Hipster Death Rattle

by Richie Narvaez

  “Luis! What’s going on?”

  “Good morning!” he said. “I have resigned!”

  “Oh my god.”

  “My last day is Friday. I’ll have to make sure someone arranges a cake.”

  Magaly smirked. That “someone” meant her, and it meant he wanted her to arrange his going-away party, which took a lot of nerve, but that was typical Luis.

  “I have a higher purpose now,” he said, leaving the leaning pile of folders to turn to his now nearly empty bookshelf. “I decided I’m going to run for Congress.”

  “What? But how?” She wondered if this was about them and their abrupt breakup. Was this some melodramatic way to try to prove she would miss him? She knew that, on the one hand, it was self-absorbed of her to think so. But on the other hand, it was completely in Luis’s wheelhouse.

  “Last week,” he said, “I went after campaign pledges like a lion, and I got them, from several places, including a very substantial one from O’Connell Construction.”

  “Oh my god, Luis! They’re one of the worst developers.”

  “I know. I know. But they’re local, and they believe in helping the people as much as I do.”

  She shook her head and was going to argue, but she could see that it was no use. He was serious about this. He hadn’t made a disrespectful comment or tried to get her behind closed doors in two minutes, a record for him. “And what about El Flamboyan? You’re going to leave us in a lurch…”

  “I’m not. They’ll probably appoint you interim director, and you’ll do great. They might even give you the job.”

  “That’ll be the day.” Magaly thought it was unlikely, given the fact that no female had ever headed the organization in its forty-plus years of existence, and the board of directors was all male. But she found herself welcoming the chance to sit in the director’s chair, something she had never thought about before.

  He stopped packing and looked at her with that super-serious look that he must have practiced. It didn’t affect her. She had seem him do it too often in his underwear. “Listen,” he said, “I know you probably think this is about us. But it’s not. I understand that that’s over now. I was heartbroken, but we must move on with our lives. I’m going to be a public servant, and I have a moral standard to uphold…”

  Luis had obviously no idea what public servants were like.

  “…and you’ll want to get married before it’s too late.”

  Son of a bitch.

  He kept talking. “I’ve already formed my campaign team. I’m sorry, as much as I would like to, I cannot ask you to be on it. Seeing us together, well, you know how people talk, how they make assumptions. Please understand.”

  “Oh, I understand, Luis. I get it!”

  “Where are you going? I want to tell you about my platform.”

  “I have to go order you a cake. A big goodbye cake!”

  Instead of calling the bakery, Magaly found herself leaving work and walking back to South 3rd Street. It was time to do something she had been putting off.

  When she got there, Iris Campos seemed smaller, older. At the kitchen table, Iris seemed to understand the news that Magaly brought her, that her sister Rosa Irizzary’s neighbors had at first seemed to be helping her. Then they killed her and got rid of her body in the river. But Iris said nothing. Magaly had expected tears or anger.

  But what Iris did was walk over to a kitchen drawer and get out a rosary and begin to pray. Magaly hung her head and prayed/chanted silently with her.

  After a time, Iris said, <“Do you want something to eat?”>

  Magaly was not hungry but she said she would eat. In five minutes, Iris fixed her a full breakfast of eggs, bacon, and platanos.

  They talked about Iris’s son Danny, who was currently awaiting trial for public disturbance and aggravated assault. With his prior record, he was looking at a long stay in prison.

  There was a good chance Iris would not be around when he came out, and until then she’d be living alone. Magaly asked her if she was going to stay or, like so many Puerto Ricans her age, move back to the island or, the closest thing to it, Florida.

  “No ’stamos yendo a ningún lado,” she said, shaking her head. She sipped some coffee, then she said, “Like Danny say to me, ‘Quedamos en los Sures hasta que los tiren o morimos.’”

  We stay in the Southside until they kick us out or we die.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  Things were certainly getting back to normal. Freelance work was complete (a how-to on low-histamine dieting, a how-to on buying co-ops, and two resumes), and Tony’s hand was healing nicely. Nicely enough for him hold a pétanque ball.

  It was a warm late August afternoon. McCarren Park was not packed end-to-end with people. There was room to move. There was even a slight breeze.

  A perfect day to play.

  Yogi was there by himself when Tony walked up. There was a thick haze of marijuana surrounding him like a skunk fog.

  “Hey, there, Yogi.”

  “Dude,” Yogi said. “Good to see you. Ready for a little one on one?”

  Tony saw that Yogi’s eyes were slightly glazed and red-rimmed. Yogi had been very indulgent, and it wasn’t even tea time.

  “Absolutely,” Tony said.

  Tony set down his messenger bag, now repaired with duct tape, right next to Yogi’s bike. He looked at it for the first time. He had seen the bike before, sure, but he had never really noticed that, had he, all the duct tape on it? The body was made of what looked like electrical pipes, and the handlebar was a flat piece of metal that had been bent smoothly into shape. Duct tape was wrapped around many of the parts, and it and the parts had been painted over in red, which may have made the bike menacing except for the banana seat with Goofy on it. He was almost obscured by more duct tape.

  Tony felt a flutter in his stomach.

  It was a funky-looking bike, all right.

  “Oh man, you got cut pretty bad?” Yogi said, looking at his bandaged hand.

  “Uh, paper cut. But I can still toss a pétanque ball,” Tony said.

  “Did you get that catching this—what do they call him—the ‘Hipster Slasher?’” Yogi made air quotes.

  “I didn’t exactly catch him.”

  Yogi tossed the cochonnet to start a game. It landed outside the court. “Tell me something, do you know why this guy was doing it?” he said, walking to retrieve his ball. “Why this so-called ‘Hipster Slasher,’ according to the news, was slashing people?”

  They flipped a coin to see who would start. Tony called heads and won.

  “Yeah. I think I know why he did it.” Tony tossed a ball. It landed miles from the cochonnet. “For this guy, this guy that cut me, it was part of a scheme to blackmail some real estate guys.”

  “Well, you have to admire that,” Yogi said and he giggled. “Anything to stick it to the fat cats.” When his turn came, he breathed out a long “Ommmmmm” and then tossed his boule, landing inches from the cochonnet. “So, the police think the case is solved? It’s all over and done?”

  “Isn’t it, though? Why do you ask?” Tony took his turn and tossed. His ball knocked Yogi’s ball and rolled closer to the cochonnet.

  Yogi smiled widely, and then giggled to himself for a while, almost convulsing into a ball. Then he stood up and his face got serious. “Ahhhhhh,” he said forcefully as he tossed. His ball went far, bouncing off the court. “Maybe there was more than one slasher. You ever think of that, Tony?”

  “Yeah, as a matter of fact, I have. Police told everyone it was the gangs, but that was a lie. And for Kirsten and Gunnar to go around slashing so many people, that doesn’t make sense to me. Why would they continue to do it, three or four other people after Patrick. One of them was someone you and I had beers with, Brandon. Remember him? With the ear things?”

  “Yeah, Brandon, black hipster, ear things, yeah, him…”

  “From what I understand,” Tony said, “the slasher likes to find people late at night or in lonely pla
ces. Not out in the open, not like a show-off. More like an artist at work.”

  Yogi giggled. Then he made a visible effort to get serious. Tony stood perpendicular to him, a few feet away.

  “You know, Tony, I have been wanting to talk to you.” Yogi took out a dirty chamois and began polishing a pétanque ball in his hand.

  “Uh huh,” he said. “I remember. From that time at Tim Riley’s.”

  “Yeah, yeah. About how this neighborhood got fake and could be saved. Has to be saved. If someone had the nerve to do something to preserve it. To keep it as it is.”

  The hair on Tony’s arms stood up. “Oh yeah.”

  “Someone had to do something. This slasher, he has the right idea. To make sure the neighborhood doesn’t change.”

  “But, Yogi, it’s already changed. It’s way too late.” Tony looked around. There were people all around. He was in no danger.

  “Fuck, man, no!” Yogi’s dreadlocks danced as his head shook. “Not to make it go all the way back. That’s retarded. But to stop it from changing more. From changing into fucking Park Slope. Into fucking suburbia. Into fucking Disneyland.”

  “That would be goddamn tragic, but it seems pretty inevitable,” Tony said.

  “It’s not. It’s not inevitable! Someone can make a difference. They can make this neighborhood seem like anathema to the yuppies and rich cats.”

  Tony decided to take a chance. “So you chose to be that someone.”

  Yogi smiled again. It was a big bright smile on a sweaty face. He nodded, his chin beard vibrating with it. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

  Tony reached into his pocket, where his new, old-model smartphone was, and wondered if he could punch in 9-1-1 without looking.

  And then he saw Magaly. Walking toward them, with her huge purse over her shoulder.

  “Hey, Chino!” she said. “I knew I’d find you here. You told me to come see you play and—”

  Tony shook his head at her and waved at her, trying to direct her to go back.

  Yogi moved quickly. He got behind her and at the same time—to the sound of Velcro ripping open—he unsheathed his machete. Those long shorts had a side pocket that had been oddly stitched. He grabbed Magaly from behind and put the machete to her throat.

  “Fuck! Fuck you! What’s going on?” she screamed, but she turned smoothly and elbowed Yogi in the chest, hard. Yogi seemed surprised but he stopped the kick she was aiming for his crotch and cut her quickly across her shoulder.

  “Bastard!” she yelled.

  “Magaly!”

  Yogi locked an arm around her neck and held her tightly. He lay the machete across his arm pointed straight at her throat.

  Tony ran closer. But Yogi said, “Stop! Stop, stop, stop. No more fooling around, Tony. No more fooling around.”

  “Okay, okay,” Tony said.

  Magaly looked more pissed than frightened. Tony hoped she didn’t try some judo she had learned. He hoped she didn’t try to move. He wouldn’t be able to take what might happen if she moved.

  Yogi held up her body in front of him like a shield. “I’m sorry, Ms. Magaly. Is that your name? I hate using women as victims. It’s totally against what I stand for.”

  “Let her go, Yogi. This is not what your…your crusade is about.”

  “Hey! ‘Crusade.’ ‘Crusade’ is a good word for it. That’s the right word.” Yogi started walking backward with Magaly in front. “Don’t follow me.”

  Tony tried to stay calm. No pain. No pain. He said, “You’re going to go where, Yogi? Walking backwards with her the whole time? I can tell you this: She’s feisty. Trust me. Let her go. We can talk about it. I can do a story, tell your side. If you let me go into my pocket, I’ll get my phone to record it. Then I write your story and tell the world.”

  Tony reached into his pocket and slid out his brand new phone, bought on credit. He tapped on a recording app. “See? Whenever you’re ready, I’m ready.”

  Yogi smiled and nodded. “Okay. Okay.” But he kept the blade side of the machete right under Magaly’s chin.

  “Please be careful, Yogi.” Tony held out. “Go ahead. This is your best chance to tell your story. I’m listening.”

  Yogi cleared his throat, smiled like a cartoon, nodded, and then he began.

  “I was just passing through, you know. I was going to see the world. I didn’t mean to make a home here. I just couldn’t stay where I was. It was so small there, so dead. Dead inside, you know what I mean?”

  “Where’d you come from? Midwest? Seattle?”

  “New Jersey.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  “I lucked into a loft, and we were all artists, man. We were all in love with each other. It was creative heaven, man.”

  Yogi was silent, staring at some area in front of him. Time traveling in his mind, Tony figured. Then Tony said, “What happened, Yogi? What happened to those good times?”

  “It happened slowly, you know? Then people starting moving in who looked and dressed like artists but weren’t artists. It was confusing. First, it was just a few, and then they started coming in waves, and then it wasn’t about art anymore, it was about bars and restaurants, and then everything started costing so much more. And then came the yuppies, lowest, least intellectual being you could be. But that’s what these hipsters really were, they were proto-yuppies in disguise…”

  Tony saw that people walking by the court had begun to notice what was going on. Some just looked and kept walking. Sure, a man holding a machete to a woman’s throat. Happens every day. But then one person stopped and looked on. Then someone stood next to that person.

  “…So I figured, something had to make the neighborhood unpalatable to them, so they wouldn’t want to come here. Then I got it. Only one thing could keep them away: crime. Violent crime. I would be a one-man crime wave. It would get in the papers, on the Internet, and they’d all say, ‘Fuck Williamsburg. That’s a crazy town. A Dodge City. I’d rather stay in Duluth or Dubuque.’ It was a great plan, a brilliant plan. It was like a fucking piece of art. Do you know—”

  The sound of sirens made Yogi stop.

  Tony saw one car pull up over the curb on Bayard Street, behind Yogi. Two officers came out. Another car pulled up on Union.

  “Did you do this?” Yogi said.

  “No. But look around. You have an audience.”

  A group of people had formed on the part of the track where the breakdancer practiced. Some aimed their phones at them.

  “Isn’t that what you wanted?” Tony said.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  “You really charge that much for a cup of coffee?” Petrosino said. He looked up at the chalkboard menu above the barista station. Six bucks for a regular coffee. Juan Valdez must be grinding the beans in the back himself.

  The cafe manager, a short young woman with old lady glasses, said, “Well, yeah, it’s what the market can bear, so…”

  Tabby Estate Coffee was a big cafe, big for a place that only served coffee and a small variety of baked goods. Petrosino guessed the Wi-Fi was the draw. Every single customer was bent over a laptop. Some had piles of paperwork, and there was clearly a job interview going on at another table.

  The Twitter account user for “hipster death rattle” had been traced to the IP address at this cafe. The store manager, Caroline, was a young woman who appeared to be wearing a blouse made of grass. She was unable to single out any one weird customer who might be using the Wi-Fi to send dangerous tweets. She didn’t think any of them were capable of anything criminal, and she couldn’t tell him anything about who rode what bike. But she agreed to let them place a couple of undercover officers there who would keep an eye on the customers while keeping an eye the Twitter account.

  “So you’ll have two steady customers all day, I can tell you that, with the way cops drink coffee,” Petrosino said. Not that the place needed help. There was a line almost to the door. “And there’ll be an undercover unit outside.”

  “I’m happy to help, detec
tive.”

  “Listen, uh, while I’m here can I get one of those latte things to go? I’d sure like to see what a nine dollar cup of coffee tastes like.”

  He was thinking about getting something sweet to go with it. He looked over at the baked goods case. A chocolate cream cheese muffin caught his eye. But then he saw a display case above the baked goods. In it were several T-shirts: “I heart coffee,” “Espresso Yourself,” and “hipster death rattle.”

  His body tensed, for the first time in a while, a cigarette was the last thing on his mind.

  “Miss?” he said to the manager. “Where did you get those—that one on the end?”

  “Those are on consignment. Handmade. They’re very popular right now. I can see if we have any left in large, or extra-large, if you want one.”

  “No, no. Who makes them? Do you know?”

  “Um, yeah, that’s Yogi,” she said. “Older hippie dude, very cool. He silkscreens those.”

  “You don’t happen to have his address?”

  “Uhhh, yeah. He must have filled out a consignment contract. Let me see.”

  She found the contract quickly and put it on the counter with the latte. Petrosino picked it up and thanked her and rushed out in a hurry. Getting into his car, his hand hit the door and he dropped the pricey latte on the sidewalk.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  Steve Pak sat on the couch and stared at nothing. His dog Deeogee sat on the parquet floor, looking at him, wagging its tail, waiting. The TV was on. His phone was on. There was an iPad open on his lap.

  He hadn’t been sleeping or eating very well for weeks. He spent most of his time on the couch. He slept there every night.

  He could not go into the bedroom. He could not go into the nursery. His mother was taking care of the baby, for now. He had only seen it once, at the hospital.

  On the coffee table in front of him was his wife’s purse. He had taken it home from the hospital, and he hadn’t noticed how heavy it was, not even when he got it home and put it down with a clunk. He had remembered the clunk. He hadn’t wondered about the clunk or the weight until, as he got home that day and stepped past the dog and sat down, he looked at the purse and carefully picked it up.