Return to Shepherd Avenue

by Charlie Carillo

  “That’s not what I’m doing.”

  “But you did look up an old girlfriend. There’s so much of that going on these days, with social media—”

  “I have a new girlfriend, Doc.”

  I was instantly pissed off at myself. I hadn’t meant to tell him about Rose, but my stupid ego got the better of me. I had to show him I still had what it took, at age sixty. Idiot!

  Rosensohn seemed intrigued. “Tell me about her.”

  “Well, she’s younger than me, but who isn’t?”

  “How much younger?”

  I sighed. I was in this deep, so I might as well go all the way. “Young enough to be my daughter, which freaks me out a little.”

  “Have you seen your daughter yet?”

  “No. Let’s leave that one alone, please.”

  “Where’d you meet this new woman?”

  “She lives across the street.”

  “Black?”

  “Puerto Rican. I thought you guys were supposed to be blind to race and color.”

  “We’re also supposed to tell you that everything’s your mother’s fault. Is this a serious relationship?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  It was time to stun the shrink.

  “Basically, she just knocks on my door at night when she wants sex. And she always leaves before morning.”

  It worked. Rosensohn’s mouth literally fell open. “Come on!”

  “Swear to God.”

  “And you’re okay with that?”

  “I wouldn’t mind being allowed to knock on her door once in a while, but that’s not the deal.”

  “So she’s the one calling the shots.”

  “Yeah. And that’s a first for me.”

  He leaned back, making his swivel chair creak. I’m convinced he never oiled that chair because the squeak gave dramatic punctuation to whatever words he was about to speak, which in this case were these:

  “Why do you suppose you’ve become involved with a woman so much younger than you?”

  “It just happened.”

  “Nothing just happens, Mr. Ambrosio.”

  “Aw, why don’t we save some time here? Just give me your theory.”

  “Well, chances are you won’t outlive her.”

  I had to laugh. “That’s pretty much a lock.”

  He leaned forward, making his chair squeak in a different, more ominous tone.

  “What I’m saying,” he said softly, “is that no matter what happens in this relationship you probably won’t have to deal with another death, which as we know you’re not very good at.”

  I hated it when he was right.

  “Bull’s-eye, Doc! Are we done for the day?”

  He glanced at his watch. “We are. Don’t be upset by what I said. It’s just a perception.”

  “I’m not upset. You were worth your two bills today. I mean that.”

  I left without another word, though I was tempted to tell him I had to get back to Brooklyn to serve as a lookout in an after-hours black-market chicken heist.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Eddie Everything wouldn’t tell me where we were going. It was past ten p.m. as we rattled along in his station wagon, the two of us dressed in black, a cigarette dangling from Eddie’s lips as he squinted against the smoke and checked the rearview mirror every few blocks.

  “Do you think we’re being followed?”

  “You never know, man.”

  “This is crazy, Eddie! When I went with my grandfather to get live chickens we did it in broad daylight.”

  “Different world.”

  “Yes, but is all this drama really necessary? You look as if you’re about to rob a bank!”

  He looked at me as if I were a stupid child who just didn’t get it.

  “We’re about to break the law, Mr. A. I like to get serious before I do that.”

  “Worst-case scenario, we get caught transporting live poultry. What’s the penalty for that, a fine? A little community service?”

  He snorted. “Me, I’m gone. Kicked outta the fuckin’ country.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  He laughed out loud, the way you do about something that isn’t funny. “I ain’t no citizen, Mr. A!”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh, he says. Nice. We get arrested on this caper, I go to trial, you can be a good character witness for me. Stand up in court and tell the judge, ‘Oh.’”

  “Eddie, I had no idea!”

  “Well, now you know.”

  As the miles rolled on Eddie filled me in on his history, beginning with a ride on a leaky raft from Cuba all the way to Miami, thirty years earlier, when he was just seventeen. He made his way north, keeping his head low until he got to Brooklyn, where he‘d heard of a Cuban community that looked after its own. He worked a variety of odd jobs, all off the books, staying with his newfound friends until he eventually rented an upstairs floor in a house on Shepherd Avenue from someone who knew someone who knew someone . . .

  It was a tangled tale, but after all these years it shook out this way: Eddie Everything had a place to live and a garage to keep his car and his tools safe. No wife, no kids, no documentation of any kind to prove his existence.

  This blew my mind as we rambled along Atlantic Avenue.

  “So you don’t have a driver’s license.”

  “Negative.”

  “Maybe I should be driving.”

  “No way, Mr. A.”

  “No Social Security number, no passport?”

  “Double-negative.”

  “So what happens if you get sick and have to go to the hospital?”

  “I don’t get sick,” he replied, taking a last drag from his cigarette and throwing the butt out his window. “No time for that.”

  “How do you do it, Eddie? I’d be freaking out in your shoes!”

  He smiled, as if he’d been hoping I’d say that.

  “You get here the way I got here, you don’t freak out. A leaky raft, middle o’ the night, sharks all around, grown men cryin’ like babies, no land in sight . . .”

  Eddie chuckled, lit another cigarette. “Knew if I made it to shore, I’d never worry again. Stepped on that Florida sand and never asked God for nothin’ since. Got all I need, and if I need more, I can get it. Life is good, man. God bless America.”

  “I guess I get your point.”

  He jabbed his cigarette in my direction. “You, you should be as careful as me, man! Ain’t you still on probation for that bridge thing?”

  Holy shit. Eddie had a point.

  “Jesus, I hadn’t thought of that!”

  “Well, think about it. Stay on your toes. Do as I say and nothin’ bad can happen.”

  He slipped me a sly wink. “Now let’s get these motherfuckin’ chickens. My man here wants his fresh eggs, he’s gonna get ‘em!”

  We rode deeper and deeper into the Brooklyn night, at last pulling up into the lot outside an industrial zone of red brick buildings shuttered for the night. In the midst of those buildings was one with a hand-painted sign saying LIVE POULTRY over the front door, gated shut for the night, but that wasn’t the door we were headed for anyway.

  Eddie parked in the darkest part of the lot and led the way around to the back of the poultry building, through a path of waist-high weeds littered with abandoned tires. We reached a rusty metal door and Eddie knocked on it three times.

  It opened a crack. He whispered something in Spanish, and the guy on the other side of the door swung it open just long enough for the two of us to plunge inside.

  We were in a huge windowless room with cinder-block walls, illuminated by humming overhead lights. Stacked against the walls were sacks of cracked corn and crates of live chickens, all of them clucking like crazy. The stench was enough to make my eyes water. Eddie hugged the man who’d let us in, a short guy in knee-high rubber boots who’d just finished hosing down the floor.

  “Nando, say hello to Mr. Ambrosio.”r />
  I shook hands with Nando, whose grip made my knuckles tingle. He turned to Eddie.

  “This guy cool?”

  “Cool enough.”

  “Awright, I got your birds right here.”

  He dragged a wooden crate to the middle of the floor, where the light was best. Inside were six white chickens, about half the size of the ones crammed into the rest of the crates.

  Eddie turned to me for my approval.

  “Hang on,” I said. “These are much smaller than the rest of the birds.”

  Eddie turned to Nando. “Why you givin’ us such little chickens?”

  Nando rolled his eyes. “’Cause my boss won’t notice ’em missin’. Besides, what do you care? Know how fast these suckers grow?”

  Great. We were not only buying illegal, undersized chickens, we were buying stolen birds from a thieving employee.

  “Come on, guys, we got a deal or what?” Nando asked. “I’m stickin’ my neck out here. Nothin’s supposed to leave this place alive. And I hadda go through every crate to find these little guys.”

  “Guys?” I said. “No roosters, Nando, that was the deal!”

  Nando arched his back. “Workin’ here ten years, you think I don’t know the difference between a hen and a rooster? They’re all hens! You want ‘em, say the word. Otherwise, have a nice night, fellows.”

  Eddie pulled me to a corner for a private conference.

  “Take the deal, Mr. A.”

  “I feel like I’m getting shafted.”

  “Nando’s all right. The birds will grow. Here.” He thrust two fifties into my hand. “You pay him. He’ll like that. And let’s get the fuck outta here, the stink is killin’ me.”

  I returned to Nando, who stood with one foot up on the bird crate, his brawny arms folded across his chest.

  He saw the fifties in my hand and reached for the money, but I pulled it back.

  “Throw in a sack of corn and it’s a deal.”

  Eddie couldn’t muffle a laugh. Nando shrugged.

  “What the fuck, he never counts the sacks.”

  I slapped the bills into Nando’s hand. Eddie carried the crate and I carried a twenty-pound sack of corn. We stopped right outside the door we’d come through, where Eddie instructed me to carry the corn to the car and put it in the back seat. Then I was to look in all directions to make sure no cop cars were in sight, open the tailgate and whistle to let him know the coast was clear.

  I looked. I whistled. Walking briskly, but not running, Eddie reached the car, slid the crate into the back, tossed a blanket over it and closed the tailgate.

  And we were on our way home, with our clucking cargo.

  We didn’t speak for a mile or two. Then Eddie said, “You got some balls, gettin’ Nando to throw in a sack o’ corn. Coulda fucked up the whole deal right there.”

  “Eddie, correct me if I’m wrong, but didn’t you say the price for the birds was two hundred dollars?”

  “Sure.”

  “I paid Nando a hundred.”

  “The rest is my commission.” He braked the car, looking at me wide-eyed. “You want your other hundred back? That’s cool, I’ll let you and your birds out right here. Bus’ll be along in about an hour.”

  “Forget it, forget it. You’re right. I’m just a little wound up.”

  “You did fine, Mr. A. You got what you wanted.”

  We continued rolling along and hit a bump, causing a chorus of frantic clucking.

  “Shut up, ladies,” Eddie said over his shoulder. “You don’t know how lucky you are. Ain’t nobody broilin’ your asses anytime soon.”

  When we reached Shepherd Avenue I again checked for cops in all directions before Eddie carried our illegal cargo to the backyard. He opened the crate in the middle of the yard and the birds were free, clucking gently as they scurried about in the moonlight.

  I filled big metal bowls with water and corn and set them inside the coop. The birds went crazy, shoving each other aside as they fought for food and drink.

  I watched in fascination. Eddie put his arm across my shoulders, partners in crime. “You want the crate, boss?”

  “Take it.”

  “You happy now, man?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Can’t guess about happiness. You’re happy or you ain’t.”

  “Well, I’m not unhappy.”

  He chuckled. “Man, you’re one strange dude, Mr. A.”

  “I’m just hoping your friend knows his business, and there aren’t any roosters in that bunch.”

  Eddie laughed, hoisting the empty crate. “You’ll find out when the sun rises. You hear crowing, you got a problem.”

  I could barely sleep that night. I was fully awake by dawn, tensed up in anticipation of cock-a-doodle-do-ing.

  There wasn’t any. Nando knew his stuff, just as the guy who’d sold chickens to my grandfather fifty years earlier had known his stuff.

  The six little birds running around in my backyard turned out to be hens, every one of them.

  I had my chickens. Now it was just a question of when they’d start laying, but that was nothing to stress over. I wasn’t going anywhere.

  Chapter Twenty

  For the next few days I was obsessed with my chickens. I fed them, watered them, watched them, just as I had when I was a kid. There was something comforting about the sight of them strutting around, scratching the ground.

  They felt they were home. I was jealous. I wanted to feel as they did.

  Eddie Everything dropped by to check them out.

  “Man, they got it made.”

  “You got that right.”

  “Gonna need more corn soon.”

  “I think I’ll just give them table scraps when I run out.”

  “Yeah, they’ll eat anything.”

  There was a knock on the door that afternoon and I figured it would be Rose, who generally waited three or four days between visits, but then I realized Rose wouldn’t drop by until after dark. I opened the door and a tall, slender young man with intense brown eyes and a wide brow stood there, looking at me as if I owed him money.

  An agent with the ASPCA, I told myself, here to slap me with a summons for the chickens! One of my neighbors had dropped a dime on me, but which one? I really didn’t need this shit.

  “Mr. Ambrosio?” he asked, the way a lawyer asks a question when he already knows the answer.

  I nodded, and he seemed relieved. “I’m a friend of Taylor’s. May I come in?”

  I could feel my heart pounding at the bottom of my throat. “Is my daughter all right?”

  “She’s fine, she’s fine!”

  “Come in.”

  I brought him to the kitchen table, where we sat across from each other like hostage negotiators. He introduced himself as Kevin Caldwell.

  “What’s going on? Are you a cop?”

  “A cop? No, I told you, I’m a friend of your daughter’s! I know you two are . . . estranged? Is that the right word?”

  “Close enough.” I swallowed, waiting for the pounding in my throat to recede. “So now, I’m guessing you’re here on behalf of my daughter.”

  He shook his head. “I just wanted to meet you.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe so I can understand Taylor better.”

  That seemed like a weird answer. “How did you find me?”

  “From the address on the letter you sent to her.”

  I’d written to Taylor inviting her to Shepherd Avenue, figuring that words on a page might have greater impact than another chilly phone call.

  “You’re reading my daughter’s mail?”

  “She showed me the letter.”

  “That was nice of her.”

  He laid his hands flat on the table. “All right, I’m just going to say it.” He took a deep breath. “We live together, Mr. Ambrosio.”

  I sank back in my chair. “You’re her boyfriend?” I asked, with my usual gift for grasping the obvious.

  He nodded.
“Yeah. For about six months, now.”

  I was so far behind in my daughter’s life that it was hard for me to imagine her in a relationship. She was still a child to me, a twenty-seven-year-old child. I actually scratched my head, like a befuddled hillbilly.

  “Are you two . . . married?”

  He shook his head. “No reason for that. Marriage usually doesn’t work, and we have separate health plans, so what’s the point?”

  “I’m with you on that.”

  He reached across the table to pat the back of my hand. “I realize this is a lot to absorb, Mr. Ambrosio.”

  “What is it you want, Kevin?”

  “A little healing, I guess.” His eyes grew shiny with tears. “This situation between you and Taylor isn’t good.”

  I rose from the table and blinked back tears of my own. “Come with me,” I said, leading the way downstairs. “I have to feed my chickens.”

  “Chickens?”

  * * *

  His mind was blown by the sight of the coop and the birds. I lifted the corn sack and was about to fill the metal bowl when Kevin stopped me.

  “Mind if I do this?”

  He took the sack from me, grabbed a fistful of corn and scattered it wide around the yard. The birds raced in all directions to feed.

  “You don’t want to dump the corn into a bowl,” he said. “If it’s all in one place, the dominant birds get it all and the others starve.”

  “How would you know a thing like that?”

  “Grew up on a farm in Pennsylvania.”

  “What’s a Pennsylvania farm boy doing in the big, bad city?”

  He threw more corn. “Came here to make it as an actor. Too tall, too skinny, too whatever.”

  “So you gave it up.”

  “Not exactly. I’m a personal trainer. I act as if I can get my fat clients into shape. It’s a pretty good performance, most of the time.”

  He turned to me with a closed-mouth smile, crooked on one side: the smile of a person who could find victory within defeat, and didn’t care if anybody else saw it that way.

  At that moment, Kevin Caldwell won me over.

  Suddenly it started to rain. The birds hurried into their coop, and Kevin and I went inside.

  Back in the kitchen I uncorked a bottle of red wine. “My grandfather made wine in the basement of this house,” I said. “Rough peasant stuff, from a big wooden barrel. This is a lot smoother.”