The Convert's Song

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R
aymond said tonight was the night.

Raymond said tonight they would make their move. Hit the big time.

Raymond said he kinda hated to bring this up, but he was a little disappointed in Valentín. Felt like he had been fading on him. Making lame excuses: his job, his high-maintenance girlfriend, his folks bitching at him. Raymond felt like maybe Valentín didn’t want to make money anymore. Like he was scared. But down deep, he knew Valentín had heart. They were
cuates
from way back. Tonight was major. Step up, homes. Don’t punk out on me now.

Basically, Raymond had talked the usual bullshit.

But if he said he needed backup, he probably meant it.

Valentín ate an Italian beef special at the counter of the sandwich shop, careful to keep the grease off his leather jacket. The sun set on the November streetscape: three-story brick walk-ups behind wrought-iron fences. The Italian-ice stand—red, white and green, draped with decorative lights—closed until May. The grocery across the street where, as a boy, Valentín had accompanied his father on Saturday pilgrimages to Benny the Butcher.

Benny did business in back, his little fort formed by freezers, display cabinets, a chopping block, blades hanging from hooks and arrayed in racks. Benny was squat and grave in black-framed glasses and meat-stained apron, sweater sleeves rolled up. He had dental problems:
chipmunk cheeks, mouth frozen into a mumble. He chopped and sliced and wrapped, talking to Mr. Pescatore and reaching across the scarred wood to hand Valentín slices of mortadella and prosciutto.

Benny the Butcher had disappeared one day. Just like that. Running from the bookies.

But Vince, the owner of the sandwich shop, was still around. Valentín noticed that a refill cup of Coke had appeared at his elbow. Courtesy of Vince. Valentín looked up. Vince shambled toward a new customer with a grimace. The .45 in the holster on his hip accentuated his limp, which brought to mind Walter Brennan as Stumpy in
Rio Bravo
. The neighborhood was on the rebound. Town houses and condominiums were luring back children of old-timers who had run to the suburbs. The Italians, blacks and Mexicans had learned to get along or ignore one another. But good luck convincing Vince to leave his cannon under the register.

Valentín had an exam the next day.
I should be home studying,
he thought.
Instead of waiting on Raymond and whatever catastrophe he’s got cooking.

Valentín chugged Coke. He hurried out when the steel-blue BMW pulled up blaring Latin jazz into the dusk. He slid in next to Raymond, who gave him an elaborate handshake and a thump on the chest.

“Cuate,”
Raymond boomed. “Right on time. I likes that in you.”

I likes that in you.
Emphasis on the
in.
His latest little catchphrase, acquired from a Latin King who sold him dope. Raymond collected expressions. He repeated them in experimental accents, as if learning a tune. He sounded like an Eighteenth Street Mexican when he said
cuate
, like a Logan Square
cubano
when he said
comemierda.

Driving fast, Raymond lit a joint. He checked his cell phone. He patted the wheel in time to the radio: island drums, percussive piano, rowdy horns.

“Chano Pozo,” Raymond said, passing the joint. “‘Manteca.’”

“Old school.”

“Nothing wrong with old school.”

Valentín had stopped smoking weed for the hotel drug test weeks earlier. But he took a hit. And then another.

“A badass, Chano Pozo,” Raymond said. “The godfather of the conga. Taught Dizzy Gillespie Afro-Cuban music. A gangster, a cokehead, a tripped-out animal-sacrificing
santero
. Know how he died?”

Valentín moved his head to the jabbing wail of the trumpets. Ray was an encyclopedia. You always learned something if you listened.

“In a bar in Harlem,” Raymond continued. “Dressed sharp. He put a nickel in the jukebox to play ‘Manteca,’ his big hit. He’s singing along, dancing, havin’ a great time. That’s when they ambushed him. Shot him grooving to his own song.”

“Damn.”

The BMW hit the interchange to Lake Shore Drive. The ramp rose and curved, revealing a panorama of the skyline aglow.

“So what’s up tonight that’s so important?” Valentín asked.

Raymond pushed buttons on the CD player. “Check this out. ‘Pedro Navaja.’ The Latin ‘Mack the Knife.’”

Head back, driving one-handed, Raymond sang in Spanish. He matched Rubén Blades note for note, nuance for nuance. He had limited technique, but a sweet sound. He was a dead-on mimic: Sinatra, Springsteen. In conversation, he came off as if he was enjoying a private joke
at your expense. When he sang, though, he sounded as if he believed every word with all his heart. And it became hard to dislike him.

Raymond wore the leather coat, collar up, that he had bought after seeing
Carlito’s Way
again. His stubble hinted at plans to grow a trim Carlito-style beard. Raymond was a year older than Valentín: thin, long-armed, and long-backed with straight, slicked-back hair. Valentín was curly-haired, sawed-off, and brawny in the shoulders and chest. Still, people often thought they were related. Raymond used it to tactical advantage: Come on, beautiful, let my cousin here buy you a drink, he’s too much of a gentleman to ask you himself.

The BMW zoomed south between lakefront parkland and train tracks.

“You guys play that cut last night?” Valentín asked. Raymond performed with three bands: rock, Latin, and jazz.

“Nah.” After a moment, staring straight ahead, he added: “It was fun, though. College crowd. Fine ladies dancing up front, all frisky.”

Raymond steered into an exit. At a stop sign, he thumped Valentín on the shoulder and said: “Been a while, homes. Whaddya hear, whaddya say? How’s Dolores treating you?
La belle et sympathique
Dolores.”

Raymond spoke good French thanks to the private school that had finally kicked him out.

“She’s okay.” Valentín sighed. “Busy. Homework, college applications. You know.”

Raymond nodded sagely. “And your folks?”

“Like cats and dogs.”

“That’s dangerous, Argentine versus Mexican. They giving you shit about college?”

“Well, I’m taking the criminal justice courses. My uncle says that’ll help my chances for the PD.”

“The PD.”

“If the police doesn’t work out, my uncle thinks I should apply to the Border Patrol.”

“¿La pinche migra?”
Raymond whooped. “Those fascist storm troopers?”

“He knows a boss there. They need Spanish speakers.”

Valentín’s uncle Rocco was a police lieutenant. He disapproved of Raymond even without knowing the extent of his efforts to become a singing gangster. Uncle Rocco had said, “If there’s one thing worse than a thug, it’s a snotty spoiled lawyer’s kid playing thug. Stay away from that jamoke. And don’t get me started on his father. He never met a criminal he wouldn’t bend over for.”

The BMW rolled into a lakeside park. Raymond headed toward a dark corner of the parking lot. He eased into a space with a view of the lot, the traffic, and the columns and cupola of the museum.

“How’s the hotel gig?” Raymond asked.

Valentín suspected that Raymond had a reason for not telling him about the score until they were in position.

“Pretty good. Had a luggage thief yesterday. Smooth brother in a three-piece suit. Way he works it, he hangs out casing the lobby till he sees a bag he likes. The suitcase was by the bell station; he had a bellhop bring it to a cab. Tipped him a buck, too. I chased the cab on foot, but I lost him.”

Raymond chortled. Valentín had known he would love that story.

“He had a bellhop carry the stolen bag? Badass. I likes that in him.”

“This big old beat cop, Henry, on Michigan Avenue? Didn’t lift a finger. Too busy making money. Everybody’s stealing in that hotel: cops, doormen, garage attendants.”

“Yeah, well, the biggest thieves are all the fucking executives and bankers and politicians staying up in the rooms, am I right?”

“So Ray: What’s the caper?”

Raymond turned toward him for dramatic effect.

“Oh, it’s a caper all right. You remember that asshole Wolf? He’s meeting us here. Him and his goofy sidekick Alvin. Carrying fifty grand.”

Valentín had refused to get involved in Raymond’s drug racket on the money end. But Raymond paid him for helping out now and then with security, which basically meant watching Raymond’s back and looking mean. As the loads grew, Valentín had done his best to keep his distance.

“Pure profit,” Raymond said. “Fifty large. I didn’t bring any coke.”

“What?”

Raymond opened the glove compartment with a ta-dah gesture. There was a pistol inside.

“The Smith and Wesson you like. Nine-millimeter, like the PD. Me”—he pulled back a lapel to display a shoulder holster—“I got my Beretta.”

Valentín blinked, his eyelids heavy. He was not sure if they had been in the lot for five minutes or twenty-five.

“You’re gonna take them off? You crazy?”

“What’s he gonna do, call the cops? Call his mother?”

Valentín slammed shut the glove compartment. “What if he freaks? What if they’re packing? You plan on murdering them?”

“Relax. The minute that punk bitch wannabe sees the
cuetes,
he’s gonna need a new pair of shorts.”

“I am not comfortable with this at all.”

Valentín slumped. Raymond passed the joint. Valentín waved it off.

“Don’t get all worked up, homes,” Raymond said. His deep-set, bloodshot eyes gleamed in the lights of the dashboard.

“You can’t just jack him and walk away.”

“You watch.”

“Last time we saw Wolf, you were all friendly, laughing it up.”

“A facade.” Raymond’s brow furrowed. “I can’t wait to see that Jew-boy shake in his boots.”

“Come on, Raymond. Don’t talk that Nazi shit.”

Raymond shook his head. “You know my mom’s family are Lebanese.”

“They moved to Argentina like a hundred years ago.”

“Still. We got relatives back home. You know what the Jews have done to Lebanon. To my people. People all over.”

“Man, what are you babbling about? You decide to do a drug rip-off, now it’s some kinda political thing?”

“You need to smarten up about the world, Valentín.”

“Bullshit.”

“What’s the problem? You’re worried because you have this notion you’ll be a cop one day? Let me break it to you: the law enforcement thing is not going to work out.”

“Why not?”

“You do everything half-assed. You smoke my dope and take my money, then play it off like you’re not a drug dealer. You fuck up in school, but you feel bad. You piss off your parents, you worry. Like that Los Lobos song: ‘Too weak to live, too strong to die.’”

Valentín checked the dashboard clock.

“Matter of fact,” Raymond continued, “Dolores feels the same way.”

“Dolores?”

“We were talking about you last night.”

Suspicion entered the haze in his head. Raymond always played the big-brotherly gentleman around Dolores. But Raymond was a dog.

“Last night?”

“At my gig.”

“She was home studying,” Valentín snapped. “We talked on the phone.”

“She came to the gig, homes. Dancing, having fun. Looked great too, tight black dress.
Está bien buena.
”

Rage jolted through him. He imagined punching Raymond in the face. He envisioned the mechanics of throwing the punch: swiveling his torso for power, keeping his shoulder low, following through.

Raymond flinched. “What, bro, you gonna hit me now?”

Valentín spoke through gritted teeth. “You’re startin’ to piss me off.”

“I wouldn’t mess with your lady, you know that.”

Valentín stared out his window. “Listen up, Ray. I’m worried about you. You talk about me not making it as a cop. You’re not exactly a bona fide professional criminal.”

Raymond busied himself with a joint and lighter. “So?”

“It ain’t gonna last. No matter how slick you are, how much shit you talk, it’s a game. A bluff. And you’re dragging me down with you. You had me buying weight with you up in the projects this summer, man. The fucking projects.”

“You handled it fine.”

Valentín had carried the Smith & Wesson for the expedition. Except for hard looks from hooded gangbangers in the dim, urine-smelling lobby of the high-rise, the deal had gone smoothly. He had gotten a charge out of it, a gunslinging street adventure. But he wasn’t about to admit that now.

“Well, I was plenty scared. You need to cut this shit out before you get killed. Man, you could go to college if you want. Your dad has yank. Or you could get serious about the music. If I could sing like you, that’s what I’d be doing. For money and for fun. But you treat it like a big joke. Like you treat everything, basically.”

Raymond’s expression softened.

“Nobody else disrespects me like you, Valentín.”

“Nobody else talks straight to you.”

Raymond’s cell phone rang. He answered, throaty and brisk.

“What’s up, dog? Where you guys at?…That’s close…Keep going south five minutes…Yeah, by the lake…I likes that in you. Bye.”

He hung up. He rolled his shoulders, the sardonic mask back in place.

“As much as I’m enjoying this deep psychoanalytical dialogue, it’s time for business,” he announced. “You need to stop fucking around.”

Valentín felt sad and relieved. Raymond had given him the opportunity he had wanted for months.