Hose Monkey (10 page)

Miguel, distracted and disinterested up to that point, nearly snapped his neck at the mention of the gangs. He stood up and fairly ran out the door. Joe made an attempt to go after him, but Paco waved him off.

“Let him go, Joe. He was no good to you, anyway. He probably spoke five words of English and four of them were work.”

“You seem to have no problem with English, Paco. Where you from?”

“I was born in Mexico City, but I grew up in East L.A.”

Joe was suspicious. “L.A., huh? Why come out here and break your back to make the same money you could in California?”

“I like the change of seasons.”

“A comedian.”

“No comedian, but I got my reasons.”

“Like?”

“That’s my business, Holmes.”

“Holmes?”

“Yeah, like Sherlock. C’mon, man, you’re a writer like I’m Oscar de la Hoya. You got cop written all over you, but you got working hands. So what’s your deal?”

“That’s my business, Paco.”

“That’s fair. What you need to know?”

“This Reyes kid that was murdered last week, did you know him?”

“A little,” Paco said, his eager expression unchanged.

“A little?”

“We didn’t live together or hang together, but we worked some landscaping jobs a few months back, clearing leaves and shit. We drank at the same place sometimes.”

“He was nineteen and I don’t figure you’re much older. Where’d you guys drink?”

“We’re here illegally, Joe, you think anyone’s going to bust our
cojones
about underage drinking? Anyways, you never see white faces where we hang, not even cops.”

“And where’s it you hang?”

“A little shithole on Portion Road in Ronkonkoma called Iguana.”

Joe knew the place. He drove by it all the time. It was a bar/restaurant in a near-deserted strip mall two minutes from his apartment. There was a hand-painted sign above the threshold and there never seemed to be any cars in the parking lot.

“That’s the place,” Paco confirmed. “You should check it out sometime. The food is authentic and the beer is cold. On Friday and Saturday nights they have shows.”

“Shows?”

“It’s hard to explain. Just come and see.”

“So about Reyes, you knew him a little. Rumor is he was trying to get into the MexSal Saints. Was he?”

Paco rubbed his hand across his cheek as he considered. “Maybe. He was lost here, lonely. He was a country boy from El Salvador. For me it is easier than for most of these men. I’m more American than Mexican. You can’t understand how foreign this world is to them.”

“Was Reyes a tough kid?”

“Depends what you mean by tough. To do what we do, to live like we live, you have to be tough. Was he tough tough, violent, I don’t think so. But, like I say, I don’t know him so well.”

“Was he strong?”

“Not very strong, no,” Paco said without hesitation. “He worked hard, but he wasn’t so strong. Why you interested?”

Joe slid one of the hundred dollar bills across the table to Paco. “That’s still my business, okay?”

“Okay,
jefe.”

“Can you do some checking around for me, act as a translator if I need one? I’d like to meet his roommates, his buddies, find out as much about him as I can.”

“As long as the pay is good, I’ll check around. But how will I get in touch with you?”

“Here are my numbers,” Joe said, scribbling them out on a napkin. “Call me any time.
Any
time!”

“I got it, Joe.”

The waitress brought their eggs, Paco eyeing Miguel’s unspoken for platter. Joe noticed, but didn’t say a word.

Bob Healy had slept well, maybe better than he had since burying Mary, but as he closed the morning paper, his coffee turned sour in his mouth. Maybe, he thought, his newfound comfort had come a bit prematurely. There was plenty of mention of the Knicks new President of Operations, Isiah Thomas. The names Bush, Rumsfeld, and Wolfowitz got lots of play. Yet no matter how many times he went through the paper, Healy could find no mention of Jean Michel Toussant. Unlike Serpe, Healy was unnerved by this.

Healy dialed the D.A.’s office. George was in, but didn’t give his big brother any reason for optimism. As far as he knew, the Suffolk cops didn’t have Toussant, nor did Nassau’s finest. There was a chance that the state police might have him, maybe even the park police. He’d have to check.

“Gimme an hour.”

Bob Healy didn’t like having to wait, but he had no other options. A man with all the time in the world hates waiting most of all.

Joe dialed Marla’s cell phone. They hadn’t spoken since Tuesday. Marla was right in her assessment of him. Several times during the week, he had considered canceling their date, pushing her away. But somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. The thought of her made him a little lightheaded. She didn’t pick up. He left a message:

“How about Mexican food and a show? Call me. By the way, I’ve got a surprise for you, sort of.”

Saturday Evening
February 28th, 2004

 

NELSON

 

I
guana was both more and less than what Joe had expected. It was clean, but its decor was a mishmash of the failed restaurants that had come before it. There were red and gold Chinese lamps, murals of Venice canals, steer horns from a short-lived steak house and one blue and white wall that was painted with the Greek flag. The current owners had obscured the flag with travel posters of Mexico, El Salvador, Guatemala, Honduras, and Panama. Flags from these countries adorned the back wall of the bar, which, in its fake bamboo glory, looked like a refugee from a beachfront Tiki hut.

The food, as Paco had promised, was authentic and hearty. Marla’s chicken in mole was amazing—the chicken moist and the chocolate pepper sauce paradoxically fiery and sweet. Joe’s beef and cheese enchiladas were delicious. The mysterious red sauce in which they were baked was nothing like he’d ever tasted before. The start of the evening had been a bit bumpy as the hostess didn’t know quite what to make of them. She sort of stared at Joe and Marla as if someone were playing a joke on her. Marla, in perfect Spanish, assured her they were only here to eat.

The hostess wasn’t the only one in the joint who found their presence a curiosity. A strange silence had fallen as the other diners noticed the two them being shown to a table.

The silence was replaced by a low murmur and pointing fingers.

“How uncomfortable is this?” Joe whispered to Marla.

“Psychologists learn to trust discomfort. It can be a very good thing and I’m kinda enjoying it.”

“You would. Besides the hostess and the waitresses, you’re the only other woman in here.”

Joe was right. Though not full up, there were about thirty other customers in Iguana; ten at the bar and the rest at tables. They were all men between the ages of twenty and forty. And though they were still dressed in jeans, boots and t-shirts, they were almost all clean shaven, well-groomed and respectful of the women serving their food.

“God, what a strange existence,” Joe said.

“Yes and no. They’re no different than any other ex-patriot community. In some ways I think it’s better than being alone in a foreign country. At least they have each other.”

As they ate, the place filled in. Men now stood three deep at the bar and the tables were all taken. There was a palpable sense of excitement in the air. Joe and Marla were seated close to the bar. Directly across the dining room from where they sat was a raised platform. There were no tables on it and no one in the place seemed to even notice it existed.

Then, promptly at nine-thirty, the mariachi music which had played quietly yet noticeably in the background all evening long was turned off. Lights came up on the platform across the dining room. The darkness and shadows had hidden a beat up P.A. system that looked like it was salvaged from an old school auditorium. Also on the stage was a DJ stand, featuring two microphones and double turntables. The hostess stepped on stage, grabbing one of the microphones. She was greeted by a round of polite applause and a few whistles. She blushed and curtsied. How long, Joe wondered, had it been since he’d actually seen a woman curtsy?

She launched into some rapid fire Spanish of which Joe understood little. Marla translated: “It’s show time.”

Next came a second volley of Spanish. This time, Joe caught a word here and there. But the last word the hostess-turned-emcee said sounded like the name Nelson. Only when she said it, it came out NEL-sown. Apparently, NEL-sown was quite popular, because when she mentioned him the crowd went nuts. They began to rhythmically stomp their feet, clap their hands and whistle.

“NEL-sown, NEL-sown, NEL-sown,” they chanted. “NEL-sown, NEL-sown …”

The stage again went dark, but this time when the lights came up the hostess was nowhere in sight. On stage stood a pot-bellied, middle-aged man with sleepy eyes and a salt and pepper mustache. He was dressed in too-tight black suede pants trimmed in silver sequins, a matching bolero jacket, a frilly white shirt, black snakeskin cowboy boots and a black suede sombrero the size of Staten Island.

He removed his sombrero and bowed to the crowd. They started shouting to him. He cupped a hand around one ear.

“They’re shouting requests to him,” Marla said.

“I figured that one out for myself.”

Nelson heard something he liked. He moved behind the DJ setup, threw a disc on the turntable and rushed out to center stage. When the music came up, Nelson added the vocals, strutting and dancing about the stage, snapping his fingers, clapping his hands. The crowd was beside themselves. In between refrains, Nelson would scream out “A-cha!” or “Ya-ha!” sending the audience into a frenzy. It was a bizarre mixture of karaoke, Lord of the Dance, and
The Cisco Kid.
But Joe and Marla had to confess they had rarely seen an audience enjoy themselves so unapologetically. By the third number, they had ceased being observers and were screaming wildly themselves.

In between each number, Nelson would work the crowd. He would tell jokes, stories. He would ask members of the audience where they were from, if they had family back home—which they all did—and what it was they dreamed of doing when they had earned enough money in the United States. Both Marla and Joe were surprised and happy to hear that many of them dreamed of bringing their families to the U.S. and becoming citizens. That they didn’t view the U.S. as a place to earn a few bucks and to be abandoned and forgotten.

Before the fourth song, Nelson pointed toward the bar area. All eyes seemed to be on Marla and Joe. Nelson removed his sombrero and whispered into the mike.

“Even I understand that,” Joe said. “A song for the beautiful lady.”

It was a lovely ballad, not unexpectedly about a boy who goes off to war and leaves his betrothed behind. She waits for him to return, each evening preparing a dinner they will never share. She grows old and the children of the village tease her. Yet when she dies, the people of the village honor her belief in love by setting an extra place at their tables every evening. There were very few dry eyes in the place. Remarkable, Joe thought, given the emphasis placed on machismo in the Latino community.

“You’re mistaking our sense of machismo for theirs,” Marla chided.

After another round of drinks and a few more numbers, they left. Joe slipped a ten dollar bill to the hostess to give to Nelson. He promised to return. She seemed pleased at the prospect.

Outside, Joe didn’t wait for prompting. He took Marla in his arms and kissed her hard on the mouth. She seemed to mold her body to his as they kissed. Although she seemed so small and delicate, she was in fact muscular and surprisingly strong. That feeling of her muscles pressing against his was intoxicating. It was a good five minutes before they came up for air.

“Okay, you’ve gotten dinner, a show, and kissing,” Joe said. “See, I keep my promises.”

“A surprise. You mentioned something about a surprise.”

“Yeah, that’s one word for it. C’mon.”

Mulligan was so pleased to see any other human being besides Joe he nearly nuzzled Marla’s ankle to the bone. Women and male cats, it was amazing. When Marla found a spot on the couch, Mulligan nestled into her lap, squinting his flirty green eyes at her, and purring like a motorboat.

“You can be gotten rid of, cat,” Joe warned, handing Marla a bottle of Blue Point.

“What’s that smell?” Marla asked, raising up her nose.

“The finest number two home heating oil mixed with just a hint of kitty litter. Sorry, I guess I don’t smell it anymore. Let me light a candle or something.”

She didn’t protest. Joe dug out a scented candle one of the Triple Ds had brought over several months back. Its cellophane wrapper was still intact. That was par for the course. There was often a pretense of atmosphere with the women Joe had been with since the troubles; candles, champagne, dress-up. But the hunger would usually overtake them before the candles could be lit or corks popped or layers of clothes peeled away. Joe was happy to have made a move to leave that sort of rawness behind. The pleasure in it was so fleeting.

“Vanilla,” Marla said. “Thank god it wasn’t something embarrassing like potpourri.”

“Yeah, vanilla’s embarrassing enough.”

He leaned over and just brushed his lips against hers. It was intimate and shy all at once.

“One second.” Joe stood up, went into the closet that had once only held Vinny’s uniform shirts and retrieved a large shipping envelope.

“What you got there?”

“It’s a surprise, a good surprise, but it might be a bigger surprise for other people.”

“Now I
am
intrigued.”

Joe handed her the envelope. “Go ahead, open it. But remember, I warned you.”

Marla undid the clasp, pulled up the flap and removed three video cassette tapes. She opened her mouth to ask for an explanation when she noticed the labels on the tapes. “Oh my God! You got—These are tapes of—But how?”

“Do you know the other names?”

“Anne, I’m not sure. Could be a few people, but Kisha, yeah. She worked as a cook for us, but left suddenly last year.”

“I think maybe we know why she left in such a hurry. Do you think you could find her if you had to?”

“I’ll try,” Marla said, obviously still stunned. “How did you get these?”

“I guess as a shrink you think no question should go unasked and that no areas should go unexplored. But with this … Well, it’s the kinda thing you shouldn’t ask, okay?”

“Okay. I guess I see.”

“I didn’t know what to do with them, but I figured you’d have a better idea. If you want me to destroy ‘em–”

“No, Joe. This man did more than rape them. He took away part of these women’s lives. He took away a sense of control. I think maybe I can help them get some of it back. Determining what to do with the tapes should be their decision. Can you understand?”

“I do. Look, I’m sorry I ruined your evening, but—”

“You didn’t ruin anything.” Marla stood close to him, folding herself into his arms. “I’ve never known another man like you. Guys always talk about what they’ve done or would do, but this is something—I just don’t have the words for it.”

“Then let’s not talk about it anymore.”

And with that, he kissed her until it hurt.

Vinny was talking to him. He could swear it. It wasn’t a dream because he could still taste Marla on his lips. The suffocating stink of vanilla filled the air. Joe Serpe forced his eyes open. Marla was next to him, naked and asleep. So much for taking it slow. He stared at the smooth curves of her body in the sputtering candlelight. Just seeing her there excited him. Vinny interrupted:

“… if it’s gone to three alarms and you’re still in the house making this call, bend over and kiss your ass–”

Joe looked at the clock, picked up. “It’s three-fifteen, for chrissakes,” he whispered. “Who the fuck is it?”

“You told me to call any time, right?”

“Who is this?” He was more insistent.

“It’s Paco. Sorry, man, I’m just doing what you asked. You remember me?”

“East L.A.”

“That’s me. So, you want to meet Reyes’ boys?”

“Now?”

“Hey, you didn’t tell me banker’s hours only,
jefe.
So, you interested?”

“Very.”

“Good. Meet me in the parking lot in front of Iguana in ten minutes.”

“Twenty.”

“Twenty,” Paco repeated.
Click.

Joe moved quietly into the shower, shut the bathroom door behind him. He didn’t want to have to explain his skipping out on what had been a perfect night. Marla had other plans, silently sliding in behind Joe. She pressed herself against his back, wrapping her arms around him. By the time Joe turned around he was already hard. Marla knelt down, taking him in her mouth, Joe’s back shielding her from the water. He let his left hand fall on top of her hair, stroking, twisting it in his fingers. As he did, Marla let out little sighs. Her mouth was moister now and her motion more insistent.

He stopped her, pulling her up by the shoulders, kissing her hard on the mouth.

“I’ve gotta go,” he said, brushing the shower spray off her face. “And if I don’t stop you now, I’ll never stop.”

“Then let’s never stop.”

He kissed her again. “You can stay here if you want, but I don’t know when I’m getting back.”

“What do
you
want?”

“I want you to stay.”

“Then ask.”

“Stay.”

“Okay.” She rested her cheek on chest. “Why are you going?”

“It’s important.”

“Oh,” she said, “another one of those things I’m not supposed to ask about.”

“Maybe later you can ask. It may turn out to be nothing.”

“I’ll be here.”

He stepped out of the shower and toweled off.

The lone car in front of Joe’s kept kicking up debris into his windshield. Though no snow remained from the heavy winter crop, a sheet of dust, pebbles and loose gravel covered the near-empty streets. Snow always disappeared if given enough time, but the plowing, the salt and sand used to deal with it did far more damage. In the end, the cure was worse than the disease itself. When he was a cop, Joe never gave this kind of thing much thought, but when you drive a truck for a living, you learn to pay attention to the roads beneath your tires.

Iguana was dark, the parking lot empty. Portion Road was well lit, but the night was deadly still. Joe checked his watch. Twenty minutes exactly. Joe wondered about getting out of the car to wait. His hair still wet; he decided he’d stay warm. Then, in the black doorway of the restaurant, a flame. Someone had struck a match. Now there was a flame and a red point of light. The flame was out. The red point of light remained. Paco, a cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth, walked up to Joe’s window. He rested his forearms on the door ledge. Joe cranked the window. “Hey, Paco. So what’s the deal?”

Paco pointed toward the passenger window. “Look over there.”

Joe turned his head right. If there was something there to see, he was missing it. When he turned back, however, he got the idea. The muzzle of a Desert Eagle was pressed against his left cheek.