Red on Red (37 page)

“Hi! Hey, baby!”

“Hey, baby! That’s it!”

Twice in twenty minutes, his partner had stunned him with his perspective—with his conservatism first, and then with his astute plan for progress. Nick didn’t know Daysi, not enough, but he liked what he saw. All right, then, keep it casual, but move ahead. Nick looked in the mirror again, a last check, to make sure he wasn’t visibly askew. He raised his hands—
Okay? Now?
—and Esposito waved him on.

At the store, Mama looked up from pink orchids she was arranging into a corsage—“Oh! Hallo!”—and ran to the back, offering a flirty smile before the door closed. Did she know he’d spent the night at her house? Focus. Don’t plan, don’t reminisce, just roll with it. Daysi came out and ran to him, for a kiss. Not a long kiss, but long enough, and then she pressed her face into the crook of his neck, held him. He smelled her hair, felt her side, tracing a hand along her flank, where it thickened and thinned. Nick liked all of it. It was just what he needed, had hoped to feel. But she pulled away a moment later, with a nod to the back. He thought he knew what she was talking about.

“Mama didn’t see me this morning?”

“No, I set the alarm half an hour early, to get up before she did. It didn’t wake you up.”

“I’m glad. I was happy there.”

“Me, too. You just getting up? You look great today … and I could use a nap!”

“No, you look great.”

“You’re sweet.”

Nick wanted to kiss her again, and he did. She looked at him, then pulled away, brushing his cheek. A mixed message, sweetly mixed, but not as simple and singular as what he felt for her. Mama came out from the back with two boutonnieres, both red roses this time.

“You friend? Where is he?”

“He’s outside in the car. I just stopped by for a minute. We’re working. I can’t stay.”

Mama pinned one to his lapel, and Daysi laughed at the fuss she made, the way Nick’s cheeks flushed. Daysi straightened it and put a hand on his shoulder after her mother left.

“Nick?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t want this to sound funny, but there’s a big order we have to get out, right away.”

“Yeah, sure, I understand. I gotta go, too.”

“No, I don’t think you understand. We’ve been getting walk-ins on it all afternoon.”

Nick didn’t get what she meant; it had been less than a minute from that kiss, from that sweet kiss to the bum’s rush. “No problem. I’ll let you get back to it. Talk to you later?”

“Definitely. But don’t stop by the store for two or three days, okay?”

“All right …”

Daysi cocked her head back to the wall, trying to make her point before his feelings were further bruised. There was a cross made of pink carnations, nearly six feet tall, with the name Miguelito draped across on a silk banner. Nick walked over to look at the card. “From your brother Kiko. I will never forget.” The back of the store was filled with flowers for the wake, one arrangement shaped to look like a Cadillac medallion. Classy, Nick thought.

“They said he was killed by police.”

Nick nodded, but added no further information. “All cash? No credit cards?”

“All cash,” said Daysi, still smiling, but her eyes were starting to look worried. She glanced to the front of the store. Nick took her hand and kissed her. “I’ll call you later.”

“You better.”

The worry had almost left her eyes, and Nick got the smile again, the real smile, when the door closed behind him. When he was on the street, he looked around to see if anyone had watched, or if anyone followed him. Tricky business, flowers. Nick was glad that Esposito had parked down the street. When he got into the car, Nick handed over Esposito’s
boutonniere. Esposito pinned it on, then tried to mush the mirror around, to see himself.

“Let’s go,” Nick said.

Esposito abandoned the mirror with reluctance, and they drove off. “Well, you look half-happy, which is pretty good for you. What’s up? She had to be glad to see you. You got roses for both of us. Or that was Mama?”

“It was Mama, but Daysi was happy to see me. I had to clear out of there…. You wanna know why? Guess what’s the big account of the day.”

“What, a wedding? Shotgun wedding? Yours? I don’t know, what?”

“Opposite of wedding.”

“Funeral … Holy shit! For this thing?”

“More flowers than they got at the Botanical Garden. A big pink cross, taller than you, that says ‘Miguelito’ on the front. From Kiko.”

“God damn! Isn’t that kinda sacrilegious?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did he pay with a credit card? It might give us another address, something else. Sorry, Nick, but maybe you shoulda asked …”

“I did. He didn’t.”

“Didja! Good for you…. Maybe we could put a camera in the flowers, right in the middle, get some good shots, everybody up close looking at it. Nah, a little late for that. Plus, we don’t wanna get Daysi involved.”

“No.”

“I guess not. Anyway, let’s get set up. We’ll get to see all the pretty flowers delivered.”

All of this, it was so close to home. They drove past the funeral parlor, checking out the nearby buildings, to see which might offer the best view. They were all quaintly the same, a set of old six-story brick apartments, with ornamental stonework topping the cornices and running down the structural lines, like slices of a wedding cake, the sturdy stuff piled in layers, the pretty stuff running through, gracing the top. How many good families, bad parties, had they seen in the past century, and good parties, too, even when the family wasn’t at its best? All of it new once, in the new part of the city. A block uptown there were the same buildings, probably the same builder, which was good for the detectives.
The roofs should run together, front to back. Alleys and airshafts would not separate them from the southern view. Esposito found a legal parking spot, so they wouldn’t have to leave any police markings on the dashboard. The first building they tried had a roof alarm. If it worked, it probably would have stopped in a minute or two, but it was better not to risk the attention. The next building had no alarm, and they walked out onto the tar paper roof, spongy from the warmth of the sun.

Esposito found a milk crate, and Nick found a bucket. They brought them over to the far edge of the roof and sat down on them. The top of their heads might have been visible, barely. There was a little parapet at the edge, gapped like the top of a castle, so they could peek through. The alleys between their building and those to the east and west, a divide of six or eight feet, had fire escapes leading down; the buildings across the street were twins of theirs. Esposito took the binoculars out of his pocket and looked down at the front of the funeral parlor, playing with the focus. They would be here for a while. Nick looked at his watch—four-thirty. The sun was warm, and he was tempted to take off his jacket. But the shirt was white, as was the face, and Nick didn’t want to heighten the contrast. Two white guys in suits on a rooftop, it was clear who they were. That was a good thing, sometimes. Not here, though, not now. Esposito scanned the block with the binoculars.

“How stupid is Michael Cole?” Nick asked.

“Not stupid, Nick. Stupid has nothing to do with it,” Esposito said, still scanning.

“Fine. He’s not stupid, but what’s his play? Walk in and start blasting?”

“If he’d made it to Baghdad, in the army, like he’d wanted, he’d know how to fill up a truck with explosives, pull up front. Boom!”

“And why won’t he?”

“I checked. He doesn’t have a license. Poor sonofabitch can’t drive a car, but he’s gonna hit a Dominican funeral. A drug dealer funeral. A kid funeral. He’s gonna take it on, as a one-man show.”

“All right. So whaddaya think?”

“I think it doesn’t pay to try to be a step ahead of crazy people. You can’t picture it. You can’t plan. Me? You? We’re here, looking down, thinking, ‘Where’s the exits? Is there a back door? How’s traffic? Is this a one-way street?’ And he’s thinking, ‘If I wear a Viking helmet and whistle, my magic horse will come and take me away.’ ”

“I don’t know if he’s that kind of crazy.”

“I don’t know, either. Look, he’s coming here to kill Kiko, right? Do we know if he knows him? Has he ever laid eyes on him? Does he even know what the guy looks like?”

Nick had to think about that. “He knew where Kiko lived. He was waiting outside when we went there.”

“He knew the area. Maybe not the building or the apartment. We don’t know anything else.”

Esposito had not put the binoculars down through his analysis. He hadn’t stopped looking, searching the street for faces. The thoughts were offhand, but they cut to the bone. Nick was glad he worked with him. Esposito was good at this. Nick shifted on his bucket, finding a better position, knowing they would have a wait. He looked downtown, at the Empire State Building, the Chrysler, the other nameless towers that shaped the skyline, the narrow horizon. Appointments were being made for drinks and dinner. Cars were being called, women. Billions of dollars were moving through electronic signals, contracts were being signed, glasses were clinking after toasts. Deals were sealed, with kisses and signatures, for the new million-dollar face for a perfume campaign, a hydroelectric dam in Peru, a mob hit in Jersey. On Forty-seventh Street, five hundred people bought engagement rings, learning about clarity, carat, cut; a few blocks west, men cuddled with transvestite hookers in hourly motels. Just south, editorials were being written that would be read in every capital, and would draw angry calls from the White House. This city was the world. Even the post offices were poetry, poems in the names of them: Ansonia, Audubon, Cathedral, and Cherokee; Gracie, Hell Gate, Knickerbocker, and Morningside; Planetarium and Prince. The bucket was not uncomfortable, and the view—well, there it was. The view was free.

Probabilities and singularities, patterns and randomness, coincidence. Why had he picked that restaurant? He’d followed one woman there, and had gone home with another, three days later. Nick thought it sentimental to believe there was only one woman in the world who was right for him, whom he was meant to be with. Impossible, even. The odds were in the billions. Not that a person could be happy with
anyone
, but as long as you started right and worked to stay there, the chances were better than even. People might be as unique as their fingerprints, but when a couple held hands, it was just like any other couple, holding
hands. Nick doubted he could marry again, any more than he could equal his best high school half-mile time; the heart didn’t pump as it had, the legs would never be so light. Still, with Daysi, he could made a run for it, make a fresh start. He was not yet pushing his luck.

“Shit. Nick, this one walking down the street is unbelievable—a stripper, definitely. Not a bad idea, sending a broad like that to a wake, make sure the guy’s really dead.”

“Lemme have the binoculars.”

“Nope, no way. I saw her first.”

Masculine friendships often began at the lowest of thresholds—he likes beer, he likes football, he lives next door—
Hey, buddy!
But police pairings were more like marriages. Tests had to be passed, as well as time. Fraternity depended on function, how challenges were met. Over the years, every cop worked with lots of others, had opinions of who was better, who was worse. But at the end of a career, few would hesitate to name their real partner, the one they wanted at their side for a rooftop chase, in an interrogation room, or when the building was on fire. Great cases—events of consequence and difficulty, in which you made the tipover difference—were almost as rare as great loves. You shouldn’t expect one a year, or one in ten. Would this be one? Esposito elbowed him. Here they were.

A beat-up blue van parked in front, and the driver got out to ring the bell of the funeral parlor. Two men in black suits came to unload the fields of flowers, making trip after trip, the Cadillac medallion and the garish pink cross last.

“Would you look at that! It looks like a pool toy. You could float around on it. I thought Italians were bad…. You send one of those to my funeral, Nick, I swear I’ll come back and haunt you. Think about all the money your girl is making from this! Next time we go out, Daysi pays.”

On the roof directly across the street, the door jerked open from the stairs, stiff on its hinges. Nick touched Esposito, and he looked over. A pit bull wandered out, followed by an older woman in a red housedress. The dog scampered about, stretching its legs, before nosing around to pick a spot. The woman spoke on a cellphone. She stayed near the door, making sure it wouldn’t shut. The dog sprinted for a few yards at a time, stopped, sniffed, and shat, then did it again, then a third time. It looked like he was compressing the whole of a fine dog day into a minute on the
roof. The woman waved the dog over, and he jogged back inside. She shut the door behind them, still talking on the phone.

“No alarm,” noted Esposito. “I bet half the building uses the roof as a dog run. There’s shit all over it.”

At five o’clock, visitors began to drift into the funeral parlor. Family first—older women in black, older men, some in suits, some in guayabera shirts, leather jackets. They would be there for the duration. Three or four of them had a last cigarette on the sidewalk, before beginning the vigil. A few other women soon followed, in ones and twos, older, more conservatively dressed, neighborhood women who wanted to pay respects before the rough crowd came. The detectives would soon start to lose the light.

“Where do you suppose our camera is?” wondered Esposito. “Maybe we should have sent in an undercover. Narcotics has an informant. He’s gonna stop by, let us know if Kiko shows.”

“Who in Narcotics?”

“Martone.”

“Jimmy Martone? Who worked with Sean O’Sullivan, from Housing?”

“No, Kim Martone.”

“Kim Martone! She’s amazing. Good cop, too. Don’t tell me she’s another one of your special friends?”

“Nah, I wish. Somehow, she has found me … resistible. But we’re gonna meet later. She’ll let me talk to her snitch if this doesn’t work out.”

Another dog person on the roof across the street, a man this time, with a German shepherd. You didn’t see as many of them as you used to, the shepherds and Dobermans, the old guard breeds. This neighborhood was all pit bull now, a different breed, a different statement, shifting from defense to attack. Plus, you saw a lot of Chihuahuas, for what it was worth. Maybe, Nick thought, he shouldn’t read too much into it. Different dogs for different days. This was an old dog, treading out unsteadily to finish his business, on a patch of roof he chose without much concern. The man stroked his back with affection, and they went back inside.