Bodega Dreams (22 page)

When we reached Queens I felt taller. Manhattan humbles you. Many times when I walk around Manhattan I feel as if I’m walking among giant sequoia trees in the California Redwoods. Everything is so
above you, so intimidating and grand. But in Queens the buildings are small, mostly private homes, and those that aren’t are only a few stories high. In Queens you’re Gulliver among the Lilliputians.

When we arrived in Rego Park, the driver pulled over and parked in front of a two-story house. Nazario put his ledger down and finally spoke to me. “Just be cool and let me do all the talking. There isn’t much for you to do here except make me look more important than I am.” We stepped out. It was good to feel some heat.

A heavyset Italian man opened the door and led us inside. After seating us, he said a Mr. Cavalleri would be with us in a minute, that Mr. Cavalleri was out in the garden. The house was ugly, full of cheap furniture and cheaper paintings of horses and saints. We waited and waited. Nazario said nothing to me and I said nothing back. We waited for one hour and most of another. I didn’t say or ask anything. Nazario just looked straight ahead like he was in the fifth hour of a twelve-hour drive. The house was silent, as if the only ones inside were Nazario and myself. Finally the same man returned and apologized for the wait.

“Sorry, fellas. Has it been long?”

“Not long at all,” Nazario said, calmly.

The man led us through the house and out to the garden. There he sat on a chair in the shade, his eyes on an old man wearing a sweater who was watering a peach tree. Nazario didn’t move until the old man motioned for him, and then he walked the two steps toward him.

“Mr. Cavalleri, it was kind of you, a busy man, to make time on such short notice to see us. I won’t insult you by recapping what you already know. My associate William Irizarry asked us to see you.” Nazario stopped himself as if he had said too much. He waited. The old man kept watering the tree. Then he turned the water off and lifted his hand to caress the wet leaves. He moved his eyes and head slightly toward Nazario, who began to speak again.

“We know that you have worked well with Aaron Fischman in the past. We know that he has made a lot of money for you. For my associate and I to act without consulting you would be foolish.” He stopped. Cavalleri moved his head slightly, this time with a little more energy, a nod of agreement. Nazario then started talking again.

“What has happened between William Irizarry and Aaron Fischman
should have no bearing on you or your well-respected name. This is strictly between my associate and Aaron Fischman. I am here to make sure that you, Mr. Cavalleri, and Aaron Fischman have no future ventures planned that would harm you and your name should something happen to Aaron Fischman.” Nazario stopped and waited for the nod before resuming.

“But should you have ventures planned with Aaron Fischman, my associate will compensate you for any loss.” Nazario and I waited for the old Italian.

“Tell this …” Cavalleri finally said, in a low and gravelly voice.

“Mr. William Irizarry,” Nazario answered.

“What does he have in case I have something planned with Aaron Fischman in the near future?”

“Mr. Irizarry knows you are the last of the great old-timers. He knows that you believe in the rules and that you remember fondly your youthful days in the old neighborhood.”

Cavalleri made a slight movement with his fingers, gesturing for Nazario to come closer. I stayed put. Nazario began talking again.

“When you were young, East Harlem belonged to you. In fact, there were two little Italys, one downtown and one in East Harlem. When your bones had plenty of calcium, Mr. Cavalleri, remember that 116th and First was called Lucky Corner because all the politicians would make that street their last stop on the eve of elections. They knew who had the power in the city and who had financed them. The likes of Vito Marcantonio and Fiorello La Guardia all came to pay respect to the men who had placed them in office before the votes had even been counted. Men like you, Mr. Cavalleri.”

The old man looked at the soil that fed his peach tree. He looked at the puddles he had made and contemplated what Nazario was saying.

“And through the years all that has been lost. The only hold you still have is around Pleasant Avenue. What William Irizarry can offer you is his friendship and his promise that nothing will ever happen to that last remnant of Italian East Harlem. It would remain sacred. You have his word that no one will ever hurt it.”

At that Cavalleri turned his face away. Nazario had made a mistake.

“Tell your …”

“William Irizarry.”

“Tell him that we don’t need his protection on Pleasant Avenue. Tell him it was presumptuous of him to think so.”

Nazario waited a few seconds, and just when he was about to apologize the old man lifted his hand to indicate he wasn’t finished yet.

“The old days are gone. That’s fine. We don’t own what we used to own. So many groups out there. It’s like the U.N. now.” He paused, then looked at Nazario once again. “I’ve heard what’s going on in my old neighborhood. I’ve heard only good things about this, this …?”

“William Irizarry.”

“I heard he doesn’t sell it to children and I heard he’s rebuilding the place. I have heard about some crazy idea to pay for people’s schooling. He’s a character. He runs detox programs in the basements of his buildings and at the same time deals in the street.”

“My associate believes anyone who takes it should have a chance to rid himself of it. But anyone is free to decide—” Cavalleri raised his hand again. He’d heard enough. Nazario quieted down.

“I’m an old man, I know what it’s all about. I don’t need speeches.” His face was in a tight knot of irritation. “I personally hate drugs. It’s too much risk, but the more the money the higher the risk. Tell this …?”

“William Irizarry.”

“Tell him I’ve severed all my ties with that Jew. Tell him I’m old and couldn’t care less who comes out on top.” The old man then turned back to his peach tree. Nazario bowed slightly, and just when we were about to turn around and leave, Cavalleri spoke again.

“But tell this …”

“William Irizarry,” Nazario repeated without a note of irritation.

“Tell him should he come out on top, I could work with a spic like him. One that believes in the old days and plays by the rules. It was smart of him to see me before reacting. It shows the man can think. Tell this …” Just as Nazario was about to repeat Bodega’s name, the old man lifted his hand to stop him. “Tell this William Irizarry that should he come out on top, from this day forth I will remember his name.”

W
HILE
riding back to Manhattan Nazario made a call. “Make sure you get all the logos,” he said. “It doesn’t matter. Just get them and then get back at me. Get the corners too.” He paused and frowned, as if the person he was talking to was in front of him. “Any news on the building? No? All right.” He dialed another number. “Find Nene and get back to me.” Then he told the driver to turn off the air conditioner. I guess after the meeting he didn’t need to be so cool, he could sweat if he wanted to. He dialed again. “He’s coming the day after tomorrow, in the afternoon. Do you have the flight number? Good. I’ll send someone to pick him up.”

It was a victory for Nazario and Bodega that this big Italian guy had told them he was staying out of their way, but to Nazario it was just one of many hurdles he and Bodega had to overcome.

The last number he dialed received no answer. I knew he was calling Bodega. He must’ve been too busy with Vera to answer. But Nazario didn’t mutter a curse under his breath, he just closed his eyes and sighed.

“Good news,” I said cheerfully to Nazario, “can wait.”

“You think this is good news, Julio?” he said, eyes still shut. I stayed quiet. “Did you see how we were fucking humiliated?” I had yet to see Nazario really angry. His emotions were always in check. Seeing him
mad now made me realize things were in bad shape. “Did you see how he kept us waiting? Did you see how he controlled everything?”

“You needed a favor from him, right?” I said after a few seconds of silence. Nazario was looking out the window.

“Getting rid of anyone is bad. Especially one of your own.” I guessed he meant Salazar.

“Salazar was dirty, though.”

“Yes, but”—his eyes left the window and looked straight at me—“as long as Latino kills Latino,” he sighed, “we’ll always be a little people.” Silence fell again. Nazario’s eyes returned to the window.

“Nazario, I got a question to ask you,” I said, breaking the silence. “Do you promise not to be a lawyer and tell it to me straight?”

“I don’t promise you anything,” he smiled faintly, “but don’t be afraid to ask.”

“Why am I here? I mean here with you, today. I don’t bring you any advantage over anything or anyone—” He cut me off.

“Who said? That’s the mentality I’m trying to change, Julio. I spotted you a mile away. I know what you can be. What you might bring to us.”

“Us? Who the fuck is us?”

“Us, man,” he said, a little annoyed. “Us, Latinos, the neighborhood, who else? We want you to join the program, quit that job of yours at the supermarket and concentrate on school.” I knew that I could never do that. If I was going to finish school it would be on my own. “We’re trying to do things here.”

“Through crime?”

“Through whatever means are at our disposal.” He straightened himself in his seat. When he spoke, his voice was cold. “Behind every great wealth, Julio, there’s a great crime. You know who said that?”

I didn’t.

“Balzac.”

“Balzac? The writer?”

“Look around, Julio. Every time someone makes a million dollars, he kills some part of the world. That part has been us for so long, and it will continue to be us unless we fight back. The day will come when, just like the white guy, we will also steal by signing the right papers.”

“And it’ll all be legal?”

“That’s right. But in the beginning, you have to do certain things. What do you think, it comes from nothing? America is a great nation, I have no doubts about that, but in its early days it had to take some shady steps to get there. Manifest Destiny, that was just another word for genocide. But now, when you go out west, Julio …” Nazario looked my way and paused but focused his eyes on nothing. “You ever been out west, Julio?”

“No, I never been out west.” He had to know that.

“It’s beautiful, Julio. The red and orange desert, the hills, all that space, the Rockies, the wildlife. When you see that, then you will understand why the Americans wanted it and called it Manifest Destiny and not what it really was, theft.”

He looked out the window again. What he said was nothing new to me, but I felt like a stagestruck actor who forgets his lines because he’s worried about the audience. That was always my problem; I wanted to be onstage, close to the action, but without having to say any lines. Unlike Bodega and the rest, I never had the balls to hold my own in a big scene, much less an entire show.

But I had started to wonder if Nazario and Bodega were right all along. I mean, on good days, what I was learning in college excited me in ways the street and its erratic and petty rules never could. I wanted to think it was my family that had kept me away from the street scene Sapo had built his life around, but it wasn’t. I had enrolled at school thinking about other ways to come out on top, ways that didn’t hurt anybody and weren’t as dangerous. Graduate, get a good job, save, buy a house—but those ways were slow. And like Nazario’s and Bodega’s ways, they held no guarantees of success just because they were legal. They, too, were gambles, rolls of the dice.

Nazario and Bodega, they were talking something else. How life is born from chaos and explosions. Big Bang. They were talking about starting out as a piece of trash from the gutter and transforming yourself into gold. Nazario and Bodega saw it as all or nothing. You couldn’t have change without evolution and some people would get hurt and become extinct in the process because they couldn’t adapt. Nazario’s and Bodega’s ways made sense to me. But so did mine and Blanca’s,
and in tense moments, I didn’t know who made more sense or where my loyalties should be placed.

“Tomorrow.” Nazario swallowed. “Tomorrow it will be all over
El Diario
that Salazar was a bought reporter.” He took a deep breath and loosened his tie. “Once it’s out about Salazar being dirty, we’re hoping nobody will care.” That had already started—
El Diario
was about the only newspaper still covering the murder investigation.

Nazario brought out his ledger and started jotting down some numbers. He seemed to be good at adding and subtracting quickly and without a calculator. Only his lips moved, like he was praying. I left him alone. It was getting dark and the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge loomed ahead. Manhattan at night seen from its surrounding bridges is Oz, it’s Camelot or Eldorado, full of color and magic. What those skyscrapers and lights don’t let on is that hidden away lies Spanish Harlem, a slum that has been handed down from immigrant to immigrant, like used clothing worn and reworn, stitched and restitched by different ethnic groups who continue to pass it on. A paradox of crime and kindness. It had evolved spontaneously on the island, accessible to everyone. East Harlem had no business being in this rich city but there it was, filled with broken promises of a better life, dating decades back to the day when many Puerto Ricans and Latinos gathered their bags and carried their dreams on their backs and arrived in America, God’s country. But they would never see God’s face. Like all slumlords, God lived in the suburbs.

As the car sped over the bridge, I looked down on the East River. I pictured explorers in their ships arriving at the shore and making deals with the true native New Yorkers, the Indians. A twenty-four-dollar rip-off, I said to myself. Bodega and Nazario were just reversing the roles. They were buying the island back at the same bargain rate. They were getting it while it was still cheap. El Barrio, run-down and abandoned, was just waiting for them to take it. East Harlem was ugly real estate that no one wanted. No one but Bodega and Nazario, who loved that tired piece of land just off the East River. They would rebuild it, repaint it, and watch as others stepped back, looked at it, and pulled their hair in dismay. “This was always a beautiful place. Why couldn’t we see that before?”