New York City Noir

by Tim McLoughlin

  Most of the businesses on Woodside Avenue were dark, but a few had lights. Weird how the power grid worked, skipping over certain places but hitting the ones next door. He briefly wondered whether someone got paid off to keep the lights on in certain places. Nah. That was too paranoid, even for him.

  The big wooden sign on the side of Seán Óg’s read Drinking Consultant. He wondered about that every time he saw it. He could picture the scene inside: A guy walks up to the bar, says, “I want to consult you about drinking.” The bartender says, “Yes, sir, what would you like to drink?” Frankie wondered if the consultation cost fifty bucks an hour, like a shrink. Probably, he thought, if you downed the booze fast enough. Then again, you’d probably wind up lying down in Seán Óg’s, just like at a shrink’s, you drank enough. He remembered when the place was some other Irish joint where you could bet on soccer games and horse races. Of course, the son of a bitch running the place taped the soccer games and got suckers to bet on the losing team when he rebroadcast them, but it only took a couple of losses for people to wise up. The guy went out of business years ago, go figure.

  Frankie’s family had been among the first wave of Latinos to settle in Woodside. He’d gotten his ass kicked a few times before the other kids in the Irish working-class neighborhood accepted him. It helped that his family was Catholic. Also that his old man brought them here when Frankie was young enough that he didn’t grow up speaking with an accent. His pop, on the other hand, had the whole Señor Wences thing going.

  Now, of course, it didn’t matter. Aside from a few old, entrenched Irish families, the neighborhood was predominantly Latino. Not too many Mexicans, but a few here and there. Mostly Dominicans, Salvadorans, Guatemalans, some Puerto Ricans. Plus your Indians, Pakistanis, and Koreans, of course. Most of those were in neighboring Jackson Heights, but a lot of them had slipped over into Woodside. And now the Russians were discovering the neighborhood. Not to mention the blacks who were swarming into the projects the next block over from Frankie’s house.

  He glanced up Woodside Avenue and suddenly felt old. He could remember when almost every business had been something else. Except the Astoria Federal Bank. They’d been annoying people in the same spot for years. A fee for this, a fee for that; I’m sorry, sir, we’ve misplaced your records . . . He couldn’t think of a place that gave him more heartburn than that bank. Well, maybe the DMV, but it was close.

  Get a grip, Frankie told himself. He knew his thoughts were careening crazily because he had to go see his aunt. She wasn’t his real aunt, of course; that was just what everybody called her. At the corner of Woodside Avenue and 62nd Street, he glanced at the building on his right. The lights dotted the windows of The Jefferson. It figured Tía Alba’s building would still have electricity. She would keep the power on through sheer force of will. He stepped into the vestibule and took a deep breath. He pressed the buzzer for her apartment. After a pause for whoever was manning the door to look at him through the camera, he got an answering ring. He dragged himself up the three flights, prolonging the inevitable.

  Tía Alba threw open the door. “Ay, Paquito!” she squealed. “Ven acá!” She held her arms open. Paquito was Spanish for “Frankie.” He hated to be called Paquito. His aunt smelled of lavender water. He was mildly allergic to the scent and felt his nose tickle uncomfortably. He hated lavender water. He embraced her quickly and stepped back.

  “Come in, come in,” she said. “Sit down. I have some empanadas heating up.” She bustled toward the kitchen.

  “No, gracias, tía,” he said. “I’m not hungry, really.” He patted his stomach to indicate how full he was. He hated her empanadas.

  “Okay, some coffee then, sí? You’ll have some café conmigo?”

  Sure, he would have coffee with her. Her coffee was tolerable. Besides, it would take her a few more minutes to pour.

  But no, she was back instantly with two steaming cups. “Just perked,” she said. She still used a stovetop percolator, rather than a coffee machine, although God knew she could have had a new one every week. She claimed the machines didn’t brew the coffee properly. “I knew you were coming.”

  This prescience was less a function of her mind-reading abilities and more the result of the phone call he’d made to her in the morning before leaving the house, telling her he planned to stop by later.

  And now it was later, and he owed her money, and he didn’t know how to tell her he didn’t have it.

  She got right to the point. “What did you bring me?” She beamed at him.

  “Well, listen, tía, it’s like this . . .” he started.

  Her face darkened like a storm cloud. “Don’t tell me any stories, Paquito. I’m not in the mood for stories. Just give me what you owe me.”

  Don Pedro stuck his head out of the back bedroom. “Trouble?” he asked. He and Tía Alba had been together for longer than Frankie could remember. Hardly anyone saw him unless something bad was about to happen. Don Pedro had an uncanny sense of when things were going to shit.

  “No, no trouble,” Frankie croaked.

  “Depends on what you mean by trouble,” Tía Alba said. “I think Paquito is a little short today.”

  Don Pedro hauled his bulk into the living room. “Short? How can that be?” He looked genuinely puzzled.

  “Well, listen,” Frankie said, looking up at the big man. Don Pedro towered over everybody, especially when he was standing and they were sitting. “I ran into a little trouble today. Because of the blackout.” He shrugged, letting them know that he could hardly be held responsible for the vagaries of Con Edison.

  “No excuses, Paquito,” Don Pedro said. “We don’t tolerate excuses here. You know that.” He sounded almost regretful.

  “I have almost all of it. Here,” he said, and pulled out his wallet. “I owe you another two hundred. Less, even.” He handed over a fat wad of bills.

  Tía Alba counted them quickly. She shook her head. “Two hundred dollars. That’s not acceptable.” She brightened, as though struck with an idea. “Why don’t you go down to the bank and get the rest?” She turned to Don Pedro. “Walk him down to the ATM. You could stand to get a little air. You’ve been inside all day.”

  “That’s a fine idea. Come, m’ijo.” He beckoned toward the front door.

  “I . . . I can’t,” Frankie said. He swallowed hard. “I don’t have that much in my account.”

  Don Pedro loomed over him. “Listen, cabrón, you better figure out a way to get the two hundred. Or we’ll have to figure it out for you, comprende?”

  “I don’t have it,” Frankie repeated. A voice in the back of his head told him he was being ridiculous. He had an NYPD shield in his pocket and a gun in a holster. He had nothing to fear from this lug. The voice of reason cut in and told the other voice to shut the fuck up. He cleared his throat, started to explain.

  Don Pedro got red in the face, but Tía Alba spoke calmly. “It’s all right, Paquito. These things happen. Don’t worry, Pedro, we’ll work it out. Paco’s a good boy. We can make some arrangement.”

  Don Pedro looked like he wanted to arrange Frankie’s face in a new configuration, but then he nodded. “As always, you are right, Alba. I will leave it to you to work something out with the boy.” He wandered back into the bedroom.

  “Now,” she said, “what can we work out?” She closed her eyes for a moment. “I know! We are in need of a guard. You will be the guard.”

  “A guard? You already have a security system here.”

  “No, no. More of a . . . bodyguard. Yes, a bodyguard.” She nodded. “It’s settled. You will go down to the second floor and make sure that everything is all right with our guests. Then we will be even.”

  “Oh, no, tía. Not that. I can’t . . .”

  She clapped her hands. “You can, and you will.” She checked her watch. “Starting now. And you will come here every night this week. Then I will see you next week, as usual,” she said, beaming again. “Now, come. I will bring you downstairs.”
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  Frankie trailed her down the flight of steps, feebly protesting the whole way, although he knew it was useless. If only he had been able to get that refund, he wouldn’t be into Tía Alba for the two hundred. He’d started out working in this enterprise at his wife’s insistence. At first, it had been a way to earn easy money, just a simple method of stretching their budget a little further. Somehow, he’d wound up behind the eight ball, into Alba for more money each week. It reminded him of that Tennessee Ernie Ford song “Sixteen Tons”: Another day older and deeper in debt . . . And now he did indeed owe his soul to the company store.

  That store, in this case, was Tía Alba and her merry band of fences, who specialized in moving hot—or at the very least, lukewarm—goods. He had a sneaking suspicion that the profits somehow got sent back to the land of the camel jockeys and the home of the ragheads, but his ass was so deep in the alligator pool that he was in no position to do anything about it, even if he knew for sure, which he didn’t. He made damn sure he didn’t. Which was another reason he didn’t want to go downstairs.

  He stopped his thoughts as Alba led him into her other apartment on the second floor. The place was jammed, mostly with women, but quite a few men swarmed around as well. It had the feel and sound of a casbah or bazaar. Merchandise was selected, haggling ensued, and deals were finalized. A Middle Eastern–looking man in Western dress approached Alba. She made the introductions quickly, calling the man Mohammed. She turned Frankie over to him, saying, “Mohammed will show you what to do. Now you visit me again tomorrow night before you come down here.” She squeezed his cheek before she left. Hard.

  Frankie rubbed his face. Mohammed’s hands snaked over Frankie’s torso and legs expertly. Before Frankie could smack the guy, Mohammed said, “Ah, you are armed. It is good to be prepared. Come, I will show you what to do.”

  Frankie glared at him, but what choice did he have? He followed Mohammed to a stool next to the front door. Frankie was to sit there and guard the place for the next four hours.

  I can’t stand this, he thought. What am I doing here? His life started flashing in front of his eyes. Was he dying? Or just wishing he were dead? He knew that was a sin, but at this point, what was one more? He pictured María at home, working comfortably at the laptop, using the scanner like a pro, churning stuff out of the color printer like a one-woman Kinko’s.

  He sighed and tried to pretend he was on a shit-fixer—a post in the bowels of some shithole in Brooklyn where you got sent if you fucked up. Well, that was apt. He’d ridden out a couple of assignments to shit-fixers in his time, and he supposed he could do it again. Of course he could. He pulled himself up taller. Just another . . . he glanced at his watch . . . three hours and thirty-eight minutes to go. He opened the door to let a stout Dominican woman with three gold teeth leave. She waddled out with a bundle of clothing wrapped in string. Frankie spotted the store tags still hanging from the items.

  As soon as he closed the door, the buzzer rang. Mohammed appeared and inspected the visitor through the closed-circuit TV system. He nodded to Frankie. “It’s okay, my friend. You can let her in. She is good customer.” He disappeared into the throng, calling out, “Ladies, ladies! No fighting. We have plenty for everyone.”

  There was a smart rap at the door. Frankie peered through the peep and saw the same woman who had just been spotted on the CCTV. She was a petite Latina wearing jeans and a red T-shirt with a denim vest that had embroidered flowers on it. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He didn’t know why, but his cop intuition kicked in and told him something was wrong.

  She tapped on the door again. Mohammed appeared, glaring at Frankie. “Let her in, my friend. That is what you are here for.” Before Frankie could protest, Mohammed opened the door and ushered the woman in. “Hello, my friend,” he said to her, taking her hand between both of his. “We have fine selection today. Check it out.”

  The woman smiled at him. Frankie noticed she had good white teeth. No gold. The alarm bells clanged in the back of his skull. He looked for Mohammed and spotted him bent over a clothing rack in the back, making a deal with a heavyset lady in a purple pantsuit.

  Frankie tucked his hand in the crook of Mohammed’s elbow and pulled the man upright. “I am making deal,” Mohammed spit at him. “You go back to door.”

  Frankie pulled the man roughly out of the crowd. “I need to talk to you,” he hissed. “There’s something about that woman that’s not right.” He indicated the newest arrival by lifting his chin in her direction.

  Mohammed glanced her way. “She is good customer. She has shopped here many times before. You go back to door.” He shook Frankie off and lost himself among the shoppers.

  Frankie stood there for a moment, unused to people ignoring him. He headed back to the door, thinking to let Tía Alba know what was going on. She was a businesswoman, yes, but she was also smart. She obviously ran the show, and she would be able to straighten out Ali Baba.

  He whipped out his cell phone, ready to ring her upstairs. Before he could press the button, however, the door flew open. “Police! Put your hands up!” A sea of blue uniforms fanned out, screaming the order a second time in Spanish. “Policía! Manos arriba!”

  As one, the female shoppers let out a high-pitched wail. No doubt they were all illegals worried about being sent back to their countries on a bus. Frankie could have told them not to worry about it. They’d be out of Central Booking and on their way back to their Queens apartments before the cops finished the paperwork for the bust. The women were crying and screaming. All except one. The petite brunette in the flowered vest had whipped out her gun and was herding the others back against the wall.

  He knew it! No one in her right mind would be wearing an extra layer in this heat—unless she needed the vest to conceal her shoulder holster. The vest, plus the fact that she had good teeth, were the clues he’d picked up on subconsciously. He’d known she didn’t fit in with the rest of the women. Fat lot of good it had done him.

  He felt a gun pressing in the small of his back. A man yelled, “Hands up!” into his ear.

  “I’m a cop!” he shot back, and reached for his shield.

  “I know who you are,” the voice said. Hands reached for his gun and slid it out of his holster. He felt the sweat slide down his sides. Now he was naked.

  “I’m a cop!” he said again. The same hands spun him around.

  “I know who you are,” the man repeated.

  Frankie’s eyes flew open. “Captain Goatfucker!” He winced at his own stupidity. “Er—ah—I mean, Captain Williams. How the hell are you?”

  “Better than you, Frankie, m’boy,” the captain said as he snapped the cuffs around Frankie’s wrists. “Better than you.”

  “Hey, Williams, whadaya doing here? It’s me, Frankie. From the Fearsome Foursome, remember? I’m on your side. One of the good guys.” He tried a weak grin.

  “Oh no, Frankie. You done crossed over to the other side a long time ago.” Williams shook his head. “My Organized Retail Crime Task Force has been watchin’ you, m’boy. We got videotapes, still photos, receipts with your fingerprints on ’em—you name it, we got it. Your ass is fried.” He made a kissing noise. “You can kiss that pension goodbye.”

  Frankie felt dizzy. “But—but my kids. My wife . . .”

  “Tsk, tsk. You should have thought about your family while you were committing fraud.”

  Frankie wanted to throw up. The cops were hustling the wailing women out the door. He was gratified to see Mohammed trussed up like a chicken in ankle cuffs and handcuffs— the guy should have known better than to fight a cop, Frankie thought. Meanwhile, he was standing there with his hands behind his back like some two-bit perp. “Come on, Williams. We can work this out. You’re a cop, I’m a cop . . .”

  “Oh no, that’s where you’re wrong, Frankie. You’re no cop. Not no more. Least, not when we get through with you. I’d say you were the next candidate for protective custody.” He squinted at Frankie. “’L
ess you wanna go straight into population and spend your days playin’ Drop the Soap with the Bloods and Crips.” He grinned sorrowfully.

  Frankie scrambled frantically for the magic words that would get him out of this mess. “No, hey, look, you came in here to make a bust, I’m a cop, I’m helping you out . . .” he tried.

  Williams shook his head. His voice became businesslike. “No good. You’re caught, Hernandez. Game over.”

  “Williams, please. For old times’ sake?” Frankie was disgusted with himself for pleading, but he was out of options.

  Williams gave Frankie a pitiful glance. “I’ll tell you what I can do. For old times’ sake.” Frankie looked at him eagerly. “I’ll let you ride in the back of the RMP instead of the van with the rest of the perps.”

  Williams handed Frankie over to the small female officer with the vest. “Guzman, bring this one in. Let ’im ride in the back of your car.”

  Officer Guzman wrinkled her nose as though smelling something rotting. But all she said was, “Yes, sir.”

  As she shoved him out the door, Frankie turned back and yelled, “Fuck you, Goatfucker! Chinga tu madre!”

  Guzman clucked her tongue at him. “That’s no way to talk. Captain Williams would never do that to his mother. He’s a very religious man, you know.”

  “I want my delegate!” Frankie snarled. “Call the PBA and tell them to get my delegate down here pronto.”

  “Don’t worry,” Guzman said. “We’ll make the call once we get to the precinct.” She lowered her voice confidentially. “Although the way I hear it, the delegate’s not gonna be able to do much for you. Your wife’s already down there, singing like a canary.” She glanced sideways at him. “Course, if you wanna tell me about it, I can maybe work out a little something for you.”

  Frankie wanted to cry and scream and throw up, all at the same time. How could she think he’d fall for that trick? He’d used it often enough himself—get a perp to talk by pretending his confederate was giving him up. But what if it was true? What if María was selling him down the river even while he was being hustled into the backseat of the RMP? He wouldn’t put it past her. The blood of generations of corrupt Mexican politicians ran through her veins. She had probably learned how to sell out her partner while other kids were playing hopscotch.