by Nina Siegal
“Can’t you read it?” he asked. “It says Stain 149.”
I couldn’t read it. I stared blankly, feeling like a guest at a pool party who doesn’t swim.
Kamal laughed.
“Look,” he said, raising his finger and tracing the shapes of the letters in the air. “There’s the S, which is sort of coming at us. See, the top is bigger than the bottom, and the bottom sort of has the feet, in the distance.”
Now, I could see what he meant. Yes, there was an S. I nodded.
“And see the T is wrapped around the leg of the S, and its squiggle is kicking up dust into the A. Right?”
Put that way, I could see it. Sure I could. Then the other letters coalesced. Sure, I could read it—Stain, all twisted and tilted, dancing out into space. The letters had life then. They had motion. “Cool,” I said. “You do this stuff?”
“Sometimes,” he said. “But I’m trying to be a journalist. Like you.”
“Oh, well, maybe I can…I could help.”
“I’ll introduce you to Bigs Cru.” Kamal led me through the crowd and as he went he pointed out other paintings. “That one was done by Mosco—he’s a Mexican graff king. Over there you got Crash and Daze. They came down on Monday night. That’s Zephyr.”
I was happily getting a dose of subculture, nodding and sipping my orangeade, when we passed a group of women and I overheard one of them saying, “Amenia is heartbroken about that story.”
“You really expect that paper to get things right about our community?” another woman answered. “When was the last time you saw a reporter up here unless it was a fire or a murder? Did they write about anything that’s positive? Why should we expect anything they print…”
Kamal pushed farther into the crowd, weaving fast, and I didn’t want to lose him.
“S’up, Smudgy?” someone said to Kamal. I turned to see a good-looking man in his early forties with a high forehead, a gold canine, and a pair of wide gold-framed glasses. He reached for Kamal and pulled him into a tight hug. “We got a wall,” he said. “Diaz Pizzeria on Two Hundred Seventh, the whole side of the building. You think Amenia and your auntie would be okay with that?”
“Sure,” Kamal said. “Anywhere.”
Kamal made introductions. There were three members of the Cru: the tall one, named Wicked Rick; a shorter, rounder, soft-spoken one named Clu, who took my hand with a formal, “Pleased to make your acquaintance”; and a third named Rx. He was seated in a folding chair next to the window, and he tipped his cap.
“Rx? Like prescription?” I asked.
“Raw Excellence,” he said.
Kamal explained to them that I was looking for Cabeza. They looked at one another, as if each of them thought the other had seen him, but none of them had seen him himself. No one seemed to want to offer anything. “I’m a journalist,” I said, hoping this would make a difference. “I thought I’d write about Stain,” I added, trying it on for size.
“Oh, I see,” said Rx from the folding chair, his sunglasses slung across the bridge of his nose. He was sucking on a toothpick. “Man’s got to die so they put him in print. What about all the times he tried to get press for his art studios for kids? How come you didn’t come up here then?”
Wicked Rick waved the air, clearing Rx’s words. “Don’t mind him. Cabeza’s around here somewhere.”
Rx started moving the zipper on his velour running suit, playing peek-a-boo with a patch of chest hair. “What you going to write about Stain?” he asked. “You going to talk about anything other than 1983, ’84, ’85?” He counted the dates off on his fingers.
Wicked Rick scowled at Rx, but Clu moved closer and gazed at me earnestly to see how I’d answer. He seemed shy and low on words, but he must’ve said something someone didn’t like once, because he had a pink scar that started at his jaw and ran all the way to his ear. I moved my orangeade from one hand to the other. “I thought I’d look at his influence on the community here.” It sounded like what they might want to hear. “He was a great inspiration to the young people.”
Rx slid lower in his chair, the toothpick tipping so it arched his upper lip. “Yeah,” he said. “I thought so. A nice light feature, huh? So his murderer gets off scot-free, and his art goes missing. You reporters are whack.”
“Yo, Rx, step off,” said Wicked Rick. “She’s a guest.”
Rx looked at Rick, then at me, and bent down to polish his sneakers. Then he sat back up again. “You’re not from that paper, are you? The one that wrote that lie about Stain killing himself? Did they send you up here to make nice?”
I stammered out something like “Nobody sent me. I came up because I care about…” I kept talking after that but I don’t think my words resembled a sentence. I tried to get a final slug of my orangeade but there was only a drop. Then everything slowed down. The shapes in the room began to sway back and forth, leaving a kind of rippling wake.
“I’m sorry,” I said to Wicked Rick and Kamal. “I shouldn’t be here, I…” I wobbled on my feet and took a step back. But I knocked into a big woman wearing a flower-topped hat, knocking it right off her head. “Oh, my, let me get that,” I said, stooping to pick up the hat. I bent down but I didn’t feel like coming back up. I felt myself losing my footing and there was nothing I could do about it. Everything in my body went limp, as if I’d been resisting collapse and now it was imminent. Next thing I knew, I was sprawled out on the floor clutching a huge Sunday church hat.
When I came to, I lay there for a while, watching the shapes move above me, eyes looking down at me. I didn’t try to get up. It was weirdly comforting to be on the floor. Maybe I’d stay a while. People could just walk right over me if I was in the way.
An arm reached down to take my hand. It was a muscular arm at the top of which was a white shirtsleeve. I looked up to see the rest of the shirt, a Cuban guayabera with embroidered stitching running up a broad chest under a gray jacket. On my way up from the floor I noticed the gray pleated slacks. Then I saw a narrow-rimmed white Havana hat with a brown ribbon encircling the crown.
“Aqui linda,” he said, his voice smoky and dark. “¿Tienes dolor?”
I knew in an instant. It was the voice from the phone, the voice in my head.
Then I was on my feet. Before me stood a man of sharp good looks, angular features, and a square chin, with a brush of stubble and a rush of black hair speckled at the temples with gray. His shoulders were broad enough to carry a trunk, but he wasn’t the sort of man who hauled much of anything. His hands were elegant, but not too small to grab hold of a woman and steady her.
My thought: Robert Mitchum in Out of the Past, one of my favorite noirs. Mitchum plays a former private dick who’s tried to leave his sleuthing days—and a gorgeous, lethal Jane Greer—behind. But he can’t escape his past. I opened my lips to talk, but all that came out was a croak. He put a hand on my lower back. It felt warm there. “Do you need to sit down?”
The members of Bigs Cru were around me, Clu and Wicked Rick each with a hand on my shoulder. Rx stood a little bit back, squinting at me. If I hadn’t just fallen, he’d have been saying something about what he thought of me, and not softly. I tried to catch my breath, but I was wheezing. Kamal ran and came back with a cup of water. I drank it down, wishing I could drown myself in it.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Really, I’m fine. I just need a little fresh air.”
I pulled away from the group of men and backed slowly toward the door. Wicked Rick took a few steps forward, and I said, “I’m okay, really. I’ll be right back.”
I weaved through the crowd back to the stairs. Still dizzy and uneasy on my feet, I descended, my calves buckling. I slipped twice and crashed my kneecaps on the sharp edges of the steps. You’ve done this before, I told myself, you’ve done this since age one. Just put one foot in front of the other and walk.
I was afraid that Rx would follow. I was afraid Kamal would follow. They’d want answers. I wouldn’t have answers. Please forgive me, I’d sa
y. But they wouldn’t. Please don’t tell on me. But I didn’t deserve their mercy.
At the bottom of the stairwell, I pushed through another heavy door, out into the night. The more I thought about it, the more I realized it wouldn’t be Rx or Kamal or any of the others. It would be Cabeza.
Outside, the air was dense and punishing. Behind a black cloud, the moon glowered. Someone stepped out of a dimmed doughnut shop, backing into me. I started. He produced a bracelet of keys, jangling them benevolently. I jogged across the street, clutching my dress. My heart was pulsing in my throat; my nape was wet with sweat. Behind me, something crashed and I jumped. It was the doughnut shop’s gate.
I told myself to take it easy, but my feet kept moving. I was walking in the street, avoiding the darkened stoops. A battered gypsy cab zipped behind me, flashing its lights. I didn’t know what it wanted from me.
The light was red at Bruckner Boulevard. I’d have to wait to cross back over those thousands of lanes. The traffic was warfare; cars flew by like bullets, trucks were mortar shells. A step off the curb could mean a sedan in my spine. I looked back again, expecting to see Cabeza, his shadow looming long across the macadam. He wasn’t there yet. Not yet. But he’d be coming.
9
Dicey Intersection
I didn’t flinch when I felt his hand on the back of my arm or heard his voice just behind my ear, “Cuidate. This is a dicey intersection.” I didn’t turn around, because I already knew what was there. White guayabera, pressed gray slacks, brown-ribboned Havana hat. He was close enough that I could smell the breath on his caipirinha.
“Don’t worry about me,” I said. “I can manage.”
“Of course you can,” he answered, hot against my ear. “But it’s unfortunate you left the memorial. Some people would very much like to talk to you.”
“I know who you are,” I said. “I know what you want. I’ve paid my respects to Mr. Wallace. I think it’s time I get home.”
I saw him out of the corner of my eye. The shadows of the expressway slashed his face in slices of dark and light. The brim of his Havana hat obscured his brow. I saw the whites of his eyes and the pearl of his teeth. It was a Richard Widmark close-up straight out of Kiss of Death.
“I don’t blame you for that story. The police thought it was a suicide, open and shut. You have no reason to think the cops would lie to you. These people up here think different. All you need to do is explain how you came to your conclusion.”
His grip was firm but not vigorous. Suggesting, not insisting. At that moment, I could’ve done as he said. I could’ve tried to explain myself to the grieving folks back in that room. But I wouldn’t be able to, because I had no excuse. I didn’t have the facts. I didn’t have the word of the cops to substantiate my story. I couldn’t fall back on a sterling reputation. Not even the name of The Paper seemed like a worthy defense.
There was nowhere to turn except deeper into fiction. I thought of Barbara Stanwyck and Gloria Grahame. Their characters always played ruthlessly and they played smart, and they made it out alive—well, mostly. I figured I could try a few of their best lines. I’d placed my silver letter opener in my purse earlier in the day, just in case. Maybe I could use it now, just as Barb might use her compact pistol, to crack some space between us.
I twisted fast and turned to face Cabeza. I pressed myself against him, to let him know my curves. I threw my head back and kissed my knuckles, then bit my nails. I’d seen these gestures used to great effect.
“You’ve got to help me, you’ve got to,” I said, trying on Mary Astor in the Maltese Falcon. “I’m in a terrible bind. I can’t explain everything. And even if I did, you’d never believe me. I’m so mixed up; don’t you see? If I could fix this, I would. I’d do anything, anything. But you must believe me. It will only make matters worse. I know it doesn’t make any sense. I know. But I’ve got no one else to turn to. And you’re my only hope. You must believe me. You must. If you don’t believe me—”
Cabeza’s eyes gleamed. “What’s this all about?”
I pressed myself closer and put a hand on his chest. At the same time, I slipped my free hand into my purse and felt around for the letter opener. I didn’t want to hurt Cabeza, just hold him off once he’d gotten wise to my damsel in distress act.
“There, there,” he said. “There’s no need to be upset, really. There could be another way around this.”
My fingers twitched against the lining of my purse, and I turned to give him a bit of my thigh. I was having trouble getting the handle of the letter opener in a businesslike grip. “I never meant to hurt anyone, I…I…The cops told me one thing, the editors wanted something else. I didn’t know how I would make the story work, but I couldn’t do anything, I…”
He was putting his hand through my hair now, shushing me. “It’s okay, don’t worry. Don’t worry, really.” His face was getting closer to mine, his lips parting. My hand was on the handle. Now was the time to act. I intended to jerk the silver blade out of the purse. Then I realized I couldn’t go through with it. It was absurd. It was high melodrama, camp. I moved my arm to release the blade, and that’s when he felt my hand jerk.
“Whoa,” he said. “What’s going…” He grabbed my wrist and held it tight, pulling it out of the purse, and there in my hand was the letter opener. “What have you got there?” he said, taking a step back.
I looked at the letter opener as if I’d never seen it before and I dropped it. It pinged against the pavement. Cabeza looked down and laughed. “What is that?” he said. “A butter knife?” He steadied me against his hip and reached down to pick it up. He held it up to the streetlight and it glinted. “What were you going to do with that,” he said, chuckling, “butter me to death?”
I tried to say something. All that came out was “I…no…I’m just so…”
“I’m really amazed at you,” he said. “Even a little impressed. That was a cute act, and I almost bought it. But I didn’t expect this.”
I buried my face in his chest. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t know how to do anything, I’m such a failure. I can’t get a single thing right. Those people back there in that room must hate me. And they have every right to hate me. I’m horrible. Ridiculous. I’ve never been any use to anybody.”
“Listen, what is all this silliness?” he said. “I don’t really understand the game we’re playing out here, or what kind of scenario you’ve concocted in your head for me next, but I’m perfectly willing to be reasonable, and I certainly didn’t mean to harm you or intimidate you or make you afraid. You didn’t need to go to all that trouble. We really should just talk. I think that would be best.”
His voice was level, compassionate. He wasn’t threatening me. He was reassuring. Soothing. But I was ashamed of myself, and I couldn’t find the words to tell him how sorry I felt. It was true that I wanted to fix what I’d broken, but I didn’t know how to fix anything. I wanted to fold up and disappear.
“Linda, are you hearing me? I really think that if you were willing to talk a little, we could work something out,” Cabeza continued.
It was so pathetic, all so pathetic, and all I could do was just cry. I wanted him to let go of me and let me fall down right there in the gutter, where I belonged. I didn’t have the will even to stand anymore.
He held me still in the crook of his arm. “Hey, there,” he said. “You okay?”
“I…I’m sorry,” I muttered. “Can’t you just let me? Leave me?”
Cabeza just held on, and his arms were strong. His chest was warm. “What is this all about, linda?” he asked, softly. “You can’t tell me?”
There was a white flash in the sky and a simultaneous blast of thunder, then a downpour. Within moments, we were both drenched. Cabeza urged me to move, but I didn’t want to go anywhere. Nothing better than crying in the rain. Cabeza encouraged me to walk and I said, “I can’t, I can’t.” My face, I realized, was smeared with tears, and I was soaked.
&
nbsp; Cabeza drew me under his Havana hat, into his chest. I smelled his caipirinha breath again and the tart scent of his sweat, peppery, vinegary musk. His voice was tender. “Come on, now. We can’t stay here.” He put his jacket over my shoulders and guided me across Bruckner Boulevard.
In the dusty glow of a streetlight on the other side, he hailed us a gypsy cab, and when it sloshed to a stop in the puddle next to us, he bundled me through the door.
The M&G Diner is a twenty-four-hour greasy spoon on the corner of 125th Street and Morningside in Harlem. The hot pink neon out front reads OLD FASHION’ BUT GOOD. Inside, it’s a well-lit room behind high, greased-up windows, with a linoleum floor and orange Formica tabletops. There’s an L-shaped counter where you have to sit if you’re solo, no matter what time of night, no matter how empty. We’d been offered the counter at the door and Cabeza had answered, “No thanks. We’re together.”
There isn’t anything to smell at the M&G except sizzling batter in the deep fryer and fresh-made black coffee and sweet potatoes baking and short ribs smoking on the grill. There isn’t much to hear except the sway and groan of R & B from the jukebox by the window. Cabeza had plugged coins in the slot and now the juke was playing Al Green’s “Look What You Done for Me.”
Before me sat a red-rimmed white plate covered with orange candied yams, a hunk of golden fried chicken, and two half-eaten yellow muffins. I was still wearing Cabeza’s jacket and I had dried my hair a little using the hand dryer in the cramped bathroom. He was still damp, but he didn’t seem upset. Between his thumb and forefinger was a fried chicken thigh, suspended over a plate of Belgian waffles.
On the way downtown, the storm had hammered the roof and I’d watched Cabeza in the light of the passing streetlights. The shadows of the rain-streaked window played against his cheeks like Robert Blake’s Perry in In Cold Blood, just before he’s hanged. Cabeza hadn’t looked at me in the car. He’d just kept a hand on my forearm and let me cry it out, not asking anything, not talking, just giving me a tissue to pat my face.