I looked anxiously around the room trying to spot Mr. O’Donnell but I couldn’t find him.
“Qué pasa?” was all I could say.
The seated killer, who was small, razor-thin, dark, with swarthy hands and puffy eyebags, barked, “Este vergajo stole a pound of cocaine. Just hand it back and nobody will be hurt. Otherwise …” He put the gun against Gene’s temple and something told me he wasn’t kidding.
“Sammy, tell them … I don’t have it,” Gene said, whining like a child about to burst into tears.
“Okay, okay,” I said, knowing I had to act quickly before the electric saw appeared and our limbs started painting red spots all over the place. Yet I knew that if I gave these men the cocaine, we would be killed afterward. “Señores,” I said diplomatically, trying to disguise my fear and distaste, “we’ll give you back the coke. Just relax, por favor?”
Gene’s eyes seemed about to pop out. He shook his head ever so imperceptibly as if to say no.
“The coke is in the bathroom,” I said.
“Dónde?” hissed the seated simian.
“Just follow me and I’ll show you.”
“Get up.” The killer slapped Gene’s cheek with the gun’s muzzle.
I went in first; the Colombian who had greeted me at the door poked the end of his gun against my tailbone. The four of us crammed into the tiny bathroom.
“It’s in the water tank of the toilet.” I informed them. I removed the top of the water tank and was about to put my hand in, when the mafioso who had Gene at gunpoint hissed, “Cuidado, it could be a trap. Dario, you get it.”
“Not me, ave María purísima,” Dario hissed back. “There could be a snake in there.”
“Okay, you get it out,” the nameless man said to me.
As I put my hand in, I heard Mr. O’Donnell galloping in the other room, making quite a racket.
“What’s that?” the man yelled, turning to look in the direction of the living room. Quickly, I grabbed the gun at the bottom of the tank, and, in one motion, hooked the man’s neck with my left arm and stuck the dripping gun’s muzzle into his mouth. “If you try anything, I’ll blow your fucking brains out,” I barked in my best Jimmy Cagney manner.
The other mafioso placed the gun on Gene’s temple. “Drop the gun before I count to three or I’ll kill the boy. One … two …”
I had no choice but to aim at the man’s head and pull the trigger. The gun went clack; I pulled again and nothing happened.
The man I had been grabbing struggled free. “Mátalo,” he said, spitting on my face.
“If you kill him,” Gene interjected, “I’ll never tell you where the coke is, no matter what you do to me.”
“What’s a pound of coke?” the man said with hatred. “Kill the son of a bitch.”
Well, this is it, folks, I thought, when a shrill scream pierced my ears and I heard Hot Sauce say, “Cool your bones, motherfuckers, or you’re dead fish.” And two shots were fired in succession at the men’s feet. Gene and I jumped on top of the astonished killers and disarmed them. We herded them out of the bathroom.
“Put them hands up against the wall,” Hot Sauce said, jerking the gun from man to man.
I began to frisk one man when I heard a loud stampede of heavy shoes come up the stairs. “Oh God,” I said, “their friends are coming.”
“Nothing doing,” Hot Sauce reassured me. “It’s the cops. I sent word before I came up.”
“You sent for the cops?”
“Santiago, I’m an undercover agent,” she explained and pulled a walkie-talkie out from under her skirt. “Hot Sauce speaking. Reinforcements have arrived at 687. Thanks. Over.” She smiled at me.
Gene and I exchanged flabbergasted looks. “You should get dressed,” I said to Gene as three gun-happy cops arrived on the scene. I recognized Lieutenant McGavin, with whom I had had many conversations concerning the crack heads downstairs.
“Hi, Santiago,” he said, giving Gene an inquisitive stare.
“Lieutenant, this is my nephew Gene. He’s staying with me for a couple of days,” I said.
McGavin and the other cops were panting from the exertion of making it up to the fourth floor in a hurry. He addressed the Colombians, “Hi, fellows. You’d better have your green cards in order.”
My fellow countrymen betrayed no emotions; they looked at each other as though in a daze, as if this new development was the last thing they had expected. The men were handcuffed, their rights were explained to them in English and translated by me into Spanish. Seldom had I enjoyed my role as interpreter as much as I did on this occasion.
Gene excused himself to go into the bathroom to get dressed. While the cops checked the killers’ IDs and reported their findings back to headquarters, I sat anxiously, wondering what would happen next. Would I, too, be charged with illegal possession of a firearm? No, I thought; Hot Sauce saw how I got that gun. And what if the mafiosi talked? What if they snitched on Gene? Should I turn in the coke before the killers implicated me?
The report from headquarters threw the cops into a loud celebration. These men were on all sorts of most wanted lists, and had been identified as important links in one of the most powerful cocaine rings in Queens.
“Lieutenant,” Hot Sauce said, “take them away and lock ‘em in the can. I’ll stay here with Santiago and Gene to write the report of the break-in.”
As they were about to depart, Lieutenant McGavin stopped to ponder and said, “The one question I have is why did they break in here? What were they hoping to get here?”
Confess, a voice screamed in my head. “Well, Lieutenant, I hope you …”
“Oh, no, no,” McGavin interrupted me. “We’re very aware of your efforts to try to clean up this block; you’ve helped us to smash one of the most vicious drug rings in America. We’ve been trying to catch these guys for a long time, but it’s impossible if they remain in Queens. You and your nephew will have to come to the midtown precinct tomorrow or the next day and we’ll have a press conference. I’m going to recommend that the mayor’s office awards you the medal of civic service. You and your nephew are heroes. I wish there were more concerned citizens like you. Now, amigos,” he said to the downcast drug fiends, “vamos.”
We shook hands, expressed our thanks and said good-bye. Gene, Hot Sauce, and I were left alone in the apartment.
Hot Sauce and I lounged on the couch and Gene sat around the table. Gene, who had just now met Hot Sauce, could not get his eyes off her. Mr. O’Donnell walked into the room cautiously to make sure the commotion was over. Then he jumped on the couch, sniffed Hot Sauce, and crouched on my lap. I looked around me and saw a teenage mafioso, a Times Square hooker, and a dying alley cat, and wondered at the principals in my life.
“You have to write a report now?” I asked, still amazed she was an undercover agent.
“Oh, no. I can do that later. I just said that so I could stay here to chat with you.”
“That’s nice,” I said. “Oh, God, I’m about to croak from hunger.”
“Me too,” Gene said.
“How about going out for lunch?” Hot Sauce said. “I’ll treat you guys.”
“Thanks a lot, but I’m too tired; I don’t think I could make it down the stairs.”
“We could order Chinese takeout; how’s that?”
“I hate Chinese food,” Gene said.
I sighed. “Well, as I said before, I’m starving.”
“I know what,” Gene said getting up. “I’ll make lunch while you two guys talk.”
I shuddered at the prospect but had no choice but to accept the offer. “I don’t think there’s much in the fridge.”
“That’s cool,” Gene said. “Just leave it to me, man. I’ll improvise. Lunch will be ready in five minutes. In the meantime, how about a cup of coffee? I had just made some coffee before my … before the paisas broke in.”
“A cup of coffee would be lovely,” Hot Sauce said. “Black, no sugar, please.”
�
�The same for me. Thanks, Gene.”
Gene served the coffee and disappeared in the kitchen. Mr. O’Donnell, who was always a persistent beggar when there was any activity in the kitchen, followed him.
“I can’t get over that you’re a cop, not a hooker,” I said.
“Yeah, undercover agent. That’s my job. We’re conducting an investigation. You know, gathering enough evidence so we can shut down the crack den downstairs. But it ain’t easy, Santiago. First, the place belongs to the mob so there are big bucks involved. Second, since it is a porno place, we’re dealing with freedom of speech. And that’s the law.”
“But your real name is not Hot Sauce, is it?”
“No,” she blushed. “My real name is Rosita. Rosita Levine.”
“Are you Latin?”
“Do I look Latin to you? I’m a Jewish girl from Brooklyn. When I was born, my mother’s best friend was from Cuba. Her name was Rosita Matamoros; so my mother named me after her best friend. Rosita means Little Rose, as you know, being an interpreter and all that. So I came up with Hot Sauce, which is a compound name, you get it now?”
“Oh, oh,” I uttered, feeling more and more discombobulated all the time. In the kitchen, Gene had turned on the radio very, very loud, but through the heavy pounding of the rock music I heard the blender going on, and what sounded like a machine gun firing hundreds of bullets. The toxic fumes of hot dogs invaded the room.
“I wanted to talk to you about something else.”
“Shoot,” I said.
“It’s about Ben. You know the way he is so … like romantic, you know. I’m worried that when he finds out I’m a cop instead of a hooker he won’t like me no more. Watcha think?”
“Well, yeah, I don’t know,” I said. “I’m sure the hooker part probably seemed very … interesting to him. On the other hand,” I said, recalling Ben’s fondness for the leading lady in Freaks, “I also think he likes the fact that you are …” I didn’t quite know how to put it.
“A little person.”
“That’s right. A little person.”
“You mean there’s hope? You really don’t think it’s over?”
“Do you like him that much?”
“I’m crazy about the guy, Santiago. He’s the nicest person I’ve ever met. A girl like me doesn’t meet too many guys like that.”
Gene stuck his head out of the kitchen. “Lunch is ready. Please sit down at the table.”
“Gene, hon, can I help you?” Hot Sauce offered, for the first time showing her motherly instincts.
“That’s cool; it’s under control.”
We sat at the table while Gene brought out the place mats, dishes, silverware, napkins, and glasses. First, he produced a tray heaped with steaming hot dogs plastered with mayonnaise. Next, he brought out a pitcher of chocolate milk shake. “And the chef’s masterpiece,” he announced, producing a huge bowl of popcorn swimming in melted butter.
“Well?” he said, beaming, standing in front of us, fishing for compliments.
“You’ll make a good husband,” Hot Sauce said.
This compliment didn’t go over very well with Gene. “It looks just … great,” I lied, digging into the popcorn.
After lunch, when Hot Sauce announced she had to go, Gene informed me he was going to walk Hot Sauce back to the precinct and then was going back to Queens. I was tired and feeling so muddled that it didn’t occur to me to stop him.
When I was alone in the apartment, I remembered the cocaine was still in the kitchen, so I decided to wash it down the toilet. The glass container on the shelf was empty; it had been rinsed not too long ago because the inside glass was still wet.
I had been experiencing so many contradictory emotions for the past week or so that, instead of getting frantic, I merely shrugged it off. Later, when Gene had had enough time to get back to Jackson Heights, I would call him to straighten out the situation. I felt drained; I felt as if I were dragging a dead horse behind me. I decided to lie down for a while. I picked up Mr. O’Donnell and closed the door of my bedroom and turned on the air conditioner. Mr. O’Donnell went into the closet to investigate God knows what and remained there.
This was perhaps the first moment of quiet and solitude I had had in days. I thought of Bobby, and I thought of how he was dead and it was almost as if he had never existed and that somehow did not seem right. It occurred to me that I had known Bobby for most of my life, and I had no tangible memento of him, not even a photograph, just memories, which time would eventually distort and flatten out. I made a mental note to call Joel and ask him for a picture of Bobby. Then I felt Bobby’s presence next to my bed. I was sober today, not like the last time I thought I had seen him. It was invisible, whatever it was, but it felt like a warm spot in the air, throbbing to express itself. I closed my eyes. “I surrender,” I said. “You can talk to me, Bobby, if that’s what you want.” Then I fell asleep.
In my dream, I saw Paradise Alley in flames, and hundreds of wailing crack heads trapped inside. Standing on the street curb, I watched. There were no other witnesses: no cops, no firemen, no gawking New Yorkers, nothing, nobody except myself watching them as if they were on a window display of a chamber of hell. As I watched, I started to shrink, growing smaller and smaller until I was a boy of seven or so. The scene in front of me changed: the chamber of hell turned into our house in Barranquilla, after my parents separated, but before we moved to Bogotá. I was wearing short pants, sneakers, and a cotton shirt. It was nighttime. Mother and a stranger, a foreigner, were in the living room, sitting very close. Mother wore a tight, white dress, and her hair was done and she had makeup on. She radiated sensuality. She had sent for me to introduce me to this man, who was obviously drunk. The stranger was tall, blond, heavyset, and he was sweating. His pink face revolted me. The man spoke in English and gave me some sticks of bubble gum. I accepted the gum out of politeness, but then changing my mind flung the sticks at Mother’s lap and stormed out of the living room. I hid in the garden, behind some leafy yucca plants, where I crouched, crying. The dark night frightened me, but I was too upset to go back inside the house, and no one, not even my nanny, came out to look for me. Bolero music played and Mother’s laughter rippled in rich, high-pitched notes through the tropical night, reaching me. I hated my mother for bringing this man to the house; I hated my father for abandoning us. I longed to run away to another city to become a gamin. I wished a kindly couple without children would adopt me and take me far, far away to another country.
I crouched there for what seemed an eternity, alternately feeling hungry and cold. Finally, the music and the laughing died out and lights were turned off inside. I entered the house unobserved. On the way to my bedroom I had to pass by the door of my mother’s alcove. Loud moans and writhing sounds reached me and I peeked in and saw my mother and the stranger making love. Shaking with anger, I went into the next room, where Eduardito, my little brother, slept. He was nearly a year old, and had been born with a defective heart and was not expected to make it to adulthood. In a corner of the room, there was a shrine to St. Jude Thadeus, with several votive candles lit. Irrationally, I flung myself at the shrine, smashing the saint’s statue on the floor and with my arms I swept the votive candles aside. Before I realized what had happened, the curtains caught on fire. Terrified at what I had done I ran out of the room and into the next bedroom, where Wilbrajan slept, and I woke her up and told her there was a fire and we left the house, Wilbrajan still half asleep. Wilbrajan started crying when she saw smoke coming out of the house and she knew that Mother and Eduardito were still inside. The maids ran out of the house coughing and crying; the neighbors woke up; and curious people stood on the street watching the house go up in flames and there were many screams and Wilbrajan cried, “Mommy, mommy, mommy,” and then it struck me that my little brother was probably dead and I, too, started screaming and … I woke up, Mr. O’Donnell’s nose nuzzling me as if to wake me from my nightmare. I squeezed him tight against my chest. “Kitty, I�
�m so happy you’re here,” I said. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Realizing he was uncomfortable I let go of him. Mr. O’Donnell jumped onto the night table and then leaped into the air, doing a flip-flop before he plopped to the floor. He was having a horrible seizure.
The moment I had been dreading for so long had finally arrived. Mr. O’Donnell’s eyes looked as if they were about to pop out of their sockets; he was foaming at the mouth, baring his teeth like a feline with rabies; his chest swelled and collapsed, gasping for air; his tail curled, and his hind legs kicked the air as if it were an invisible yet solid wall.
“Kitty,” I screamed, unsure of what step to take next. I was afraid he’d bite me if I touched him. Mr. O’Donnell did not seem pathetic, broken, but phenomenally angry, as if he were locked in a fierce confrontation with death and he was unwilling to go like a wimp. I ran to the telephone and dialed Rebecca’s number and got her machine. She was out; nevertheless, I left a message. “Rebecca, Mr. O’Donnell is dying. Please, come upstairs if you get home soon.” I hung up and returned to my bedroom. Mr. O’Donnell’s eyes had turned emerald, but the violence of the convulsions had diminished. “Mr. O’Donnell, kitty, please don’t die,” I said to encourage him. It occurred to me that perhaps he might be saved if I took him to the hospital; he might survive for a few days or weeks or who knows. I pulled his box out of the closet but I still didn’t dare pick him up. I looked for a beach towel and covered him with it and placed him inside the box. I wrote down the hospital’s address, made sure I had enough cash to pay for the taxi, and slowly made my way down the stairs, making sure the box did not rock too much. Pandora’s box couldn’t have made more horrifying noises.
The taxi ride to the hospital seemed interminable, as I remembered other taxi rides when I had taken him to the Humane Society to be neutered, for his shots and checkups. He’d always cry pathetically and I’d have to talk to him, sticking my fingers through the holes of the box to reassure him that I was with him and there was nothing to fear. On this taxi ride, once or twice he made shrill, piercing noises, and his paws scratched the insides of the box violently.
Latin Moon in Manhattan: A Novel Page 19