Snow Angels (27 page)

Despite the reported robbery, it’s business as usual inside the Shuka, the small grocery store a few blocks from Main Street, Flushing. There is something distantly familiar and comforting to Joe about this market, something about the smell or the language spoken by the two cashiers who exchange words before one disappears to find the store’s owner in the back.

“Smells good in here,” Mack comments, glancing at his watch. “After this, we need to grab some breakfast. I’m starved.”

“You’re always hungry,” Joe says. It isn’t even nine A.M. and Mack wants to go on meal? Then again, something in here is making his mouth water.

Joe spots the small meat section of the market, the huge rack of meat turning against the wall of flames. Gyro. That must be it, the savory, tangy smell. His grandfather used to take him to a Greek restaurant in Astoria. World’s best gyros, Grandpa said. His eyes scan the aisles of specialty groceries. Shiny mandarin oranges. Plump, sweating grapes. Sticky figs and dates. A glass case with bowls of smooth hummus and baba ghanoush, fat olives, wedges and wheels of cheese. A pastry section, where flaky triangles of honeyed baklava glisten.

“Greek food?” Joe asks the clerk, an older woman with fiery red hair and gems sewn into the neckline of her black sweater.

She shrugs. “Greek, middle-eastern. Mr. Boghosian is Armenian.” Boghosian is the owner, the complainant.

“Do you know anything about the robbery?” Mack asks her.

“Only what Mr. B. says. At the end of the day, he is the only one who handles the cash. Puts it in the safe or to the bank.”

“And how long you been working here, sweetheart?” Joe asks.

“Eleven years. His wife hired me back in the day, but she passed a few years ago. There’s another gal who’s been here longer, Lizzy, but she’s not here today. She’s at home baking for her family. Quite a baker. Lizzy does all the baking for the Shuka.” As the woman recounts her employment history at the Shuka, Joe can’t help but wonder what that shade of hair color is called. Fire ant? Flaming carrot? It sure is bright.

They are interrupted by a graying man who shuffles over as if he cannot straighten under the huge burden on his shoulders.

“Officers.” He nods. “Garo Boghosian.” Despite the reading glasses tipped low on his nose, the man doesn’t seem so old when Joe catches his gaze. Forty, maybe fifty. One of those guys who has aged beyond his years. “Will you come with me, please?”

Joe and Mack follow him to the office, which is really just a desk and some files across from a kitchen area in the room behind the store. The wide butcher block counter and stoves probably hail from the sixties, but they are clean, “spic and span” as Joe’s mother likes to say. The desk is cluttered with papers, circulars, and invoices that curl under the light of a desk lamp.

“This is what I have to show you.” Mr. B. pulls the chair away from the desk, revealing a small safe tucked into the knee area. “When I left last night, it was locked up with more than fourteen hundred dollars inside. Receipts, too. As well as some private papers, my passport and such. When I returned this morning, the money was gone. Everything else is here, but the cash, the whole bundle of it, has been stolen.”

Mr. B. backs away as Mack squats down beside the desk and shines his flashlight into the kneehole. “No visible scratches. No sign of forced entry. And you say they left credit card receipts?”

“They did.” Mr. B. nods. “He just went for the cash.”

“He? You sound sure that the thief is male. Any chance it could have been one of those ladies outside? Someone on your payroll, maybe in need of a little extra cash for the holidays?”

“Those girls?” The scowl on the old man’s face is a road map of discontent. “Impossible. For years they’ve worked for me, never took a penny. Not one cent. Ruth and Maro are like family.” The words seem to drain him of air, and he opens his mouth with a stab of pain. “No, they are better than family. More loyal.”

“I’m no forensic expert—” Mack straightens, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully—“but I got to say, this looks like an inside job, sir. No sign of force here, and though we haven’t checked yet, I’m willing to bet no one messed with your locks or the gates in the front.”

“Of course, it is an inside job.” Boghosian pulls the lone chair against the wall, and then sinks onto it. “My son. My own son.”

Joe shoots a look at Mack, who nods. Here’s where things get awkward, Joe thinks. Take off the cop hat, roll out the shrink’s couch.

“Mr. Boghosian.” Joe makes his stance wider and evens out the weight; chances are he’ll be here a while. “Are you telling us you think you were robbed by your son?”

“
Ayo
, yes. He is the only one with the combination. The only one with a set of keys. My son Armand. Yes.” He leans his face into his wide palms.

“Did you talk to him?” Mack hooks his thumbs into his gun belt as though this is all a casual conversation. “Ask him about it. Maybe he’s planning to pay you back.”

“Please.” The older man sighs. “Don’t patronize. We both know that a person looking for a loan does not steal money from a safe in the dead of night.”

The guy’s right. Joe nods at his partner; Counseling 101.

“Okay.” Mack adjusts quickly. “So you two aren’t talking? Did you have a fight or something?” When Boghosian doesn’t answer, he adds, “Did he come to you and ask for the money, and you said no?” Silence. “Help me out here, Mr. Boghosian.”

“Let me ask you this, officers.” When he lifts his face, the gray ash of age has given way to lucid passion. “What is a father to do for a nineteen-year-old boy who wants to be a good-for-nothing bum instead of taking up the family business? Says he’s going to be a musician. Going to Juilliard. A music sensation, playing his saxophone. That’s what he says, but it’s all a ruse. The truth is he’s a bum mooching off his girlfriend. He shuns his father, sleeps all day, then spends his nights in bars and nightclubs.”

Mr. B. points toward the store, where the scanner beeps, monitoring purchases. “And this store? This Shuka which I built with my own hands and blessings from God? This is where he should be, learning the family business. A good Armenian boy respects his father. A good son would be here, learning the business.”

Joe nods as the big picture comes into focus. He doesn’t let on that he’s heard this all before, which he has. He thinks of his own son; can’t imagine losing track of PJ this way. Right now it’s hard to imagine his two-year-old just waking up with a dry diaper. But he can’t help Mr. B. get his son back. Right now he can’t do anything for this man but listen.

“He’s nineteen?” Mack rubs his chin. “Law says he’s old enough to be on his own. But he can’t go on stealing your money. I recommend you change the combination of your safe. Change the backdoor locks. Don’t give him the opportunity to do it again.”

“Protect yourself,” Joe adds. “That’s the first thing you gotta do, Mr. B. We’ll take a report, send it up to the detectives, but since there’s no sign of breaking and entering…I gotta be honest; it won’t go anywhere.”

“No, no. That’s not right.” Mr. B. waves at Joe to stop. “You must arrest him. I will give you the address where you can find him, his girlfriend’s apartment, and you must drive over there and apprehend him.” He smacks one hand against the other’s wrist. “Put the handcuffs on him. Take him to jail. That and only that might set him right.”

“We can’t do that, Mr. B.” Mack is shaking his head. “We can’t arrest your son unless he’s formally charged.”

“You don’t have to arrest him.” The older man leans over the desk to write the address, the strokes of his hand sure and polished. “Simply pick him up and toss him into your jail for a few hours. A few hours is all I ask. Believe me, this is the only way to get through to him. This will give him the message that what he is doing is wrong.” He offers the scrap of paper to Joe. “This is where his girlfriend lives.”

Not to be rude, Joe takes the address and slips it into the pocket of his uniform trousers. “Can’t do it, Mr. B.” His voice is apologetic. He can understand this man’s frustration. “We can’t lock people up that way.”

“Ah, but what if you find him with illegal drugs when you go to arrest him? That you can be assured of.”

“He’s an addict?” Mack asks.

Bingo
. Joe feels his gut sink. Somehow he knew they were headed that way.

“Narcotics.” Mr. B. squeezes his eyes shut. “He acts like it’s his own discovery, but it’s opium. We had it back in my country. Poppy plants. They turn the brain to jelly.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Joe knows they’ve come to the end of the interview; time to get the paperwork from the car, take down some information and give the job back to Central. Nothing to be done here.

Once again, no happy ending. Just finish the job and move onto the next.

Gotta keep moving; it’s Joe’s motto at work. He and Mack will exchange a few words or laughs in between jobs, pushing ahead to the end of the tour when they can both peel off the Superman costume, close their lockers, and head home.

All the while pretending it’s all normal. All the while ignoring the hole being worn through their hearts.

“Did you know the world is a snowball?” Armand Boghosian follows her up the stairs to her apartment, that song is cycling through his head. “Marshmallow World.”

“Would you stop?” Wendy’s eyes spark with annoyance as she turns to him on the landing. Those eyes…He is in love with the mettle of those eyes. Her smooth skin, tiny bones, dark almond-shaped eyes. Her exotic quality. “You’ve been singing that song since we hit Junction Boulevard. People on the subway thought you were a lunatic.”

He laughs. “It’s just so true, and it’s stuck in my head. The arrangement for a saxophone…no, it can’t be done, but I hear it anyway. Yes, it works. Like up and down a hill, no really, a snowy slope. You know how the music goes? But what does it mean?”

She climbs the next flight of stairs, waits for him on the landing. “Listen, you can come in, but you can’t stay. You have to get your stuff and go.”

“I keep hearing the Darlene Love version, but she wasn’t the first to do it. Did you know that Bing Crosby recorded it? Way before Phil Spector got a hold of it.” Armand knows music. He pays attention to labels and performers and lyrics. “Do you hear it? I mean, the sax line…”

“I’m serious.” Wendy’s voice is shrill as she throws the bolt on the door. “Don’t get comfortable.”

Why is she so cold? Icy. Because the world is a snowball.

The walls of her apartment seem whiter than usual. Stark and bright. A marshmallow world, just like the song says. See how it grows? Now white is everywhere. Blazing white like the lights in his head. Makes him want to grab her and pull her onto the rug.

Living in sin, the two of them. Though his Armenian father would pop a vein if he knew Armand was living with a Chinese girl. Papa wants his son to marry a nice Armenian girl, a dark-eyed, mustachioed girl who would sit at home and pop out a dozen children. Armand laughs at the thought. And Armand knows that her family just tolerates him. Wendy can’t seem to convince them that he isn’t Iraqi.

“How can you laugh? I’m not kidding.” Something in her tone snaps him back. “You know I don’t want to do this. You know I love you.” Her voice catches, and she presses a hand to her mouth.

He tries to pull her into his arms, but she spins away. “I love you, too.”

“No, you don’t.” Her arms are crossed, guarding her torso. “You can’t love anyone when you’re addicted. That’s all that matters to you. The next score. The mission.”

“That’s how it goes.” Whenever it snows…

The song keeps spinning, a snowball tumbling downhill, picking up speed.

“Oh, my God, do you hear yourself? Talking a mile a minute, gibberish. You’re all hopped up on speed, aren’t you? Isn’t that why we had to connect with your friend last night?”

“If you think I’m bad, Razz is in it deep. He’s always going. Can’t live without it, that’s what he tells me.”

“Don’t make excuses. You are an addict, Armand. You.” She swallows, her eyes glimmering tears. “Oh, God, this hurts so much.”

“Wen, you can’t break up with me. Nobody breaks up on Christmas.”

“It’s not Christmas yet.”

He stands behind the couch, holds on. Slow down. Maybe she’s right. Got to slow down. A breath.

No, that doesn’t work. Still flying. He fishes in his pockets. Where’s the stuff Razz sold him?

“Oh, my God! Look at you, all twitchy. You can’t even talk to me. Look me in the eye.”

He looks at her then. That tiny body he can lift with one arm, the heat in her eyes, the red shot through her black hair. He wants to fold her into his arms and press his lips into her neck, but when he steps forward she backs away.

“No, Armand. You have to go.”

He can barely hear her for the roar of blood pulsing in his ears. “You know I’m not a bad guy. I’m kind to kids and old ladies. I give kids free saxophone lessons at the Flushing Y.” His words are coming fast, faster. “I got you this really great Christmas gift.” A lie. Big lie. Oh, shit. “And I’m gonna give you money for this month’s rent because I just got a loan from my father.”

Her eyes open slightly, as if seeing potential. “And are you paying back the money you borrowed from me last month to support your habit? Or am I just supposed to forget about that?”

“I’ll pay you back. Soon. I’m going to get the money.”

“No, you won’t.” Hope drains from her. She’s crying now, tucking herself into the corner of the sofa. “Just go.”

“Wendy…” He goes to her, leans on the arm of the couch. “Don’t cry.” He smoothes her fire hair, touches the gold loops in her ear.

“I can’t do this anymore.” She is crying into her hands.

But he can barely hear her voice for all the noise. The song, the pumping blood.

Got to slow down. Wendy’s right; slow it down.

He finds Razz’s plastic bag in his pocket and stares into it. Which one is the valium? He should know this by now. He fishes three out and pops them in. Too dry.

In the kitchen the fridge is hopeless. He finds a half-empty beer by the sink. Swirls warm beer in his mouth, down the hatch.

And hey, it’s snowing outside. White flakes swirl beyond the grimy kitchen window.

“Did you know it’s snowing? I’m not kidding.” He sits beside her, tries to get her to look up. When she doesn’t, he leans close, whispers in her ear: “Don’t worry. I put on the brakes. Screech.”

She doesn’t laugh, but she’ll come around. She always does.

The world is a snowball. Yeah.

“Marshmallow World.” Like the guy who wrote that song wasn’t high…