The Boys from Eighth and Carpenter

by Tom Mendicino

  “I like this one,” Kit says, pointing to the photograph of the cellist.

  “She looks fine to me,” Michael agrees.

  “You’re not going to read the recommendations?” she asks.

  He rubs his tired eyes with a clenched fist, squinting at the small print. She hands him her readers, a thoughtful gesture.

  Marshall Culpepper gently knocks on the door, good breeding apparently well engrained, and asks if his guests need more time.

  “No, we’re ready,” Kit announces, inviting him to return. “Libby Guilfoyle is awfully impressive. She’s the perfect young woman to honor Miss Peterson’s legacy.”

  “Excellent choice. She’s a delightful young woman. She’s quite the scholar, our Libby.” Marshall Culpepper does an impressive impersonation of an Oxford don. “Nearly perfect board scores. A gift for the Romance languages. A talented writer. And, of course, a skilled cellist.”

  He finishes with a flourish, a final dramatic toss of his dreadlocks.

  “Well, that’s that and I’m sure you want to get back to preparing for tomorrow,” Kit says, smiling too broadly as she kicks Michael under the table. She knows that look on his face, the one where he’s entertaining fantasies of grabbing the man by his braids and bouncing his head off the wall, and quickly hustles her husband out the door.

  APRIL 9, 2008

  Randy Salazar, age 37, of the thirteen hundred block of Snyder Avenue.

  Frankie holds this morning’s edition of the Daily News close to his face, seeking absolute confirmation in the blurry Pointillism of the newsprint. There’s no mistaking the flat, broken nose and the black nostrils wide enough to inhale a passing warm front. Randy Salazar, the suspect who was booked and printed, whose mug shot is prominently featured on page three, is the same man introduced to him by Mariano as his brother Randy Garza from Baltimore, with a girlfriend named Christine and a son named Cameron. He’s one of six desperados, four Mexicans, a scurvy white guy Frankie doesn’t recognize, and a hollow-eyed Richie Capuano, whose father owns a vegetable stall in the Ninth Street Market, who were apprehended in a raid of a crystal methamphetamine laboratory operating in an abandoned warehouse on Washington Avenue. The newspaper account says Salazar is being held without bail, awaiting extradition. He’s wanted for distribution in California and Nevada and for murder and trafficking in Arizona, where, according to law enforcement agents, he’d ordered the gangland-style execution of the leader of a rival drug ring.

  Frankie races through the story, searching for Mariano’s name in the article, and is relieved to find he’s never mentioned. He assures himself he’s overreacting. Mariano’s no drug dealer; the boy he knows would never be involved in violent crime. This Randy Salazar or Randy Garza, whatever his name is, may not even be his brother. There’s no family resemblance between Mariano and that odd-toed ungulate. They don’t sound alike. They don’t share any physical mannerisms. But what reason would Mariano have to lie to Frankie? Why would he claim this man is his flesh and blood if he isn’t? Jesus, he thinks, suddenly worried that a criminal has been using, or God forbid paying, Mariano to hide money or drugs in his house, implicating Frankie in felonies with long sentences in the federal penitentiary.

  A sense of dread weighs upon him. There’s some connection, genetic or otherwise, between the boy he invited to live in his home and the tabloid headlines. He hasn’t heard from Mariano, not a call or a text, since he’d run off with his druggie friends. He wonders if he’s coming back at all. Maybe he’s slipped into that black hole where illegals disappear to stay one step ahead of the law. Maybe he’s already taken a new name, in a different city, waiting until things cool off before emerging to find work in yet another kitchen where he’s paid in cash at the end of the night, no questions asked. Maybe he’ll reappear, with a posse of Scarfaces, needing a sanctuary where they can hide, holding Frankie hostage in his own home. Or he could simply show up, as always, tail between his legs, full of affection and endearments, swearing his undying love and promising to never hurt Frankie again. It won’t work, not this time, Frankie swears. He longs to return to his old life, the peace and contentment of solitude. It’s easier, and cheaper, to purchase affection at an hourly rate from a reputable agency.

  The shop bell is ringing. Jesus Christ, it’s 9:07; his assistant, Connie, has called out sick again and Dottie Griffo is waiting for him to unlock the front door for his first appointment. The kitchen is a mess, at least by Frankie’s high standards of domestic maintenance. There’s an uneaten slice of toast on his plate, an open jar of peach preserves, and an unwashed coffeepot. An empty carton of Chinese takeout is beginning to stink. He’s used to everything being in perfect order, spic-and-span, before he begins his long workday: bed made, bathroom wiped down, the dishwasher loaded, and the garbage bagged and tied and placed in the trash cans outdoors. The current state of his housekeeping is adding to his anxiety.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming,” he mutters as he bounds down the stairs to unlock the door.

  “Where’s Mariano?” Dottie asks, clearly disappointed when she’s greeted by the proprietor.

  The battle-axes have rendered judgment and, by unanimous consent, have deemed Mariano to be adorable, delightful, charming, and sweet, with beautiful eyes and lovely pouting lips, as docile and friendly as a housebroken cocker spaniel.

  “Mariano went to Baltimore. His brother lives there,” Frankie says impulsively, knowing Mariano could prove him to be a twisted liar by sauntering through the front door in the next sixty seconds.

  “When’s he coming back?” she asks as she settles her bulky frame into the stylist’s chair.

  “Soon,” he says, begging God to keep Mariano away until Dottie with her freshly lacquered classic waitress upsweep is taking her first lunch orders at the sandwich shop in the Market.

  He’s carefully snipping Joan Forte’s thinning hair when he hears the back door slam shut and Mariano’s footsteps on the creaking staircase. She’s his last scheduled appointment of the afternoon, but he welcomes a walk-in at six, delaying the inevitable confrontation upstairs. He finally locks the door to the shop at seven, still needing more time to summon his courage to announce he’s ending their relationship and that Mariano needs to find somewhere to live. Fresh air and a little exercise will bolster his courage.

  The notorious warehouse in the morning paper is an anonymous slab of whitewashed brick on the commercial strip. The asphalt of the neglected parking lot is crumbling and vehicular access to the loading docks is restricted by a rusted chain-link fence. The only evidence of its recent infamy is the yellow crime scene tape across the padlocked entrance. A patrol car slows as it approaches from Broad Street. Frankie turns and starts to walk away, not wanting to draw attention for showing an unnatural interest in the scene of the crime. A loud voice calls his name, causing him to freeze in his tracks.

  “Yo, Frankie! How’s it going?”

  Paul Ottaviano steps out of the patrol car, stretching his limbs and adjusting the waist of his pants.

  “You hear about this shit, Frankie?” Paul asks, nodding at the site of the illicit meth lab.

  “I read about it in the paper.”

  “Fucking unbelievable, huh? Right here, a few blocks from where we grew up.”

  Frankie refrains from commenting that nothing is unbelievable in a neighborhood with a long history of the bodies of mob rivals being found in the trunks of abandoned cars with bullets in their skulls.

  “Yeah, kind of makes you wonder,” he says.

  “Keep reading the papers, Frankie boy,” Paul shares. “A lot more of these fucking greaseballs are going down before this is all over.”

  Frankie’s heart races as he rushes home. He runs up the stairs, calling the boy’s name, but no one answers. He’s alone in the house, the only evidence Mariano has come and gone an empty juice bottle he’d left behind on the kitchen counter.

  APRIL 11, 2008

  The bright morning sunlight is cruel to her. The other n
ight Frankie had thought Christine marginally attractive despite her bad skin and overly processed hair. He’d appreciated her good bone structure and recognized how she might once have been considered pretty. But he barely recognizes the hyper and agitated creature who had appeared unannounced as he was opening the shop. Her T-shirt is vintage boardwalk, VIRGINIA IS FOR LOVERS, and flip-flops are a poor choice of footwear for a woman in desperate need of a pedicure. The little boy, Cameron, is tugging at her elbow, demanding attention. His clothes are rumpled and dirty and Frankie suspects he never saw a bed last night, sleeping, if at all, in the backseat of a car. His mother grabs his wrist and twists his arm, threatening physical retribution if he doesn’t shut up and stand still. Frankie offers the boy a juice or a Coke, but Christine declines, saying they’re in a rush and he’ll need to use the bathroom if he drinks anything.

  “I haven’t seen or spoken to Mariano since he took off in the middle of the night,” he repeats.

  “Not once?”

  “No.”

  He’s not lying. Hearing footsteps on the back staircase doesn’t count. He never actually saw Mariano during his brief pit stop at the house and certainly didn’t talk to him.

  “Have you tried calling him?”

  “No. Well, maybe once or twice, but I finally gave up,” Frankie lies. “He won’t pick up if he’s still angry.”

  “Are his things still here?” she asks, clearly suspicious.

  “His clothes are upstairs.”

  “And he hasn’t called you?”

  “No.”

  It’s urgent they find him, she insists. Randy has already left for Puebla and he’s made arrangements for several of his friends to slip Mariano out of the country for their mother’s deathbed vigil. Frankie expresses his deepest sympathies, asking if there is anything he can do to help. It’s obvious she believes he’s buying her bullshit about a dying mama. She clearly thinks he’s in total ignorance, knowing nothing about the bust of the meth lab and the subsequent arrests.

  “Just have him call me the minute you see him. And don’t let him out of your sight until I come to get him,” she says, preparing to leave, the visit no longer than ten minutes. “Give me your number,” she insists, almost as an afterthought. “I’ll call your phone so you can save mine.”

  He knows he has to suppress even the slightest hesitation. Reluctance would raise suspicion and give her reason to suspect he knows more than he’s letting on. He slowly repeats the digits, a sick feeling in his gut. He’s seen enough CSI to know a single record on a subpoenaed phone log is enough to drag him into a major narcotics investigation.

  “Now give Uncle Frankie a kiss, Cameron,” she insists and Frankie bends at the waist, offering his cheek to sticky lips that have been pacified with several Tootsie Pops. What fucking chance in the world does that poor kid have? he wonders as he watches them disappear down Carpenter Street.

  “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost. Who was that?”

  Connie’s breathless, a half hour late for work as usual.

  “Who?” he asks, acting as if he has no idea what she’s talking about.

  “Her,” she says, pointing at Christine, who’s strapping Cameron into his car seat in a Silverado parked across the street. “I saw that little boy give you a kiss when they left.”

  “Oh, that’s just Mariano’s little nephew. From Baltimore. His mother is married to Mariano’s brother. Or they live together. Or something. I didn’t ask.”

  “You really don’t look good, Frankie. You must be coming down with something. Probably that bug that’s going around.”

  It’s her idea to cancel the day’s appointments and reschedule, pleading a sudden onset of flu. He’s probably contagious and shouldn’t risk exposing his clients to the virus. She’ll make all the calls, she assures him, as she dispatches him to bed.

  He locks the master bedroom door and closes the blinds, not knowing where to start. He can’t decide which room Mariano would choose to hide any contraband. He suddenly realizes he has no idea what he’s searching for. The Daily News called it crystal meth; he recalls Jack using the word crank. Are they the same thing? What does it look like? Is it a pill? A powder? Something grainy like sugar or fine like baking soda? No, that’s cocaine. It’s not a liquid, is it? Is it bright and shiny like actual crystal? Should he be looking for needles and syringes? Mikey would know, but he can’t call and ask. He could search the Internet, find a description, and, if he’s lucky, a picture. But how would he explain a word search for methamphetamine if his laptop is confiscated? He’ll know it when he sees it. It’ll be obvious, something out of place, intentionally concealed, hidden in a sock, rolled in a handkerchief. He starts in the dresser drawer in the master bedroom where Mariano stores his clothes, then rummages through the pockets of the boy’s shirts and jackets and trousers hanging in the closet. Nothing. He searches his own drawers and closets, then under the bed, moving on to the linen closet, the bathroom vanity and medicine cabinet, and the blanket chest. Nothing. Either Mariano is very clever or Frankie is wildly paranoid. His heart is pounding, his brain pulsing in his skull. He needs to take a deep breath and slow down.

  The room looks like a riot zone, upended, clothes and papers tossed to the floor. He picks up Mariano’s shirts and pants and folds them, then gathers his shoes and underwear, and carefully packs the boy’s belongings in a huge roll-on, a five-hundred-dollar investment he’d bought for a long-ago fortieth-birthday-celebration cruise and never used again. He checks the time. It’s not quite eleven o’clock and he’s exhausted. His body aches for a deep, dreamless sleep, something that feels like death, and he swallows an Ambien and throws himself on the bed. Twenty minutes later he’s lying on his back, still staring at the ceiling, and reaches for another sleeping pill.

  “Wake up! Are you taking something? Wake up!”

  “What are you doing here?” Frankie asks, trying to shake off the effects of the pharmaceuticals he’d taken and appear reasonably coherent to the worried priest.

  “When you don’t answer the fucking telephone for four hours I start to get worried. I guess I’m overreacting,” Jack says sarcastically.

  “I was sleeping.”

  “It’s seven thirty at night. How long have you been out?”

  “I don’t know,” Frankie says honestly.

  “What are you taking?”

  “Nothing. I’m not taking anything!” he says indignantly. “Connie says I have that flu that’s going around. I’m trying to sleep it off.”

  “What the hell happened here? Looks like someone’s planning a trip,” he says, gesturing toward the packed suitcase and the scattered clothes from emptied drawers. “Where’s your little friend?”

  “I don’t know. I told him to move out.”

  He dreads the coming inquisition, but, surprisingly, the priest decides this isn’t the time for an interrogation.

  “Get up. I’m calling out for Chinese. You have to eat something. But first, you’re getting in the shower.”

  The cold water revives Frankie a bit. He pulls on a pair of jeans and a clean polo and ties his shoes, looking longingly at his unmade bed as he trudges toward the steps. The priest is busy in the kitchen, spooning food from paper cartons onto dinner plates.

  “Only soda for you tonight,” Jack says as he pours himself a beer. “I want to know what the hell you took to make you sleep the entire day.”

  “Nothing. I told you. I have the flu.”

  Frankie’s stomach clenches tight as a fist at the sight of a greasy pile of fried rice and pork bits. He nudges little shreds of scrambled egg yolk with the tines of his fork, forcing himself to swallow a mouthful before he pushes his plate away.

  “You have to eat something,” Jack insists again, deftly clacking his chopsticks in a nest of Shanghai noodles.

  “I’m not very hungry,” Frankie says, opening a can of ginger ale.

  He stares at the man sitting across the table as if he’s a complete stranger, not a frien
d since his first day at school. He doesn’t want his advice; he resents the intrusion. No one asked for his help. Jack’s jealous, as he always is when someone else is the focus of Frankie’s attention. He hates Mariano for taking Frankie away from him. He wants Frankie to be as lonely and unhappy as he is. He needs someone to share his miserable existence, eating noodles from soggy cartons and watching The fucking Golden Girls, then falling asleep reading a book.

  “Maybe I should stay here with you tonight. So you won’t be alone when he comes back.”

  “I’m okay. It’s all right,” Frankie responds, trying to discourage a sleepover. Jack acts like he’s concerned for his safety, but Frankie knows the real reason he wants to stay is to ensure his resolve doesn’t weaken, that a coy smile and Mariano’s promises to be a good boy won’t persuade him to change his mind.

  He doesn’t want to listen to Dorothy and Sophia trade wisecracks tonight. He wants to be left alone. Jack’s unwelcome presence is irritating. He hates the sound of the methodical grinding of the priest’s jaw as he chews. The lank fringe of hair tucked behind Jack’s ears angers him. They’ve seen this episode a half-dozen times. It’s the beginning of another Lifetime channel marathon and Jack seems to be settling in for the long haul. At ten o’clock, Frankie announces he needs to go to bed. Saturday’s his busiest day.

  “I wish you’d let me stay here with you tonight.”

  “No. I’m fine,” Frankie insists, anxious to pour a glass of wine, go upstairs, and pop a pill. He’ll set his alarm early, six, enough time to restore order in the bedroom before a long day of work.

  APRIL 12, 2008 (THREE O’CLOCK IN THE MORNING)

  Frankie, Frankie . . .