When both the chumps were sobbing and writing on the floor, I asked them to sit up and look at me, which they did, faster than I would have thought possible. I told them what would happen if they ever went near Jill Mason again and made them promise that they never would, which they seemed happy to do. Then I turned my attention to Itchy. “So, Malachi. I hear you’ve finally arrived.”
He had to peel his eyes away from his meek and chastened muscle to glare at me. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Strivers Row. About sixty years too late, but as close as you’ll ever get to being related to Bumpy Johnson or working for Stephanie St. Clair. But better late than never, is that your motto, Malachi?”
The old man gave me such a look of hatred that I was glad he was old. I’d not have wanted to tangle with anybody that mean looking who was my age and in good health. “Who you been talking to?”
“Somebody other than you, you lying piece of garbage.” I walked up close to him, got in his face. “Have you ever told the truth, about anything? Or is the lying such a habit you can’t help yourself? Or maybe you even believe that you were player in Harlem in 1935. Maybe you’re really 96, and maybe you’re really a barber instead of a shoe shine boy.”
I backed up and watched him watch me, watched his eyes change. Most of the mean drained away but what was left wasn’t fear. Not yet. It was close, though.
“My life is none of your business.”
“You made it my business when you sent these two assholes to hurt a woman who doesn’t even remember that you exist.” I slapped him then; couldn’t help myself.
Now the fear was there. Itchy licked his lips and his eyes darted around the room, flickering from his boys on the floor to me and my boys facing him. “What are you talking about?”
“She doesn’t remember what you did to her, Malachi. But others do. Her parents remember. And Louise Gillespie remembers.”
“That bitch! I don’t give a shit what she remembers.”
“How about Carlo Portello. You give a shit what he remembers?”
The fear was back to sharing center stage with mean. “What the fuck do you want, Rodriquez? Spit it out and then get outta my place.”
“Drop your drawers, asshole.”
He choked and sputtered and called me some dirty names. I reached for his belt but he jumped away from me. “Don’t touch me, you Spic mother fucker.” The mean was back in full force.
I slapped him again, harder this time, splitting his lip and drawing blood, and told him to drop his drawers or I’d do it for him. “I want your little midget dick flunkies here to see what a real midget dick looks like. But then, Itchy, to call you a midget dick is a real compliment, isn’t it? And I shouldn’t be paying you compliments, the way you like calling other people names: Carmine’s a Wop, I’m a Spic, Dr. Mason’s a broad. And you’re a midget dick, so why don’t you show us?”
He started to speak then, all of a sudden, he sagged. I reached out again and grabbed his belt buckle and pulled it open. I undid the button and pulled down the zipper. The pants fell to the floor. “You gonna do the shorts, Itchy, or you want me to do it?”
His eyes met mine, pleading.
“Do it,” I said, trying to imagine Jill Mason as a seven year old being raped by a forty-something year old man. “Do it,” I said, remembering my broken Yolanda running out into the cold the other night. “Do it, Itchy. Now.”
And he did it and his lackeys gasped. So did the three of us, for that matter. No man can imagine life without his identity. To witness such a reality is a truly sobering experience.
“Oh, goddamn,” whispered Scratch Face.
“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” added Mr. Hollywood.
“That’s for Dr. Mason, Itchy. And for Elijah. Just in case you thought you got away with that one, too,” I said, and slapped him again. I should have felt better but I didn’t. So I kicked Scratch Face in the gut and he threw up all over the floor. Itchy started cursing him like he wasn’t human and I knew it was time to get out of there. I still didn’t feel any better but I knew I couldn’t do anything else here that would benefit another human being.
I was outside, a block away, breathing cold, clean air when Mike and Eddie caught up with me. They stood, one on either side of me. Eddie touched my shoulder and Mike followed suit.
“You OK, Hermano?” Eddie asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “Sure. Why not?”
“Want to go get a drink?” Mike asked.
“I don’t think I drink any more, Man,” I said.
“If you drink with us, you can. But only if you drink with us,” he said.
“And what’s so special about drinking with you bums?” I asked, really needing and wanting a drink, and needing and wanting to like his answer so I could have one.
“Wives,” Mike said, with that laugh again.
“Yeah,” Eddie added. “We got ‘em, you don’t. That means we could never get as shit faced as you got the other night and expect to go home.”
“And since not going home is NOT an option, we don’t get drunk,” Mike said happily. “So. About that drink...”
“Let’s go!” I said. Then, as an afterthought, “Can I have more than one?”
“We’ll see,” Eddie said with mock seriousness.
We walked a few blocks in silence, letting the cold rid us of the anger and fear and pain that had filled and overwhelmed us those few, short moments ago.
“You need to hurry up and find yourself a good woman,” Eddie said, breaking the silence.
I knew that, but I wondered why he thought so. “Why?” I asked him.
“Because,” Mike said with real seriousness, “my wife ain’t gonna let me stay out drinkin’ with you on a regular basis.”
“Not even on a Friday night?” I asked.
“Especially on a Friday night,” Mike said darkly.
We kept walking, hands deep in our pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold, lost in our own thoughts. The subway was dead ahead, at the corner. I stopped when we got there. “Let’s have that drink uptown, in the old neighborhood.”
“I know just the place,” Mike said with a big wide grin ridding his face of the earlier darkness. “Best of both worlds: a Puerto Rican Soul Food joint. No point in getting drunk on an empty stomach.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Lieutenant Delaney didn’t want to believe that I wasn’t responsible for the serious beating bestowed upon Gregory Jenkins sometime on Saturday morning, and didn’t believe me when I swore I didn’t, but he didn’t have much choice. I’d spent that morning, from just after eight until just before noon, at my gym, where I had an intense workout, a full body massage, and a long, relaxing steam. I’d had lunch at twelve thirty with Consuela de Leon, and was having such a good time that I was late for my three o’clock meeting with Dr. Jill Mason at my office, where I remained doing paper work, with Yolanda, until just after six. Then we left, together, and rode the subway uptown and met Sandra for a light dinner and a performance of the Alvin Ailey Company. Of course I went home alone at midnight, but Delaney didn’t care about midnight. Gregory Jenkins had been in the hospital, on life support, for several hours by midnight.
But since he was able to take personal credit for shutting down Itchy Johnson’s million dollar drug and fencing operation, he quit busting my chops about Gregory Jenkins. And maybe he’d finally gotten his secret recording device to work because he heeded my warning and didn’t even try hassling the Calle and Cummberbatch families. I told him that if he tried that, the whole world would know where he got the Itchy Johnson scoop. You bust my chops, I’ll bust yours. It felt good to wield power against Goliath. Almost as good as slapping the shit out of Malachi Johnson, then watching him take the big fall. No matter what he’s finally charged with, he’ll know it’s payback for Jill Mason and her grandfather.
It’s been almost a month and it still feels good. I’ve even got the beginning of the Christmas spirit, which it’s kind of difficul
t to avoid since merchants launched their Christmas displays immediately after Halloween. They used to wait until after Thanksgiving, but no matter. Dinner tonight is bar-be-que chicken and spareribs, cole slaw, sweet potato soufflé, and corn bread. Traversing the narrow sidewalk en route to Jill Mason’s office is even more difficult than usual because everybody’s a Christmas tree merchant. Ah, but the pine scent mingling with that of roasting nuts makes the journey worth while.
“Phillip, come in! I’m starving!”
The table was set and ready and the wine she’d insisted upon buying was open and breathing, ready to be poured. “You finished your paperwork early, then?”
“I rushed through it, I’m almost ashamed to say,” she said, helping me unwrap the food and serve the plates. “Of course you know how much I appreciate and enjoy this, Phillip, but on a Friday night?”
“You got something against being my Friday night date?”
She laughed— something she was doing more often these days— and poured the wine. “I’m flattered, and eternally grateful that Miss de Leon is the kind of woman she is.”
It was my turn to laugh, and to blush, which the good doctor was kind enough not to comment upon. We’d built on the friendship that had developed during the investigation, but we’d never really discussed the outcome. She wasn’t ready and I didn’t want to. All that was about to change. Our “date” had a purpose beyond good food.
“I see your appetite’s back.”
“With a vengeance. I’m gaining weight!”
“So, what, you now weigh 99 pounds instead of 98?”
She tried to shoot me a dirty look but didn’t succeed, and changed the subject. “Are you really all right, Phillip? After...all that happened?”
“I’m really fine.”
“I was worried that you’d done something you might regret in order to help me and while I appreciate—”
I stopped her right there. “The only thing I regret is that you ever had to hurt the way you did. Nothing else. Believe that, please. My conscience is clear.” And it was. I had no qualms about what I’d done to Malachi Johnson, and no regrets. Well, maybe one: that I’d ever fallen for his bullshit in the first place.
“I wish that I’d made the connection sooner, so that I could have saved you and Mr. Aiello and Mike and Eddie so much aggravation. I do have that regret,” she said, and the heavy sadness that I thought had lifted from her descended again. Then the full impact of her words registered.
“You know. You remember.” It wasn’t a question.
She’d been about to take a sip of wine but she put the glass down and stood up and walked over to her desk. She didn’t speak for a long moment, and I didn’t disturb the silence. Then she turned toward me. “One of the requirements for successful completion of a residency in psychiatry is intense psychotherapy, the idea being that med schools don’t knowingly send emotionally deficient doctors out to play with people’s minds.” She smiled slightly. “Good intentions don’t always succeed.” She was struggling.
“You remembered during your psychotherapy, when you were a resident?”
She nodded. “I had a wonderful doctor.”
“Gertrude Bader!” I remembered how still and silent she’d become that night at her place when I told her of my meeting with Dr. Bader.
“I didn’t make the connection until...well, that doesn’t matter.”
But I thought I knew what the “until” was: Something she’d heard from Yo in their counseling sessions. “Come back and finish your dinner,” I said. “I’m not eating all this food by myself. Some of us can afford to gain a few pounds, and some of us can’t.”
She sat back down and gave me a sly grin. “Surely Miss de Leon isn’t complaining?” She arched her left eyebrow, something I’d never seen her do, and then she laughed at me when I blushed again, and choked on my wine.
Jill Mason and Connie de Leon aren’t the only good things to come my way as a result of those two investigations. Basil Griffin and I have a bond that exceeds the work I do for the Golson sisters. Yes, they own a lot of real estate and we do all of their security work, but Basil and I eat lunch or dinner at least once a week at Arlene’s place. He’ll never accept that he’s not responsible for Anna Cummerbatch’s death, but he’ll always be grateful for the chance to avenge it. Basil’s an Old Testament kind of guy.
I have breakfast with Carmine once a week. He’s part of my morning ritual on Wednesdays and Mrs. Campos and Willie have learned to accept it, if not quite gracefully. Can’t do it any more often than that because I really would have a weight problem. Carmine doesn’t worry about things like that. He’s still too worried about his little girl. She’s getting better but she’s not even close to being well. And that’s another one of the good things, though Yolanda doesn’t totally agree: I accept that I owe Carmine, and I owe Dan Esposito and I owe Patty Starrett. But mostly I owe their little girls. No, I can’t undo the harm that’s been done to them; nobody can, not even Jill Mason. What I can do, what I will do, is find the low-life piece of shit who hurt them, and when I do, that definitely will be a good thing.
I still walk the routes those little girls took to and from school. I know all the bodegas and fruit stands, nail salons and sweet shops and second hand stores on those routes. I know who’s pimping and who’s dealing, who belongs and who doesn’t. And I know that whenever I see a guy with a kid, especially an older guy with a little girl— or a little boy— I’ll check to see if he looks like he knows what he’s doing, if he looks like he knows how to play in the sand. And if the kid looks like she’s having a good time, and if he looks like her good time is more important than his. And I know that if anything about the situation looks weird to me, that guy is going to have some explaining to do. To me. Because I now finally understand the difference- the true difference- between me and cops: I’ve got all the time in the world to let my heart bleed and I don’t care who sees me cry.
#####
Thank you for taking the time to read Two Graves Dug. If you enjoyed getting to know Phil Rodriquez and his world—New York’s Lower East Side—check out the second book in this series, A Murder Too Close. http:\www.pennymickelbury.com
Other Books by Penny Mickelbury
CAROLE ANN GIBSON SERIES
One Must Wait
Where to Choose
The Step Between
Paradise Interrupted
MIMI PATTERSON/GIANNA MAGLIONE SERIES
Keeping Secrets
Night Songs
Love Notes
Darkness Descending
PHIL RODRIQUEZ SERIES
Two Graves Dug
A Murder Too Close
NON-SERIES STAND ALONES
Belle City
That Part of My Face: Short Stories
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Also by Penny Mickelbury
A Phil Rodriquez Mystery
Two Graves Dug
A Murder Too Close
The Carole Ann Gibson Mysteries
One Must Wait
Where To Choose
Paradise Interrupted
The Mimi Patterson/Gianna Maglione Mysteries
Keeping Secrets
Night Songs
Love Notes
Watch for more at Penny Mickelbury’s site.
About the Author
Penny Mickelbury is the author of ten novels in thee successful mystery series: The Phil Rodriquez Mysteries, the Carole Ann Gibson Mysteries, and the Mimi Patterson/Gianna Maglione Mysteries. The also is an accomplished playwright, and her short stories have appeared in several anthologies and collections. She also has contributed articles to several mystery magazines and publications.
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Read more at Penny Mickelbury’s site.
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