“If nobody is upstairs,” he spit, gesturing toward the restaurant with his empty eyes, his head, “I burn down the motherfucker now. Right now.”
I looked across Greenwich. Maybe 12, 14 families lived above Big Chief’s.
Leo had been suffering. I’d known that. The Cajun-Creole cooking thing died fast; even Pradhomme had started pushing low-fat. Loretta, a tough cookie who’d always been hard to read, seemed to have grown even more distant, though she managed a dry smile for Bella, who waddled into Big Chief’s expecting a strand of purple, green and gold beads.
So, Loretta had run off with the cash box, which couldn’t have held enough to get her a ticket back to New Orleans. But he hadn’t said she took the cash box. He said the money was gone, and that the tax man was at his door. Loretta would’ve drawn a fat stake by holding back from the IRS. She could do it: She kept Big Chief’s books.
“Leo, please.”
“Fuck all,” he said with a diffident wave. “I’m gone. I’m going back home.”
And he turned and left. I didn’t see him, didn’t hear from him, for five years.
Now, as I entered the bar, I was greeted by the scent of stale beer, by a sense of timelessness, of enduring melancholy, of absence.
I let the door swing closed behind me.
He sat perched on his stool in his usual spot under the TV; his cane, a gift from Diddio, rested on his massive thighs. Amid dark rings, his eyes were closed and his head tilted back, as if he had been thinking about something very far away.
“All right,” he said. “So?”
I tossed the spoon back into the empty cup. Jambalaya with chicken and tasso, a bit on the spicy side; jalapeños in with the green bell peppers. I took a long pull on the Badoit.
“‘So …’” I shrugged. “That’s what is.”
“Dead man. Dead woman. Thirty-something years apart. Mango,” he summarized.
“Not entirely unrelated,” I said.
“Only Tommy the Cop telling you to stay home makes it like that. Connects the dots.”
I eased off the stool. Streaks of sunlight came through the window above Diddio’s jukebox, silent now in his absence. Cobwebs coated a red neon Bud sign. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed, moving away. An all-too-familiar sound, still.
“I thought that. Sure,” I said.
“You don’t need me to tell you again Mango is somebody you can’t trust,” Leo sneered.
“Refresh my memory, Leo: Tommy or Jimmy?”
“Either. None. They’re no fuckin’ good. Tommy, I seen hundreds like him, dirty to his bones. A criminal with a badge. And Jimmy can’t control himself, thinks it’s smart to run his mouth.”
When Leo ran his restaurant, Big Chief’s, Tommy squeezed him for a tab he never cleared. His brother Jimmy ran one up too, on Tommy’s say-so. Maybe it was more than that; if it was, I knew nothing about it.
I stretched high, then leaned down to crack my back.
“Two scumbags,” he muttered, “from a bad, bad seed.”
I straightened up, then started for the water bottle as the phone rang.
With a grunt, Leo turned, reached behind him, and grabbed the heavy black handset.
“Tilt,” he barked. Then he looked at me. “For you.”
The cord couldn’t reach so I went around and came over to the business side of the bar, passing through a waitress station that hadn’t been used in decades.
I took the handset.
“Yes?”
“Terry Orr?” A man’s voice.
I told him yes.
“This is Danilo Villa,” he announced. “I think we should have a conversation.”
He had hit his name hard, proudly releasing his Spanish accent. Vee-ya, he said. I knew who he was.
“Go on.”
He continued, “There are things you should know about Sonia Salgado.”
“How do you figure that?” I asked.
I looked at the CD case near the ’50s-style telephone. L’Elisir D’Amore by Donizetti. Pavarotti, Sutherland, the English Chamber Orchestra. A young, bearded Pavarotti held a robin’s-egg-blue vase to his cheek.
“We can say I am aware of your interest,” Villa replied.
“How?”
He answered by giving me an address, an act that supported my impression of Villa as imperial, arrogant. Of course, I’d have to go to him.
“You are going to arrive at the conclusion that Sonia Salgado is innocent.”
“And you’re going to talk me out of it.”
“No,” he replied. “I am, in fact, going to agree with your conclusion. Sonia Salgado did not kill Asher Glatzer.”
“How do you know this?” The pause button held the CD at track 11: Una Furtiva Lagrima. One Secret Tear.
“I close my office at four o’clock,” Villa said. Then he hung up.
I pushed the handset toward Leo and I went back around the bar.
“Guy says he knows Sonia Salgado is innocent,” I told Leo as I settled back on the wobbling stool.
“Innocent?” Leo grinned mischievously.
“That’s what he said. Danny Villa. You’ve heard of this guy. ‘El Caballero,’ the Post calls—”
“Hey,” Leo waved. “I already know too much, if you catch my meaning.”
“All right.” I finished the bottle of Badoit, leaned across the bar and tossed the empty into the black bag that coated the trash can.
He nodded, but said nothing, and in the silence, the sense of melancholy returned; and I suddenly felt uncomfortable in a place that at other times felt like a second home. Leo closed his eyes and raised his head as if to peer at the ceiling. I knew he was ready to go back to Pavarotti, to the tale behind a secret tear, where, despite sorrow, there was warmth, affection, desire.
“Where you going?” he asked without opening his eyes.
I repeated the address Villa gave me. “I might learn something. Who knows?” Then, as I dusted off my hands, I added, “Be my fifth ride in a cab today.”
“You ought to buy a car,” he proposed.
“I had a car. Piece of shit Jimmy Mango sold me.”
“See?” he said, shaking his head, now looking across at me. “I told you you can’t never trust a Mango. Bad seed.”
FIVE
Spanish Harlem began east of Lexington Avenue and north of 96th Street, having been nudged farther uptown by Upper East Side gentrification in the 1980s. Puerto Ricans had long been the biggest group among the Latin Americans and Caribbeans in the neighborhood, which sprang up after the first world war. Though prevalent in the area in the ’20s and ’30s, Cubans had become increasingly scarce as at least some parts of their native country flourished under the flow of U.S. dollars and mob activity after World War II.
When Castro ousted Batista in 1959, Cubans who fled north beyond Miami settled in Union City, a few miles across the Hudson in New Jersey. The city, which intrepid Cubans saved from commercial and social collapse, was their political, economic and cultural base in the U.S.
But Danny Villa kept his storefront office not in Union City but at 89th and Third, amid the soiled awnings on aluminum skeletons above a nail salon; a locksmith; a one-stop, all-purpose medical center that offered chiropractics, weight loss and footcare; and, not surprisingly, an awning manufacturer. As the obligatory talking head when anything involving Cuba found space in New York media, Villa needed to be but a brief limo ride to the TV news bureaus in midtown or on the other side of the river in Fort Lee. During the Elián González flap, he broke nationwide: Villa was everywhere. I think he might’ve made his way to Larry King Live. Seemingly reasonable, always gracious and well trained to issue sound bites rather than ideas, he had made his way into the press/politics cycle, where a kind of twisted synergy reigned. An appearance on TV, in the Times, The Wall Street Journal, The Washington Post led to an invitation to address some politically active group, be it a small civic association or guests at a retreat sponsored by a Fortune 100 firm, which led to me
dia coverage. What changed as the cycle spun was the amount a man like Villa could charge per speech.
What also distinguished Villa, and what made him palatable to conservative business leaders, was his reserved, almost fastidious approach to social protest: While A1 Sharpton and other community leaders seemed to wind up in handcuffs and a cell at least once a month as part of their street-level public demonstrations, not Villa, not “El Caballero”—the Gentleman—who the Post painted as a man who let others do his heavy lifting. It seemed to me a fact that never would Villa be seen in a sweatsuit, bullhorn in hand, at the center of a raucous rally, surrounded by angry supporters, handmade signs and police on horseback. He worked behind the scenes, mobilizing his followers in the Cuban community, or appearing, regal bearing in full bloom, to give the keynote address at an orderly rally. As I entered his office, I recalled that even the Times, more tolerant than the Post when it came to the peculiar habits of the Left, had dubbed him “an orchestrator.”
The Times also said he was quietly effective, that the influential Cuban business community supported him. And that gave him real clout.
“You have a powerful curiosity,” he said as he shook my hand. “I imagine you find it very useful.”
He went back to his desk and eased himself into his leather high-back. Villa’s place was deliberately masculine: old club furniture in dark brown, worn but far from unattractive; an old Indian rug—burgundy and olive green were the predominant colors; a laptop computer; floor lamp and desk lamp, both gold; a credenza that matched the dark wood of his desk; a staged photo of Villa shaking hands with Giuliani near a carefully draped American flag.
He gestured for me to sit in one of two club chairs that faced him.
Villa reached into his desk and withdrew a wooden box that was polished to a high sheen. It had his name engraved on a small gold plaque on top.
“A cigar, Terry?”
The scent of his previous one hung in the air, despite the air-freshening device he kept on the side of the credenza.
He opened the box: hand-rolls, torpedoes, a few longer ones, carefully arranged.
“No, thanks.”
“A modest vice,” he said as he removed one.
“I don’t suppose they’re Cubans.”
He shook his head as he reached for the clipper. “We support the embargo,” he said as he snipped the pointed end of the cigar, “and we, more than anyone, are aware there is a price to pay.”
Danilo Villa was, by anyone’s account, a handsome man, though without any defining characteristics I could see. Among his flawless features: a strong, broad nose; eyes darker than brown; pearl-white teeth; his tight skin a rich light-brown, as if he’d been tanned thoroughly by a predictable sun. He wore his thick silver hair combed back and it lay on his ears, on the back of his white collar. His gray suit served to highlight his shock of hair, his brown-and-silver tie his skin and eyes. He wore silver studs in the French cuffs above his manicured fingers.
Villa was older than I was, maybe 15 years or more, though it was hard to tell with his impeccable appearance, and his face, which was remarkably free of wrinkles. I made him for a well-preserved 50.
He tossed back his head and blew a purple plume of cigar smoke toward the ceiling.
“Ah, yo soy contento,” he said.
“Sonia Salgado,” I replied. When I stretched out my legs, my sneakers tapped against his desk.
“Of course. Sonia.” He slid the cigar onto a gold ashtray near his cell phone.
“Who told you I was interested?”
He smiled. “If I tell you, how would you continue to trust me?”
“I don’t trust you now.”
He leaned forward, bringing his elbows onto the desk. “Excuse me, Mr. Orr,” he said sharply, “but my reputation in this community is not questioned.”
“Fine, but I don’t know this community. And I don’t know you,” I said. “I’ve read about you, seen you on TV. You were on the City Council a few years ago, so you’ve got a few friends in City Hall.”
“I served my people,” he said with a curt nod, “and it pleases me that I can have many friends, and not only in City Hall.”
“OK, you’ve got a lot of friends. Producers and reporters find you dependable. Everybody thinks you’re terrific,” I said. “But you’re a stranger to me, and only an idiot trusts a stranger.”
He stayed in place, but he let the aggression wither.
“Whoever told you about me looking into Sonia Salgado’s murder knows I hang out at the Tilt-a-Whirl,” I said. “That may limit it.”
“You don’t think I read The New York Times?” He smiled.
There was no mention of the Tilt in the Times piece, but I kept still.
He continued, “I would like to express my sympathy for the loss of your wife and son.”
I nodded.
“And I would like to say that it is best if I proceed without revealing how I know about your interest. If you would like my assistance.”
“The cops are working this, Mr. Villa—”
“Danny.”
“—and I’m not sure they need any help. Danny.”
“The police are trying to discover who killed Sonia,” he said. “They will not be interested now in whether Sonia had been treated fairly so long ago.”
“No,” I said, “I guess not.”
“And you will soon learn—and maybe you have already—that she was not.” For emphasis, he tapped a finger on the desk. “I will suggest to you that there is a relationship between who killed the diamond man and who killed Sonia.”
“I don’t understand,” I told him.
He reached for his cigar, sat back, and took a long drag, clasping the plump tube of tobacco with his index finger in a small circle. This time, no sensuous plume; just fragrant smoke.
“I know about Sonia,” he said. “I will tell you about Sonia.”
And he did. As a junior at DeWitt Clinton, Sonia Salgado fell in with a group of seniors. Petty criminals, Villa called them. Shoplifting, purse snatching; perhaps one or more had developed the skills of a pickpocket.
According to Villa, Sonia was the girlfriend of the group’s leader Luis Sixto.
“He was the clever one,” the lawyer said. “Very clever, very bold. If you check the records, you will see he is the one who showed the most promise.”
“As what? A thief?”
Villa smiled.
“Where is he now?”
“It has been a long time since anyone has heard from Luis Sixto,” he said. “Guatemala? Honduras? Panama? Colombia? Who knows where he is?”
“He leave for any particular reason?”
“A better life, perhaps.”
In Guatemala in the ’70s? In Colombia under the National Front?
“Then what about the others in this gang?” I asked.
“I would not call it a gang,” he replied. “Friends who were bored, who perhaps did not have the guidance that is necessary to become more productive …”
“All right.”
He put down the cigar and he counted on his fingers. “You have Sixto. Sonia. Bascomb, Alfie Bascomb. And Ahmed Hassan. Only four.”
“And these three corrupted Sonia?”
“In a word, yes. Sonia was not the brightest girl. Simple, I would say. Perhaps there was something exciting about these boys. …” He shrugged.
“So she went off shoplifting with them. Picking pockets,” I said. “Maybe they needed a girl to go places they couldn’t.”
He nodded. “I have been told that she could be very sweet. She had aspirations to be an actress. She played a role.”
“Thief.”
“Yes. In her pretty mind, by playing a part, she was becoming an actress. I am told Hassan encouraged her in this way.” He touched his temple. “As I said to you, she was not … Perhaps the money is important; I don’t know. But the sums, they had to be small. So some might call it only an indiscretion.”
“Which becomes some
thing much more,” I said. “And not so forgivable.”
“If you believe the official version, that’s correct.”
“I don’t—”
Villa’s cell phone buzzed.
“Excuse me,” he said as he leaned forward, looked at the number of the caller, and pressed a button to send the call into voice mail.
He glanced at his wristwatch. “The question,” he continued, “is ‘how could this young Cuban girl of limited means arrange all this?’”
The tall, thin girl in sneakers and handcuffs in the News photo came to mind. “You think she was incapable of killing Glatzer.”
“Of course,” he smiled. “But you are missing an important point. The reason Sonia was convicted so quickly, so harshly, concerns more than the death of this man.”
“How so?”
He leaned forward. “I suggest you examine the records, Terry.”
“They had a pretty solid case for Murder One.” I shifted in the leather seat. “If the intention was to kill Glatzer for the diamonds, you have clear premeditation.”
“Ah, if there were diamonds …”
“You’re saying there were no diamonds?”
“We know these people,” he said with a shrug.
“‘These people,’” I repeated.
“Don’t be sentimental, Terry. No one disputes whether this man Glatzer was killed, and this was very unfortunate. And perhaps there were diamonds,” Villa declared. “But the Jewish community brought tremendous pressure on the mayor, the police commissioner, everyone in city government. And there was Sonia, a dumb Cubanita, who was foolishly picking pockets on the Bowery. She took Glatzer’s wallet and she brought it back to her apartment—this was the level of her intelligence. That is all they needed. She was not completely innocent, but …”
I found myself standing next to the chair I’d been in. “You’re saying that Sonia ripped off Glatzer for his wallet,” I recounted, “and someone else killed him.”
“What else could have happened?” he shrugged.
“And the diamonds …”
“If there were diamonds … If there were diamonds, someone took them and then planted the evidence on Sonia. Obviously.”
“And who took the diamonds?”
“The killer,” he replied. “Obviously.”
A Well-Known Secret Page 7