by Walter Marks
Along one side of the salon was a row of fake leather pedicure chairs, and on the other side were the manicure stations.
Business was clearly not so hot. A middle-aged lady, with the legs of her pantsuit rolled up, was getting a pedi. Two teenage BFF’s were getting manis, each girl getting one hand soaked at a time, so the other hand could dexterously text.
Jericho shook his head. Clearly, this is why our species evolved with opposable thumbs.
All the Happy Day employees were young Asian women. Each wore a white smock. There were six workers sitting in a row of chairs, put on display like items of inventory.
Standing next to them, arms folded, was a short, burly Asian man in a cheap, sky-blue suit. He was clearly in charge.
Suddenly Sandy’s words flashed in Jericho’s head — “Most of the salon workers are illegals... exploited by their bosses....”
Korean Mafia, he thought. This guy certainly looks the part.
Maybe... maybe that’s what Mouse was investigating. He hated his desk job, so he could’ve been checking out this salon on his own time. Could Rosie have been his contact?
An older woman at a front desk called to Jericho. “Can I help you?”
“Yes,” Jericho said. “I’d like a manicure.”
The woman nodded. “You take Jackie. Jackie very good.”
She ushered Jericho over to a manicure station. He watched as one of the girls in the line-up got up. All the girls had nametags like “Mary,” “Annie,” and “Becky” — names which belied their nationalities.
“Hi,” his manicurist said. “I Jackie.”
“Hi, I’m Jericho.” He almost tried to shake her hand, but decided that would be dumb.
She handed him a laminated menu. Never having had a manicure before, Jericho found the choices dizzying: Classic, French Gel, Deluxe, Gentleman’s Manicure, Express Buff & Polish... He picked that one because it said — “Don’t have time? We can clean, buff, and polish in 15 minutes.”
Jackie dunked Jericho’s hands in warm soapy water.
“You Korean?” he asked.
“Chinese,” she answered.
Nice goin’, Jerko. he said to himself. He was way out of his comfort zone.
After the soaking, she asked, “I cut?”
“Yes, please.”
She took out a nail clipper and snipped away. The clipper was just like the one he used at home. He’d imagined she’d have some sort of high-end equipment, but that wasn’t the case.
During the buffing and polishing, Jericho spoke up again. “Do you know a girl named Rosie, who works here?”
“Not know.”
“Maybe she used to work here?”
She shook her head again. “English no good,” she answered. “Sorry.”
She glanced furtively at Sky-Blue Suit. He gave Jericho a baleful look and came over.
“You lookin’ for somethin’?”
“Me? No.”
“Some of our ladies, they don’t talk so good,” the boss said. “So if you got any questions I’ll answer ‘em.”
“He ask Rosie,” Jackie explained to Sky-Blue Suit.
“Rosie?” her boss said, eyeing Jericho suspiciously.
“Friend of mine told me some gal named Rosie did a great job on him. I just wondered…”
“No Rosie. Finish up and get outta here.” He whirled and walked away.
When Jackie was done, Jericho stood up.
“You pay over there,” she said, indicating the woman at the front desk. “No card... cash only.”
He gave Jackie a five-dollar tip (I hope to hell they let her keep it), then paid eleven bucks in cash for the manicure, and left quickly.
As he walked out of the Happy Day, Jericho saw a white panel truck parked about thirty feet away. On the truck’s side was a logo — BBS Bella Beauty Supplies.
There were two delivery guys unloading the truck; one handing cartons to the other, who carried them down through the open steel sidewalk door that led to the salon basement.
Jericho was about to leave when he saw the driver get out of the truck. As he lit up a cigarette, the detective noticed a bulge in the guy’s windbreaker pocket. He couldn’t be sure but it seemed to have shape of an automatic pistol.
The driver yelled at men unloading the truck. “Darse prisa, pendejos. Si no acabamos pronto, tendremos problemas en Ah-zon Par-que.
Jericho’s had enough high school Spanish to know he was calling his men assholes — pendejos. And telling them something-or-other about having problems — problemas. But what the hell was Ah-zon Par-que? Some kinda park?
And what were Latinos delivering to Koreans?
Was the driver armed?
Why did the name Rosie get Sky-Blue Suit all riled up?
It wasn’t clear what was going on. But it sure seemed like something Mouse could’ve been investigating.
CHAPTER 12.
As Jericho walked up First Avenue, he heard the echoing, mournful sound of a tugboat horn — a reminder that he was just two blocks away from the Harlem River.
He decided to go over to the Bobby Wagner Walk and follow it north along the river’s edge till he came to the pier where Mouse died.
What good will that do? I don’t know. Maybe I’ll learn something. Sometimes going with a gut feeling pays off.
He turned right on 111th Street, walked one block east, then cut through Thomas Jefferson Park and followed the signs to the pedestrian walkway over the Harlem River Drive.
He crossed the mesh-covered bridge, stopping to peer down at the whizzing traffic, then continued on until he reached the esplanade.
It was a mild and sunny day, and the scent from the river, a subtle mixture of salt, seaweed, fish, and gasoline, was curiously invigorating.
As he walked, he watched the passing tugs, barges, yachts, and speedboats kicking up wake as they made their way along the waterway.
Across from him were Randall’s and Ward’s Islands, actually one wide land mass bifurcating the river. Randall’s Island functions as an anchor point for the concrete towers of the RFK Triborough Bridge, and it houses multiple sports facilities. Ward’s Island’s main feature is a wastewater treatment plant.
Jericho followed the walkway till he arrived at 120th Street, where there was another pedestrian overpass. Directly across from it was the East Harlem Fishing Pier. His heart pounded as he realized he was about to look upon the scene of his partner’s tragic death.
The fishing pier is a concrete-covered jetty jutting out into the river. Jericho could see a few people dangling their fishing rods in the water. There seemed to be no action.
At the front of the pier was a parking area, with outlined spaces for about ten cars. But there were no cars, except for one blue-and-white. The whole area had been cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape.
A uniformed officer was leaning against the police car listening to music on his ear-buds.
Damn! I can’t get in there. I’m sure that patrolman has orders not to let anybody in. If I show him my EHTPD badge he’ll surely report it to headquarters. And if he was with the Two Five when I was there, he’ll recognize me and report that too. Either way it’ll alert Babatunde and she’ll bust my chops for sure.
Besides, what would I possibly learn if I did gain access? I can see the whole area from here and what does that tell me? Absolutely nothing. This was a dumb idea!
He sat down on a nearby bench and looked out at the swirling currents of the river. Suddenly a quotation he’d once read popped into his head. It was from Winston Churchill: Success is going from failure to failure without losing your enthusiasm.
Trying to muster up a smidge of enthusiasm, Jericho walked crosstown, heading back to the hotel.
As he walked, he saw the changes altering the character of East Harlem. El Barrio was always a rundown, funky neighborhood, with its share of poverty and crime. But it also had the soul and rhythm of its Latino and black population. Now, under pressure from powerful real estate inter
ests, the city had deemed East Harlem an area of “urban blight.” Gentrification was well underway — walk-ups and brownstones torn down, businesses boarded up, empty lots creating space in prime corner locations, and construction cranes rearing their ugly heads over the urban landscape.
A few so-called luxury apartment buildings were already up, and the steel-frame skeletons of more were rising throughout the neighborhood.
Longtime residents and storeowners were coping with an unfamiliar and devastating term — eminent domain.
Crossing 119th Street, Jericho saw a large, weedy, vacant lot, and beyond it the stately grey stone Church of the Holy Rosary — the Roman Catholic church where Mouse and Keisha were married.
When he got to the church, he decided to go inside. He wasn’t religious, but perhaps the peaceful quietude and the soft light filtering through the stained glass windows would lift his spirits. And, okay, maybe he’d say a prayer for Mouse.
When he got to the entrance, there was a padlock on the door. There were two signs posted on it.
In English:
The Church of the Holy Rosary
is closed.
Please visit St. Cecelia’s Church
— 120 East 106 Street.
And in Spanish:
La Iglesia del Santo Rosario
está cerrada.
Por favor, visite la Iglesia de Santa Cecilia
— 120 E. calle 106.
Obviously the church, out of need or greed, had sold their property to real estate developers. Jericho read the signs sadly. Then, when he saw the name Santo Rosario, a revelation struck him like a bolt of lightning.
Rosario...
Rosario Sanchez.
It sparked a memory. The last time he’d spoken to Mouse was about a week after his ex-partner had cleared the murder of a jogger in Marcus Garvey Park. He told Jericho he’d made the bust on a tip from a new confidential informant. But Jericho hadn’t recalled the name of that CI until this moment —the snitch’s name was Rosario Sanchez. But his street name was Rosie!
CHAPTER 13.
By the time Jericho got back to his hotel room, he’d assembled his thoughts.
So Rosie wasn’t the name of a manicurist. Rosie was Mouse’s snitch, who’d probably informed him about illegal activities at the Happy Day.
I’m guessing Rosie demanded money for his information, and the info he had was about something really big —which would explain the thousand dollars Mouse had withdrawn from the bank.
But why did my mention of Rosie’s name at the salon seem to make the Korean boss suspicious of me? Possibly because Rosie has a rep on the street as a snitch. And the salon boss wondered why I was trying to contact him.
Okay, so I know the Korean Mafia is involved.
But what about the Latinos in the delivery truck? And the driver who may have been armed? What were they delivering? Maybe not beauty supplies. Possibly… narcotics? But if so, why to a manicure salon?...
The bedside phone rang.
Who could that be? Nobody has this number.
“Hello?”
“Oh, hi, Mr. Gooden. This is Paloma. Y’know, from the front desk.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“I’ve got good news.”
“What’s that?”
“This morning, Mr. Bigelow from room 309, he died.”
“That’s good news?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Now you can have his fridge and microwave.”
“Great.”
“I’ll send ‘em up with the janitor, soon as he shows up for work.”
“When will that be?”
“With him ya never know.”
“Swell,” Jericho said as he hung up.
His first order of business was to try and reach Rosie.
He called Keisha and asked her if Mouse had an address book on his computer. She said she didn’t know, but anyway the police had taken his computer as part of their investigation.
“Well, does he have a regular, old-fashioned address book?”
“Yes,” she said. “It’s on in his desk. Hold on.”
After a while she said, “Got it.”
“Take a look under “S” and see if there’s a Rosario Sanchez.”
After a few moments she replied. “I don’t see anything.”
“Okay,” Jericho said. “Um… look under ‘R’, see if there’s a listing for ‘Rosie’.”
“Rosie?” Keisha said. “Would that be the Rosie I overhead Michael talking to?”
“Yes. He’s the confidential informant he used on his last case.”
“So… so you mean it wasn’t some… some girlfriend?”
“Hey, we both know he’d never do that,” Jericho said.
“…I’m looking at the R’s now,” she said. “No…I don’t see any Rosie or Sanchez.”
“Damn,” Jericho said. He thought for a moment. “Okay. Take a look under “C”.
“C”?
“Yes.”
“Okay, I’m looking…. Wait a minute, here’s something. It says “CI Rosie.”
“That’s it,” Jericho said. CI — Confidential Informant. What’s the number?”
“917-843-7204.”
He wrote it down. “Got it. Thanks.”
“Next to the number, there’s a word in parenthesis,” she said. “It says ‘Budweiser.’ You think that’s the beer the CI drinks?”
“No idea.”
“Jericho,” she said. “Are you investigating what happened to Michael?”
“Yes.”
“The police say they’re sure it was a suicide. Do you think… it wasn’t?”
“Keisha, all I know is that there are a lot of unanswered questions about his death. Right now I don’t have many answers. In fact, I don’t even know what all the questions are. But for your sake, and Michael’s, I won’t rest until I sort it all out.
“Jericho, you are a true friend.”
“You take care of yourself and the boys. I’ll be in touch soon.”
“I’m dealing with the funeral arrangements right now,” she said. “The Department wants to do a formal police funeral with all his friends and fellow officers there. But I know that’s not Michael’s style. He’d want something very private, with y’know, just the family and maybe a few neighbors.”
“It’s your call,” Jericho said. “But I’d let the department honor him the way they see fit. There’s a lot of folks who’ll want to pay tribute to him. It’ll take ‘em a while to set that up. In the meantime, we can do that little private ceremony if you want to.”
“That feels right,” Keisha said. “I’ll figure it out and let you know.”
“I’ll be there.”
“’Bye, Jericho.”
“’Bye, Keisha. Stay strong.”
After he hung up Jericho tried the CI’s number. There was no answer and no voicemail. He wasn’t sure if it was the right number, or even if Rosie was still in business, or, for that matter — still alive.
He’d try again later.
Jericho checked his e-mail. He had a message from Danny Santos.
Hey Jericho — Just had a little chit-chat with Detective Reardon. Asked him how Mouse’s suicide investigation was going. He said fine. I said y’know I was thinking maybe it wasn’t suicide maybe it was murder. Like somebody else wrote the suicide note. He said no they’d gotten a handwriting sample from his wife and an expert said Mouse sure did write the note. He also said his death was reconfirmed — the DNA sample from Mouse’s body matched the DNA from his personnel file. Anyway you told me if I found out anything I should let you know so I’m letting you know. — Danny
The rest was spam, except for a message from his ex-wife in Tacoma. It began with Dear Neil. (She was the only person who used Jericho’s first name, which he didn’t mind when he was married, but now it irritated the hell out of him.)
Just wanted you to know that Katie has come down with measles. She’s got the skin rash, along with high fever, cough, and sore th
roat. (Yes, she was vaccinated, but the Dr. says 3% can still be infected). She says it’ll take a week or more for Katie to recover. I know you’ll want to call her but DON’T. She feels too weak and sick to talk. She’ll be okay, but believe me, Neil — right now THERE’S NOTHING YOU CAN DO.
-Sarah
Jericho fumed. Since his ex-wife had moved across the country with her second husband and Katie, Jericho struggled with being an absentee father. And Sarah seemed to delight in rubbing it in — in CAPS.
He immediately went to ProFlowers.com and sent his daughter a daisy bouquet and a floppy-eared beagle plush toy labelled Sick as a Dog.
He tried Rosie’s number again.
Still nothing.
He’d try again in the morning.
CHAPTER 14.
When Jericho awoke, he decided it was too early to call Rosie — who wasn’t likely to be an early riser.
Jericho took a long, leisurely shower. Then, since the fridge and microwave hadn’t arrived — big surprise — he decided to go out and have a real breakfast.
He remembered the nearby McDonald’s. There, he McTreated himself to two Sausage Egg McMuffins and a McCafé Latte.
On his way back to the hotel, Jericho stopped at the ATM and took out another $500. He figured he’d get no information from Rosie unless he paid him.
Back in his room, Jericho took out his cell and dialed Rosie’s number.
A hoarse, groggy voice answered. ”...Yeah?”
“Rosie?”
“Who’s dis?
“Jericho — I used to be Mouse Davis’s partner. He told me you worked with him on the Garvey Park jogger case.”
“How do I know you are who you say you are?”
Jericho hesitated before realizing he needed a code word. “Budweiser,” he said.
Rosie spoke after a pause. “ Okay,” he said. “Shame about Mouse. Heard he offed hisself.”
“’Fraid so. I’d like to talk to you about him.”
“I got nuttin’ to say.”
“Would two hundred bucks loosen your lips.”
“Nah. Four might.”
