by Sandy DeLuca
A book vendor packs up his wares as we cross onto East Houston. I wonder if he has treasures there, if there are relics about the moon—about magic. I want to stop, but he looks cold and in a hurry to get into his nearby van.
I don’t mind the cold. Tony holds me close, singing an old jazz tune I’ve heard in my dreams.
His boots crunch on the icy walk and snow glimmers on his dark hair. He’s a prince from a childhood fairytale, dark and sweet. Nothing can harm me. Creatures do not tower above on city rooftops, wicked sounds do not emanate from alleys. “Turn here,” Tony says as we approach a corner restaurant with red, white and green neon announcing Angelo’s Pizzeria. “Good food, just opened.” He ushers me inside and to the bar. A few people are there. A middle-aged man drinks his beer and studies a racing form. He scratches his chin and makes marks on the form with a Sharpie. A woman, overweight, with blonde frizzled hair sucks on a cigarette, dollar bills are spread out in front of her. Her blouse is low cut, her skirt too short. She smiles. I notice bright red lipstick smeared on her front teeth. She’s flirting with the bartender, winking when he passes by her, reaching out to touch his hand. He’s young, walks with an air of arrogance. His repulsion towards the woman is noticeable. New York is filled with sad and lonely people, with those who beg for a moment of attention, who’ll pay for an hour of love. They die alone, their plots unattended, forgotten and swallowed up by a city that preys on them. It takes away their youth, dims hopes once bright.
Do fallen angels reside here? I wonder. Do they walk among us, seeking the weak, and do they lure them toward demise, reduce them to sacrifices for this city of light, this city of dark?
Some days I think I’ve seen them. Some days I know I have.
A man sits at the end of the bar in shadow. I cannot see his face, but I can see he’s dressed in an old suit jacket and that his white shirt has a vintage look to it. He’s holding a cigarette and thick clouds of smoke swirl around him. I know him. I’m happy now. He’ll stay in shadow as long as I remain so. The smoky veil will keep him separate from my world tonight.
“It smells great in here. I’m so hungry.” I slide onto a barstool. “They serve food at the bar?”
“Yeah, we can get a slice here.” Tony looks toward the man. It seems as though he’s receded further into darkness.
The bartender smiles at me. “Beer?”
Tony turns to me. “You ought to try the cheese and veggie pizza. It’s to die for, but if you want something else…”
“OK then, two beers and two slices of cheese and veggie pizza. And two large salads-the Italian kind with hot peppers and stuff.” I pluck a black sequined wallet from my shoulder bag, noticing a puzzled look on the bartender’s face.
“Sure.” The bartender motions for a waitress to take our order. She looks at me, sizes me up, shakes her head and moves toward the dining area.
Tony kisses my cheek. “Going to the little boy’s room, be back in a sec.”
“OK.” I watch him make his way to the end of the bar. He disappears in darkness and smoke, and I see the orange tip of a cigarette glow, a skeletal hand extending from shadow. Low and menacing laughter, barely audible, trickles from the dark end of the bar.
I listen to chatter from the dining area, watch people come and go. A small child cries and a siren sounds outside. I gaze at my watch. Tony’s been gone for ten minutes.
A blast of cold air fills the bar and a door clicks shut. Someone touches my shoulder. I turn. Rico stands there. He looks frightened. Beads of sweat are on his forehead. “Gina, we gotta talk, man.”
“I’m with my boyfriend. Can it wait—I mean—”
“You meeting him? Didn’t see anyone with you when you came in.” Rico looks to the end of the bar. The man leans forward. His eyes are cold, black, inhuman.
“No, Tony just went to the bathroom.”
“Twenty-five bucks and thirty-two cents.” The bartender slaps down two beers, two slices of pizza and two huge salads.
I give him a twenty and a ten. “You’re all set.”
The bartender notices Rico and smiles. “Enjoy.”
A figure—something—slithers past us. It moves like an aged sullen spirit. I smell Tony’s cologne. I hear his laughter. A chill fills the bar and I’m compelled to look to the doorway. Tony moves through it, shoulders slumped, hands tucked deep inside his pockets. He’s sneaking away. A woman wearing a sequined shawl is in front of him. It looks as though her boots do not touch the pavement. She remains in front of him, ethereal and somewhat sinister. They both float away, thieves who have robbed me of tonight’s happiness.
Fucking Tony. Who did he pick up while he sauntered towards the restroom? Has he gotten into trouble? The woman he left with was wearing a shawl like Allie’s. This is crazy. They may not have even been together. Maybe he got a call, had to split. He’ll explain later. No matter. It’s nothing that hasn’t happened before.
I notice the man at the end of the bar is gone. What the fuck.
Rico looks puzzled as tears well in my eyes.
“Sit down. Have some beer and food.” I motion to Rico and he quickly accepts my offer. He is thinner than the last time I saw him. His tough demeanor is gone.
He picks up a beer mug and takes at long drink. He reaches for pizza and within seconds half the slice is devoured. He wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket then he looks at me, embarrassment etched across his face. “Look, I’ve been sleeping on the street, haven’t eaten in a few days. Cops confiscated all my goods. They shut down my operation. I’m in deep shit besides that, man.”
I’m not hungry now. I push my salad and pizza towards Rico, but hold onto my beer. “Eat. Maybe the super of my apartment building will let you sleep in the basement if you help him shovel some snow, clean up around there. He’s done it with other guys in the past.”
Rico nods. “Thanks. I need to lay low.”
I watch and drink my beer as he devours the two salads and pizza. I order another slice and have the bartender wrap it for him. I button my coat, slip on my gloves and gently tug at Rico’s elbow. “Come on. We’ll go talk to Frankie.”
“I need to talk a little to you first, don’t want people listening.”
“OK. What’s up?”
He looks around then leans close to me. I smell old perspiration. His breath reeks of tobacco and something sour. “They found a fucking body outside the building where I was doing business. Fucking chick had her throat cut. They carved shit on her and laid her out like it was a funeral. There were shells and beads all around her, flowers—dead ones—on top of her and an old rosary—with the fucking cross painted red—on her hands.”
“Cops told me about the body, but not all the details.”
“They found bones—old ones—ones that had been there for a long, long time—under the floorboards in the office I was using. They can’t tie any of the shit to me, I had nothing to do with it, I swear, and they know that—but I know they’re fucking watching me anyways.” His hands shake and tears fill his eyes. “And I know the cops aren’t the only ones watching.”
“What do you mean?”
Rico trembles. “Look, Allie, your sister, she was into some weird fucking shit. She used to take people up to my place, do shit with them. I mean, at first I thought it was just for sex, you know, and she didn’t want her pickups to know where she lived. So I gave her a key. We were tight, you know, but after a while it got scary. She left behind all kinds of crap, weird candles, beads, shells. Once she came to the office on a Saturday afternoon, said she had to pee badly. She threw her coat on the floor and made a beeline to the bathroom. Some photographs tumbled out of her pocket. I picked them up one by one and almost screamed. They were of dead people, all cut and fucked up. Don’t know where she got them. I shoved most of them back inside her pocket, but I kept one, was gonna show the cops, but after I thought about it I figured they’d incriminate me.” He pats a pocket on his coat. “Got it right here. I should bury it, maybe throw i
t in the Hudson. I keep seeing those people, walking down Canal. Sometimes I-I see them in my fucking dreams.”
“Allie couldn’t kill anyone,” I mumble, unsure if I’m saying it for his benefit or mine.
“The picture’s old, looks it anyway.” He glances around. “Hey, I don’t wanna believe she had anything to do with people dying either, but I got scared. Shit, I told her to quit using my place, I told her, pack up your shells and beads and all the rest of your freaky shit and don’t come back. I even had the locks changed. Right after that, she disappeared, and they found that shit down at the church in Harlem.”
I feel the fear rising in me now too, but I’m not only scared for myself, but for Tony, for Daniel and for everyone in my life that matters. What happened to Allie? Did they torture her before they killed her? Was her body too mutilated to leave behind and are the pieces scattered all over the city?
I grab Rico’s elbow again. “Come on. You can sleep on my couch. I don’t care what Tony says. You’re not staying alone in some basement.”
“Thanks,” he says rapidly, “th-thank, thank you. You sure it’ll be cool with your boyfriend?”
“Fuck him. Come on.”
We make our way out to the street. The snow has intensified even more, falling steady now and making it difficult to walk without feeling chilled to the bone. We put our arms around each other, hold on tight and move through the night to the safety of my apartment. Rico sighs, gazes at the moon and whispers an old prayer I remember from catechism.
I join him, speaking softly so only he can hear, “…deliver us from evil…”
People pass by us, their lips moving in unison with ours. They’re all praying. It’s a city of frightened people. It’s a city of hell.
I hold Rico tighter and he sighs again. We need to talk more. We need to figure out what the fuck Allie was into. We’ll have coffee—maybe pick up some wine. We’ll sit by the window and comfort each other in so many ways tonight.
11
Rico and I stop to buy some wine at a liquor store on Broadway, two bottles, one white and one red. I know Tony isn’t home yet, that he won’t be in until late—maybe he won’t be back at all—but at the moment all I want to do is sit and talk with Rico, to learn more about what went on with him and my sister. There are so many things I want to ask him, but at first we only make small talk.
I feel as though we’re being watched, as though we’re in danger. The streets are empty and eerily silent. It’s getting colder and I can feel it seeping into my bones. The snow is heavy and clings to my hair.
A man selling cheap hats and children’s windup toys shivers on the corner of Grand and Broadway. “Rico, stop at this stand,” I say. “I need a hat.” I hate hats, think I look silly in them, but tonight I need one.
The vendor looks tired. His face is smooth, his eyes crystal blue. “I have to go back to Brooklyn. Hate the thought of driving over there in this. Damn city. They hate to pay overtime. The bridge had better be sanded.”
I nod at him and quickly pick out a black felt hat, trimmed with sequins. “How much?”
His face softens and he seems less agitated as a snow- plow makes its way down Broadway. “Normally ten bucks, but you look cold too. You can have it for six.” I give him a ten. He smiles. “Thank you, Miss. God bless.” A drift of snow flurries behind him and around him. He’s swallowed up by white. I hear him speaking as we move away. “Be safe on this wicked night.”
A feeling of warmth spreads through me. It’s fleeting, but it’s nice to know there are gentle people in this world. Angels standing sentinel while we walk dark pathways. I slip on the hat. The brim is wide and partially covers my view, but I don’t care. I think about death, about my sister lying in a grave, hidden, her ghost aching for closure. I wonder if she can feel the chill of this stormy winter night.
“Lots of sadness in this world,” Rico says as we turn a corner and walk quickly still holding on to each other, the wine bottles and pizza wrapped in brown paper and nestled in his oversized coat pocket. “Lots of scary shit too. There are murderers in this city, crazy people who think nothing of chopping people up.” Rico presses closer to me. “I never was afraid to walk these streets.” He looks upward. “Something’s up there. They’re watching us.” We pass by an empty office building. Shadows dance behind shaded windows. Rico shakes his head. “Things are getting freaky lately. I see things that I’m not supposed to see…”
“It’s happened to me for a while—maybe all my life,” I tell him. “I’m not sure of much these days.” I pull my hat over my ears as a cold wind sends snow spiraling over the sidewalk. We turn onto East Houston, walk quickly. People stand at crossings waiting for lights to turn. City blocks seem to go on forever. I gaze down Second Avenue. Traffic cruises by, either turning onto East Houston or down Chrystie Street. We walk past Sara D. Roosevelt Park. Lights flank it on each street corner, but deep within strange things seem to hide behind trees, sit on benches, their whispery voices floating through the snow. Cigarette tips glow and boots beat against the earth. A group of leather-clad people emerge, seemingly materializing from shadow. They step out of the park, walking in single file. They stand in front of us, looking as though they’ve just emerged from one of the Goth bars in the Bowery, tattooed, pierced and dressed in black from head to toe.
“Evening, got a few bucks to spare?” A man with a buzz cut, a scar on his cheek, a tattoo of a hawk over his left eye leers at us. His fingers are deformed as though his bones have been broken many times, as though they’ve healed without the help of a doctor. Both his palms have knife wounds and they drip with blood. He must cut himself to feel alive. “Just a couple bucks.” Crimson drops fall on white snow.
A woman moves her head back and forth. Her stringy black hair is dry—like death. Her eyes are vacant. She moves to my side, rubs her hand over my coat. “Nice. Can I have it?”
“It’s fake.” I’m scared, can’t think of much else to say. She laughs at me.
The other man is wearing a hood. It covers his face. “Better still, you got blood to offer us?” The hood slips backwards slightly. White bone and eyes as black as coal are visible. He pulls a knife out of his pocket. “Step into the park, both of you.”
“Look, man.” Rico takes a step toward them. The hooded man’s arm extends forward almost with supernatural speed. Silver gleams. The knife meets Rico’s throat.
“Move, you motherfucker.” The hooded man leans forward, “Didn’t I see you once on a bus going south?” His hood slips back farther and I know these beings are not human. Skull and bone gleam beneath park lights. Corpse fingers grasp the knife’s hilt.
A siren sounds. Lights flash.
An unmarked car pulls up on the street beside us.
The door flies open. “Get moving or I’ll take you to the tombs.” Daniel’s voice sounds. He’s beside me now. “I mean it. Get going.”
I look at the would-be attackers again. They’re kids, seemingly alive, stoned and dangerous. Street punks nothing more.
“Move your asses.” Daniel’s eyes are filled with hate. He looks at bloodstains on snow. He grabs the knife and slips it into his coat pocket.
The hooded guy shrugs. “Just having some fun.”
“You hear me, punk? Get lost.”
The threesome backs away and recedes into shadow, into a veil of thick snow, back into the depths of Sara D. Roosevelt Park.
Daniel watches them, sighs heavily. “You people OK?”
Rico kicks snow, turns in a circle. “Thank mother of mercy. Thank fucking God and every fucking saint. I never thought I’d be so happy to see you, Detective.”
I’m shaking, can’t believe all that’s gone down tonight. “Yeah, thanks for showing up when you did.” I wonder why he’s near, why he just happened to show up like this.
Daniel grabs my arm, pulling me away from Rico, who is waving his arms and talking to God, to the stone angels at Saint Patrick’s and to the gargoyles at the Dakota.
Daniel’s voice is stern, almost fatherly. “I’ve got my eye on your buddy over there, been watching him all day. Now, may I ask what the hell you’re doing with him? He happens to be a suspect in a very—”
“Look,” I say, “I’ve known Rico a long time. He’s OK. He just needs a place to crash. He needs a friend.”
“Be careful.” Daniel smiles, but his eyes are sad. “Call my cell if you need me.”
“I will.”
“Goodnight.” Daniel walks to his car, drives away into a cloud of white snow and smoky streams of exhaust.
Rico is finally standing still. “He hates me.”
“He’s just being a cop.”
Rico looks towards the park. “Those things came straight from Hell.”
“They were punks. All we saw were punks, Rico.”
“I saw dead things,” he insists, pushing me forward. “Don’t look back. Just keep walking.”
My legs ache and I have a throbbing headache. “Not too much longer.”
We approach my apartment building. Frankie’s standing on the stairs. His hands are tucked in his pockets and he’s shaking his head. “Mrs. Tremaine, lady who lives on the second floor, died this afternoon. Fucking cancer killed her.”
Lilly appears, clad only in a light housedress. Mascara is smeared beneath her eyes. She’s wearing a sneaker on one foot and a slipper on the other. “Damn disease. She’s the fourth person to die on this block from stomach cancer in the past year. Something’s in the ground. There’s evil shit underneath us and it’s going to kill us all.” She spins on her heels. “I’m gonna do a spell of protection. I already sprinkled salt all around the building. Coming, Frankie?”
He turns and follows her without a word.
Rico and I watch as the lights go on in the hall, and we listen as strange music filters through the door. “Things get weird here sometimes, but Frankie’s a good super. The elevator’s broke. We have to climb three flights.” I want to rush up the stairs, close the door behind me and be safe inside. I’m not afraid of cancer, of toxins and disease seeping up from the ground. I have other things to fear. “Hurry, it doesn’t feel right out here.”
