End of Watch lf-5

by Baxter Clare

  When he finally looked at Frank, the priest's eyes were wet. "I couldn't do that. I fought with my conscience, but blood won. Pablo was my brother. I loved him. I couldn't betray him. All these years . . . I've always wondered what happened to him. I think of him every time I visit your father's grave. It keeps me connected to him."

  Frank had heard enough. The urge to hurt Cammayo was a throbbing red pulse throughout her body. She stepped to Annie's ear. "I'll be outside if you need me."

  "Yeah, sure."

  As Frank's hand hit the knob, Cammayo pleaded, "Forgive me."

  Frank stopped. She took a deep breath and held it. Felt it turn scarlet inside her. She walked out the door.

  CHAPTER 41

  "You okay?"

  Frank moved her head in the affirmative.

  "I gotta bring him in for a statement."

  "You do that. I'll catch a taxi."

  Annie rubbed Frank's shoulder. "I'll see you back at the apartment, okay?"

  "Yeah."

  Frank walked away from Our Lady of the Angels. She walked blocks and blocks, ignoring taxis. She seethed. Passing bars, she noticed each one, fully aware that what was inside them could dampen her fury into a dull and manageable anger. She kept walking. One foot in front of the other. Over and over she thought, he knew. All this time, he knew. The lying, hypocritical bastard knew. He knew.

  The accusation became a chant. She walked, each step being the next thing to do. She reiterated her mantra, concentrating so brutally on Cammayo that she forgot the liquor stores and bars. By the time she walked her rage into a simmering, bruised anger, it was dusk. She had no idea where she was. Except on a corner. Near a bar.

  Daley's Bar.

  It sounded so welcome. The outside was brick, the door worn wood. Small signs in opaque windows blinked Bud and Open. A working-class bar. She bet it was dim inside and smelled like centuries of beer. She imagined the sour, malty smell, the way the bartender would draw the beer from the tap, the thick glass against her lips, how the beer would bubble over her tongue in a sharp gush.

  She pulled on the door handle and stepped inside. She was right. It was dim and smelled of generations of smoke and sweat and ale. Three men at the bar turned to stare. She walked in their direction. Her eyes tracked the bartender.

  "What'll it be?" he asked.

  She leaned into the smooth, slick wood. Rows of bottles beckoned. She considered each one. The bartender shifted his weight, sighed.

  "Phone book," she finally answered.

  The bartender glared. He slapped the book on the bar and continued his conversation with the men.

  Outside, Frank hailed a cab. The drive to Tribeca was short. Annie had the door open before Frank could turn her key in the lock.

  "Where were you? I was gettin' worried."

  "Walking."

  Behind her Annie bolted the door. "Walkin'? You walked here from Brooklyn?"

  Frank sighed. "I walked. I stopped. I took a cab."

  "Oh. You hungry? You must be starvin'. I bought pizza. It's in the oven. I'll get you a slice."

  Frank waved her off. "I'm not hungry."

  "You sure? You had dinner?"

  "No."

  "You should eat. I'll get you a slice."

  "I'm not hungry, Annie."

  "Forget hunger. You should eat anyway."

  Giving in seemed easier than fighting. Frank dropped into a kitchen chair. "Get your statement?"

  "Yeah. You worked him nice," Annie said, sliding a plate onto the table.

  Frank picked at an olive, wishing she had a beer chaser.

  "The thing I don't get is why Pablo thought he'd killed a cop. What made him think that?"

  Frank shrugged. "Ask his brother."

  "I did. He couldn't say."

  "Must've seen us coming outta Cal's."

  "But how dumb is that to jack a cop?"

  "Cop with a little girl's a different story. Cop's gonna protect the kid, so they'll probably just hand the money over and not make a fuss. Besides, it was winter. It was cold. Not like there were a lot of good marks out. And for Christ's sake," Frank snapped, "we're talkin' about a junkie, right? It wasn't fuckin' Einstein that jacked my pop. How fuckin' smart is a junkie? Especially one lookin' to fix?"

  Frank pushed away the pizza. Annie watched from against the sink.

  Frank apologized. "It's just... a lot to take in. That this bastard—this pious man of God, right? That he knew the whole time and never told anyone. All the time I was looking and wondering, he knew. All the time my Uncle Al spent looking and wondering, Cammayo knew. All the hours my uncle spent trying to find this bastard. He retired still looking. Died two months later. Liver failure. Drank himself to death. Never got over he couldn't find his own brother's killer. Pablo didn't kill just one person. He took a lot of other lives with him. So forgive me if I'm a little bitter, huh?"

  "There ain't nothin' to forgive. You got a right to be angry."

  "A priest, of all people. A guy you're supposed to be able to trust. That's the part that burns me. Pure and holy and all that crap." Frank ran her fingers through her hair. "Man of God, my ass. How can you believe what these people tell you, Annie? You're a bright woman. How can you believe that crap the church feeds you about truth and virtue and honesty? It's a ration of shit. How can you believe what they tell you out one side of their mouth when they're lying out the other side?"

  "It's not a man I believe. It's an idea."

  "Yeah, well, what fuckin' idea is that?"

  "I understand you're upset but I don't think attackin' my belief is gonna make you feel better."

  "No. I'm serious. I want to know. You don't believe in a man but an idea. So, enlighten me. What's the big idea? Let me in on the secret."

  Annie pursed her lips and folded her arms. Frank was pleased with the conversation's distraction despite feeling guilty about needling Annie into a defensive posture.

  "You really wanna know or am I just handin' you more ammo?"

  "I really wanna know."

  Annie pulled out the chair opposite Frank. "The big idea," she started slowly. "It's hard to put into words. It's more a feeling than an idea. It's a conviction, a certainty that someone is watchin' out for me. Like that story I told you about the lake. When that old woman fished me out, I was shook, but I felt absolutely safe. I felt rescued. Somethin', someone was takin' care of me. All that stuff about Mary and Jesus and God"—she crossed herself—"habit. It's all nice but in my humble opinion it's not the truth. For instance, Mary over there. I love her dearly. I cherish her, but she's not the big idea. Neither's Jesus or even God. They're just avenues to something much bigger, to a mystery, to a spirit so huge we can't even begin to imagine it. But for all its immensity that mystery permeates every cell of our bodies. It's there all the time, but I forget. I get caught up in paperwork, traffic, meetin's, a run in my stockin', everything, and I forget I'm part of somethin' much bigger 'an all that. I forget I'm a part of the mystery, of the immensity of it all, and Mary's my way of reconnectin' to that feelin'. She's the path I take to the mystery, to that absolute conviction that everything's right with the world no matter how messed up it looks from my miniscule perception. And there's lots of paths, but again, in my opinion, they all lead to the same the place."

  "To the mystery."

  "Yes. To an infinite . . . indefinable conviction that rests in the marrow of my bones."

  "That's a paradox. Infinite and indefinable yet sitting in the marrow of your bones."

  "That's the thing!" Annie slapped the table. "It is a paradox. It's cellular yet it's immense. It's indefinable yet it's absolutely know-able. That's the mystery of it all. It's why one face, one name, can't start to describe it. So I have my faith, I have my Mary, but I know they're limited. I know that priests and nuns and popes are limited. They're only human. All they can do is tell the stories that might get you to the mystery, but they're not the mystery. They're just spokesmen, the pitch men."

  "PR for the u
nknowable."

  "Exactly." Annie leaned over the table. "You ever tell my mother we had this conversation and I'll cut your tongue out, ya hear me?"

  "She believes the story?"

  "God bless her." Annie nodded. "The story's more important to her than the meaning of it. That's how you get your fanatics, your zealots. It's easier to believe in the stories than to seek the mystery behind them. Dogma's for people too tired to think. But faith, that's trickier business. It requires work and effort, especially when things aren't goin' your way."

  Frank probed, "When your son died, did you have faith?"

  Annie sat back. She smoothed the creases in the tablecloth. "I was angry. I was mad. But under it all I think I always knew it was the way it had to be. I didn't know why—I never will—but you and me, we see it every day. People die every day. Kids, good people, people that got no business dyin'. Like your father. It's just all part of life, part of the mystery, much as we hate it and much as it hurts. That's when I started turnin' away from the church I was raised in and leaning more on Mary. She was comfortable. Her story reassured me I wasn't the only one to suffer, that people suffer all the time, for reasons we don't know why. And we endure and we go on and life goes on. And there's joy again and pleasure. It's all cycles and we take each day as it comes."

  "One day at a time."

  "Exactly," Annie affirmed. "One day at a time."

  Frank pulled the pizza toward her.

  "Want I should warm that up?"

  "Naw. It's good. I guess it's all good, huh?"

  Annie nodded. "All part of the mystery."

  Frank chewed. The pizza was good. She got up for a Coke. "You mind if I talk to Cammayo?"

  "'Bout what?"

  "His brother. Just some things I want to know. I wanna put a face to the man who killed my dad. I been trying to see it for a long time."

  "You okay with talkin' civil to him? I don't want you harassin' him."

  "I'm not gonna harass him. I just want to ask a few questions. Come with me if you want."

  "Nah. I got all the answers I want. Just be respectful, huh?"

  " 'Cause he's a priest?"

  "No. Because he lost somebody, too. You're not the only one lost somebody that night. You even said so yourself."

  Frank agreed. "I'll behave."

  "Better." Annie pointed a sharp nail. She pushed out of her chair, rising with a yawn. "I'm bushed."

  "Yeah. Long day. Hey."

  Annie looked at her.

  "Thanks for everything."

  "Forget about it. I'm happy. I closed a case, right?"

  "Right. Sleep well."

  "Yeah, you too. Sweet dreams, huh?"

  "Back at you."

  Frank was left with dinner as cold as her anger.

  CHAPTER 42

  "I know you've got a busy day but I need five minutes of your time."

  Cammayo protested, "I've already told you and Detective Silvester everything I know."

  Frank squashed her irritation. "Telling me everything I want to know would take months. All I want is five minutes."

  Cammayo bowed his head. He opened the door and Frank entered the familiar apartment. Seeing her, Cammayo's roommate retreated from the living room. Cammayo switched off the TV.

  Frank said, "Tell me about Pablo."

  "What about him?"

  "Anything. Everything. What was he like? What was his favorite color? Did he have a nickname? Did he like baseball? Football? Everything."

  "He liked baseball. He was a Yankees fan. I don't know his favorite color. I do know he was good boy and I wonder every day what kind of man he would have been. If he could have kicked the dope."

  "You say that like you know he's dead."

  "I'm under no illusions, Detective. I know the kind of junkie my brother was. I know the odds of him being dead by now. But you asked what he was like. He was kind. That's what I remember most. He could be stern and sometimes he hit us but never without a reason. He punished to teach a lesson. But mostly he was affectionate. I remember my sister hugging him all the time. My younger brother, too. He'd sit with them on either side of him, an arm around each child. He smiled a lot and laughed. Pablo laughed like birds singing. I always envied him. I never saw humor in the world the way Pablo did. He was kind. He had a gentle soul. That's why it was easy to keep his secret all these years. He was easy to help. If you knew him, you'd want to help him. He was like that. A very kind young man. Very giving."

  Frank took an unoffered chair and Cammayo perched on the sofa.

  "How old was he when he started using?"

  Cammayo frowned. "I was twelve so he must have been sixteen. I tried to get him to stop but he'd just laugh and tell me not to worry. Which of course I couldn't do, so I prayed for him. I prayed for all of us. With our father passed on, Pablo was the head of the household. My mother worked two, sometimes three jobs, so you see, it was Pablo who raised us. Until the drugs became more important and then it was my turn to wear our father's shoes."

  "Is that why he came to you that last night?"

  "I suppose. And he knew I'd help him. I loved Pablo. I'd do anything for him."

  "And you did. For a long time."

  "Yes."

  "I never had a brother or sister," Frank volunteered, "but if I loved them I'd have probably done the same thing."

  "Maybe, maybe not. We're all different. I wrestled with my conscience a long time. For me, in the end, blood was thicker than water. It's ironic."

  "How so?"

  "I wanted to be a priest so I would be freed from all corporal attachments yet I am bound to my brother by this invisible chain."

  "And you never told anyone?"

  "Only God."

  "Why didn't you tell?"

  "The better to protect him. I chose the lie that he owed a dealer money. It was certainly believable. It explained why he left in such a hurry and it protected him from harmful speculation. It was easily assumed he was in trouble over drugs and that was what I wanted everyone to think."

  "Where do you think he might have gone?"

  "He didn't have any money. I managed to find a little over twenty dollars but I imagine that was quickly used on dope. He couldn't have gone far. I remember he said he might go to Panama and that he'd call me. But of course he never did."

  "What's in Panama?"

  "Our grandparents were there. Our mother and father were from Panama City. They came to the United States when Pablo was seven. My mother always talked of going back. .."

  "Of everyone in your family, who do you think Pablo was closest to?"

  "My mother. Well, before that, my father. I know it was hard on him. He didn't laugh a long time after my father died. None of us did, but with Pablo you noticed such a thing."

  "So if he was closest to his mother why didn't he go to her that night? Why didn't he ask her for help?"

  Cammayo shrugged, stared at the carpet. "Because he knew I'd help him. That I'd do whatever he asked. I don't think he wanted to hurt my mother any more than he already had. The drugs hurt her. He'd beg money from her and when she finally realized where it went each time, no matter how elaborate the story, she finally stopped giving it to him. Then he'd steal it. She had to hide whatever she had from him."

  "He was still living at home with you and your family, so what was he doing in the East Village that night? Why so far away?"

  "I couldn't tell you. There were many nights Pablo didn't come home. More nights than not."

  "Did he have a girlfriend?"

  Cammayo smiled for the first time. "For a while he went with a beautiful girl named Alma. She was very quiet, very shy. Everyone called her Conejo—that means rabbit in Spanish. She was just like one. Soft and shy." His smile faded. "She started using when Pablo did. I heard she died about a year after he left. She was pregnant and went into premature labor, but the baby was crooked or something. It wouldn't come out right and she died in labor. Her heart stopped. I heard she weighed eighty-five pounds when
she died."

  Frank couldn't help comment, "For such a kind young man your brother sure spread a lot of misery."

  "Satan comes in many guises, Detective. For our family he came in the form of white powder. I wish you could have met him before the drugs. You couldn't have helped but like him. Ask anyone. He was a good person until the drugs took him."

  "Drugs don't take people. People take drugs." Hearing the hypocrisy in her anger she changed the subject. "What did he take with him when he left? Besides money."

  "Nothing. He came in through the fire escape. I knew because the window was open and all the cold air was blowing in. Then he left the same way after I gave him the money."

  "Why didn't he use the door?"

  "I don't know. Maybe he heard the TV on and didn't want my mother to see him."

  "Who was watching TV?"

  "My mother had it on. She was asleep on the couch with my sister."

  "So who else saw Pablo that night?"

  "Nobody. Just me."

  "What did he look like?"

  Cammayo closed his eyes. "Scared. Sick. Junkie sick. He was sweating and shaking. He smelled. He was dirty. He was sick."

  "What was he wearing?"

  "I don't know. Dark clothes, maybe. I can't remember. Nothing stands out."

  "How was he wearing his hair?"

  "I don't know. He had a cap on. A ski cap."

  "Anything unusual about his face?"

  "Yes," Cammayo answered right away. "His eye was swollen almost shut."

  "Which one?"

  Cammayo touched his face. "The right one."

  "From top to bottom, tell me everything you remember about that night."

  Cammayo cooperated. His story was consistent with his statement. Unwavering. Frank had hoped to find some inconsistencies and her frustration turned to anger.

  "Do you think your brother loved you?"

  "What does this have—"

  Holding up a palm, Frank interrupted, "Yes or no. Did Pablo love you?"

  "Yes."

  "And his mother?"

  "Yes."

  "And his sister and his other brother."

  "Of course."

  "Then explain to me, how in all this time, your brother hasn't once contacted you or Flora or your mother or Edmundo. Can you explain that?"