I looked to Renny.
“Aww, Shell, dang,” he said. “This is bad ain’t it?”
I nodded. “Isn’t it? Yes, real bad, Renny.”
“This’ll kill Abuelo; you can’t tell him about this, Shell.”
“Your grandparents need to know, Renny.”
“I know, I know,” he said in a sing-song. “Abuela’s tough, she could handle it. Abuelo, though, come on, Shell.”
“You have a problem?” I asked.
He looked at me, started to lie. “No…I might…a little bit...probably.”
“I can get you some help.”
“What? Like rehab or something?”
“Help,” was all I would offer. I didn’t want him dictating the situation.
“I’ll set this right, Shell. Give me a chance to figure some things out.”
“How did you—”
“Get started on the shit?”
I winced at his minor profanity.
That was enough to elicit an edit. He said, “I mean…stuff.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. Trying to be… I’m different, Shell. You can see that. Quiet, mostly keep to myself. Girls think I’m a lame. Guys think I’m soft. And they’re right. I wish I was tough like you. Like practically everybody around here. I’m more like my abuelo. The guys tease me about that, too. They say my abuela has bigger nuts than me. I guess I started out trying to fit in or something.”
“These other boys are headed nowhere fast, Renny.”
He nodded. “You’re tough, Shell. You telling me you respect someone like me?”
I said, “Your difference is what makes you special.”
He smiled at that lie, said, “I’ll set this right. I give you my word.”
“What does your word mean at this point, Renny?”
“A lot, Shell, please. I ever lied to you?”
He hadn’t. That meant something to me. I was a man of honor with no honor. Funny how it worked out that way.
Despite my better judgment, I let Renny dictate the situation after all.
“I find you out here doing this again, Renny”—I head-nodded toward the rattlesnake slithering on the ground—“and that’ll be you next time. I promise you. And I won’t just break your nose. I’ll cause you some real pain. You have my word on that.”
Renny nodded. “Understood, Shell,” he said. “I’ll set this right. Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me. Get yourself together.”
“I will, Shell. I will.”
I left.
When I got back home all the lights were out. Nevada had her eyes closed, asleep.
Little did I know it, but my eyes were closed, too.
I REACHED FORWARD AND wiped tears from Mona Lisa’s eyes with the back of my hand. It was a surprisingly gentle gesture. Much of this visit had been surprising. We stood there, together on the sidewalk in front of Mrs. Rubalcaba’s unwelcoming home, saying nothing. Both of us were emotional, but under control. Barely. The need to vomit still cramped my stomach. Mona Lisa would have to wash her face and blow her nose.
“Where’s Renny?” I asked.
“We wish we knew.”
We.
Mona Lisa cleared her throat. “You didn’t tell Nevada what you had done?”
“No.”
“You should have told her.”
“I should’ve kept on Renny. I didn’t. Never said another word to him. And then I was gone. Away from…here.”
“Speaking of which. I must go,” Mona Lisa said. “Abuela is surely worrying.”
“Give her my condolences,” I said.
“I will tell her what you’ve told me.”
“Don’t.”
Mona Lisa’s eyes flashed surprise. “What? Why not?”
“Renny was a good kid. Let me take the weight.”
She watched me long enough to make me uncomfortable.
“I should go,” I said.
“The favor,” she said. “What was it?”
I’d forgotten that quickly. Emotional and off balance. I gathered myself and said, “Come follow me.”
We moved to my rental, the Acura, and I motioned to the items on the back seat.
“Enough dog food and treats for a while. Poland Spring water to fill her bowl. She won’t drink tap water for some reason.”
Mona Lisa was quiet beside me.
“If you would walk her twice a day that should suffice,” I said. “I have a key to get inside Nevada’s. I’ll give it to you.”
Mona Lisa was still quiet.
“This is for Nevada’s dog. Do you understand?” I asked.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“To ask this favor.”
She shook her head. “Bigger picture. Why have you come back?”
“They haven’t found a body,” I said.
Mona Lisa nodded.
“Back to this,” I said, looking at the items on my backseat.
“Nevada’s dog,” she whispered.
“That dog means the world to Nevada,” I said. “I’d take her myself if I could. But I’m never in one place for long. I don’t see that changing any time soon. A dog needs roots.”
“No,” Mona Lisa said.
“A dog doesn’t need roots?”
“I can’t…” She took a deep breath. “I can’t care for…Nevada’s dog.”
I nodded. “Thanks. You’ve been oh so helpful.”
She touched my arm as I moved to leave. “You don’t understand, Shell.”
“I think I do.”
“I’m certain you don’t.”
I looked at her, silent.
“Nevada did love her dog.”
“Misty,” I said.
“Misty, yes. Nevada did love her.”
I said, “But you won’t care for her?”
“Misty is gone as well, Shell. I’m sorry. She got old. Arthritis, other ailments. Nevada had her put to sleep. She was inconsolable about it for weeks. We sat together and drank into the wee hours of the morning at times. That’s when Nevada told me all about you, all about your relationship. Despite everything, she had much love for you. I do hope you know that.”
The lump in my throat wouldn’t allow any word but one.
“Croques-morts,” I managed.
Mrs. Rubalcaba’s granddaughter didn’t attempt to keep me from leaving this time.
As I reached the corner at the 100 block of Elm Street, I forced myself to look in my rearview. Mona Lisa had seen a corner of my life that few, if any, had ever witnessed. She’d seen me vulnerable, emotional, weakened, all my guards down. I didn’t know how I felt about that. Didn’t know if that was something I could handle. And then I caught a glimpse of her in my rearview, standing at the curb in front of Mrs. Rubalcaba’s house, something in her eyes I can’t describe. I swallowed hard, knowing that look would haunt me for days.
SEVEN
I HAVE KNOWN SOME wise souls—coaches and spiritual leaders and teachers—who delved in analogous thought. If the whole of Newark were considered a garden, they would define the Ironbound section as rhododendrons, azaleas, Chinese wisteria. The South Ward, contrastingly, would be a mixture of black dirt, compost, and horse manure. With so much unclear, one thing was certain: I liked wallowing in dirt more than the sweet aroma of fresh blooming flowers. If nothing else, the scene with Mona Lisa had sharpened my inner awareness. Emotionally, I needed to simplify my life before it folded in on me. This thing with Nevada was threatening to turn me into someone even I would not recognize. Simplicity was the order of the moment. But how could I grasp some emotional simplicity? I chose the familiar, a small battered storefront in the South Ward as my de facto church. There would be a price to pay at the altar, I knew, but it was a price that I was more than willing to forfeit.
I LEFT ELM STREET, made a right on Union, then took Lafayette and crossed the McCarter Highway to Broad. That led to Lincoln Park and then Clinton Avenue, a straight shot toward my destination. I passed a g
lass and mirror place where bullet-riddled windshields were repaired on a nearly daily basis. The empty lot next to that belonged to a MissionaryBaptistChurch. At night, things that weren’t pleasing to God happened in the church lot. I crossed Seymour Avenue and passed by Guillermo’s Supermarket. Passed the tattoo shop where I’d gotten my right pectoral inked with a Latin phrase I wasn’t sure meant what I wanted it to mean. Then came a six-story, stone gray building that looked as though it could have been a library in another lifetime. Diagonally across from the building was the small battered storefront where I was headed, the lettering on its awning advertising the Panda House Chinese Restaurant. A crowd of boys, all of them either Latino or black, were congregated by the store’s entrance.
I was fortunate enough to find a parking space near the restaurant, right on the street out front. I killed my engine, got out, and locked the Acura. I planned on being gone long enough for care and security to be necessary, which was anything over five seconds in this part of Newark. As I said, the South Ward was a world removed from the Ironbound. And Mona Lisa. I had it in my mind that distance was just what I needed.
I shouldered my way through the huddle of boys in front of the restaurant. One of them held an iPod in his smallish hands, pink ear buds dangling from his ears, and was bopping hard to the music. The others were engaged in a friendly conversation about a girl they were all familiar with. I didn’t expect the conversation to stay friendly for much longer. I could hear a proprietary edge in the tone of one of the boys.
I stepped inside without incident.
Panda House was an altogether inappropriate name for the place. Panda Closet would’ve been better. The entirety of the space was smaller than most rooms in a moderate size house. There were two booths to my left, three tables to my right. I calculated a comfortable seating of no more than twenty before the Newark Fire Department would come threatening fines.
I walked across checkerboard floor tiles, most of them chipped. The odor of overused grease hit me as I neared the order counter. The walls were bare except for a frame holding the first dollar the business had earned, a large slice of cracked glass visually splitting the bill in half, and several business licenses Scotch-taped in a grouping on a peg board. A square discoloration in another spot hinted at something that was no longer there. I didn’t want to think of things that were no longer around. That spot needed cleaning until it blended in with the rest of the wall.
The order counter was cluttered, but neat. Plastic bins for condiments took up most of the space, soy sauce in every single bin. Next to the bins were neat stacks of paper menus held together with rubber bands. A cash register and a Coca-Cola 4-head fountain soda machine took up the rest of the counter. A Coca-Cola standup cooler occupied the wall to the right of that. The ventilation grate at the bottom of the cooler was scrunched in on itself by a big dent that kept it from staying firmly in place. Half scraped off stickers marred its glass door. As with the frame that held the first dollar, the glass of the cooler door was cracked. The bottom of the cooler was loaded with stacks of Coca-Cola 12 oz. can cases. Above those was a shelf with two-liter bottles. And above that, the final two shelves held an assortment of 20 oz. bottles. The cooler, like the counter, was cluttered but neat.
A wisp of an Asian girl, in black pants and a stiff white shirt, waited patiently for me to reach the counter. She had a smile on her face. It’d been there from the moment I’d walked inside. In a few years she’d be of legal age, focused on boys and college and the myriad possibilities of both. I remembered her as a little girl, shy and charged with entertaining her own self, playing with dolls that didn’t have any clothes and often were missing limbs as well. Some real progress had been made by the need for her labor at the Chinese restaurant’s counter. She’d given up on those pitiful dolls and learned to smile.
I don’t believe she remembered me.
Behind her, in the little cooking prep area, was an older man. He was small too, unassuming. Almost invisible if not for his left eye and a purplish birthmark shaped like a continent that took up most of his left cheek. The eye was motionless in its socket and had a dulled gray pigment. The older man was busy chopping vegetables or some such thing, and did not even look in my direction. But I had the feeling he was very aware of my presence.
“Hello,” the young Asian girl said. “May I help you please?”
I ordered a no. 12 special, Beef Egg Foo Young, white rice and gravy on the side.
“And a Pepsi,” I added as an afterthought that was actually well planned out.
She became the little girl version of herself again. The smile fell from her face. She looked over her shoulder at the man with the dead eye and Australia on his left cheek. He kept about his task, still seemingly unaware of me. The girl returned her attention to me, forced her earlier smile to reappear. She definitely didn’t remember me. She wouldn’t have smiled if she did.
“Coca-Cola,” she said.
“Pepsi,” I insisted.
She pointed a slender brown hand at the cooler with the dented ventilation grate. When that garnered no response, she sidestepped and tapped the 4-head fountain soda machine. Shrugged, smiled.
I mechanically moved my head from side-to-side and said, “Pepsi.”
She turned again and machine-gunned her language to the man with the dead eye and birthmark. He stopped chopping, finally looked up. A deep frown creased his forehead. He hesitated for a beat, then wiped his hands on his apron and moved beside the girl. He put his hand on her shoulder, his good right eye carefully trained on me. There was a slight tremble in his body but he did an admirable job of masking it. I had to give him credit for that. Not many could have feigned calm with me standing there looking agitated.
“Almost year,” he said.
I nodded. “You have a good memory, Jiang.”
“You good customer,” he said, smiling. The smile a doctor gives a sick patient with little to no prospect of recovery.
“How’ve you been?” I asked him.
“Ah, busy,” he said. “Very busy.”
I nodded. “I’d like a Pepsi, Jiang.”
The young Asian girl, his daughter, was still at his side, her eyes averted from me.
“Coca-Cola,” Jiang said, pointing at the cooler with the dented ventilation grate, then moving over and tapping the 4-head fountain soda machine. The exact same gestures as his daughter a moment earlier. Didn’t work for her, wouldn’t for him, either. And I’d hold him more accountable than I did with her. She was just a child still. He knew better.
“Pepsi, Jiang.”
“Cold. Coca-Cola. Cold as witch tit. No Pepsi, please.”
“Pepsi.”
“No. You wait,” he said, and hurriedly backed away. He disappeared deep into the cooking area, obscured from my sight behind machinery and other cookery knickknacks. He came back out a moment later, a white container with a thin metal handle in his hand. He dropped the container in a plastic bag. Threw in a couple packets of soy sauce. Fortune cookies, several bags of the dry noodles he normally guarded like FortKnox. He handed the bag to me with two hands as though it were a live grenade.
“Free,” he said, gesturing with his hand. “Take, take.”
I took it, but stood and watched him for a moment. Watched his daughter as well. She still refused to look at me. Jiang somehow managed to hold my glare, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat all the while. I moved away finally, stopped by the cooler with the busted ventilation grate, opened it, took out a can of Coca-Cola, and lifted it for Jiang to see. He waved me on. Free. Take, take.
I took it and left.
I DROVE TO THE end of the block, turned right and coasted about fifty feet, braking at the mouth of an alley. My rearview was clear so I turned in. The narrow path was an artery that fed past the back of Panda House and a Laundromat and a nail place. I eased past the gray door of the Chinese restaurant. Gray. Eased past similarly colored doors for Panda’s neighbor merchants. I parked, but left my engine r
unning, got out with my bag of Chinese food and soda in hand, settled myself on the Acura’s trunk, my right foot propped on the bumper. I set down the can of Coca-Cola next to me and ripped open the bag and ate the food with a plastic spoon.
The alley was like most of its kind, strewn with trash, and ripe with competing smells, none of them pleasant. Teeming with stray cats. None of that bothered me, though.
I ate my Egg Foo Young and watched a gray door. Watched it for twenty minutes. When it finally opened, the man with one dead eye and a purplish birthmark stepped out. He had a large trash bag hefted over his right shoulder. It looked like an impressive feat. But it wasn’t nearly so. The bag wasn’t very heavy. Less than ten pounds, I estimated.
I picked up my can of Coca-Cola. It was filmed with cold sweat. A whoosh sounded when I popped the tab. Ice cold, but it did nothing to douse the fire in my chest as I guzzled it dry. I crushed the can with one hand and started to stroll.
Jiang was bent over his trash bag, working the tails of it into a knot. I’m big, but I move quietly if need be. At that moment I needed to. He didn’t hear my approach.
Ten feet from him, I dropped the Coca-Cola can and kicked it over by his feet. He froze, looked down at the crumpled soda can, a puzzled expression on his face. Then realization formed and he looked up and spotted me. He stood up bolt straight and contemplated the gray door. It loomed five feet away. By then I had closed the distance between us to three feet.
“Pick up the can,” I said. “No littering.”
He didn’t take his eyes off of me.
“Pick it up. The Coca-Cola can,” I said.
He closed his good eye and groaned like an undernourished stomach.
Triage: A Thriller (Shell Series) Page 8
