Unhooking the Moon (14 page)

‘You think he'll have contacts in showbusiness?' she asked. ‘Maybe I could enrol in a drama school while I'm here. Or get a part on Broadway.'

‘We'll see.'

She looked up at me. ‘We will find him, Bob. I know we will.'

‘I know,' I said. But I didn't know. But as I was
feeling so guilty I went back to asking people with as much enthusiasm as possible.

We asked a traffic cop, a woman out with her kids, and a painter up a ladder. We asked a taxi driver parked outside a pizzeria, a postal worker, and the women he was arguing with. We asked the storeowners, the street vendors, and the boy in the candy store where the Rat bought her gum. We asked the guy in the tattoo parlour and the girl he was tattooing, and her girlfriend who said her mom would kill her. We asked the barmaid in the Irish pub and she asked her small dog who was up on the bar, but he didn't know. We asked the black girls skipping in the rain and they asked their friend Leticia who said she didn't know and didn't care. We asked this one guy in a soiled suit who said he could find out, but it would cost us. And we asked the guy who jumped out of the car and chased him down the street, but he never answered. We asked the woman with the broken umbrella and the guy wearing the headphone set who wouldn't stop dancing. We asked the girl on the roller blades, the guy she wouldn't go out with, and his friend who told him so. We asked black people and white people, and the Korean people standing in the doorway of the takeaway. We asked a thousand Hispanic people,
who seemed to be the majority in every neighbourhood we went through, but nobody knew our uncle. Not a single soul.

But I have to say that, as rough as the Bronx was and as dangerous as it was supposed to be, most of the people were polite. They danced to the Latin American music blasting from the car stereos or shouted friendly insults to their friends. And there were no bandana-headed street gangs standing on the corners, and I didn't see anyone dealing drugs. I was relieved in a way, even if it was a drug dealer we were looking for.

‘Ask Al the butcher on the next block,' shouted a woman from her fire escape. ‘He knows everyone. And remember me if any money comes your way. I'm an old woman on welfare.'

‘We're on welfare too,' said the Rat. ‘It's great, isn't it?'

The Rat had taken to talking in a New York accent and cracking her gum like a ghetto bitch. But I was glad she'd gone back to having fun.

We crossed to the next block and went in the butcher's. It had sawdust on the floor and the meat looked more brown than red.

‘Hey buddy, you know Jerome DeBillier?' asked the
Rat. ‘We think he might live around here.'

The butcher, who had a few days' growth on his face, took an unlit cigar from his mouth and went to the back door. ‘Pa! You know a Jerome DeBillier?' he asked, shouting up the stairs.

A voice came back. ‘He's the guy on the TV.'

‘No, he lives around here somewhere,' shouted the butcher.

‘He's the guy on the TV, I tell you. He's always on it.'

‘He don't know him,' said the butcher.

The Rat showed the butcher the photograph and wiping his hands on his apron he had a look. ‘I tell you, kid, I know the name from somewhere and I know this face. But for the life of me I can't put the two together. Listen, if you're back this way tomorrow, pop in. The cobwebs might have cleared by then.'

‘OK Al. Have a good one.'

‘Same to you, kid.'

We continued following the overhead asking people as we went. But we never found anyone who knew him, and I never thought we would. Not until I came out of a store and saw the Rat's face. As soon as I saw it I knew she was on to something.

‘Yes, that's Jerome DeBillier,' said this old Hispanic
woman looking at the photograph. ‘But he's a young man there. He must be in his forties by now.'

I couldn't believe my ears!

‘You know, my granddaughter used to clean the apartments in his block. He had the penthouse, you know? It was a very important job she was doing.'

‘Where was that?' asked the Rat.

‘It was on Fifth Avenue, somewhere. I don't know the number and she's gone back to the Dominican. But I remember her telling me it overlooked Central Park.'

‘Is he still a drug dealer?'

‘One of the biggest in New York, some say the US.' The woman put up her umbrella. ‘Why are you kids looking for him?'

‘He's our long-lost uncle,' said the Rat.

‘Sure he is, sweetheart,' said the woman. ‘And I'm having tea with Donald Trump.' She walked away laughing as she went.

‘You think she knew him?' I asked. ‘She seemed a little crazy.'

‘She is crazy, Bob, but she did know him! How else would she have known it was an old photograph?'

The Rat was right. I should have thought of that.

She pulled her map book from her pocket. ‘Central
Park. Fifth Avenue. There it is. We've found him! And look, we can take the 145th Street Bridge back into Manhattan. Come on, Bob. He's not getting away from us!' She got on her bike and rode away.

Once she gets her ratty little claws into something she never lets go. Who knows, maybe he wouldn't get away from us, not with her pedalling after him.

We rode down a broad, grey boulevard lined with large brown houses. They had steep steps, and there were slim Roman pillars either side of the front doors. Black women leaned out the windows of the houses while watching their tiny kids run about in raingear. There were a lot of black people around there. They stood in doorways or huddled under raised jackets or strolled about like they didn't care.

‘We must be in Harlem,' said the Rat seeing a sign for Malcolm X Boulevard. ‘I've heard of him. And now he has his very own boulevard … Hey, Bob, there's the Empire State Building.'

It was way in the distance, surrounded by mist, and lit up in the tricolour of the French flag: blue, white and red. Every time I saw the flag, the French national anthem played in my head. They had the best anthem of any country. Somehow, it made me
feel proud that I had French ancestors. One day I'd like to go to France to see the house where my mother was born; one day.

When we came to a busy junction I saw a Starbucks and stopped. I wasn't going any further without food and a hot drink. ‘Are you hungry?'

‘Starving,' said the Rat.

We locked up the bikes and headed inside. I went to the counter and ordered coffee, cake, and sandwiches, while the Rat collapsed on the comfy seats. She read her guidebook until I hovered over her with a tray, and then she sat up and reached for her mocha. I sat next to her and we ate while watching the people run in the rain. I hated being in the rain, but I liked watching it when I was indoors.

The Rat pulled her cell from her pocket and, finding a socket, she set it to charge. ‘I'm sending Harold a text message telling him we've had our first lead as to Uncle Jerome's whereabouts. And I'm telling him about our exciting day.'

‘Exciting?'

‘Can I have another mocha, Bob?'

‘Get it yourself.'

She pulled the map from her guidebook. ‘I'm looking for the hostel.'

She could be so lazy at times. I went up to the counter and didn't I get the shock of my life. I thought Miss Gabriela Felipe Mendez had moved to New York and got a job in Starbucks!

‘What can I get you?'

She even spoke like her.

‘Do you want a coffee?'

She looked a little younger but that was all. She could have been her twin sister!

‘A tea maybe or something to eat?'

I swear I could hear salsa music playing in my head. Then she brought her face close to mine, the way Gabriela did. ‘If you don't tell me what you want, I'm gonna call the cops.'

‘Oh, I want a mocha!'

She giggled. ‘I'm just kidding. Where are you from?'

‘I'm from Winnipeg. Winnipeg is in—'

‘I took Geography. So, what are you doing in New York?'

‘I'm just visiting … But I might move here.'

She laughed. ‘How old are you?'

‘Fourteen,' I said. I don't know why I lied. But I do look fourteen.

‘That's too bad,' said Gabriela's look-alike. ‘If you were a little older we could have gone out.' She
handed me the coffee. ‘Because you're real cute.'

I blushed slightly as I handed her the money.

‘On the house, sweetie.' She gave me a sexy wink and she laughed as I walked away, but I didn't mind. She said I was cute. I don't think of myself as cute, but I am good-looking, as I've said.

I gave the Rat her mocha and took a seat like nothing had happened, but I was pretty excited.

‘You know, Bob, that girl would be too old for you even if you were fourteen,' said the Rat without looking up. ‘She'd probably be too old for you if you were twenty-five.'

‘You're such a rat!'

‘Well you shouldn't be flirting at twelve.'

‘I'll be thirteen soon, a teenager, I'll flirt if I want!'

The Rat drank her mocha like a pig, stood up, and put on her rucksack. ‘Let's go.'

But I felt comfy in the coffee shop and the girl liked me. ‘Let's stay until it stops raining.'

‘It's stopped.'

I looked out the window. It had stopped. ‘Well … well, I'm tired!' I really was tired too. And being so relaxed I'd dropped my guard. The thought of returning to the turmoil made my heart beat faster.

The Rat folded her arms. ‘Look, Bob. If you don't
get up I'll cause a scene. This is New York. It's expected of me!'

I knew she'd do it. She'd go crazy just for the hell of it. If I hadn't been mean to her earlier that day I would have stayed where I was. But I still felt guilty and so I got up.

‘You can be so childish.'

‘I am a child, Bob.'

That irritating Rat has an answer for everything.

It was dark as we rode down Malcolm X's Boulevard. And the dark made New York look more menacing. But it wasn't too bad. There were families sitting on stoops, and groups of guys joking around on the street corners. And somewhere in the distance someone was playing a trumpet. It was like being in a scene from a Harlem movie.

The map-reading Rat knew the way to the hostel and so I followed her down Malcolm X Boulevard until we came to what she said was Central Park. It was big and gloomy with dark trees swaying around a boating lake. We never went inside. We followed it around until we came to a long avenue that ran alongside it.

‘This is Central Park West,' said the Rat. We rode down it, the Rat checking the street numbers as we
went. After no more than ten minutes the Rat rode into a side street and pulled up. ‘This is it,' she said.

And sure enough there was the hostel. Locking up our bikes, we went inside.

There was a guy sitting in a small office behind a glass window.

‘Is Sexy Sandra here?' I asked.

He pulled open the window and gave me a look. ‘Sandra is off today. If you want to see her you'll have to come back tomorrow.'

‘We're supposed to be staying here,' said the Rat. ‘Our Uncle Joey told us Sexy Sandra would take care of us. He used to be her boyfriend.'

The guy looked old and tired. ‘Joey, yeah I remember him.' He looked on a notice board behind him. ‘There's nothing here, kid. Why don't you come back tomorrow?'

‘We have nowhere to go,' I said. ‘But we have ID.'

The guy shook his head. ‘I'm afraid not, son. You have to be at least sixteen to stay here without an adult.'

‘He's twenty-five,' said the Rat. ‘He's just had an easy life.'

The guy smiled but he closed the window all the same.

‘Let's go to Fifth Avenue and look for Uncle Jerome. We won't need a place to stay if we find him,' said the Rat. Then she tapped on the window. ‘Hey, buddy, what's the quickest way to Fifth Avenue?'

‘Go through the gap in the park wall at the end of this street and follow the path across. Ten minutes tops.'

We rode down the street to the park. The Rat went to ride in but I grabbed her by the arm. I tried to see inside, but the park was too big and dark, and there were trees everywhere. Any one of New York's many maniacs could be lying in wait, ready to pounce. ‘Maybe we should go round,' I said.

‘I think it will be OK, Bob.'

‘All right, but stay close to me.'

We rode through the park, with the trees still dripping rain on us, and followed the path that led to the other side. Halfway through I thought about all those New York movies where muggers waited, ready to ambush the passing pedestrian. There were usually three of them and they usually had switchblades. But all we saw were some joggers and a policeman sitting in a tiny electric tricycle. I felt a lot safer when I saw him.

We rounded a baseball field and came out on Fifth Avenue, which was wonderfully well lit after coming out of the park. A wide tree-lined sidewalk ran alongside
the park and opposite stood the apartment buildings where Uncle Jerome was supposed to live. I couldn't see any skyscrapers, like I'd feared, but the park seemed to go on for miles. Me and the Rat were quiet as we surveyed Fifth Avenue. There must have been hundreds of apartments facing the park. It was going to be a real challenge. But, that said, it looked like a well-to-do part of town and it was better than being in the Bronx.

‘Let's ride up and down and see if we can see him,' said the Rat.

And so that's what we did. We rode down Fifth Avenue scanning the apartment blocks from lobby to penthouse. At least that's what I did. The Rat was acting like her vacation had begun. She stopped every now and again and, pulling out her guidebook, she turned into a tour guide. ‘This is the museum mile and over there is the Guggenheim. It doesn't fit in with any of the other buildings but it's cute. And coming up is the Metropolitan Museum of Art, otherwise known as the MET. Note the architecture, Bob. It looks like a palace imported from Europe.'