Symphony of Blood, A Hank Mondale Supernatural Case (26 page)

We continued on heading south, and as we approached the Westchester/Bronx border, she pulled out her cell phone and made a call.

“Hi, baby,” she said, cool as a snowflake, her wide and mischievous smile returning to her face.

I took one look at her, and she kept her eyes straight ahead as if I wasn’t there, so my focus returned to the road.

“What drama is going on at my house right now. My dad is tripping and I need somewhere to hang for a while.” She paused but with the thrashing wind blowing in my ears, I couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation. “Thanks. You’re a doll. I can always count on your
Ange
’. Oh, and I have someone with me.” She giggled. “No, not him. Another guy.” Her voice got high and squeaky as she said, “Stop it, you tramp. He’s just a friend.” She looked at me, and this time I kept my eyes ahead as if she wasn’t there. “Listen, we’re on our way. We’ll be by soon. ‘Kay. Bye.”

She put the phone back into her purse and looked over at me. “Hank, my friend Angelina has a place where we can crash for a while. No one will know to look for us there.”

“Why not?”

“They just won’t. Okay.”

“Fine. Where to?”

“The Bronx.”

“A friend of yours lives in the Bronx?” Her friends owned buildings in the Bronx. At least their daddies did. They certainly didn’t live there.

“Yes! What’s the big deal?”

“Fine. Lead the way.”

The Taconic turned into the Sprain Brook Parkway, which then led to the Major
Deegan
Expressway. Suddenly, I knew exactly where we were headed—the neighborhood anyway, but I didn’t let on.

“Get off at the next exit,” she said as we neared Fordham Road.

I merged over to the right lane then got off the exit. We caught the traffic light while it was green, so I slowed just slightly and made the left onto Fordham.

“I didn’t say to make a left.”

“Sorry. Am I going the wrong way?”

“No. You’re not.”

I looked at her cross-eyed and she quickly looked away.

“There was a hooker murdered down here, you know?”

“No. Why would I know?” She folded her arms and looked at me defensively.

I was pretty sure she was telling the truth, so I dropped the subject, continuing the cat-and-mouse game. “No reason.”

As Jerome Avenue approached on our right, I continued to accelerate. She jumped at the last second and reached across me to grab the wheel. “Make a right here!”

“Okay, okay.” The tires squealed slightly as I turned with one hand and brushed her back with the other. Two pedestrians who were a couple of steps into the road anticipating the opportunity to cross jerked back and shouted at us.

“You’re a maniac,” Mackenzie cried.

“Come on. It wasn’t even close.”

We came down Jerome and a half a block before we hit the McDonald’s, she said, “Make this right.”

I turned the Jeep up the quiet and familiar side street. “This is right near where the hooker got murdered.”

“So?”

I was pretty certain she didn’t know anything about the hooker murder. I couldn’t say the same about the others. Those she knew about. She was holding out on me, and I was going to get full disclosure out of her. One way or another, Mackenzie Blake was going to tell me what she knew. Both our lives depended on it.

“Look for a spot to park.”

I looked at the rows of parked cars. Most of them were crummy old American models with dings, dents and faded paint jobs. “You’re going to park this here.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Well, a pink Jeep stands out just about anywhere, but in this neighborhood…”

“Don’t be such a pain. It will be fine.” Then she pointed to an empty spot. “There. Park right there.”

I parallel parked the car, Driver’s Ed style, and then shut off the engine. “We better put on the top,” I told her. She nodded, removed the top from a hatch in the trunk and we sealed up the car.

As we walked away she said, “Give me the keys.” I handed them over and she activated the alarm. An obnoxious beep rang out.

I laughed and said, “Sure. That’s really
gonna
help.”

“Oh, stop it, Hank. I’ve parked my car here millions of times.”

She walked down the sidewalk and up a short flight of steps that opened into a courtyard that separated two buildings, each four stories high. Two young guys wearing basketball jerseys were sitting on a stoop, one was chugging from a bottle that was wrapped in a brown paper bag while the other puffed away at something that smelled way too strong to be a cigarette. We walked towards the other stoop.

“
Yo
yo
, baby,” one guy called out. “You are
lookin
’ good.” Mackenzie didn’t pay him any mind but I could hear them arguing over whether I was a cop or not.

The front door to the building was propped open with a rock, and she pulled the door and walked inside. I followed. We walked into the entrance hall, to our right was a row of metal mailboxes, to our left an ugly, brick wall, desperately in need of a good sandblasting.

Mackenzie walked along the left side and pulled at a heavy door painted an institutional shade of orange.

“Allow me,” I said as I grabbed the door from behind her and pulled it open.

“Thanks, Hank,” she said in a cutesy voice.

There was a staircase on the other side of the door, and she strolled straight to it and then began her ascent. “It’s a walk-up. It is
such
a pain not having an elevator. I don’t know how Angie does it.”

The walls were scrawled with sloppy graffiti and the floor was littered with cigarette butts and other debris. I stopped, looked the place up and down and asked, “Are you sure about this?”

While still walking up, she replied, “Oh, please. You’re worse than my dad. Yes, I’m sure.”

It smelled like the steps had been covered with Pine-Sol and Lysol to drown out the smell of piss, but the piss was still winning the battle of aromas.

“Is this where you come to score your shit?” I asked.

She glanced halfway over her shoulder but didn’t stop walking as she laughed. “What? No?”

“I’m not stupid, Mackenzie.”

“You sound like a cop, Hank Mondale.”

“This place seems a little low rent for your caviar taste, is all.”

We stepped up to the fourth-floor landing, and she stopped to catch her breath. “I hate those steps. They are such a fucking drag.”

“Yeah, they smell good too.”

“You’re gross,” she said as she struggled with another heavy, orange fire door.

I again opened it for her as I said, “This is your hangout, not mine.”

She flipped me the bird, then walked through the door.

On the other side of the door was a narrow hallway. The floors were tiled in a dark grayish color and the walls were painted drably to match. There was no graffiti on this floor and it didn’t smell like piss. It smelled more like one of those tree air fresheners that cabbies hang from their rearview mirrors—a vanilla-scented one.

There were three doors on each side of the corridor. Mackenzie walked up to the last door on the right side and pushed the square button under a black piece of tape that read
4F
. The doorbell rang, a weak single ding with almost no vibration or echo.

About ten seconds passed, and the door opened just a crack, a thick chain was fastened in place and rattled as the door came open. A heavy smog of weed blew out and filled my nose, followed by a sweet, flowery perfume smell.

I could see just the middle of a female head through the crack, then heard her say, “Hey, baby. You made it.” She closed the door and I heard the chain rattling as she unfastened it. The door came open all the way. “Come on in,” she said as she waved us in. “I’m Angie.” She spoke with a smile and a heavy Bronx-laden accent. Her skin was light mocha and her teeth were a little crooked. Her hair was dark and straight with red highlights streaking down the sides. She squeezed her breasts into a shirt that was two sizes too small, and when she turned around, I admired an ass that was round and squeezed into pants that were three sizes too small and exposing her crack on the top end and her ankles at the bottom. A tattoo on the small of her back was adorned with hearts and read,
Pito
.

The apartment was much better than I anticipated. The floors had cushy, white wall-to-wall carpets and the walls were full of family pictures and religious scenes. She led us to a living room with a huge sectional couch that filled the entire room. A man was sprawled out on the couch, lying back, feet up on an ottoman, watching a big screen television and puffing on a cigar that was obviously stuffed with weed and not tobacco.

“Hi,
Pito
,” Mackenzie said and bounced over to him then kissed him on the cheek.

“Hey, sweet thing,” he said as he half sat up. He had a light olive complexion and bad acne. He was wearing a white, sleeveless t-shirt that exposed skinny but muscular arms. He had unrecognizable black tattoos on each bicep and forearm, and a huge crucifix that started at the top of his shoulder and ran down his back. Above his lip was a pencil-thin mustache and on his chin was the tiniest scruff of a beard.

“Let me get some of that,” Mackenzie said as she grabbed the cigar from his hand.

“Easy girl,” he said as he slapped her hand playfully. “No grabbing.” Then he handed it to her.

She took a big inhale and handed it back to him. “Nice,” she said, then plopped down on the couch next to him.

He took another pull then turned to me. “You want?” he offered, his voice scratchy from the smoke he was still holding in his lungs.

I waved him off. “No thanks.”

Pito
exhaled so much smoke his mouth looked like the exhaust pipe of a beat up old truck. Then he shrugged and said, “You sure? It’s good shit.”

“Don’t be a
wus
, Hank,” Mackenzie said.

“Not my thing.”

“Square,” she said with a sly smile.

Angie sauntered over and took the cigar as she said, “Leave him alone. He doesn’t want any.”

I looked over at Angie and said, “Hey, I’m no puritan. I’m just not into weed. Makes me dopey. I don’t like being dopey.”

She took a loud pull off the blunt, then blew the smoke out slowly. “It’s cool, poppy. No problem.”

“I think it’s a problem,” Mackenzie said with her mischievous eyes. “He needs to lighten up.”

I leaned over, grabbed her arm and said quietly, “One of us needs to keep their wits about them.”

She waved me off. Then said to Angie, “Let me get a little more of that.”

I rolled my eyes and tried not to sigh too loudly.

“
Yo
, you got any money, bro?”
Pito
asked.

“A couple bucks,” I said.

“I have money,” Mackenzie said, immediately reaching for her purse.

“Cool. Give me twenty bucks. We’re all outta beers.”

She reached in her purse and handed him a twenty-dollar bill.

“I’ll go,” I said. I needed some fresh air anyway.

“Fine. Here.” He handed me the twenty and I took it. “Get some Heinekens.”

“And some tequila,” Mackenzie said.

“The last thing you need is tequila,” I said to her.

“What are you, her pops?”
Pito
asked, flexing his arms as he spoke.

“Whatever. I’ll be right back.”

“There’s a twenty-four hour bodega right around the corner,” Angie said.

I paused. “I think I know the place. What about the booze?”

“There’s a liquor store on Jerome, up the other way. You want me to come with you?”

“Sure.”

Pito
laughed and said, “You sure you want to be seen with an old white dude at this hour?”

“Oh, stop it,” Angie said.

Pito
shook his head. “Okay. Whatever. Bring me back some cigarettes.”

“Okay.”

“And don’t be
takin
’ all night.”

“Shut up!” She made a face at him and he turned back towards the television, grabbed the remote control off the arm of the couch he was sunk into, and turned the volume up.

She strutted through the door, and I tried not to gawk at her beautifully rotund behind as it shook with a fierceness that was really sexy. I could vividly imagine the makeup sex they must have, and I was envious.

“Come on, honey,” she said to me.

As she was closing the door, he yelled, “And get me some Twinkies and shit, too.”

* *

 
“Don’t mind him,” she said as she walked down the corridor towards the door. “He’s just trying to impress you. He’s really a pussycat.”

“Sounds like one.”

She laughed. “Nah. He is.”

We stepped out into the night air, and she led the way down the hill.