by Ed Lacy
Louisa winked. “What is the saying about every dark cloud and the silver lining? The detective was not so much interested in me but in Leon. Despite my telling him I haven’t seen that louse in two years, he thinks perhaps Leon also knew about me and Harry, without my knowing it, and that Leon was after Harry. I told him that was all very silly, but the good thing is, the detective is now looking for Leon. Maybe the Relief can’t find him but I bet the police do! I told him all I could about Leon …”
“Louisa, do you hear the words coming from your mouth? La jara hunting for Leon, that is a good thing?”
“He has nothing to do with Harry, that I am positive,” Louisa said, opening one of the two packs I bought her. “But once they find him, he will have to give something to support his kids. That’s what will be good.”
“You shouldn’t have put the police on Leon, much as you hate him. What if he can manage to give a few dollars a week, it will only be deducted from the Relief … Do you want Leon back?”
She blew twin clouds of smoke through her nose, something she was very proud of being able to do. “Yes and no. While I hate him for leaving me, I also am aware that when things become too heavy, the weak drop them and flee. Leon had too small shoulders for the load he was carrying, no abilty except to brag. While I do not love him, maybe we can work something out. I’m young and there can be no divorce: what else is there for me? For the kids? If I could get into the dress union, and Leon got any little bit of a job, we could manage fine. But first let them find him. Maybe he is dead.”
“How can you say that?” I asked, shocked.
“Why not? Have I heard a word from him in—Nina will be two soon—in over two years? Have his own parents, unless they lie to me, and I don’t think they lie? Understand, I do not wish him dead, but if he is, I want to know. Perhaps I can remarry. Oh I’m a great catch, a fat young widow with three snot-nosed kids!” Louisa blew more smoke through her nose, like a trained seal. “Don’t mind me, I’m running my mouth. Let Leon be found and then we shall see.”
“That was all the detective asked?”
Louisa nodded. “He was really a nice fellow for a cop, soft spoken and polite. And he speaks Spanish.”
I stood up. “Louisa, you really have no idea where Harry might be?”
“Me? Would I tell you anything but the truth?”
“I must go now. Can you use a dollar or two?”
“Not from the mouths of your family.”
“Take a few bucks.”
“No. When I need your money I will ask for it to your face. Where do you think fat Harry is?”
“God knows.”
Louisa crossed herself. “Don’t be blasphemous, Jose!”
“I am not. I truly meant it.”
Walking out of the candy store, I saw some papers on a rack and asked the man if he had the civil service paper. He said no. When I told Louisa I was considering taking the police exam, she broke into such shrill laughter, others in the store turned to look at us. I asked, “What is the joke?”
“Somehow it is very funny, a Hispano becoming a cop!” Louisa said, still giggling so hard she was crying.
It was well after eight when I left Louisa, headed for home. For no reason, as I was waiting for a train on the subway platform, I phoned Harry’s store. I heard a busy signal and grinned with relief: he was back, he was okay. Although I wanted to rush home and be with Helen very much, I also wanted to know what happened to him. It would only be another half hour to satisfy my curiosity, so I took the subway up to his store.
The butcher shop was dark, locked. I called myself a tired jackass: I should have waited in the subway booth, phoned again. Now Harry had gone on home. What I really needed was to unwind in my Helen’s arms, but perhaps to counter my foolish feeling, I suddenly ran for a passing Bronx bus, telling myself it would only take a few extra minutes.
On the corner of Harry’s block there is a modern candy and stationery store, blinding with neon lights. They had the civil service papers on their stand, and I took a copy. Some teen-agers in shirts and pants tighter than their crew-cuts, were hanging around the soda fountain. Seemed to me they stopped talking when I entered to pay for the paper.
Turning into Harry’s street was a charge, it was actually cool and breezy. Families were sitting on their porches, TVs and radios going, but not too loudly. Trees lined the street and out of one backyard came the smell of barbecued meat. Living would be wonderful up here, a real yard for Henry. I might even grow a garden—plenty of room for us all. But the expense, man, a killer. Furniture alone would be at least a thousand and where would we get that kind of money after paying down on the house? Although I’ve always prided myself on being one Latino too wise for the installment buying swindle … we’d have to put ourselves in hock for the furniture that way. With the installment payments and the mortgage interest it would be a hell of a strain. Maybe Helen was right … But think of a house, of my own …
• • •
The light was on in the living room of Harry’s house, which meant he was home. In a block of fine homes, like those of la primera in the island, Harry’s stood out. For while the other houses were on flat land and one had to walk up steps to get into them, the ground around his house was sunken, one walked down from the sidewalk to reach his house, which was on a level with the well kept lawn. When I bought the house I would plant flowers instead of mere grass … if it didn’t look too loud.
I was ready to turn and head back home, now that I was sure Harry was okay, but my curiosity got the best of me. I wanted to know what had happened to him, if he had got his money and keys from the police station. So I walked down and along the path and rang the bell. He had chimes on his door and they sounded fine. There was a rush of footsteps, somebody was running, and when the door was yanked open, May stood there. She looked as if she had been crying, and also as if I was the very last person on earth she wanted to see. In a shaky voice she said,” Hello … Joe.”
Her voice was always much like herself, flat and plain, only now it had a nervous note in it, perhaps of sadness. Although I figured her for about 33, May could have been any age. She had this thin figure which could be old or very young; she probably hadn’t gained a pound since she was 15. Her face was also thin but with a great intenseness to it. Her hair was too blonde and she used lipstick to make her lips look thicker. It merely made her look a bit like a clown. She seemed drawn and tired and when we first saw her last night, as I told Helen later, it was odd that a plump guy like Harry married this little bag of bones.
I said, “Good evening, Mrs. Simmons. Can I speak to Harry?”
“He … isn’t home. I thought you were him. I … guess he’s working late at the store.”
“Maybe,” I said, certain the people sitting on the verandas and porches of the houses on either side were watching us in the darkness. “I mean, I just phoned the store and didn’t get any answer.”
“I know, I’ve been calling too. Harry … well, he must have gone to the market. You know how it is in the trade, sometimes another butcher calls and Harry gets a good buy. But he usually phones if he’s going to be this late. I can’t understand … Did you decide about the house?”
“No, not as yet. I was merely in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop in. That is … I wanted to get the information about the mortgage clear. Also, perhaps we could work out a deal on buying at least some of your furniture…. if you plan to move into a small apartment.” The words stumbled out of my mouth. I was never good at lying.
“You’ll have to talk that over with Harry. He knows about such details.” She hesitated, then asked, “Would you like to come in and wait?”
“No, it is late and my wife awaits me.”
“Your wife is beautiful.”
“Thank you,” I said, surprised. “When Harry comes … you won’t say I stopped by.”
The hand with which she was holding the door open began to shake a little. We both noticed it. Suddenly she looked a
t her feet and said, as if talking to herself, “Everything is so tight. You see, Harry…. I feel sorry for him. I want to be good to him yet I nag. Poor Harry, he’s half out of his mind with money worries. The store won’t show a cent for a year, but he has to stick it out. Then it will be a goldmine with the new houses. Perhaps he went down tonight to see about working in the slaughter houses again. It’s a terrible job. Either he was in the freezer all day and came home drunk and sick, or the noise and screams of the dying animals drove him nuts. He worked there five years to save up for the store. Now we’ll lose it and without a store Harry is … well, who knows what will happen?”
“It may not be so bad,” I said, as if I knew what I was talking about, wanting to reach over and pat her thin shoulder. May looked the very picture of despair. “Harry is the kind who will always … how you say … land on his feet.”
May nodded without looking up at me. “I used to think that. I didn’t mind working again. Isn’t as if we have kids to keep me home. And Harry is a hustler all right, but this has become too much for him. I don’t fool myself, he’ll never be a big man, that is, really rich. He lies awake at night, worrying, or when he sleeps, he moans. I’m afraid he has lost confidence in himself. And there’s a big difference between driving ahead and being desperate. That’s why he was even willing to sell you the house. Although he damn well knows he shouldn’t …”
I turned and walked across the lawn. As I reached the sidewalk and headed for the corner, I had a swift picture of her still standing in the doorway, head down. Perhaps May didn’t even know I’d gone. “… even willing to sell you the house …” Oh Dios Mio, didn’t you give the blancos one drop of sense? They treat us as if we were sticks of furniture. May, telling me her troubles, like we were friends, and all of a sudden … the kick in the ass. What was worse, she probably didn’t even realize what she had said. “… even willing to sell you …”
I walked up the block so full of numb anger I no longer gave a damn where Harry was. Even when one of them was willing to do you a favor, they had to make it seem like we were dirt, and they were killing themselves for being decent. Goddamn all blancos.
I passed the store on the corner where I’d bought the paper, considered stopping for a soda to cool off. But I kept going—wanted to get back to Helen’s arms as fast as possible. I’d been foolish to give up my evening.
As you walk to the subway the street runs down a small hill and under an overpass—the Grand Concourse, heavy with cars. It was dark directly under the overpass and of course it was there they picked to rush me. One dived for my legs, another grabbed my neck like a mugger, while the third threw a wild punch which missed as I went down. A passing headlight glare from a car above gave me a brief view of the crew-cuts and tight pants of the teenagers. The one who punched, grunted, “Greaseball, the news is you’re thinking of moving in here, taking over! That won’t be a healthy move for you!”
Even though I couldn’t see his lips I knew he was talking like something off a movie screen: tough, tightlipped talk. I rolled over and over, trying to get from under as I curled up—hands across my stomach—to protect myself from kicks. There wasn’t any stomping. These were punk kids with no real fighting knowledge. I had a moment of freedom and managed to reach a squat position, which gave me punching room. I sensed one coming at me and my left hook smacked him low in the belly. He gushed out air with the hissing moan of a flat tire. Standing, I turned and hit another above the kidney with my right. He had never been hit by a boxer before—I heard him drop to the dirt and sidewalk. The third one was on the ground, hands on my ankle. Kicking my foot loose, I reached down and pulled him up, belting him in the belly with a hard one-two. He dropped like a sack.
I started running, grateful for the darkness of night. I had to flee before a cop came and wrapped his nightstick around my head, asking what it was all about later. Yet this hot, tearing anger inside me forced my feet to an abrupt stop. Turning, I asked, “What are you, animals? Jumping out of the dark like a dog pack! Why? Why? Tell me once, why, you stupids? Stupid! Stupid …”
Then I started running again. A block later when I slowed to a fast walk, I realized not only were my eyes wet with anger, but I had even shouted at them in Spanish.
In the light of a corner lamp post I brushed myself off, and a few blocks later I was lucky to come upon a bus which took me over to Broadway, and the subway downtown.
It was nearly midnight when I reached our hotel and the muffled noise of the radios and TVs gave me a sense of warmth and security. I’d been smart hitting them in the stomachs, no marks to prove anything, if the police were after me. But with a Hispano involved nothing ever had to be proved.
Helen was watching a movie on TV but immediately rushed across the room and asked, “What happened, Joe?”
“Happened? Nothing happened?” But how is it she can always tell when I’m boiling inside, as if my skin were of glass? She touched a dirt spot on my shirt and I told her, “That, I slipped. Harry hasn’t shown yet. Now I will take a bath and …”
She kissed me, her lips such a soft caress. “What happened?”
“Nothing. Couple of big kids jumped me.”
She ran her hands over me. “Are you hurt? Did they have knives?”
“No, I am not at all hurt. All they had was stupid courage. The fact is I flattened the three of them like a champ.” As I said the words I felt the coiling tension suddenly leave me. I felt fine—it wasn’t anything, certainly not a matter for the police. True, if we moved into Harry’s house they might annoy us … but I’d probably scared some respect into them. Big kids like that, would be ashamed to run to the police….
“Where did all this happen?”
I kissed Helen. “It is nothing, I assure you. I am tired and want my bath, so we can watch TV. A Western, maybe!” I added, kidding her. The Indians always being the bad ones in the old TV Westerns drove Helen wild.
As I undressed, she asked, “Did you see Louisa and May?”
“Yes. They know nothing of Harry. The detective was around to see Louisa. He’s truly a clever cop to find her so fast. Imagine, the police are looking for Leon. Louisa feels that is good, that they will find him.”
“Why does she want that louse back?”
Putting on my old robe I opened the door. “She is young and wants to be waiting in a room for her husband to return from his bath.”
To my surprise the water was actually hot and soaking in the tub was a relaxing luxury. When I got to our room we turned off the light and undressed, so as not to give anybody a show through the uncurtained window. I again asked Helen to buy curtains and she went off into a speech about seeing the housing authorities in the morning.
We sat in bed and watched the TV. Sometimes I am sure this is indeed the greatest of inventions; where else can a man enjoy a show while sitting in his own bed and touching his wife’s nude body at the same time? As usual, I went to sleep and dimly awoke for a moment later as Helen got up to take care of Henry’s last bottle, and turn off the set … followed by the soothing warmth of her skin settling beside me.
Then she was shaking me. I opened my eyes at the darkness of the room. Helen whispered, “Joe, somebody is at the door.”
Getting out of bed, I heard the knocking. Switching on the light I thought we had only been asleep a few seconds, but the alarm-clock showed 3:12 A. M. The banging grew louder. I said, “Stop it, you awake my child. Who do you want?” I spoke in Spanish.
Also in Spanish a voice answered,” Open up, it is the police.”
I opened the door to see London and another man, the typical burly policeman. For some reason they ran their eyes down me and I was embarrassed at not having shorts on. London looked sleepy himself, but there was no sleep in his voice as he snapped, “Get dressed, Jose. You’re coming with us.”
“Look, they jumped me. What else could I do but hit back?”
“What? Who jumped you?”
“The kids—uptown.” I could have b
itten my tongue.
“I don’t know anything about that. Come on.” London and the other pushed forward, so they were inside our room.
Helen, sitting up in bed, asked, “What is it?” She only had on this thin T-shirt, her breasts and nipples were plainly seen.
“This your wife?” London asked me, and the other stared at Helen with such open desire on his big face, I grabbed my hands to keep from hitting him. I said, “Get under the covers, Helen!”
She pulled the sheet up to her shoulders and London was still staring at her, but more with curiosity than desire. He said in Spanish, “We must talk to your husband.”
“Say it in English,” Helen told him. “Did Harry turn up?”
“Yes.” London nodded to me. “Get dressed.” The other let his eyes wander around the room as if he was in a zoo.
I slipped on my shorts, pants, socks, a sweater, and shoes. I started to wash my face in the sink, but London said, “Come on.”
I went over and kissed Helen. Her eyes, the strong grasp of her brown fingers on my shoulder, reflected the fright we both felt. I whispered, “Don’t worry. I’ll be home in a few hours.”
“But if Harry has returned, why must you go?”
As I gave her a final pat and walked with them to the door, Helen asked London, “Is Harry hurt or in some trouble?”
“No—he’s dead. Let’s go, Jose.”
Chapter 5
IT WAS A nightmare walking down the hallway and from the solid silence, even for that early hour, I knew the other roomers were awake and listening behind their doors. This was a “police-silence.” As we passed the bathroom I asked, “Detective London, is it okay if I stop here?”
“Make it fast and leave the door open.”
The other detective wrinkled up his thick nose, muttered something about.” Stinks … like pigs.”
It was real and I was so stupid I could not understand why I had to keep the door open, and so embarrassed I was unable to relieve myself.
Downstairs, Eric stared at me with sad eyes, and then I was racing away in the squad car. The siren made a wail of doom in the night quiet. I sat between them. The other detective was driving. For some reason I noticed his clothes did not have the sharpness of London’s. I said to London, “It is hard to believe Harry is dead. How did it happen?”
