THE following day Sapo gave me a call.
“Whass up, pana? Like, can you do me a solid? Like, you my main-mellow-man. Remember the day the entire CIA crew wanted to jump yo’ ass b’cause you were wearin’ a sweatshirt with their colors? Or like the other day when I got to Bodega to send someone to slide a lease undah yo’ door?”
“Sapo, mira, tell Bodega thanks. Tell him I have what he wants.”
“In a minute, in a minute. So, like, can you do me a solid?”
“What do you want? Do I have to kill anyone?”
“Bro, you can’t kill a fly. At times I think yo’r softer than yo’r alleluia wife. Like if they mug you, you’d ask the robbers if they need a ride home. So, Chino, like, I have a shitload of stuff, can I leave it wi’choo, Chino? You know you the only guy I can trust, right?”
“Of course.”
“Second thing.”
“Wha’?”
“Bodega wants ta see yah.”
•
SAPO MUST have arrived at around 10:30 that night. Blanca and I were walking back from the subway after our night classes at Hunter, commiserating about how much work we both had. I spotted Sapo’s BMW parked outside the building. Blanca stared at me a little while, then said, “Julio, why? Let’s just go to sleep.” That’s all she said, but I knew I couldn’t get out of it. I had to go. No matter what Blanca would say or how angry she would get, I had to do my part. Fortunately Blanca was in good spirits that night, and when I motioned my head toward the car she just sighed.
“You know, Julio,” she said, “the lease says no pets allowed. So when we move he can’t come over anymore.” She kissed me and told me to get something to eat. I gave her a hug and could smell the shampoo in her hair, something like peaches. I let go, watched her walk inside, and went over to Sapo.
“No fits? Whass the world coming to?” Sapo said as I started to get in his car. “Wait, Chino, can you like take this upstairs.” He handed me a nice fat eight-by-eleven envelope, all taped up. Sapo always taped them up really nice and tight, because that way he’d know if someone messed around with his stuff. I took no offense. I knew he trusted me. I ran the envelope upstairs, into the kitchen and slid it to the bottom of a giant-size half-empty Apple Jacks cereal box. Blanca saw me and just shook her head but didn’t say a word.
“Hey, who said that cereal prizes have gotten cheap?” I said, walking over to where Blanca sat on the sofa. “Junkie Flakes, they’re grrrrreat!” I even did the tiger imitation.
“It’s not funny, Julio.” She carefully got up, and walked into the bathroom. “Try not to be home too late,” she said, closing the bathroom door.
“All right, Blanca,” I said to the shut door. I put the box on top of the fridge and went back downstairs.
“Thanks, bro,” Sapo said, opening the car door for me. “You know, I got some girls comin’ and I can’t have that shit around. The girls I’m having ovah are born thieves. They can steal the nails from Jesus Christ and still leave ’im hangin’.”
“Where’s Bodega tonight?”
“Taino Towers. Fortieth floor. Got the best view in the neighborhood.” And we took off.
•
THE TAINO Towers on 124th and Third took up an entire city block. There were four towers, one on each corner. Four towers of cheap, ugly white concrete. Forty floors of cheap windows and a lobby with a guard who slept most of the night. At the base of each tower were businesses ranging from supermarkets to dental offices. I hate towers. The taller the building, the more people you place on top of one another, the higher the crime rate. They’re mammoth filing cabinets of human lives, like bees in a honeycomb, crowded and angry at paying rent for boxes that resemble prison cells.
Bodega rented an apartment on the top floor of the tower facing the East River, mostly for the view—he had enough other places to live in. When Sapo and I arrived downstairs the guard didn’t ask who we were visiting. “I’m not a doorman,” he sneered. We took the elevator up, and knocked on 40B. Nene opened the door.
“Hey, Sapo and Chino. Whass up, like I want to take you higher.” He let us in.
“Tell yo’r cus Chino is here,” Sapo said.
“Oh, man. Wait, like, Nazario is with him. They been talkin’ for a long time.”
“ ’Bout wha’?”
“I don’t know, Sapo. You can wait for him, but …”
“Anythin’ else you know?”
“They keep mentionin’ this guy Alberto Salazar.”
“Who’s that?”
“I don’t know, Sapo. I just know it’s bad. There’s somethin’ happenin’ here, what it is ain’t exactly clear.” Just then Bodega and Nazario stepped into the living room.
And that’s when I first met Nazario, or better yet, when I realized who he was. I had never spoken to him or even known his name, but I’d seen Nazario’s face a few times around the neighborhood. He was a tall, confident man in his forties who walked the streets wearing expensive suits and alligator shoes but was never mugged. Now I knew why. It was Nazario who represented Bodega around the neighborhood. Nazario, with his clean-shaven face and the good looks of someone who never in his life has been in a street fight, went around spreading favors for Bodega.
“And he didn’t take the money?” Bodega was asking Nazario.
“No, he looks like a good man. Just doing his job. I don’t know, Willie, this could be bad.”
When Bodega saw me he started to smile. But then his lips froze when Nazario said, “Willie, esto está serio. This guy has something.” Bodega walked over and introduced me.
“This is Julio,” he said to Nazario. “He’s in college.”
“Under our program?” Nazario asked Bodega. Bodega shook his head no. I didn’t know what Nazario meant at the time, but later I would. Still, Nazario looked happy. “That’s great!” he said as if it was the best news he had heard all day. “When do you graduate?”
“Next year,” I said.
“Good. That’s one more professional in East Harlem. Soon,” he said, smiling at me, “we’ll have an army of them. An entire professional class in East Harlem and no one will be able to take this neighborhood away from us.”
“Sounds good,” I said, thinking to myself that these guys talked a lot of dreams. But soon enough, I’d start to believe in them too.
“Sapo,” Nazario said, walking past me but stopping a moment to pat my shoulder on the way as if to say, good job, “Sapo, we have to talk.” Nazario and Sapo walked out of the apartment and into the hallway. Bodega drew me into the kitchen.
“You drink beer, right?”
“Yeah.”
He opened the fridge and handed me one. “When you moving?”
“I haven’t talked it over with my wife yet, but soon.”
“That’s good. Listen, you have anythin’ for me?” He sounded embarrassed. “I don’t want you to think,” he said, looking at the floor, avoiding eye contact, “that I didn’t mean what I said a few days back. That I’m some weak fuck who—”
I cut him off. “Hey, it’s cool. Say no more. Look, Vera is coming to New York.”
His body quickly straightened up. “You spoke to her, Chino?” He was like a kid. He pulled up a chair and sat in front of me.
“I haven’t spoken to her, but I know she’s coming next week. Her old school. P.S. 72, you know, on 104th and Lex, is naming the auditorium after her. So you can speak to her then.”
“Will she be comin’ alone? Did she sound happy?”
“I didn’t speak to her, bro,” I said, but it was as if he hadn’t heard me at all. Bodega kept asking me questions and for a minute there I thought he was going to ask me what he should wear. Then Nazario walked back inside alone. He saw Bodega’s face, saw it wasn’t the same person.
“What’s with you?”
“Not’en’,” Bodega said.
“Sapo’s waiting.”
“Tell him to go home.”
“What! No, Willie, this is serious.”
“Tell Sapo to go home,” Bodega repeated.
“Willie, come to the other room.” Nazario beckoned with his hand for Bodega to join him so they could talk in private. Like usual, I took no offense. The less you know the less trouble you’ll get into.
“Nah, Chino is good people,” Bodega said, letting Nazario know that I could stay.
“It was good meeting you.” Nazario didn’t care. He extended his hand toward me and smiled that cold smile. “Can you excuse us?”
“Sure, and it was nice meeting you, too,” I said. “I got to go anyway.”
“I’ll speak wi’choo soon, all right, Chino? Sapo will get in touch wi’choo and let you know where to meet me, all right?” Bodega said, making triumphant fists in the air as if he had won some showdown fight. I nodded and walked to the door. Nene was sitting on the sofa listening to the radio. He got up and opened the door for me. I could hear Bodega and Nazario in the other room arguing and, sure enough, the name Alberto Salazar kept coming up.
Nene was waiting for me at the door.
“Man, you must be doing some serious work for my cus. He calls you a lot. Me, you know I’m just Nene. No one listens to me, you know, but I function anyway. And sometimes I say dumb things, you know, b’cause I’m Nene. Things that you know people don’t get, but I know you get them, right, Chino?”
“Yeah, I get them,” I said, because I didn’t want to leave him hanging.
“I know I ain’t all that bright. I don’t know much about history, don’t know much biology, but Chino, I know my radio, you know. Ask me, ask me anything anythin’ ’bout my music.”
“All right,” I said as I walked to the door, “Who sang ‘Everybody Was Kung Fu Fighting’?”
“Those cats were fast as lightning, huh! Here comes the big boss.” Nene sang a line and then answered me, “Thass kids’ stuff, Chino, that guy Carl Douglas. A one-hit-wonda type of guy.” Nene put out his palm and I gave him five and walked out the door. Out in the hallway I waited for the elevator and Nene stuck his babyface and body-of-a-bear out the door. “Chino, you all right, bro, you ain’t heavy, you’re my brother.” I smiled back at him again and took the elevator down.
I looked for Sapo’s car that night but didn’t see it. That was okay, because it was a hot spring night and El Barrio had turned into a maraca and all the people had come out transformed as seeds. Like all ghettos, Spanish Harlem looks better in the dark when everything broken and dirty is hidden by darkness and the moonlight makes everything else glow like pearls. That night the people were jamming, shaking, moving. Hydrants were opened, women were dancing to salsa blaring from a boom box on the cement. They danced with one eye on their partner and one eye on their children playing hopscotch, scullies with bottle caps, or skipping rope. Teenage girls in tight jeans flirted with guys who showed them their jewelry and tattoos. Old men played dominoes as they drank Budweisers wrapped in brown bags. I walked home happy. I even said hello to a rat that crossed my path, running from one garbage heap to another. “Hey, dusty guy. Where you going, eh?” I said when it poked its head from a plastic bag. I was happy. I was keeping my part of the deal. At the time, I didn’t care about this Salazar. It was almost over for me. All I had to do was take Bodega to Vera and I was gone. Once I’d done that, I could continue my life with Blanca in total clarity. We’d be living in a better place, clean and newly renovated. More important, I’d be able to talk to my wife again without hiding anything between parentheses.