by Patti Sheehy
Luis snuffed out his cigarette and dropped his head back onto the pillow. “It sounds crazy to me, but you do what you have to. Just remember, I have connections—I can get you a woman whenever you want.”
“Connections,” Frank muttered to no one in particular. He turned off the light and went to sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
It was a hot, humid, July morning, and Frank had just gotten home from his English lesson. He put his books on his nightstand, raised his arms over his head, leaned down, and touched his toes. The stretch felt good. He did a few push-ups and sat on the chair.
The room was a mess. Cigarette butts littered the floor. Ashtrays overflowed, and the odor of stale beer filled the air. Frank thought it was bad enough that Luis partied there, but he should at least clean up afterward. He had complained to Luis about it several times, but to no avail.
Frank shook his head in frustration and removed his shoes. His feet were red and soaked with perspiration. He wiggled his toes as his uncle turned the doorknob to let himself in. Luis offered Frank a small smile as he closed the door.
Exhausted, Frank was in no mood for idle chitchat. There was talk of a layoff at the plant, and his English lessons were not going well. He needed some sleep, but he knew something was bothering Luis. His customary half smile was nowhere in sight, his cheeks were flushed, and his forehead was webbed with angst.
“What’s going on?” asked Frank.
Luis shook his head, agitated. “They’re rioting in Newark,” he announced.
Frank didn’t know what his uncle meant by the remark, and he didn’t want to know. He closed his eyes, annoyed. Frank stood, unbuckled his belt, and placed his watch atop his books.
“Did you hear what I said?” snapped Luis.
“I heard you.”
“Well, what do you think?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Who’s rioting?”
“Some taxi driver named Smith was arrested. The police beat him up. The whole city’s going nuts.”
“Can we discuss this later? I just got home. I need some sleep.”
Luis leaned against the wall like a wooden puppet, absorbed in his thoughts. Frank was afraid he’d pursue the subject.
“What do you think will happen?” asked Luis. Anxiety graveled his voice.
“How would I know? Other than landing at the airport, I’ve never been to Newark. Besides, I’m too tired to think about it.”
Luis shot Frank a nasty look and mumbled. It sounded like he said he had something important to do, but he swallowed his words.
“Pardon?”
“I’m going out for cigarettes,” said Luis. Puzzled, Frank watched his uncle close the door behind him.
Frank walked down the hall and curled his hand around the bathroom doorknob. The bathroom was small and the floor needed a scrubbing. After stripping off his clothes, he stepped into the shower and turned the spigot to the thunder of rushing water. He adjusted the showerhead and let warm water drench his body. He lathered his skin with a sliver of Ivory soap left in the dish. The bar slipped out of his hand and floated in a couple inches of water at the bottom of the tub.
Floating objects always triggered bad memories in Frank. His throat constricted, as he thought about the thousands of Cubans— mothers, fathers, and children—who had died trying to escape Cuba. And for what? For one man’s insanity? He tried to push the images from his mind.
The building’s plumbing was showing its age. The pipes groaned and lurched, making the Formica walls bulge and vibrate. Frank rinsed his body and turned the faucet as tight as he could to minimize the drip, drip, drip that had yellowed the tub. He toweled his hair and stepped onto a ragged bath mat. It felt gritty beneath his feet.
With a bath towel around his waist, Frank walked to his room and plopped on the bed. The mattress was lumpy, and the box spring squeaked beneath him. He doubled his pillow under his head to boost its heft and stared at the ceiling. A motorcycle outside his window roared to life and screeched down the street.
A large horsefly banged against the window screen, desperate for freedom. Feeling the urgency of its struggle, Frank got up, pulled the screen, and released the insect from its torment. He reached for the small fan perched on a chair and switched on the toggle. Waves of cool air wafted over his body as he drifted off to sleep. He dreamt of marrying Magda.
Upon waking, Frank put on light pants and a blue summer shirt. He walked to the local deli, climbed a chrome counter stool, and ordered coffee. Men were leaning over each other’s shoulders, intent on reading an article in The Star-Ledger. Beneath the headline about twenty thousand more troops going to Vietnam was a story about Newark. Intrigued, Frank wished his English were better.
Frank turned to a burly Spanish-speaking man dressed in an undershirt and jeans. His face was weathered, and his eyes were watery blue. Frank had seen him at the deli before.
“What’s it say?” asked Frank.
“A bunch of niggers are out to kill people. If they want to act like animals, they should send them back to Africa. What’s it to you?”
The man skewered Frank with an incendiary stare. Frank stared back until the man looked away. It was hot. People were on edge. It was the kind of atmosphere where the smallest thing could spark a fight.
Frank glanced at the clock above the door and wondered what Luis had planned for the day. Despite the oppressive heat, he felt a chill. The hairs on the back of his neck rose to attention.
The burly man tossed the waitress a nickel for the paper and turned, leaving the stool spinning behind him. A bell tinkled as he left the store. The other men returned to their seats and gazed into their coffee cups.
The entire day an air of apprehension hung over Union City like boiled smog. Rumors circulated that looting had escalated in Newark and an angry mob had attacked the police station with bricks and Molotov cocktails.
When Frank got back to his room, Luis was there, agitated, and pacing the floor like a panther. “What if all of Newark burns down?” he asked. His tone bordered on desperation. “What if no one can get in or out?”
Frank shook his head in consternation. “What’s got you so worried? It’s not like it’s happening here. At least not yet.”
Luis said something Frank couldn’t decipher. Then he grabbed his cigarettes and walked out the door.
First thing Friday morning, Frank visited the local newsstand. The line to buy newspapers was longer than usual, and he felt lucky to get one of the last Star-Ledgers. On the front page was a picture of a police officer examining a patrol car with a trashcan embedded in its rear window. Another picture showed a policeman barricaded behind a grate once used to protect a pawnshop.
After handing the vendor some change, Frank folded the newspaper beneath his arm. He hurried to Marcos’s house, more aware than usual of his surroundings.
He knocked on the door and waited for Marcos to roll his wheelchair into a position where he could open it.
Marcos smiled when he saw Frank. “Hey, man, what’s up?”
“I was hoping you could help me.” Spreading the newspaper on his kitchen table, Frank pointed to the article about Newark.
“What’s it say?”
Marcos scanned the article and glanced up at Frank. He addressed him in Spanish.
“It’s bad.”
“Go on”.
“The coloreds are burning and looting stores in Newark. They’re wrecking people’s houses, beating up white folk, and smashing windows with bricks.”
“Christ almighty.”
“A bunch of stores are on fire.”
“They’re torching stores?” Marcos nodded.
“Has this ever happened before?”
“Not that I know of, but there’s a first for everything.”
“Thanks for your time,” said Frank.
Luis was slumped in a chair, his face white as rice, when Frank got back to the room. As soon as he closed the door, Luis said, “We’ve got to talk.”
; With his elbows perched on his knees, Luis raked his fingers through his hair. He didn’t even look at Frank.
“I have to go to Newark tonight,” he said.
Frank shook his head and took a deep breath. “What? Why?”
“I’ve got to see somebody—it’s business.”
“Business, my ass!” Frank knew where this conversation was headed, and he wanted no part of it.
“I need you, Frank. I can’t go there alone. Not with the riots and all.”
“You shouldn’t go there at all. Nobody should. Besides, the police must’ve cordoned off the city by now.”
Luis looked distraught. “I thought of that,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “It’s just that—”
“Jesus effing Christ! People are burning down buildings, smashing storefronts with bats. What’s so damn important that you need to go there? We could get killed!”
Luis shot Frank an imploring look. “I could get killed if I don’t go there tonight.”
Frank shook his head, working to control his disgust and rage. “So what is it, Luis? What’s so important that you have to risk your life to go to Newark? What are you into—drugs, numbers?”
Luis opened his mouth, but Frank raised his hand to stop him. “Don’t tell me. The less I know about your ‘business,’ the better off we’ll both be.”
Luis drew a finger to his mouth and liberated a hangnail with his teeth. A drop of blood formed at the corner of his nail.
“I’m sorry. I wouldn’t ask you this if I didn’t need—”
“This is insanity!”
“I know. But I need backup. You’re the only one I can count on.”
Looking at Luis, Frank expelled a breath. His uncle moved his hands over each other like he was rinsing soap. Frank had seen him exhibit that nervous habit before.
“What about all of those buddies of yours, the ones who hang out here whenever they feel like, drinking whiskey and beer and doing God knows what else?”
“They’re not like you. You were in the army. You know how to fight. Besides, you owe me one.”
Frank shifted his body and clenched his fists as blood rushed to the surface of his skin. In fact, he did owe Luis one—probably more than one. There was no denying it.
Luis’s statement hung in the air like a hooked fish. Frank hesitated, considering the situation. He didn’t like the sound of it. God only knew what they’d be getting themselves into. This was very dicey business. On the other hand, Luis was family, and he’d been there when Frank needed him.
Luis stared out the window, his shoulders hunched, his hands roving the air in front of him. When he turned around, he said in a ragged voice, “Are you going to help me or not?”
Suddenly the air seemed listless. Frank frowned, wishing the whole situation would go away. He rubbed his forehead with his fingertips.
“All right,” he said. “You’re right. I do owe you one. But I’m only doing this once. It makes us even. Don’t ever ask me to do anything like this again. Do you understand?”
Luis nodded.
“What time do you need to go?” asked Frank.
“I need to meet someone at ten tonight.” Luis looked at his nephew and said, “You are saving my ass here, Frank.”
“All right. We’ll leave around nine. When we get there, conduct your business, but don’t hurt anybody, you hear?” Frank walked toward the door. “I’ve got to call my boss about not coming to work.”
Luis offered Frank a wan smile. Frank left, hoping they’d survive the night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Just after nine p.m., Frank left his room to wait on the front stoop for his uncle. His stomach felt queasy and a headache was in full bloom. He had just sat down when Luis pulled up to the curb in a red Ford Mustang. He turned off the car and got out, his right arm outstretched, a key ring dangling from his forefinger. A gold chain circled his neck and a broad smile lit his face. His mood had changed considerably since that morning, and Frank could see why.
“Hop in,” said Luis, handing Frank the keys. “I want you to drive. Enjoy yourself! Get a feel for what a new car is like.”
“Are you crazy? You’re taking this thing to Newark? You might as well just paint a target on our backs.”
Luis laughed. “Where’s your sense of adventure? You’ve done more dangerous things than this. Loosen up. Have some fun!”
“I’ve done more dangerous things. But I didn’t do them for fun. Whose car is this anyway?”
“Whose car do you think it is? Don’t be such a worrywart. Just get in—relax.”
Frank opened the door and settled himself into the driver’s seat. It was a beautiful car. He let out a whistle while patting the dashboard. “Impressive!” he said, looking around. He beeped the horn and turned the lights on and off.
“Yeah,” said Luis. “Power steering, power brakes, dual exhausts— the works.”
“Amazing! How much was it?”
Luis jabbed Frank playfully on his shoulder. “It doesn’t matter, Frank. If you’re in the right business, things practically pay for themselves.”
“Uh-huh,” said Frank.
“You could have one, too, if you stopped wasting your time working in that stupid factory.”
“Don’t start, Luis.”
“Yeah, well, it don’t pay the bills. Not like this, eh, Frankie?” Frank released the emergency brake, annoyed.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“To a candy store next to Universal Shoes, just up from Springfield Avenue and Bergen Street.”
“I’ve never been to Newark. I have no idea where that is. Is it anywhere near the riots?”
Luis looked chagrined. “Pretty close,” he said. “I’ll direct you as we go along.”
“Why in God’s name are we going there?”
“An old lady does business outta there.”
“Out of a candy store?”
“Yeah.”
“How old is she?”
“Must be pushin’ eighty.”
Frank shook his head.
“Is there anywhere else you have to go?”
“I have to meet someone at—” Luis looked up, thinking.
“Where?”
“I forget the name of the street. I’ll know it when I see it.”
“That’s just great! We’re driving into a goddamn riot, and you don’t even know where we’re going?”
Luis grumbled, “I told you, I’ll know it when I see it.” He settled back in his seat, looked out the open window, and unwrapped a stick of Doublemint gum. He stretched the wrapper, licked the inside clean of sugar dust, wadded it into a ball, and threw it out the window.
Frank turned the key and the motor jumped to a roar. He put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb. They sped along the highway with the windows down, the breeze caressing their faces.
“What do you think of the car?” asked Luis.
“Nice—real nice. Where did you get it?”
“None of your damn business where I got it.”
“Is it yours? Do you own it?”
“Damn straight.”
“All right, I can see I’m not going to get any answers out of you. At least nothing truthful.”
Frank drove as far as he thought was safe and then parked the car on the side of the road. Luis spit out his gum and lit a cigarette. They started out on foot. The night was one of egg-frying heat, the kind that causes nerves to fray and tempers to rise. A sallow haze hugged the horizon, evidence of the number of stores ablaze. Frank wiped a line of sweat from his forehead, trying to ignore the fear clawing his stomach.
“It doesn’t look good. Are you sure you have to conduct this ‘business’ of yours?”
“It’ll be okay,” said Luis, a crack in his voice betraying his words. “We’ll get in and out fast.”
Frank found his pronouncement less than comforting. They walked along a broken pavement blighted with refuse. A chain-link fence topped with a whorl of raz
or wire lay crushed on the sidewalk.
As they got closer, the city looked like a war zone. It was theater of the extreme, a freewheeling carnival of hate and greed. Nothing was normal. No vestige of civilization remained in sight.
Black-and-white police cars were parked at jaunty angles to protect firemen wielding hoses. Streams of water rose high into the air, creating a mist so thick it was like strolling through a sponge. Flames licked the sides of buildings like dragon’s breath. People were hollering and elbowing each other, jockeying for position to loot. Frank and Luis had never seen anything like it.
Police flashers broke the cloak of darkness, reddening puddles that reflected the grimness of the scene. Thick ash stung their lungs. They buried their noses in their forearms, trying to avoid the soot that was ringing their nostrils.
People staggered about looking dazed and confused. Old men with canes shuffled along the sidewalk, shaking their heads in disbelief. A young woman walked by clutching her child in one hand and her meager belongings in the other. Frank knew instantly that the fires had left her homeless. He looked into her panicked eyes and reached out to steady her. But she stepped away, ducking her head in fear.
Looters were everywhere, some as serious as sledgehammers, others giddy with glee. It was as if the entire city had been granted a license to steal. A bare-chested teenager hurled a trashcan through a store window. The sound was deafening. A shower of plate glass fell like hail on the sidewalk, splintering into a thousand pieces. Frank could almost visualize molecular bonds being shattered. He stepped back, shielding his eyes as shards of glass crunched beneath his feet.
The interiors of multistoried buildings gaped empty, riot-shredded shells mocking hope. Some merchants had painted “Soul Bro” on the faces of their buildings in a futile attempt to thwart looting.
Frank looked to his right to see a young man—no more than thirteen—stumble under the weight of a console television set. He was biting his lip, his forehead oozing sweat. He weaved across a sidewalk tangled with dented appliances and clothes still clinging to hangers. Someone pushed him, and he dropped the TV on his foot. A police siren swallowed his screams.