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"Maybe you should. A warning, shit, you dont want to get killed over it. "
"No," I said. "I dont. "
"What are you gonna do, then?"
"Right now Im going to catch a train to Queens. "
"To Woodside. "
"Right. "
"I could bring the car around. Drive you out there. "
"I dont mind the subway. "
"Be faster in the car. I could wear my little chauffeurs cap. You could sit in the back. "
"Some other time. "
"Suit yourself," he said. "Call me after, huh?"
"Sure. "
I wound up taking the Flushing line to a stop at Roosevelt Avenue and Fifty-second Street. The train came up out of the ground after it left Manhattan. I almost missed my stop because it was hard to tell where I was. The station signs on the elevated platforms were so disfigured with graffiti that their messages were indecipherable.
A flight of steel steps led me back down to street level. I checked my pocket atlas, got my bearings, and set out for Barnett Avenue. I hadnt walked far before I managed to figure out what a Hispanic rooming house was doing in Woodside. The neighborhood wasnt Irish anymore. There were still a few places with names like the Emerald Tavern and the Shamrock scattered in the shadow of the El, but most of the signs were Spanish and most of the markets were bodegas now. Posters in the window of the Tara Travel Agency offered charter flights to Bogot? and Caracas.
Octavio Calder?ns rooming house was a dark two-story frame house with a front porch. There were five or six plastic lawn chairs lined up on the porch, and an upended orange crate holding magazines and newspapers. The chairs were unoccupied, which wasnt surprising. It was a little chilly for porch sitting.
I rang the doorbell. Nothing happened. I heard conversation within, and several radios playing. I rang the bell again, and a middle-aged woman, short and very stout, came to the door and opened it. "S?;?" she said, expectant.
"Octavio Calder?n," I said.
"No est? aqu?;. "
She may have been the woman I spoke to the first time I called. It was hard to tell and I didnt care a whole lot. I stood there talking through the screen door, trying to make myself understood in a mixture of Spanish and English. After awhile she went away and came back with a tall hollow-cheeked man with a severely trimmed moustache. He spoke English, and I told him that I wanted to see Calder?ns room.
But Calder?n wasnt there, he told me.
"No me importa," I said. I wanted to see his room anyway. But there was nothing to see, he replied, mystified. Calder?n was not there. What was I to gain by seeing a room?
They werent refusing to cooperate. They werent even particularly reluctant to cooperate. They just couldnt see the point. When it became clear that the only way to get rid of me, or at least the easiest way, was to show me to Calder?ns room, that was what they did. I followed the woman down a hallway and past a kitchen to a staircase. We climbed the stairs, walked the length of another hallway. She opened a door without knocking on it, stood aside and gestured for me to enter.
There was a piece of linoleum on the floor, an old iron bedstead with the mattress stripped of linen, a chest of drawers in blonde maple, and a little writing table with a folding chair in front of it. A wing chair slipcovered in a floral print stood on the opposite side of the room near the window. There was a table lamp with a patterned paper shade on the chest of drawers, an overhead light fixture with two bare bulbs in the center of the ceiling.
And thats all there was.
"Entiende usted ahora? No est? aqu?;. "
I went through the room mechanically, automatically. It could hardly have been emptier. The small closet held nothing but a couple of wire hangers. The drawers in the blonde chest and the single drawer in the writing table were utterly empty. Their corners had been wiped clean.
With the hollow-cheeked man as interpreter, I managed to question the woman. She wasnt a mine of information in any language. She didnt know when Calder?n had left. Sunday or Monday, she believed. Monday she had come into his room to clean it and discovered he had removed all his possessions, leaving nothing behind. Understandably enough, she took this to mean that he was relinquishing the room. Like all of her tenants, he had paid by the week. Hed had a couple of days left before his rent was due, but evidently he had had someplace else to go, and no, it was not remarkable that he had left without telling her. Tenants did that with some frequency, even when they were not behind in their rent. She and her daughter had given the room a good cleaning, and now it was ready to be rented to someone else. It would not be vacant long. Her rooms never stood vacant long.
Had Calder?n been a good tenant? S?;, an excellent tenant, but she had never had trouble with her tenants. She rented only to Colombians and Panamanians and Ecuadorians and never had trouble with any of them. Sometimes they had to move suddenly because of the Immigration Service. Perhaps that was why Calder?n had left so abruptly. But that was not her business. Her business was cleaning his room and renting it to someone else.
Calder?n wouldnt have had trouble with Immigration, I knew. He wasnt an illegal or he wouldnt have been working at the Galaxy Downtowner. A big hotel wouldnt employ an alien without a green card.
Hed had some other reason for leaving in a hurry.
I spent about an hour interviewing other tenants. The picture of Calder?n that emerged didnt help a bit. He was a quiet young man who kept to himself. His hours at work were such that he was likely to be out when the other tenants were at home. He did not, to anyones knowledge, have a girlfriend. In the eight months that hed lived on Barnett Avenue, he had not had a visitor of either sex, nor had he had frequent phone calls. Hed lived elsewhere in New York before moving to Barnett Avenue, but no one knew his previous address or even if it had been in Queens.
Had he used drugs? Everyone I spoke to seemed quite shocked by the suggestion. I gathered that the fat little landlady ran a tight ship. Her tenants were all regularly employed and they led respectable lives. If Calder?n smoked marijuana, one of them assured me, he certainly hadnt done so in his room. Or the landlady would have detected the smell and he would have been asked to leave.
"Maybe he is homesick," a dark-eyed young man suggested. "Maybe he is fly back to Cartagena. "
"Is that where he came from?"
"He is Colombian. I think he say Cartagena. "
So that was what I learned in an hour, that Octavio Calder?n had come from Cartagena. And nobody was too certain of that, either.
Chapter 25
I called Durkin from a Dunkin Donuts on Woodside Avenue. There was no booth, just a pay phone mounted on the wall. A few feet from me a couple of kids were playing one of those electronic games. Somebody else was listening to disco music on a satchel-sized portable radio. I cupped the telephone mouthpiece with my hand and told Durkin what Id found out.
"I can put out a pickup order on him. Octavio Calder?n, male Hispanic, early twenties. What is he, about five seven?"
"I never met him. "
"Thats right, you didnt. I can check the hotel for a description. You sure hes gone, Scudder? I talked to him just a couple of days ago. "
"Saturday night. "
"I think thats right. Yeah, before the Hendryx suicide. Right. "
"Thats still a suicide?"
"Any reason why it shouldnt be?"
"None that I know of. You talked to Calder?n Saturday night and thats the last anybodys seen of him. "
"I have that effect on a lot of people. "
"Something spooked him. You think it was you?"
He said something but I couldnt hear it over the din. I asked him to repeat it.
"I said he didnt seem to be paying that much attention. I thought he was stoned. "
"The neighbors describe him as a pretty straight young man. "
"Yeah, a nice quiet boy. The kind that goes batshit and wipes out his family. Where are you calling from, its noisy as hel
l there?"
"A donut shop on Woodside Avenue. "
"Couldnt you find a nice quiet bowling alley? Whats your guess on Calder?n? You figure hes dead?"
"He packed everything before he left his room. And somebodys been calling in sick for him. That sounds like a lot of trouble to go through if youre going to kill somebody. "
"The calling in sounds like a way to give him a head start. Let him get a few extra miles before they start the bloodhounds. "
"Thats what I was thinking. "
"Maybe he went home," Durkin said. "They go home all the time, you know. Its a new world these days. My grandparents came over here, they never saw Ireland again outside of the annual calendar from Treaty Stone Wines & Liquors. These fucking people are on a plane to the islands once a month and they come back carrying two chickens and another fucking relative. Of course, my grandparents worked, maybe thats the difference. They didnt have welfare giving em a trip around the world. "
"Calder?n worked. "
"Well, good for him, the little prick. Maybe what Ill check is the flights out of Kennedy the past three days. Wheres he from?"
"Somebody said Cartagena. "
"Whats that, a city? Or is it one of those islands?"
"I think its a city. And its in either Panama or Colombia or Ecuador or she wouldnt have rented him a room. I think its Colombia. "
"The gem of the ocean. The calling in fits if he went home. He had somebody phone for him so the jobd be there when he gets back. He cant call up every afternoon from Cartagena. "
"Whyd he clear out of the room?"
"Maybe he didnt like it there. Maybe the exterminator came and knocked off all his pet cockroaches. Maybe he owed rent and he was skipping. "
"She said no. He was paid up through the week. "
He was silent a moment. Then, reluctantly, he said, "Somebody spooked him and he ran. "
"It looks that way, doesnt it?"
"Im afraid it does. I dont think he left the city, either. I think he moved a subway stop away, picked himself a new name, and checked into another furnished room. Theres something like half a million illegals in the five boroughs. He doesnt have to be Houdini to hide where were not gonna find him. "
"You could get lucky. "
"Always a chance. Ill check the morgue first, and then the airlines. Well stand the best chance if hes dead or out of the country. " He laughed, and I asked what was so funny. "If hes dead or out of the country," he said, "hes not gonna be a whole lot of good to us, is he?"
The train back to Manhattan was one of the worst, its interior vandalized beyond recognition. I sat in a corner and tried to fight off a wave of despair. My life was an ice floe that had broken up at sea, with the different chunks floating off in different directions. Nothing was ever going to come together, in this case or out of it. Everything was senseless, pointless, and hopeless.
Nobodys going to buy me emeralds. Nobodys going to give me babies. Nobodys going to save my life.
All the good times are gone.
Eight million ways to die, and among them theres a wide variety suitable for the do-it-yourselfer. For all that was wrong with the subways, they still did the job when you threw yourself in front of them. And the city has no end of bridges and high windows, and stores stay open twenty-four hours a day selling razor blades and clothesline and pills.
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