South by South Bronx

by Abraham Rodriguez

“Hey, whassup with that?”

  “Yo, get off her.”

  “What are you people doing?”

  “Somebody call the cops.”

  Leather Jacket held up a wallet that flipped.

  “I’m a cop, I’m a cop,” he said, struggling with her while flashing some tin. They were dragging her toward Melrose. All sudden, a black 4x4 braked with screech. Its back hatches flipped open as the two steered her toward it. A very annoyed car let out a long honk.

  “Come on!” One-Eye appeared at the hatch, seemingly unwilling to step out. “Hurry up!”

  Now Ava really squirmed, struggling to get to the gun in her purse. Baseball Cap had the purse almost off her arm, gripping strap tight. Leather Jacket had the other arm.

  “Ava! Stop fucking around and get in, we’re trying to help!” One-Eye yelled.

  “Fuck you!” she shouted back. She slipped and fell, struggling to pull the purse loose from Baseball Cap’s grip.

  “I’m calling the police,” a woman said.

  “Who the fuck are you?” a big guy with a Puerto Rican flag on his sweatshirt said, stepping right in Leather Jacket’s way.

  “Leave her alone,” a young girl said, while picking up the Alex cap, which had flown off Ava’s head.

  Ava kicked Baseball Cap in the gut. It was a loud, resounding blow executed with such precision and style that the crowd went “Whoah!” It sent him tumbling backwards, pounding into a parked car whose alarm began to peal. She had the purse now, reached into it and drew the gun.

  “Oh shit,” the crowd said, pulling back to scatter.

  The car alarm twittered like psycho birds dueling. A woman screamed, people ran. One-Eye tumbled out of the 4x4 and tripped on the sidewalk. Leather Jacket was pulling his gun when Alex came out of the crowd. He punched Leather Jacket in the face in a forward motion, swift and sure. The sound was like the CRACK of a rifle shot. Leather Jacket fell hard, his gun clattering on the sidewalk. Now there were running bodies everywhere, screaming cars honking. One-Eye was scrambling up to his feet when Ava kicked him in the face. Another rifle CRACK. His head snapped backwards and his body rolled into the gutter.

  “Jesus,” Alex said, grabbing her by the arm because it looked like she was going to kick him again. “Come on,” he said, pulling her down Melrose fast.

  Siren sound, car alarm, what was that cracking sound? Could be shots, the peep squeal of a speeding cop car or two, traffic honking mad and the murmur of people seeming to open way for them as they ran down a street of small stores, of loitering types checking out skirts and tops on racks, boxes of sneakers, and those two small tenements that were mostly stoops and big windows up to only two or three floors.

  “Jesus,” he said, “will you put that shit away?”

  He was talking about the gun that was still in her hand. She rushing along with him, trying to shove the gun in her purse. It was bumpy going, and that sharp turn made Alex almost take her arm off.

  It was a small electronics shop. Huge speakers boomed bass all the way from front to back, more like a corridor than a room, mile-long counters on both sides stuffed with car stereos mixers receivers turntables car speakers while flashing lights and that intermittent strobe seemed to flow with that thumpy creeping Jay-Z.

  Alex moved fast, negotiating tight turns around stacked boxes and booming speakers right to the back of the store. The people behind the counters seemed to know Alex, nodded to him. Alex waved, kept moving to the back, where past some boxes piled haphazard was a small staircase leading up to a steel door with a yellow plastic chain across it. A bearded man with shaggy hair was sitting there right at the end of the counter.

  “Hey, man,” he said to Alex.

  “Is Preacher up there?”

  “Yeah, but he—”

  Alex didn’t wait for it. He stepped over the plastic chain and pulled Ava along with him so she almost tripped on it, on stairs stumble quick, going up fast. Alex said something over his shoulder, pushed open the metal door. Cacophony noise voices all ceasing sudden as he stepped out with her and closed the door behind slam.

  They were outside, in a cool rush of quiet air. It was an alley, just brick all around and sky above. Directly across from them was a steel staircase going up to another steel door. Alex pulled her up the stairs.

  “Where are we?” she said.

  He opened the next door. They were in the hallway of one of those small tenements. Stairwell to the left, long hallway on the right leading to vestibule. Beyond that, street. The walls were orange, floor tiles the honeycomb kind found in old bathrooms.

  “I know this guy,” Alex said, taking a moment to just breathe in the hallway silence. “His name is Preacher and he lives upstairs. Owns the building. Runs the store. Are you okay?”

  She exhaled, checking through her purse. She stared at him with round, hopeless eyes.

  “I lost your hat,” she said.

  “Come on,” he said. “My car’s parked near here.”

  They headed down the small stoop, right out on Third Avenue. They moved fast along the crowded street, crossed to the other side, walked down 158th where Alex’s red Honda was parked. Once inside, they waited in the insulated silence of the doors’ after-slam. There was not much on this street: the backside of some department store, the loading dock, a plastics factory. Behind them it seemed miles of neat, clean empty lots, sparkly chain-link sealing them off like farmland waiting to be seeded. It was a breathing space, a deep exhale. Alex started the car. A low blast, a low rumble. A steady hum.

  “That one-eyed guy,” he said. “I know him. What’s he after you for? Is he involved in the murder?”

  “No,” she said, throwing him an inquisitive squint. “He was supposed to help me.”

  “I guess he changed his mind.” The car whined as he backed all the way down the street. He made a sharp right, went straight two blocks, then sped along 156th Street.

  “How do you know about the murder?”

  The last sharp turn made her buckle her seat belt. She clutched the purse tight up against her chest.

  “It’s in the paper,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me you were in trouble?”

  “I didn’t want to involve you.”

  “You could’ve told me,” he insisted, as if insulted. Why was the car engine so loud? Was he really driving so fast?

  “I could’ve taken you to the cops. I don’t normally think of involving cops, but you know … you’re white. They’ll help you.”

  “I can’t go to the cops.”

  Red light.

  Alex braked, tire screech, a shudder jolt. Turned to look at her real slow and careful. “And why can’t you go to the cops?” (Getting a good look at her eyes, green and wide and staring right back.)

  “They’re the ones who are after me,” she said.

  Green light.

  Alex pressed down the gas. Car surged forward, swerve-jerked as he made a right. Where was he going?

  “Shit,” he said, seeing a dark blob in the rearview mirror. “There’s a black van behind us. Wasn’t it a black van?”

  “That’s not it.”

  He made a left at this big Taj Mahal building and hit Kelly Street. A calm, treelined road with rows of quaint, old private houses. He slid into a spot by the curb and shut off the engine. She sank lower in her seat while Alex sat still, staring at his hands gripping the wheel.

  There was absolutely nothing on the street, not even passersby. It was like driving into a postcard. A silvery sun streaked the rows of three-story Dutch houses. There was a soft swishing sound that seemed to slow everything down to a crawl. She looked back. A black man swept his stoop with calm, even strokes of a broom.

  “Why did you do this?” she said, not looking at him.

  “You’re welcome,” he said back.

  “You don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into.”

  “Maybe now you can tell me.”

  “I’d rather clock you on the head.”

  “That
doesn’t work with me.”

  She was looking around, shifting in her seat. “Are we staying here?”

  “I need a smoke,” he said.

  She undid her safety belt with a click. He thought she would go. She must have thought that too. But she didn’t move. He felt calm, as if he knew her difficulty with words quite well by now. He did not force it. He waited. He pulled out his tobacco. She watched him. She shook her head slow.

  “Why did you have to do this?” she whispered.

  “You left your dress in my bathroom,” he said.

  He started to roll. The calm steady working of his fingers mesmerized her.

  “Do you want me to roll you one?”

  She went freeze for a moment, unable to use words. “I only want a few puffs,” she finally said.

  Now came that feeling of hesitation again, his, hers. She clutched her purse. He seemed about to say something, but nah. The calm steady working of his fingers. The voice she was hearing now was not Alan’s. It wasn’t Leni, Marlene, or Anne, but Sarita. Crystal clear through dream like a movie voice-over. “You’ll be with someone,” she said, “but don’t fear him. He has strong guardians.” An urge to stay. An urge to run, but to where?

  “I’ve known a lot of people who were in trouble with cops,” he said, licking his cigarette shut. “What makes them want to come after you?”

  “It’s not the cops. It’s Alan.” She found it hard to look directly at him for too long. She did it in small bursts. “He uses cops, but they don’t know. They don’t know what’s behind it. Hardly anyone does.”

  “But you know?”

  “Yes. Alan is what some people call a ‘fixer.’ People hire him to fix things when they go wrong. He was into some dirty business with David.”

  “The guy in the paper?”

  “That’s right. David’s brother was a drug dealer. He stole something from some terrorists. David helped him hide it. The feds were on to the terrorists. They’re mad it got stolen. They want to get it back.”

  Alex rolled the window down a little and lit the cigarette.

  “That part wasn’t in the paper,” he said.

  “The paper’s not going to tell you that part.”

  The first fiery puff. (After that, it’s downhill.) He passed it to her. A breathing in, a communal slowing of time which all cigarette smokers smoking together are familiar with. She puffed. The steady swish of that broom, sweeping away.

  “I used to work for Alan.” Her face looked different now, impenetrable and hard. “He sent me in to get the package from David.”

  “The paper said you were his office assistant.”

  “Yeah. Isn’t that a bitch.” Her eyes were glassy strange. She passed the cigarette back. “I was supposed to find the package and betray David.”

  Alex took in smoke slow. Sometimes you can get more information than you want to know about a person.

  “Did you?”

  The question froze everything. She covered her face a moment. (There was absolutely nothing on the street.) Alex saw how her green eyes tended to go brown in sunlight, how her blond in sunlight tended to go red. He had grown so tired of senseless weekends and events that created no chain, served no purpose. He had gone after answers this time, but now felt reluctant to hear more.

  “I wish you would drive,” she said, words muffled by fingers.

  “I haven’t decided about the cops yet,” he said, contemplating cigarette tip.

  “Your question wasn’t specific,” she snapped. “Did I what? Did I find the package or did I betray David? Which one do you want?”

  “I want both.”

  “Yes,” she said, fingers massaging her temples. “I found the package. But I betrayed Alan.”

  A strange burn hit his stomach. The tenseness was coming back. He checked the rearview mirror, adjusting it to get a better view of the street. She turned her face away. He nudged her with the cigarette, almost as if to remind her he was there, they had a deal, they were smoking together. She looked at him, her eyes red-rimmed. She took the cigarette.

  “I promised David I wouldn’t let them get it.”

  “But Ava, these people … there’s feds involved.”

  “To me it’s just Alan. I worked for him. You don’t know the kind of person I am … I’ve been. I’ve been no person. I became somebody different with every job I do for him. I’m sick of not being a real person. This time with David … I really was Ava Reynolds. I felt like a real person. He made me feel so real.”

  Alex wondered. Her eyes so glitterful for someone, made him think of things he had forgotten, thought he had forgotten. Some things buried deep some place.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Alan killed David and his brother because of me. I know it. I betrayed him. People died because of me.”

  Alex felt a deep dark heat. He closed his eyes. (She nudged him with the cigarette, almost as if to remind him she was there, they had a deal, they were smoking together.) He wished he could have admitted something like that. It was a realization that bit at him with piranha precision. Why now, these Belinda thoughts? She killed herself. He hadn’t pressed any buttons or pulled any triggers. Benny told him, always told him she was sick, it wasn’t his fault. But what if that one last betrayal was what did her in?

  “She would be alive,” he said, looking at Ava, “if she had been with someone else.”

  Ava stared at him. She didn’t say anything.

  Alex tossed the cigarette and started the car. He shifted, and it jumped forward, shivering slightly.

  “I know a place we can go,” he said.

  25.

  “Fear pushes you forward.” Somebody said that. Was it Anne Sexton, pushing her way through dark rooms? Phantoms of some trouble, pursuing her? Voices? The mood could change in a snap. Could be bravery. Bravery is when you’re too stupid to think twice, think it over, think again. All of a sudden you’re emptying machine-gun clips and pulling grenade pins with your teeth. Maybe it was Audie Murphy who said that. Maybe it was a Sam Fuller film. A door, and you run through.

  This door, two doors down from the Dominican restaurant. A thin narrow hall. Wooden stairs. The strong smell of glue, paper, machine oil. It felt far from the street on that metal landing with its lone lightbulb on a string. It was as if she had gone subterranean. There was a knot in her stomach. There was that gun in her purse. There was that Alex beside her, with his strong guardians and his way of saying nothing. Strange truths showed in his eyes. She was always checking in there. He was right not to want to go back to his apartment. It could be the first place One-Eye would come looking for them, though she told him it was unlikely he would mount a big search. One-Eye would probably be trying very hard not to be found. If Alan found him, he sure wouldn’t have to use scopolamine to get him to talk. Alex thought of calling someone named Monk, but as Monk lived in the same building, he would call the next best thing, he said. A guy named Mink, who lived down the block. His door was painted with the most interesting rendition of the universe she had ever seen. It was lustrous black with silver stars and shimmery belts of planets. The Milky Way, the Big Dipper, they were all there. The thing was, the planets the stars and all other things of substance were blocks and cubes. Not just flat squares with tight lines but three-dimensional objects of weight and depth. Real, unreal. Unseen before, but completely familiar. She stood there quite awhile after the door had opened, weaving her way past planets she knew, running her fingers over their stubby shapes, those vivid colors, those strange, glowy pulsations.

  “Take your time,” Mink said. “There’s more inside.”

  Mink Presario Ravel Melendez; “Just call me Mink.” Shook with both hands, like a statesman. A paint-spattered Ice Cube shirt. A way of looking into her eyes that made her feel he was standing closer than he actually was. He had the manner of a garrulous host at a gala opening, words all rush rush rush. Big, sweeping gestures, and a voice that filled the room. When Alex introduced them, Mink’s face
tilted when he heard the name.

  “Your name is Ava?”

  “Yes. Ava as in Gardner, not Gabor.”

  “Or Braun.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’ve actually seen you before,” he said.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I went upstairs with Alex on Sunday morning. You were asleep. Alex wanted me to get a look at you because, well, frankly, sometimes Alex has problems with his memory and doesn’t always recall where he picked up his last … He thought I might know you from somewhere.” He turned to Alex. “You didn’t tell her?”

  “You kind of beat me to it.”

  “Well. You actually did pop up on the boy, he was really a little baffled—” Mink looked at Alex and cut his words short. The three of them stood there a moment, not saying anything. “We’re used to him baffled,” he added. “It’s nothing new.”

  She had barely entered the place. The hallway was paint cans and piles of wood, canvases up against the wall. A box of tools. An empty fish tank, some bricks and colored rocks. Entryway to a kitchen as big as any found in a restaurant. Everything in there bright silvery steel, industrial strength refrigerator, gleaming Metro shelves. It was just a glimpse.

  “So where’s Monk?” Alex asked, into the weird quiet. “It’s the second time I see you without a Monk attached.”

  “He was just here,” Mink said. “He left after taking one look at the picture I just painted. Said he had a book to finish, and ran out.”

  “I couldn’t get him on the phone.”

  “You can forget about that.” Mink looked at Ava like he had just remembered she was standing there. “Did I tell you? He’s writing a book about Alex. He’s been wanting that for about a year now. Hadn’t really been able to start it until this weekend. He needed a spark. Saturday night we should’ve been together someplace getting drunk. Instead we had a fight. He went home and was looking out his window around 4 in the morning, when he saw this blond woman in a minidress climbing up the fire escape.”

  “Really,” Ava said, face showing no emotion.

  “That’s right,” Mink said. “Some blonde climbing up to Alex. And maybe that was what he needed to start his book. I don’t know if that’s exactly what he’s writing, but, you know … a spark. I’ve got some water on. Would you like any tea?”