Deadly Debut

by New York Tri-State Chapter of Sisters in Crime

  So there I was, rummaging around in the cooler, while Mr. Rivera talked to a white guy in a sharp suit. His voice was very low, but I caught the words. “I just don’t have it today. It’s summer, my customers go away, and it’s been a bad week. Please. I just can’t.” The guy never even looked my way, but Rivera was begging me with his eyes, though I didn’t know what he was begging for. Go away? Stay and help? Keep quiet?

  I was thinking, What the hell is this?

  The guy in the suit wasn’t considering me at all. He was all business, removing his sunglasses, looking into Mr. Rivera’s eyes and tapping his rolled up newspaper on the counter. It took me a little while before I realized the paper had a metal pipe inside. Rivera kept darting his eyes down at it.

  Finally the man said, “Day after tomorrow. That’s it. End of story.” He slammed the countertop with the newspaper, and the hidden pipe clanged against the tile. When I heard the door close, I came out from behind the shelves and said, “Mr. Rivera, what is this? Are you in some trouble?”

  “Who, me? Nah. What could be wrong?”

  His hands shook, and his smile was as fake as the ten dollar “gold” watches people peddle on the street.

  I shook my head. “I know when something isn’t right. It’s my job, isn’t it? Should I take out my badge to remind you?”

  “No, no, no. You think I don’t recognize you in your street clothes?” He winked, doing a weak imitation of his usual self. “Cops sure have gotten cuter over the years. Here, honey, you take the soda, a gift from me, and I’ll throw in a whole flavor pack of chips. All different kinds. A meatball sub to take home for supper, too.” As he talked, he hustled me toward the door, loading me up with random extra snacks on the way.

  You didn’t have to be a cop to guess the problem was over some kind of payoff. Protection money? Loan sharking? I knew real banks wouldn’t always lend money around here, so people in need had to get it somewhere else. Gambling? Mr. Rivera didn’t seem like the Atlantic City type, but really, how could I know if he had a bad betting habit combined with worse luck?

  I wanted to help. I was outraged that a thug had invaded this neighborhood I’d been assigned to protect. Besides, Mr. Rivera was a nice old man. Everyone liked him, from the cops who stopped in on patrol, to the mouthy underage kids trying to buy beer, to the old ladies who wanted a bar of soap and a half-hour of conversation. That’s probably why he’d managed to stay in business all these years.

  The neighborhood has gone up and down a few times, I’ve been told, slowly dying with drugs and gangs, reviving as some of the century-old row houses were bought by stable immigrant families and then by young professionals. The area was Arab on the edges, West Indian at the core, sprinkled with Dominicans, and yuppifying on some blocks. The gangs were on their way out, but they weren’t gone from everywhere.

  Mr. Rivera just hung in there, adding ginger beer and hot pepper sauce and grape leaves, and lately, balsamic vinegar and organic granola to the corn flakes, Budweiser, and baby food, and he’d survived all these decades.

  I made up my mind to find a kid named Omar. I’d picked him up once for minor mischief, and when I let him go with just a warning to choose his associates more carefully, he’d been grateful. Now he worked part-time for Rivera. I told my partner Jimmy what was up, and he hung back to let me talk to my own source.

  I caught up with Omar a block from his school. “Let’s take a walk,” I said.

  “Am I in some kind of trouble? ’Cause I’ll tell you right now, I didn’t do nothing.”

  “See that you keep it that way. Today, I’m only looking for some information.”

  “I don’t rat on my friends.” Tough words in a shaky voice.

  “Do some of your friends need ratting on?” Omar looked shocked. “No, no, just kidding. It’s Mr. Rivera I want to know about.”

  “Good man. Never does nothing wrong. Won’t even sell smokes without you have an ID.”

  “Just what I figured, but I also figure he’s in some kind of trouble, and he won’t tell me what it is.”

  Omar went completely silent and looked around nervously.

  “What do you know?” I asked.

  “Not much. Mr. Rivera, he don’t tell me nothing.”

  “That doesn’t mean you don’t see plenty. You’re a smart guy. Come on, just give it up and don’t waste my time.”

  He swallowed hard. “Okay, a couple of times, I was there stocking shelves, and this kind of snaky dude comes in. White guy, suit, flashy rings.”

  “Big sunglasses? Dark hair?”

  “You know him? And him and the boss have words, you know? And Mr. Rivera, I know he was scared.”

  “Excellent information. Thank you. Anything else?”

  “I never seen him again, just those times.”

  I stopped right there on the street, looked him straight in the eyes as tough as I could, and said, “I’m counting on you to tell me if anything else happens, if he comes back. Anything. Are you hearing me?”

  He nodded solemnly. “Mr. Rivera, he’s been good to me. You want me to keep looking out for him, I’m down with it. I come to you if there’s anything up?”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  We were almost at the playground, crowded with teens playing basketball.

  “Okay, scram. You don’t have to walk past your friends with me.”

  THE day the man said he would come back, I was already there, doing a prolonged examination of the different brands of crackers in the store, purposely hanging around after my shift. The shelving kept me mostly out of sight, but allowed me to see right up to the front. I was in the perfect undercover outfit, street clothes, disguised as a regular citizen.

  Mr. Rivera had turned white when I walked in, but I didn’t say a word. I just picked up a plastic shopping basket and stepped to the back of the store. When the mystery man arrived, Rivera handed him an envelope. I didn’t just imagine his shaking hands.

  The man in the suit wrote in his little book, slammed his fist on the counter, said, “Next time I won’t be Mr. Nice Guy,” and walked out. Because I had positioned myself where I could see him leave and get into a double-parked black car, I made it to the front of the store just in time to write down the license plate.

  Mr. Rivera put his hand over mine and moaned. “No, no, no. You mustn’t do that. You don’t understand.”

  “Tell me about it.” I patted his trembling hand. “I want to help. I can help.”

  He shook his head. “No, honey, you can’t. And I’m not getting you involved in this. I got to lie in the bed I made.”

  I said, “I understand,” and left. Of course that was a lie. I did not understand, but I was going to.

  After that I decided to stop by the store more often, and Jimmy and I stayed on the lookout for that guy or that car all the time. I was alone when I did finally spot the car. I felt a petty satisfaction in writing him a parking ticket, but the guy caught me at it, grabbed my hand, crushed my fingers into the pen, and said, “Let it go.”

  I looked him straight in the dark glasses and said, “Can’t do that. If you don’t know it’s illegal to park at a hydrant, I’d be happy to send you back to driving school, but I’m sure you do know better.” I handed him the ticket.

  “You should know better. I don’t pay tickets. I don’t even get tickets.” He ripped it to confetti, threw the tiny pieces into the gutter, and gripped my arm tight enough to bruise. “Don’t make this mistake again.” He was in his car and peeling down the street in an instant.

  Then I cursed myself for not responding faster. Preferably with violence. I knew he meant to intimidate me, but I wasn’t intimidated. I was furious.

  I didn’t know what to do about it though. I could imagine my sergeant’s face if went to him saying some jerk was being mean to me on the street. And I couldn’t look up the guy’s plate number on my own. It had to be part of an investigation. And there wouldn’t be one, unless Rivera made a complaint or I caught the jerk at som
ething.

  I needed advice. I thought about calling the best cop I knew, but though I kept opening my cellphone, I couldn’t bring myself to punch any of the numbers labeled “Dad.” A call on purpose would be too much of a concession. Instead, I would cadge dinner and free laundry at the folks’ and kind of slip my concerns into the conversation.

  There was the usual discussion about how my car was running, then the usual attempts to find out about my love life. I fended them off, also as usual. When I did bring up the Rivera situation as casually as possible over Mom’s peach cobbler, Dad looked startled. He made a fast recovery, but I knew I had seen it.

  “Rivera’s place?” he said. “It’s still there? I remember him from way back when Sandy and I were assigned to the neighborhood, a couple lifetimes ago. There was one time . . .” He was starting a yarn. I knew he was blowing a smoke screen. I just didn’t know why.

  I cut in. “Obviously, it still is there. I just can’t figure out what my next step should be.”

  Dad looked away, as if he couldn’t look me in the eyes, and said, “Your next step should be stepping away.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, I’m not. Ellie, listen to reason for once in your hothead life. You’re still new at this. You have no idea what you might be getting into. Chest deep. Scum running this kind of racket, these bullies, you have no idea what they can do.” His tone rose at every word. I forgot, for a while, that his voice had started with a tremor.

  “I’m not new anymore.” I could feel myself turning red. “And I’m not a hothead, either. I sure didn’t battle expressway traffic all the way out here to be insulted like this.” Where was Mom when I needed her? Down in the basement with my laundry, I’d bet.

  “Honey, I’m just looking after you. Hand it over to the big boys. This is quicksand . . .”

  “Dammit, Dad, I’m a cop. Get it? C-O-P. I can put a six-foot drunk in cuffs!” I stood up ready to stalk out. “If you won’t help me, I’ll handle it myself!” Then I did stalk out, so angry I left my laundry behind.

  I would go talk to the man I used to call Uncle Sandy. He wasn’t my uncle, but my Dad’s old friend, one of the guys in the photo on Dad’s dresser, clowning for the camera the day they’d graduated from the academy. My first shift on the job, Sandy had called to kid me about how long a Barbie doll from the neat, green suburbs would last here on the mean streets of Brooklyn. “Just watch me,” was all I answered.

  When I phoned him, he said, “Advice? I’d be flattered. Sure, honey, meet me when you get off today. Bridge Inn on Flatbush. You know it? Couple blocks from the Brooklyn Bridge approach? We can grab a beer before we head home.”

  Why did everyone call me “honey?” I wondered. I bet they wouldn’t if I was five-ten and had big biceps.

  The bar was dark and cool and almost empty in the late afternoon. Sandy looked older than I remembered, but he still had that full head of gray hair my bald father envied.

  Sandy nodded as I described the situation, and he said, “You did right. Something sounds dirty there. You got the plate number? Good girl! Give it here and I’ll follow up. He didn’t look like a gang banger, right? More mature guy? We both know what it sounds like, but a hunch ain’t evidence. I’ll look around in the neighborhood myself, ask a few questions, talk to my friends in Organized Crime.” He could see me hesitate. “What’s wrong?”

  “I feel kind of like I found this, so I want to see it through. You know?”

  “Sure I know. But you can’t investigate. You don’t have the rank, you’re in uniform, you’re going to attract too much attention.”

  He put up a hand to stop my protest.

  “All kinds of people will get messed up, if you step into deep waters you don’t understand. Good people, too. Even the best people.” He gave me a hard look. “Get me? Forget this now.”

  Then he smiled. “You’re a real officer in the making, but you’d be in over your head on this. I’m just looking out for you. I’ve got to do that, you know. The first time I met you was a Christmas party. You were just a tiny thing in a red dress with a candy cane in your hand.”

  Something I did learn from my dad—if you want to get someone to talk, shut up yourself. The silence makes people nervous and they rush in to fill it up. My brother and I spilled a few guilty secrets before we caught on to that one.

  He returned my blank gaze, then suddenly laughed out loud and patted my hand again. “Honey, you’ve got the look down perfect, but you should know you can’t kid a kidder, not one who’s been on the job longer than you’ve been alive. I’m not falling into that pit, so just trust me, and stay off it. No more parking tickets.”

  By then we were out in front, ready to go our separate ways. He chucked me under the chin, kissed me on the cheek, and said, “You’re a good girl. You’ll be a good cop, too.”

  All the way home, I was thinking hard. I didn’t remember the Christmas party, but I did remember him at barbecues on our deck, frankfurters on the grill, beer bottles in a tub of ice. I would be running in and out of the sprinkler with the other little kids, or sneaking beers behind the garage when we were older. None of those kids were his, and if he was “Uncle” Sandy, I didn’t remember an “Aunt” Sandy to go with him. Maybe a few different women on his arm over the years, all with bright red lipstick.

  Walking down Memory Lane was certainly very sweet, but I had to wonder how a middle-aged white guy in a suit, asking questions, could be less noticeable than me in this mostly-immigrant, mostly dark-skinned neighborhood. I could pass for one of the students who shared the cheap apartments, but who wouldn’t make him for a cop, no matter how plain-clothed he was? And all those warnings? I couldn’t get rid of the hunch he was gaming me somehow, but I couldn’t figure out why. I even wondered if he had talked to Dad about protecting me. I wouldn’t put it past either of them.

  I started to call Dad and confront him on that, but I knew my interrogation skills were not yet up to breaking him down. Oh, right, and I wasn’t speaking to him anyway.

  THE next morning, on my way in, I stopped to get an iced tea, and Mr. Rivera could barely get a paper cup off the stack. All the fingers on his right hand were bandaged and splinted.

  “What happened?”

  He looked wary and then smiled sheepishly. “I was moving a case of beer and I dropped it. Broke some fingers.” He shrugged. “I know, I know, my wife says I’m too old for this kind of thing, but what can I do? I got to run the store.”

  “Geez, that must have hurt! “

  “I’m taking a lot of aspirin.” He winced. “It’s not working as good as last time, though.” He seemed to hear his own words and closed his mouth abruptly.

  “Last time? You’ve done this before?”

  He shook his head. “Yeah, I drop things, sometimes. This is hard work, this place. Sometimes I fall, I get hurt.”

  He shoved the tea at me, and muttered, “Got to get back to shelving.”

  A little chill ran down my back. I’d been taught that accident-prone is how women who are being abused describe themselves: I ran into a door, I fell down the stairs.

  I slammed my fist on the counter. “Damn it, I know what’s going on! And I talked to a family friend who’s a detective, and he’s looking into it. We can help, you know!”

  The old man had tears in his eyes. “You don’t know nothing about what’s going on. Now get out. I’ve got work to do.” He went to the door, turned the sign over to say “Closed,” and held the door open. It was way more than a hint that I should go away.

  I did, but I was going to look for Omar today. He found me first, though, before I even reported to work.

  “That badass guy we talked about? He was in one more time, with someone else. And the someone else has been there a couple of times, too. Just didn’t notice him before.” A sudden stop and a long silence, as if he was having second thoughts about his information.

  “Come on, buddy. I don’t have all day.”

  A big swallo
w. A look all around. A whisper. “He seemed like he could be a cop, only in regular clothes.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “You know. A cop.”

  “I’m a cop, Omar. Did he look like me?

  “Hell no.”

  “Give, damn it.”

  “He was a white guy, old, but not real old. Big.”

  “And? What else? You must have noticed something.”

  Omar shot me a look of disbelief. “Now why would I notice anything else? He’s just some old white guy in boring clothes.” He put himself to the trouble of explaining. “I noticed the other white guy cause of his flashy suit and rings.”

  I gave him a hostile look. He conceded.

  “Oh yeah, this one was wearing a jacket. Ugly, nylon hoodie kind of thing.”

  I thought, a jacket on a hot summer day? To hide a gun? Omar could be right about him being a cop.

  Silence.

  “Come on, spit it out.”

  “I don’t really know anything else, but seemed like Mr. Rivera was more scared after.”

  So, the nasty guy in the big black car never paid tickets, someone had hurt Rivera, a possible cop had visited, and Rivera seemed more scared afterward. What the hell had I gotten into here?

  Omar took off, and then came back for just a second. “Forgot something.”

  “Tell.”

  “He had a friend with him, one of those times, waiting out in the car. I mean the maybe cop guy.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, you said you wanted to know everything, so I’m telling you. “ He shrugged. “I didn’t get a real good look, but he was a white guy too, and maybe bald? And the car was different, too. Still a boring cop car, like they always drive. Fords, ya know? No style. But this one had like three shields on it.” He made a sketching gesture with his hand. “Dark red.” He ran off again.

  Dark red. Three shields was a Buick. I knew that right away, because it sounded like my mom’s own car. The description sounded like her car, and it felt like a stomach punch, because it also meant I knew a bald cop who drives a similar one when his own is in the shop.