Condemned

by John Nicholas Iannuzzi

  “How’s he gonna find out? I’m the only one he gets to talk to. I just come over once in a while, have a drink, who’s to find out anything? You got something for me?”

  “I told you last week, there’s a drought, a real fuckin’ drought. I can’t get too much myself right now.” Tony Balls looked around at deserted Third Avenue. The lights of the Verrazano Bridge loomed into the night in the near distance. “Maybe I can let you have another bag.”

  “How about two?”

  “I can only spare one right now. If I had it, I don’t know I’d give it to you anyways. I really shouldn’t be doing nothin’ with you. It’s my ass if anybody finds out.” Tony Balls squatted down over his shoe, tying the laces. He glanced again at the Avenue as he slipped a bag out of the cuff of his pants onto the sidewalk.

  “You’re a life-saver, Tony Balls,” said Sally. “How much?”

  “You know the price. Thirty. And don’t be telling nobody what I’m charging you. That price’s only for you.”

  “I really appreciate it, Tony Balls, I really do.” Sally took money out of his pocket and began to count.

  “Put that fuckin’ money away! Get away from me.” Tony Balls said angrily, starting abruptly back toward the restaurant.

  “Tony, Tony, what’s the matter?” said Sally, following Tony Balls.

  In the doorway of Moscarella’s, Tony Balls turned abruptly back toward Sally, raising a beefy finger in Sally’s face. “Don’t be counting no fuckin’ money and think you’re going to hand it to me like I was a strunz on Fox Television, right in the middle of the fuckin’ street!”

  “Tony, Tony, I’m sorry,” said Sally, his eyes round with apprehension. “Take it easy. There’s nobody out there. The fucking street is deserted.”

  “I don’t give a shit if we was in the middle of the Sahara; don’t be counting no fuckin’ money and handing it to me in the street like I’m a pimp or something.”

  “Tony, Tony, take it easy. I’m sorry. I made a mistake.”

  “Mistakes can be very costly, Sally. Very costly. You want to come inside, lay your money on the bar for a drink? Leave it there, fine. You know how things have to be done.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I was just in a hurry.”

  “Hurrying gets people locked up, Sally. Take it easy. Be cool.”

  “Can I buy you a drink?” said Sally. The two men walked back toward the restaurant.

  “Now you got it,” said Tony Balls. He opened the interior door. He saw Bobby Red sipping a drink at the bar. “Oh Madon,” Tony Balls exclaimed loudly, beginning to laugh again. “Round three.”

  A dark blue van with reflective tinted windows in its side panels and the rear door was parked a block away from Moscarella’s, on the bridge side of Third Avenue. On the front doors of the van, lettering indicated “Mix and Fix Cement Contractors,” complete with a phony address and phone number in Queens. Inside the rear of the van, Bill Santiago sat on a plastic milk crate, peering into the eye-piece of a camcorder with a powerful telephoto lens. The camcorder was aimed toward the front of Moscarella’s. Switched to Night-Vision, the camera recorded everything that had transpired between Tony Balls and Sally Cantelupo in eery green-glow.

  Pete Mulvehill was seated on a plastic milk-box beside Santiago, peering at the tiny screen of the camcorder, watching the replay of what had been recorded. Supervisor Becker had temporarily rotated Mulvehill back to the New York from his Hardie baby-sitting duties. True to his stickler work ethic, however, Supervisor Becker rotated Mulvehill right into the squad’s surveillance duties

  “You got everything!” Mulvehill exulted as he watched the taped image of Sally Cantalupo pick something up from the street, take money out of his pocket, look around, then walk into Moscarella’s trailing an angry Tony Balls.

  “In living green,” said Santiago as he, too, watched the replay.

  “Oh, how sweet it is,” Mulvehill said, imitating Jackie Gleason’s delivery.

  Alphabet City : August 8, 1996 : 11:45 A.M.

  Sandro and Tony Balls walked north on Avenue C.

  “What a wonderful neighborhood,” Tony Balls said, glancing around at the time worn tenement buildings. “I hope I can do what you want. I still don’t know why you need me?”

  “Because you speak Spanish and because you look like a cop.”

  “I what?”

  “You look like a cop,” repeated Sandro.

  “You gotta be kiddin’ me!”

  “Well, of course you don’t, which is exactly the reason the police would pick a guy like you to come to a neighborhood like this. If you looked like a cop, well, then you’d never pass. But since you don’t look like a cop, you’re the perfect candidate to be an undercover. And, of course, the people looking at you right this minute know that. Which is the reason they think you look like a cop.”

  “Sometimes I think you’ve been smelling the stale air in the prisons too much,” said Tony Balls. He glanced toward several men who were standing around a bridge table at the curb in front of a bodega up ahead. Two men were seated, playing dominoes at the table.

  “Worried?” asked Sandro.

  “I’m worried about these guys? You’re the guy who has to worry. At least I speak the language.”

  “But don’t you see, that’s absolutely why no one would bother me. I am so obviously an outsider, I couldn’t possibly be a cop.”

  “It’s thinking like that, which drives normal people crazy,” said Tony Balls. “You think the people down here are going to let you interview them, take statements and things?”

  “That’s what this bag is for,” said Sandro. He was carrying a black, leather-covered attache-case. “As we speak and walk, there’s a tape recorder inside, recording everything that we’re saying. The microphone is in the lock.”

  “You kidding?” said Tony Balls, glancing down at Sandro’s attache case.

  “Not at all. And look at this.” Sandro took a pen from his inside jacket pocket.

  “Don’t tell me that’s another recorder.”

  “It is. An entire recorder, all by itself.”

  “You’re kidding. Is it turned on?” said Tony Balls, studying the pen.

  “Not yet.”

  “You’re like 007, fuckin’ James Bond,” said Tony Balls. “You want a Cuban sandwich?” he asked as they neared the bodega and the bridge table on the sidewalk.

  “Hungry?” said Sandro. The men on the sidewalk suspended their interest in the dominoes game, now studying the two strangers.

  “I just like Cuban sandwiches, and you can’t get them everywhere. C’mon.”

  The entire front of the bodega, except for the door, was covered by roll-down gates of small, horizontal steel bars. During the night hours, a steel door rolled down from an overhead metal compartment, covering the doorway as well. The inside of the small grocery store was festooned with signs announcing special prices, sales, sandwiches, and lottery tickets. These announcements were for day customers only. Not that the store didn’t do business at night. A large yellow sign outside announced in big red letters that the bodega was open ‘24/7’. No one, however, was permitted inside the store at night. The only access was through a front window that was covered with two-inch thick bulletproof plastic with a revolving Lazy Susan kind of device made of the same thick plastic material. The Lazy Susan was divided in quarters, which allowed the clerk inside to hear what customers on the sidewalk outside wanted. The clerk would tell the customer the price, money was placed on the Lazy Susan, which was then rotated. The clerk took the money, and, in turn, revolved the purchased item and change back to the customer. It was a tough way to do business, but it was better than being robbed every other night.

  “Oye,” Tony Balls said to the young man behind the counter inside the store. The clerk was short, dark, wearing a vest over his bare, well muscled upper torso. He nodded warily to the two men in suits. “Un sandwich Cubano,” Tony Balls said to the clerk.

  The clerk nodded. Another man, one of the
on-lookers at the domino game came into the store, studying the two suits as he bought a pack of Marlboro from the cashier.

  “This is lawyer Luca,” Tony Balls introduced Sandro in Spanish. The clerk shot a momentary glance at Sandro as he took a prepared sandwich from a counter showcase. “He is the lawyer for the woman from around the corner who is accused of killing her child.”

  The clerk put the sandwich into a heating press as he glanced at Tony Balls.

  “You know the woman I mean?” Tony Balls continued in Spanish.

  “No,” the clerk shook his head as took the sandwich out of the press, wrapping it in waxed-paper. He sliced the sandwich in half through the paper.

  “This man is a lawyer, trying to help the woman,” Tony Balls continued. The clerk was placing the sandwich into a small brown paper bag. Another spectator from the domino game came into the bodega to listen. “We are not from the Police or the District Attorney. This is the woman’s private lawyer, trying to save her from death. You know the bastards downtown want her put to death.”

  “She deserves it,” one of the men who had come in from outside said to the other. He was very dark, wearing a straw hat.

  Sandro stood quietly, as more of the men from outside entered the bodega Their complexions ranged from white, to tan, to black.

  “If you, or someone you know, was accused of a crime, no matter what crime, you’d want a lawyer to defend you, right? This lawyer is trying to help a woman accused of a very serious crime, so that they won’t put her to death.”

  A murmur stirred through the group as they spoke in Spanish among themselves.

  “Do you remember the incident?” Tony Balls said to the crowd.

  “The black one who killed her baby?” said the very dark man with the hat.

  “That is what she is accused of,” said Tony Balls.

  “Any woman who would do that ought to die,” said another of the men.

  “She’s black,” said another man with a knowing nod.

  “But that’s what the lawyer is fighting against. The woman is saying that she didn’t do this,” Tony Balls said, “and that is why the lawyer is fighting. He’s trying to find out anything about the woman, about what happened, so he can help her. You know, if a private lawyer doesn’t help her, those bastards downtown surely are not going to help her.”

  “You’re a public lawyer?” one of the men said toward Sandro.

  “No,” replied Tony Balls. “The lawyer doesn’t speak Spanish.”

  “She paying for him to help her?”

  “No, the woman has no money. This is a very famous lawyer,” Tony Balls indicated Sandro with a nod of his head, “and he wants to help her, even though she can’t pay, because he knows if he does not, and if people in the street do not, the officials will throw her to the dogs.”

  “If she killed her own child—” one of the men shrugged.

  “But she did not,” said Tony Balls. “That is why it is important for us to find people who can give us some information, so we can help her. If something like this happened to you, you would want people in the neighborhood to help, right?”

  Some of the men nodded, others shrugged.

  “Any of you know this woman?” said Tony Balls.

  “She’s not Spanish,” said the very dark one with the straw hat. “She’s black. You’re not Spanish; him either. Why do you two care?” he said to Tony Balls.

  “My woman is Puerto Rican, from Ponce. She taught me the good language—in the middle of the night.”

  “I come from Ponce, too,” said one of the men. “The best place on the Island.” The others laughed. “It is,” the man said with a serious nod of his head.

  “You want anything to drink with the sandwich?” the clerk said to Tony Balls.

  “Ice tea.” The clerk went into a refrigerator and selected a can of tea.

  “Do any of you know any of the people this woman was friends with? Anyone she knows, or who knows her?” asked Tony Balls.

  “I think the morena has a Spanish husband,” said one of the men. He too wore a straw hat, this one with a bright plaid hat band.

  “You know any people?” another man inquired into the group.

  “I live on the Avenue, around the corner. I would see this woman. I saw her picture in El Diario when it happened. I saw her many times with her husband. He’s Spanish. Clean. Nice-looking.”

  “What is he doing with her?” said one of the others.

  “You know the husband’s name?” asked Tony Balls.

  The man with the bright hat band shook his head. “Nice-looking, clean. I see him once in a while.”

  “When was the last time you saw the husband?” asked Tony Balls.

  “A few days ago, maybe a week. I was sweeping in front of the building. I’m the Super at Five Twenty-Five. I was sweeping. And he came by. He says hello. I said hello. That was it.”

  “You know what number building the woman lives in?” said Tony Balls.

  “Probably Five Sixty-Four.”

  “You handle accident cases, Abogado?” said one of the men in accented English.

  “Yes. You have a case?”

  “No, but I know a lot of people over here. They’re always in trouble around here.” Others murmured, some laughed, agreeing. “Maybe I can send you some cases. You have a card?”

  “Sure,” said Sandro, taking a business card out of his wallet, handing it to the man.

  “Can I have one,” said another man. Sandro handed the second man a card, then one to each of the others.

  Tony Balls took some bills out of his pocket and paid the clerk for the sandwich. He unwrapped half of the sandwich and began to munch on an end of it.

  “Now, listen, gentlemen,” said Tony Balls in Spanish, chewing on his sandwich. “This is a great guy, this lawyer. He’s trying to help this woman, not hurt her. You’d want him to do the same thing for you, no?”

  “She used to come in here once in a while. She was always on something, you know,” said the clerk from behind the counter. “High, like.”

  “You would see her in the area,” said the man with the bright colored hat band. “But I never talked to her or nothing.”

  “No. She’s black.” said the dark-skinned man in the hat. “Spanish people don’t hang around with the blacks. And they don’t hang around with us.” He shrugged. “That’s the way it is.”

  “That’s right,” said another man. “We don’t hang around with black people.”

  “Anybody know what her husband’s name is?” asked Tony Balls.

  There were many shrugs.

  “You know who would know that,” said one of the men. “Titi.”

  “Who’s Titi?” asked Tony Balls.

  “He’s the Super for a lot of buildings on that block. He lives over there, too. In the first tall building on this side,” the man motioned, indicating the south side of the street.

  “You say the Super’s name is Titi?” Tony Balls unwrapped the other half of his sandwich and continued eating.

  “Yeah,” said one of the men.

  “There’s a guy called Titi, who might know something” Tony Balls said to Sandro. “Maybe we ought to find this Titi?”

  “Let’s do that,” said Sandro.

  “Thanks a lot, Senors,” said Tony Balls, moving toward the door of the bodega carrying the end of his sandwich in one hand, a can of iced tea in the other. Sandro shook hands with each of the men, thanked them, and followed Tony Balls out to the street.

  When they reached 3rd Street, Sandro and Tony Balls walked toward a six-story building with a front stoop. They entered the building and studied the mailboxes. Many of them had been pried open, their doors bent; others had no door at all. Most of the slots for identifying the names of the tenants were empty. One of the slots on the bottom of the panel had the letters “SUPER” scratched into the paint. Sandro pushed the bell button.

  “If that bell works, I’ll eat the next sandwich with the paper and all,” said Tony Bal
ls.

  “You probably will anyway.”

  “Very funny guy.”

  A Spanish woman came to the front door. She inquired in Spanish as to what they wanted. She said she was the wife of the Super.

  “We’re looking for Titi,” Tony Balls replied in Spanish.

  She told them that Titi had gone to the Bronx to see his daughter, who was having a baby. Tony Balls asked her if she knew the woman who was accused of killing her baby. She made a face, and said she didn’t know her. But she had lived with a man on the fourth floor of the building, apartment 4R.

  “You know the name of the husband?” asked Tony Balls.

  “I think it’s Tony,” the woman said, shrugging.

  “Is he up there now?”

  “I don’t know,” the woman said.

  The interior of the building was much the same as many New York walk-up tenements: yellow plaster walls scored to look like limestone blocks, brown iron railings and balusters, linoleum floors on the landings. There was an acrid smell throughout, and Spanish television sounds bled through doorways into the hall. In the center of each landing were two doors, inside of which was a toilet for the use of the three apartments on each end of the hall.

  In the back part of the fourth floor were three apartment doors. One directly at the end of the narrow passage, another at each of the side-walls. Tony Balls knocked on the left door, which was marked 4R. The sound of a television set in the apartment opposite suddenly lowered. A sound came from behind the peephole in that apartment. Tony Balls knocked on 4R again. Tony Balls turned and knocked on the door across the hall. There was no sound or answer from behind that door, either. Tony Balls knocked again. Still no sound.

  “Curious, but not that curious,” said Sandro.

  “What do you want to do?” said Tony Balls.

  “We’ll leave a card, asking him to get in touch with us,” said Sandro, taking out one of his business cards. “Write on it. Tell them to call me,” he said to Tony Balls. When he finished writing, Tony Balls placed the card in the crack between the door and the frame, then, thinking of the peephole spy behind the door, took the card out of the crack in the door and slid it underneath.