Cuba had also brought a chess set with him. His father had taught him to play, and he wondered if I’d play with him. I knew that this visit and the chess set could only have been Ramón’s idea, but I didn’t care. I played him for pennies, and I beat him ten games straight and even when I began without a queen and let him take back any move, I still didn’t have much trouble with his game.
He left at dinnertime and said he’d come tomorrow with chicken, and as he was edging out the door he asked if it might be ok for Ramón to come by later that night.
In the army, a big thing you must have is patience. There’s so much shit, you have to be the patient boy who plows through it. Cuba had sat with me the whole day and never once mentioned his real reason for coming. You had to admire that.
You know what, Cuba? I think you’ll do really well in the marines, I said.
Thanks, man, he said.
We looked at each other awkwardly. He was embarrassed.
So, uh, Michael, is it ok if Ramón comes over tonight? He doesn’t want to put you out or anything, he doesn’t know how you feel after, uh, you know, killing your friend.
How does he know I killed Bob? I asked.
Ramón, man, he knows a lot. Somebody saw you ditch the gun. Why would you ditch a gun? You know. And then Ramón read it out to us from Newsday. He says, he says, uh, anyway…
What does he say? I asked.
I don’t know if I’m supposed to tell you.
Did Ramón tell you not to say anything?
No, he didn’t say nothing, but I don’t know if I’m supposed to tell you anyway.
Tell me what he said, I insisted. Cuba was kicking himself for opening his mouth. He was standing in the door and wanted to go. I went over and tugged him back into the apartment. Not violently, but still. I looked at him.
Cuba, sit down a minute, I said.
He sat. He wasn’t now putting up any serious resistance. He just wanted to placate his conscience that at least he’d bloody tried.
Well, ok. Ramón said that this proved you were the man he thought you were and you’d take care of Blanco and all the rest. We’d see. Ramón says that’s how you’ll kill them. One by one. Take them out. He says by New Year we’ll have Broadway from North Harlem to Inwood. Blanco will be dead. He didn’t say it all like that. Uh. But he did say it. Anyway, I don’t know, man. I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t know, man. Did you kill that guy?
I nodded.
Cuba nodded too.
Was he your friend? Cuba asked.
He used to be, I said.
Ok, man, I better go. I bring you chicken tomorrow, if you want.
I nodded again, and he left and I went back to the futon and sat there and waited. Only half an hour later, there came a knock at the door. I went over and opened it.
It was Ramón. He was wearing Air Jordans, black cotton trousers, and a blue polo shirt that was really a size too small for him. He had on a gold chain engraved with his name and a black jacket. His hand was out, I shook it, and we retired to the kitchen table. It was dark and the lights were on over New Jersey and the George Washington Bridge. The fog had gone, and I thought that this was a pity.
Ramón had brought a bottle of Bushmills.
Irish whiskey, he said.
Ramón, thanks, but I’m not a big whiskey drinker, I said, smiling, trying not to offend him. It wasn’t true, but Irish blended whiskeys weren’t my thing at all and on the rare times I took spirits it was only ever the peaty stuff from Jura or Islay. Ramón shrugged and reached in his pocket and gave me a cigar. It was a Cubano and he cut it and lit it for me. I drew it in and it almost knocked me off the stool at the kitchen table.
Fucksake, Ramón, is that spiked? I asked.
It’s just good, he said, and then he added: Don’t misunderstand, this isn’t a celebration. I’m not congratulating you. I’m glad you did what you did, but I know it’s your path and nothing to do with me.
Yeah.
But understand me, both our needs are the same, and I know that inadvertently you will be helping me. Please, then, don’t be upset if I would wish to help you.
I’m not upset, Ramón.
Ramón nodded and smiled thinly.
Look, pour me a drink anyway. No ice, I said.
Ramón poured us both a couple of full glasses, and we walked them over to the living-room window where we could look out and talk.
I’m not happy with you talking about me to your boys. They’re not you, Ramón, I can’t trust them, maybe Cuba and José, but not the others. I don’t want you talking about me to anyone, I said.
Ramón looked hurt and unhappy.
I’m sorry, Michael, it was a mistake. I had to tell them something, I didn’t want them to think that I was stupid to bring you in. They’re a jumpy crew all right, but I completely trust them, they’re family, cousins, second cousins, and I trust them. Don’t worry, none of them will talk.
Make sure they don’t, Ramón, I said, looking at him for a full half-minute.
It’s ok, he said.
Yeah? I wanted to be anonymous in this city, this wasn’t my fucking plan, to have dozens of fucking people … I trailed off and drank some of the whiskey.
You did very well, Michael. This isn’t the way I thought you’d start, but you did well, Ramón said.
How much do you know? I asked.
I know enough. I know that our paths will intersect here for a while and then you’ll go. I know that you’ll help me and that you’ll want nothing for that help. But I want to help you, Michael. Not for services rendered, for a job done. I want to give support now and I want to give you some money, so that when this is finished you can go anywhere you want.
Thanks.
Times are changing, Michael. You can feel it in the air. You’ll have to be smart to survive now. It’s all going to be new in the nineties now. You have it, I have it. Bill Clinton is that type of person too.
Who’s Bill Clinton?
Shit, Michael, what’s your problem? He’s the president-elect, Ramón said.
Of the United States?
He gave me a look. He wasn’t sure if I was bullshitting him or not.
We sat and drank our whiskeys for a while and looked out at the night. It was cold, and there was a wind making the windows vibrate in and out. For some reason, I was pissed off.
You know, I’m not your fucking lackey and I’m not your boy and it’s not fucking right going around telling your fucking Dominican blow-snorting, fucking hoodlum crew that I am your boy, ’cause I’m fucking not, ok?
Michael, I thought I—
Do you under-fucking-stand? I said loudly.
Yes, Ramón said, sadly.
He put his glass down and ran his fingers over his scalp. There was almost no hair there and the gesture must have come from when there was. It made no sense now. He took a breath. He was gearing up for a speech. I leaned back in the chair and relaxed.
Listen, Michael, I don’t know your background, but mine is not a cliché of the runaway child who comes to New York and becomes a dealer of cinco bags to his own community. My vision isn’t a hoodlum one. My uncle raised me, and he was an educated man. True, I did run wild for a while and by the time I was sixteen I knew I could make more money on the black market than I ever could in the legitimate economy. Smuggling, drugs. Drugs are a way in, a means to an end. Venture capital. That’s all. When I have enough, I’ll diversify: real estate, construction, you’ll see, it will be like Blanco.
We called him Darkey, I said, to interrupt his flow. I wasn’t in the mood to listen to this.
Why? Ramón asked.
Just a nickname.
Anyway, it will be like him, respected, laundered. I’ll have buildings. A landlord. I might run for assemblyman. I want to do good for the community here. I don’t know what you think of me, Michael, but I think of myself in good terms. Unselfish terms.
You’re selling fucking crack to desperate people.
Ramón w
inced and leaned back a little.
I’m explaining to you, it’s just a means to an end. You know what the Jesuits say, if the ends are just, the means are just.
Don’t kid yourself, Ramón.
I’m not kidding myself. I know my plans. I know that sometimes sacrifices have to be—
I knew people like you in the army. Attrition rates, acting all concerned. It’s bollocks.
You were in the army? Ramón asked, as if the information had thrown him a little.
Aye.
In Ireland?
No, in England.
They put you in?
I joined up.
Why?
Who the fuck cares? Listen. Don’t distract me. People like you, I mean, Jesus, talk the talk but—
Indulge me, Michael, for a minute. Why were you in the army if you didn’t have to be?
I don’t know. Drop it.
Something happened to you, Michael, Ramón said sadly.
Nothing happened to me.
Something happened to you.
Nothing happened to me. And it’s nothing to do with the fucking army.
Ramón smiled at this contradiction and shook his head.
It isn’t just that you are from Ireland. I won’t ever get to know you, Ramón said, not a question.
I shook my head.
I’ll never get to know you either, and to be honest, I don’t think I want to know, I replied.
Ramón laughed and went to get the whiskey bottle from the counter. The tension had eased.
Hey, Ramón, do me a favor, tell me about Dermot. He was the trial balloon, wasn’t he? It was you, wasn’t it? You talked him into crossing Darkey. Didn’t you?
Ramón came back and sat down and gave me another full glass. He thought for a second.
A bad business. That wasn’t just me. I will say I thought we could protect Dermot, I didn’t realize he’d be killed. It was a mistake.
You seen me then, didn’t you, Ramón? You’ve been stalking me. You’re like my ghost. I could have had all your coke, too. I mean, Jesus. It’s not on, Ramón. You fucking think you own me. You don’t own me.
Michael, I want you to think of me as a friend, he said, kindly, but I was spoiling for a fight.
You’re a fucking hypocrite, Ramón. You talk and talk but it’s all fucking bullshit. You’re a callous fucking monster. You think you’re so fucking smart, well, you’re not.
Ramón didn’t say anything. He hadn’t touched his glass. He sighed.
You look down, Michael. You’re a serious person, but perhaps you should relax more. I could send some girls over, if you want, he said, unhappily.
Girls. Christ, Ramón. Fuck. No … Actually, I could do with a girl. Any girl. Jesus. No. Jesus, this whiskey, getting to me. Cigar. Not used to it. It’s the time of year, Ramón. It’s not me or what’s happening. It’s the time of the year, do you understand?
Ramón looked a little concerned and shook his head. I was a bit drunk now, rambling.
See, it’s November, that’s all it is. November’s the worst month. January has all the optimism of the new year. February has Valentine’s. March is the start of spring. April to May are the pleasant months, you know. June to September is the summer. October has the leaves and Halloween. December has Christmas. But November has nothing. We don’t do Thanksgiving. See? We’ve Remembrance Day. Fucking riot, that is. I used to have to blow taps at it, depressing. Always freezing, bugle would go flat, nightmares. Horrible month. Horrible.
He nodded, but it was clear he didn’t know what I was talking about.
Maybe I could get you a glass of water, he said.
Fuck your water. Fuck your water and your fucking whiskey and your fucking cigars, Ramón, I screamed, and let the glass drop onto the floor. It didn’t break. I clutched my head and snarled at him.
What the fuck did you come over for? Fucking telling your boys I’m killing all these wankers for you. I’m killing nobody for you. Fucking liar, hypocrite. All your talk. Fucking hypocrite. You’re worse than Darkey; at least he doesn’t kid himself. Fancy plans, my arse.
Michael, wait—
Don’t ever talk about me, Ramón. Is that clear? How fucking dare you? Get the fuck out of here.
Ramón smiled. He wasn’t sure if I was pulling his leg or not. If I was being sarcastic or ironic against myself. He seemed uncomfortable.
I stood and yelled at him and told him to get the fuck out and leave me the fuck alone. My head was pounding. I wasn’t drunk. It was, as they say at AA, a moment of clarity. I picked up the whiskey bottle from the counter and threw it at the living-room window. The glass was thick and doubled-glazed and the bottle bounced harmlessly off and landed safely on the shag pile rug. My rage boiled over.
That is fucking it, I screamed, and went for him. I tripped, but I got a grip on his arm and bundled him to the ground. All of it came pouring out. Shovel, Dermot, Mexico, Big Bob. All of it. In howls, deflected blows. All of it, like a volcano.
Jesus Christ. Yells, punches, white light thumping between my temples.
So this was it, my breakdown at last. I screamed and spat. I tried to deck him, but he was strong and threw me off. I roared incoherently for a half a minute, grabbing at him, desperate to get purchase on his clothes and throw him through the glass coffee table. Ramón elbowed me in the throat, stood up, and put his hand on the inside of his jacket. He didn’t take out the piece, the threat was enough.
Aye, go ahead, do it, do it, I yelled at him, laughing.
Calm down, he said, backing off but keeping his hand there.
I looked at him and thought for a second about trying it on, going for him, but I didn’t.
I was exhausted.
We held the pose for half a minute.
Get out of my house. I don’t know what you fucking want from me. You’re a vampire. That’s what you are. And don’t send Cuba over either, I said.
Michael, really, I don’t know how you got so upset, if I said any—
Are you deaf? Get the fuck out, I said wearily.
Ramón opened the door and went out and closed it gently behind him.
Bastards, I said, and for a while I kneeled there, expecting tears, but even when I forced it, none came.
I stayed in bed the next day and most of the next. No one came to see me. Cuba didn’t bring his chicken. I didn’t read. I didn’t do anything. I drank brown water from the tap.
Finally I got up and went to a restaurant on Broadway and 189th Street. The menu was entirely in Spanish, and I ordered something that seemed like a stew and when it came it was tripe soup with bits of what looked like embryo in it. I couldn’t start on it and left the cash and got up, but the waiter was affronted and wanted to give me something I would like, and since I was the only customer the cook came out, urged me to try the soup. I tried to explain the biblical prohibitions, but he was unfamiliar with them and any form of English I could recognize, so things went badly. The guys were only being nice and wanted to feed me, but I was a wanker and pissed them off and the word puta got raised and I left and on the way home picked up some Dominican cakes instead.
That night I got a six-pack of Corona and plugged the TV in and flipped through the channels. There wasn’t anything good, really, if you discounted cable access. I saw somewhere that there was trouble in Ireland, but that hardly counted as news.
I went to bed and got up the next morning and decided to go for a walk. I pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and a sweater and a black raincoat. I walked to the George Washington Bridge and found myself crossing over to the other side. About the middle I stopped and took a look down the Hudson towards the bottom of Manhattan. There was no one else crossing, although traffic was heavy coming over from New Jersey. I wondered what the time was and could only guess at about seven or eight. Had the clocks been put back yet? Did they do that here? They put them forward in the spring, so I suppose they went back in the autumn.
The area on the far side of the GWB w
as dreary and uninteresting. I explored it for a little while, and at a bakery I got some choux pastry stuffed with custard. It was quite good. They did coffee there too, so I had a cup, but it was so weak and nasty that it wiped out the taste of the good custard thing.
I wandered back in the direction of the bridge and found myself trying to figure out how you got down to the wooded area that I’d looked at so many times from my apartment window. I took a few turns and found a tiny sign pointing to Palisades Park, which seemed to be the spot I was looking for. From my side of the river it seemed an interesting and perhaps beautiful place, with cliffs and trees tumbling down to the water. Of course, now the trees had given up much of their cover, but perhaps it would still be nice. I took a road that was wending its way downward, and before I really knew it, I was in the middle of the forest and deep somewhere under the bridge. It was like that story of the troll and the Billy Goats Gruff.
The men had been tailing me since at least the bakery and probably all the way over from Manhattan. They had been in a blue car but now they’d parked it up the road and were on foot. They were keeping well behind, but I could tell there were two of them, both pretty heavy guys. I imagine they’d picked me up outside the apartment building and followed me onto the bridge, but because of the traffic, they couldn’t have gone at walking pace, so they must have made the decision to drive over and wait for me; hoping, I suppose, that I wasn’t going to stop halfway and turn back. If I had at rush hour, I would have lost them, but they’d gotten lucky and they were now behind me on the road, a good bit back, so it wasn’t life and death just yet.
Dead I Well May Be Page 28