by Paul Monette
“Please,” she said, daubing her nose with the tissue, “just go now, will you?”
He nodded gravely. Whatever she liked. “I’ll be back,” he said, and turned and strode away to the door. As he closed it behind him he began to whistle softly. All the way out to the car, all the way back to his place he was in a drunken good mood.
After all, she hadn’t said no.
He went out again at four o’clock, and this time he took unusual precautions not to be followed. He drove around the block three times, idling under a tree till the street behind him was empty of traffic. In a way it wasn’t odd that he should be so secretive. After all, he had appointments with dangerous men all day long; and he often returned with fifteen or twenty thousand in cash on the seat beside him. But even this did not explain the curious shyness in his face. He almost looked embarrassed, the way another man might look as he snuck out to buy a dirty magazine.
He drove down 17th Avenue to Shenandoah Park. He pulled into the driveway of a three-story tenement, where a bunch of Cuban teenagers were tinkering at a ’58 Chevy. They watched in awe as Tony parked the Jag. He waved to them as he trotted up the steps to the back door. Then he disappeared inside and climbed two flights to the top floor. There was a noise of laughter and an accordion playing behind the door at the top of the stairs. Tony knocked.
The door opened, and a burly man threw up his hands and hooted with delight when he saw who it was. He shouted back over his shoulder: “Hey, it’s Tony!”
He beckoned Tony into a large and crowded kitchen, where a group of eight or ten children was seated around the table, sporting party hats and eating hot dogs. They cheered when they saw Tony, and Tony laughed and shook his fists in the air like a boxer. An enormous Spanish woman stood at the stove, and another man perched on a stool, playing the accordion. Tony waved at all of them, then crouched to the table beside one of the kids. “So tell me,” he whispered, “how old are you? ’Bout nineteen, huh?”
“No! Ten!” cried Paco Colon, throwing up ten fingers for emphasis.
“No kiddin’,” said Tony. “You coulda fooled me.” He drew a thick envelope out of his pocket. “You think you can use these?”
Paco Colon, the boy that Tony had plucked from the sea, who had drifted all night in his arms, asleep in a raging storm, now tore open his birthday present. Inside the envelope were tickets to a half dozen Dolphin games, tickets for the whole Colon brood that sat around the table. Paco waved the tickets in his hand, shouting excitedly. Then all the children cheered.
Waldo Colon set down the accordion and went to the refrigerator to get Tony a beer. Waldo and his wife Dolores had taken in all his sister’s kids, for she had been one of the missing off the trawler. They were a dozen now, uncles and cousins and the aged grandmother, all living somewhat helter-skelter in the third floor tenement overlooking Shenandoah Park. Tony had tracked them down about a month ago, remembering the promise Waldo Colon had made to him when he retrieved his nephew at Key West Naval.
Anything Tony ever needed. Anything.
Tony chatted amiably with Waldo and Dolores, sipping his beer and pleading he was too full to eat. They asked him about his business, and he replied evasively, for as far as they knew he made all his money in import-export. They tried to fix him up with a date, listing all the eligible girls they knew around the neighborhood. He declined, laughing heartily at their insistence that he needed a woman to fatten him up.
Suddenly there was a commotion in the parlor. A tremendous roar and a stamping of feet. All the children squealed and held their breath. Then a gorilla appeared in the doorway, beating its breast like King Kong. The children shrieked with excitement as the gorilla lumbered around the table to Paco’s place. He picked the child up bodily out of his chair and held him over his head, roaring triumphantly. Paco was giddy with laughter. The gorilla lowered the child onto his shoulders and pranced around the kitchen as the other children cheered.
Finally Paco gripped the gorilla’s neck and yanked. The headpiece came off. The kids whistled and banged the table when they saw who it was: the toothless retard, the one who had thrown the inner tube to Tony and Paco. Now that the jig was up, he lowered Paco to the floor, unzipped the stuffy suit, and stepped out and bowed. As the children applauded, he walked over to Tony and spoke a laborious hello. Though he had a severely cleft palate, he talked with greater precision now, for the Colons had enrolled him in special classes at a rehabilitation center.
“Hello, Ricardo,” Tony said warmly, shaking the young man’s hand.
Tracking this one down had been a good deal more difficult. Tony had had to bribe an official at INS, and even then it took two weeks of poring over medical charts, for he didn’t even have a name to go on. Eventually he found him in a public sanitarium in Sweetwater, thin and terrified and strapped to a bed, covered with sores. Three more bribes were required to spring him. And most important, Tony had had to convince Waldo Colon to take in another child, this one twenty years old.
Waldo and Dolores had not even had to discuss it. They nodded yes before Tony finished asking the question.
Now Tony visited once every couple of weeks, usually unannounced. But today was special, Paco’s birthday.
They all grouped around the table as Dolores bore in the cake, decorated yellow and blazing with candles. They all sang at the top of their voices, Tony included. He could only stay another few minutes, for he had another delivery to make before sundown. He would press an envelope of cash into the hand of the protesting Waldo on his way out, as he always did. Meanwhile he laughed and sang with the others, all his problems forgotten.
As soon as they finished their cake, he would give the kids a boxing lesson.
The Babylon Club was hopping like Saturday night as Tony and Manolo drove up. Tony turned the Jaguar over to the carhop he used to play cards with in jail, palming him twenty bucks as he shook the guy’s hand. Tony and Manolo, both in tuxedos, made their way through the crowd on the steps and entered the glittering foyer. The Babylon was always jammed, always fast and wild, but some nights it seemed to go over the edge, till the air itself crackled with something like an electric charge. It had to do with a conjunction of the music, the drugs, the carnal desires, and maybe even the moon. Whatever it was, it was turned up high tonight.
As soon as he saw them, the maitre d’ hurried over and shook both their hands. He led them through the milling crowd at the bar and into the restaurant. Tony nodded to several people as he made his way to the perfect table just above the dance floor. He ordered a vodka tonic. Manolo had scarcely sat down when he started looking around for a woman. Tony was too busy thinking. He had a hundred details to sort out about sending a team of mules out of Panama. Seeing Elvira this afternoon had made him glad, but also terribly impatient. As he waited for his drink he pulled apart a book of matches, idly watching Manolo as the latter scanned the crowd on the dance floor.
Suddenly Manolo’s mouth dropped open. He looked like he’d seen a ghost. Tony’s eyes swiveled to the dance floor. Like a laser he spotted his sister Gina, in a black crepe dress he’d sent her himself. She was dancing with a flashy young Cuban in a burgundy velvet suit, big diamonds on both of his pinkies. Instinctively Tony rose in his chair, his hands curling into fists.
“Easy, Tony,” said Manolo, “it’s okay, it’s just a disco for Chrissake.”
“Who’s she with?”
“What do you give her money for, if you don’t want her to go out and have fun?”
“Who is he?” asked Tony again, but beginning to calm down now. The waiter arrived with the drinks, and he sat.
“Some kid, he works for Luco.”
Just then Gina turned in their direction. Her eyes widened when she spotted them, but she quickly waved and grinned at them. Manolo waved back. Tony nodded. The guy in the burgundy checked them out.
“Keep an eye on her, will ya?” Tony grabbed his drink and stood up. It was time to work the room, see who he needed to make an arrangem
ent with. He was damned if he was going to sit and watch like a chaperone. “Make sure he don’t dance too close,” he called over his shoulder to Manolo.
“Sure, Tony.”
Tony crossed toward the bar. He saw two of Echeverria’s men huddled over their beers. Echeverria did a lot of trade in Panama red, and Tony was sure they’d have a good update on the customs situation. One of the men looked up and waved to him. Tony headed over. Then suddenly someone stepped in front of him and laid a hand on his arm.
“Hello, Tony. You remember me?”
Tony turned with a white flash of anger, ready to fling his drink in the guy’s face. He jerked his arm away. The guy was paunchy, and his face was red and veiny from too much booze.
“Yeah, sure,” said Tony, simmering down. “Mel Bernstein, right? Homicide. Everyone knows you.”
“That’s right, Tony. I think we better talk.” He gestured toward the quiet end of the bar and made a move that way, but Tony stood his ground a moment longer.
“Talk about what? I ain’t killed anybody lately.”
“No?” said Bernstein dryly. “Gee, that’s a relief. How ’bout ancient history, Tony? How ’bout Emilio Rebenga? Seems to me you’re forgettin’ a whole bunch of Indians at the Sun Ray in Lauderdale.”
Tony laughed. “You know, Mel,” he said, “whoever’s givin’ you your information must have a lot of trouble talkin’ with his head up his ass.”
Bernstein leaned close and breathed in Tony’s face. He smelled of garlic and rotgut whiskey. “Are we gonna talk, Montana, or am I gonna bust your spic wiseass right here?”
Tony didn’t argue. He followed Bernstein to the end of the bar, noticing just at the last that Bernstein walked with a slight limp. He flashed on the man he’d seen get into the limousine with Frank. They took the two last stools in the corner, and Bernstein ordered a double Four Roses rocks.
“The news on the street is you’re bringin’ in a lot of yeyo, Tony. Congratulations. You’re not a smalltime hood any more. You’re public property, and the Supreme Court says we can invade your privacy.” It all sounded very friendly, like the grin of a shark.
“No kiddin’,” said Tony, cocky again. “How much we talkin’?”
“Well, let’s see now.” Bernstein pulled a Bic out of his shirt pocket and slid the paper napkin out from under his drink. He scribbled a figure and passed the napkin to Tony. It said “25,000.”
Tony snorted. “I still think you’re havin’ an information problem, Bernstein. I don’t even get my first shipment from Panama till next week.”
“Bullshit. You pulled in a hundred and eighty grand in the last ten days.”
No question about it, Bernstein’s information was getting better and better.
“How ’bout I give you ten?” said Tony.
Bernstein bristled. “Whaddaya think, I’m havin’ a sale? I want twenty-five by tomorrow morning, and that’s just for openers. Maybe you’ll have to eat hot dogs for a week, but I’m sure you’ll make it up. Everybody’s doin’ real good. Ain’t no recession down here.”
Tony knew there was no room to argue. Bernstein could bust him in five minutes flat, tie him up in a trial that could cost him a quarter of a million. He was just getting started, he couldn’t afford the hassle. He lit a cigarette. “What do I get for my money?” he said. “Protection?”
“Protection?” Bernstein was flabbergasted. “What do you think this is, New Jersey? You protect yourself, asshole. Believe me, if you’re like the rest o’ these guys you’ll be dead in a year.” He downed the last of his drink and signaled for another. “Let me tell you how the system works,” he said, and in a grotesque way he sounded almost avuncular, like he was a high school coach. “It’s a trade-off, see. You feed me a bust every now and then. Or maybe you call me if there’s a homicide, and when me and my boys get there we find a little present. Other day a Cube got clipped in Miami Springs, we found a hundred grand cash underneath him. Safe to say robbery wasn’t the motive. No use turning it in, the state’ll just spend it on niggers.”
Tony was gripped by the purest stab of hatred. He felt an almost physical hunger, as if he’d never be satisfied now till he’d torn the man’s face off. A list began to take shape in his head of those he would one day eliminate. The list was still hazy, just the one name at the top—Mel Bernstein—but he suddenly knew it would be a whole list before he was through. And whatever happened, they would never kill him till he’d got through his list.
“Works the other way too,” said Bernstein, positively cheerful now. “We tell you who’s moving against you. We shake down who you want shaken down. Course we collect. Hey, we’re eight guys. Professional work, Tony. When we hit, it hurts.” It sounded like he was advertising laundry soap.
“I’m real impressed. Is all of America this wonderful?”
“Just the colonies, Tony. Just where the spics have taken over.”
They both downed their drinks. They ordered another round. In fact they were both lucky, because neither one could kill the other. They needed each other too much.
“So how do I know you’re the last cop I gotta grease?” asked Tony, wondering now who else Frank was going to pull down on him. “What about Metro, Lauderdale, DEA? What rock are they gonna crawl out from under?” It was abundantly clear that Bernstein came from the same neighborhood.
Bernstein shrugged. “That’s your problem, José. We don’t cross no lines.” He drained his third drink in ten minutes as he stood up. “Look at it this way: I got eight killers working for me. If their reputations are compromised, their careers are gonna suffer. Which means their families are gonna suffer. Which means they’re gonna make you suffer.” He started to turn away, but something dawned on him. “Oh yeah, and two of my boys got a vacation coming up. Throw in two round-trip tickets to London, okay? First class. They’re real nice guys.”
Tony just stared at him now. Bernstein loved it. He reached out a hand and patted Tony’s cheek. “I like the scar. Just like Capone, huh? Real nice touch. But you oughta smile more, Tony. Enjoy yourself. Every day above ground’s a good day.”
With that he winked and limped away, waving to two or three men in the crowd as if he was a politician, which he was. Tony sat there brooding. It wasn’t the money. It wasn’t even that there were cops who had to be dealt in at every turn; that was part of the racket. No, it was Frank who was troubling him now. He didn’t think he’d have to go up against Frank so soon. If it had come to that, there was going to be blood.
Tony looked up, and his eyes drifted back to the dance floor. The burgundy suit was snuggling up to Gina as they danced. One hand was on her ass. Tony’s jaw tightened, and he stood up ready to barrel over and flatten the guy. But he’d hardly taken a step when something drew his eye to the entrance of the bar: Elvira had just walked in.
She wore a long slinky sequined dress, coral-colored, and her hair was up with gardenias in it. She paused in the doorway and looked around. Ernie was just behind her. Frank was slightly off to the side, his ear being bent by the owner. Tony moved toward her, he couldn’t stop himself. As soon as she saw him coming she glanced with a worried look in Frank’s direction, almost as if to warn Tony. But Tony didn’t take the hint.
“Well hello,” he said. “Did you think about what I said?”
She shook her head. “I never remember what anyone says.” Already Frank was eyeing them. He didn’t like what he saw.
“Why don’t I give you a hint? Coupla little kids—big mansion—happily ever after. Is it comin’ back to you?”
“Please Tony—”
But Frank was there now. He was grinning, but there wasn’t anything happy about it. “Hey Tony,” he said. “Long time, huh? When are you gonna get your own girl?”
Tony looked him right in the eyes. He said evenly: “That’s what I’m doing, Frank.”
The grin faded. Ernie seemed to hover a little closer.
Frank grabbed Elvira’s arm. “Then go do it somewhere else, Tony. Li
ke get lost.”
Elvira said: “Frank, he was only—”
“What was that, Frank?” Tony cupped his ear like a deaf man. “I don’t hear so good sometimes.”
“You keep it up, Tony, you won’t be hearing anything.”
He made a move to push by Tony, dragging Elvira into the bar. Tony took a step right and blocked them. Ernie reached into his jacket.
“You gonna stop me, Frank?”
Frank’s whole body seemed to shake with rage. A snap of his fingers, and Ernie would have drawn his gun. But this was between the two of them. “You’re fuckin’ right I’m gonna stop you,” he said. “I’m givin’ you orders, Montana. Blow. Now.”
Manolo was suddenly there beside Tony. One hand was in his pocket, and he faced down Ernie grimly. Frank let go of Elvira and pushed her away. Something was about to blow, but it wasn’t Tony.
“Orders?” said Tony. “There’s only one thing gives and gets, gusano. And that’s balls.”
At that moment, it seemed amazing that the Babylon Club could go on dancing and drinking. All that laughter and hustle, and nobody even half-aware they were about to hit an iceberg. Ernie and Manolo now fronted each other like a mirror image, in an ancient pose of warriors. Tony and Frank looked ready to fight with their bare hands. It was Elvira who stepped between them.
“This is so fucking ridiculous,” she said, contemptuous of all of them. “I wanna go home and get stoned, if you don’t mind.”
Somehow the spell was broken. She stalked away to the foyer, beckoning for her sable wrap at the cloakroom gate. Frank turned immediately to follow her, fishing in his pocket for a fifty to tip the shaken maitre d’ who’d been waiting to show him a table. Ernie was more reluctant to go. He’d had his finger on the trigger for half a minute, and to break off now was like coitus interruptus. Yet he had no choice. He shot a final murderous glance at Manolo and turned to follow Frank. Manolo gave an audible sigh.
