POP-POP!
The avenger dropped out of the sky and landed on the concrete next to me, a carcass. His weapon landed useless at his side. I looked up. Tony held his gun with two shaking hands. Smoke plumed out of the barrel. Tony’s eyes were wide open. I realized instantly that I had not previously heard him fire a single shot.
The Impala screeched to a stop. C suddenly stood over me. He picked me up by the armpits, dragged me toward the car, and yelled at Tony to snap out of it. I remember thinking to hold on to the gun like J had said. They pulled me into the car. Blood was everywhere, wet and sticky. It pasted my flimsy T-shirt to my torso.
I was on my back in the backseat. J stopped the car on a bridge over the Chicago River and threw the guns over the rail. Even in my fever I heard the guns break the surface like turds in a toilet bowl. We took off again and the streetlights passed over me. I thought for sure that I was dying, and felt an odd acceptance about that as I drifted off.
It turned out that it was only a flesh wound. In and out, like an inoculation. I woke up in our basement hangout, stretched out on blankets. C treated the wound with alcohol, peroxide, and Mercurochrome, covered it with gauze, and it was fine. I was thirsty, dehydrated, but otherwise I was OK.
After that, mine and Tony’s rank went up. Nobody treated us like peewees anymore, not even C. Froggy came out of the hospital dependent on crutches for a while, but it was never as grave as everyone said. Worse was the fact that he wasn’t even sure that the gang we blasted was the one that beat his ass.
C bulged his neck muscles. “What the fuck are you saying, Froggy? Now you don’t know it was them?”
Froggy shrugged and bit into his Italian sausage. Tony and I avoided eye contact. C called Froggy a degenerate hard-on.
My mother and I eventually moved out of that neighborhood, to be with our own kind, Puerto Ricans, near Humboldt Park again. Tony ran away from the foster home and came to stay for a time in my room. He eventually returned to his birth mother’s house, which wasn’t too far away, and we began to hang and make ourselves part of a different, more notorious Puerto Rican gang. History and loyalty in Chicago street gangs sometimes only travels a certain number of blocks.
C and J continued their careers in crime. Each went back and forth to prison on different raps over the years, each time growing more powerful and corrupt. I’m not sure where either of them is right now, but they are not in prison and they are very dangerous to be around.
Froggy, of course, as the joke became, lost the spring in his step after the carjack beating. Somebody who had it in for him saw him leave the shoe store in a new pair of Chucky T Converse All Stars. They followed Froggy and unloaded before he could get to Pepe’s for a pizza puff. Every bullet found its mark. Froggy’s funeral was closed casket, but according to legend he was buried in his gleaming new All Stars.
Me and Tony? We only had to live with what we did. I committed murder. Tony killed a kid to save my life. It hung between us, unspoken. And even now, all these years later, I don’t think either one of us ever forgave me for it.
CHAPTER 12:
SNAKEBITE
The next morning was my first full day at the ink shop. Sweat collected on my upper lip as I walked in forty minutes late. I was prepared to get reamed. Blutarski cradled the phone, scratched on a notepad, and did not look up. He hung up, took more notes, stood without a word, grabbed a newspaper, and walked past me into the bathroom.
I hung around the shop clueless of where to begin. Blutarski ruffled paper on the other side of the thin plywood door. His long, sporadic farts were like a kazoo. I wondered if I was already fired and considered the door.
Finally, the toilet flushed. I didn’t hear Blutarski wash, but he emerged with his golden pompadour greased and combed. The folded paper wedged under his wet underarm. A powerful stench wafted after him.
Blutarski hoisted his humongous pants. “Ed, you ever read the Trib?”
“Not so much since Royko died.”
“That’s a long time ago.” He studied me through his bifocals and tossed the paper onto the pile on his desk. He wrapped his belly in an ink-covered smock. “Suit up, Ed.” He pointed at the safety goggles. “Put those on, you won’t regret it.”
I tied the smock and pulled the goggles over my head, relieved.
“Today we mix dark and light. Say you wanna make gray. What would you mix?”
“Half black, half white.”
“The right ingredients, I’m mildly surprised. But half-and-half’s for coffee. The proportions are infinite. One-fifth/four-fifths, two-fifths/three-fifths, et cetera.”
I nodded.
“Now, when you mix dark with light, always begin with light. Always. Add dark as you go.” He demonstrated with a little dab of white to which he added black and stirred. The black swirled and disappeared with the white into gray. “Never do it the other way. Add darkness a little at a time.”
“How come?”
“The natural properties. Too much dark too fast overwhelms the lighter shades. You do it the other way, you hafta add way more light. To make it shine, I mean.”
He collected two cans off the shelves and moved to a machine. He inspected the machine through both parts of his bifocals before he turned it on. Three large metal pins, lathes, like the ones in the old-fashioned washing machines began to spin. The sound was not quite dangerous. The rollers seemed heavy. Their spinning, or perhaps the turning of the gears inside, emitted a low hum that vibrated through the floor.
Blutarski breathed heavily as he inspected the machine. “You got an alarm clock, Ed?”
“I had a hard time waking up today.”
Blutarski did not look at me. “Tomorrow you’ll be on time, though, right?”
“The early bird gets the worm.”
He looked at me over the bifocals. “And the early worm gets eaten.”
The machine Blutarski used to flatten ink was a horizontal mill, also known as a three roller mill.
“You can figure out why.” Blutarski indicated the three rollers the way a spokesmodel shows a product. “The purpose of these is to grind out impurities. The best advice I can give you, Ed”—he pointed at a certain section—“avoid getting any part of your body, any loose clothing, anywhere near that spot.”
“Why?”
“That’s the nip point.”
“Meaning?”
“Too close and them rollers’ll nip ya to pieces.”
“Did you make that up?”
“Test it and see.” Blutarski pointed out the safety controls and emergency stops. “Good for you to know where these are, Ed, but to be honest, if you get to where you gotta hit them buttons, your head’s already under the truck.”
Blutarski lectured about bases and agents, viscosity and dispersions, runnability and grind. He used a big spatula, which he called a knife, to dollop ink onto what he called the feed roller.
“Any asshole can read a color chart, can mix ink. It’s the finesse, the patience. That’s what lifts your ink to the proper level.”
So it went for the rest of the week. Blutarski, the bottle-blond pompadour, worked his jaws. He talked and talked. I listened. He let me try my hand at mixing, sent me on deliveries. At the end of the day, I smelled of sweat, and felt depleted. The ink got under my fingernails. In the evenings I showered, sat around my room, ate, listened to music, and read.
I began to set my alarm clock for five. In the mornings I ran, stretched, did push-ups and crunches before work. I tried to not dwell on the situation with Little Tony, the narcs, Pelón, and my missing money.
But the frustration was there. The injustice. The anger. I couldn’t see any angles. For me to figure a solution, it would have to come from somewhere deep. Right then, my rational mind was tapped out.
It was enough for me to focus on the job. A couple times Tony came around at night and whistled and honked his horn from the street. I pretended not to hear. Another time he found the downstairs door open, and came up to knoc
k. I remained in bed with the lights off and was able to stay still and silent to fake like I wasn’t there.
I listened to Tony run down the stairs. Shortly after, I heard him run back up. He slipped a piece of paper under my door and split. I waited until I heard him fire the engine and peel off before I got up to see what it was.
He left a note that read: Hope you didn’t leave town. Call me.
I balled the paper and threw it in the plastic grocery bag that hung on my doorknob as a garbage pail.
It wasn’t just that I was angry with Tony. I was also confused. It was obvious after Coltrane and Johnson’s little visit that turning people against one another was exactly their style, their MO. That made it more likely that Tony had set me up. I didn’t want to think that, but I did.
I knew I wouldn’t be able to just cut Tony out of my life. If I kept him close, I could learn more than if I shoved him off. For me to recover my money, Tony would more likely play a part than not. I needed to bring him close again.
That Friday Blutarski paid me four hundred dollars in cash. “Taxes and all that other shit’s your problem.”
I thanked him and folded the money into my pocket.
“And don’t spend it all. Next week I might not have forty hours for you.”
I nodded. We wished each other a good weekend. The first pay phone, I dialed Tony’s cell.
“Who is this and where the fuck are you calling from?”
“You always talk this tough?”
Tony said, “Coño, perdido, where you been?”
“Working.”
“Pelón says he ain’t heard from you.”
“He hasn’t. I got this job on my own.”
“Doing what?”
“Mixing ink.”
“I never heard of that.”
“Me neither. It just came up.”
“You like it?”
“It’s all right. You going out tonight, Tone?”
“Say the word.”
“Any live salsa in this town?”
“There’s a couple spots. But you gotta dress. I’ll come pick you up.”
Tony knew which stores to go to at the mall. I looked at different pants, dress shirts, but the tags made me leave the best ones on the rack.
Tony said, “You don’t like that shirt?”
I rubbed the tip of my thumb with my index and middle finger.
“Expensive?” He looked at the tag. “Eddie, that’s what shit costs these days.”
I told Tony how much I made at the ink mill.
“I don’t know why you bother. Today, don’t worry about price. This gear’s on me.”
“Tony, I can’t—”
“Get over the humble act, bro. Prom night’s over and you already got your first blow job. Let me spend. Otherwise, I’m just gonna grab whatever I want, and it might not be to your taste.”
I tried on different pants and shirts. Tony picked out a couple suits for me. I checked myself in the full-length mirror. Tony helped me straighten the back of the jacket.
“How’s it feel?”
“Smooth.”
We both looked at my reflection.
Tony said, “Take that, it was made for you.” He held up another suit. “This pinstripe too. Sopranos, papi. Now come on.” He turned and walked toward the register. “Let’s wrap it up before everyone thinks we’re homos.”
Tony bought me suits, dress shirts, ties, T-shirts, dress socks, underwear, and a couple belts. For a kicker he bought me a long black leather trench coat. I bought myself a black leather sport coat.
Tony shook his head when I tried on the leather trench. “I’m too short for that style,” he said, “but you’re killin’ it.”
We went to a shoe store. Tony asked to see a variety of Italian leather shoes in my size. Seven different pairs. The salesgirl went to the back.
I pointed at a snakeskin cowboy boot. “Tony, who’s that shitkicker remind you of?”
“You want a pair?”
“No. We gotta talk.”
“About?”
I looked around first to make sure we were alone. “Coltrane and Johnson.”
Tony turned in his seat to face me. “What about ’em?”
“They came to see me.”
Tony’s eyes hardened. “When?”
“A few days ago.”
“What’d they say?”
“They wanted to know about you, Tone. And especially about Pelón. What you guys are up to.”
“Is that right?” Tony’s eyebrows met in the center of his forehead.
“They asked about any ‘big plans.’ ”
“What’d you tell ’em?”
“You gotta ask? I told ’em I didn’t know shit.”
“Is that exactly how you put it?”
“I told them I didn’t know anything about you or Pelón. ‘We’re old friends,’ I told ’em. That’s it.”
“Think they bought it?”
“Of course not. They know you and I got the same rap sheet.”
“Almost the same. But what made them think you’d turn trick, Eddie?”
“They threatened me with that beautiful .38 you stuck me with. Said they’re thinking about having it fingerprinted. Maybe it was used to cap that kid in the park.”
Tony’s eyes didn’t move. They didn’t widen and they didn’t turn away. He barely blinked. “They are blowing mucho smoke up your ass.” He thought for a moment. “Did you ask them about your cash?”
“They didn’t wanna talk about it.”
“There’s a surprise. How’d you leave it?”
“I told ’em I’d never sell out. They got a case, bring it. I got nothin’ to say.”
Tony tapped me on the knee. “You done good.”
He nodded once to let me know that we weren’t alone anymore. The salesgirl carried boxes of size twelves.
Tony said, “We’ll take them all, honey.” He pointed at the snakeskin boots. “And I’ll see those in an eight and a half.”
“I’ll have to check to see if we have them.”
“Please do. All of a sudden I’m in a shit-kicking mood.”
PART III:
INTERLUDE:
AZTEC GOLD
CHAPTER 13:
A TIGHT RED DRESS
We stood on the edge of the crowded dance floor, Tony and I, slick in our new threads, tipsy on Long Islands. A crowd of mostly Latinos swung their hips to piped-in merengue. On the low stage instruments waited.
I clinked Tony’s glass. He didn’t nod or wink or clink back. All night painted, curvaceous women spun circles, flicked their wrists, and flipped their hair on the dance floor, just two feet in front of us, yet Tony hadn’t said a word.
“What’s eating you? You been stewing since the goddamn shoe store.”
Tony tipped his drink back. He’d already slipped to the bathroom twice to snort coke. I felt good that I hadn’t been tempted to join him.
“You pissed about my run-in with the narcs?” I said.
Tony licked his lips and let his brown, sloping eyes drift over. He seemed slow, in spite of all the coke.
“What happens if they threaten to lock you up, Eddie?”
“They already tried that.”
Tony turned back toward the crowd. “Yeah, but how you gonna do when they dangle your stash in front of you?”
“You sayin’ our friendship has a price?”
Tony looked at me with dilated eyes. “Doesn’t everything?”
“You worried?”
Tony slurred a little. “Shiiit. Muthafuckas out here gotta worry about me.”
Tony looked in his empty glass. Then he lurched toward the bar. I watched him get swallowed by the crowd, and wondered why a guy I had always been straight with suddenly fronted like I might consider putting a knife in his back.
The live salsa band jumped into a set of covers, classics from the Fania-era. My blood rose. The conguero leaned over shiny black congas and made them chant. I felt a buzz, but at the sam
e time a little jealous of his expertise.
Around the room it seemed no one in the club came alone. There were couples and groups and pairs of friends. On the dance floor men usually led women, although occasionally I saw a woman lead to make it seem that her partner was the compass. Many of the couples who faked their way through merengue were overmatched by salsa. Some men moved with confidence, on beat. The women at their fingertips spiraled like tops, and I was reminded of the times when Chiva and I smoked and danced in my cell. Not with each other, but at the same time, with invisible, imaginary females who followed perfectly.
My glass was low. I wound my way through the turning, writhing, gyrating bodies on the dance floor and leaned against the bar to order. That’s when I noticed the woman in the tight red dress. She sipped a drink, and talked with another female.
We made brief eye contact; then she turned away, but not before I copped a smile. The red dress was low enough to show the tops of her big brown breasts. I ordered a shot of tequila, then looked again.
The woman in red was thick, the way I like. Hips like a stand-up bass. Brown, but not Caribbean brown, African, or even mulatto. She was Mexican brown. Mestiza. But not too Indian. Her cheekbones, the length and shape of her nose, the deep, silken blackness of her hair—every feature echoed Aztec ancestors.
The woman focused on her friend and did not look at me, but I could sense that she was aware of my up-and-down. My tequila arrived and I threw it back. After a while she looked in my direction again, looked directly at me, into my eyes, on purpose, for a solid beat, then turned away, this time without smiling. She talked to her friend, but flicked her black hair away from her face in a way that accentuated her elegant profile.
I tried to think of something clever to open with. I noticed that she was moving gently, almost imperceptibly in time to the music. I stepped over and cut into the conversation.
“Excuse me, trigueña, you wanna dance?”
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