Roachkiller and Other Stories Page 8

Vega slumped onto a cushionless couch. His knees towered in the air. He pushed himself up and sat on the couch arm. “Cookie, your Jesus was pretty angry about something. And it looks like he likes to get violent. I think he may have killed your son.”

  “No, no!” She shook her head. “I know where Danny was. He was with that little fat bitch.”

  “Christ,” Vega said. He felt himself getting logy. He slumped into the cushionless couch again. “I think I’m going to need a bandage.”

  A scream startled him. It was Mildred. “Ay! Eulogio are you okay?”

  She helped stop the bleeding and cleaned the wound, while Cookie made coffee. Lugo remained tied up on the floor, humming a song to himself.

  As Cookie brought him coffee, Vega said, “I need to know what got Jesus swinging at you.”

  “He came home. Smelling like that little puta. I used to smell that smell in the hamper and I knew it wasn’t me, so I thought it came from some girl that Danny was with. And that Lissette girl was always around the block. But then I figured it out because the smell was still there after Danny moved out.” She glared at Jesus. “Fucking liar! And I bet you took the money for yourself!”

  Lugo spoke up, his voice slurred. “No, Cookie, that was your son. He stole my money.”

  “I hope so, then you don’t get to spend it on your pregnant little girlfriend!”

  “Pregnant?” said Vega.

  “Lissette,” said Cookie. “That’s right.”

  Mildred was saying “Oh my god” over and over again.

  “And she’s gonna have more babies,” said Cookie, “and she’ll get fat like me and you won’t love her no more either, you son of a bitch.”

  “Jesus,” Vega said. “Listen to me. Wake up! Where were you the night Danny was killed?”

  Lugo mumbled something then drooled.

  Cookie said, “He was here with me. Though I got no reason to defend him.”

  “So Danny did take the money then?”

  “Si.” She was sad when she said it. “We kept it in a little box and he took it.”

  “Whose money was it?”

  “De nosotros. Jesus gets ten percent every time one of his customers hits. And then we hit the number a few times. It took us a long time to save up. We were gonna get a house.”

  “Then why the hell did you lie to me?”

  “He was my son. I don’t care about the money.”

  “That was my money,” Lugo said, slurring.

  “Shut up!” Cookie screamed, angry again. She went to slap Lugo once more, but Mildred stopped her. Cookie began sobbing. “Ay dios mio, somebody shot my baby for that stupid money!”

  Vega leaned over to comfort her, got his hand all the way over to her big shoulder, but then things got blurry and, not for the first time in his life, he blacked out.

  * * *

  The cops came and asked questions and took Lugo away for more questions. Vega took a long ride to Woodhull Hospital with Mildred. Under anesthetic he imagined he had two automatic guns and a theme song. He was shooting at vampires, and they were going down like ducks in a carnival game. And Mildred was there, holding a huge stuffed Doberman that he won for her. He was going to ask her why she, why everybody was lying to him. But then he slipped into a black pool of unconsciousness.

  He was back at the office the next day. He was in his cubicle when he got a call that he had a visitor.

  Anya was waiting in the reception room. She was carrying a large, covered frame.

  “I have to talk to you about Danny. And Lime,” she said.

  “Sure, yeah, come to my—let’s go to the conference room,” he said.

  Before she sat down, she put the frame on the table, and then she slowly untied the covering. “Can you help me with this?”

  He went to hold the frame steady. Pain stabbed him in the shoulder. “Ow,” he said loudly.

  “What happened to you?” she said.

  “Jai alai.”

  “Oh, that’s a great game.”

  She pulled the covering off. It was a black-and-white portrait of Danny Cortez. He had a big toothy smile, and there was a brightness in his eyes. His tag, “GhostD,” was written in Danny’s tag style in the space behind him.

  “I knew Danny,” she said. “I brought this for his parents. He was a nice kid. I hate what happened to him.”

  “Yeah, he was in the wrong place, I guess.”

  “I brought this, too,” she said, pulling out the cigar box and the drawing book. “Listen, I don’t think he was just mugged. I think I know what happened to him.”

  * * *

  Vega and Lester Reid sat in a car parked down the block from the Spore warehouse. On Vega’s lap was the cigar box with Danny’s tag on it.

  “So the money was legit?” Reid said.

  “Well, illegitimately legit. Or maybe the other way around. Numbers money that Jesus and Cookie saved up.”

  “It would be too easy if the ten grand were still in here.”

  “Too easy,” Vega said. He opened the box. “But what we do have is stickers, rolling papers, a lighter, and poetry.”

  “Poetry!”

  “Love poetry.” Vega thumbed through them for the seventeenth time. “Written by Danny. But not to Lissette.”

  “The girl who was doing the stepfather?”

  “Right. I thought the kid was with Lissette, and that’s what made him angry enough to leave home and swipe the cash.”

  “Aha.”

  Vega watched the street with a pair of binoculars. “His mother was right when she said he left home because of a girl. But it wasn’t the girl she was thinking of.”

  “So he was doing the artist’s girlfriend?”

  “Well, Anya, the artist’s girlfriend, says no. She says it was sort of a mutual crush that neither of them acted on. He wanted to be an artist, too. And here was this beautiful artist working and living nearby. Teenagers have skipped home for less.”

  “And jealousy is a great motive for murder,” Reid said.

  “That’s what we’re here to figure out, Mr. Reid.”

  “And how do we get in, Mr. Vega?”

  Vega pulled out a set of keys that had a piece of masking tape on them. Written in magic marker on the tape was “The Spare.”

  “A gift from Anya.”

  They got out of the car and walked to the building.

  * * *

  It was dim and chilly inside the warehouse, now stripped of light or sound. Orange opened the door with a large scratching noise. He entered pushing a shopping cart piled high with metal parts. He wore an old blue parka and a Space Invaders T-shirt. As he moved inside, Reid walked behind him and shut the door.

  “What the fuck?” Orange said. It took him a moment to focus. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “This is about Danny Cortez.”

  “Are you a cop?”

  “You wish. You knew Danny Cortez?”

  “I want to see ID.”

  “And I want to see the ten thousand dollars you took from Danny Cortez.”

  “Ten thousand!”

  “That money belongs to a man named Antonio.”

  “Who the fuck are you? I’m going to call the cops.”

  Reid stood between Orange and the door. “Go ahead. But first, tell me about the kid,” he said.

  “I did him a favor. I let him crash here for a few days. I gave him food, that’s all. He’s gone now, okay?”

  “He stayed here rent-free?”

  “Well, I didn’t know how long he was staying here. I told him he had to chip in.”

  “Where was a kid going to get any money?”

  “That kid had money. I asked him for grocery money and he gave me a hundred-dollar bill.”

  “You must have thought there was more where that came from?”

  “What the fuck is this about?”

  “Must cost a lot of money to pay for this place. And for your little art show.”

  “Fuck this,” Orange said and shoved the cart toward R
eid. Reid tried to move it aside, but it was heavy and hit him hard. Pipes fell off the top and brought him down. His shades flew off. Orange took another pipe and swung at Reid’s face. It chipped the concrete floor instead.

  Orange ran toward the back of the warehouse. He was headed toward a back exit when Vega came out from behind the smiling tank and swung his arm across Orange’s neck, bringing him down. Vega approached him, but Orange swung the pipe again, connecting with Vega’s shin.

  Vega buckled, but got back up again.

  The artist swung, this time into Vega’s bad shoulder. The pain was a red flare in Vega’s eyes. He almost blacked out.

  “Why don’t you fucking stay down, man?” Orange said and swung again.

  Vega took the blow but kept moving, kept coming toward the artist. Another blow landed but he kept on. Another swing, and Vega ducked slightly, the blow glanced, and then he tackled Orange, picked him up over his shoulder, and threw him down on the ground. Orange landed with a hard smack.

  Reid was there. “You’re a relentless son of a bitch, Eulie.”

  “Thanks,” said Vega, out of breath. He kicked the man on the floor. “Hey . . . hey . . . so you killed Danny Cortez . . . for ten grand?”

  “I—? Me—? Killed? I didn’t kill him,” Orange said, then his head lolled back and forth. He vomited a little on the floor then spoke. “Yeah, I saw him with a wad of money one day, and I told him I needed some. I put so much money into the Spore. I had to for all this equipment and all this rent. And I saw this little shit had money from somewhere. I needed it. He gave me a little, but I wanted more. So I—I hit him. That’s it, I swear. I only got a few thousand dollars off of him. I’m still in debt!”

  “How did you hit him—exactly?” Vega said, getting his breath back.

  “I pushed him around a little. Kicked him, I think.”

  “And how much money did you get from him—exactly?”

  “Three grand. That’s all. I swear.”

  “Why should we believe you? You two-bit, no-talent—”

  “I have talent!!”

  “Lookie here,” Reid said. He was standing close to the metal tank and pointing to something. On the side was soldered a .45 Smith & Wesson. “Where the girl said to find it. But this thing hasn’t been used in a long time.”

  “That’s just a prop gun. It doesn’t even have all its parts,” Orange said and threw up again.

  “Doesn’t prove you don’t have another gun around here,” Reid said.

  “Time to call the cops,” Vega said. “Once I find a place to sit.”

  * * *

  The police took Orange in for questioning, and Vega and Reid spent the next several hours talking with police. Orange had an alibi for the time of death for Danny’s murder. He was released. But the police said they would have their accountants look into the Spore books.

  Outside the precinct house, Reid called a car service. Then he said to Vega, “Valiant knows what you’ve been up to now.”

  “Well, it was a nice job while I had it.”

  “Hey, you never know. Maybe they’ll transfer you to the field.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Me, too. But you showed heart out there, Eulie. You may want to transfer yourself somewhere away from all that porn and video games.”

  “Well, it was nice to play detective while it lasted. Thanks, Mr. Reid.”

  “My pleasure, Mr. Vega.”

  They shook hands, and Vega decided to walk home. He played what happened over and over in his mind. Orange had harbored Danny, then beat him for money. So Danny took off. Where did he go? And what happened to the rest of the money? He hadn’t gone home, so where would he go?

  Vega stopped in the middle of the street. There was only one place Danny could go.

  Vega hailed a passing car service car. He gave the driver an address and then asked him how much it would cost.

  “Fifteen dollar,” the driver said.

  “But it’s only fifteen blocks!”

  “Fifteen dollar.”

  “Okay. Okay. Take my kidney while you’re at it.” Vega got in the car. The car service stopped in front of the Clemente Projects and Vega got out.

  This time Lissette opened the door.

  “Hola,” Vega said.

  “Mr. Detective!” she said, moving close to the wall to let him in. “Whatchoo doing here?”

  He limped inside. “I wanted to talk one more time.”

  “Did they catch that hipster son of a bitch who killed Danny?”

  “Kind of.”

  “I hope the bastard burns in hell. Wait. What do you mean ‘Kind of’?”

  Vega walked into the small living room. “That flat-screen TV. It’s brand-new, isn’t it.”

  “So what?”

  “Like the leather jacket you wore to the funeral? That looked new.”

  “Like I said, so what?”

  “Danny came here all the time, didn’t he? He stayed at Orange’s but he came here, too, using his Magic Markers to practice his tags. And when he got kicked out of Orange’s place, he came running here, with all the money. And you wanted that money.”

  She stood across from him and laughed softly to herself. “Huh,” she said, then she sat down, making crumpling and whooshing sounds on the plastic couch.

  “I was pissed that he gave some of his money to that hipster. How could he be so stupid!”

  “Where did you get the gun?”

  “My stepfather works security. He leaves it around all the time. He’s got it now, so you don’t have to worry about me shooting you.”

  “That’s good news,” Vega said, sitting down. They sat in silence for a while.

  “I ran out of things to say,” Lissette said.

  “That’s okay. Tell me, was Danny really your boyfriend?”

  “Hah! He went around telling everyone that. And then—then he fell in love with that white girl.” She curled into a ball on the couch, weeping into a gold-colored, tasseled pillow.

  “And the baby?”

  She spoke into the pillow. “Remember how I said I still had Danny’s spirit with me?”

  “Yeah,” Vega said.

  “I don’t anymore.”

  “Oh.”

  “Are you gonna arrest me? You can’t because you’re not a cop.”

  “True. But the cops I called on my way here can.”

  “Well. That sucks.”

  A few minutes later there was a beefy knock on the door.

  “That’s them,” Vega said, getting up to open the door.

  “Hey,” Lissette said. “If I don’t see you, take care, Mr. Detective.”

  “You too, Lissette.”

  After the cops left, Vega took the stinky elevator back down and started limping back home. He thought maybe he would work out a little, lift some weights. He thought about maybe he would play video games for a few hours. He thought about donuts. He came to his block then walked past his house and kept on walking and walking until he got to his favorite cuchifrito place.

  Santa’s Little Helper

  Today was the day. Bianco passed his hands over the packages that filled the truck, checking they were secure, testing the weight of some, noting addresses. He found three going to 175 North 5th Street, one of them from a fancy computer company. Merry Christmas, Bianco thought. This one. This one is mine.

  “You ready to roll?” Bianco said.

  “Yeah.” James sat on the concrete floor of the truck bay. He got up slowly, struggling not to spill his large coffee. Didn’t work. He spilled half the coffee on his pants. “Damn!”

  “That’s terrific,” said Bianco.

  James was Bianco’s helper in the truck for the holiday season. The kid was a stand-up guy, as far as Bianco was concerned. And Bianco had had some winners in his twelve years at United Parcel. Old men who couldn’t lift themselves, let alone a box. College boys who smelled like pot and gave you tips on how to do your job better. Even women, some who could haul boxes out of the truck
like halfbacks. This guy James, he could lift, followed directions, and didn’t smell. So he was no ballerina. Fine. And he didn’t like to be called Jimmy. He once took a whole lunch break to make that clear. Whatever.

  The kid seemed a little nervous today. Funny. Not like he drank all his coffee. Well, as long as he didn’t get in the way today, that was all right.

  Bianco delivered in his old neighborhood of Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Getting there through traffic was a toothache on top of a hangover on top of a kick in the balls. The Brooklyn-Queens Expressway was a string of red lights; Metropolitan Avenue, no better. The holiday season made everything worse.

  “I just think it’s stupid,” James said. He stood in the narrow doorway leading to the back of the truck and tapped his fingers on the wall. His left knee bopped like he had the palsy. “How come you can’t just pick me up at my house?”

  “Rules is rules,” Bianco said.

  “Like, do I have to go through their Homeland Security shit at the garage every day? They should know by now I’m not coming in with a bomb.”

  Bianco laughed. “Homeland Security. Jeez.”

  “I have to go all the way to Queens, which takes forever, and then they pass the wand over me, and then you drive me all the way back to Brooklyn, right near where I live. It’s just stupid.”

  Bianco pointed out a Toyota in front of them. “This asswipe doesn’t know how to drive,” he said. “Use your signals!”

  “I live, literally, like two blocks from here,” James went on, still tapping, still bopping.

  Steel-gray clouds hung low in the sky. The weatherman called for icy rain later, and Bianco hated the idea of running back and forth under it, making this long day even longer.

  “Right here,” James said. “I live on Lorimer Street, right there.”

  “On Lorimer?”

  “Yeah, two blocks in.”

  “That’s funny. What number?” Bianco said.

  “252. Why is that funny?”

  “I grew up on Lorimer, right across from 252. Small frikkin’ world.”

  “Wow, yeah,” James said.

  “Well, it’s funny,” Bianco said. “As a matter of fact, I knew the family that lived at 252. Mr. Pannunzio, God rest his soul, he used to go crazy for Christmas. He would string lights from the two sides to his roof—you’d see him every year, hanging off his roof, I swear, it’s a wonder he never fell off and broke his ass—and it’d come out to this huge Christmas tree, you know. Beautiful thing. He’d have the Christmas music playing, wreaths, frikking dancing Santa, the whole nine.”