The Informant

by Marc Olden

  Dominic León reached the bottom of the staircase and was now directly in front of Lydia. He continued using the smile as a lure. “Olga. Olga.” He said the name, several times more, rolling the sound of it around his mouth as though something new and unusual. “How is she?”

  Lydia took her time answering. “Fine. She doin’ fine.”

  “Heard she had a birthday recently.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I bought her a present, you see.” He took a step toward Lydia, who blinked, jerking her head away from him. His hands, which had been behind him, were now in sight, holding a small flat package wrapped in silver paper and tied with a black ribbon. “Christmas, Lydia. Children love Christmas, you know. This is for Olga.”

  “Dominic, why you here?”

  “I told you. It’s Christmas.”

  “You never do nothin’ without a reason. I haven’t seen you in almost five years, five years, and now all of a sudden, I find you out here in the hall waitin’ for me …”

  Dominic León lifted both eyebrows in mock and mild shock. His voice was soft, calculating. “Olga’s my daughter. I have a right to see her.”

  “Your daughter? Bullshit! Dominic, you run off, you left us. You left me sick and lying in my own blood, and Olga wasn’t even one year old, and she wouldn’t stop coughin’, and goddamn it, you run off …”

  His voice was soothing. “Lydia, Lydia. Out here?” He looked left, right. “Out here in the hall, where everybody can hear? Hey, you don’t want to put our business in the street, now, do you?”

  “I don’ fuckin’ care! I say what I want! Don’ you goddamn come round here after five years and say ‘Olga is my daughter.’ She’s not your daughter, you understand? Not today, not tomorrow, not ever!”

  “Please, may I see her? Will you let me give her this?” He held the Christmas present out to her.

  “Dominic, I wanna know why you come around. Why?”

  She feared him. After all these years, she still feared this man who had fathered her child. Dominic León was forty, a charming, attractive Cuban and an evil man, a mayombero, a black witch, a man of strange and dangerous powers, someone who could cast evil spells and use black magic to kill and cripple people. Latins paid mayomberos to cast spells that would kill faithless wives and husbands as well as unborn babies. Such spells could also cripple an enemy if the mayombero wished, and it was these black witches who had the power of the evil eye, the ability to cause sickness or death by merely looking at someone. Latins believed in such things. Lydia did; she had seen Dominic use his powers for evil.

  Her hand shook as she tried to fit her key into the lock. What a miserable morning. But it hadn’t started out that way. Earlier, Jorge Dávila, who made furniture with his hands, had come to the apartment with a Christmas present for Olga, a tiny wooden desk he had carved for her, with wood he had varnished until it gleamed like polished glass, A learning place is what he’d called the desk, a place for Olga to do her homework, to read. Today, when Jorge finished lunch with Cristina, Lydia was to take him Christmas shopping.

  Then Neil had dropped by and they had argued over the digital watch she’d bought him for Christmas. She’d been hurt that he couldn’t, wouldn’t take it, but she couldn’t cry over it forever, so she’d stopped crying and taken Olga next door to Mrs. Sánchez, then gone out into the cold to do grocery shopping. No more leaving Olga alone, not after what Lydia had gone through on the roof with Bad Red. It didn’t matter what somebody did to Lydia, just don’t let them touch her child. Truth is, she was now worried about being an informant; that’s what the scene with Bad Red had done to her head. Since she expected to hear from Jorge Dávila soon, she’d decided to leave Olga at Mrs. Sánchez’.

  And now, Dominic León was in her life again.

  Inside her apartment, he tossed Olga’s present on the couch, unbuttoning his Black Diamond mink coat. “Nice. Now, this is a nice place you got here, Lydia. Got heat, too.” He blew into his cupped hands, eyes on her. “I hear you doin’ well. You runnin’ around with some Italian everybody call the Hundred Dollar Man.”

  That’s when Lydia knew Dominic León wanted money from her.

  Still wearing her overcoat and holding the bag of groceries, she looked at him for a few seconds, then tore her gaze away, walking past him and into her tiny kitchen. Dominic always needed money, and he went after it anyway he could. He dealt dope, sold stolen goods, forged checks, and he pimped, living off women who were foolish or unfortunate enough to love and trust him. Lydia had been one of those women, but that had been a long time ago.

  It was hard not to fear him, not to be uneasy around Dominic, a man proud of being a mayombero.

  Dominic had mentioned Neil. Lydia froze, an arm still in the shopping bag. Had she made a mistake somewhere, that one mistake all informants dread, the one that brings trouble? Dominic might know that she and Neil … No, he didn’t know that. He was only talking when he mentioned Neil’s name. Neil had a reputation on the street because he was white, copping dope from blacks and Cubans and paying for it in new hundred-dollar bills. Anybody doing that was going to stand out, be noticed. No, Dominic wasn’t here to harm Neil.

  Finished with the groceries, she took off her overcoat and returned to the living room, where Dominic sat holding a framed color photograph of Olga.

  “Ah, bonita. Pretty, like her mother.” He put the photograph down on a low, glass-topped coffee table and leaned back against the sofa, arms spread along the top. Lydia looked good, dressed well, so she must have money. Some of the green the Hundred Dollar Man was spreading around must be sticking to Lydia’s fingers. He smiled at her, and she saw him nod his head twice, as though reaching a decision.

  She sat rigid in a chair to his left, remembering how evil he could be and becoming more and more angry at him for showing up after all these years. Never, never was he going to be allowed near Olga. Not this man, this black witch who used fresh blood, gunpowder, dirt from graves, and the bones of dead men for the spells and charms he sold to frightened, desperate people to use in harming others. Not this man who once forced Lydia to watch as he tortured a black cat for hours before boiling it alive and removing its bones for a ritual that belonged to the devil and would be used to kill horribly. This man would never touch Olga. Never.

  “You know, Lydia, you really look beautiful. And prosperous, too. Nice dress, shoes. That jewelry, it looks real.”

  She touched the necklace she wore. “It’s fake. You want money, I know you. Always you want things from people.”

  “I give them things, too.”

  “You give them nothing. What you give them …” She closed her eyes, remembering.

  He chuckled, reaching over to stroke his fur coat with long fingers that were a dead white, the color of dried bone. He looks the same, she thought. Too handsome, too much hair, and there’s gray in it now. He’s a little chubby, but still stocky, strong, and the mustache is the same. A few lines in his forehead, and he’s stopped wearing the earring. One thing definitely hasn’t changed: his eyes, those green eyes that never blink, that scrape away your skin and burn into your mind, your soul, leaving you naked and weak. That’s where his power comes from, his eyes. They never change, they’re still beautiful and horrible.

  He still wears black, as though carrying the night with him. Jacket, pants, open-neck silk shirt, boots. All as black as his heart. Black as his mind.

  Dominic said, “This Hundred Dollar Man, he’s good for you, I bet. No, I know he’s good for you, I am sure of it. He gets around, Manhattan, Jackson Heights, Union City, and you’re with him, and I know he treats you good, right?”

  “Dominic, I have to go soon.” She looked at her watch. To hell with this mayombero.

  “You think of me once in a while.” He was telling her, not asking her.

  It was true, and she was ashamed of it.

  He had been a ruthless, demanding lover, in bed giving her all she’d hoped for, taking more than she knew she ever ha
d, but in time, his cruelty had simply become … cruelty. Behind the pain he’d given her was only pain, and she’d come to see that the love she’d been giving him was the only love that would ever exist between them. His hold on her had been incredible; her mind and body had belonged to him, she had been unable to hold anything back.

  She had wanted to leave him, but couldn’t. So she’d stayed and been terrified, used, degraded. He had been the one to leave, and that had hurt her beyond anything she thought possible. She suffered; then, eventually and silently, she thanked him for leaving her.

  “Lydia, tell the truth. Have you ever felt as alive as you did with me?”

  She closed her eyes, closing out his eyes. “Dominic, please leave. I should never have let you in.”

  “Ah, yes, but you did. Come sit by me.”

  “No.” She opened her eyes wide. Her head felt light, as though her brain were wrapped in ice.

  He said, “You began by loving me, and now you end by judging me.”

  “All love is that,” she said.

  “I’m in trouble, Lydia. I need money.” He sounded confident, but under it was desperation.

  “So? Why you come to me? You must have other women, plenty women.”

  “They can’t help me.”

  “You mean they know you for what you are.”

  He gave her the meaningless smile once more. “What am I?”

  “You hurt people, and you know it. You get them to love you, then when you learn how to hurt them, you do. It’s a game with you, nothin’ else.”

  He snorted, crossing his legs, pointing a forefinger at her. “A philosopher. A beautiful philosopher you are. I like your hair that way, long. It catches the light. And your breasts, they …”

  She folded her arms across her breasts, narrowing her eyes, on guard against him.

  He grinned, his green eyes moving up and down her body. “Relax, Lydia, relax. Haven’t seen you for a long time, remember? You and Olga. This trouble I got—”

  “No, Dominic.” She wanted him out of her home, out of her life.

  “I owe money to some people, and they want it right away. Can’t keep stalling them much longer.”

  “Jiving them, you mean. What you do? You gamble? You promise somebody dope and you burn them?”

  The smile eased off his face. The bitch was smart; she knew. A street-smart woman always knew what was going down. Was Lydia always this smart? He couldn’t remember. He was amused to see her defy him like this; it was a puppy chewing on your ankle. Dominic’s polite contempt for her made him tell the truth.

  “I went to a shylock for money to do a deal for some guns. Actually, three of us are in on the deal, but I told them I would hold the money.”

  “You talk good, Dominic.”

  “Yeah, I know. So I got the money, see, and we had a couple of days before the deal goes down, and I hit a few cockfights.” He grinned.

  She nodded. “You gambled the money on somebody’s rooster, and you lost, and now the shylocks and your partners, they all angry at you because there’s no guns and no money, and your friends, they still gotta pay back the loan.”

  He clapped his hands together twice, a bitter smile on his handsome face. “Brava, brava, brava. Well, now you know, and if I don’t come up with it …”

  “That’s your problem, Dominic. Now, get out. I gotta leave.”

  “Lydia, please …” He stood up, the smile gone, and he knew he was pleading, something he had never done in front of her in his life, but what choice did he have? He needed money to stay alive.

  “Lydia …”

  She stood up, her back to him, remembering all the humiliation and agony this man had given her, remembering his betrayal, remembering that he must never be allowed near Olga.

  “Leave.”

  “I need money, woman.” Pleading, hurt, a growing anger in him.

  “No money for you!” She hugged herself, shaking her head.

  Goaded by his fear, by the knowledge that unless he got money soon he wouldn’t stay alive on the street, and to be refused by her, by this whore he had once allowed to crawl naked at his feet, by her!

  “Goddammit, bitch!” Swinging her around to face him, he backhanded her in the face, sending her hair flying, making her cry out.

  The blow released her from fear.

  She remembered everything he had done to her, the hurt, the desertion, what he was, and she clawed at his face with both hands, raking her nails down the right side of his face and across his nose, leaving bloody lines as she shrieked at him, at this knower of the dead who made money from the blood of men, women, children.

  “Whore! You fucking whore!”

  Dominic’s fear was now the dominant force in the room, and coupled with Lydia’s defiance, it made him deadly. He used his fists on her face, breasts, shoulders, and a screaming Lydia tried to block him. No woman was going to put him down, scratch his face, say no to him. No woman, especially this little whore he had once used and thrown away.

  She backed away quickly, lost her balance, fell.

  He was on her, and she felt his breath hot on her ear, smelled the tobacco and cologne on him, felt his unshaven cheek roughly scrape the left side of her face. She was on her stomach, one of her hands protecting her face, screaming at him, squealing with pain when he punched her twice in the kidneys.

  He stopped hitting her, but still knelt over her, and, breathing hard, he unbuckled his belt, certain that the one way to bend this woman to his will was to break her. Using one knee, he pressed down on her spine, one hand yanking down her panty hose. Then, shifting his knees, he roughly pulled up her dress. She squirmed, twisted, fighting him, fighting the pain he’d given, fighting against what she knew he was going to do to her.

  He kept her face down into the floor, one hand in the crack of her buttocks.

  “You got to learn, Lydia.” Sexual excitement made him breathe faster. “You got to learn, woman, and I’m gonna teach. …”

  He entered her brutally, pushing as hard and as fast as he could, a hand gripping her hair and keeping her face jammed into the floor, and when she screamed, his green eyes suddenly seemed extraordinarily bright.

  26

  “SOMETIMES YOU GOT TO treat a woman hard, you know?” Israel Manzana bit a black olive in half, chewed part of it, and stared at the bit he held between his thumb and pinkie finger. “But I tell you, I don’ like what happened to Lydia.”

  Neil nodded, combing his mustache with his fingers. “You Cubans call that macho, right?”

  Israel Manzana reached for another black olive. “Woman got to know you on top. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with comin’ down on her if you got a reason. But Dominic León, he don’ got no reason ’cept he’s crazy.” Olive still between his ringers, Israel made the sign of the cross.

  You too, thought Neil. Big dope dealer scared shitless by Dominic the witch.

  Israel Manzana spoke with a lisp, fluttering his hands when he talked, shooting his cuffs to show off the thin gold bracelets he wore on both wrists. “Now, Lydia, she’s a nice girl, I mean, a lotta people, they like her, ’cause she’s a child, you know? She always wanted to be a dancer, some kinda entertainer, and it’s like she never grow up, like she still tryin’ to be somebody, so I guess that’s why everybody like her. She don’ hurt nobody.”

  Somebody hurt her, thought Neil, his mind on Lydia, still in the hospital, and his eyes on Israel Manzana, sitting across from him in the last booth in the Casa Picadillo restaurant in Washington Heights. Israel, who had never weighed over a hundred and twenty pounds in his life, wore a blue pinstripe suit too large for him. He had a small bony face, gray hair, and wore dark glasses day and night.

  “Dominic’s maybe a little crazy,” he said, shrugging his small shoulders and turning down the corner of his nickel-sized mouth.

  “More than a little, and more than maybe,” said Neil softly.

  “She’s your friend, but she’s not your woman. I say that, ’cause if she your woma
n, then you gotta do something about it, right?”

  “That’s the Cuban way?”

  Israel Manzana smiled. “That is a man’s way.”

  Neil nodded, eyes on Manzana’s hands. That is a man’s way, but what can an agent do without blowing a case and ruining his career and letting the world know that the woman lying beaten and raped in a west side hospital is his informant.

  And that’s why Neil, his mind on Lydia tonight, let Israel Manzana do most of the talking. Neil’s mind wasn’t on the quarter kilo of cocaine he would be getting from Israel Manzana sometime during the next three hours; it was on Lydia and Dominic León, a man Neil hated more than he had ever hated anyone in his life.

  Neil watched Israel Manzana casually roll postizas around in his fingers. Postizas were spurs that were fastened to a rooster’s legs with tape and glue, to be used in a cockfight as slashing, killing weapons. The razor-sharp spurs Manzana held were three inches long, handmade out of gold, and worth three hundred dollars. Like other Hispanics in New York, Manzana owned fighting roosters, pitting his birds against those of other owners and betting on matches that sometimes ran from eight at night until four or five o’clock the next morning.

  Israel Manzana also owned the Casa Picadillo restaurant, with its cockfighting pit in the back beyond the kitchen. While he and Neil sat in the booth completing their cocaine buy, customers ate at the counter and other booths around them, served by Cuban waiters in short gold jackets and shiny black pants. Neil, who was in the restaurant alone, with Kirk Holmes and Katey outside in darkened doorways waiting, knew that Israel Manzana wasn’t alone. The waiters were his men, and so were some of the Cuban customers around them.

  Neil watched men walk into the restaurant with bags—shopping bags, pillowcases, even sheets pressed into service as bags. Inside the bags, roosters crowed, or tried to claw and peck their way out. The men, all Latins, disappeared through a small door that was guarded by a large black Cuban who stood with both arms folded across his massive chest, saying nothing. But his eyes were alert for strangers, troublemakers, anyone who didn’t belong.