Paradise Man

by Jerome Charyn

  He stood in a hallway at Thirtieth Street until he noticed the Cadillac with Dimitrios inside. The Cadillac stopped at the corner. Holden leapt out and knocked on Dimitrios’ window. Dimitrios opened the door. He was a fleshy man with thick fingers. He handed Holden an envelope.

  “Did you have fun with my shooter?” Holden asked.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “How many shots did ballistics fire into their cotton box? I’ll bet Paul had a hard-on when he looked at my bullets under the scope?”

  “He never touched your lousy gun. Paul’s a prince. He wouldn’t dirty himself with a bumper like you.”

  Dimitrios drove off and Holden went into a diner on Tenth, where the waiters left him alone. He took his Beretta out of the envelope, checked the serial numbers, and sniffed the barrel. It was a tainted gun, wiped and cleaned by the district attorney. Paul had Holden’s “prints” on file, the particular grooves each of his bullets made. He drank a cup of coffee, stripped the gun, and dropped pieces of his Beretta into different garbage pails. Only a god like Changó could reassemble that gun.

  He went into a hobby shop on Thirty-ninth. The owner, an Iranian Jew, often supplied him with props. Holden paid a thousand for a hot detective’s shield and a Ku Klux Klan mask.

  “Fardel, I want your book.”

  The hobby-shop man avoided Holden’s eyes. “What book?”

  “On every four-star male clinic in town.”

  “Holden, I haven’t compiled such a book.

  It was Gottlieb who’d told him about Fardel’s talents as an encyclopedist. But Fardel hated to part with his specialty items. They were for his Iranian friends. “Fardel, I could put on the mask, shoot your eyes out, and who would ever know? Klan masks are pretty common on Times Square.”

  He put his Beretta Minx next to Fardel’s eye. Fardel gave him the list. It was a one-page address book of the most exclusive male bordellos in town, not baths, or nightclubs and waterfront bars, not hotels, or the interiors of restaurants, but houses like Muriel had, where a man could keep his own “chicken” for a month.

  “Fardel, give me your key. Can’t have you calling those clinics the second I’m gone.”

  Holden carried a chair into the toilet, tied Fardel to the chair, sealed his mouth with tape, shut him in the toilet, fashioned a sign that said CLOSED FOR THE DAY, put it in the window, and locked the store.

  He’d have to get lucky to catch the kid. Because if he mooned around too long in each bordello, one would warn the other. And Gottlieb might really be in Singapore.

  The first bordello Holden visited called itself a psychotherapy center. Holden used the badge to get in. The boss of the therapists knew more about the police than Holden did. But Holden still had the badge. He didn’t find Gottlieb in the therapy rooms. The place was deserted. Holden apologized and ran.

  He had a big fight with husky men at the second “clinic.” But he managed to peek into every room. He discovered more beautiful women than he’d ever met at Muriel’s. The third clinic was run by a woman who looked like the Duchess of Windsor. Holden couldn’t take his eyes off her. Goldie had divulged the story of the duke and the duchess. Holden’s hero had been King Edward, who’d given up his titles, his moneys, his land, and the throne of England to marry an American bitch. He’d served out his life as a duke. Goldie had recited Edward’s abdication speech, and Holden remembered the lines about a king who couldn’t sit without the woman he loved. She’d been divorced, and the Brits wouldn’t have her as their queen. Goldie was on the king’s side. “Bloody aristocrats,” he’d said. “Serves them right. Edward’s always been my king. The house has fallen since that man. It’ll never be the same at the old castle.”

  And Holden stared at the duchess’ twin. “What squad are you with?” she asked.

  “I’m with the IAD,” he said. “We think one of our detectives is honeymooning upstairs.”

  “But you don’t have a warrant.”

  “I’d rather not deal with a formal complaint. It might be bad for business.”

  “Can you tell me who you’re looking for?”

  Holden started up the stairs, considering that king who’d lived in exile with his lady. Holden agreed with Edward in matters of love. He’d have kissed twenty thrones goodbye for the twig. And twenty more at least for Fay.

  He couldn’t find Gottlieb.

  He was sick of showing a badge and giving explanations. He arrived at the fourth brothel wearing his mask. It was a townhouse in the West Eighties. He herded everyone on the ground floor into a closet. “Just scream,” he said, “and see what you’ll get.”

  Gottlieb was in the attic with a soldier. The soldier was neither handsome nor tall. He shivered a lot and Holden had to wallop him once to keep him quiet. The soldier slept on the floor with a sweet expression.

  “Who are you with?” Gottlieb asked. “Who are you with? Don’t hurt us. I have money. I’ll pay you ten thousand dollars.”

  “Sweetheart,” Holden said under the mask. “You can pay a lot more than that. I know your finances. You have half a million in the bank.”

  “Holden?” the kid said, staring into the eyes of the mask.

  “Who’d you expect? A different bumper?”

  Holden took off the mask. The kid was naked. He crept into his underwear.

  “Gottlieb, did your new masters tell you I was dumb?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You set up Mrs. Howard. You knocked on her door and let the killer in. You get one answer. Who was it?”

  “Jeremías.”

  “Edmundo’s bodyguard? He’s infantile. Did he come alone?”

  “No. He had a couple of jíbaros. Just in case.”

  “Did you enjoy it, Gottlieb, watching Mrs. Howard die? ... I asked you a question.”

  “It had to be done,” Gottlieb said, looping the buttons on his shirt. He’d caught the wrong buttonholes. He looked like a scarecrow with his collar incorrect.

  “Had to be done, huh?” Holden rearranged Gottlieb, ripped the buttons off his shirt. “Tell me why it had to be done.”

  “Because of the little girl,” Gottlieb said. “The Bandidos consider her some kind of saint ... I don’t know. It’s religious shit. Edmundo was worried you’d give her back to Huevo, and he’d have nothing to bargain with.”

  “Did Goldie tell him that Mrs. Howard had the girl?”

  “It wasn’t Goldie. It was Nick Tiel.”

  “Nick? I saved his fucking life.”

  Gottlieb sat down on the bed. “Holden, I have to say it. You’re an asshole. Nick was never on your side.”

  “And you? I picked you off the street. A kid of fourteen selling himself in Bryant Park for a couple of dollars. You owe me your blood, Gottlieb. What the hell did Edmundo promise you? More money? Jesus, what other kid your age has half a mil?”

  “It wasn’t money,” Gottlieb said.

  “Did they threaten you? I’d have fixed it. Why didn’t you come to me?”

  “I couldn’t. You were getting blind ... a freelancer who walked around in circles and fell into Don Edmundo’s pants.”

  “It was ’Mundo who had you wait outside Mansions and tell me the Bandidos were after my ass.”

  “Mundo and the Swiss.”

  “Then they weren’t really interested in the Parrot. They knew he was minding the girl for Big Balls.”

  “No. That was a trick of fate. But they knew about the girl, that she was precious to Huevo. They’d been trying to grab her for a year, but they always missed.”

  “That’s why they killed all the madrinas ... to get the girl. But how did Huevo figure I was the one who took out the Parrot?”

  “Come on. It had your trademark. Who else would have gone into the Parrot’s apartment without a gun? But that’s where it got interesting. Huevo figures you stole the girl for La Familia. He blows up betting parlors like mad, and it bothers Edmundo, because a six-man army ought to retreat. And Huevo is widening the
war. Edmundo sends out his spies. But that man was in the dark until you told Nick Tiel. He starts to laugh. ‘Perfect,’ he says. ‘Let Holden keep Santa Barbara.’ And he covers Oliver Street, front and back, with an arsenal of Cubans in case Big Balls gets wise to the caper.”

  “I never saw a Cuban near Loretta’s house.”

  “That’s because you’re always changing taxi cabs, you can never see what’s in front of your nose.”

  “If ’Mundo had the place surrounded, why’d he have to hit Loretta?”

  “He was getting worried. He didn’t like you looking for Huevo. If you didn’t bump each other, both of you might start to talk. Edmundo took the girl.”

  “But why’d he have to kill Loretta?”

  “Wake up, Holden. She was the one person in the world who was loyal to you. She wouldn’t have given up the little goddess.”

  “Put on a tie,” Holden said. “You’re going to help me get back the girl.”

  Gottlieb shoved his head out at Holden. “Bobo, finish me here. Because I can’t help you.”

  “You belong to me, kid. I didn’t trade you to the Cubans. Where’s the girl?”

  Gottlieb was silent. Holden twisted the collar of his shirt. “Where is she?”

  “With Jeremías. In a house ...”

  “That’s kind of you. What house?”

  Holden had to twist until Gottlieb got blue in the face. The kid started to cough. “Holden, can’t you see why I had to turn? It’s dangerous around you. You’re like a bomb. You sleep and then you explode.”

  “The house, Gottlieb, where’s the house?”

  “In Riverdale. It’s a fortress, Holden. You’ll never get in.”

  “Not without you. You’re the lucky charm I found in the street.”

  “And if we produce the miracle, what happens? La Familia is after me for life.”

  “Then you’d better stick close. I’m all the papa you’ll ever have.”

  15

  HOLDEN COULDN’T RUSH up to Riverdale without wheels. He went to Fardel’s hobby shop with the kid, let the trader out of the toilet, and bargained with him, while Fardel looked at Gottlieb, searched for signs, because he knew that Holden had been hunting for the kid. But the kid showed nothing. Gottlieb was Holden’s rat again. He had the menacing eyes of a street urchin who’d made good. He hadn’t grown soft at Muriel’s. He could have lived off the rust on a sewer pipe, sold his ass to men and women on social security. Gottlieb didn’t care. He’d stroked women with whiskers, men with breasts. He was a little bit in love with Holden, and to Gottlieb that love often felt like hate.

  “Come on, Fardel,” Holden said. “I don’t have time to bargain. Get me a Dodge with good plates.”

  “It’ll cost you double the price. I suffered in that toilet. Somebody’s got to pay.”

  He was performing for the kid. He knew Holden wouldn’t harm him in front of Gottlieb. Fardel belonged to Gottlieb’s own secret service. Holden could never understand the social customs of Thirty-ninth Street. He was a hick from Queens.

  “I want five thousand on deposit, and four hundred a day.”

  “That’s fucking robbery,” Holden said.

  “It’s my rate for people who tie me to toilets.”

  “Get the car.”

  Fardel returned with an ’86 Dodge.

  “Does it have air conditioning?” Holden asked.

  Fardel looked at him with disgust. “I don’t chisel. I rent deluxe.” He handed Holden the car’s registration and insurance coupons.

  “Fardel, are these papers clean? I don’t want to be chased by motorcycle cops. We have important business.”

  “If they bust you, I’ll waive the fee.”

  “That’s generous, Fardel, but if it’s a dirty car, you’ll remember your sit on the toilet as one of the happiest moment in your life.”

  “Holden,” the kid said, “can’t you have a conversation without threatening people?”

  “I’ll try,” Holden said, collecting the car keys. And he took off with Gottlieb in their virgin Dodge. They arrived in Riverdale without a map. And Gottlieb had to recall the route Jeremías had taken with Santa Barbara. They were on a country road that circled around itself, as if it could bite Holden’s tail. And he thought of that animal Fay had, with the look-around head. But he’d never been to Riverdale before. He’d never bumped at the edges of the Bronx.

  They’d come to Blackstone Avenue. They got out of the car, which overlooked one of La Familia’s compounds, not where Don Edmundo lived, but where his vassals were, like Jeremías, the bodyguard who labored at a distance from his lord. Edmundo had to protect Jeremías, keep him from getting kidnapped, because the ransoms he paid for Jeremías were a sickening price.

  “Where is she?” Holden asked.

  “Jeremías has her in the shed.”

  The kid pointed to a gardener’s shack behind the main house.

  “Is he nice to her?”

  “Jeremías? I don’t know. But Edmundo hired a madrina for the little goddess. The girl’s valuable to them ... but I did hear her cry for you and Loretta.”

  A fury rose up in the bumper. He saw black and red. And for a moment he considered pummeling Gottlieb into the ground. But he couldn’t get in without the kid. Gottlieb was crucial.

  “You’ll drive in,” Holden said, “and park where they tell you to park.”

  “I’m seventeen. How the hell could I grab a license?”

  “Gottlieb, they’re not clever enough to figure that out. You’re only one more kid with a Dodge.”

  “But I’ve never driven a car.”

  “You’ll have to teach yourself,” Holden said. “I can’t give you lessons. We don’t have the time.”

  And Holden crept into the trunk. The kid could have locked the trunk and run away, or delivered Holden to Jeremías. Edmundo would have given him a reward, and he’d be rid of Holden, once and for all. But Gottlieb couldn’t do it.

  He stepped into the car, got behind the wheel, let the Dodge rock like a gigantic cradle, and drove right up to the gate. The sentry saluted him. His name was Punto, and he had a 9 mm automatic wedged into the back of his coat.

  “Is Jeremías expecting you?” Punto asked, behind a mouth of gold and silver teeth.

  “No. I came on a whim. I want to see la santita.”

  “It’s all right, kid. But I’d better check, or Jeremías will chew my ass.”

  He dialed from the cordless phone at the gate. “Sí ... It’s Holden’s whore. He invited himself, Jeremías. I think he has a present for la pequeña ... okay ... okay.” Punto got off the phone. “Come on in. You know where she is, eh? Park in front of the little house.”

  The kid felt like he was driving straight down to the Hudson. The water was blue-green, like the jackets Holden sometimes wore. “I’m not gonna leave this place alive,” Gottlieb said, with his hands on the wheel. An hombre stood in front of the shack, wild as Pancho Villa. One of the good Bandidos, Gottlieb reckoned, the guys who’d remained loyal to La Familia.

  Gottlieb parked a piece away from the Bandido, so Holden would have a chance coming out of the trunk. The Bandido winked at him, and Gottlieb went into the shack. The madrina stood around with Jeremías, trying to coax the little girl, who sat in the corner with her dolls. And Gottlieb began to remember what he’d done. Knocked on Mrs. Howard’s door. Said hi. He’d come with a doll for the little goddess. He played with her, while Mrs. Howard was in her coding room. Then he wandered off, unlocked the back door, returned to chat with Mrs. H., said goodbye to the goddess, kissed her dolls, and Mrs. H. walked him to the front door, while Jeremías and a couple of his Bandidos crept in through the back ...

  “Hello,” Jeremías said, “will you talk to la santita? We spoil her, but we can’t make much of an impression.” Jeremías seemed genuinely glum. And what was Gottlieb? The finger man who brought death into the house, death and a doll. He had to force himself to look at the goddess. She was pale, like one of Holden’s handk
erchiefs. The skin was drawn around her eyes. He’d fingered men and women before Mrs. H., surrendered a couple of Holden’s rats to La Familia, gotten them permanently off Loretta’s line, because the rats had been a little too valuable, their information a little too correct, and might have compromised Edmundo and Infante. But he’d never had to deal with the residue: a little girl and her dolls.

  “Chica,” he said, “don’t you like your new dad? Jeremías is nice to you. He buys you toys.”

  “I’m more than nice. Didn’t I kidnap Felisa just for her?” he said, pointing to the madrina, who looked as unhappy as the girl. But Gottlieb didn’t believe it. The godmother had been bought, like the Bandidos and himself. They were all Edmundo’s children. Holden too, but he hadn’t figured that out. He’d fallen into the scheme of La Familia, no matter how many bungalows he shot, or rats he had under his control.

  The madrina had a milky eye. The little goddess was afraid of her. She clung to Gottlieb.

  “Is it fair?” Jeremías said. “We exhaust ourselves entertaining her, and la santita comes to you. Can I help it if she’s a holy girl? The Mariels are crazy about her ... santita, come to Jeremías.”

  But she wouldn’t go near him, and Jeremías was mortified. “You know how much I spent? Gottlieb, she’s an expensive baby. She costs me as much as a putita. It’s humiliating, no? I give and give and give and get nothing back.”

  He began to rock in front of Gottlieb and the girl. “I—”

  Holden arrived in a great blur, like some forest animal, and Jeremías’ eyes bulged as he was caught in the middle of his dance when Holden socked him in the throat. He crumpled to the floor, coughed, and started to cry. The little goddess rushed at Holden, but Gottlieb held her.

  “You can’t come in, Holden. This is my house,” Jeremías said.