Roachkiller and Other Stories Page 7

  Orange said to the woman: “Listen, babe, why don’t you go unpack the new art? We got people moving a lot of stuff in today.”

  “Is something going on? Lime, what’s wrong?”

  “Anya, do I have to say it twice? Unpack the art. We got a lot of shit to do today. Please.”

  Vega thought she was about to yell, but instead she picked up the picture and walked away. When she was gone, Lime Orange said, “Sorry. I don’t mean to be a prick. But she’s kinda ditzy. And she worries about the wrong things.”

  “What should she worry about?”

  “Getting all our new artwork up. Yeah, I have a great success on my hands. I have to keep it going.”

  “Sounds great,” said Vega, who looked around for a place to sit. His legs felt like chewed gum.

  “C’mon, let me show you something.” Orange led him to the side of the warehouse and through a door that led to dark, wooden steps.

  “I met Danny a few months back when he came to a gallery I co-own,” Orange said. “I saw that he was interested in art. So I started asking him to run errands and stuff, and eventually I let him help me hang stuff and put in sound equipment, and every once in a while I let him stay here.”

  “Here?”

  “Yeah, I think he had a problematic home life, you know. I guess he came here to escape. This was his spot.”

  An old red futon mattress lay flat on the floor. There was an empty box of cereal and a bowl. On the floor was a large drawing pad, with the graffiti tag “GhostD” on the front. On the floor was a brown cigar box, with the same tag on it.

  “So you have no idea where he is?”

  “No idea, man. But if he comes back I’ll let you know.”

  Vega handed him a card. “I’d appreciate it.”

  * * *

  On Monday morning, the offices of Valiant Security International were busy. Phones trilled, operatives rushed about. Alone in his cubicle, Vega ignored a pile of assignment sheets to install new operating systems or DVD drives, and performed a quick public record search. Lime Orange’s real name was Michael Cooper, he was twenty-nine, from Ohio, had a large trust fund, and a modestly successful art and music career. Vega found an elaborate Web site that featured news about the artist and his projects. He’d also had some trouble as a teenager—a DWI and a marijuana possession charge—but since then, nothing.

  “Hmmm,” Vega said to himself. Then he noticed the phone had been ringing. “Help Desk.”

  When he got home that night, Vega still felt like one giant sore spot. His left side felt particularly useless. Under his right armpit, he carried groceries, and in his right hand, along with his briefcase, he carried a six-pack. He had to set them all down in order to open the door to his basement apartment.

  Inside, he stepped on the back of one shoe then the other to get them off. He popped open one beer, then picked up his game console. He stared at the screen. Then put down the console and picked up the phone. He dialed Orange. An answering machine came on that suggested visiting his Web site. Or leaving a message. Have an incredible day and an amazing life. Vega put down the phone.

  He drained his first beer in under twenty seconds. The second in forty-five. Then he attacked a box of powdered donuts.

  * * *

  Vega had a vague idea of what he needed to find out next. He took the next afternoon off, claiming a doctor’s appointment.

  Jorge’s Pet Emporium was located on Grand Street, squeezed between La Luna Botanica and the Great Wall Chinese Take-out. A sign in the window read “Aquarium and Pet Supplies, Birds and Tackle.” Two scrawny puppies scrambled over each other in a window display. When Vega pushed through the front door a bell rang somewhere.

  The humid smell of fish food, live fish, and dead fish hit him. To his right, a tired-looking man bent over a tank of golden-red guppies. Down the main aisle, huddled around the cash register, were four men. They stopped talking when Vega walked up to them. One of the men said, “Lo puedo ayudar?”

  “I need to see Antonio.”

  “Quién es?”

  “Eulogio Vega.”

  The first man nodded, and one of the other men turned and went behind a curtain to a back room. Vega watched the tired man clean out a tank. It took a long time.

  The second man emerged from the curtain and pointed his chin at Vega and then the curtain. Vega ducked and went down a narrow hallway to a small office. The man Vega knew as Antonio stood at a desk shaking hands with an Asian man in a guayabera. Antonio did a little bow and the Asian man bowed back and they both laughed. Then the Asian man left, giving Vega a broad smile as he passed him.

  “Eulogio! A face from the past!” Antonio said. “Good to see you, bro.” He came around the desk and hugged him. Antonio’s head was shaved almost completely bald. He wore slacks and a shiny shirt. Around him was a dense cloud of cologne. “Sit down, sit down.”

  Vega sat at the desk. “Been a long time.”

  “You want something to eat? Adolfo, get us something to eat!”

  One of the other men ran out of the room.

  “So whatchoo doing now? Last I heard you did a hitch in the army.”

  “That was a long time ago,” Vega said.

  “I figured you made it out of the ’hood.”

  “How about you? I thought you wanted to be a doctor.”

  “I found a more suitable career.”

  “Okay, then.”

  “And you, you became a doctor, lawyer, something like that.”

  “I’m doing some investigative work.”

  Antonio looked into Vega’s eyes. “So you a cop, man?”

  “No, no, nothing like that. I work with computers.”

  “Computers? You was always smart.”

  The man who ran out came back with a plate of egg rolls, dumplings, two bowls of rice, and a pot of tea. “Have some tea. Better for you than coffee,” Antonio said, and as he poured he looked at Vega and added, “So I know you’re not here to shoot the shit.”

  “Look, I need to ask you about somebody in your organization.”

  “My organization?” Antonio blew onto his tea and looked Vega in the eyes. “This doesn’t sound like it has to do with computers. But you’re my homeboy, and you’re smart, like I said.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I cannot guarantee that I’ll have an answer for you. But you can ask. And before I say anything, let’s say you owe me.”

  Vega had just been about to bite into an egg roll. He put it back down on his napkin. “Understood,” he said.

  “Good. You go first.”

  “Are you missing ten thousand dollars?” he said.

  Antonio shrugged. “I’m missing money all over the place. Sometimes it comes back. Sometimes I never see it again. Like love. You saying you know somebody who took money from me?”

  “Well, let me ask you—what would you do if somebody had taken ten grand from you?”

  “We had a guy called Sammy UFO took fifty thousand from me last year and ran off to South America. Like I was going to chase him. It’s not worth the hassle—I make that kind of money back in a day. I’m just a local businessman you know? Now, I see him in front of me, that’s a different story, sabes?”

  Vega finished a third dumpling. He said, “What can you tell me about Jesus Lugo?”

  “Hold on. Manny!” Antonio yelled and one of the men came in. “Check the books for Jesus.” The man went to a file cabinet and pulled out a notebook. In the meantime, Vega finished another three pork dumplings.

  “Lugo’s accounts are clean,” Manny said.

  Antonio sipped more tea. “Jesus has been with me for more than diez y seis años. He skims every now and then, but he ain’t got the balls to take ten thousand at a pop. What have you heard, man?”

  “Maybe his stepson swiped ten grand from him.”

  “Shit. You think I would do something to his kid? For ten grand?”

  “The kid’s missing, Antonio. Over a week now. I’m not saying anything—”r />
  “I know what you’re trying to say, and I ain’t offended. Believe me, I know my reputation, and I like it. But I don’t even know this kid. If anything, maybe Jesus took him out. Drove him to Coney Island and threw him off the Cyclone.”

  The other men in the room laughed.

  Manny closed the cabinet and, between laughs, said, “The only thing Jesus cares about is his little girlfriend.”

  “Girlfriend?”

  “Some sixteen-year-old puta. What’s her name? Lives in the projects down by the Clemente Projects. I see Jesus picking her up there all the time.”

  “That helps,” Vega said.

  “I think of any more I’ll let you know.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Good,” said Antonio. “You got something. Now it’s my turn. Your favor to me.”

  Vega put down his tea, took a deep breath.

  Antonio turned and pointed to a PC on a computer desk in the corner. “Hey. My computer is all fucked up. Can you take a look at it?”

  Vega exhaled. “No problem.” The monitor was on.

  “This piece of shit runs like my grandmother. God have her in heaven.”

  “Hold on,” Vega said. The problem was obvious. “When’s the last time you updated your virus protection?”

  “You’re talking a foreign language to me now. Can you fix it?”

  Vega smiled, reached into his briefcase and took out an antivirus disk. “Sure thing.”

  When Vega left the pet emporium, he stood in front of the Great Wall and considered getting an order of scallion pancakes. Then his cell phone chirped. It was Mildred. “Hey, baby, I got some bad news,” she said.

  “Digame.”

  “They found Danny. Near the waterfront this morning. Somebody shot him. He’s dead.”

  * * *

  Vega spent an hour at Aldo’s Coffee Shop, lingering over a Spanish omelet, before he limped across Havemeyer Street to the Ortiz Funeral Home. Through the glass doors were tall ashtrays that might have doubled as urns and a colorful print of wilted tulips. The inside was as he remembered: dark wood paneling and thick, dark carpeting. Only the black-and-white leather couches seemed unfamiliar. The Cortez funeral was in the salon on the left. Vega walked in and straight up to the casket.

  The kid looked pale and plastic, the hair too black to be natural. Vega lingered over the casket for a while, then finally turned.

  There was Cookie, crying, and Lugo beside her. He looked at Vega as if they’d never met. They were surrounded by people. Vega waited for his turn, bowed his head slightly, said he was sorry. At first she didn’t seem to recognize him either, but then her eyes turned sober and for a moment her face formed a sneer of accusation. Then it was gone. She dropped her gaze and was again surrounded by friends.

  Mildred, dressed in a tight black dress, came up to him. She whispered, “I’m so sorry I got you into this, E. This is so sad.”

  “Don’t worry, M. I’m still working on something,” he said, touching her arm.

  “But he’s not missing anymore!”

  “Something’s not right about this,” he said.

  “Oh, baby, be careful.”

  Vega smiled, a huge thing on his big face. He walked out into the main vestibule and then outside. Lissette Davila was in the parking lot, eating from a small bag of cookies.

  “Hey, Mr. Detective.”

  She wore enormously baggy pants, a large red, white, and blue athletic shirt, and a shiny black leather jacket. Her hair flowed in dark waves down her shoulders. Her perfume was strong and sweet. “So I guess you didn’t find Danny in time.”

  “Yeah, thanks for reminding me.” He went to leave, but she followed him.

  “What, you feel bad? That’s funny.”

  “Why funny?”

  “You know, what was you going to do?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “You hungry?” she said. “I gotta get something to eat.”

  “I’m always hungry,” he said.

  They walked up Havemeyer, toward the elevated train. “Danny started hanging out with those strange people. He wanted to be like them, you know. You saw his hair? It was purple when they found him. Purple! Cookie made them change it back.”

  “You don’t like the hipsters?” Vega said.

  She laughed with a snort. “They’re weirdos, you know? They kinda stick with theyselves. It’s like, for them, we’re not even here. They don’t even see us. I don’t know. Danny liked to be with them for some stupid reason.”

  They walked back to a fast-food place around the corner. Lissette told the cashier to give her a number four with a large shake. She looked at the wall when it came time to pay. The cashier looked at Vega. Vega looked at Lissette. She looked at the jukebox behind him. Vega frowned and paid for the food.

  When they sat down, he said, “So, you don’t seem too upset.”

  “Upset. Shoot. Why should I get upset?” She opened up five packets of ketchup and squeezed them onto her french fries. “I knew Danny since we was little, and he was a good friend. He wasn’t my boyfriend like everybody was thinking. But I’ve got his spirit with me, you know, in my heart. He doesn’t have to be my boyfriend to be in my heart.”

  “So you don’t have a boyfriend?”

  She laughed and, for the first time, looked up from her food. “Why you ask, Mr. Detective?” she said, then put a ketchup-covered french fry in her mouth. She pulled out the fry whole, glistening and free of ketchup. Vega blushed and then she laughed. It was a loud laugh.

  “Listen,” he said. “Everyone knows you’ve been hanging out with Jesus Lugo.”

  A train rattled by. Its thunder could not overcome the blare of the radio and the four TV sets playing four different channels in the brightly lit room.

  “I don’t know what you’ve heard.”

  She was looking only at her food now. There seemed to be some moisture in her eyes. “You want some french fries?” she said, then sucked up half her milk shake. “You know, I like you, Mr. Detective. You big as a grizzly but you look like you gentle. You know what I mean?”

  “Thanks, I guess,” said Vega, picking up a bushel of ketchup-soaked fries in his hand. He put them all in his mouth. Still chewing, he said, “Lissette, what about the missing money?”

  She opened her mouth and half her burger disappeared.

  “What money?” she said, through the food. “There’s no frickin’ money. There was never any money.”

  * * *

  Vega sat in Mildred’s apartment, drinking. She sat on the floor in tight pink shorts that showed off her long, dark legs. The dog sat in her lap, studying Vega and the beer, his third that night, in his hand.

  “The police said he was mugged,” he said.

  “Well, if he was walking around with ten grand, makes sense.”

  “Nah, nah. The girl says there was no money.”

  “When has this girl ever told you the truth? I know her type, E.”

  “You are her type.”

  “Kiss my ass.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Just then there was a scream, and then the sound of glass, a lot of glass, breaking. “Oh, shit,” Mildred said, jumping up with the dog in her hands. She opened the door. “E. It’s downstairs. Sounds like Jesus is having a fight with Cookie.”

  Another scream. Another crash.

  Vega put his bottle down and pulled on his shoes.

  “Should I call the cops?” Mildred said, the dog squirming in her arms.

  Vega heard something large being smashed. “Yeah, I would.”

  As he ran down the stairs, he could hear Lugo screaming, “Coño, carajo, punyeta. Hija de la gran puta. Dammit!”

  The door was ajar. Vega pushed it the rest of the way open. Inside, in the living room, a glass table had been shattered. Plants were tipped over and there was soil spread on the floor. Cushions were thrown around, and there were fist-sized holes in the wall leaking plaster.

  “Cookie! Cookie Cortez!”
Vega shouted.

  He checked the kitchen, then went into a small hallway. Through a door he could see Cookie’s prone body lying facedown. She wasn’t moving.

  But just then he heard a yell and turned to see Jesus Lugo, his face dark red as a Chinese spare rib, coming at him with the clawed end of a hammer.

  Vega was a foot taller than Lugo, and it should have been easy to avoid him. But the stiffness in Vega’s muscles made him slow. He avoided the first blow, but with the second swing the hammer found Vega’s shoulder and bit deep. Pain exploded all over his left side. Vega jerked his wounded arm up, knocking the hammer out of Lugo’s hand. It smacked on the floor, millimeters from his feet. Vega pushed Lugo roughly into the wall. A calendar and a crucifix crashed to the floor.

  Lugo let out a string of unintelligible Spanish curses. Vega cursed back. He was dizzy with pain. Mildred’s miniature Doberman barked down around their ankles.

  Vega knew if he stepped on the dog, his cousin would kill him.

  Without a hammer in his hand, Lugo was moving back. Vega was taller and a subway car wider. He breathed deeply and waited.

  When the dog barked, Lugo lunged. Vega grabbed one of Lugo’s wrists, then the other, shoving him back against the wall again. Lugo tried to knee him. Vega turned to the side to protect his crotch, then leaned his whole body against the thinner man, pinning him. Lugo’s green eyes bulged more than ever.

  “Please don’t kill him!” It was Cookie. Alive. And shrill. “Please—no killing. No killing in my house.”

  Vega yelled, “Are you all right?”

  “Please don’t kill him.”

  “Cookie, I thought he hurt you.”

  “No, no, no. I fainted. I fainted. I’m still alive!”

  “I can see that.” Vega looked around. “Hand me that extension cord, Cookie.”

  Vega took the cord from her and wrapped it tightly three times around Lugo’s hands and then around the older man’s body, then knotted it. “Frickin’ Boy Scouts,” Vega said to himself. His rage dissipated, Lugo went quiet and slumped to the floor, defeated. The mini Doberman immediately jumped on his lap but continued barking.