Freddie sounded so nervous that I didn’t think Mr. Labowski would buy a word of our story, but he did.
It was still light out when my father and Mr. Labowski and Kathleen’s father went searching for the man. Before they got into Mr. Labowski’s car, I heard my father say, “Why don’t you leave that home, Lou.” He was looking at the gun Mr. Labowski had in his holster.
Mr. Labowski laughed and slapped my father on the back. “Don’t worry, Harry. It never hurts to have it.” Then, talking out of the side of his mouth, he said, “This is the second time we’re going out looking for the sonofabitch. Believe me, if we find him, there won’t be a third time, even if I have to shoot it off him.” Then they got into the car and drove away, toward the parkway.
Our mothers sat out on Tommy’s porch waiting for the men to come back, and also to find out if Joey was going to die. Tommy’s mother had tried calling Mary Immaculate Hospital, but, she said, just try getting anything out of those damn nuns. Then she apologized to Kathleen’s mother, who was Catholic like she was, but who actually went to church.
We kids waited over on my stoop. Patrick Reilly, who lived in the house on the other side of Tommy’s, sat with us even though he was twenty and in college. He had pale blue eyes and straight brown hair that always fell over his forehead. The whole street knew that Patrick Reilly was going to be a priest when he finished college, because he had a calling. I was intrigued by the word and at night I imagined Patrick, two houses away, having conversations with God.
While we waited, I kept thinking about Mr. Labowski shooting “it” off. I’d figured out what “it” was, but worried that if Mr. Labowski did that, the guy would die. Then I reminded myself that we’d made the whole story up. The man hadn’t been in the woods, so the fathers wouldn’t find him, and I didn’t have to worry about him getting shot.
Then the dark blue Oldsmobile that belonged to Joey Boy’s father came down the street and stopped in front of Tommy’s house. When Tommy’s mother rushed down from the porch, we started to go too, but Patrick Reilly said, “Let’s just stay here.”
Tommy’s mother walked over to the car and leaned down to talk to Joey Boy’s father. Then we heard her say, “Oh thank God. Thank God for that.” As the car pulled away, she walked back to the porch announcing, “A mild concussion. They’re keeping him overnight, but the doctor said that he’ll be fine.”
I remember feeling dizzy with relief. Freddie gave a whoop and jumped from the third step down to the sidewalk, bumping into Tommy. Then the two of them started jumping around, pretending to box. I made a face at how silly the boys were acting, and Patrick Reilly winked at me.
Just then, we heard an explosion of sound coming from the parkway, brakes screeching, metal crashing into metal. Suddenly, people were coming out of their houses, everyone racing in the direction of the noise. When we got onto the grass verge, Tommy and Freddie and I squeezed between the grownups to get up front so we could see. All the cars on both sides of the parkway were stopped. One car had smashed into the side of another, and a third car, with its front smashed in, had spun around and faced the wrong way. I saw my father leaning against Mr. Labowski’s car, which was up on the grass. He had an expression on his face that almost made him look like a stranger. Mr. Labowski was giving orders, yelling to a neighbor to call for an ambulance and to call the 105thPrecinct.
Then Tommy jabbed my arm and pointed to Kathleen’s father, who knelt beside something in the road. At first it looked like a bundle of old clothes. I remember thinking someone had thrown old clothes out a car window and that’s why the cars had crashed. But then I saw a head covered with blood and a brown jacket with an arm extending out of the sleeve, and I knew who it was.
People moved aside to make a path for the old man, the owner of the black dog, who was charging across the grass toward the body in the road. When he saw the body, he made a noise that I’d never heard a person make before. It sounded like an animal’s howl. He dropped to his knees and threw himself onto the body, crying, “Giorgio, mi figlio, mi figlio.”
Mr. Labowski was running his hand through his hair, saying, “Jesus H. Christ,” again and again. Then he reached down to touch the old man’s shoulder. The old man struggled to his feet and looked wildly around, at Mr. Labowski, at the people standing outside their cars, and at everyone crowded onto the grass. For a second I know he looked at me. He shook his fists at the sky and in a hoarse voice bellowed, “Assassino! Assassino! Who killed my Giorgio?”
Mr. Labowski, his hand still on the old man’s shoulder, spotted us and called to Patrick Reilly to get us the hell away from there. As Patrick led us across the service road, an ambulance and two police cars came screaming down the street. People moved out of the way so the cars could get up on the grass.
We followed Patrick back to my stoop.
It was starting to get dark by then, and the street felt deserted. I thought we must be the only ones who weren’t down by the parkway. I listened while Patrick tried to answer the boys’ questions, explaining what he thought had happened. He said it looked like Giorgio, the man in the brown jacket, had run into the middle of the parkway and a car hit him. Then the other cars smashed into each other when they tried to stop.
“It was an accident,” he said. “A terrible accident.”
“But why did he run into the road?” Freddie asked. “The guy must have been nuts.”
Patrick met Freddie’s words with silence. Then he said, “From what I heard, Tommy’s dad wanted to talk to him. He got scared and ran away.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” Tommy said. “He just wanted to talk to him. He wasn’t going to hurt him. The guy didn’t have to run away.”
“I guess he didn’t understand that,” Patrick said.
“Is he the old man’s son?” I asked, even though I’d already figured out that he was.
Yes, Giorgio was the old man’s son, Patrick told us. He’d been away for a long time, first in the army and then in a hospital. He’d just come back that summer to live with his father.
“Did you know him?” I asked.
“I talked to him once,” Patrick said. “I didn’t really know him.”
I felt myself try to push against time, almost like pedaling backward on my bike. What if Giorgio hadn’t come back? What if Joey Boy hadn’t followed us into the woods? What if Freddie hadn’t scared Joey Boy? What if—and now I was back in the woods, with Joey Boy lying on the path and the dog barking in the garden—what if I hadn’t been so smart and thought up the lie to tell Mr. Labowski?
I felt Patrick rest his hand on my head, and he said, “It was an accident, a very sad accident. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.” But I knew that wasn’t true. The car hitting Giorgio was an accident, but the lie that had been so easy to tell was not.
I remember the way the concrete stoop felt on my bare legs and the chill that suddenly took over my body. I hugged myself to keep from shivering and listened to Patrick Reilly’s voice, quiet and calm, talking to the boys. Suddenly, I knew what I would do. Kathleen had once explained confession to me: you tell the priest your sins, and he tells you to say some prayer, and then God forgives you. Kathleen was positive that you didn’t have to be Catholic. God forgave everyone as long as they confessed.
That’s what I would do, I decided. I would confess, tell Patrick Reilly about my lie that had sent the fathers looking for Giorgio, chasing him onto the parkway, into the traffic. If I confessed, God would forgive me. But I would have to wait until Patrick Reilly became a priest.
MY father died two months after that Christmas visit. I didn’t tell him the part I’d played in Giorgio’s death. I like to think I kept it from him for his sake and not my own.
After the funeral, I flew back to New York and drove through the old neighborhood. In the early sixties, real estate agents had swarmed like locusts through that part of Queens. They’d knocked on doors, warning families to sell or they’d be the last white people on the block. By the late sixties, my famil
y and most of those who’d settled the street twenty years earlier had moved to Nassau County.
When I took my ride through the neighborhood in early 1990, Linden Boulevard was shabby and run down, lined with empty storefronts. But the residential streets were quiet and neat, with well-tended homes and mature shade trees. The woods and the old man’s house were gone. The whole pre-war neighborhood behind our development had been replaced by small frame houses with picture windows and narrow front lawns.
I parked across the street from my old house, wondering about the people who lived there now. Someone had taken down my father’s cherry tree and added on a front porch. Tommy’s house had changed as well—dormers had been added to the attic—but Patrick Reilly’s house looked the same.
Years before, a neighbor with whom my parents kept in touch reported that the priest at a niece’s christening turned out to be, of all people, Patrick Reilly. When my mother passed the news along, the promise I’d made to myself that night, sitting and shivering on the stoop, came flooding back. I could actually do it now, I thought. I could track down Patrick Reilly and tell him what I’d never told anyone else. But what was the point? I’d long ago stopped believing in redemption.
MURDER IN THE ALADDIN’S CAVE
Lina Zeldovich
EVE entered the semidarkness of the Aladdin’s Cave pulling a small, wheeled suitcase with her costume and props. Middle Eastern music set the mood, and people danced between tables and chairs, their hips rising and dropping to the beat. The dress of the diverse Astoria crowd ranged from grunge to extravagant, the women wearing everything from jeans to gowns, while men wore T-shirts or jackets and ties.
“The diva is here,” Roy Robson greeted her from behind the bar. He slid a martini toward his customer and, no doubt hoping for a kiss, leaned over toward Eve. Eve smiled politely and offered him her cheek.
“See that table full of loud Turks?” He pointed at the largest table in the house. “The guy’s celebrating his fiftieth birthday, and they’re spending money like water. Already asked me for, like, fifty singles. Make sure you shimmy around them long enough to get it all.”
Ali, the second bartender, greeted Eve with a respectful head bow. As usual, he was dressed elegantly, tonight in a camel cashmere sweater.
“It’s a pleasure to have you with us again, Miss Gülnar,” he said in slightly accented English without stopping his mixing and shaking. A Muslim, he had never tasted alcohol, but that didn’t prevent him from pouring drinks with amazing speed and precision. “Would you be dancing the Candlelight Dance tonight, and if yes, would you like me to light the shamadan?”
The shamadan was a special candelabrum for belly dancers to wear on their heads. The Candlelight Dance was Eve’s specialty.
“Yes, please, and thank you,” she answered.
Ali gave her another courteous bow, his kind brown eyes glowing in Aladdin’s dim lights. Roy leaned over the bar again, and Eve drew back. It wasn’t even ten yet, and he already smelled of beer. The rules of bartending weren’t meant for Roy. In fact, no rules were meant for Roy. That was probably why women liked him so much, ignoring that he was always drunk and broke.
“Old Vasilakos is loaded with cash today,” he teased with a raised eyebrow. “He asked about you, so make sure to bring it by his table, too. Oh yeah, Mehmet says you’re on first.”
Eve barely had twenty minutes to change. She tried to push across the restaurant to the Sultan’s Tent, from which the dancers made their entrance, but wheeling her bag through the dancing crowd wasn’t easy. Aladdin’s Cave was just as cramped as most other New York restaurants. There was no real stage. The dancers shimmied in the center aisle along the tables, teasing customers by throwing veils around them and pulling them up to dance. The tight quarters helped to create the Aladdin’s intimacy and charm. After two hours in the Cave, people felt they knew each other.
Avoiding a bunch of young, jumping girls, Eve made a sharp turn and bumped headfirst into Alfonso.
“Hi chica,” he said, giving her a sultry grin as he balanced a tray full of dirty dishes. His slippery eyes ran up and down her body, and his black mustache stuck out like porcupine needles. Bumping into her probably made his day.
“Hi,” Eve said dryly, dodging him. Keeping her head down, she brushed past Boris Rublev’s table, avoiding his bodyguard’s eyes. Rumors had Boris in the Russian mafia, and everyone walked on eggshells around him. Luckily, he liked full-figured women. Eve was happy she wasn’t his type. She rushed into the tent, pushed on the door, and burst into the dressing room. A woman in harem pants and a white lace bra, too small for her voluptuous breasts, gasped and wrapped her arms around herself.
“Oh, Eve, you scared me!” she breathed out with relief.
“Leila! I didn’t know you were in here. Why didn’t you lock the door?”
“Because a screw fell out, and the stupid bolt doesn’t hold. Mehmet said he’d send someone to fix it.” Leila adjusted her bra and opened her arms for a hug. “I haven’t seen you for ages.”
Eve gave her a hug and a kiss. “I’m glad you’re dancing again. I guess you’re over it? I mean, over him?”
“Oh no,” Leila smiled. “We’re back together. We’re getting married!”
“Married?” Eve was stunned. She vividly remembered Leila’s hysterical crying when she found out her secret boyfriend had a bride. “Didn’t he get engaged?”
“It’s over,” Leila declared happily. “They broke up.”
“No kidding.”
“He never loved her,” Leila snapped. “He had to marry her for money.”
“I thought you said his family wanted him to marry her.”
“Yes, because she was rich. But he never loved her. He loves me! He told me so.”
“So he broke the engagement?”
“No,” Leila said with a catty smile. “I did. I called her and met with her and told her he had been seeing me for a while. She was so mad she broke the engagement.”
“I can’t believe you did that.”
“Allah, what else could I do? It was my only chance. Who’d ever marry me now when I’m not a virgin? My parents would kill me if they found out. They’ll be mad at me for not marrying my own kind, but it’s better than never getting married at all.”
Eve shook her head in sympathy, but she knew many Muslim families still had an old-fashioned view of marriage. You married your own kind, and virginity was vital. Eve’s parents were unique in giving her a Western upbringing. Others were not as lucky, including Ali, who resisted an arranged marriage until he was forty. Finally, he gave in to the family pressure.
“Inşallah—God willing—my wedding will be soon,” Leila sighed. “All these years of dancing will pay off.”
“So, can you finally tell me who he is?” Eve asked, but Leila shook her head, choosing to remain secretive about her boyfriend. Eve suspected he was somebody who worked for the restaurant. Sometimes she thought it was Mehmet, but Mehmet couldn’t have a bride. He was already married, and men didn’t marry multiple wives in the States.
“He bought me an engagement gift,” Leila said proudly. She took a veil out of her bag and spread it out. Two golden dancing peacocks were embroidered on the red silk. Leila did a butterfly veil-flip, stretched it behind her waist and snaked her corpulent hips against the shimmering fabric in figure-eight-like moves.
“Like it?”
“It’s beautiful,” Eve said. “But isn’t it too heavy to dance with? All those beads?”
“They’re very light,” Leila assured her and did a thrilling maya —a downward, single hip-sway, also in the form of a figure-eight. “And what are you gonna wear tonight?”
Eve took out her costume. Just a long black skirt and a top with jingling coins, no match for Leila’s extravagant golden peacocks. Eve had only one show-off item, a hand-made hip scarf with beads, coins, and Arabic embroidery that read Salaam Alaikum—“May peace be upon you.”
“How will you find yourself a husband
dressing up like that?” Leila rolled her eyes. “Have you looked in the mirror? You need kohl. You need more lipstick.”
As an ancient tradition, kohl was used to darken the eye area for a more dramatic look. Although it no longer contained lead and mercury, Eve stayed away from it.
“I don’t like wearing too much lipstick,” she said, taking off her jeans and shirt. Mother Nature had given her shiny black hair, dazzling eyes, and silky white skin. Too much gloss or make-up made her look like a slut.
Leila rolled her eyes again. “Get ready, then. You’re on first.”
It was considered more honorable to dance second, but dancing after Leila was a waste of time. Her voluptuous form swept through the Cave, driving men out of their minds. Eve had seen Leila stretch her gorgeous body crosswise from one table to another, her hip touching one tablecloth and her breasts quivering over the other. Eve could do a running shimmy for ten minutes without working up a sweat, but she simply didn’t have Leila’s flesh.
Swinging her veil, Leila warmed up by practicing rib-cage slides and chest thrusts. Suddenly, the door pushed open, and Alfonso barged in. Leila’s breasts, barely covered by white lace, rooted him to the floor, eye-squared and dumbstruck. Leila screeched, threw the veil over herself and caught it on the back of the chair, pulling the delicate silk.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Eve, still in her underwear, screamed.
“Mehmet say bring a screw,” Alfonso mumbled, his eyes darting back and forth between the dancers’ bodies. He didn’t even try to avoid looking.
“Give it to me,” Eve yanked the screw from his hand. “Did you bring a screwdriver?”
“Mehmet no say screwdriver.” Alfonso grinned, not in any hurry to leave. “I coming back.”
“Get out of here.” Eve pushed him out the door. “Asshole!” She pulled a hair clip out of her hair and used the metal part as a screwdriver. “That’ll do for now.”
Deadly Debut Page 3
