Queens Noir (35 page)

Frankie's family had been among the first wave of Latinos
to settle in Woodside. He'd gotten his ass kicked a few times
before the other kids in the Irish working-class neighborhood
accepted him. It helped that his family was Catholic. Also
that his old man brought them here when Frankie was young
enough that he didn't grow up speaking with an accent. His
pop, on the other hand, had the whole Senor Wences thing
going.

Now, of course, it didn't matter. Aside from a few old, entrenched Irish families, the neighborhood was predominantly
Latino. Not too many Mexicans, but a few here and there.
Mostly Dominicans, Salvadorans, Guatemalans, some Puerto
Ricans. Plus your Indians, Pakistanis, and Koreans, of course.
Most of those were in neighboring Jackson Heights, but a lot
of them had slipped over into Woodside. And now the Russians were discovering the neighborhood. Not to mention the
blacks who were swarming into the projects the next block
over from Frankie's house.

He glanced up Woodside Avenue and suddenly felt old.
He could remember when almost every business had been something else. Except the Astoria Federal Bank. They'd been
annoying people in the same spot for years. A fee for this, a
fee for that; I'm sorry, sir, we've misplaced your records ... He
couldn't think of a place that gave him more heartburn than
that bank. Well, maybe the DMV, but it was close.

Get a grip, Frankie told himself. He knew his thoughts
were careening crazily because he had to go see his aunt.
She wasn't his real aunt, of course; that was just what everybody called her. At the corner of Woodside Avenue and
62nd Street, he glanced at the building on his right. The
lights dotted the windows of The Jefferson. It figured Tia
Alba's building would still have electricity. She would keep
the power on through sheer force of will. He stepped into the
vestibule and took a deep breath. He pressed the buzzer for
her apartment. After a pause for whoever was manning the
door to look at him through the camera, he got an answering
ring. He dragged himself up the three flights, prolonging the
inevitable.

Tia Alba threw open the door. `Ay, Paquito!" she squealed.
"Ven aca!" She held her arms open. Paquito was Spanish for
"Frankie." He hated to be called Paquito. His aunt smelled of
lavender water. He was mildly allergic to the scent and felt
his nose tickle uncomfortably. He hated lavender water. He
embraced her quickly and stepped back.

"Come in, come in," she said. "Sit down. I have some empanadas heating up." She bustled toward the kitchen.

"No, gracias, tia," he said. "I'm not hungry, really." He patted his stomach to indicate how full he was. He hated her
empanadas.

"Okay, some coffee then, s? You'll have some cafe conmigo?"

Sure, he would have coffee with her. Her coffee was tolerable. Besides, it would take her a few more minutes to pour.

But no, she was back instantly with two steaming cups.
"Just perked," she said. She still used a stovetop percolator,
rather than a coffee machine, although God knew she could
have had a new one every week. She claimed the machines
didn't brew the coffee properly. "I knew you were coming."

This prescience was less a function of her mind-reading
abilities and more the result of the phone call he'd made to
her in the morning before leaving the house, telling her he
planned to stop by later.

And now it was later, and he owed her money, and he
didn't know how to tell her he didn't have it.

She got right to the point. "What did you bring me?" She
beamed at him.

"Well, listen, tia, it's like this . . ." he started.

Her face darkened like a storm cloud. "Don't tell me any
stories, Paquito. I'm not in the mood for stories. Just give me
what you owe me."

Don Pedro stuck his head out of the back bedroom.
"Trouble?" he asked. He and Tia Alba had been together for
longer than Frankie could remember. Hardly anyone saw him
unless something bad was about to happen. Don Pedro had an
uncanny sense of when things were going to shit.

"No, no trouble," Frankie croaked.

"Depends on what you mean by trouble," Tia Alba said. "I
think Paquito is a little short today."

Don Pedro hauled his bulk into the living room. "Short?
How can that be?" He looked genuinely puzzled.

"Well, listen," Frankie said, looking up at the big man. Don
Pedro towered over everybody, especially when he was standing
and they were sitting. "I ran into a little trouble today. Because
of the blackout." He shrugged, letting them know that he could
hardly be held responsible for the vagaries of Con Edison.

"No excuses, Paquito," Don Pedro said. "We don't tolerate
excuses here. You know that." He sounded almost regretful.

"I have almost all of it. Here," he said, and pulled out
his wallet. "I owe you another two hundred. Less, even." He
handed over a fat wad of bills.

TIa Alba counted them quickly. She shook her head. "Two
hundred dollars. That's not acceptable." She brightened, as
though struck with an idea. "Why don't you go down to the
bank and get the rest?" She turned to Don Pedro. "Walk him
down to the ATM. You could stand to get a little air. You've
been inside all day."

"That's a fine idea. Come, m'ijo." He beckoned toward the
front door.

"I ... I can't," Frankie said. He swallowed hard. "I don't
have that much in my account."

Don Pedro loomed over him. "Listen, cabron, you better
figure out a way to get the two hundred. Or we'll have to figure it out for you, comprende?"

"I don't have it," Frankie repeated. A voice in the back of
his head told him he was being ridiculous. He had an NYPD
shield in his pocket and a gun in a holster. He had nothing
to fear from this lug. The voice of reason cut in and told the
other voice to shut the fuck up. He cleared his throat, started
to explain.

Don Pedro got red in the face, but Tia Alba spoke calmly.
"It's all right, Paquito. These things happen. Don't worry, Pedro, we'll work it out. Paco's a good boy. We can make some
arrangement."

Don Pedro looked like he wanted to arrange Frankie's face
in a new configuration, but then he nodded. "As always, you
are right, Alba. I will leave it to you to work something out
with the boy." He wandered back into the bedroom.

"Now," she said, "what can we work out?" She closed her
eyes for a moment. "I know! We are in need of a guard. You
will be the guard."

"A guard? You already have a security system here."

"No, no. More of a ... bodyguard. Yes, a bodyguard." She
nodded. "It's settled. You will go down to the second floor and
make sure that everything is all right with our guests. Then
we will be even."

"Oh, no, tia. Not that. I can't. .."

She clapped her hands. "You can, and you will." She
checked her watch. "Starting now. And you will come here
every night this week. Then I will see you next week, as
usual," she said, beaming again. "Now, come. I will bring you
downstairs."

Frankie trailed her down the flight of steps, feebly protesting the whole way, although he knew it was useless. If only he
had been able to get that refund, he wouldn't be into TIa Alba
for the two hundred. He'd started out working in this enterprise at his wife's insistence. At first, it had been a way to earn
easy money, just a simple method of stretching their budget a
little further. Somehow, he'd wound up behind the eight ball,
into Alba for more money each week. It reminded him of that
Tennessee Ernie Ford song "Sixteen Tons": Another day older
and deeper in debt ... And now he did indeed owe his soul to
the company store.

That store, in this case, was TIa Alba and her merry band
of fences, who specialized in moving hot-or at the very least,
lukewarm-goods. He had a sneaking suspicion that the profits somehow got sent back to the land of the camel jockeys
and the home of the ragheads, but his ass was so deep in the
alligator pool that he was in no position to do anything about
it, even if he knew for sure, which he didn't. He made damn sure he didn't. Which was another reason he didn't want to
go downstairs.

He stopped his thoughts as Alba led him into her other
apartment on the second floor. The place was jammed, mostly
with women, but quite a few men swarmed around as well. It
had the feel and sound of a casbah or bazaar. Merchandise was
selected, haggling ensued, and deals were finalized. A Middle
Eastern-looking man in Western dress approached Alba. She
made the introductions quickly, calling the man Mohammed.
She turned Frankie over to him, saying, "Mohammed will
show you what to do. Now you visit me again tomorrow night
before you come down here." She squeezed his cheek before
she left. Hard.

Frankie rubbed his face. Mohammed's hands snaked over
Frankie's torso and legs expertly. Before Frankie could smack
the guy, Mohammed said, "Ah, you are armed. It is good to be
prepared. Come, I will show you what to do."

Frankie glared at him, but what choice did he have? He
followed Mohammed to a stool next to the front door. Frankie
was to sit there and guard the place for the next four hours.

I can't stand this, he thought. What am I doing here? His
life started flashing in front of his eyes. Was he dying? Or
just wishing he were dead? He knew that was a sin, but at
this point, what was one more? He pictured Maria at home,
working comfortably at the laptop, using the scanner like a
pro, churning stuff out of the color printer like a one-woman
Kinko's.

He sighed and tried to pretend he was on a shit-fixer-a
post in the bowels of some shithole in Brooklyn where you
got sent if you fucked up. Well, that was apt. He'd ridden
out a couple of assignments to shit-fixers in his time, and he
supposed he could do it again. Of course he could. He pulled himself up taller. Just another ... he glanced at his watch ...
three hours and thirty-eight minutes to go. He opened the door
to let a stout Dominican woman with three gold teeth leave.
She waddled out with a bundle of clothing wrapped in string.
Frankie spotted the store tags still hanging from the items.

As soon as he closed the door, the buzzer rang. Mohammed appeared and inspected the visitor through the closedcircuit TV system. He nodded to Frankie. "It's okay, my friend.
You can let her in. She is good customer." He disappeared into
the throng, calling out, "Ladies, ladies! No fighting. We have
plenty for everyone."

There was a smart rap at the door. Frankie peered through
the peep and saw the same woman who had just been spotted
on the CCTV. She was a petite Latina wearing jeans and a red
T-shirt with a denim vest that had embroidered flowers on it.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He didn't know
why, but his cop intuition kicked in and told him something
was wrong.

She tapped on the door again. Mohammed appeared,
glaring at Frankie. "Let her in, my friend. That is what you are
here for." Before Frankie could protest, Mohammed opened
the door and ushered the woman in. "Hello, my friend," he
said to her, taking her hand between both of his. "We have
fine selection today. Check it out."

The woman smiled at him. Frankie noticed she had good
white teeth. No gold. The alarm bells clanged in the back of
his skull. He looked for Mohammed and spotted him bent
over a clothing rack in the back, making a deal with a heavyset lady in a purple pantsuit.

Frankie tucked his hand in the crook of Mohammed's elbow and pulled the man upright. "I am making deal," Mohammed spit at him. "You go back to door."

Frankie pulled the man roughly out of the crowd. "I need
to talk to you," he hissed. "There's something about that
woman that's not right." He indicated the newest arrival by
lifting his chin in her direction.

Mohammed glanced her way. "She is good customer. She
has shopped here many times before. You go back to door." He
shook Frankie off and lost himself among the shoppers.

Frankie stood there for a moment, unused to people ignoring him. He headed back to the door, thinking to let Tia
Alba know what was going on. She was a businesswoman, yes,
but she was also smart. She obviously ran the show, and she
would be able to straighten out Ali Baba.

He whipped out his cell phone, ready to ring her upstairs.
Before he could press the button, however, the door flew open.
"Police! Put your hands up!" A sea of blue uniforms fanned
out, screaming the order a second time in Spanish. "Policia!
Manos arriba!"

As one, the female shoppers let out a high-pitched wail.
No doubt they were all illegals worried about being sent back
to their countries on a bus. Frankie could have told them not
to worry about it. They'd be out of Central Booking and on
their way back to their Queens apartments before the cops
finished the paperwork for the bust. The women were crying and screaming. All except one. The petite brunette in the
flowered vest had whipped out her gun and was herding the
others back against the wall.

He knew it! No one in her right mind would be wearing
an extra layer in this heat-unless she needed the vest to conceal her shoulder holster. The vest, plus the fact that she had
good teeth, were the clues he'd picked up on subconsciously.
He'd known she didn't fit in with the rest of the women. Fat
lot of good it had done him.

He felt a gun pressing in the small of his back. A man
yelled, "Hands up!" into his ear.

"I'm a cop!" he shot back, and reached for his shield.

"I know who you are," the voice said. Hands reached for
his gun and slid it out of his holster. He felt the sweat slide
down his sides. Now he was naked.

"I'm a cop!" he said again. The same hands spun him
around.

"I know who you are," the man repeated.

Frankie's eyes flew open. "Captain Goatfucker!" He
winced at his own stupidity. "Er-ah-I mean, Captain Williams. How the hell are you?"

"Better than you, Frankie, m'boy," the captain said as
he snapped the cuffs around Frankie's wrists. "Better than
you."