Forsaking All Others

by Jimmy Breslin

  “Are you married to the man because you have your name on a doorbell or because you want to be married to him?”

  “I’m married,” Nicki said.

  “Tell me how you’re married to him,” Maximo said.

  His voice was demanding and he put his face closer to hers. Nicki took her eyes from him, turned her head to pick up her drink and slowly brought the glass to her lips. “I am married,” she said.

  For part of an instant, the flesh on his face seemed to shake, as if he’d been punched. Or was it anger? I can never tell with these people, she thought.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “But I’ve told you two hundred times. You’re a Spic and you’ll always be a Spic.”

  “I’d take that as a compliment, in view of the way you hurried into bed for this Spic,” Maximo said.

  “I’ll admit to anything you say,” Nicki said. “I loved being in bed with you. I even was in love with you, or at least I thought I loved you a couple of times. But you’re still a Spic and you’ll always be a Spic.”

  “That’s not even funny anymore.”

  “It never was,” she said. “Say the truth. Did I ever once lie to you?”

  Maximo, silent, stared at a face that now surrendered nothing

  “All right, then,” he said lightly. “We’ll have a private drink here and that’s it. I’ll even have one.” He waved to the bartender.

  “I don’t want another,” Nicki said.

  “Forget it,” Maximo said to the bartender. He put ten dollars on the bar. “Take out, will you?” Maximo stood up and reached for her coat.

  “Maximo.”

  “Yes?”

  She sighed. “What could I tell you?”

  She slipped into her coat and walked out ahead of him as he picked up the change from the bar. She stood on the sidewalk in the cold shadows, her hands in her pockets, searching the traffic for a cab, then turning to face him. His bare chin gave him a vulnerability she never had noticed before. She smiled and brought her hand up to his face and began to kiss him on the cheek. Maximo put his arm around her and pulled her face to his and his mouth covered hers. Her tongue responded to his and her hand, which had been touching the side of his head lightly, became firmer.

  The flow of women shoppers coming out of Alexander’s department store turned into creeks running around either side of them. The women walked in shoes that were either plastic or of such cheap leather as to appear plastic, and they looked at the couple kissing, then at one of Nicki’s rich maroon shoes as it lifted off the sidewalk and swung behind her other foot while Maximo held the kiss and she did not try to stop it.

  Now a couple of kids, walking with long, bouncing strides, reached them. “The ladies,” one of the kids said. Nicki, closing her eyes more tightly, losing herself in the kiss on the crowded street, did not care.

  Maximo stepped back. He took her hands and his chin jutted out, as strongly as it seemed to when it was protected by a forest.

  “I quit you,” he said.

  “Maximo.”

  “I just said to you, ‘I quit you.’ ”

  “Let’s always be friends.”

  “I quit you.”

  The words came out of a stony face. Maximo dropped her hands, turned and walked away until he became one of the crowd on the street in the early evening chill.

  29

  THE UNITED STATES ATTORNEY Civil Rights March 26, 1979

  Federal Courthouse

  Foley Square

  New York City

  (This letter written with the aid of interpreter Rita Acevedo.)

  My name is Luisa Maria Flores. The reason why I’m here in this woman’s jail on Rikers Island today is that I have been treated worse than a criminal by the Police Department and the Bronx District Attorney’s office.

  I can no longer keep my mouth shut because this has been such a bad thing. Not only am I fearful that my life is in jeopardy, but also it has put me in a state of grief. I am scared, hurt, but most of all angry to what has happen to me.

  If I am Jewish, Irish or Italian chances are this wouldn’t have happen to me, but because I was Spanish they thought I wouldn’t complain.

  This all started when I agreed to meet a detective by the name of Crofton and that was last week. He started to ask me questions like, did I know Teenager or Benny or Albertito. I answered yes. He knew that anyway. But I answered yes. I knew them because I was the barmaid at Ana’s Bar at East 138th Street and that they used to hang out in the bar. I never have anything to do with them. But they used to confide in me about the murders that Teenager, Benny, Albertito, Santos Rivera and others, that they committed. Teenager was going to let a girlfriend named Ramonita kill me and this got me so scared I went to tell the Detective Crofton about this.

  Well, that was the beginning of my problems on March 14, 1977. I told them this day about all the murders made by Teenager. When I told them this, Crofton and the DA put his left hand on a Bible and raised his right hand and swore to me that as long as I cooperated that he would keep me out of trouble. That night I was at home and Detective Crofton and Hansen, a black color detective, came to my apartment. Crofton screamed and yelled at me that he was going to kick my ass, that they had just found out that I was the girl who was at the precinct the day when Octavio Turin and Boogaloo got killed in the Myruggia Bar. They say I was the girl who run away. I was scared and crying hysterically. Crofton says the deal is off because I am involved in a murder of my own. I told them I am not involved in the murder of Octavio Turin and Boogaloo. I never shoot a gun. I only point to them in the bar.

  I was held prisoner in my own house. My girlfriend from across the hall, Bosie Woods, her telephone # is 933-3741, came to visit me at my apartment when Crofton and Hansen were there.

  Then sometime the next day Crofton said to me that he wanted to put me before a grand jury. I told Crofton that he could go fuck himself and to tell Hansen that he could go fuck himself and to tell the grand jury to go fuck themselves also.

  At no time was I advised I was under arrest or allowed to make phone calls to my lawyer. Instead they kept me in my apartment for seven days always in the company of two detectives.

  Then one day about 3:00 P.M. they said to me that I had to go to Bikers Island to be a material witness and that they would put me in jail each night and that every day they would come and take me out and I would show them how Teenager, Benny, Albertito and the others, the murders they committed.

  They said that if I did not do all this, then they would put me on trial for the murders of Octavio Turin and Boogaloo. I told them they cannot do that. I never shot Octavio Turin or Boogaloo. I just pointed to them in a bar. But these detectives say they can do this to me.

  I want the government civil rights to come and help me because I am a Puerto Rican and not a Jew with people to help. I am here in Rikers Island all night with a lesbian girl. She tries to feel me up without permission.

  Thank you,

  Luisa Maria Flores.

  Eddie Hernandez put the boxes down when Maximo walked in. “I got a problem,” he said. “I didn’t know who to call so I called you.”

  “Fine,” Maximo said.

  “The cops came in here before with the barmaid from up the block. They asked me about some clothes she bought for Teenager.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I said I thought I remembered.”

  “And?”

  “They want sales slips.”

  “What clothes are they talking about?” Maximo said.

  “Two wedding suits. The barmaid told the cops she bought a formal suit from me for Teenager and some other guy.”

  “What did they want to know for?” Maximo said.

  “They didn’t tell me,” Eddie said.

  “I know why,” Weinstein said. “I heard the detectives saying these bums wore the suits so they could cut up people in the cellar someplace.”

  “You’re telling me detectives were in here?” Maximo said.r />
  “Two of them. With the barmaid. I had to tell them I was pretty sure I remembered. What could I do?”

  “And you have the sales slips?” Maximo said.

  “Of course he has the sales slips,” Weinstein said. “Eddie keeps records. I taught him how to keep records.”

  “And what barmaid was it?” Maximo asked.

  “The one with the long black hair. What’s her name, Luisa or something. She bought the suits, all right.”

  “Let him keep it at that,” Weinstein said. “I don’t think Eddie ought to do anything past that.”

  “Get out the sales slips and call the police and give them to them,” Maximo said.

  “You think so?” Eddie said.

  “You’ll get in more trouble if you don’t,” Maximo said. He pointed at Eddie. “Do just what I say. Don’t talk to anybody about what you’re doing. Pick up the phone and call the detectives. I can tell you right now, without even knowing it, that you’re in trouble if you don’t. And then you can tell people around here that they grabbed your records. There was nothing you could do.”

  “You think so?” Weinstein said.

  “Do what I tell you,” Maximo said. “If you don’t, do you know what they’ll say?”

  “What?” Eddie said.

  “That you’re in with Teenager.”

  Eddie Hernandez’ eyes said that he knew everything that this meant.

  Maximo, feeling as if he had just climbed a long flight of stairs, clapped his hands together and reached for the door.

  “Thanks, Maximo,” Eddie said.

  “Say hello to Fela for me,” Maximo said. It was the first time he had mentioned aloud the name that had bothered him for two years.

  “I will. I’ll say hello to her for you tonight,” Eddie said. His voice was a chime in Maximo’s ear.

  Outside, a kid sat atop the mailbox in front of Cutti’s Superette. The kid’s legs drummed against the mailbox. Maximo was almost up to the steamed windows of the San Juan coffee shop when two detectives came out of the shop and walked to a Plymouth Fury at the curb. Maximo saw that there were two more detectives sitting in the car. One of the detectives looked across the street and waved a hand. A hand waved back from inside a Plymouth that was double-parked. Maximo could see that this car, too, had four people in it. They would strangle Eddie Hernandez if he tried to fool around with sales slips or stories about the suits, Maximo thought. Eddie owed him one. He headed home the long way, so he wouldn’t pass Ana’s Bar.

  The purpose of the operation was, first, getting even: they believed Teenager had shot at Crofton and Hansen. Then they wanted to catch Teenager and his immediate gang, fourteen of them, for simple form. Martin intended to catch Teenager when he was most vulnerable, probably during daylight hours, preferably either getting in or out of a car. A Wackenhut detection device had been fixed to the muffler of Teenager’s car when he left it unprotected earlier in the evening in the lightless parking lot behind Julito’s Latin Casino on Westchester Avenue.

  Throughout the next day, Martin told them, a police helicopter would follow the beeps of the Wackenhut and direct cars on the ground. In that way, Teenager of the many left turns would have no idea he was being followed. As Myles was the one who had been shot at, he was to get the honor of flying in the helicopter, Myles tried to appear nonchalant about his assignment, but the envy of others, and the thrill inside his own chest, caused his face to flush visibly. The dozen detectives now milled about the room, which had flak jackets and shotguns on the desks.

  “I want to say something,” Martin called out. In the offices of the Twenty-ninth Homicide, the dozen men became silent. “I don’t know about you guys, but I love this city. I’m here to defend it.” Of the thirteen present, including Martin, whose back twinged from further work on his sundeck, only one, Hansen, black, did not live in the suburbs. “More important,” Martin called out, “every man in this room is now on overtime until the conclusion of this operation. I mean cash overtime. You won’t get compensated with time off. You’ll get cash and I got this cleared all the way through the Chief of Operations office. The money will be on your next check. You won’t have to wait three months for the bastards to add it on.” Whitecaps of excitement appeared in all eyes around him.

  They were too filled with the thrill of the chase to go home. They stopped first at a bar, the Captain Bligh, where Martin delivered a lecture to the effect that it was truly man’s finest work, chasing a gangster by helicopter. At the mention of the prized helicopter, Myles threw down several drinks. The group then went for Italian food, where Myles tried to chase the liquor with a half dozen cups of espresso, which he gulped as if they were lemonade.

  Hansen drove Myles over to Baker Field in Manhattan, where Columbia University plays Ivy League football. Myles left his shotgun in the car, but took the flak jacket for effect. Hansen left him on the football practice field and drove off. Myles stretched out with the flak jacket under his head and dozed for a few minutes. Soon a noise in the sky caused him to sit up. A Bell helicopter, a two-seater, beat its way through the sky and came down on the football practice field. Myles walked through the dust and got on.

  “You all right?” the pilot said.

  “Just,” Myles said.

  “My kid got a flu home. I must’ve caught it from him. I feel terrible,” the pilot said.

  As the helicopter rose, Myles positioned his feet about an attaché case that carried the Wackenhut receiver. A steady beeping sound came from it. The helicopter turned over onto its side and headed for the Bronx. Myles’ stomach also turned. There now was discomfort in Myles’ chest, the heart seeming to beat too rapidly, and an aching growing in intensity beneath the left side of his rib cage. The closer the helicopter came to the South Bronx, where Teenager lived, the louder the beeping from the Wackenhut. High in the sky over the streets about Teenager’s house, the helicopter was filled with the beeping sound, and the pilot turned the glass bulb on its side and swooped down at busy Gun Hill Road, then righted the copter, zoomed up out of the dive, and caused Myles to throw up on the attaché case. Myles picked up his head. He now threw up on the plexiglass.

  “Fuck this!” the pilot said.

  The helicopter swooped into a sudden turn. Myles heaved again against the plexiglass. The helicopter rushed through the Bronx air, descending on a football field in Van Cortlandt Park.

  Myles got out and stood on the grass, coughing, his eyes filled with water. He tried to throw up some more but could not.

  “Over there,” the pilot said. He pointed to Broadway, where a gray El train, its outsides covered with red and blue graffiti, every bone of its insides creaking painfully, ran slowly and noisily.

  “Take the train?” Myles said.

  “No. Go into one of the joints under the El there and get us some water to clean this thing off,” the pilot said.

  Myles walked over to a bar under the El, took a breath of fresh beer being poured from the tap and the night before’s crushed cigarettes and cigars sitting in ashtrays, retched and went into the men’s room. When he came out, he fished in his pocket for his badge, bringing it out on the long chain, and showed it to the bartender, who cheerfully gave him a couple of rags and a plastic bucket of water. Back at the helicopter, the one pail of water became hardly enough to wash away the mess. Working with wet rags, Myles cleaned away nearly all the traces, but could not cover the smell: the inside of the helicopter was somewhere between a nursery and a subway toilet. Taking off, the pilot flew the machine with his mouth open. The moment the helicopter attained any height, Myles’ stomach again turned and he felt too weak to control it.

  The beep on the Wackenhut insisted that they move away from the South Bronx.

  The helicopter pilot said, “Subject on the move.”

  “We know that,” Martin’s voice came back. “Make sure you stay up there this time.”

  Following the beeps, the helicopter came over Fordham Road. Dropping low, the helicopter ran high over
the car tops, but the Wackenhut noise was at such a pitch that Myles leaned forward and watched intently as the car roofs below raced past his eyes. To his own surprise, he saw the Mercedes.

  “Subject is on Fordham Road,” the pilot said.

  “Which direction is he heading?” Martin said.

  “Gee, I don’t know the Bronx,” the pilot said.

  “Put Crofton on.”

  “Yes.”

  “Which direction is he going?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Like he’s going south, but then the road goes up. I don’t know, is it east, too?”

  “Will you tell me in which direction he’s going?”

  “Do you know Belfast’s Heaven?” Myles said.

  “Yes,” Martin’s voice roared back.

  “I can see that he’s by Belfast’s Heaven and he’s heading toward, now let me see, where is he going?” Myles was so worried about his stomach that he could hardly concentrate.

  “Crofton!”

  “Yes?”

  “Is he heading toward Billy Sheridan’s?”

  “No, he’s going the other way.”

  “Toward McKittrick’s or JP’s Lounge?”

  “JP’s Lounge.”

  “At least now I know where the subject is,” Martin said.

  Myles’ stomach rolled and he threw up again, this time over part of the attaché case, then his shoes and, head rising, the lower part of the plexiglass.

  Alongside him, the pilot dropped his head and threw up on the floor.

  “I told you I think my kid gave me the flu,” the pilot said. “Look what you done to me.”

  The helicopter landed this time on a vacant space behind a shopping center that was a block away from the precinct.

  “Do you think you could get a new pilot?” the pilot asked a furious Martin.

  “You mean you’re dogging it on us?” Martin said.

  “I told them that my kid got a flu and gave it to me,” the pilot said.

  Myles was weak. “You could get another pilot, but I can’t fly in this thing anymore.”

  “That means I can’t track him by helicopter,” Martin said.

  “You can pick up the Wackenhut by car,” the pilot said.