The other detective, who had a very faint mustache, shambled up next to Dexter’s other flank. He was one of those adult males who would never quite shed his boyish looks, and though he wore a tie and jacket, he tended to squirm as if the clothes made him uncomfortable. His name was Pool, and he nodded his head thoughtfully. “Must have been someone she knew. Some of the neighbors we interviewed said she locked the doors after five but often worked late. So she must have let him in. No sign of forced entry.”
“Him?” Dexter asked naively.
Ruez and Pool shared a dull look and said in unison: “It’s always a he when it’s a she.”
“Yes, I have noticed that, too. You are right. Most likely a he.” Dexter was outwardly admiring their insights while inwardly wondering when they would see the mug shot for the blood spatter. You know, like the forest for the woods.
It was moments like these that made Dexter feel like a genius.
Wasn’t it Einstein who invented the atom bomb?
CHAPTER
TWENTY
SPEEDY AND I DROVE TO Queens, the clumsy Balkan Boys in tow, to a Latino area that I would not normally go to but was no doubt familiar to most of the day workers. That is because it is where most of them lived in shabby rental homes, six to a room, like in a bunk house on a ranch. Their lodgings were illegal, of course, and every once in a while the city cracked down on them as they do on many small crimes—mainly for show.
You may wonder what day laborers do when they are not crowding street corners in their steel-tipped work boots. They make very little money, and most of what profits they make are sent to their families in Mexico or Central or South America. Of course, they must eat, but most of that is rice and beans, almost exclusively. You could not spend a lot of money on rice and beans if you tried. So once you have the food and shelter part taken care of, what do you have left?
As they say, men do not live by rice and beans alone.
We drove into an area that was houses on one side and auto shops and wrecking yards on the other.
“Here.” Speedy pointed to a driveway with a chain across it.
“Here?” It looked like the entrance to a scrap yard of some kind, but then beyond the streetlamp glow I could make out a row of cars.
“Beep the horn. Just one small beep.”
I did so.
A dark man in a tight white T-shirt appeared from the lot ahead. He was a large man, the kind that flexes his muscles in front of mirrors, and he stepped over the chain and swaggered toward us.
“It’s me, Speedy.”
“Speedy who?”
“Come on, Pitu, you know me.”
The large man took a flashlight from his belt and shined it through Speedy’s window, blinding us.
The light went out, and by the time my eyes could see more than green blobs I saw the large man in the tight white T-shirt standing to one side of the drive holding the chain.
So I drove in and parked next to the other crappy cars. They were even more rusted than mine.
We climbed out.
“Speedy, what is this place?”
“Come on, Morty, I will show you.”
He started off to a far corner of the lot, where I could see Pitu’s white T-shirt. As we got closer, I could see he was standing next to a door leading into what looked like an abandoned manufacturing plant of some kind.
“I like to tip Pitu—give him ten bucks, Morty.”
I fished out a ten-spot and handed it to Pitu at the door. He took it without a smile or thank you and opened the door.
Bomba music and light lay beyond the door. I shielded my eyes and saw tables filled with little thick brown men like Speedy. Except they had their hair carefully slicked back and wore equally slick, brightly colored shirts and tight white or black pants. They far outnumbered the thick little brown women scattered amongst them in frilly dresses. Some of these women sat in the men’s laps, some just sat next to them holding their hands, and some others sat with men playing cards.
At six foot, I was a giant amongst these people. Pitu the bouncer was my height but stronger and could easily have picked up two of these laborers and slung them around like chicken for the pot. I am serious: These people were not over five feet tall, and many were closer to four feet.
“Chica bar, man.” Speedy showed me those teeth again. “Cerveza?”
I followed Speedy. This club was arranged inside an old one-story brick plant loaded with rusty machines like lathes, conveyors, hole punches. These machines were more or less pushed to the far side of the room, behind a short bar. In the center were tables on a dusty concrete floor. Some fading streamers hung from the ceiling, and speakers provided the music. It was not fancy, but it was inexpensive.
This is where the day laborers came to drink and gamble—and be entertained by women, but it wasn’t what you think. I had heard of these places. The “chicas” are not prostitutes, strictly speaking, but hostesses, like geishas. They simply flirt with the men and give them some womanly comfort. They dress like wholesome virgins from back home.
I seriously doubted the day laborers could afford actual sex from anything but the filthiest streetwalker.
Speedy led the way to the bar. It was tended by a big woman with arms as large as her legs. That is to say, she might have measured only up to my chest in height, but her proportions were impressive. I had no doubt that she’d mopped the floor with a few rowdy laborers now and again. She was in a frilly dress also but did not look too friendly. Her eyes painted me top to bottom with suspicion while her mouth rattled off something disapproving in Spanish to Speedy.
Speedy laughed, waving off what ever she had said. “Cerveza, Mamma.”
I put my hand on the bar, which was down around my waist. There were bottles behind the bar, none with labels. Mismatched tumblers with clear liquid were put in front of us, and next to that Mamma placed a paper cup of what looked like beer.
We tapped glasses and put away the clear liquid. The liquor was not powerful. I would say it was watered, what ever it was. The flavor wasn’t bad, but it also was not good. Something like candy corn and lawn cuttings. The beer was thin, too. Probably dregs, unfinished kegs from real bars.
“Can we talk here, Speedy? Anybody speak English?” It was then that by the light of the bar I noticed what looked like lipstick on his neck. “Hey, where were you to night, you rascal?” I wiped my finger on his neck and showed him the pink.
He blushed. “A girl. Should that surprise you, Morty? We can talk here, they don’t understand much American. So how are we going to get out of this? I don’t want to give back that eighteen grand. I can use it, you know?”
Two of the little brown chicas came up to the bar next to me to pick up some drinks for their table. Their brown eyes were disproportionately large as they looked up at me. The one whispered something to the other, and they erupted in giggles. I turned back to Speedy.
“Here is the situation. There is an ex-con, his name is Danny, and he stole the money but is back looking for it. Obviously, he hid it under the couch in the Trux place, and we found his tight ones. There is some sort of detective looking for the ex-con, probably to take the money from him. There is Pete the Prick, who has the Balkan Boys following me, trying to steal the money from me because he knows I would not go to the police. Now Mary has been killed, and the police wanted me to stay at the crime scene to talk to me, but I left and ran into you.”
“Who killed Mary? And why?”
“This is a question I cannot answer. Perhaps it has something to do with Danny, or the furry cop.”
“Furry cop?”
“The private detective has very thick body hair. You can see it on his arms and legs, sticking out the back of his shirt . . . like that. I think of him as the furry cop and will call him that until I learn his name. If I learn his name. I would rather not.”
“Oh.”
“My first idea was, of course, to take the money and leave.”
“Leave Brooklyn?
”
“Yes, leave Brooklyn.”
“And go where, Morty?”
See? I told you how people in Brooklyn have the peculiar notion that this is the best of all possible places to live. They do not know of places like La Paz.
“It would not be wise to even tell you where I was going because I might still go, but I cannot.”
“I am confused, Morty. Why not take the money and run?”
“Because I put the money someplace safe, and I cannot go to it without risking the Balkan Boys following and taking it.”
Another round of drinks appeared down around my belt buckle. We drank the candy corn and grass clippings liquor in silence.
Speedy burped. “What if we rounded up some day laborers to protect you? Then you could go get the money.”
I pulled thoughtfully on my lower lip. “I had not thought of that. Still seems risky. What if these munchkins decided to take it from me once we got to the hiding place? Are they to be trusted?”
“Mumpkin? What is this?”
“Not important. Could they be trusted?”
“I tell them, they do. They respect me. And we don’t have to say what we’re going to get.”
“Come on, Speedy. They all know I scored.”
He shook his head. “You don’t understand them the way I do. They are very . . . traditional. Not in their nature to steal, to think of stealing.”
“I believe you believe that. But when it comes to this much money . . .”
“How much was it, in all?”
“Just as I will not tell you where I would go, I will not tell you how much. It is better you do not know these things. It could be dangerous. What if they grab you and torture you? Better that you know nothing. Which brings me to another concern. Even if I leave, it will only be a matter of time before they come looking for you to try to make you tell them where I am, where I hid the money.”
Speedy downed his beer and once more put his face in his hands. When he showed me his face again, it was serious but hopeful. “We could go together. Two is better than one. You drive, then I drive . . . we go, not stop. But please, someplace warm, yes?”
Looking deep into his eyes I considered this. But I also wondered how long it would take Speedy to think of some way of driving off with all the money. There I would be in an IHOP parking lot somewhere in Arkansas, hurling curses at the gods for my ill fate.
“You would leave Brooklyn?”
“How can I stay like this?”
“Let us keep that as one of our plans. It is best to have alternatives. I am hoping that there is some way to work this so we do not have to spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders, wondering when Danny or the furry cop will show up.”
“I see what you are saying, Morty. This is very difficult. We are in real trouble.”
The two chicas returned. One next to me, one next to Speedy. We were getting the big-eye treatment.
“Morty, let me dance with this chica. My head hurts. I will be back. She is so sweet, I would hate to insult her by turning her away.”
Off he went, and I was glad for it. I needed time to think, and those eyes next to me were not helping. So I turned, smiled, and attempted to send her away.
“Gracias, chica, por favor. . .”
She took me by the hand, pulled me toward a chair, and then with all her might pulled me down into it. In truth, I gave in. She seemed so determined, I was afraid she might cry or something if I said no. And let us face facts—it is very hard to say no to large brown female eyes.
I did not know what she was going to do next, and tensed. Little thick brown people were dancing all around me, the women’s skirts slashing my chair, the music thumping, laughter.
Ah, what a sweet child. Brown Eyes began to work my shoulder muscles, probably much as she had worked corn flour into tortillas in her village down in Wherever. This was exactly what I needed. I was tense, as you can only imagine, the muscles in my neck and shoulders wound up like your grandfather’s grandfather clock. I suppose as an experienced chica hostess, maybe she could spot a man in need of a massage.
It was so relaxing, Father, I cannot tell you. This chica—I realized that she was a miniature version of the woman I would want in La Paz (assuming of course that the Fanny thing did not work out). And this made me realize how distant La Paz was now.
To tell you the truth, my eyes started with tears, and it was all I could do to summon the strength not to sob right there in the chica bar.
How had I got into this horrible mess?
And how on earth would I get out of it?
I would gladly donate a portion of the money to a good cause if only fate would show me the way out.
The key was Danny. To make him think I did not have the money. Perhaps I could make him think Mary had it? That does not seem like something I should do to a friend, but she was dead now, so what did it matter? If I could only make him look somewhere else.
Like teaming with Speedy, this was one idea. Not a very good one, especially if it was Danny who had killed Mary, because if he had I had no idea what she told him about me. If only the police would find him, arrest him.
Ah.
But then they would find out he was looking for the money, and the police would then be looking for the money, looking for me.
Now the chica started on my temples—the muscles there were wound tighter than a cuckoo’s cuckoo clock, and my brain felt like it was slowly detaching from my skull and floating to the ceiling.
My eyes were half closed as I gazed across the noisy room, watching the little thick brown people dance. The men were smiling and clapping, the chicas holding their skirts and swinging this way and that. This was not Saturday Night Fever—the dance was clearly something traditional, from their homeland. Their big brown eyes were alight with festivity and the thought of home. Poor bastards, stuck here in Brooklyn to make a buck. I always thought they looked so miserable in the winters here, too, so out of their element and slightly dismayed by the season’s torment. I supposed many of the ones I was watching had worked for me at some time, but I will be brutally honest with you. I have a very hard time telling one laborer from the other, they look so similar to me. I need Speedy not only to translate but also to tell one from the other. Frankly, if it were not for Speedy’s straw fruit-picker’s hat, I might not recognize him immediately, either. I do not mean to sound superior or anything when I call them little thick brown people. Can I help what they look like? I do not think you would want me to lie and say they were tall thin white people when they were not. You and I both know Norwegians do not come here to do day labor. Perhaps in California, I do not know.
My chin was on my chest, my eyes lowered toward the floor; the chica began to knead the base of my skull. My brain seemed to drift somewhere near the manufacturing plant’s filthy ceiling. What bliss. Now I was watching all those little dancing feet. It seemed to me, the way they were dancing, a chica would put her foot someplace, pull it away, and then he would put his foot in the same place, as if to cancel out her step.
Like the laborers and their chicas, I was in a dance with four people out to steal my money. Could I make steps that would cancel out theirs? This was another idea worth further thought.
Sometimes things get hectic with my business. When they do, I return to the basics of my business philosophy, which is quite simple. Running a business is ninety percent priorities. I have a house to clean, and they want this for Thursday. If I order the Dumpster first, it is useless if I have nobody to fill it. So I arrange the labor first, I call Speedy. You see?
Now my massaging chica reached forward as far as her little arms would go, raking my chest muscles, her breasts smashed into the back of my head. I am not sure which felt better. Or if I had ever had the back of my head massaged with a woman’s breasts before. I recommend it highly.
Priorities. I could do nothing with those idiots in their SUV outside. Speedy had a good idea when he suggested mobilizing some of the labore
rs—and here they were, already assembled.
As if sensing my resolve, the chica suddenly ceased her work and tweaked my cheeks, giggling like the munchkin she was. My brain plopped back into my skull, and I gave my head a shake to make sure everything was attached and in working order.
“Muchas gracias, chica.” I handed her a twenty, and her eyes went wider than I thought possible.
“Más?” She was clearly eager to work me over for another twenty, but I smiled and said thanks but no.
I turned to find Speedy at my elbow, his face sweaty from dancing.
“I am better now, boss.”
“I, too, feel better. And I now know what we must do first.”
“I saw you with that chica, boss. Her nipples—they were up around your ears.”
“Very relaxing, having tits on your ears. I was surprised.”
“Can’t get a whore to do that, either. Not the way a chica can.”
“Speedy, round up some of the boys.”
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
FROM OUR VANTAGE ATOP THE Manufacturing Plant, The red SUV was clearly visible. It was down the block, parked across the street and on the other side of a streetlamp’s pool of yellow light. A string of about ten laborers crunched ahead of me on the gravel roof in Brooklyn’s orange night glow. Sneaking across the roof in their brightly colored shirts and tight white pants, they were not too unlike escapees from a Jamaican steel drum band, only smaller, and not Jamaicans. Perhaps you have not seen a Jamaican steel drum band, but I think you see what I am saying. They did not look like East Brooklyn commandos dressed brightly as they were.
It had not been difficult to recruit the laborers. In fact, it was difficult to pare it down to just ten. They are a mischievous lot, and to them this seemed like great fun.
Mamma, however, got involved and wanted to know what we were up to. Pitu appeared, arms folded.
Feelers Page 10