Bodega Dreams

by Ernesto B. Quinonez

  “Vera, is everything all right?” Vidal asked.

  “Everything is fine,” Bodega answered him.

  “And may I ask who you are?” he inquired politely.

  “William Irizarry,” Bodega barked. Vidal looked at Bodega for only a second. He was trying to figure it all out but couldn’t. He didn’t have a clue. He then looked back at his wife.

  “Do you owe this gentleman something?” he asked her kindly. “Money? Anything? Vera, please, speak to me.” He was going to touch her hair, to comfort her, but Bodega knocked his hand aside. Vera was silent.

  “Listen, Mr. Irizarry. I’m not sure what this is all about—”

  “Stop it! Stop it!” Vera cried. “John, I’m … I’m … I’m leaving you.” She forced it out of herself.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your wife, she never loved you,” Bodega blurted as Vera buried her face in Bodega’s shoulder. “She always loved me.” His chest swelled up. Vidal stayed silent for a few seconds. Bodega stared at him like a cobra waiting to bite. Vidal looked at Bodega for a moment before his eyes returned to his wife.

  “Vera, please, let me help you. Tell me what is this all about.” Like Vera, he was almost in tears. He looked tired and hurt. Bodega then cradled her face in his hands.

  “Tell him,” Bodega almost whispered. “Tell him you never loved him. Tell him you’re staying with me.”

  Vera looked at Bodega as if the suggestion was inappropriate. As if affairs were all right just as long as they were kept in the dark.

  “William,” she cried. “I’m leaving him, isn’t that enough?”

  “Yes, but tell him you never loved him,” he said gently, letting go of her face. She then looked at her husband, whose head shook in disbelief.

  “John.” She sniffled. “John, I cared for you once because—”

  “It’s okay, Vera,” he said tenderly. “Just come back with me.”

  “Don’t you see?”—Bodega got closer to the old man—“She’s leaving you.” Vera’s husband seemed intimidated. Bodega was the block bully. Bodega took a step back and stood behind Vera, placing his hands on her shoulders. She looked at the floor. Her tears dropped onto the wood, leaving little clear dots on the floor.

  “I’m sorry, John. But I still feel young,” she said, lifting her head and wiping her tears away.

  “When I met you I was just a teenager and you were this, this man, from a world that was foreign to me.” She swallowed hard and Bodega squeezed her shoulders, urging her on. “I liked your life. My parents knew, I knew, I needed to get out of this place.”

  “It’s all right, Vera. It’s all in the past,” Vidal said. “From now on, we’ll do things—”

  “Don’t you see, John? I don’t need you anymore. You are an old man!” He staggered back. Her words were like daggers. “You are useless. You can’t even make love anymore.”

  “I see,” he said calmly. But Vera wouldn’t stop.

  “You are just an old man who can only find comfort in how much money he makes.” Bodega seemed proud of her. He watched with the assurance of a parent who is in the audience watching his daughter perform. I could tell by Vera’s hesitation in telling her husband those horrible things that it was Bodega who was really talking, through her. Maybe it was something that he had practiced with her, had her recite until she got it right. Vera might have been in love with Bodega all along but somehow I didn’t think she meant to say all those cruel things to her husband.

  “I see,” Vidal repeated. He then gathered himself up, adjusted his tie, and brushed his blazer. He cleared his throat. “And may I ask,” he said to her, “may I ask who was there when you needed money? For your salons? Your new clothes that remain untouched in your closets? Your health foods and yoga classes?” He paused when Bodega let go of Vera’s shoulders and clenched his fists. “The day I took you to the Met. Remember? You had been living in this city all your life and had never been there. Remember that day—”

  “Stop it! Stop it!”

  “You wanted to see everything and know everything.”

  Bodega dug in his pockets. He took the ring and held it up to the old man’s face. He then let it fall slowly from his hand, like a drop of water. Vidal recognized the ring. He knelt down and silently picked it up, then held it in front of him for a moment before putting it in his pocket. His face was serene.

  His eyes left Vera and looked at Bodega. “You want her? Then I must tell you things about my wife.”

  “I don’t need to hear anything from you. I know everything about Veronica—”

  “Veronica?” Vidal laughed, his eyes mocking Vera. “Veronica. I haven’t heard you called that since our wedding day.”

  “Shut up, John.” She seemed desperate for him to be quiet.

  The old man’s eyes returned to Bodega. “But you see, I must warn you about my wife. About her affairs. There have been so many. I personally never cared. She always came back to me. You see, her body is an international hotel, it has taken in men from all over the world.”

  “Say one more fucken word and I break your face.”

  “Ah,” the old man said, looking at Bodega more closely, “now I know who you are, you are that old boyfriend.” He started to laugh. “Now I know what this is about.” His eyes left Bodega and went back to Vera. “How long has this one been going on, Vera?”

  “Just shut up! Shut up!”

  “Did you get tired of the ones in Miami? Did you come here for this ex-thug who—”

  Bodega lost it. He grabbed the old man by the blazer and shoved him against the wall. I tried to pull Bodega off. Bodega let go of the blazer. Vidal laughed even harder.

  “What are you going to do, kill me? Pah!”

  Bodega gritted his teeth. “I’m not a nobody.”

  “I spotted your kind as soon as you walked in the door with my wife. You’re one of those nickel-and-dime drug people. It figures, that’s all you people in this neighborhood can do. You couldn’t make an honest buck if the work was given to you. My wife isn’t going anywhere with you and this nonsense is over.” He grabbed Vera by the hand and pulled her over. Bodega slapped him and pulled Vera back. After the old man regained his balance he reached inside his blazer and took out a cellular phone.

  But before he could finish dialing, Vera shot him.

  She shot him only once but it was enough. The sound of the bullet didn’t disturb anyone. It was a dull pop, a sound drowned out by the dishes being washed next door. For a second Vidal stared blankly at Vera, lost in a fog of shock and disbelief. He spat, coughed, and then fell flat on the floor, his hand still clutching the phone. Bodega quickly went over to Vidal, propped his head up, and looked for a pulse. Bodega looked hard into the old man’s eyes as if he wanted them to look back at him and share his strength, come back to life. But the old man’s blood was running backward in his veins and God wouldn’t reconsider.

  I looked at Vera, who had let the gun drop and was backing up against the wall. She slid all the way down to the floor until her legs bent and her knees pressed against her chest. She hid her face with her hands.

  I had done nothing but watch in a sweat.

  “Jam the door, Chino!” Bodega said to me, as he pulled the tablecloth off the table. Everything that was on top fell to the floor, like the old magic trick done wrong.

  “Don’t let anyone come in.” He laid the cloth on the floor and rolled the old man in it. I didn’t know what else to do so I did as I was told. Then Bodega began to curse.

  “Coño! Fuck! Carajo, what the fuck was that shit for?” He stormed over to Vera. “Shit, Vera, who the fuck told you to shoot him!” he yelled.

  “I’m sorry!” she yelled back, still hiding her face with her hands.

  “Ave Maria, coño, me cago en la madre.”

  “I’m sorry, William,” she said, still crouching on the floor. “I’m sorry.”

  Bodega then knelt down beside her. “Vera?”

  “Oh my God, I’
ve killed him. Oh my God, I’m sorry, William. You can’t let me go to prison, please, William.”

  Bodega moved her hands away, uncovering her face. “It’s all right, mami, you won’t go to prison,” he said softly.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Chino, help me get her up.”

  Vera’s legs were weak; like a calf that is learning to walk, she was wobbly and disoriented. We sat her down and she placed her head on the table, hiding her face in her hands again. Bodega knelt down beside the old man’s body, now wrapped in the tablecloth. Bodega took the phone out of Vidal’s clutch. He made a quick call. He spoke very quietly, making sure I didn’t hear. Not that it mattered. I knew that Nazario was on the other end of the line. Then he hung up.

  “Listen.” He placed his hand on my shoulder. “You were the only one here.” He looked straight in my eyes and whispered, “You were the only one who saw me shoot.”

  I froze. “What?”

  “I shot him,” Bodega said, making sure Vera didn’t hear anything. “You understand me, Chino?”

  I nodded, but right then I knew Bodega was lost. His dreams about the neighborhood had been too close to his love for Vera, incestuous cousins that had no right getting involved. When he looked at me that night, his face still had that radiant look, that well-focused beam that couldn’t miss its target. But miss it, it would.

  “It was my gun.”

  “What was she doing with it?”

  “We’d gone shooting by the East River,” he said.

  To this day, I think that in a weird way Bodega was actually happy that Vera’s husband was dead. His bloodstained suit didn’t put out that spark in his conscience that told him Vera was all his. Her vows had been severed for sure. Now, as in the past, he and Nazario would clean up the mess and he could continue dreaming. Only this time, Vera would be by his side.

  “Do you understand?”

  “I hear you.” I didn’t understand and had nothing else to add.

  “I’m sorry about your wife,” he said sadly, and then looked back at Vera, who had lit up a cigarette and was nervously smoking it.

  “I’ll deal with it,” I said, looking at Vera.

  “I’ll help you,” Bodega said, as if I was the one that needed help. As if a dead man was not lying on the floor.

  “No te apure, we’ll get her back.” He smiled. “I’ll see you tomorrow. We’ll see what we can do about it.”

  “Sure.”

  What else was I supposed to say? Bodega went back to Vera, sat next to her, placed his arms around her. Her face looked absent, as if she were slowly going mad.

  “Hey, Willie,” I said as I was about to walk out the door, “I think you’re worth all the souls in hell. Thass thousands of more souls than there are in heaven. So you’re worth a lot, pana.” He laughed a short laugh; his eyes met mine very deeply, then shifted away. And he just sat there next to Vera as he waited for Nazario.

  I left them alone with that dead guy on the floor, who meant nothing to me. Wasn’t family or anything. I left them there in that room sitting next to each other like two birds on a branch.

  •

  WHEN I got home, I realized that telling Bodega that he was worth all the souls in hell was the only compliment, if it was a compliment, I had ever given him or would ever give him. The next day, Bodega was dead.

  ROUND 12: KNOCKOUT

  “The Way a Hero Sandwich Dies

  in the Garment District at Twelve O’Clock

  in the Afternoon”

  THE following day El Barrio resembled a country under martial law. It was a battleground full of squad cars, reporters, and camera crews.

  Earlier that morning I had been awakened by loud pounding on the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Mr. Mercado? Open up, we need you to come with us.” It was Ortiz and DeJesus. I opened the door.

  “Am I under arrest?” I asked.

  “No. Not at all.” Ortiz made it a point to be straight with me.

  “Then I can’t go. I have to go to—”

  “William Irizarry is dead,” Ortiz said. My empty stomach began making dying-animal sounds.

  “When?”

  “Last night. He was shot.”

  “Who shot him?” I asked.

  “Come with us,” DeJesus growled. I didn’t really care. It was too early to worry about his dirty looks.

  I got dressed and went with them.

  Outside, the streets were dark blue in the early morning light. There was a lot of brass commanding teams of policemen; sending them by fours and at times by sixes, all combing the neighborhood for something or maybe as a show of force. It was cruel arithmetic. Four men with guns to a single corner. Other than cops, the streets were pretty much empty of people. Only cops roamed the streets, if not on foot, then patrolling in squad cars, slowly driving up and down the avenues, from First to Fifth, from 125th to 96th, circling Spanish Harlem like sharks. Instead of salsa music, police walkie-talkies were on full blast, bombarding the streets with what sounded like a nest of hissing snakes.

  But I wasn’t thinking of anything but Bodega. Bodega was dead. The last time I’d seen him, he was going to take the rap for his love. I kept picturing him reassuring Vera that everything was going to be all right. Reassuring her so often and in such a heartfelt way that she probably believed him. I wondered if Vera was dead too.

  As soon as I entered the 23rd, with Ortiz and DeJesus, I saw Nazario. At first I thought he was under arrest, but when I saw Vera sitting next to him on the wooden bench, I knew he had been waiting for me.

  “This man is also my client,” he said to DeJesus and Ortiz. Vera was very much alive and seemed more composed than when I’d last seen her. But she also seemed exhausted. Her makeup was smudged and her clothes rumpled. It reminded me of the day when she and Bodega had arrived at my place all drunk and happy.

  “He is not under arrest,” Ortiz said.

  “Then let him go home.”

  “The captain wants to ask him—”

  “But it’s all already there,” Nazario said calmly. “All the reports have been signed. All accounts taken, all eyewitnesses questioned. It’s all there.” Nazario must have been at the 23rd a lot longer than I thought. I knew he knew everything: who had killed Bodega and why. I was wondering how much of the whole truth, if any, Nazario had told the police. And how much of the truth would he tell me?

  “No! It’s not all there,” DeJesus barked. “We have reports that Mercado was a witness.” I stayed quiet. Nazario coldly gazed at DeJesus, like a snake studying a mouse.

  “Can I have a minute alone with my client?”

  “Sure. He’s not under arrest,” Ortiz said. They backed away a few steps and Nazario and I turned our backs to them. Vera stayed seated.

  “Just say you weren’t there when John Vidal was shot,” was all he said.

  “What happened to Willie?” I whispered back, but he ignored the question.

  “Don’t worry.” Nazario rubbed his eyes as if he needed sleep. “Just say you weren’t at the restaurant, and we’ll all go home.” He released a deep, tired sigh.

  We faced Ortiz and DeJesus. Nazario went over to where Vera was sitting, and told her that he’d be coming back. She nodded and dug in her purse for her compact. She had cried a lot and needed to check the damage. DeJesus and Ortiz led us to Leary’s crowded office. Leary was being mobbed by people who didn’t look like cops, but I couldn’t have cared less. When he spotted DeJesus, Ortiz, Nazario, and me, Leary excused himself and met us outside his office. Leary looked at me. He pursed his lips and shook his head. Leary’s eyes were as tired as Nazario’s.

  “So, let’s keep it simple. Mr. Mercaydo, were you at Ponce de Leon Restaurant at any time yesterday?”

  “No.”

  “Fine.” He gestured for Ortiz and DeJesus to take us away. To him, this was all a formality, as if he knew what I was going to say beforehand, as if he was happy that I’d said this because it would cut his paperw
ork in half and he could wrap things up.

  “Shouldn’t he sign a statement, Captain?” DeJesus protested.

  “My client doesn’t have to sign anything,” Nazario interjected.

  Leary agreed. He had all he wanted. It didn’t matter that he might have a few loose ends here or there. The most important part, two of three homicides—Alberto Salazar, John Vidal, and William Irizarry—had been solved in one day. William Irizarry was being held responsible for the murders of both Alberto Salazar and John Vidal. I didn’t yet know for sure who had killed Bodega, but like Leary I had an idea.

  Without saying anything to Leary, Nazario and I walked out. Leary went back into his office, braced for the mob inside. Nazario and I went over to get Vera, who sat silently at the bench. The three of us exited the precinct, Vera’s heels clacking in the early morning.

  Outside a car was waiting for Nazario. He opened the door for Vera. She hadn’t spoken a word to me and I didn’t really care. I had nothing to say to her. Nothing.

  Vera got in the car. Nazario told the driver to wait for a moment.

  “Willie is dead.” He looked at the concrete. “It was Fischman.”

  “How?”

  “He shot him. Listen,” he said coldly, “we had to lay all the blame on Willie, because Willie was already dead. Understand?”

  “I understand. When was he shot?”

  “On his way to give himself up.”

  “For Vera?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you know it was Vera who shot John Vidal,” I said.

  He didn’t answer me.

  “Why didn’t Nene or you go with him when he went to turn himself in?”

  “He wanted to go alone.”

  “And you let him?”

  “It’s late.” That’s all he said. His eyes pressed shut as tight as a lizard’s. I didn’t bother to press him because Nazario would never tell me everything. I would have to ask Sapo. Nazario just got in the car.

  I understood Nazario. Bodega was already dead. Why have other people locked up? Nazario was cutting everything loose, even if it meant letting the cops deal with Fischman. Too many people were dead already, and why have others die by going after Fischman? Without Bodega, there was no point in continuing. Nazario was too practical for vengeance. He had cut everyone’s losses and just wanted to get home with whatever it was he could salvage. It was all he could do because it was all over. Bodega’s dreams were dead. They died quickly, “the way a hero sandwich dies in the garment district at twelve o’clock in the afternoon,” as the poet Piñero put it. All he could do now was protect Bodega’s friends, Sapo, me, Nene, and of course Vera. It was what Bodega would have wanted Nazario to do.