out. Paco's a good boy. We can make some arrangement."
Don Pedro looked like he wanted to arrange Frankie's face in a new configuration, but then he nodded. "As always, you are right, Alba. I will leave it to you to work something out with the boy." He wandered back into the bedroom.
"Now," she said, "what can we work out?" She closed her eyes for a moment. "I know! We are in need of a guard. You will be the guard."
"A guard? You already have a security system here."
"No, no. More of a ... bodyguard. Yes, a bodyguard." She nodded. "It's settled. You will go down to the second floor and make sure that everything is all right with our guests. Then we will be even."
"Oh, no, tia. Not that. I can't. .."
She clapped her hands. "You can, and you will." She checked her watch. "Starting now. And you will come here every night this week. Then I will see you next week, as usual," she said, beaming again. "Now, come. I will bring you downstairs."
Frankie trailed her down the flight of steps, feebly protesting the whole way, although he knew it was useless. If only he had been able to get that refund, he wouldn't be into TIa Alba for the two hundred. He'd started out working in this enterprise at his wife's insistence. At first, it had been a way to earn easy money, just a simple method of stretching their budget a little further. Somehow, he'd wound up behind the eight ball, into Alba for more money each week. It reminded him of that Tennessee Ernie Ford song "Sixteen Tons": Another day older and deeper in debt ... And now he did indeed owe his soul to the company store.
That store, in this case, was TIa Alba and her merry band of fences, who specialized in moving hot-or at the very least, lukewarm-goods. He had a sneaking suspicion that the profits somehow got sent back to the land of the camel jockeys and the home of the ragheads, but his ass was so deep in the alligator pool that he was in no position to do anything about it, even if he knew for sure, which he didn't. He made damn sure he didn't. Which was another reason he didn't want to go downstairs.
He stopped his thoughts as Alba led him into her other apartment on the second floor. The place was jammed, mostly with women, but quite a few men swarmed around as well. It had the feel and sound of a casbah or bazaar. Merchandise was selected, haggling ensued, and deals were finalized. A Middle Eastern-looking man in Western dress approached Alba. She made the introductions quickly, calling the man Mohammed. She turned Frankie over to him, saying, "Mohammed will show you what to do. Now you visit me again tomorrow night before you come down here." She squeeze
d his cheek before she left. Hard.
Frankie rubbed his face. Mohammed's hands snaked over Frankie's torso and legs expertly. Before Frankie could smack the guy, Mohammed said, "Ah, you are armed. It is good to be prepared. Come, I will show you what to do."
Frankie glared at him, but what choice did he have? He followed Mohammed to a stool next to the front door. Frankie was to sit there and guard the place for the next four hours.
I can't stand this, he thought. What am I doing here? His life started flashing in front of his eyes. Was he dying? Or just wishing he were dead? He knew that was a sin, but at this point, what was one more? He pictured Maria at home, working comfortably at the laptop, using the scanner like a pro, churning stuff out of the color printer like a one-woman Kinko's.
He sighed and tried to pretend he was on a shit-fixer-a post in the bowels of some shithole in Brooklyn where you got sent if you fucked up. Well, that was apt. He'd ridden out a couple of assignments to shit-fixers in his time, and he supposed he could do it again. Of course he could. He pulled himself up taller. Just another ... he glanced at his watch ... three hours and thirty-eight minutes to go. He opened the door to let a stout Dominican woman with three gold teeth leave. She waddled out with a bundle of clothing wrapped in string. Frankie spotted the store tags still hanging from the items.
As soon as he closed the door, the buzzer rang. Mohammed appeared and inspected the visitor through the closedcircuit TV system. He nodded to Frankie. "It's okay, my friend. You can let her in. She is good customer." He disappeared into the throng, calling out, "Ladies, ladies! No fighting. We have plenty for everyone."
There was a smart rap at the door. Frankie peered through the peep and saw the same woman who had just been spotted on the CCTV. She was a petite Latina wearing jeans and a red T-shirt with a denim vest that had embroidered flowers on it. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He didn't know why, but his cop intuition kicked in and told him something was wrong.
Queens Noir Page 24
