“I was just going to the store,” Felix’s mother responded with a look at her son that signaled it was time for them both to leave. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”
“Make it ten if you know what’s good for you.”
As quick as they could, Felix and his mother left the apartment and were soon standing on the sidewalk in front of the run-down tenement building. “You… you… you should leave him,” Felix stammered.
His mother didn’t raise her head. “Where would I go? This is my home.”
“Home?” Felix cried. “A home for rats and cockroaches, you mean-at least until winter, when even they won’t stay because we can’t pay for heat. You could live better if he wasn’t around to drink and gamble all your money away.”
“He’d find me, and when he did…” Her voice trailed off but they both knew what she was going to say.
Felix flushed with anger. “Someday I’m going to be a famous rapper, and I’ll buy you a nice house. And if he comes around, I’ll get the dogs on him.”
Amelia looked up at her son and smiled through her tears. She reached out and patted his cheek where a bruise was already beginning to show from the blow his father had given him. “You’re a good son, Felix. Now, you be safe tonight and stay away from people who can get you into trouble.”
Felix thought about the ring that was making a lump in his wallet. He’d filed the name Al off but left the “Always.” He wondered what his mother would say about his dreams of someday giving it to Maria Elena, the pretty girl with beautiful dark eyes he hoped to talk to that night. “I’ll be safe,” he promised. “I’m just going to see my friend Alejandro.”
Amelia looked worried. “Wasn’t he in a gang?”
“The Inca Boyz over in East Harlem,” Felix admitted. “But that was a long time ago, Mama. He doesn’t do gang stuff anymore. He’s a famous rapper now, and he’s my friend.”
“Well, he better take good care of my son or he will have me to deal with,” Amelia said with another smile as she brushed some food crumbs from the front of his sweatshirt. “I should have washed this,” she said. “You are so messy.”
“Aw, Mom,” Felix complained, aware that he and his mother were getting amused looks from some of the neighbors out enjoying the mild April evening.
“Do you know how to get where you’re going?”
Felix blushed. He knew that he was considered “a little slow”-he had difficulty comprehending what he read and math just made him confused. He had been held back in the sixth and eighth grades, and despite being nineteen years old he had just graduated high school. If there was too much going on, his brain seemed to shut down. Sometimes he’d come out of it and not remember where he’d been or what he’d done, but such episodes embarrassed him and he didn’t like to talk about it.
However, he could remember word-for-word anything he’d heard, so now his mother pulled out a piece of paper. “I got this off the Internet last night at work,” she said. “Catch the Four train to Grand Central Terminal and then the Seven to Times Square. Walk south on Seventh Avenue and then west on Thirty-eighth Street until you get to the Hip-Hop Nightclub. If you have any trouble, ask a policeman.”
“Okay, Mom, I got it,” Felix said, and kissed her on the cheek.
Amelia bit her lip and looked like she might cry again. “Are you sure? I don’t like you going out so late at night. And how are you going to get home?”
“I’m fine. Alejandro said he’d give me a ride back,” Felix responded, anxious to get going. She pulled a twenty-dollar bill from her purse and stuffed it in his front pants pocket over his protests. “Take it and have a good time. It’s not often I can keep anything from your father. Buy yourself a soda and maybe something to eat.”
“Thanks, Mom, I love you,” he said.
“And I love you, hijo,” she replied. “I always will, no matter what.”
Felix walked across Mullayly Park to the subway station at 167th and River Avenue and caught the 4 train into Manhattan. Repeating his mother’s instructions over and over to himself, he found his way to the nightclub, a former warehouse on West Thirty-eighth Street. He was pleased that he didn’t have to ask for help and made only one wrong turn-heading east on Thirty-eighth until he realized he was going the wrong direction. He was not so happy that there was already a line of people waiting outside the door to get in, but he took his place.
He didn’t have to wait long, however, before a limousine pulled up to the curb and Alejandro Garcia stepped out. The crowd cheered the appearance of the big-time recording artist.
Then Garcia spotted Felix. “My man,” the rapper said, which was followed by an embrace, “what you doing standing in this line? You’re a performer, homes, come with me.”
Garcia started to lead Felix to the front door but he pulled up short when he got a look at the right side of his friend’s face. “Who gave you that bruise?” he said with a scowl.
Felix shrugged. “No one. I ran into a door.”
“Don’t lie to me, Felix,” Garcia growled. “Was it your old man again?”
“It was an accident,” Felix said with a sigh.
“Accident my ass,” Garcia spat. “That fucker needs a lesson.”
Felix looked up in fear. “Please don’t,” he begged. “It’ll just make it worse later.”
Garcia studied Felix for a moment and then nodded. “Okay, homes, let’s forget about it for tonight. You ready for your big coming-out party?”
Felix smiled shyly. “I’ve been practicing a lot.”
“Good,” Garcia replied as he nodded to the bouncer at the front door who let them in. “Just try not to show me up tonight. Now, let’s see what’s shakin’ in the VIP room.”
The night went even better than Felix could have hoped. He performed raps by Common and Ol’ Dirty Bastard to the delight of the crowd. However, the highlight was when Alejandro Garcia bounced onto the stage and talked him into doing a duet with his latest hit, “Spanish Harlem Sistas.” As the crowd shouted encouragement, they traded verses, and although Felix had only heard the rap twice, he didn’t miss a word or mess up the beat. But it was his perfect imitation of his friend’s delivery that made the spectators go wild.
Flush with the praise of the crowd and his friend, Felix got the nerve to talk to Maria Elena, who was working the coatroom that night. She was short with long dark hair and full red lips, and he thought she was the most beautiful girl in the club. But she had just congratulated him on his performance when a large black man inserted himself between the two with his back to the girl and his angry face scowling down at Felix.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” the man demanded.
“I… I… was talking to Maria Elena,” Felix said.
“I seen that. You hittin’ on my woman?”
“No,” Felix replied, beginning to wish he was anywhere else. “I… I… I was just talking to her.”
“Bullshit, you was cozying up, real smooth,” the man said accusatorily. “You’re trying to get in her pants, aren’t you?”
“I… I… I…”
“‘I… I…’ nothin’, motherfucker, you’re trying to hook up with my woman, ain’t that right?”
Frightened and under pressure, Felix did what he always did. He agreed. “Yes. I was trying to hook up with Maria Elena.”
“Why, Felix…,” Maria started to say with a smile.
But the black man’s eyes widened and his lip curled up in a sneer. He shoved Felix backward. “Why, you little…”
Whatever he was going to say was cut off when someone grabbed his arm and spun him around. That someone was Alejandro Garcia, who, although six inches shorter than the other man and forty pounds lighter, looked like he was going to go for the bigger man’s throat.
“You got a problem?” Garcia snarled, his eyes fierce.
“Yeah, this joker was messin’ with my girlfriend,” the man said, trying to sound tough, but his voice was guarded.
Garcia lo
oked at Maria Elena. “Was Felix bothering you?”
Maria Elena shook her head. “No, we was just talking.”
The rapper turned to the other man. “They were talking,” he repeated. “No law against that. Now get the fuck out of here.”
“Why should I?” The black man was looking around for support without seeing any.
“Two reasons, pendejo,” Garcia said, moving forward until he was only a few inches from the other man. “One, you pushed and insulted my friend for no reason. Two, if you don’t, I’m going to kick your ass up around your ears. Comprende?”
The black man scowled down at his smaller opponent but made no move. “Fuck this place anyway,” he said. “Come on, Maria, we’re leaving. You don’t need this job.”
“Screw that,” she replied, shaking her head. “I ain’t quittin’ nothing but you, Perry. I’m tired of the macho bullshit.”
Alejandro cocked his head and smiled a most unfriendly smile. “Guess you heard the lady; now get your ass out of here.”
“Yeah,” Felix added. “Guh… guh… get your ass out of here.”
Garcia and Maria both looked at Felix in surprise. Then they both laughed as Perry turned and pushed his way out the front door.
“Watch out, Maria,” Garcia said. “I think Felix is going gangsta on us.”
“I don’t know,” Maria replied with a wink at Felix, who was blushing, grinning, and shifting back and forth from one foot to the other. “I like the new Felix. He’s kind of sexy.”
Garcia looked at his friend and was going to add to the teasing. But Felix had already spun on his heel and was racing for the men’s restroom.
5
“I think we need to say something to dad.”
“Yeah, right, he’ll go ballistic, heads will roll, and then everybody on the team, including the coach, will hate us. You don’t have to worry about it because you’re riding the pine anyway, but I’m a starter and I’ll never get to play again.”
“I got to play in the last game,” Giancarlo said to his twin, Isaac, who was scowling at him from across the room they shared as they sat on their beds.
“We were ahead twelve-nothing in the bottom of the eighth,” Isaac replied. Bigger, stronger, and faster than Giancarlo, “Zak” hated it when his deep-thinking sibling tweaked his conscience, which just made him get his back up and lash out. “Coach Newell felt sorry for you. And I was pitching a no-hitter… But the point is that if we say something, it’s all going to come crashing down-the team, our run at a state title, my stellar freshman year as the number two pitcher. My whole life will be ruined.”
“You’re being overly dramatic; your ‘whole life’ wouldn’t be ruined,” Giancarlo said, scoffing. “It’s not like you’re going to make the pros anyway.”
“I might,” Zak argued, “but not if I don’t play every year just because some kid is getting a little shit from some of the guys. Most of us have been together as a team since elementary school. He’s a new guy, and he doesn’t fit in very well. They’ll get tired of it. Just wait.”
“They’re making his life miserable because he’s from Mexico,” Giancarlo shot back. “And because he can play. You’ve seen him, he’s good. He’d make a better shortstop than Max Weller, and Max knows it. But Max is Coach Newell’s little pet, so Coach sits Esteban on the bench and then looks the other way while the team bullies the poor guy, trying to get him to quit.”
“Not everybody,” Zak replied sullenly. “I don’t do nothing to him-”
“You mean ‘I don’t do anything to him.’” His twin was genuinely bighearted and fair, but Giancarlo knew that he sometimes needed a little prodding when wrestling with the devil of self-interest.
“Whatever, Miss Molly,” Zak retorted. “But as I was saying, I don’t do nothin’ to him and neither do you. Lots of guys on the team aren’t bothering him.”
“But enough are, and the thing is, none of the rest of us are saying anything about it. I feel guilty, but I don’t know what to do. I don’t want to screw up your dreams, and if I say something on my own, everybody will deny it and I’ll just end up sitting with Esteban on the end of the bench-and probably getting the shit kicked out of me by Max and his sycophants.”
“Well, thanks,” Zak said grudgingly. “And I wouldn’t let Max and these sick whatever-they-ares kick the shit out of you. They’d have to go through me first, and that ain’t going to happen. I’m already taller than Max and I weigh almost as much.”
“Nice to know you got my back,” Giancarlo said, “but not even Super Zak can take on six other guys at the same time. So I hope it doesn’t come to that… I’d hate to see you get the shit kicked out of you to save this pretty face. But the point is, what do we do about the guys bullying Esteban? It’s not just words anymore. Max tripped him as he was going down the stairs to the field on Friday. And Chris Worley threw that beanball at him the other day in batting practice on purpose. He’s going to get hurt.”
“Then maybe he should quit the team,” Zak said, lying back so he wouldn’t have to look at his twin. He stared instead at a poster on the ceiling of legendary Yankee pitcher Whitey Ford. “Or maybe he should transfer to another high school where he’d be more accepted.”
“You mean a low-income, Spanish-speaking, public school,” Giancarlo retorted, shaking his head. “Jesus, Zak, you’re starting to sound like Coach Newell, who’s just a racist with a whistle and a clipboard.”
“We have black guys on the team,” Zak said.
“Because they come from wealthy families with a lot of pull at the school,” Giancarlo retorted, “and we wouldn’t be vying for the state private school title without them. And they’re outfielders and not a threat to Max. But Esteban’s a scholarship student from Brooklyn, takes the train into the city every day just to attend Hudson; nobody’s going to stick up for him.”
“Look, I don’t like it either, but it’s not my job to protect him,” Zak said.
“Then whose job is it?”
Zak’s response was cut short by a knock on the door, which opened to reveal their father.
“Hey, boys,” Karp said to his sons, “lights out pretty soon. Moishe’s coming over tomorrow to talk to you about your project and I want you bright eyed and bushy tailed. Are you guys ready?”
Karp paused. His father sense detected the charged field of tension between his sons. That in itself was nothing new. The boys were identical twins mostly in name only. They shared some physical traits, such as the dark, wavy hair; beautiful, doelike brown eyes; and general Mediterranean facial features of their mother’s Italian heritage. And since they were already more than six feet tall in their freshman year of high school, it looked like they might attain their father’s height. But even the physical similarities went only so far. With his finer features, porcelain skin, and slighter build, Giancarlo was like a more polished version of his more masculine and athletic brother, Isaac.
However, it was their personalities that differentiated the twins and frequently put them at odds. Both were smart, though Giancarlo was more bookish, a better student, articulate, philosophical, and more likely to use his head rather than his physical assets to get himself out of a situation. He was an accomplished musician who played nearly a dozen instruments, including the banjo and accordion.
Brave, forceful, and extroverted, Zak, on the other hand, was always full steam ahead, preferring to go through obstacles rather than around or over them-or not deal with them at all if he could avoid it. He kept his grades up only through the valiant efforts of his mother, who cracked the whip, but all he really wanted to do was play sports.
Looking at them now, one lying on his back and obviously avoiding eye contact, and the other furrowing his brow as he stared at his twin, Karp felt blessed. They were both good boys and generally made good decisions, though Zak’s impetuousness and sense of adventure sometimes led him and his brother, who was usually along to keep an eye on Zak, into trouble.
“Everything okay?” he a
sked. Both boys mumbled an affirmative.
Karp followed Zak’s gaze to the poster on the ceiling and smiled. Whitey Ford, he thought, the Chairman of the Board. Yankee legend, ace pitcher in the fifties and sixties.
As a lifelong Yankee fan, he knew everything there was to know about the wily southpaw. Born October 21, 1928, in New York City. Height, five-ten; weight, 180. Lifetime record: 236–106;. 690 winning percentage, best of any twentieth-century pitcher. Received the 1961 Cy Young Award and still holds many World Series records, including ten wins, thirty-three consecutive scoreless innings, and ninety-four strikeouts.
“Elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1974, same year they retired his jersey,” Karp said. “I was at the game…”
“We know, Dad,” Zak said.
“We’ve heard the story,” Giancarlo told him.
“Hey, when do we get to go to a game?” Zak asked.
Karp recognized the attempt to steer the conversation away from whatever the twins were debating. Zak was anything but subtle. But it did remind him that one of the things he’d promised himself after the Jabbar trial was that he was going to spend more time with the boys. He’d even had to miss a few of their baseball games, which galled him. And it had been a long time since they’d played hoops together or just threw a ball around in Central Park. As Marlene kept saying, it wasn’t going to be too much longer before they were out of the house.
“Let’s compare calendars tomorrow and pick a day,” he said. “I’ll spring for the tickets, but you’re on your own for beer.”
The twins smiled at their father’s lame attempt at a joke; the promise of a family outing to the ballpark lightened the mood in the room. “Oh, and I’d suggest that you bring your digital recorder for Moishe’s talk,” Karp said. “This is oral history, and there’s fewer and fewer people every year who can tell us the truth about what happened.”
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