El Bronx (The Isaac Sidel Novels)

by Jerome Charyn

  A tear settled under Marianna’s eye. She grabbed the vodka bottle away from Clarice, ordered her out of the terrace, and put her to bed. It wasn’t even six P.M., but Clarice curled up and started to snore. And then Marianna thought of a treat for Alyosha and herself. She whipped up some batter in an enormous bowl, prepared her old standard, mocha chip. And while the cookies ripened in the oven, she climbed into the shower with Alyosha, and she wasn’t ashamed of revealing herself. She kissed him under that storm of water, and his dark blue eyes seemed to notice her nakedness.

  “Alyosha, don’t be afraid.”

  “Merlin,” he said. That was the only sound he made, and Marianna would have kissed him for hours if she hadn’t smelled the burning batter. She abandoned Alyosha for a minute and ran in to save her cookies.

  24

  Mimi Brothers was outside the Castle Motel, chatting with Abner Gumm on her radio. “Shooter, it’s a dead night … I can’t even feed any of the girls. Wait a second. I think I found a john. He looks kind of funny, like a chicken that floated in from Wall Street.”

  She’d sucked on too many pipes with the other girls. Her eyes had gotten bleary. She didn’t recognize the john in the banker’s suit until he was close enough to cover the mouth of her radio. It was Sidel, wearing the only disguise that could have fooled Nurse Mimi Brothers. Without his baggy pants, he looked like any other mayor.

  “Mimi, tell Ab to come on out.”

  “And what if I won’t?” she said.

  “Then I’ll lock you in your nurse’s van for the rest of your fucking life.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Mimi said. “You don’t have the balls … I could knock you flat on your ass.”

  He might have had pity for the godmother at a whore’s motel, but this godmother was Abner’s spy. She flexed her muscles, revealed the tattoo on her left bicep. Heart of Gold. The three words began to wiggle. She was hoping to crack the Big Guy in the head while he watched the tattoo, drag him into the van, and deal with him any way the Shooter wanted. But the Big Guy grabbed her fist and squeezed with both hands. The nurse howled. She was still clutching the radio.

  “Call him,” Isaac whispered.

  “Shooter,” she rasped into the radio. “I have a cash problem. Will ya meet me at the van?”

  Isaac heard the Shooter growl, “I’m busy, babe … right in the middle of my nap.”

  “It will only take a sec.”

  The Shooter marched out of the motel in his bathrobe and slippers. Isaac stood behind the nurse, obscured by her bulk. The blood rushed into his temples. His blue vein was pulsing like mad. He didn’t have to play Fantômas. He was the king of crime. He took the Shooter and tossed him into the van with Mimi Brothers. The stink sickened him. The van smelled of rotting chocolate and rat turds. That was Mimi’s atmosphere.

  She reached for one of her baseball bats. Isaac had to clip her on the forehead, and she fell into the Shooter’s arms. “Mr. Mayor, have you gone out of your mind?”

  “Shut up. Ab, you’ve been milking the Bronx for fifty years, ever since you inherited that box camera. It was never a hobby. It was a fucking poisonous vocation. Who was your first subject, Ab? Tell the truth?”

  “Naked girls,” the Shooter said. “I stood outside their bathroom window, on the fire escape, photographed them before they got into the tub. It was grand. Isaac, isn’t that what you’d say?”

  “Never mind what I’d say. You sold the pictures, huh?”

  “To every man and boy in the neighborhood.”

  “You were the Bronx Audubon, a bird watcher … but you graduated from bathroom windows, didn’t you, Ab? You ranged the Bronx with your camera, walked everywhere, old, reliable Ab, the infant prodigy. You hooked up with the gangs, became their watchman.”

  “It was my own idea,” the Shooter said. “Who would ever suspect me? An innocent with a child’s camera. I could climb under any police cordon, warn a gang when the bulls were coming.”

  “Ah, but it was only pennies … until crack came along.”

  “Isaac, I didn’t invent drugs.”

  “But you did work for the Bronx brigade.”

  “Of course. You couldn’t last one day in the Bronx without Brock Richardson. I had to climb aboard.”

  “And you danced between him and the Dominicans.”

  “Brock had already massacred the local gangs. He needed the Dominoes. Martin Lima was the only one who had any cash.”

  “And you, Ab?”

  “I’m struggling,” the Shooter said. “I have holes in my pants, like the mayor of New York.”

  “Then you must be blind, even with your camera. I’m wearing a million-dollar suit, Persian wool.”

  “It’s the clothes of a candidate.”

  “Shut up,” Isaac said. “Where’s Barbarossa?”

  “You think I have him inside the motel? Take a look. I’ll even lend you a piece of ass.”

  Isaac tapped him once on the skull. “Where’s Barbarossa?”

  “Richardson has him. I’m not privy to his secrets. I do portraits for him. I’m the house photographer.”

  Isaac tapped him again. “We can do this all day. Ab, where’s Barbarossa?”.

  “At Claremont Village,” the Shooter said.

  “I’m a baby,” Isaac muttered, giving himself a wicked slap on the head. “Claremont Village … Richardson doesn’t need any other roost. It’s the one place I would never have bothered to search. That fucker is in league with African Dave.”

  “It’s not Dave’s fault. The other warlords on the roof were ganging up against him. He had to go to Richardson. The Apaches threatened to burn down Claremont Village and start smoking warlords off the roof. They have no scruples. Dave’s own children would have died.”

  “Dave’s a bachelor,” Isaac said. “All the warlords are. They’re like a bunch of nomads on that roof.”

  “They’re still family men,” the Shooter insisted. “Dave himself has six wives. I had a session with the entire brood. Should I show you?”

  “Shut up. You’re taking me to Barbarossa. You’re gonna walk me right up to the roof.”

  “In my bathrobe? It’s almost winter.”

  “I’ll hug you, Ab. I’ll keep you warm.”

  “But lemme get my camera. I can’t travel without that box. I get the shakes. I’ll tell Dave that I’m coming to photograph Barbarossa.”

  “Good,” Isaac said. “You’ll photograph him without your camera.”

  He tied up the nurse with a ratty piece of rope, stuffed two stockings into her mouth, kicked Abner Gumm out of the van, marched him across the Grand Concourse and down the hill to Claremont Village and its merciless regimen of lights, like half-dead eyes in an endless world.

  The Shooter had never been this long without his box camera. He lost all sense of harmony, the musical call that kept him alive, his own special rapture when he clicked and clicked. He had to frame things, catch the world through the eye of his camera or else he wasn’t happy.

  “Isaac, I’m sinking,” he said. “I won’t be coherent enough to help.”

  “Not to worry. I’ll build a fire in your ass. The words will come.”

  They stood in the central garden, among the demolished playpens; not even the huge concrete turtles that had been built into the ground like reptilian gods could withstand the ravages of Claremont Village; their noses and eyes and legs had been chopped off; their shells had become a porous powder: these turtles were bald. Isaac wondered how many children had climbed onto the turtles’ backs. They were the most dependable creatures in the project.

  He nudged the Shooter. “Wave,” he said. “This is your country, not mine. I’m an uninvited guest.”

  The Shooter managed to smile. “I’m shocked. This is City housing. Claremont is your country.”

  “Wave, Shooter, or I’ll let you sleep with the turtles.”

  The Shooter waved. Suddenly he and Isaac were drowned in searchlights, like two men caught in a colorless rainbow.
“It’s all right,” the Shooter said. “They recognize us.” He darted out of the rainbow with Isaac, but the elevators were broken, and they had to climb nineteen flights; both of them were dizzy when they landed on the roof.

  Barbarossa was handcuffed to a lead chair, the kind that was used at precincts to prevent prisoners from running off like wild turkeys with whatever furniture they were chained to. Richardson must have supplied African Dave with the chair. Two teen-aged girls were sitting in his lap, fondling Barbarossa while they smoked their little pipes. They both had Glocks inside their garters. Isaac recognized Martin Lima’s crack babies who tore up the Bronx from inside a white Cadillac. The prince himself was a pockmarked boy worth millions of dollars. He wore an Italian suit, like Billy the Kid. Isaac had never talked to the wizard. Martin Lima was smoking crack with African Dave, who clutched his portable searchlight with one hand, wheeled it here and there, as if he could read the sky.

  “Dave,” Isaac said, “will you ask the girls to stop kissing Barbarossa. He’s a married man. His wife wouldn’t like it.”

  “El Caballo,” Martin Lima said, almost shy. “You’ll have to ask me … the girls are mine.”

  Isaac bowed to the prince. “Please …”

  “Miranda, Dolores, get away. You’re bothering the son-in-law of El Caballo.”

  “We like him, papito,” Miranda said. “We love him. We want to be his esposa.”

  “Are you deaf? Don’t insult him. He’s a married man.”

  “Papito,” Dolores said, “buy him for me.”

  “Niñas, this is El Caballo. He will grow angry at me.”

  “But we are the ones who sleep in your bed, papito, not him.”

  Martin Lima struck the girls, drove them from Barbarossa’s lap.

  “I spoil them, El Caballo. Forgive me.”

  Now Isaac could see the welts and marks on Barbarossa’s face. He wanted to glock everybody, including the crack babies and Abner Gumm. But he had to be as cold as the king of crime.

  “Uncuff him, will ya?”

  “It’s tragic, El Caballo, but I don’t have the key. It belongs to the Apaches … hey, Shooter, why are you here?”

  “To take Barbarossa’s picture.”

  “That’s nice,” Martin Lima said, and never even noticed the Shooter’s missing camera. The Big Guy had been right: Ab’s camera had become something you imagined when you imagined Ab.

  “Joey,” Isaac said, “you okay?”

  “Yeah, Dad,” Barbarossa said. “My tongue was bleeding, but it stopped. It tastes like salt.”

  “Príncipe, will you reach into your pocket and find your portable phone … ask Brock to bring the key.”

  “Brock doesn’t have it. I do.”

  Isaac peeked behind him. Birdy Towne dragged himself along in his boots and mustard-colored pants, like a damaged cowboy with a crutch under one arm. He’d arrived with Richardson, who was wearing a long coat.

  “What happened, Birdy? Did you step on a live alligator?”

  “Naw. It’s much more bitter than that. Your little cookie baker slapped me while I wasn’t looking. With a goddamn wooden sword. She was protecting that mural boy.”

  “Shit,” Isaac said. He’d forgotten all about Alyosha. His mind was a swamp. He couldn’t even save one of his own Merliners. All he could do was invent mustard-colored cowboys who were eating up the Bronx. “Where are they, Birdy?”

  “Romeo and Juliet? Picking their belly buttons. We’ll find them … like we found you. The Shooter’s part of our radar. We tracked him the minute he left the motel.”

  “Yeah,” Isaac said, “he’s my very own Virgil.”

  “Isaac, you have a problem. You read too many books … this man taught me everything I know. He’s the greatest teacher in New York. But he thinks the world is filled with men in masks who are always running around on roofs, huh Joey?”

  “We’re on a roof right now,” Barbarossa said.

  “That’s because the Big Guy’s whole life leads up to a roof. But we aint wearing masks.”

  “Shove it, Birdy,” Richardson said. “Shut your mouth.”

  “Ah,” Isaac said, “he was my slowest pupil, and look how far he’s gotten … Príncipe, have you said your prayers?”

  “Prayers? What for?”

  “Birdy can’t whack me and Barbarossa without whacking you.”

  “Hey,” Birdy said, “who says …”

  Martin Lima glared at him. “Let El Caballo finish his speech.”

  “I’m too dangerous to be alive. I’ll haunt Richardson into the ground. I’ll bust his whole brigade. And he has ambitions. He’d like to go into politics, but he can’t until he murders me.”

  Martin Lima started to laugh while he picked his teeth. “Birdy’s right. You are a storyteller, and I’m the Bronx’s only banker. Richardson works for me. He couldn’t survive without my gelt. I’m the one who can afford to kill people, and why should I kill El Caballo?”

  “Principe, you should have gone to my classes at the Academy. Brock will have a bigger banker. Uncle Sam. He’ll borrow from Uncle once Billy the Kid is in the White House. Meanwhile I get caught in the crossfire. The mayor and his son-in-law are bopped in the thick of battle, while Brock Richardson shuts down the biggest drug depot in the Bronx. Claremont Village. It will sell a lot of newspapers, Príncipe. I’m the former PC. It’s logical that I’d show up on a roof with Brock.”

  “And what about Dave and the warlords? They’re gonna be idle in this bump?”

  “They’re already idle. They lost their independence once they agreed to become your depot. The warlords are holding for you and Brock. What are they? Clowns with searchlights.”

  “Who’s a clown?” asked African Dave, his mouth already blackened from the pipe. He followed the beam of his searchlight, a strange, liquid arc that could fold into the sky, and he plucked a machine pistol from behind the casing of the light and pointed it at Isaac. But the prince floated across the roof with his portly frame and kicked the gun out of Dave’s hands. “No cannons, Dave. We could have an unlucky accident … go back to your light.” And the prince returned to Sidel. “I’m in command. Ask Brock.”

  Brock was busy with the roach in his mouth; bits of grass dropped into his fingers. Isaac was curious about Richardson’s long mustard-colored coat: it was like the coat a cowboy would wear to protect him from wind and dust. “He’s the prince,” Brock said. “I’m just an employee.”

  “Don’t you get it?” Martin Lima implored the Big Guy. “We had to grab your son-in-law.”

  “Why?”

  “To bring you to the bargaining table. Live and let live, that’s my motto. You want culture? I’ll contribute. Two hundred thousand marbles to the Merliners, whoever they are. I’m not selfish. The Bronx is big enough for you and me and Brock.”

  “Uncuff Barbarossa.”

  “But will you sign with us, El Caballo?”

  “Uncuff him first.”

  The prince whispered to one of his crack babies, who approached Birdy Towne, swiped a little key from his pocket, stood behind the prisoner’s chair, and freed Barbarossa.

  Birdy pulled out his Glock. “He has to sit there. He can’t move.”

  “Brock,” the prince shouted, “tell Birdy to holster up.”

  “Boss,” Birdy said, “you can’t trust the Big Guy. He’s unreliable. He’ll take Barbarossa and he’ll never stop hounding us … let’s sock both of them, like you said.”

  “Shut your mouth,” Richardson told him.

  “Brock,” the prince said, “who’s the planner? Me or you?”

  “I’m the planner,” Isaac said.

  The prince started to bark. “Stay out of this. You sleep in Manhattan. This is our show.”

  “Wrong,” Isaac said. “The Apaches are mine. Brock is mine. And so are you. I’m the landlord. I own everything. Claremont Village. Yankee Stadium. Everything.”

  “Mister,” the prince said, “I checked out your finances. You’re two mi
nutes from the poorhouse.”

  “I’m still the landlord.”

  “Prince,” Brock said, while the roach started to unravel. “He’s the man. He’s our landlord.”

  “I’m killing Barbarossa,” Birdy said. “I don’t care.”

  The prince signaled to his crack babies, who reached for the Glocks in their garters. But Richardson pulled a Nighthawk out of his long coat and shot Miranda and Dolores. The prince was mortified. “Dave,” he said, “do something.”

  Isaac jumped on Barbarossa, toppled him in that lead chair, pulled him out of the line of fire … as tracer bullets arrived from across the roof, like miraculous glowworms with a busy sting. The other warlords must have decided to attack. It was Claremont Village, which had its own rules.

  Birdy kept aiming at the hump of Isaac’s back while the tracers flew around him. Richardson shot Birdy and Prince Martin Lima. Isaac couldn’t stop looking. He’d never encountered such a lethal glass gun.

  Dave fired back at the warlords. “Son of a bitch.”

  “Boss,” Richardson said, “we’d better blow.”

  Isaac should have glocked him. It would have been a slightly extra load to all the carnage. But he kept thinking of Candida Cortez and the baby she was carrying. Brock was a bigger delinquent than the Latin Jokers or the San Juan Freaks, but he was Isaac’s delinquent.

  “Dad, should I strangle him?” Barbarossa whispered in Isaac’s ear.

  “No. We’ll find a way to ruin the fuck.”

  They crawled among the dead bodies and Dave’s shattered rooftop furniture when they noticed Abner Gumm. The Shooter sat close to Dave and Dave’s light, with his fingers curled, forming the eye of a camera. “Mama,” he said, “it’s like Vietnam.”

  Barbarossa dragged him away from the searchlight. “What do you know about Nam? You scumbag, you’ve never been north of the Bronx.”

  “Joey,” the Shooter kept saying, “the light, the light … those bullets were scratching my eyeballs. I felt it, man.”

  Barbarossa hit him in the mouth and carried him off the roof behind Sidel and Brock Richardson, who’d already buttoned up his mustard-colored coat.