Chinatown Angel

by A. E. Roman

  “I’ll tell it,” I said. “But I need you to hang back until I say when.”

  “Of course, my brother,” said Nicky and slapped my shoulder and smiled big. “I’m all about hanging back.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  At the Universe Diner on West 57th Street, we sat in a booth, in suits and ties, under a wall mural—a cartoon version of the universe. Painted on the tabletop were cartoon men, in spacesuits, floating above the blue earth outside their ships as planets blazed pink and red in the distance.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  Albert grinned at me. “Sex happened.”

  “Just sex?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Tiffany is a free spirit. You can’t take her seriously. She’s not Olga.”

  “Do you love Olga?”

  He hesitated. “I do.” Then, “She’s nuts about me. Or just nuts.”

  He laughed uneasily. I said, “Was it worth it?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “If you had told me what was going on from the start, Albert. Maybe, I could have helped you. Not been so paranoid. Don’t let my failed marriage fool you. Chico knows love.”

  Albert gave me a tiny smile.

  My ideas about Albert were in a tangle—what to say and how to say it, what to share and what to keep.

  I heard shouting and laughter coming from another table, voices of young girls and boys.

  “Just wait,” Albert said. “They’ll see.”

  Albert crossed his short legs, revealing dark dress socks in black dress shoes. “We didn’t mean to do it,” he said. “Tiffany’s excuse is that she’s young and didn’t know any better.”

  “What’s your excuse?”

  “Stupidity.”

  “And now you’re back together with Olga?”

  “Olga called me last week,” said Albert. “She made a good case. We’re negotiating.”

  “What did you think Olga was telling me?”

  He paused. “I thought she was telling you about Tiffany,” he said. “I wanted to tell you myself, Chico. But if Marcos or Olga found out about me and Tiffany, I was afraid my film would’ve been flushed down the toilet. I hated lying to you.”

  “What happened with Benjamin Rivera?”

  “I don’t know what happened,” Albert said. “Irving says he killed Benjamin because of Tiffany. Says Benjamin molested Tiffany. I never heard that. Even Tiffany says it’s not true. She says Benjamin never touched her. Says it never happened.”

  “Do you know about Olga being molested by Benjamin?”

  “I didn’t,” he said. “I do now. She told me.”

  “What about Irving’s stories and the surveillance tape?”

  “I never saw any stories or tapes,” he said. “The only thing I was hiding was Tiffany.”

  “Olga says that Irving’s fate is in his hands,” I said. “She didn’t quite admit that he was innocent but almost.”

  “Let it go, Chico,” said Albert.

  Enormous gobs of awkward silence.

  “So,” I said. “Now that everybody knows about Tiffany, isn’t your film still in danger?”

  “No,” said Albert. “We all made a deal. It’s over with me and Tiffany. Atlas is appeased. Olga’s satisfied. Tiffany knows it was just sex. Everything’s not cool again exactly but it’s bearable. Work in progress.”

  I tossed a gleam of doubt into my eyes and beamed it at Albert.

  The waiter brought a cheeseburger with fries and a Coke for Albert and waffles with syrup and coffee for me.

  “Diabetes, here I come,” said Albert as I poured my syrup on the big stack.

  “Man who lives in clogged heart,” I said, pointing at his cheeseburger and fries. “Shouldn’t throw gallstones.”

  Albert sank back on his chair exhausted.

  “You can talk to me, Albert. I know I started this as a P.I. But I’m your friend. You say everything’s okay but you don’t look okay.”

  “I—”

  Albert stopped short, as though his voice had failed him.

  Then he picked up his soda, drank, and cleared his throat. His chin began to twitch and he slammed his fist down on the crotch of the cartoon astronaut.

  Albert was about to spill his guts about something but stopped himself.

  “I’m good again, Chico. I swear.”

  “Yeah.” I grabbed a fry, chewed, and said, with my mouth full, “You look it.”

  That’s when I saw Nicky march into the diner. He was wearing a black suit, white shirt, no tie. Willow Mankiller Johnson entered and stood at his side, wearing a blue winter coat. A black cowboy hat perched on her head.

  “Nicky!” I waved. Nicky waved back and approached our table.

  Albert turned his head. “Is that Nicky Brown?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. What the hell was Nicky up to? This isn’t what I’d call hanging back. But Nicky Brown was a force of nature. You didn’t tell the wind which way to blow. It just blew, as far and as wide as it wanted.

  As Nicky came toward our table, Willow pulled open her coat. She had on a dark blue dress, close and tight to her reddish brown body.

  “Albert Garcia,” Nicky said, holding Willow’s hand. “This is my lady. Willow Johnson. We’re getting married.”

  “Congrats.”

  Willow put out her hand. “I’m sorry about your friend.”

  Albert stared at Nicky for a minute, jumped up and hugged Nicky with a “good to see ya, long long time, bro.”

  I looked out the window of the diner and saw a gold Cadillac.

  Someone jumped out of the limousine and waved and it wasn’t Olga.

  “Marcos!” said Albert.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  We rode to St. John’s in the block-long Cadillac Olga had instructed Marcos to come pick us up in. I watched Atlas driving in his white Italian suit, gushing like a teenager in the Nicky Brown fan club. He wasn’t angry with Nicky about the incident with Oscar and Sal in my apartment; he complimented Nicky on his fighting skills, asked if he did any personal training and even tried to give Nicky his ten-thousand-dollar diamond watch.

  I looked back at Willow, who shook her head and rolled her eyes.

  Albert watched the road, totally changed now, looking like he wanted to machine-gun everybody in the limo.

  The church was filled with morning sunlight and tall stained glass windows. It smelled of incense and lilies. I saw mourners talking in little groups—wealthy friends of Olga’s parents, all wearing black with their funeral faces.

  The priest was near the coffin, his face long and thin, talking to some of the mourners. No one seemed to be listening to him; they either nodded politely or looked away. Josephine Rivera was wheeled in by Kathy. I watched Olga standing dutifully beside her mother, Mia Kwan, and her father Samuel Rivera.

  Then I saw Nicky approaching Hannibal Rivera the Third. Not good. Hannibal saw me and scowled as if to say, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  I went toward him and Nicky and shot out my hand. Hannibal shook it and smiled, all polite and phony. Nicky towered over Hannibal and put out his hand, too. “My name is Nicky Brown. I’ve heard a lot about you, Mr. Rivera.”

  “All good,” Hannibal said, “I hope.”

  “Not really. Chico told me all about you and that little girl Ting Ting. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  Hannibal’s face dropped. Mine, too.

  “Listen, son—” Hannibal Rivera said.

  “I’m not your son.”

  The “son” bit always messed with Nicky’s head. Considering that he had killed his own father, who could blame him?

  Hannibal made a face and started walking off.

  “Don’t go away angry,” said Nicky.

  Hannibal turned with a sneer. “If my wife didn’t insist I let you two stay and avoid any public embarrassment, I’d have security escort you into the nearest river.”

  “Thanks
for the concern,” I said. “But I took a shower.”

  Hannibal walked off and I looked at Nicky who was gritting his teeth like he was chewing on Hannibal Rivera’s heart.

  Later, we all sat and faced the front of the church. Marcos was going to give the eulogy. He had volunteered to do it. He had been instructed by his mother, Josephine, who wanted to see that Pilar was dead and buried quietly, not to mention “suicide,” as the Catholic church where the services were being held was not extremely fond of this ancient practice.

  I was seated in a wooden pew, at the back of the church, on the left side, next to Willow and Nicky. Up front, on the right side of the church were the Riveras. Olga and Albert sat between Samuel Rivera and Mia Kwan. Marcos made his way to the front of the church, waited for everyone to be seated, and began to speak.

  “Who hasn’t wished they were dead at one time or another?”

  Olga began to cry.

  “I myself am on a journey,” said Marcos.

  I winced. Albert looked up at the skylight and groaned.

  “Let me tell you my story,” Marcos continued. “I grew up pretty good, money, private school education, opportunity.”

  Marcos paused for effect.

  “I wanted to be in the movies.”

  Albert shifted violently in his pew.

  “But I took a detour.”

  Albert coughed, loud.

  “I went to Yale,” said Marcos. “I didn’t graduate. I was a straight-C student, I’ll admit it. I didn’t apply myself like I coulda.”

  Albert had a coughing fit. Olga turned and hushed him.

  Marcos put up one index finger.

  “But at the age of twenty-seven I am finally realizing my dream, the dream of that little boy on Fifth Avenue.”

  Albert groaned, louder. Olga hushed him again. Nicky and Willow watched Marcos, horrified and fascinated, disgusted and awed.

  “That little boy who is still inside me is truly living for the first time,” Marcos said.

  “I’m glad!” Albert yelled. Mia Kwan looked at him with fire in her eyes. Albert dropped his head.

  Nicky and Willow looked at me.

  Welcome to my world.

  “We must be patient,” said Marcos. “If Pilar were here, that’s what I’d say. Don’t go. Don’t walk into the light. Maybe that’s the only thing we can take away. Maybe that’s Pilar’s message for us, her lesson. Be patient.”

  Just when I thought it was over, Marcos looked up dramatically at the church skylight. Nicky’s and Willow’s eyes were riveted on Marcos’s face. Albert was gritting his teeth, mumbling, fists clenched.

  “Pilar, I know you are listening,” Marcos said to the skylight.

  Then Olga suddenly started bawling. I saw Albert, trying to comfort her. He whispered something.

  “Pilar, please know that you are in our hearts,” Marcos said. “And we will never forget you.”

  Then Marcos wiped at dry eyes, dropped to one knee, and made the sign of the cross.

  I felt my cell phone vibrating in my pocket. I checked it. It was Ramona calling.

  Then someone entered and I heard music and someone yelled from the back of the church: “Albert!”

  I turned and saw Tiffany, walking down the aisle, in a long white winter coat, white scarf, and white boots, playing her violin. A white butterfly barrette perched in her long black hair. Every cranny of the church filled and reverberated with her playing. I felt as if I had been pierced. Tiffany’s violin split me from the top of my head to the bottom of my shoes.

  On reaching a pew Tiffany stopped playing and dropped and let her head sink down on the pew in front of her and closed her eyes.

  “Tiffany,” Albert said and jumped up and ran past Olga and her parents toward her. And I saw Tiffany stand up, kiss Albert on the lips, and slump into his arms, weeping. It was a silent cry. The tears trickled down her cheeks, her mouth trembled, but not a sound escaped her lips, her face a melodious quiver of tears, impossibly green eyes glistening in the sunlit church.

  I saw Olga watch as Tiffany’s hand went behind Albert’s neck, and she held his neck touched his eyelids, his nose, his lips. And she placed her mouth on Albert’s face again and again and her youth and energy, stronger than death, seemed to pass from her into Albert, for a fleeting but noticeable moment.

  And then I saw it flash, something close to ecstasy on Albert’s face, as he stood holding Tiffany, all eighteen years of her, crying not far from the terrible glare of her older sister, Olga.

  Jesus.

  They were in love.

  TWENTY-NINE

  It was snowing. We walked briskly to Mimi’s Cuchifrito to wait for Albert. I had agreed at Pilar’s funeral to give Albert some time alone with Tiffany, to get his head and his story straight. I cared for Albert. He wasn’t just some case. I wasn’t afraid that he’d skip town. And if he did, we’d find him. No doubt. I made that perfectly clear. I couldn’t say no.

  A few men sat at the counter in front of the TV watching soccer as we entered. Mimi was behind the counter, standing over them. Mimi’s eyes shot open when she saw him.

  “Nicky!”

  “Holá, Mimi,” said Nicky. “Fattening the masses, as usual, I see.”

  Mimi came out from behind the counter and Nicky bent down. Mimi, on tip-toe, gave Nicky a big hug and sloppy motherly kisses on both cheeks. She ran a plump hand across his shaved head and said, “Chico should do this!”

  “I’ll just have a Malta,” I said.

  Mimi brought me one cold bottle of Malta. She poured a cup of coffee and sliced two hunks of flan and set them down before Nicky.

  Mimi looked at me and said, “What is going on, Chico?”

  “Flan,” I said.

  Mimi shook her head and looked at Nicky who just shrugged.

  “Albert,” I said. “We’re supposed to meet him here.”

  “Be careful,” said Mimi and took Nicky’s large hand. “How are you, hijo?”

  “I’m good, Mimi,” said Nicky. “I’m getting married.”

  “I hear,” said Mimi. “Where is she?”

  My cell phone rang. I answered quickly. “Willow? Did you get it?”

  I heard a female voice.

  I looked at the cell phone screen. It wasn’t Willow. It was Tiffany. Her voice sounded afraid, frantic even.

  Tiffany said, “Albert wants to change the meeting place.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I have no idea,” said Tiffany. “Albert spoke to Olga after the funeral. He’s got some videotape and he says only you can help him. Please help him, Chico.”

  I looked at Nicky, eating flan, and Mimi cheering at the televised soccer game. Willow walked in with a big brown envelope. She calmly placed the envelope on the counter to my left while Nicky introduced her to Mimi who gave her a paper menu and a kiss.

  “Where are you, Tiffany?” I said. “I want to see you.”

  There was a long silence.

  Then Tiffany came back on.

  “The Willis Avenue Bridge,” Tiffany said. “Albert wants you to meet us there.”

  “I’ll be there,” I said. “I could use a little frozen air.”

  “Come alone.”

  “Change of plan,” I said to Nicky. “Albert wants to talk alone.”

  Nicky nodded and turned casually to watch soccer. Mimi was trying on Willow’s cowboy hat. I looked at it and nodded. I stood up and grabbed the big brown envelope. It was marked HUNTER COLLEGE. Ramona had found it. She had found the third story. I walked outside and unfolded some pages: Trilogy of Terror: Fire.

  It was the third story I had asked Ramona to try and track down. Only this story wasn’t at Columbia or written by Irving Goldberg Jones.

  THIRTY

  Trilogy of Terror: Fire

  By Olga Rivera

  The boy ran out of the movie theater, past the gates of the local Baptist church, out to Longwood Avenue. He ran through the windy winter streets past garbage piled high, past howling cat
s and scurrying rats and busted tenements decorated with blinking Christmas lights, beer cans and liquor bottles on broken stoops. His heart was pumping confusion. There was pain in his legs, his backside, his belly, his throat.

  He ran out into the street and a car screeched to a stop just before it hit him. People screamed, “Jesus Christ!”

  “Cono, fucking kid!”

  “Nigga, watch where you goin’!”

  The boy kept running.

  Run, run! Keep running! Don’t stop! Don’t ever stop! Never!

  The boy ran all the way home and up the urine and graffiti stained stairway to the fifth floor of his building. He knocked frantically at his front door.

  Ma’s gonna kill me. Ma’s gonna kill me. I’m gonna die.

  The boy’s young mother, blond, wearing a red bathrobe and slippers, opened the door, tears in her eyes. She gave his face a quick stinging slap and said, “Just like your father!”

  The boy took the blow and looked down at the tiles of the hallway and said nothing. His mother pulled him into the apartment and slammed the door. A Rolling Stones record was playing: “You can’t always get what you want.”

  The boy’s stepfather came out of the kitchen holding a fried pork chop and a beer. He was handsome with black hair and sleepy green eyes. He wore a white T-shirt and jeans.

  The boy’s mother said, “How many times do I have to tell you to stop sneaking out at night?”

  His stepfather bit into his pork chop. “That boy doesn’t respect anybody.”

  The boy’s mother looked down at the boy. “Where were you this time?”

  “Movies.”

  “This late,” his mother said. “Mira la hora!”

  The boy looked over at the clock, in the shape of a black cat.

  A cockroach scampered across the golden cloth in front of the Christmas tree with its red, white, and green lights. Four gift-wrapped boxes nested on gold tinsel.

  The boy said, “I don’t wanna live here no more.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t wanna be here anymore.”