Chinatown Angel

by A. E. Roman

  I took out my cigarettes. “What’d you do?”

  “I told Benjamin that I wanted Marcos to know the truth about who he was, about his mother, Carmen, about me, about his brother, Albert, who I knew existed but had not found yet, before we finally made an arrangement. I would get money to keep quiet about Marcos. Benjamin would help me find Albert, and Albert and I would be taken care of.”

  “What went wrong?”

  Dee lowered the Uzi. “Benjamin promised that he would leave the Chinatown Angel to Albert in his will. Two months ago, doctors found a tumor inside Benjamin. So I went to Benjamin. I wanted to see his will, to make sure Albert had something when he and I went. Benjamin refused. Called me a greedy old man and said that Albert was not his flesh and blood, only Marcos was, that he owed Albert nothing. The tumor was not cancer. But Benjamin said he was going to cut Albert out of his will. So I cut him out first. But after Benjamin was dead, I found out he never did write Albert into his will in the first place. By then, it was too late.”

  “Did Albert know all this?”

  “No,” said Dee. “Not at first. Albert didn’t remember the fire. He didn’t remember Carmen or Marcos or Benjamin. He didn’t know Marcos was his half-brother. Olga knew. I told Olga.”

  “So you killed Benjamin Rivera by forcing him to inject himself with a deadly dose of heroin.”

  “I adjusted his perspective, Chico.”

  “Olga found the body?”

  “Olga found the body and the surveillance tape, which I did not have time to destroy because Olga showed up unexpectedly. Power over another human being is a terrible thing. Olga found the body and the tape when she came searching for Albert. She let herself into the restaurant with his keys. She found out from Pilar that Albert was cheating on her with Tiffany and that Benjamin knew about it. Jealousy. She found Benjamin dead and the surveillance camera videotape. Olga was silly enough to show Pilar the videotape and to tell Irving that Tiffany was the guilty party. Pilar was stupid enough to use her knowledge about the tape to blackmail the Rivera family. By lying and suggesting that Benjamin’s killer was Marcos. Using the fact that Olga would not deny it to her advantage. Everyone had their own version about who the killer was and their own reasons for picking a horse. One day, Pilar and Olga came to tell me. They agreed that Benjamin was a monster. They wanted to reassure me that they were on my side, regardless of whether Olga and Albert were together, that they both hated Benjamin, that they would never turn me in.”

  “It was over,” I said. “Why did you start it up again?”

  “Pilar,” said Uncle Dee and shook his head. “When Tiffany disappeared, Pilar came to me alone and asked me if I could make sure Tiffany didn’t come back. She said that she had helped me. She had helped me by lying and would I help her. She asked me to kill Tiffany.”

  “Pilar asked you to kill Tiffany? What’re you, dial-a-murder?”

  “Pilar asked me to do her a favor. To make sure Tiffany never came back. She offered me ten thousand dollars.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said I would think about it. I began to watch her. Then Pilar called and told me Kirk was going to meet with you, a private detective, to find Tiffany and she might need my help sooner than she thought. I went to Astoria and when you showed up with Pilar, I knew what I had to do.”

  “You helped her off the roof?”

  “In war, there are casualties, Chico.”

  “I understand, Diego.” I couldn’t call him Uncle Dee anymore. It felt dirty.

  “Don’t think I don’t regret it,” Daniel Diego said. “In El Salvador, when I was a police officer, I did many things. I don’t apologize. I accept what I’ve done, what I’ve been, what I’ve had to do. Only God can judge me now, Chico.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I think I’d like a piece of that action. Professional curiosity. How’d you get Pilar up on the roof?”

  “I held my gun on her and told her to go up. When she did, I pushed. I knew about her problems. I knew they would call it suicide. It was supposed to be simple.”

  “Look,” I said. “They’re taking attendance on Rikers Island. Put the gun down. That way, no regrets, and you won’t be late for dinner. It’s liver again. Sorry.”

  “Where is the VHS cassette?”

  “It’s too late,” I said. “The police have it.”

  He was too far away for me to kick or punch.

  Somebody started banging on the front door.

  Diego turned away and as he raised the gun at the front door, I jumped, tucked, and rolled into the kitchen, threw over the heavy wooden kitchen table as if that would do any good against bullets, and heard shots hit the wall behind me. The front door was being pushed open. I peeked over the table and there were Nicky and Willow. Diego pointed the Uzi at Nicky, and I lunged and grabbed Diego’s arm. The old guy was a lot stronger than he looked and his grip on the gun was like iron, like he was born holding it. The next thing I saw was Nicky going for a crescent kick as I twisted the gun in Diego’s hand and something exploded.

  And there was a flood of blood and bone and red spatter everywhere in the room as the bullets passed through Diego’s skull, smashing holes into the ceiling, killing Daniel Diego instantly, sending his body slack and slumping to the floor.

  And we just stood there. Me and Nicky and Willow. In silence. We stood there for what seemed like hours, all of us, half deaf, panting, ears ringing, covered in the old man’s blood and bone, looking at the sad old corpse.

  Uncle Dee.

  Finally, I looked at Nicky Brown and shook my head.

  Nicky went into his bloodied coat pocket and came out with the surveillance tape.

  I looked down at the corpse of Daniel Diego as Officer Samantha Rodriguez and a small army of Bronx police and homicide detectives arrived.

  “I wasn’t planning on killing him,” I said, looking at Samantha and handing her the VHS cassette.

  “He killed two people,” said Samantha, taking the tape.

  “How do you feel, Yankee?” asked Willow.

  “Like I’m gonna vomit,” I said.

  “Good,” said Nicky. “Try not to lose that.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  MOGUL FALLS TO HIS DEATH

  _________________

  Hannibal Rivera III, a wealthy property owner, died after falling down a staircase in his luxury apartment in the Arcadia East. Police sources said Rivera was found late last night by his wife, Josephine, who said that nobody was home when Rivera took the deadly plunge. Hannibal Rivera also co-headed HMD Financial.

  University Place. My heart raced and my eyes darted around the lounge of the bowling alley. The joint was definitely not old school. Bright, colorful, with glow in the dark lanes and neon bowling balls. Not my style but Nicky knew one of the bouncers. A bowling alley with a bouncer?

  Only in Manhattan.

  It was Monday and the place was fairly empty, but they had a deal on cost per game and the Coca-Cola was served fresh.

  I dropped the newspaper. It was over. Irving Goldberg Jones was free and out of prison and applying to the M.F.A. in poetry program at Columbia. Olga was off to Harvard Law School. Tiffany was also back at Julliard again. No sign of Albert. But his Kirk Atlas Doomsday movie did win Best Lighting award at the San Juan Capistrano Film Festival.

  I quit smoking and drinking again and used my Atlas case money to start my own agency.

  Earlier that day I had been outside on 149th Street, where the air was cold and the sky stretched bright blue over the Bronx rooftops. A chilly wind blew through the busy streets as I strolled to my new office. I picked up a package leaning against the wooden door with its new sign: SANTANA AND COMPANY.

  Well, there weren’t no “and Company.”

  Not yet.

  Inside the tiny office was a desk, chair, phone, and two file cabinets. Samantha singing “Cielito Lindo” was stored on my new answering machine next to a photo of Boo the Chihuahua on my desk.

  I didn
’t really have any business being in my new office. No paperwork yet. Hell, no paper. Nada. I just had to see that door with my name on it and sit in my office in my own chair even if just for a minute. It was small but it was mine. I opened the package on my desk, the first I’d received. Inside was a bulletproof vest and a card: Good luck with Santana and Company! Mucho love!

  Hank and Joy.

  I tried on the vest, opened the window wide, and saw the city of my birth; I took the Bronx air deep into my lungs and worried, only slightly, about developing asthma.

  Below, the human highway passed by: good people, wannabe saints, monsters, fools, fanatics, maniacs, mystics, drunks, hucksters, rats, assholes, sleepwalkers, brutes, crackpots, impostors, illiterates, peddlers, the slightly insane, pickpockets, drug addicts, prostitutes, potential murder victims, potential killers, all scattering like shotgun blasts across the crowded streets of New York City, through mad traffic, burning, beating, hissing, rattling, railing, pushing, moving and merging, all breakable. Smoke rose in the distance, a helicopter circled overhead. Two teenagers kissed on a street corner.

  Back at the bowling alley.

  “So,” asked Nicky, waking me up. “What do you think?”

  I shrugged, looking around the bowling alley with its VIP rooms. “A little fancy for my taste.”

  “Nice shoes,” said Willow, pointing down at my new black and silvers.

  Willow was wearing a sleeveless shirt and I saw a tattoo on her reddish brown upper arm. I pointed.

  “It’s my web,” she said. “It catches bad dreams that melt away in the morning sun.”

  “We’re not getting married,” Nicky blurted out as he sat down.

  Willow said, “It’s not the road for him.”

  I looked at Nicky. “What’re you gonna do?”

  “Maybe become a private investigator. Before my plane leaves tomorrow night for Atlanta, you can tell me everything you know.”

  “Can you spare the five minutes for my class?”

  “A five-minute class?” Willow said. “You know that much, Yankee?”

  “The first four minutes is a long joke and a short introduction,” I said.

  “How much would it cost me?” asked Nicky.

  “I charge one million dollars,” I said.

  “That’s a lot,” said Willow.

  “How about some magic beans instead?”

  “C’mon, it’s everything I know.” Pause. “Okay, five magic beans.”

  “Deal!” said Willow.

  “How’d it go with Mona?” asked Nicky.

  I handed him the crumpled napkin from my pocket: I can’t/Ramona.

  Nicky shook his head. “I tried to hook it up for you but you wouldn’t stay. What about Samantha?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “She has a good singing voice but I’m not sure that’s enough to base a relationship on. Did you guys read the morning paper?”

  “Sure,” Nicky said, changing the subject. “How’s your Spanish going?”

  “Es muy good,” I said. “I am going to la biblioteca.”

  “Ain’t you ashamed?” asked Nicky.

  “Humiliated, constipated, mortified,” I said. “When I think about it, I hate myself. I try not to think about it.”

  “Hit the books. Practice, you lazy bastard!” said Nicky.

  “It’s not the lazy I resent,” I said, looking at Willow. “It’s the bastard.”

  “You both need therapy,” Willow said.

  “Did you guys read this morning’s paper?” I repeated.

  “Ah,” Nicky said. “Hannibal Rivera the Third. Yeah.”

  “The creator works in mysterious ways,” said Willow.

  “Where were you while I was resting at Ramona’s?” I asked Nicky.

  “I kept myself busy. Caught up on the laundry, wrote a few e-mails, you know how I do.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said. “I know how you do. You said Willow called a friend at Child Protective. They took that little Chinese girl from Hunts Point, right?”

  “Ting Ting. Yeah. It’s done,” said Nicky.

  Willow nodded. “She’s safe.”

  “You never did tell me what happened to Albert.”

  “I told you,” said Nicky.

  “Tell me again.”

  “I followed the old man to the Willis Avenue Bridge,” Nicky said. “I watched and I waited until they got you down on the ground.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem,” said Nicky. “I yelled out. The old man fired his gun. Everybody scattered. Willow came around with the Charger.”

  “I know that part. I was there. Tell me the part where I wasn’t there.”

  “We caught up with Albert. Hiding out with Tiffany at the Chinatown Angel. I got in. They were just sitting there in the kitchen talking. Albert crying.”

  “How’d you get in?”

  “Professional secret,” Nicky said.

  “Did you kill Hannibal Rivera?”

  Willow looked surprised. “Say what?”

  “Me,” said Nicky, grinning. “I’m a lover, baby, not a killer. Maybe I had a meeting with Hannibal Rivera. But I just talked sense.”

  “You just talked?” I asked.

  Nicky gave Willow a look. “Maybe I kicked Hannibal Rivera. Maybe once.”

  “You just kicked him?” I said.

  Nicky gave Willow another look. “Maybe a little judo technique I’ve been working on.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Maybe some Hapkido.”

  “Hapkido?” I said. “What the hell is Hapkido?”

  “I used a belt. But applied gently, really. Maybe I roughly questioned Hannibal about that little Ting Ting girl, but that’s it.”

  “Where’s Albert?” I asked. Nicky shrugged. “Maybe he’s in Los Angeles directing his movies. Who knows? Life is a mystery.”

  Willow threw a piece of something into her mouth and said, “I’m staying in New York, Chico. On Parkchester. You can be my new best amigo.”

  “What’re you eating?” I asked.

  “Chocolate,” said Willow. “Want?”

  I held the small round piece of chocolate in my palm. It was gold. It was marked Godiva.

  “Where’d you get this?”

  “Nicky gave them to me,” said Willow.

  I looked at Nicky. Nicky winked at me. “A friend.”

  “It’s good to have friends,” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said as Willow popped another chocolate into her mouth.

  Ray Charles’s voice came on over the sound system: “Seven Spanish Angels.”

  “Here I go,” I said. I got up, grabbed and rolled a neon bowling ball down the glow-in-the-dark lane. It was not a good shot. It was shaky and there was too much bounce to it.

  As the ball rolled, I thought about Ramona. And I realized, at last, that it was over. The time for Ramona had rolled on.

  “Gutter ball!” Nicky yelled. “Nice!”

  “I can’t believe I almost married you!” said Willow. I turned and saw them press against each other and kiss. It was a goodbye kiss.

  Life.

  You took your shot. You hit a pin or two or more. A spare. A strike. A gutter ball.

  Life.

  It was shaky and there was too much bounce to it.

  Every night the game ended with the moon. Every morning the game began again with the sun. . . .

  God willing. . . .

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Every book has an angel. This book has four angels: Caren Johnson, my agent, Carol Mangis, my first, Emily Adler, my partner, and Toni Plummer, my editor at Thomas Dunne Books.

  Thank you, angels. . . .

 

 

 
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