by Tim O'Mara
“How long did she live?”
“Another three years. A credit to her strength.”
I looked again at the photo, this time focusing on the smile that would be gone too soon. She was putting forth one hell of a front for her son.
“When you grow up in the projects,” Cruz said, “and experience the hardships that Christina faced, you don’t consider that it will be your own body that betrays you.”
We stood there for another moment before he said, “Come. Say good-bye.”
Mrs. Santos and Elsa’s mother were at the table, drinking their waters. Elsa stepped out of the kitchen, drying her hands with a towel.
“Mr. Donne,” she said, so the ladies would realize I was back. “Thank you for coming.”
“I wanted to say good-bye.” I looked at the two women. They didn’t look back. I nodded and said, “Good-bye.”
Elijah Cruz took my hand again. “Thank you, Mr. Donne. Perhaps you will knock on Mrs. Santos’s door again someday.”
I gave him a small smile. “Perhaps.”
“I will walk you out, Mr. Donne,” Elsa said.
“Elsa!” her mother hissed.
“Mommy, shhh!” She waved her hand at her mother. “I’ll be right back.” She led me out into the hallway. “I am sorry about that, Mr. Donne. They don’t mean to be rude.”
“It’s okay, Elsa. And please, call me Raymond.” She nodded. “That photo on the wall,” I said. “The large, white house?”
“The ‘mansion’? It’s Anita’s. She lives upstate.”
“Ulster County?” I asked, remembering the real estate ads from Frankie’s book.
“Highland, yes. Why?”
“Just wondering.”
She pressed the Down button for the elevator. As we waited, she said, “Anita is Frankie’s mother’s cousin. The house was a wedding gift from her husband.”
“She married well.”
“She married rich. She wanted that life. I guess we all did. Anita, Christina, and I would talk for hours as kids about the life we would have after getting out of here. Anita’s dreams came true.” She drifted off for a few seconds. “Anita’s husband, John, owns the travel agency where Frankie’s father works—worked.”
“That’s a long commute from Highland.”
“They have an apartment here in Williamsburg. John owns some buildings in the neighborhood.”
“You see her much?”
Elsa snorted. “Only during the holidays. If her husband allows her to visit the projects. ‘Slumming,’ they call it and expect me to laugh along with them.”
“Is that what Anita calls it?”
“She pretends to mimic him, but I can tell it makes her a little uncomfortable. I think she is beginning to feel the same way he does.”
“Some people have a problem with where they came from.”
“Some people,” Elsa said, “have a problem with where they end up.”
The elevator arrived. I reached over and held the door before it could close.
“Thank you, Mr.—Raymond.”
“For what?” I asked. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You came because I asked you to. Even though Mrs. Santos does not appreciate it, I do. I feel better knowing that someone besides her church was here.”
“It’s not your church?”
“No. My mother and I are Catholics. And you?”
“Raised Catholic,” I said. “But I got over it.”
She smiled. “Thank you.”
I stepped inside the elevator, pressed the button for the lobby, and tipped an imaginary cap. “Ma’am.”
As the door closed, Elsa’s smile got a little bigger. Maybe this wasn’t a complete waste after all.
Down in the lobby, Harold was pushing a wet mop across the floor. When he spotted me coming out of the elevator, he took the opportunity to stop his work and meet me at the exit.
“Still no sign of Lefty, huh?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “You see any strangers around here today, Harold?”
“Strangers? Nope. Why you ask?”
“No reason.”
“Then why you ask?”
“See ya around, Harold.”
He looked at my umbrella. “How’s the leg, Mr. Donne?”
I ignored the question and left the building. I wanted to call the cops, let them know what might have happened up in Mrs. Santos’s apartment. I decided it wouldn’t do any good. She wouldn’t tell them anything. When I got to the street, I went over to the pay phone and dialed nine-one-one. When the operator asked me the nature of my emergency, I said a crazy man was outside the Clemente Houses threatening people with a broken bottle.
If someone were watching Mrs. Santos’s apartment, I wanted them to see some police.
*
I wasn’t ready to go home yet. Since it was pushing six, I figured I’d head over to The LineUp, grab some dinner, and check in with Mrs. Mac about Saturday’s party. The place was filling up with the after-work crowd—I waved to a few cops I recognized—but I managed to get the last stool at the bar. Right next to Edgar. Lucky me.
“They get the kid yet?”
“Hello, Edgar,” I said. “I’m fine, thanks. You?”
“Good, man. How’s the case going?”
Mikey came over, placed a bottle of Bud in front of me, and said, “Thanks again for last night, Ray. I owe ya.”
“How’d it go?”
“Let’s just say I owe ya big,” he said. “You eating?”
“Yeah. BLT with turkey.”
“Extra B?”
“Absolutely.”
“Chips?”
I nodded.
“Glad you’re still on that health kick. Be back in a sec.”
“Anyway,” Edgar said, as if Mikey had interrupted an actual conversation, “how’s the case going? Papers said the kid might be a suspect.”
“Edgar,” I said, “I’m not involved in any case.”
“The cops didn’t call you about the missing kids?”
“His name’s Frankie,” I said. “The sister’s Milagros. And I don’t give a shit what the papers said. He didn’t kill his dad. The cops called the school and got some background on Frankie, that’s all.”
Edgar leaned over. “They asking you for help?”
“No. They’re not.”
“Why not, man? You found the body. You used to be a cop.”
“Used to be, Edgar.” I tapped the side of my head with my forefinger. “Think.”
“Come on, Raymond. One call to your uncle, and you—”
“The cops are not going to let me nose around because of who my uncle is. You want to know how the case is progressing, keep reading the papers. Maybe they’ll actually print a few facts. Or stay at home and listen to your illegal scanner.”
Edgar gave me a look, took a sip from his pint, and said, “I like you better when you’re on the other side of the bar.” He slid off his stool and headed toward the men’s room.
“Me, too,” I said.
“You’re too young to be talking to yourself, Raymond.”
I spun around. “And they said your husband was good at surveillance,” I said, accepting a kiss on the cheek from Mrs. McVernon.
“Taught him everything he knew,” she said. “How are you?”
“I’m fine.” I could tell she wasn’t buying that, so I added, “I was hoping that Frankie and his sister would show up today. The longer they’re out there, the…”
“Greater the chance something bad happened to them?”
“Yeah.” Spoken like a cop’s wife.
“I’m sure they’ll be fine, Raymond. Probably be home for dinner tomorrow.”
“That’d be nice,” I said.
“I just got off the phone with Billy. We’re all set for Saturday. He’s tickled pink that you’ll be here.”
Nice redirection. “Billy Morris does not get ‘tickled pink,’ Mrs. Mac.”
“Anyways, we’re all staffed, the dist
ributor’s going to make an extra delivery tomorrow so we’ll be stocked for the Q, and Billy’s taking care of the food.”
“Then you don’t really need me,” I said.
“Don’t even think of it, Ray,” Mikey said as he put my dinner in front of me. “You are here Saturday.”
“What happened to owing me one?”
“I’ll owe ya two, after the Q.” He laughed. “Hey, that rhymes.” He turned away and headed to the other end of the bar singing, “Owe ya two, after the Q.”
Edgar returned. “Easy, Mrs. Mac. Raymond’s not in a very good mood this evening.”
“He’s just fine, Emo.” Mrs. Mac patted me on the shoulder. “He’s just got a lot on his mind these days. You boys enjoy the night. I’m going home to call my grandson.”
“I’ll see you Saturday,” I said.
“Is noon too early?”
“It’s fine, but as soon as the Q gets rolling, so do I.”
“Thank you, Raymond. Good night, Emo.”
Edgar bowed his head. “Ma’am.” When Mrs. Mac had gone, Edgar turned back to me. “Why can’t you be that nice to me?”
“Mrs. Mac doesn’t ask a lot of stupid questions.”
“I thought teachers didn’t believe in stupid questions.”
“Yeah, a lot of people think that.” I took a bite of my sandwich, a sip of beer, and pointed at the newspaper in front of Edgar. “Let me see the sports pages.”
Edgar knew this was my way of ending any further conversation. He sighed and slid the paper to me. I turned right to the box scores: the only part of the paper I could trust. Box scores don’t lie or imply, they just are, and if you know how to read them—I mean really read them—you can get the whole story of a game you didn’t see a single pitch of. Life would be a lot less confusing if people could just sum up their days in little one-by-three-inch boxes.
I checked out a half dozen games before I finished my dinner. I pushed the paper away, and signaled to Mikey for another beer. I also pointed at Edgar’s. The least I could do was buy him a round after making him pout. He gave me a smile, and we clinked glasses. All made up.
“So,” he said. “Whatta you do next?”
“About what?”
“The missing kids.” He lowered his voice. “And the dead guy. What’s your next move?”
“Edgar, you are this close”—I held my forefinger an inch away from my thumb—“to getting knocked off your stool.”
I didn’t think he heard me. “You’re just going to let the cops handle it?”
“That’s what they get paid to do, Edgar. Some of them are pretty good at it.”
“Yeah, but if they don’t get anywhere by the weekend, it’s old news. Even I know that.”
He had a point there, but I’d be damned if I admitted it. Anyway, what the hell was I going to do?
“Edgar,” I said, “I gave up my dreams of being Jim Rockford a while ago. Pretty much after I figured out he got his ass kicked every time I watched a rerun.”
“I always wanted to be Barney,” Edgar said. “From Mission: Impossible.”
“Good luck with that,” I said. “Grow the fuck up.”
“Here’s what I think we should do,” he went on. “First—”
“Edgar, I swear to god, if you don’t drop this, I’ll not only knock you on your ass, I’ll ban you from the Q.”
He studied my face for a few seconds, looking for signs that I was bluffing. When he finally summoned the courage to speak again, he said, “You wouldn’t do that. You promised.”
“Watch me,” I said. “Leave it alone. I’m serious about this.”
We locked eyes for a bit, and then he said, “Fine.” He got off his barstool, took back his paper, and folded it under his arm. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. “I’ll pay for my own drinks, thank you very much.” And with those final words, Edgar Martinez O’Brien spun around and exited The LineUp.
Mikey came over and said, “Damn, Ray. What’d ya say to get him to storm out like that?”
“Could have been a couple of things, I guess.”
“Well,” Mikey said as he cleared away Edgar’s unfinished beer, “if you remember any of them, tell me so I can try them sometime.”
I managed a small grin as he placed another Bud in front of me. I felt a small sense of regret for the way I’d spoken to Edgar, but it passed.
Can’t stand the heat? Stay the hell out of cop bars.
Chapter 7
“YOU SURE YOU DON’T WANT a cup?” I placed my coffee mug down by my grade book. “I’ve got plenty.”
“I’m fine,” Lisa King’s father said, making sure I knew he was the kind of guy who took nothing from nobody.
He was sitting in the biggest chair I had, which was too small for him. He kept his hands on the table, and I could see the grease under his fingernails. He wore a blue denim shirt, “East River Boat” stitched above the left breast pocket. On the other side was his name, “William K,” written in red script. Judging from the flecks of gray in his short Afro, I figured he had about eight years on me. He smelled of smoke, like someone who smokes in their car with the windows shut. I opened up the nearest window as far as it would go and then sat down across from Lisa’s father.
“I’m not sure why Ms. Stiles called me out of work, Mr. Donne,” he said, as he looked at his watch. “Lisa’s mom usually handles all the school stuff. Said you didn’t even call her.”
“Right,” I said, ignoring his point. “And I am sorry to cut into your day like this, but we have some concerns about Lisa that we felt might be better addressed with you.”
He considered that with a nod and a grimace. “She step into it again?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then what?” he asked, folding his hands in front of him. “Exactly.”
I had decided earlier to start off with the academics, then work up to the big stuff.
“Well,” I began, “it’s not one particular incident, it’s more of a series of…” This is why I don’t dance. I’m not good at it. “We’re afraid that Lisa might have to repeat the eighth grade, Mr. King. Or at the very least, attend summer school.”
His eyebrows pushed upward and then came back down into a tight squeeze, which caused his whole face to wrinkle.
“I don’t … her mother told me she was doing good.”
“She was,” I said. “Well enough to pass, anyway. But the last five or six weeks”—I turned my grade book around so he could read it as my finger ran across a series of x’s and zeros—“she hasn’t been handing in any homework, she’s been late or absent nearly every day, and she’s going to have trouble meeting the state standards on the tests.”
Mr. King blinked a few times before saying, “I heard something about that on the news. What’s that mean? ‘Failure to meet state standards?’”
“Every eighth grader is required to demonstrate a certain level of proficiency on the…”
I could practically smell the bullshit coming out of my mouth. “The city is no longer promoting eighth graders if they don’t meet the levels set by the state on the reading and math tests.”
“But I saw her report card,” he said. “She passed everything, right?”
“Those are the grades I give, Mr. King. And she barely passed. She keeps up the way she’s going, she will fail the fourth marking period and end up back here again next year.”
We sat in silence as he thought about that, the look on his face telling me that I was just one more person in his life telling him shit he didn’t want to hear.
“She here today?” he asked.
“She showed up at nine thirty.”
“Nine thirty.” He bit his lower lip. “She left the house before I did, and I leave at eight. Don’t take no hour and a half to get to school.” He closed his eyes and made a visible effort to control his anger. “Lemme get this straight, now. You’re telling me that if she starts passing and getting her ass to school on time, she’ll mov
e on to high school?”
“That’s what I’m telling you,” I said. “Yes.”
“Then that’s what she’s gonna do. I’ll see to that.”
He started to get up, but I wasn’t done. “That’s not all, Mr. King.”
“Jesus,” he said as he sat back down. “Something else?”
“Lisa came in yesterday with a bruise above her left eye.”
“Told me she got that in gym. Volleyball hit her.”
“Lisa doesn’t participate in gym, Mr. King. She never comes prepared and has to sit in the bleachers with her homework.”
He shook his head. “So she fails gym. That gonna leave her behind?”
“That’s not the point,” I said and waited, like I used to do behind the two-way mirror, watching the detectives go after a guy. It wouldn’t take long, I thought.
“Then what is the…” Here it comes. “Ah, no. You didn’t call me in here to talk about Lisa’s grades.” As he stood up he pushed the table hard enough to make a little coffee splash over the side of my cup. I stayed seated as he leaned over and placed his hands back on the table. “You think I hit my little girl?”
I thought about getting up, but wasn’t sure if he’d take that as a challenge. So I sat there and spoke in an even tone designed to remind him whose meeting this was. “She got that bruise from somewhere, Mr. King.”
“Not from me.” My first thought was that he wanted to come at me over the table. Or at least flip the damn thing. “I know you all think you know what happened at the house last year, and maybe you do. Some of it, anyways. But you don’t know everything. I never…” He slapped his hands down on the table, making me jump back a bit. A small stream of coffee made its way to the edge of the table. Mr. King took half a minute before he continued, calmer now. “I made a lot of mistakes last year,” he said. “But I ain’t never hit my little girl.”
“No,” I said. “Just your wife.”
“Yeah,” he said, pointing his finger at me. “Lisa told me you used to be a cop.”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“I know how you all think. Think just because my lips’re moving, I’m lying.”
