by Nace Phlaux
From: Emmanuel Quinn ([email protected])
To: Rolando Ortiz ([email protected])
Sent: Wednesday, January 30, 2013 10:07 AM
Subject: Re: tanto nadar para ahogarse en la orilla
> Mira mi melaza,
Better than cabroncito, I guess.
> I want things between us to be chill, ok? I know I may not be able to get your
> Hersheys anymore, but this eyeball thing going on when we see each other
> down the halls has got to stop. Can’t we be cool again? It’s been a week,
> boo, and I’m getting tired of this dance we got going on.
You know, I want things to be chill with us too, but then I go online and I’m seeing you posting pics of your new kicks and tracks from your new synths and I know you be making $10 an hour. So either you’re selling crack on the side or you’re working for that Miss Christy still. And you best believe I’d prefer you working the smack. That lady’s nothing but trouble, Ro. She came to me to do that kinda side quests and realized early on I wasn’t useful for ish since I don’t have a car. She asked me to do system queries and give her all this inside info, but there’s nothing I could get without 6 managers signing off me looking it up.
I told you about the agency asking for me to get all elbow deep in that before, so I started asking around the IT boys. That’s what they told me. The request’s gotta be vetted to all the managers. I don’t know if they’re playing me or what, but I’m not gonna press it. No different than the drug tests. Gotta stay clean if I ever want a perm position.
The weird thing’s that I been hearing this from some of the kids too. I thought it was all something the agency might be trying to do, but the only person anyone ever mentions is that Miss Christy asking them to do favors for her. The kids don’t know I know, but they ain’t exactly quiet in that lunch room. One of them was saying Heather got overtime hours from watching somebody. Just like…Parking across the street from somebody’s house and watching them eat or whatever people do. For serious, what’s that? That what you doing? Just following people? Spying on ‘em? Or you jumping more grannies for their church money?
> How’s Kingston doing? I seen your pictures on Facebook with him in his little
> Ravens outfit looking all cute as ish. You watching the game with him and
> Kanica or you doing something else Sunday?
>
> -Ro
Kanica’s going to Mr. Man’s house and staying the night. She asked me to watch Kingston. I’mma dress him up again and post videos of him getting all excited over the Clydesdales. Nica said you could swing by too if I wanted. But I dunno, Ro. I need time to get all this ish in my head straightened out. And you gotta take time to get all that Miss Christy stuff sorted out yourself. I wanna make all this chill again between us…and maybe more…but there’s too much outside business working on us both right now, you know?
Thanks,
Manny Quinn
Assoc. Mgr – Physician Validation
t: +1 (215) 680-3747
41 University Dr.
Newtown, PA 18940
www.episync.biz
Please consider the environment before printing this email.
FOX 29 News Transcripts for February 6, 2013
Police Unable to Identify Murder Victim
Aired February 6, 2013 - 10:00 PM ET
THIS IS A RUSH TRANSCRIPT. THIS COPY MAY NOT BE IN ITS FINAL FORM AND MAY BE UPDATED.
CARRIE BENNETT: The Bristol Township Police Department are asking for the public’s help this evening as a recent victim of a robbery / homicide is proving to be difficult to identify as hundreds of contradicting IDs and aliases have turned up in the investigation.
Police say the man pictured has known aliases including Andrew Richter, Conrad Pugh, Harrison Shaffer, and Butchie Vivian, among several others. Bristol Township Chief of Police George Peavey points out that no evidence of identity theft has been reported as of yet, but sources say there may have been incidents of identity fraud.
The body of the unidentified man was found dead Tuesday evening in the Orangewood Apartments of Levittown with multiple stab wounds and signs of theft. Investigators are hoping any living family or knowledgeable friends can call the hotline listed on your screen with any information regarding the man’s name or next of kin.
Candy 4
1526 Marsha
Yardley, PA 19067
January 31, 2013
Dear Dorothea,
Oh, Dottie, I wanted the empty nest so bad. I know the majority of people fear it and that void after eighteen or so years pass by, but it intrigued me. Sure, Jerry and I may’ve changed or forgot who each other was, but why would that have to make it awkward? It could’ve given us another opportunity to meet each other, define ourselves and discovery new territories within our spouses, you know? Seemed more like an adventure to me than anything else. A chance to fall in love again.
Nowadays all the kids seem to come home shortly after college. I’d like to hope for the best for our boys, that they’d be successful, or at least enough so that they’d be able to survive on their own means. But even if they need to move back once they graduate, that still would’ve given me and Jer a couple years to date and have the house to ourselves. Now I don’t know.
I imagined us going to the movies and going out to eat like we used to. We could go somewhere a little fancier this time around, of course. That little nervous boy that’s in the hearts of the manliest of men would come out, making Jer nervous to hold my hand or lean in for a kiss. Fumbling buttons and exploration like an astronaut that’s spent years studying a subject and now just beholding it.
I had called Christy after I’d been robbed, and she asked that I meet her at the Starbucks in the Oxford Valley Mall in about an hour. I drove over there and paced the mall, window shopping at all the baubles I could’ve had in a different life. When the time came, I met with the girl, whose first words were, “Do you consider yourself a charitable person?”
Of course I did. Who was at every St. Michael’s craft fair for decades? Who organized the Boy Scouts’ popcorn sales at Acme for almost two decades? I was even one of the founding members of the annual neighborhood yard sale that donated all its leftovers to the Purple Heart. No question about my charity.
“According to studies, you’ll feel much better about your own situation if you sacrifice your time to someone in need,” Cbristy told me. “Not that I’m trying to push you, but I have a charity in mind. Something to keep you busy while I track down your assailant.” I told her I still had to go home to attend to the family, but she understood. I could head there tomorrow, she told me. They’d be expecting me. “Purple Heart over in Croydon. Are you familiar?”
Of course. Sheesh.
The house was silent and empty when I arrived. The fridge had hardly anything usable, but I managed making a meatloaf of sorts and broccoli. The boys filtered in as I cooked, and no one noted my absence. Part of me was filled with dread, but satisfaction with being with my family and making them happy overwhelmed the darkness.
Dommy told the others what the last semester of school was like, which sounded like a preschool without the teachers even pretending to care. “Don’t slack off too much or those finals will catch up to you,” I told him, but he waved me off with the typical “Aw, Ma.” Him and the other men ran off as soon as the food was finished.
I don’t recall Jer saying anything at all during the meal, but when he brought his dishes up to the sink, he leaned over and kissed my cheek. Before he’d done that, I hadn’t noticed how long it’d been since he shaved. His rough face scraped against mine, and I remembered how I had to teach him how to use a razor when we were young. Actually, the more I thought about it, the funnier it seemed. All those off-topic moments I wasn’t allowed to mention? They were all on the table now. And some were hilarious.
Do you know he didn’t talk until he was four? One of his first words was the
s-word, and you know he’s not much of a potty mouth. Him and his best friend when they were about eight explored each other’s bodies during a sleepover. He was the best man at our wedding, and I can’t look at him without thinking of him unzipping a young Jerry’s shorts.
It’s horrible of me, I know. I can’t believe I even wrote those. I swore I’d honor my husband until the day I died, but didn’t he promise not to stick himself in anyone other than me, especially amoral harlots? That first night back, he didn’t try anything, but I almost wish he had so I’d have the satisfaction of turning him down. I can’t remember the last time he even tried. Cosmo would tell me it’s 2013 and I should take the initiative, but that’s not how I was raised.
Did I mention I looked for Carol Lee on Facebook? There was one in the city that said one of her likes was Sexploratorium. What does that even mean? Is it a dance club or a strip club or what? It didn’t say her age, but she looked twenties, maybe thirties with good makeup. A good age to be hunting for men at Jer’s age. Prime for that midlife crisis itch they get. Honest to God, Dottie, there wasn’t anything that proved who I was looking at was even who he was doing Lord knows what with, but it is what it is.
I learned who Carol Lee was—or more importantly who she wasn’t—my first day at Purple Heart. When I got there, there was nothing but a door locked and secured by a secretary who let me in once I screamed my name for the third time. A woman named Brooke eventually came to the receptionist’s area and gave me a tour of the building.
After showing me the coffee stations and the best fridge to place my lunch in, she brought me to a small room with four computers with phones besides each one and dual monitors for each station and introduced me to a girl covered in tattoos named Liz. Once Brooke finished her small talk with Liz and left, Liz closed the door and said, “So you’re one of Ty’s, right?” I must’ve looked at her funny because she followed up with “Christy?”
I told her I was, and she smiled and nodded knowingly, though I didn’t have any idea what this insider knowledge even meant. “So we’re Team Carol Lee,” she said. It took me a second, but all of a sudden the neurons fired at the name. “We call the list we’re provided each day and ask whether they know this Carol Lee. Then we note the person’s response, especially if there’s a long pause or weird reply. You can listen to a few calls of mine in the splitter, then I’ll shadow you as you do a few of your own.”
The calls I listened to were mostly people hanging up on us or letting us know we reached a wrong number. After a few calls, I asked Liz who Carol Lee even was, but she said that was above her pay grade. “The plebes out there get eleven dollars an hour to pester people for donations. We get twelve just to ask about a name. I don’t ask questions.” Fair enough.
The call-outs sounded exactly the same as the one I received. I listened to Liz’s dry baritone voice and wondered if she was the one who called me. By the end of the shift, I was convinced it was her. So did that make my assumption false? Maybe Jer wasn’t sleeping with somebody named Carol Lee, but that didn’t excuse him. It did, however, open up who he was giving it to.
I don’t mean to sound so crude, Dottie, but how else am I going to call it? They’re not making love or becoming one or anything romantic. They’re just schtupping. We’ve been married nearly twenty years now, and although we may not have the tenderest moments like we used to, no matter what he’s doing with that tart, it can only be described with horrid, vile words because what they’re doing is nothing but horrid and vile.
That night at dinner, Helyne asked how work went, and I said it was fine, satisfying the men, at least. I don’t mean to harp on it, but it makes me wonder what it would’ve been like to have a girl. Would she have cared more? Or was it just that they—the men of my household—didn’t notice gradual changes to someone they see every day? Helyne silently washed dishes with me, and after we were nearly done, she said, “I was thinking... Would you like to come with me to the Station Café tomorrow night? Might help you to be with like-minded people.” Angry grannies? I thought. “You know, people dealing with... life, I guess.”
The next night, after another day of asking people about the mysterious Carol Lee and a dinner with a group of men who didn’t seem to care squat about me, Helyne drove me to an open mic night at the Station Cafe by the Croydon train station and led me to a comfy sofa facing a stage after ordering ourselves hot chocolates. A young man sat beside the stage tuning his guitar, but as the bell on the front door rang and rang at new visitors and performers, the place quickly filled with women of all ages.
The guitarist’s name was Preston, according to my partner in crime. “Quite the lady’s man,” she said. She pointed to several girls sitting in the audience and claimed they had been acquainted with him in some regards. Preston sang what Helyne told me was a Radiohead song and a Bruce Springsteen song I recognized before playing something he said was his own. Seemed nice, if not a little slow. “He drove me home one night after a show but was a complete gentleman,” Helyne whispered during the song. She sounded sincere, but with the way she looked at him, I sensed some disappointment.
A trio of high school girls snapped their fingers when he was done, laughing as they did so. They followed every performance with the ridiculous act, their laughter decreasing with each time but snapping nonetheless. I asked Helyne if she’d seen them before, but she said they were “newbies.” Some of them would be forged by fire, and others would just run. She assumed this would be their first and last time in the cafe. “Just another story they’ll tell of a time they tried to slum it,” she said.
Freedomme came up next. I learned her name later on, but that night, she did some poetry. She was a he, I think, but one of those taking hormones to switch. Tall, black, and rather masculine, she had stars carved into her short buzzed hair. The makeup on her was heavy but pretty, and she wore a tank top contrasting her bra straps, probably as an intentional sign to what she had or lacked. Her poems were light-hearted, though, and mostly about the stupidity of what she called chickenheads.
A lot of the people in the cafe went up and tried their hand at singing, telling jokes, and reading poetry. One of the younger kids got up and described in detail how she was attacked thanks to her love for her own genitalia. Helyne suggested using her time to refill our drinks, and after the first few words of her writings, I couldn’t disagree. Judging from the rest of the cafe, her performances were a usual time to refresh your drinks.
As we stood in line, one of the ladies sitting with Freedomme came up and talked with Helyne. “First, second, or third knuckle, you thinking?” she asked. Maybe first, Helyne replied, but the whole thing was a disappointing dry run. “When’ll people learn it ain’t worth the pain?” she wisely said. Before Helyne could say anything in return, Preston came outside and hushed the crowd, most of them smoking cigarettes or cloves. I took the opportunity to light up myself.
“Who sang that first song of yours?” Freedomme shouted across the crowd to Preston. Radiohead, he answered. “Maybe it should stay that way, honey.” The regulars laughed, but the newer of the crowd, like myself, looked around to the others to see how they should’ve responded. Personally, I didn’t want to put the young man down. There was a boy in high school who played in the marching band and choir and anything else you could possibly sign up for that involved music. He hung out with us girls but never made any moves, and looking back on it with a few decades distance, I think I can say why. But he had such a passion in him to be a musician, and I saw something like that in that Preston’s eyes too.
The love of music, I mean. Not the gayness.
We went back inside after a few minutes, and to my surprise, Helyne went up to the mic. She patted my hands and gave a smirk before getting up and introducing herself as Hellcat. Some of the crowd clapped, making me wonder whether she’d done this before or if this was just being polite. “A friend’s significant other is cheating,” she said, “and I thought we could come together to help her out,
just like we did for Maya last month.” The girl who’d talked about knuckles outside smiled and nodded at the mention.
“So...Dear,” she started and held a hand up to the audience. Shouts of Homewrecker! A-hole! and Two-timing Trollop! erupted from the crowd. Preston shouted, “Pedantic fishmonger!” Helyne continued with, “I’ve learned of your deceit, and I’d like you to know I wish you would...” Someone said, “Die of syphilis,” which seemed a bit harsh. But everyone picked more ludicrous and crude sayings that made me blush and, to be honest, darling, made me giggle a little. Not at the all the bad language, but at the whole idea of Helyne doing that to make me feel better.
Preston chose to go with, “Facilitate repugnantly with a gramophone.” Some of the girls laughed at him, and one close to him smacked his arm. “What? It’s not my fault I got more book learnin’ than you’ins.” Helyne rolled her eyes at him and continued with the writing of the letter, letting the group choose nicknames, acts of retribution, downsides of Jer I’ve overlooked, and reasons he should continue to worship me. Most were downright filthy, but God help me, it gave a bit of cathartic release.
Helyne closed her show by saying, “And P.S.!” The crowd responded with I’m keeping the dog! I’m keeping the house! Preston added, “You’re uninvited from the Bar Mitzvah, but I still expect a gift.” The crowd clapped, and Helyne did a mock curtsy, apparently ending the night. The cafe sold a couple more drinks for the road, but one of the workers started shutting down machines and lights, subtly nudging us out into the cold. As we drove home, I said it’d been the most fun I’d had in years, and I’m fairly sure that’s true.
The late night fun took its toll on me the next morning, though, and I clocked in a few minutes late to Team Carol Lee. It is what it is. Liz popped out her earbuds when she noticed me waiting for orders and told me there weren’t any calls to make yet. “We’ll be on Facebook duty instead.” What that entailed was us doing...well, nothing. According to Liz, we didn’t really need to do much. Use the provided login and password to enter Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and something called Snapchat to look up the names on the list. Finding nothing wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, but she aimed to find something to send back to “corporate” at least once per day.
