by Alan Lee
The guy jumped. Strong kid, maybe twenty-five. His head was buzzed, skin pockmarked, and his hands were tattooed. He was by himself. Gun on the passenger seat.
The kid watched me. Watched Manny beside me. Started taking deep breaths. He didn’t buzz the window down.
“Easy,” I said. “We’re not here for you.”
“Take a walk,” he told me through the window.
“After you give me some information, we’re gone,” I said. “No one gets hurt.”
His words were muffled. “Information? Who the hell are you? Get out of here.”
On the other side of the Tahoe, Carlos shoved both hands into the passenger door. Hard enough to scare the hell out of the driver, and hard enough to rock the car.
“Jesus,” said the driver. His hand started pawing the passenger seat, searching for his gun. “What do you want?”
Manny casually removed his .357 and placed the muzzle flat against the window. The kid’s eyes went wider.
I said, “Relax. Don’t be an idiot. Don’t go for a gun. We’re all walking away. Understand? I want to talk to your boss.”
“My boss?”
“Your boss.”
“The fuck?”
I nodded encouragingly.
“Yeah that guy.”
Carlos hit the Tahoe again. Guy inside flinched.
“Man, get out of here!” he shouted. “I ain’t doing anything wrong!”
“You start the car, we break both windows and haul you out,” I explained.
“What do you want with my boss?”
“I want to know his name and his location. And I want to talk to him. I’ll never mention you. Scout’s honor,” I said.
“You tryna get me killed? That it? I can’t tell you nothing, buncha motherfuckers.”
Behind us, one of the motel doors opened. Weak light spilled out and a man hurried to the stairs. He was kind of hopping and working at his belt.
“Johnny! Johnny!” called the woman, stalking out after him. She wore a little black skirt and a stained wife-beater t-shirt. No shoes. “Johnny he ain’t paying!”
The guy hurrying down the steps shouted at no one in particular, “No, I…please…I changed my mind! This…this isn’t…not what I thought…”
“Johnny he’s leaving! He ain’t even pay me!” She was shouting in a screech.
I pointed my finger at the guy in the Tahoe. “Don’t move, Johnny.”
“This is where I work!” he shouted through the window. “That asshole is skipping payment!”
Manny tapped the glass with his .357 and said, “Stay, mi amigo.”
When the guy who was fleeing reached the bottom of the stairs, Manny was there. The man—early thirties, trim, meek-looking guy, maybe an accountant—pulled up short. Manny wrapped an arm around his neck. Kinda friendly, but also kinda like a headlock. He still held the pistol and it laid against the man’s chest.
Manny said, “Señor, you pay the girl?”
“What, no…I…we didn’t…I mean…”
“No? Yes?”
The guy gulped. “Nothing happened…I mean, you know…not like it should.”
The girl on the balcony kept going, hard on the ears. “Little prick got his money’s worth. Believe me. And he ain’t pay. Johnny, you hear me?”
Johnny glared at me, unable to get out of his Tahoe, me on one side and Carlos on the other.
I smiled back.
“But…” the meek guy told Manny at the bottom of the black iron staircase. He was pale. Staring at the unexpected audience. “I mean, it happened…you know, so fast, and—”
“This your first time?” asked Manny.
“Are you…what, are you the…what’s going on?”
“The girl upstairs, she is a lady,” explained Manny. “And you made the arrangement. Sí? You go pay the lady.”
The guy’s face was only an inch or two from Manny’s, and he experienced what we all did—that Manuel Martinez was absurdly good to look at, and that the attractive facade hid an animal. A dark and dangerous one.
Manny was frightening. Something like kinetic violence on the cusp.
“…um…” said the guy.
Manny turned him in a circle and pushed him back up the stairs. “Go. Now. Or I sodomize you with my pistol.”
“Oh my god,” said the man, jogging back up the stairs. “This…this whole thing…this is messed up.”
Manny turned to me. “Mack, you hear? Sodomize? Good, yes?”
“Yeah real nice.”
Carlos slammed his hands into the Tahoe again. “Open it. Open the door.”
Johnny cursed.
I shook my head at Johnny. “Don’t open it. His daughter’s missing. He’ll kill you.”
“Oh god,” said Johnny.
The man on the second floor threw some money at the girl. She cursed at him and lit a cigarette.
“Look at that, Johnny,” I said. “He paid. We took care of your problem. How about that, Johnny?”
He groaned. Said, “Great. Real fucking great.”
“Last chance, Johnny,” I said. “Before we come in there with you.”
“Why you doing this, man?”
“You’re low hanging fruit. Easy to get,” I said. “But I’m not after you. I’m climbing my way up. Give me what I want and we’re gone.”
The trim and meek accountant carefully edged around Manny, ran to his Corolla, fumbled the keys, got inside, cursed loudly, started it, and left in a hurry.
“You’re looking for Luigi,” Johnny told me. Some would call his tone begrudging. “Luigi. In Willough, on 1st View.”
“Luigi,” I repeated. “1st View.”
The girl at the railing leaned over. Took a long drag on her cigarette and waved at Manny. She propped up her breasts with her elbows. “Hey. Hey gorgeous. You coming up or what.”
Manny blew her a kiss. “I cannot. But you, señorita, I will remember you tonight. When I sleep.”
She snorted. “Lotta good does me now.” All her weight was on the flimsy railing, tilted near the breaking point.
“Who says romance is dead?” I asked Johnny. “Luigi on 1st View. Give me more.”
“Near the corner of Maple. There’s an apartment building and a house. He rents rooms. Okay? Don’t mention me. Now fuck off.”
“Johnny, you know what’s gonna happen if there’s no Luigi there?” I said.
“Whatever man.”
“You know what happens if you warn Luigi? We’re coming back. And Carlos breaks your face.”
He nodded without looking at me. “Okay okay. You think I’d tell Luigi I ratted on him? Get out of here, already.”
“And I’m going to poke you in the ribs. A lot, Johnny. Until it’s not fun anymore. You know what I’m talking about? When it’s frustrating and a little painful? You’re still laughing but you wish you weren’t? You know, Johnny?”
Carlos gave me a look. Like he was rethinking his selection for sophisticated investigator.
“What?” I said. “It hurts when people poke you.”
I made a Let’s go motion by waving my finger in the air. Manny, Carlos, and I walked back to the Accord.
Johnny cursed again, the potty mouth.
4
Twenty minutes later we rolled through the intersection at 1st View and Maple, home of dilapidated multi-family houses. Even in the dark it didn’t take a keen intellect to pick out Luigi’s. Two girls slouched out front, leaning against a green Kia and smoking cigarettes. A guy sat on the concrete steps of what used to be a large house—two stories, pale blue vinyl siding, window air conditioners—but it was now broken into four rental units. Smart money was that Luigi rented all four. The guy on the steps smoked too, bent over his phone.
I buzzed the window down.
One of the girls—she had a smallish face and thin blonde hair and acne—called, “Park over there, baby. Is it your birthday or something?”
“Or something,” I said.
“How many y
ou got?”
“Just me.”
“Come on out, baby. I’m your new girlfriend.”
I opened the door and got out. Manny eased the Accord up the gravel driveway and quietly motored behind the house.
The night air stank of cigarettes and sour liquor and sewage. It was quiet, nearby citizens having bolted their doors against the acknowledged hedonism taking place on 1st View.
“Well, damn, you’re a big guy,” the blonde said and she drew hard enough on her cigarette to use up half the tobacco.
She wore jean shorts, the kind with an elastic waste and drawstrings, and heels and a white sports bralette. She had holes in her nose and earlobes but no jewelry.
“How many girls you got inside?” I asked.
“That depends, baby. How many you need? I can be a jealous girlfriend, though.”
The other girl leaning against the Kia never looked up. She had a phone in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
I said, “Luigi let me have as many as I want?”
“Sweetie, you got the cash? You can buy it all.”
“That’s swell. What a swell guy, that Luigi.”
She made kind of a laugh through her nose. Her sinuses rattled. “Yeah, you know Luigi, a real Valentine.”
“You do back scratches?”
“Back scratches? Sure baby. Whatever.”
“Scalp massage?” I asked.
“You’re kind of a weirdo, mister. What’s your name?”
“Garfield. What’s yours?”
“Jazzy.”
“What about deep tissue, Jazzy? You know, harder than Swedish? Acupuncture? Hot rocks?”
“Garfield, we’re wasting time, baby,” she said.
“You like living here, Jazzy?”
“Sure. Paradise,” she said.
“Where are you from?”
“Where should I be from?”
I said, “I’m from Richmond.”
“How about that. Me too. No kidding,” she said.
“You’re a liar.”
She didn’t want to smile but she did. Her teeth were yellow and she was missing one on the bottom. “C’mon, big guy. Stop asking dumb questions. Let’s go inside, yeah?”
“I can’t,” I said. “I’m here to see Luigi.”
“This a joke? You wasting my time?”
“Luigi handles all the girls around here, right? Kinda like the pimp boss?”
I removed a big bill from my pocket and gave it to her.
“Oh,” she said. “Oh shit. Go ahead talk to Luigi. He’s on the stairs.”
“No he’s not,” I said.
She turned. The motion stirred the air and her body produced an unwashed odor. “Yeah, he’s…where’d Luigi go?” She pointed at the empty stairs. “He was right there, I swear.”
“I’ll bring him back in a couple minutes.”
Jazzy stared after me but didn’t follow as I went around back, stumbling a little in the dark.
Manny and Carlos were beating the hell out of Luigi in the shadow of an old Cadillac Escalade. I got there in time to see Carlos kick him in the mouth hard enough to loosen his teeth.
I got between Carlos and Luigi, who was on the gravel, holding his side and spitting blood. It was dark behind the house, no source of direct light. Luigi’s shirt and pants were black.
“Enough,” I told them. “Ease up.”
“Luigi think he’s tough,” said Manny. “Pull a knife when I say we only want to talk. I tell him put it back. He didn’t.”
Carlos’s chest was heaving.
Luigi raised up enough to spit a spray of blood our way. We stepped backwards and the mist landed on his own face. “Fuck you!”
“Oh yeah?” I said.
“Yeah, all yous. You think I don’t got friends nearby? You think they won’t be here soon?”
I couldn’t see him well. But his accent sounded like New Jersey, one of those guys who say “Fugetaboutid” because they think they’re supposed to.
“Luigi, we’re just leaving,” I said. “Before we go, I need to know the name of your boss.”
“Yeah you can go straight to hell, you can, pal. I got ten guys I’m paying, all them drill you good.”
“Sorry about your mouth. My friends get jumpy.”
“Your friends get dead, when I’m through,” said Luigi.
“Credit where it’s due, Luigi. It’s hard to act tough while cowering like a turtle in the gravel and cigarette butts. But you’ve managed it. Bravo. Who covers this area? Some guy out of Richmond? Out of DC?”
“Christ almighty, you’re all dead.”
“We’re looking for a coyote,” I explained helpfully.
“Coyote? What do I look like, a fucking spic? What do I know about coyotes?”
“Luigi, the next five minutes will be a lot more pleasant if you spill the beans.”
He laughed. I had enough light to see his teeth were red. “What are you gonna go? Your boyfriends already beat me up. Gonna beat me up some more? Go ahead.” He said it like, “Ga’head.”
Manny knelt as Luigi’s feet. There was a snap-click, and then another snap-click. Luigi glanced down, dismayed. His ankle had been handcuffed to the hitch of the old Cadillac Escalade.
“The hell?” he said. “You gonna drag me around town? Jesus.”
“No,” I said. “We’re not.”
He struggled but Manny and Carlos were stronger. Soon Luigi’s right wrist was handcuffed to the bumper of my Honda Accord. He was stretched tight between the two vehicles.
“Okay,” he said and gulped. “Okay, boys, let’s be cool. Aight, got’damn it, let’s relax. Okay?”
Watching this made my stomach churn.
Manny got behind the wheel of the Accord. Started the engine.
“Alright alright!” shouted Luigi. He thrashed helplessly. His eyes turned to me. He shouted over the motor roar. “Alright! Tell your boy to kill the engine!”
“My friend’s crazy,” I said and I shrugged like—what are you gonna do?
“Okay, okay!”
“You don’t work with coyotes?” I asked.
“No!”
“Whose territory is this?” I asked.
Manny dropped the car into gear.
Luigi shouted, “Tito! His name’s Tito!”
The Accord reversed a single inch, stretching Luigi further.
I made a throat slashing gesture at Manny. The car turned off.
Luigi was gasping. In the process of peeing his pants.
“Tito,” I said.
Luigi nodded and started to cry.
“Tito?” said Carlos. “I know Tito.”
“See?” whimpered Luigi, still stretched tight. “The spic knows him. Let me go, okay?”
“I don’t know Tito. I’m getting confused with all the names,” I said. “Who’s Tito?”
Carlos said, “Tito. He works for Duane.”
“Yeah! Yeah that’s the guy! I heard’a Duane! Take off the cuffs, huh?”
“How come none of the crime bosses are women?” I wondered. “Perhaps the underworld is supercilious and sexist.”
Manny snickered.
I knelt beside Luigi. “You promise not to warn Tito that we’re on the way?”
“Yeah man, I swear. I swear to God.”
“Luigi, are you lying?”
“No! Fuck no. Who the hell are you guys? I swear.”
Manny inserted his key into the cuffs and released Luigi’s ankle.
“We’re the good guys,” I said. “Though it doesn’t feel that way at the moment.”
5
Sixty minutes after we’d first knocked on the Chevy Tahoe’s window, Manny parked my Accord at a 7-11. It wasn’t eleven p.m. yet. We were making good time.
“You two guys,” said Carlos. “I work with Marcus. His crew act tough. Do tough things. But you two? You two loco.”
Manny grinned. “Yeah, migo, that be inspired. Right, Mack? Inspired, I say. I almost hit the gas, just to see.”
<
br /> “That’s disturbing, Manny,” I said.
“Not disturbed. Inspired.”
Carlos asked, “Now what?”
“Tell me about Tito.”
“Tito, he is like Marcus. He run Virginia Beach and Norfolk, the way Marcus run Roanoke.”
“What’s he into?”
“No lo sé. Usual stuff. Drugs. Gambling. Guns. Girls. Money loaning.”
“Lending,” I said.
“Que?”
“A loan is a noun. It’s a thing. Not a verb. You meant to say lending.”
“But we call it loan shark, yes?” said Carlos.
Manny sighed. “Señor August, maybe teach English later.”
I said, “We’re the good guys. It’s important we use the King’s English. Instead of ‘money lending,’ Carlos, you could say ‘usury’ and impress your friends.”
Manny and Carlos, from Puerto Rico and Mexico respectively, expressed a shared sentiment of feeling underwhelmed with my whiteness.
“This Tito,” I said. “He a reasonable guy?”
“Not like Marcus. I don’t mess with Tito.”
“Then I think we’ll call Duane.”
“Jesucristo,” said Carlos.
“I’ve met Duane. Talks soft, wears tight clothes to show off his muscles. I took a lot of money from him in a poker game, about a year ago. Maybe I won’t mention my name.”
“Good idea,” said Manny. “White people hate you.”
“Can you get me Duane’s number?” I asked.
“Simon,” said Carlos and he started texting.
While we waited for a response, Manny went inside for a cherry Slurpee and coffees. Light rain began pattering on the windshield.
Carlos said, “At Luigi’s house. Those two girls you talk to? They were eighteen?”
“Probably not. It was close.”
“What do we do? They are kids.”
I turned in my seat to look at him.
“You’re a professional criminal, Carlos. You’ve seen underaged girls before.”
“Sí. Sí, I know. But…”
“Somehow the world changes when it could be your kid.”
Carlos ducked his head. Twisted a shotgun shell over and over in his thick fingers. I turned back, facing forward.