“Carmine says you’re making right the harm that was done to his little one.”
A chair and a bottle of Chianti, an antipasti and a loaf of bread, had materialized, and the old man with the deepest, richest, smoothest, most peaceful voice I’d ever heard, sat down and allowed that a glass of wine and plate of food be place before him. I didn’t know who he was but he damn sure was no barber!
“Carmine’s being kind. I’m just trying to help is all.”
The old man’s chuckle sounded like God’s would: low and benevolent. His words sounded anything but. “Carmine hasn’t been kind a day in his life.”
The fat man blushed, then wiped his mouth with his napkin and made the introductions. I was sitting at the same table with Carlo Portello and didn’t try to hide my reaction to this news. The old man was gratified at my reaction. Carmine was relieved that not only did I now who Portello was, I had sense enough to be awed, impressed, and scared shitless, all of which I was.
“You want to know something about Mr. Malachi Johnson?”
“Yes, sir. I want to know when he bought that barber shop on Essex Street, whether he lived in that neighborhood when he bought the shop, whether he engaged in any bookmaking activities—”
Just like Louise Gillespie had done, Carlo Portello gave a big hoot of laughter. “I heard that he claimed to be part of one of the big Harlem numbers operations. Is that what you want to know about?”
“In part,” I managed to say.
“The answer is no, and I’m surprised he’d float those lies, knowing that I was still around. But then he’d know that I didn’t give a damn what he said or did.”
I looked straight at Portello and waited. I was afraid to breathe. So was Carmine, I noticed, and despite the nervousness crowding his face, he’d grown in my estimation. He really was connected to the top echelon of the wise guys. Portello drained his wine glass, ate a piece of pepperoni, and told me that Itchy had bought the barber shop in 1968, after the riots that consumed much of New York in the wake of the murder of Martin Luther King. “He’d been working there for eight or nine years. He was the shoeshine boy, but he had a fencing operation on the side that he thought nobody knew anything about.”
Portello chuckled to himself. “Punks always think they’re the ones invented the scam. Johnson always thought he was smarter than he is.” He got quiet and it was clear he was journeying back into the past. When he spoke, his voice was lower, and husky. “Malachi would have to be in his nineties to have done what he said he did up in Harlem. I know because I’m 96 and I was a bag man for Luciano up in Harlem. They didn’t want us up there, the Negroes didn’t, and we shouldn’t have gone up there. But we did. If Malachi Johnson was alive and living in Harlem in 1934, he wouldn’t have been any more than seven or eight years old, and he wouldn’t have been working for the St. Clair organization. They didn’t work children, didn’t use them as decoys like some of the other outfits did. They were principled people. Ruthless, dangerous, vicious in a fight, but principled.”
The old man’s eyes cleared and he drank some water and, because Carmine had filled his wine glass, he emptied it again. Then he stood up and we stood up. He was finished talking.
“Thank you, Don Carlo,” Carmine said, and dipped his head.
I extended my hand to the old man. “I’m very grateful for your time, Mr. Portello, and for the knowledge you shared. History is my new passion,” I said, and meant it.
It was Friday night and the barber shop was a sardine tin of hip young players paying major dollars for hair cuts that proclaimed them to be hip young players. And, as I watched the scene through the glass front with high powered binoculars from across the street, it was apparent that other deals were being made, as well. The third chair barber, the one with the deep, red scratches to the left side of his face, made and received more phone calls than a Hollywood agent. It was to his credit that he ever completed a hair cut, but complete them he did, one after the other. As did the other three barbers. But the chairs and benches that held those waiting for service never emptied; the door never stopped opening and closing.
There were five chairs and shoe shine bench, which was empty at the moment. Where was the fifth barber? The white kid? For I now realized, because I needed to, that there were two Black barbers, two Puerto Ricans, and the white one. They were all in their early twenties, good-looking, hip-looking young men. Players. Damn smart of Itchy, to sit back there at his table, pretending to read or peruse his photo albums and listen to his old timey music, while all the time he was orchestrating— what? A fencing ring? Drug dealing? A chop shop operation? Prostitution? All of the above? Damn smart.
“Fuckin’ bastard,” I muttered, and shivered. I was deep in the doorway of the closed and gated music instrument store owned by Orthodox Jews, directly across the street from Itchy’s Tonsorial Parlor. Every other business in the East Village was just gearing up for Friday night. Thank heaven that sundown now occurred just before five o’clock, and that the owners of the music instrument store were seriously observant. Because the doorway was recessed, nobody could see me watching the activity across the street. And because the doorway was recessed, it afforded some small protection from the whipping wind. But I was freezing. I’d changed clothes earlier: I had on a solid black Gore-Tex winter jogging suit on top of two sets of long underwear, one silk and one thermal. I wore a ski mask that covered everything buy my eyes and mouth, and a hooded ski jacket on top of everything. On my feet I wore battery powered socks and Canadian hunting shoes from one of those expensive outdoor stores. And I was shivering like a leaf on a tree.
“Hermano,” Eddie whispered sliding into the doorway beside me. “The squirrel’s on his way. Only he don’t look much like a squirrel. Mike almost missed him. He left that dump over on Avenue D and went to a building on East River Drive. Let himself in with a key and came out lookin’ like Brad Pitt or some fuckin’ body. I’m tellin’ you, Mike almost missed him...Look! In the green ski jacket.”
I raised the binoculars and aimed them toward the green ski jacket approaching Itchy’s from the West. It was, I saw, the fifth barber. This was the squirrel? He did indeed look like one of those clean-cut but slouchy young actors that young girls—and more than a few grown women—were swooning over. His hair was slightly long and obviously bleached—that was noticeable even beneath the knit cap pulled down low over his ears. He wore thick ski gloves, shoes like mine, and jeans. Everything about him said ‘cool dude’ but his walk. “Is he crippled, Eddie, or have some kind of physical impairment?”
“I think he just walks funny. He might not look like it now, but the dude’s a squirrel, I’m tellin’ you. He’s not one you want to turn your back on.”
“Yeah, Eddie, but why does he walk like that?” I was still studying the guy’s legs through the binoculars when he opened the door to Itchy’s. Then, out of the darkness, a shadow. Mike. And I hadn’t even seen him. Because I was watching the squirrel so intently? Or because Mike Smith wrote the manual on working undercover? “Damn, he’s good,” I whispered.
“The best,” Eddie said.
Mike stepped out of the shadows and loped across the street, dodging cars, a bike messenger, and a bus. “Little fuck cleans up pretty good, don’t he?” he said with a drawl that made me laugh. “He was half-way down the block, comin’ out that high rent building on East River Drive, before I made him. And if it hadn’t been for that stupid walk, I’d have missed him.”
I asked my question again and Mike laughed out loud. “The stupid fuck’s trying to walk Black. Like, you know, do a pimp walk or some stupid shit. He thinks he’s being cool, doesn’t even know it just makes him look stupid.”
“Makes him look crippled,” I said, watching him as he limped his way into the barber shop. “Think they’ll stay this busy until closing?”
Eddie and Mike nodded. “This ain’t just about hair, Phil, my man,” Mike said.
“Mr. Hollywood is Itchy’s right hand. Watch him. He’
ll take the phone from number three chair... see? What’d I tell you?” And as if on cue, scratched face gave the phone to Mr. Hollywood. He clipped it to his belt, walked over to stand behind his chair— the first one on the right side—and waited for a customer to appear. About two seconds.
“The dump on Avenue D,” I said. “That’s where they stash merchandise.” It wasn’t a question because I knew the answer. I just needed to hear myself acknowledge out loud that I’d been suckered in a big way, but Mike and Eddie didn’t need to hear it so I didn’t say it. Instead I told them everything Louise Gillespie had told me and neither one of them could think of a thing to say for long my teeth began to chatter, so I told them about my meeting with Carol Portello.
“We’re gonna make a detective out of you yet,” Mike said, and the approval in his voice was almost warming. Almost but not quite.
“Let’s go eat and warm up,” Eddie said, snatching the thought away from me. “Get back about nine forty-five.”
The shop closed at ten. “You guys go eat. Remember to get the receipt or Yo will nail my ass to the wall. I’ve got a run to make. I’ll see you back here at nine forty-five.”
“You’re the boss,” Mike said.
“And we always remember the receipt. You’re the one who always forgets and therefore always gets his ass nailed to the wall,” Eddie said.
“Hey!” Mike called out. I turned back to him. “You think this Itchy dude is going after Doc Mason because he thinks what, that she’ll bring charges against him after all this time?” I kept forgetting that Mike and Eddie only knew Itchy through me, through my recounting of his stories of the past.
“I think Itchy’s crazy and mean and some more stuff I don’t have the right words for,” I said, and separated from Mike and Eddie, them headed west, me in the opposite direction.
Bill Delaney listened to everything I said. Then he asked me to tell him again. And again. And a fourth time. That’s when I got up to leave. “I don’t know if you’re losing your memory, Delaney, or you can’t get your secret recording device to work, but either way, I’ve told this story my last time. I’m outta here.” I made for the door.
“Why are you telling me all this, Rodriquez?’
“I don’t know a lot of cops, L.T. I wasn’t on the job long enough to know a lot of cops. And after last night and tonight, I may just learn how to say that I don’t know any cops any more,” and I left, not regretting my decision not to tell him about Itchy’s involvement with the attacks on Jill Mason. I’d given him enough freebies. Besides, there are some jobs you take care of yourself.
I still had over an hour to kill but I didn’t want to eat. As it was I didn’t have much stomach for the night’s work; filling it wouldn’t be very wise. I walked a while, though it really was too cold for walking. But when I saw where I was headed, I kept going until I reached the subway. I got on the F Train at Delancey Street, a smile growing inside and easing the knot that was there. I hadn’t done this in a long time: Just get on the subway and ride. I didn’t have a lot of time tonight, but, inspired by the impromptu stroll around Harlem, I knew it would be a good trip. It was Friday night. People were out. All kinds of people doing all kinds of things, going all kinds of places, going wherever they could go, and some of them, like me, going no place in particular. I loved that more than practically anything else about New York City: Since the subways went everywhere, so could the people. This wasn’t like some cities where access was restricted simply because it wasn’t possible to get there except by car, and if you were the wrong color or driving the wrong kind of car, somebody noticed. And questioned your presence. Things like that happened in Los Angeles and in Miami, I knew. But not in New York. The subway went everywhere and so, too, could any-damn-body.
The train was crowded, not only because it was a freezing-ass cold Friday night, but also because of where the F Train went: East Village, West Village, 5th Avenue, Times Square, Rockefeller Center, and across the East River into Queens. I didn’t have time to ride all the way to Queens, though it would have been fun. Totally different kind of person on the train in that Borough. No matter how much they wanted to pretend otherwise, residents of Queens looked different from residents of Manhattan. Of course, the reverse was true, as well: Residents of Manhattan looked different from residents of Queens. But it was a difference Manhattanites shrugged off; who cared? was their attitude. Queens Borough residents cared.
I got off at 5th Avenue, crossed the platform, and sat on the bench to wait for the downtown train. I hadn’t been up here in a long time. In fact, I hadn’t just ridden the train for fun in a long time. Maybe tomorrow I’d ride the Number 1 Train all the way down to South Ferry, to the end of Manhattan, to look at the empty space the fuckin’ terrorists left in the skyline. Maybe I’d even ride the Staten Island Ferry.
I snatched myself out of my reverie. Here I was thinking that by tomorrow, a lot of the mess in my head would be cleared up and I’d be free to enjoy myself, and the hard part of tonight was just getting started. On thing at a time. The downtown train was entering the station. I looked at my watch. I thought I’d get back to Eddie and Mike with maybe a minute to spare.
They were waiting in the music store doorway. I smelled them before I saw them. They smelled like fried onions. “You ate at Julios,” I said.
“How’d you know?” Eddie asked.
“You smell like fried onions,” I said, wriggling my nose.
“Oh, he does think he’s a real detective now!” Eddie said, fanning at himself, as if he could dispel the onion and grease aroma embedded in his clothes.
We turned our attention to the activity across the street. There were three customers still inside: Mr. Hollywood had one, Scratch Face had one, and one of the Black dudes had one. The other two barbers were cleaning up, sweeping and swatting at the counters with a feather duster. I couldn’t see Itchy, but I knew he was there, he eye on the clock: Closing time in three minutes. Two of the customers got up simultaneously, paid, and left together. That left one customer, in Scratch Face’s chair. The three of us waited for the customers to clear the door, then we crossed the street. Traffic was lighter though still steady, and we had to play dodge cars. A taxi tried to hit Mike and he grabbed folded New York Post from his pocket and threw it. The cab slowed and Mike ran toward it, but Eddie grabbed his arm and dragged him back to the business at hand.
“Good shit!” Mike hissed, as two of the barbers opened the door and exited. Mr. Hollywood locked the door behind them. We held back, on edge, waiting for the last customer to leave, praying that we were correct in our assumption that Scratch Face and Mr. Hollywood, because they seemed special to Itchy, would be the last to leave. Three of them, three of us. Righteous odds.
“Here we go,” Eddie whispered, as the final customer stood and allowed himself to be brushed off. He took money from his pocket, paid scratch face, got his coat from the wall peg, and tried to leave. The door was locked. He stood there for a moment until Mr. Hollywood opened it for him. We heard his thanks and watched him walk west. Mr. Hollywood was still holding the door. We heard him tell ‘Brian’ to hurry his ass; it was cold and Mr. Hollywood was no doorman. Brian stepped out into the cold just as I stepped up to the door.
“We’re closed,” Mr. Hollywood snapped at me.
“‘Bout time, too,” Eddie snapped back, and he and Mike came through the door, taking Mr. Hollywood back into the room at warp speed. Mike locked the door behind us and pulled down the shade.
“What the fuck?” Scratch Face started but stopped when he got a good look at me. Something in his face changed shape, but I wasn’t his problem, Mike was, as he soon discovered.
“Where’s Itchy?” I asked conversationally, as if it were ten in the morning and I had an appointment for a cut and a shave.
Nobody answered.
“Itchy!” I called out, as I headed toward the back room. Itchy!” I called again, just as the old man appeared in the doorway. He looked like a peacock tonight in
iridescent blue-green pants, matching shirt, and shiny black pointed toe shoes. No way he rode the subway in and out of Harlem dressed like that. Then I had a thought...more like a recollection as Itchy himself would say. Him getting into a livery car, more than once. Itchy didn’t ride the subway at all these days.
“What the fuck do you want?” he snarled at me, sounding so nasty I wouldn’t have thought it was Itchy Johnson had I not watched the words leave his mouth. This was the Malachi that Louise Gillespie remembered: Mean.
“I want you, you sick, dickless son of a bitch,” I said, and enjoyed watching the words travel from his ears to his brain to his eyes. “Let’s all go to the back and chat, why don’t we?” I said, as I grabbed Itchy’s arm and twisted it up behind his back. I still wanted very much to smash something, but angry as I was, I couldn’t smash an eighty year old man. I desperately wanted to trade Mike for Scratch Face.
The back room was comfortable. Sofa, arm chair, hot plate, microwave oven, refrigerator, water cooler.
“This is why we’re here,” I said, and told them why we were there. Mr. Hollywood looked meaner by the minute. Eddie was right: He was a real squirrel. Scratch Face was a wuss, and started to whimper. Itchy smiled at me, a sneaky, mean grin, so I slapped him, and he stopped that. So much for not smashing old dudes.
“So. You two little fucks like hurting women, do you? Well, your career in that business is over. As of right now. And to show you that we mean business...” I paused dramatically, turned, and, in my best Fundamentals of Acting voice, intoned, “...if you please, Gentlemen.” And Mike and Eddie started in on Scratch Face and Mr. Hollywood. It didn’t last long. It didn’t need to. Like bullies everywhere, the two of them were chumps. Even the squirrel, after a couple of expertly placed jabs to the kidneys, was moaning like a baby and they both were begging for mercy. Eddie and Mike looked at me and I looked like I didn’t care what they did, so they each delivered a one-for-good-measure whack, dropped the chumps to the floor, and backed up and away.
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