“So what’s different about them?” Marlene asked. “Aren’t they just sort of a younger version of Nation of Islam?”
“No, they’re a lot more radicalized than that,” Garcia replied. “We hear they get their direction from overseas.”
“Al-Qaeda?”
Garcia shrugged. “I don’t know. But they do a lot of talking about jihad and that Islam is the only religion for brown people—black or Latino. I know they’re a lot better organized and more militant than the average street gang like the Inca Boyz. We were mostly about protecting our hood and trying to make a little money. The Rolling 777s sell dope and whores and guns just like any other big gang—apparently it ain’t against their religion if their customers ain’t Muslim. But mostly what they’re selling is radical Islam, and if you ain’t buying, they can get nasty. My homeboys are mostly retired from the gangbanger life, but these shootings has got everybody riled up and lookin’ for revenge. Father Mike asked me to come back and see if I can help him avoid a street war.”
That had been in early October and Marlene had not seen Garcia since. As she walked up to the carved wooden doors of St. Malachy, she wondered what he wanted.
When she got his call that afternoon, she figured it had something to do with the Inca Boyz and the Rolling 777s. But was surprised when he said he wanted her to “meet someone who might have something to say about the Maplethorpe case…if you can get her to talk about it.”
Marlene had suggested that if this person was a witness or had information to provide regarding the case, it would be more appropriate for her to talk to a police detective or someone with the DAO. But Garcia had nixed that.
“I don’t know that I can get her to talk even to you,” he’d said. “She sure as hell ain’t ready to talk to the 5-0 or your old man. Maybe that’s the next step, but she’s heard me talk about you before and knows I trust you.”
Marlene was surprised to find the door of the church locked. She knocked and after a few moments heard a latch being turned. The door opened and she smiled at the sight of the rugged countenance of the gray-haired priest who stood there beaming at her.
“Marlene, my old friend! Come in out of the cold, child,” Father Mike Dugan insisted. She stepped over the threshold and into a bear hug from the former Notre Dame football star.
“It’s good to see you, too, Father,” Marlene replied, looking beyond him at the apparently empty chapel. “Is Alejandro here?”
“Not yet,” he said. “But any minute.”
About the same time that Marlene Ciampi went past the Augusta Theater, Alejandro Garcia greeted Carmina with a dozen roses as she left her dressing room. “For the most beautiful and talented actress, muy bueno.”
Carmina rewarded him with a smile and a kiss. “Alejandro Garcia, are you trying to tell me you recognize your mistake when you walked out on me?”
“Oh no, never me, chica. If I remember right, you was the one who said she didn’t want to be my girl.”
“That was back when you was the Inca Boyz gang leader and headed nowhere fast,” she replied. “Then you shot that punk in the ass, and they sent you to juvie. Next thing you know, you’re a big-shot rapper and no room for me in your life.”
“I don’t remember no letters or visits at juvie,” Garcia pointed out.
“I don’t remember being invited,” Carmina retorted, and then reached up and touched his face. “Doesn’t matter, mi amor. We both had our own roads to follow.”
“Maybe those roads don’t always have to be in other directions,” Garcia responded, taking her hand and raising it to his lips.
Carmina giggled and was about to answer when she looked over his shoulder and a cloud passed across her face. Garcia looked behind and saw F. Lloyd Maplethorpe, dressed in a crimson suit, approaching, accompanied by a large, heavily muscled man and, of course, followed by his gaggle of sycophants.
“Ah, the lovely Carmina,” Maplethorpe squeaked in his Truman Capote–esque voice, “and Boom, what a pleasure to see you again. Did you catch the show? You did? Didn’t you just love it? You know I’ve been thinking that perhaps after this I should do a hip-hop musical. Perhaps you’d write the score for me?”
“Sounds interesting,” Garcia said without enthusiasm. He noticed that Carmina kept her eyes down even when Maplethorpe reached out and lifted her chin with his finger. He reacted instinctively to intervene, which caused the big man with Maplethorpe to step forward menacingly.
Maplethorpe caught the escalation in tension between his bodyguard and the young Latino and chuckled. “Now, now, Gregor. Mr. Garcia was only resenting my touching his girlfriend. He was playing out his role as protector, which is as it should be. Then again, he should know that Carmina and I have a special relationship that goes beyond the theater. Isn’t that right, my dear?”
Carmina nodded but stepped back and away from his hand. “Yes, Mr. Maplethorpe, we’re…friends.”
“Excellent,” Maplethorpe said, and clapped his hands as if Carmina had just performed her lines perfectly. “You do remember our little agreement, darling?”
“Yes, of course, Mr. Maplethorpe,” Carmina responded. She looked at Garcia and saw the anger rising to the surface of his face. “Our business agreement.”
Maplethorpe tilted his head and then smiled as if he was catching on to some hint. “Yes, indeed…our business agreement.” He stepped forward and patted her on the top of her head. “There’s a good girl. Now I really must be off. Boom, dear boy, you really must call my assistant the next time you’re in town. We’ll do lunch and talk about my idea.”
With that, Maplethorpe suddenly turned and walked away, his retinue parting like the Red Sea before an iridescent Moses. The man named Gregor lingered a moment to stare at Garcia, his wide, scarred face and thick features contorted into a sneer.
However, although six inches shorter and forty pounds lighter, Garcia didn’t blink or look in the least intimidated. “You got a problem?” he demanded.
“Alejandro! Please don’t,” Carmina said, placing a hand on his chest.
The big man smirked. “That’s right, listen to girlfriend,” he said in heavily accented English. “Safer that way.”
“Fuck that, pendejo,” Garcia spat, but Carmina grabbed him by the arm and guided him away. The big man laughed and the young rapper started to turn back, but Carmina dug her nails into his skin.
“It’s not worth it,” she said.
“Okay, okay, get your claws out of my skin,” Garcia said after they walked out of the building. He turned to face her. “Now are you going to tell me what’s going on between you and that greasy little shit Maplethorpe? You’ve been acting like this since I left you at that party.”
Carmina then shook her head. “It’s nothing. A business arrangement.”
“Sounds like something a Forty-second Street whore would say,” Garcia replied.
Carmina’s dark eyes flashed with anger. “That’s easy for you to say, ’Jandro. You have your record deal, but I’m still trying to make it. Maybe all your money made you forget where we came from; maybe you should come back to the neighborhood more often and see what’s going on. But maybe you’re too good for us now.”
Garcia’s brow knitted and the muscles around his thick neck tensed, but then he relaxed and smiled. “You’re right, muchacha querida. I’ve been gone too long. And I’ve made so many compromises with producers, it’s a miracle my asshole doesn’t hurt.”
“So poetic.” Carmina laughed. “But that’s better, hermano. So are you going to buy me an expensive dinner now, Mr. Big Shot Recording Artist?”
“I suppose I owe you that,” Garcia acknowledged. “But I want to stop by St. Malachy and say hello to Father Mike first.”
“Good. I can use the walk to work up a big appetite. Champagne and lobster sounds muy delicioso.”
“Aieee! Pobre yo…you have expensive tastes,” Garcia complained with a grin. “You better marry a rich man!”
Carmina leaned forwa
rd and kissed him. “I intend to, mi amor, as soon as I’m a big star so that I can afford to take care of him in style.”
Fifteen minutes later, Father Mike Dugan answered another knock at the chapel door and opened it to admit Alejandro and Carmina. The former smiled when he saw Marlene. “Let me introduce you two fine-looking ladies. Marlene Ciampi, this is Carmina Salinas, the first girl who ever broke my heart. It is a wound I will keep forever.”
Marlene smiled and held out her hand. “Good for you, Carmina. Sometimes a broken heart is the only thing that brings these macho idiots back to earth.”
The younger woman laughed. “Eso es verdad…that’s true. But he is lying. He had his chances, but he didn’t want to be tied down. Then again, I thought he was going to end up behind prison walls or six feet under in the ground. Who was to know that they would pay him for stuff he used to do for free on a street corner?”
“This woman was created by the devil,” Garcia said, shaking his head sadly. “She had no faith, but now I’m stylin’…I’m like Justin Timberlake, I brought sexy back Latino style.”
“You brought macho posing back, you mean,” Carmina teased.
Marlene watched the pair as they bantered back and forth. They certainly make a beautiful couple, she thought, and it’s obvious they’re in love. “So, Carmina, I hear you’re in Putin: The Musical.”
“She’s practically the leading lady,” Garcia boasted. “If they picked according to beauty and talent, she would be.”
Carmina rolled her eyes and punched him on the arm. “As usual, he’s lying through his teeth, trying to get laid…oh, sorry, Father.”
“That will cost you an extra Hail Mary, my child.”
“Tonight before I go to bed…alone,” Carmina said, looking over at Garcia, who glanced up at the ceiling of the church as if he’d suddenly noticed something fascinating. “Anyway, Marlene, I have a few lines and a small solo in one of the songs about Iraq called ‘Shock and Awe.’ Mostly I’m in the chorus and the big group scenes.”
“Wow, sounds like a lot,” Marlene said, and then sighed. “I do love musical theater. If you can keep a secret, I’m a closet diva who sings in the shower, imagining that I’m Mary Martin’s character in South Pacific.”
“Who?” Alejandro and Carmina asked at the same time, and shrugged.
“Never mind, you’re too young,” Marlene sniffed. “So have you been in anything else I might know?”
“Probably not unless you’re a fan of off-and off-off-Broadway,” Carmina said. “But at least I’ve been working onstage, which is more than a lot of girls can say. Because of Putin, I’m not even an actress-slash anymore. At least while we’re open.”
“An actress-slash?” Marlene asked.
“Yeah, you know, ninety-five percent of the girls in this town who dream of being a star are actress-slashes. If you ask them what they do for a living, they’re an actress-slash-waitress, or an actress-slash-secretary…”
“Know any actress-slash-hookers?” Garcia asked, dodging another punch aimed at his chest.
“They’d have to be an actress to be your lover, poco pene,” Carmina retorted.
Garcia turned to Marlene. “In case you need that translated, my dirty-talking friend just said I have a small penis, which I can assure you is not true.”
“Too much information,” Marlene replied.
“Especially in a house of God,” Father Mike added, pointing up. “That will be ten Our Fathers.”
“What! She gets one Hail Mary and I get ten Our Fathers, that’s not fair,” Garcia complained.
“She’s also been to Mass within the last week,” Father Mike replied. “And how many times have you been in the past year?”
“Uh, I plead the Fifth,” Garcia replied.
“That only works in human courts,” the priest said. “Not God’s court.”
Laughing, Carmina turned to Marlene. “So what do you do when you’re not singing in the shower?”
“Well, I’m pretty lucky. I’ve got a bit of money put aside—”
“Don’t let her fool you,” Garcia interjected. “She’s rich as the Pope.”
“I doubt that,” Marlene said. “But I’m pretty well off. I was part owner of a successful VIP security firm and sold my interest a few years ago. So now I paint a little, try to keep twin teenage boys out of mischief, and still do a little private investigation work from time to time. I used to be a prosecutor with the District Attorney’s Office…”
Carmina’s smile gave way to a frown and her eyes narrowed. “You’re the wife of the district attorney.” She glared at Garcia. “You tricked me, you pendejo!”
“I just think that maybe you should talk to her,” Garcia tried to explain.
Marlene looked confused. “I’m sorry if this was a surprise, Carmina; I’m in the dark as much as you about why Alejandro asked me to come here.”
Carmina whirled to face Father Mike. “What did you tell them?”
The priest held up his hand. “I did not reveal the secrets of the confessional, if that’s what you mean, though you know where I stand on this. But so that I’m not a party to this outside of the confessional, I’m going to leave the three of you to hash it out. I do have to open the chapel again in a half hour, if you’d please keep that in mind.”
“You don’t have to leave, Father, I am,” Carmina replied, and started to turn away from the group.
Alejandro reached out and grabbed her arm. “Please, Carmina, I’m sorry I surprised you, but I knew you wouldn’t come if I told you Marlene would be here. She’s not a cop and she doesn’t work for the DA anymore. But I trust her and she can help.”
“There’s nothing to help,” Carmina spat.
“No? It doesn’t take a genius to know that something’s been trippin’ you out since the night I left you at the bar with Maplethorpe and took Zak and G-man home…” Realizing what he’d just said, Garcia winced and looked over at Marlene, whose jaw dropped.
“The twins were at a bar?” she asked.
“Sorry, they heard I was going to perform at this cast party,” Garcia explained. “I didn’t know they were going to be there, and we left as soon as I got done.”
Marlene rolled her eyes. “Well, I’ll be having a little talk with the boys later. But let’s address where we’re at right now…. Carmina, I’m sorry if Alejandro put you on the spot. If there’s something you know that’s connected to Mr. Maplethorpe’s trial, then I’d urge you to get in touch with the proper authorities. Or I can just listen and maybe give you my thoughts without it going any further.”
Carmina looked carefully at Marlene, but then bit her lip and shook her head. “I don’t want to get involved.”
“I understand that,” Marlene replied. “Believe me, I’ve been involved in far too many of these things to wish them on anyone else. On the other hand, a woman is dead and a man will soon be on trial for killing her. They both deserve all the evidence to be heard and justice to be served. And if Maplethorpe is a sexual predator, you should know that sexual predators don’t stop until they are caught and prevented from hurting anyone else.”
“You have no idea what you’re asking,” Carmina replied. “If something happened that night—and I’m not saying that it did—if I testified against Mr. Maplethorpe, I would never work on a stage in this town again. I can hear the rumor mill now: ‘She’s just saying it because she didn’t get the part she wanted.’ I’d be just another girl everybody believes tried to jump-start her career from the casting couch and then complained when it didn’t work. And they’d think I’d probably say something about the next producer or director if I didn’t get what I wanted. Nobody, but nobody, would ever hire me.”
“So you fucked him?” Garcia demanded to know.
“Screw you, ’Jandro,” Carmina shot back. “No, I didn’t fuck him, though maybe you should watch what you say when you walk into a church.”
“Then what is it, ’Mina?” Garcia asked. “Anytime that freak comes aroun
d you can’t even look him in the eye. And that’s not like you.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Carmina replied. “Nothing I could say would bring that woman back to life, and my dreams would be gone.” She started again to walk out of the church.
“Carmina, wait!” Garcia yelled. “Let’s forget about it and go to dinner.”
“I’m not hungry anymore, ’Jandro,” the young woman replied, and headed for the door.
Garcia turned to follow but stopped to apologize to Marlene. “I’m sorry. I guess I fu—messed that up.”
“It’s okay,” Marlene replied. “You were trying to do the right thing. Now go catch your girl and make it up to her.”
Across the street from St. Malachy Chapel, Gregor Capuchin watched as first the young woman and then the young man left the church. The young man quickly caught up to the girl and then they argued, though not loud enough that he could hear what they were saying. After a few minutes, however, they appeared to make up, kissed, and then walked off toward Times Square with his arm around her shoulders.
Lovers’ spat, he mused, and started to turn away when he saw another woman leave the chapel. He had good eyes and there was something about her face that seemed familiar. He jogged across the street as she started to walk toward Broadway. “Excuse me, please, can you direct me to Radio City Music Hall?” he called after her.
The woman turned to face him in a way he recognized from his former military service as that of a trained fighter. But the woman relaxed as she presumably determined that he wasn’t a threat, and judged from his foreign accent and request for directions that he was a confused tourist.
“Sure,” she replied, and pointed east on Forty-ninth Street. “Go straight until you reach Sixth Avenue, which is also called Avenue of the Americas. Cross Sixth and turn left, then up a block. You can’t miss it.”
“Ah yes, thank you very much,” Gregor said with a little bow.
“You’re welcome,” the woman replied, and resumed walking. Apparently, she wondered why he hadn’t moved and turned back. “Did you understand?”
Capture (Butch Karp Thrillers) Page 15