by Paul Griffin
They paid Doc with diamond earrings stolen from the mansion. José limped because he was getting used to his new balance. Ray limped because he felt bad he could walk when José couldn’t.
They went straight from Doc’s to Frankie the Fence’s, unloaded the Mercedes and the rest of their booty. While José negotiated prices with Frankie, Ray read to the Dobie from a book he swiped from the Jersey mansion. This dude Siddhartha said life is suffering. The news got worse: You never escaped it, even when you died. You came back in another body to a more rotten situation or, rarely, a slightly cooler one based upon your previous actions. This was karma. Basically, you got back what you gave, good and bad. Being a thief was crappy karma, the book said.
‘Let’s go, Ray-Ray.’ José fanned himself with six thousand dollars, let Ray roll him out of Frankie’s shop in the secondhand wheelchair Frankie threw into the deal. ‘Six grand and a don’t-rate wheelchair for a Mercedes and all that bling,’ José said.
‘Frankie got to eat too, poor bastard, one leg four inches shorter than the other.’
‘Yo?’ José said.
‘Yeah?’
‘We got six grand!’
‘I know!’
Out on the sidewalk the boys hugged and howled in the dawn light until scavenger Richie darted out of the alley behind the methadone clinic next door, gun drawn.
‘Guess you’re not here to give us the other three bucks you owe us,’ José said.
Richie grabbed the boys’ roll, ran.
‘Why the city got to put a methadone clinic next to a pawn shop?’ José said. ‘That is just ass-out bad urban planning.’
Ray took stock: a lame old Doberman and two kids with pneumonia, one with half a foot gone, huddling to fight off the twelve-degree wind gutting the street, two hundred eighty bucks to their names. Ray nodded. ‘That right there was karma.’
‘No, that right there was my Ninja,’ José said. ‘Thank God I’m still chill on Valium, or I’d be bawlin right now.’ He was bawling.
The new dog fitted right in with the Ten Mile pack.
‘Quit that racket, dag dogs!’ José had gritted out a month of bed rest by way of brandy, soup, and mutt medicine, but he was sick of being in bed smothered by the dogs who had come back at the smell of the first soup and who had nothing better to do all day than bug him.
Ray was working for a furniture mover, six bucks an hour but cash, no questions. The boss worked him like a freebie mule. His back and knees ached. Maybe he caused José to lose his toes. Maybe the junkies never would have picked the empty Ten Mile basement as their leaving Earth spot if the boys had been here to defend the house instead of in jail. Either way, watching the J-man loaf in front of the TV after a long day of humping couches up five flights of stairs was getting a little harder each night. Most annoying, the J-man gave running commentary on everything that flashed the TV. ‘Ever notice how commercials for feminal products got a light trombone soundtrack? I got a sneakin suspicion the news might be real sometimes. If cartoons of human people got four fingers, shouldn’t cartoons of dog people got three?’
The Fatty dog settled in front of the TV, looked at José from the sides of its eyes.
‘Move, dog!’
The new Dobie came and sat with Fatty, yawned. ‘Dog gumbo,’ José said. ‘Just you watch. I get back on my feet, there’s gonna be some changes around here. You too.’
‘Hell’d I do but be your step-’n’-fetch every minute the last month?’
‘Sick of your mopin around. Look at you, you girl. Your hair all long and kinked like a cavewoman. Go on and get yourself a haircut.’
The boys eyed each other.
For a second Ray dared to dream that Yolie would rehire him, until he remembered he had just up and disappeared on her, no letter from jail to let her know he wouldn’t be back. He didn’t dare dream what Trini thought of him.
The teakettle whistled, Ray dumped hot water into a soup cup, served José.
‘You really wanna help me, Ray-Ray, you’ll put this fat dope dog out the house. Them sideways looks.’ José shivered. ‘He’ll make a nice roast when we run outta money. Git him outta my TeeVee line.’ José threw a pair of balled socks at the dog. The socks bounced off the dog’s head. The dog didn’t move. José threw a blanket over the dog, put his feet up on Fatty. ‘Good footstool at least. Bring me a beer, son, and let’s see what’s on the cartoon channel.’
‘You’re milkin this foot thing pretty good.’
‘It hurts, man.’
‘Wonder how them blue folks are makin out about now.’
‘Ray? Please. For like half a hour, stop thinkin so much. You think you could do that for fifty minutes? Your mind is a mystery of frights to me.’
‘Think they’re still stuck together?’
‘Son, leave them poor blue folks be and toss me the goddam TV clicker.’
A week later José was at his crossword book, the kind for second graders. He figured if he was going to become a first-rate criminal, he at least would have to know how to forge bank checks. He licked his pencil. ‘Yo son, the word scream? Where’s the 3 go?’
‘What?’
‘The letter 3. After the k, right?’
And this guy wants me to go off on my own? No way. We’re friends to the ends, dying together at good old Ten Mile River. ‘Sure, put the 3 after the k.’
‘Took you long enough.’
Ray checked the Helps in the local Spanish paper for shady moving companies, saw none. The guy he had been working for skipped town with his last week’s pay. Ray shook the money can, nickels and pennies, no paper. ‘My dogs are two days from starvation.’
‘Time to start stealin,’ José said.
‘You got one foot.’
José stood, limped around. ‘I am one out-of-shape thief.’
‘This is endless,’ Ray said.
‘What is?’
‘Nothin to look forward to.’
‘Fix for that one? Stop lookin forward. Mopey-ass woman. Are you cryin?’
‘I got allergies, okay? Shut up.’
‘Allergies. Sure. A’right, Ray, look, no need to panic, Papi got this all figured out. Till I’m able to run, we’re gonna shape up with the Mexicans up on 179th there, by the bridge.’
‘The day workers lookin for pickup gigs? That’s hard work.’
‘For hard men.’ José pounded his chest, coughed, winked.
At sunrise they waited on the corner of 179th and Saint Nick with some fifty illegals, mostly Mexican. No one talked. A Russian in a flatbed pickup with DRAGO DEMOLITION hand painted on the side pulled up to the corner and yelled in bad Spanish he was paying three bucks an hour for hump work.
The Mexicans nodded. They didn’t look happy or sad.
Ray and José were the tallest and youngest of the men, and the Russian picked them first. A friendly-looking white dude reached down from the back of the truck, gave Ray and José a hand and swung them up into the flatbed. ‘Breon,’ he said with a wink.
‘’Ey,’ the boys said.
‘Welcome.’ The Breon cat clapped their backs, nodded that they should sit on a blanketed bench in the front of the pickup bed, reached down to help the others into the truck.
The Drago punk poked his finger at one last man, shoved back the others. ‘No máz. I am need only seven. No máz!’
One of the left-back men, an old-timer, pulled a sandwich from his coat, gave it to a younger man in the truck, kissed the man’s cheek. Ray watched those left behind get smaller as the truck roared away west onto the George Washington Bridge. The truck banged over a pothole, threw everybody around the truck bed.
Breon nudged Ray. ‘Tay?’
‘Huh?’
Breon unscrewed a thermos, poured tea into tiny paper cups for Ray, José and the other men, sucked in a draft of the cold wind blasting the bridge. ‘Gargeous marnin, ay fellers?’ Breon was thirty or so with a killer smile. ‘Crisp.’
Ray found himself smiling, looked at José, also smiling
. Ray shrugged.
‘What you thinkin?’
‘I’m thinkin how you gonna lug junk all day on half a foot.’
‘Ray, don’t worry so much, a’right? Relax?’
The Drago cat pointed to a pile of rubble in the back of the condo site, pointed to a Dumpster. ‘You put that in there. Ponga eso all’. You gan understand me? Comprende?’
The boys nodded.
By lunch José was friends with everyone on the job. Drago chucked the men bananas—lunch—talked with the construction foreman, who said, ‘You wanna do this here?’
‘Except for Irish over there, they don’t speak English. Irish is alright.’
‘What do I owe you?’ the foreman said.
Drago said, ‘Seven man times eleven hour at fifteen a head and then me at twenty-five an hour.’
‘So what is that?’ the foreman said, reaching into his pocket for cash.
‘Sixteen seventy-five,’ Drago said.
‘Fourteen thirty,’ Ray said, his mouth full of banana.
The construction foreman took out his phone, worked it up on the calculator. ‘Fourteen thirty.’ He eyed Drago.
Drago eyed Ray.
Breon nudged Ray, nodded, smiled. ‘That’s a good lad.’
After lunch Drago picked José for light duty, pulling nails from two-by-fours. Ray humped junk to dusk. José waved to Ray. Ray flipped off José.
The truck dumped them at 179th with thirty-three bucks each, Drago keeping the rest. Breon said, ‘I give yas a lift home?’
‘We’re a’right,’ José said.
‘You’ve been limping all day, friend José. C’mon, little brother.’
They walked to a parking garage, picked up Breon’s car, a black Lexus convertible, the kind you can’t drive when you’re making three dollars an hour. The boys stared at Breon.
‘I’m a saver.’ Breon winked. ‘Hop in.’ He showed them all the bells and whistles on the ride south, stereo booming rap, heated seats; demonstrated the souped-up engine with pedal-to-the-metal acceleration down Riverside. Ray smiled, looked at José. José winked at Ray. The boys clutched their stomachs, screamed laughter.
Ray threw his head back. Dizzied by the blue sky, clean wind in his hair, he thought he was as happy as he’d ever been, for a few seconds.
‘Like bein roller-coaster drunk,’ José yelled over the wind. ‘We’re over here.’ He pointed to a city housing building off Riverside.
Breon skidded in front of the tenement. ‘Nice workin with yas. Here.’ He gave them a box of cookies.
‘Nah, that’s a’right,’ José said.
‘Take ’em, please. And take my number.’ He handed them a card, winked, drove off. His card had a number, no name, no address.
‘We live here now, huh?’ Ray said.
‘I don’t want him knowin about Ten Mile.’
‘He’s real nice. I like him a ton.’
‘Me too,’ José said. ‘But drivin that ride, he’s one to watch out for.’ He waved to Breon, rounding the corner. ‘Damn, that is one hot car.’
‘Hot-lookin or—’
‘Both.’
16
Sunday morning came a perfect day, spring’s messenger. They hung at the bridge but no one came by looking for day workers. On the walk home the air was sweet with tree bud, melting snow, cheap perfume rising off the necks of girls not wearing jackets to show off their spring clothes. José wasn’t wearing a jacket either. He took off his shirt.
‘Jesus,’ Ray said.
Back at the stationhouse José got the TV going, Ray cleaned. ‘You can’t help me clean for half an hour?’
‘I don’t mind the mess.’
‘I do.’
‘Then you clean it.’
Ray chucked his dish towel. ‘I’m bored. You bored?’
José was lost in his Grand Theft game. ‘Huh?’
‘Too nice a day for a man to stay inside the house. Let’s do somepin.’
‘Nailed him! Damn, son, you see that head shot! I am gettin so good at this level, I’m gonna be in level nine by nightfall! Hooooooo! I can’t believe it! I can’t believe it! My talent frightens me sometimes.’
Ray grabbed his board, headed out.
‘Where you goin?’ José said.
Ray eyed José. ‘Haircut.’
José sighed, nodded. ‘Had to happen sometime.’
‘You comin?’
‘Not unless you got a extra bulletproof vest.’
Ray kicked his board down the street, the melting ice running rivers to the gutters, wiped out face to pavement in front of Yolanda’s Braid Palace. Covered in slush he slumped into the shop like a man marching himself to the electric chair. From the look of the line of punks in there, forget about the braids, the business was haircuts for horn-dogs now.
Yolie saw Ray in the doorway, his do-rag lost in the fall from his skateboard, his long red hair standing off his head like match flame in a windstorm. She dropped her shears, put her hands to her mouth. She was shaking. ‘Amor. Qué pasó? Oh mi amor. What happened to you?’
Ray nodded. ‘Missis Yolie.’
Yolie shook her head. She turned to the chairs doubled up with horny teenagers, clapped her hands for them to git. ‘Vayan,’ she said. Even when she was upset, her voice was soft. ‘Everybody out. Yolie closing early today.’
‘That ain’t fair,’ and ‘This is bullshit,’ and ‘C’mawn, man,’ came back at her.
She shooed them out the door. They filed out, giving Ray kill you eyes. A defiant pipsqueak in a booster seat hung back in the barber chair.
Yolie glared at him, crossed her arms, tapped her foot.
The scrawny kid squeaked to Yolie’s tetas, ‘I ain’t hardly just sat down.’
‘Easy, Junior.’ Yolie took the kid’s chin in her hand and raised it and the little squeaker’s eyes away from her breasts. ‘Tomorrow, you first on line.’ Yolie spun the barber chair and helped the pipsqueak down from it. The kid backed out of the shop, tripped backward up the steps. Ray chuckled. He remembered what it was like being a goddam kid.
Yolie flipped the sign to CLOSED, locked the door, glared at Ray, tapped her foot.
‘Sorry,’ Ray said.
‘Why?’
‘Like, because I feel bad—’
‘Why did you disappear? There’s only one reason gonna get you out of this one.’
‘It’s that,’ Ray said.
‘You couldn’t call me, amor? You couldn’t let me know? Amor, amor, amor, I don’t know what to do with you.’
Ray gulped. ‘How’s the Enrique franchise doin, ma’am?’
‘I sold it to a muñeca in Brooklyn. Sure, now you’re disappointed.’ She rattled off in furious Spanish at him for a minute, wore herself out, pulled him into a hug, stroked his hair. ‘Leave it long, amor. We braid it and bead it.’
‘Nah, it’s gonna get hot, ma’am. Spring comes, a man needs short hair.’
‘Amor, amor. Ay. Where you living now?’
‘We’re fine, ma’am.’
‘So the José is still alive too, eh?’ She combed back Ray’s hair with her fingers. ‘I think you got taller. Your eyes too, something new there.’
‘Don’t cry, ma’am.’
Yolie hurried away to the stairs. ‘Trini, what you doing up there, amor?’
‘Homework,’ Trini yelled down.
‘Your friend is here.’
‘My friend?’
‘Su ángel. Ha vuelto.’
‘Who, you mean—ohmygod.’ The ceiling shook with the sound of running feet. ‘José?’
‘No,’ Yolie said. ‘The other one.’
‘Raymond,’ Ray whispered. He saw Trini’s feet at the top of the stairs.
‘Tell him to go away,’ Trini said.
‘Amor, come down here,’ Yolie said.
‘I got homework, T’a. I don’t have time to waste on—’
Yolie smacked the railing. ‘Trini, ven aqu’ ahorita.’
Yolie went upstairs to let them wor
k it out on their own.
The warm air rolled through the shop window, but Trini still wore her winter sweater. Her hands were cold as she forced Ray’s head forward and drove the buzzer over his scalp. ‘I would’ve visited, you know.’
‘The visiting room, it ain’t like the movies. It’s sadder and louder.’
‘I know sad and loud.’
‘Not like this.’
Trini pulled Ray’s head back and cranked the buzzer. ‘Not even a letter.’
‘I know. That was bad.’
‘Bad? I’m liable to dig the brains out of your head with this here clipper. How many weeks I’m going down to the godforsaken shack there, peeking in the windows for y’all, joint is empty, the dogs gone. Thought y’all died or something, ran away. I didn’t know what to think. I’m like, why’d they ditch me? What’ve I done? What, I stink or something?’
‘You stink beautiful, like coconut bubble gum plus salt.’
‘Shut up. Tt, see what you made me do?’ Trini put a tissue to Ray’s scalp where she’d scraped it. ‘I smell like salt?’
‘Salt’s my favorite smell.’
‘Salt doesn’t smell.’
‘How’s your cousin?’
‘I hate you.’
‘We figured we only knew you for a month—’
‘Five weeks. A lot can happen in five weeks. A lot did happen. I’m not just talking about your bato friend there, the dawg, I’m talking you and me. We could talk, you know? Or maybe that was just me. Maybe I thought we were friends. Maybe I’m stupid.’
‘Trini, yo, sorry. For real. I didn’t know you, you know, felt like that.’
‘Y’all were just messin with me, I guess. Y’all boys, I’ll never understand a one of you. I should go nun myself right now and get it over with. Hold still.’
‘Sure, just maybe could you go a little easier with that clipper there? No? Okay, I don’t mind. I’ll bleed to death for the cause—whoa. I gotta be hemorrhaging after that one.’
‘I wish we never met.’
Ray watched Trini in the mirror. She was a full woman. She had a perfect butt. ‘You think your aunt would go out with me?’
Trini spun the chair to face Ray. ‘Raymond, are you okay?’
‘Me? Like, whaddaya mean?’
‘I mean, like, after jail and all. I don’t like to think about it. What they do to you in there.’
