Red on Red

by Edward Conlon

  Nick considered what Garelick, or anyone, would have made of him talking back to the fax machine last night. It inspired defensive feelings.

  “Perez works his ass off. He’d do anything you ask him.”

  “The idea of the trade-off is an attractive one. Isn’t true, necessarily. Does being ugly make you smart, for example? In women, I mean—not us.”

  “No.”

  “Exactly. But if nature doesn’t always compensate, people usually try to. They learn to play the piano, to cook. Something’s happening here with Perez, and we might as well see this through to the end. I have an idea in mind, what you might call the next phase of the trial. He’ll be back from the bathroom any minute. Watch!”

  When Perez returned, Garelick beckoned him to join them in the meal room.

  “There you are! You just missed Marina. She just called. She seemed a little upset. Is there anything going on? Is there anything I can do?”

  “What?”

  “Marina, she just called you.”

  Perez was noncommittal; there was a certain elegance to his forbearance. “She called here?”

  “You bet, asked for her old Ralphie. You got a hot date tonight?”

  Perez made an uncomfortable shoulder-shifting motion, as if preparing for a contortionist’s trick, yanking his arms from his shirtsleeves. What a terrifying man he might seem, Nick thought, with his lumped muscles and gleaming head, if you didn’t know him. Maybe even if you did.

  “Did she leave a number? How did she sound? What did she say?”

  Garelick was caught unprepared, but he was happy to improvise.

  “The connection wasn’t so good. She said something about … being late.”

  Perez looked alarmed. “Late? Late for dinner, or late for … Late-late? Woman-late?”

  Garelick knew he had stumbled upon a rich prospect, but he knew he had to handle it with delicacy. Nick doubted Garelick sought the utter destruction of Perez’s reputation. At first, all Garelick had wanted was for Perez to sit at a farther desk in the office, and not to have to go out to breakfast with him, and to be proved right down to the decimal point about his crazy-percentage, as if he were guessing the number of jelly beans in a jar. Still, to see his matchmaking bear such fruit must have been difficult to resist. If Ralph were to announce that Marina was expecting, it would make Garelick the fairy godfather.

  “I dunno, Ralph. You know me; I wouldn’t pry like that. Why do you suppose she’d call the office, instead of you direct?”

  Perez shook his head, pensive and worried.

  “I don’t get international calls on my phone. She went back to Greece. I don’t really know for how long. We had our issues, everybody does, but I didn’t think … The little things, it’s always the little things, isn’t it? She wants to go out, you want to stay in. Money. She thinks I’m made of it! You’re right, I guess. She wouldn’t call here to say anything important like that. Probably the plane was late, it was a tough trip, something along those lines. Shit, you’re scaring me, though. She did put on a little weight!”

  “Yeah, I’m sure you’re right. Every relationship has its ups and downs, but what you got, it’s special, Ralph.”

  “Yeah, thanks. Whatever. Women! You know? What are you gonna do?”

  And with that, he waved a world-weary hand and returned to his desk. Nick was disappointed in him, and obscurely offended. Playacting, fun and games, varying between fetish and frolic, no harm done. But what sick bastard would fabricate a woman to bicker with over whether the chicken was dry, whose turn it was to do the laundry?

  Garelick finished his coffee and raised his eyebrows. Nick refused to watch him savor this new twist in the strange saga. Nick shook his head and took the newspaper with him. He walked out of the office and went home for a while. He slept an hour and showered, then put on the same clothes. He didn’t want the other guys to think he’d been there the whole night. Was that crazy, too? How much? When he came back, Perez wasn’t there. He’d told Lieutenant Ortiz he had to leave early. The next day, Perez called the office to say that Marina had died in a ferry accident in the Aegean. She’d fallen overboard and drowned. The lieutenant gave him a week off to attend to his business. He didn’t intend to travel, Perez said, but he needed time alone. Garelick went around the office telling people he’d read about it, seen something on the news, and took up a collection for flowers. Napolitano and Nick kept their silence. Garelick became more tolerant of Perez after that, even friendly. When Perez came back to work, he had a mustache, with unexpected streaks of gray. Nick took to avoiding both of them. He made sure the flower order went to Daysi, who made a special arrangement of myrtle and chrysanthemums, flowers that signified love and grief in the old myths.

  On Thanksgiving, Nick covered the office. Perez was working with him, but Nick urged him to leave. Perez had cousins in the Bronx, and he could spend a few hours with them for the holiday dinner. Nick promised he’d call if anything happened. The phones didn’t ring often, and Nick didn’t answer often. If it rang more than eight or nine times, he picked it up. “Detective McCann. How can I help you?”

  “Nick?”

  “McCann here. Can I help you?”

  “Cut it out, Nick—it’s me, Espo.”

  “Hey.”

  “Happy Thanksgiving.”

  “Happy Thanksgiving.”

  “So you got stuck today, huh? A shame. The boys were asking about you….”

  “Give ’em my best.”

  “Listen, Nick,” said Esposito, a wary, teasing tone in his voice. “I get a refrigerator magnet from the car dealer every year, says the same thing, but it’s a little more heartfelt. Are you all right? Why don’t you take a ride up here? Give your number to the desk. If anything happens, you can be back in a couple of hours. Nothing’s gonna. You know how it is. Thanksgivings are pretty quiet.”

  “I appreciate it, pal, but I’m just gonna lay low here.”

  “How’s Daysi?”

  “Fine.”

  “That’s it? ‘Fine’? When’s the last time you saw her?”

  “We had dinner last week,” Nick said, recalling how Daysi had been called home before dessert.

  “You make it sound like you fixed a boiler together. Are things going okay with her? Didn’t she ask you over for Thanksgiving?”

  “Yeah, but I said I had to cover the office.”

  “Come on, it’s around the corner.”

  “Nah … Her kid, he’s a real piece of work. I don’t want to deal with it.”

  “Do you think he hates cops, or just you? You want me to look into the ex? What’s his name again?”

  “No, don’t. I don’t know where it gets me. I don’t know if I want to know.”

  “How about I find out, but I don’t tell you unless you ask?”

  “You must be getting pretty bored up there.”

  “You have no idea. If I have to play another game of Go Fish, I don’t know what I’m gonna do. Listen, Nick, there’s two ways to handle this. I could sleep with Daysi, and we could see if the kid hated me as much as he hates you. That way, we’d know for sure—scientifically—whether it was cops in general or you in particular.”

  Nick didn’t laugh, but he checked his temper. It wasn’t much of a joke, but he knew the joke wasn’t really the problem.

  “What’s the other way?”

  “I don’t know, but there usually is. C’mon, Nick, wake up!”

  Esposito knew the pitch had enough topspin for it to bounce around in Nick’s brain, hitting jealous notes, warning him against complacency. And he was right. If Nick was to make a go of it, if he and Daysi were, he would have to come to terms with Esteban. Either Nick would be a private part of Daysi’s life, separate from her son—not a secret, but not subject to his veto—or some other accommodation would be found. He thought of her shoulders, the three unexpected freckles on the smooth olive skin. He bleated out his question to Esposito.

  “What the hell am I supposed to bring? It�
�s the holiday. Everything’s closed.”

  “Attaboy, I’m glad to hear you’re in. Now, let’s think….”

  “I show up empty-handed, I look like a bum. What is there—a bag of apples from a bodega? Cake from the supermarket? The liquor stores are closed….”

  “The lieutenant has a nice bottle of Scotch in his desk.”

  “Yeah? It hasn’t been opened? How do you know?”

  “I needed a pen once, a while back. In the bottom drawer, there was a box marked ‘Private.’ Why do they do that? It might as well have said, ‘I dare you to look.’ ”

  Esposito was right. There always was another way. Nick called Daysi to wish her a happy holiday, and, as expected, she repeated her invitation to come over. They were in the middle of the meal, she said, but he shouldn’t mind—there was plenty of food, more than enough. Nick said he had a few things to do around the office, but he’d stop by within the hour.

  “Perfect! Just in time for dessert! Flan. It’s very good.”

  “Just like the Pilgrims had. See you in a bit.”

  For the next twenty minutes, Nick fussed and prepped. He washed his face and checked the mirror; found the Scotch and dug off the price tag with a thumbnail. It was a good bottle, or at least an expensive one. He dusted it clean. He wrote down the brand in his notebook, so he could replace it the next day. He tried to pronounce the Celtic gargle of the name: Auch-na-nevermind, a traffic jam of consonants. His father had known Gaelic, had spoken it as a child. Would he have known what it meant, or was it the private language of another island? In the old days, a squad commander always had a bottle in his desk, but Nick had never known Lieutenant Ortiz to drink anything but light beer. It was a tradition that had fallen away, like the fedora. The lieutenant talked about the old days, how much better it had been then, but in the old days, a Puerto Rican would never have had his office. What did Dominicans eat for Thanksgiving? Where did they weigh in on Columbus? What was the Spanish word for “turkey”? Nick realized how rattled he was and thought about having a slug from the bottle. Shut up and go.

  Along 181st Street, most of the stores were closed. The house lights were mostly dark in the apartments above the shops, as people gathered for their meals, out of duty and pleasure. The night was cold and cloudy, and the streets were empty. The apartment building was a grand old Italianate relic on Riverside Drive, which he had barely noticed on his previous visit. This was the place, yes, but which apartment? His eyes had not been on the real estate at the time. Nick searched the tenant list and saw the name Otegui and rang the bell. Basque, you know. What else was Daysi’s ex? Nick wouldn’t have guessed the spelling, and made a note of it. He looked into the security camera, unsure whether to smile. The door buzzed open.

  Daysi greeted him with an intense kiss at the door. She was nervous, too, he thought, as she looked at the bottle of Scotch.

  “Nick! That was so sweet—my mother drinks Scotch. How did you know?”

  “I’m a detective.”

  “Don’t be, today. I mean, try not to pay too much attention, especially to Esteban. He’s in a mood. And pretend you’ve never been here before….”

  The firmness with which Daysi took his arm disinclined him from making light of her precautions. She released him before they reached the dining room, where a fourth place was set at the table, as if he belonged there. A lace tablecloth, silver candlesticks; on a platter, a small turkey—less than half of it eaten—that gave off a spicy, non-Puritan aroma. Esteban extended a hand when Nick walked around to him, but his eyes remained fixed on his plate. Mama Ortega rose and hugged him, accepting the bottle with a knowing “Aha!” She opened it and filled highball glasses for the three adults. Daysi took hers gratefully and raised it. Nick toasted her and Mama Ortega. Mama Ortega. He called her that when he saw her in the store, and she was pleased by it, but he would be wise not to say it at this table.

  “Happy Thanksgiving. Feliz Gracias—forget it. How do you say it?”

  The reactions were as expected—a delighted smile from Mama, a scowl from Esteban, a wink from Daysi, before she downed the glass in its entirety.

  “Feliz Día de Acción de Gracias.”

  “You’re kidding. All that?”

  “Por favor, Mama, es que yo—”

  “Stop it, Esteban.”

  “May I be excused?”

  The question was sufficiently polite to offset the overt hostility of its timing, and Daysi cut her losses, nodding. All of the vectors and valences worked against Nick: age, culture, class—the hapless flatfoot could be derided from above or below, and Esteban could sneer at him like a hood rat, smirk like a rich kid. In the old stories, when the son of an absent father defends his mother against a new suitor, everyone knows who to root for. No one cares that the interloper was able to come up with a bottle of Scotch when the liquor stores were closed.

  “I’ll call you when it’s time for dessert.”

  As Esteban walked off to another room, Daysi rolled her eyes and reached for the bottle to refill her glass. Mama took a plate and filled it with turkey and side dishes, despite Nick’s protest. He was grateful that Esteban had gone. Daysi went through the show-and-tell of cultural difference. “Turkey” was “pavo,” and they roasted it like a pig, with garlic and oregano, stuffed with plantains and bacon. Pigeon peas and rice, salad. It was not what Nick was used to, but he and his father had eaten Thanksgiving at diners. With Allison’s family, the holiday had been stridently American despite their Cuban roots, with red, white, and blue dishes and cranberry sauce from a can. Nick ate quickly, like an inmate. Mama cleared the table as he finished, and left for the kitchen.

  “Does he get to spend much time with the father?”

  “Six weeks, every summer. And he’ll fly down for the weekend a few times during the year.”

  “The father doesn’t come up here?”

  Daysi shook her head, clearly uncomfortable with the subject. Nick had thought it adult to address it, though he regretted the tone and tack he had taken. “The father,” was the phrase, he had said it twice. What was he, a social worker? And what good did talking do? Daysi clumsily changed the subject.

  “He doesn’t like flying…. How was dinner?”

  How did the father get here the first time, did he swim? Stop. Hadn’t she asked him not to be a detective? Yes, but he couldn’t help—stop. He knew that this first family dinner was bound to be uncomfortable, but he didn’t feel like they were moving beyond it, making progress toward détente. He wished he hadn’t come here. Nick wiped his mouth with his napkin, slapped his belly somewhat flamboyantly, as Esposito might have.

  “Great. Who’s the chef, you or your mother?”

  “Mostly her,” said Daysi, trying to smile again. “Do you want more? There’s plenty.”

  This wasn’t working. Nick needed a distraction. Should he shoot his gun, let a round go out the window? Not just yet: Mama Ortega came out of the kitchen with some sort of pie. After setting it down, she called out for Esteban to come back to the table, la mesa, Nick followed that much. The smiles faded as the minutes passed without response.

  When Esteban appeared, he held out a telephone to Daysi. “It’s Papi. He wants to wish you Happy Thanksgiving.”

  Nick noticed both that it was the first time Esteban chose to speak English, and that the phone hadn’t rung. A detective again. He couldn’t help it.

  “Tell him I’ll call him back later.”

  Her tone was icy. Mama Ortega got up to clear more plates, and Nick decided to help her. As he left the room, he could hear the voices raised behind them.

  In the sanctuary of the kitchen, Mama and Nick exchanged embarrassed glances. She nodded to the leftover food on the counter—“You friends. They like?”—and when Nick assented, she began to put together a plate. She took out plastic wrap from a drawer and unpeeled a sheet the size of her wingspan, and tore it loose. Crackle-crackle, rip. The sound was like a record skipping, not just an ugly noise but a mark of ruined mus
ic. Another sheet. Crackle-crackle, rip. Nick looked away, so she wouldn’t see him flinching. Had he not seen the stuff, heard it, since the santero kidnapping? He gripped the edge of the counter, and had to force himself to let go. Mama put the plates and containers in a shopping bag for him. She gave him a kiss, letting him know that she was on his side, but the tightness in her mouth showed she knew it didn’t matter. At least that was what he read into it. When Nick made an excuse to Daysi about having to go back to the office, she didn’t protest. Esteban had left the room, and she escorted Nick out, clutching his arm, indifferent to witnesses. At the door, she had tears in her eyes.

  Nick worked Christmas and New Year’s. He talked to Daysi every day or so, and they met at least once a week. One evening, Nick brought Daysi back to his apartment, and though he’d warned her not to expect much, he was ashamed of how she looked at it, noticing that it wasn’t just as bare and worn as a hostel, but not particularly clean, either, with tumbleweeds of dust that scattered down the hall as he opened the door. A few minutes later, Esteban called her on her cellphone, complaining he was sick. He always called when they were out, at least once. This time, Nick didn’t mind as much; she hadn’t even seen the bunk bed. Daysi apologized, and took a cab home. It would remain a house without women. Their talks became even more frequent as their real time alone with each other—Were they still dates?—required increasing negotiations. Esposito called Nick daily, too, eager to hear about what was going on. Nick wished he had more to say. Work was sometimes a bitch, sometimes a bore. He didn’t want just a phone partner of either kind, but it was the best he could manage.