least six months old. There was a bumper bar up in Manhattan north, a place where Marielitos with “ madre ” tattooed on their hands could meet.
The bar was in Inwood, under the elevated tracks. He rode up there with Harrington, his rat who’d brought Fay Abruzzi home from the Rockaways. Harrington’s was the one limousine service Holden ever used. Harrington had been a friend of Holden’s dad. They’d met in the Tombs.
Harrington kept peering under the el. He had a liver problem. He was gaunt and his face had gone yellow. Holden’s contributions to the limousine service kept him alive. But it wasn’t charity. Even with his yellow face, Harrington was the best chauffeur in town.
“Keep driving,” Holden said. “I don’t want the Mariels to see you.”
“But you might need a good getaway car.”
“I’ll walk out of this, thanks.”
“Holden, you’re as stubborn as your dad,” Harrington said, and he took off in his limousine.
Holden stood under the tracks. The bar had a shamrock in the window from its glory days when all of Inwood was a huge Irish football field. The bar was called County Clare, and the Marielitos hadn’t bothered to remove the name. Holden walked inside with his turquoise ensemble. He didn’t have prickles at the back of his neck. The only man he’d ever been afraid of was his dad. He’d tremble slightly in Holden Sr.’s presence. His dad was like a cold desert where the wind rattled your skull. Holden couldn’t even say what pleased his dad after living with him seventeen years. Holden moved out before his eighteenth birthday. He’d already bumped a man for the Swiss and didn’t feel much remorse. Bumping people was like visiting with Holden Sr.
He entered County Clare. The bumpers didn’t stop talking. They hardly noticed he was alive. But he knew he’d come to Changó’s house. Several of the bumpers wore collares of red and white beads. They had eyeglasses with one dark and one light lens.
Their neckerchiefs were blood red, the color Changó adored. They wore a brown shoe on their right foot, black on the left. One man sat at the bar in a red dress. He must have been the priest of the place. Holden sat down next to him and ordered a café cubano and a cream cheese custard.
“Hombre,” he said to the man in the red dress. “I’d like to meet Huevo.”
“Who wouldn’t?” the man said.
“He’s been sending me ticklers ... a rooster without a head.”
“That’s unfortunate, but Huevo doesn’t live here.”
“I can pay good money,” Holden said.
“Don’t insult us, señor. We know who you are. The paradise man. Finish your custard and get out.”
Holden looked past the man in the red dress and into all those eyeglasses with the one black lens, and he didn’t argue.
The barman wouldn’t take his money.
“Adiós,” he said. The bumpers didn’t answer.
A jíbaro followed him out the door. He had a black coat that was stitched to a brown sleeve. Goldie would have liked this guy. “Hey, Holden,” he said.
“Can you help me?”
“Not here, for Christ’s sake.”
The jíbaro led him away from the tracks and showed him a detective’s shield. “I’m Nunco. I work out of the Four-one.” An undercover dick from Fort Apache. Holden expected Paul Newman to pop out from behind Nunco’s black lens.
“You have a lot of cojones to come in here and ask for Huevo. It’s lucky they knew you. This is Don Edmundo’s bar. The men are loyal to La Familia. They didn’t leap when Huevo leapt. These Mariels hate that son of a bitch and are scared to death.”
“Do they figure you’re Changó with a brown sleeve?”
“Get outa here,” Nunco said. “The Bandidos made me years ago. They tolerate my ass. They used to be afraid of cops ... no more. They thought every cop was a jailer. But they’re not afraid of our jails. They’ve been to Rikers. They call it the Ramada Inn. Sometimes they talk to me like I really was a Bandido. That’s how
The bar was in Inwood, under the elevated tracks. He rode up there with Harrington, his rat who’d brought Fay Abruzzi home from the Rockaways. Harrington’s was the one limousine service Holden ever used. Harrington had been a friend of Holden’s dad. They’d met in the Tombs.
Harrington kept peering under the el. He had a liver problem. He was gaunt and his face had gone yellow. Holden’s contributions to the limousine service kept him alive. But it wasn’t charity. Even with his yellow face, Harrington was the best chauffeur in town.
“Keep driving,” Holden said. “I don’t want the Mariels to see you.”
“But you might need a good getaway car.”
“I’ll walk out of this, thanks.”
“Holden, you’re as stubborn as your dad,” Harrington said, and he took off in his limousine.
Holden stood under the tracks. The bar had a shamrock in the window from its glory days when all of Inwood was a huge Irish football field. The bar was called County Clare, and the Marielitos hadn’t bothered to remove the name. Holden walked inside with his turquoise ensemble. He didn’t have prickles at the back of his neck. The only man he’d ever been afraid of was his dad. He’d tremble slightly in Holden Sr.’s presence. His dad was like a cold desert where the wind rattled your skull. Holden couldn’t even say what pleased his dad after living with him seventeen years. Holden moved out before his eighteenth birthday. He’d already bumped a man for the Swiss and didn’t feel much remorse. Bumping people was like visiting with Holden Sr.
He entered County Clare. The bumpers didn’t stop talking. They hardly noticed he was alive. But he knew he’d come to Changó’s house. Several of the bumpers wore collares of red and white beads. They had eyeglasses with one dark and one light lens.
Their neckerchiefs were blood red, the color Changó adored. They wore a brown shoe on their right foot, black on the left. One man sat at the bar in a red dress. He must have been the priest of the place. Holden sat down next to him and ordered a café cubano and a cream cheese custard.
“Hombre,” he said to the man in the red dress. “I’d like to meet Huevo.”
“Who wouldn’t?” the man said.
“He’s been sending me ticklers ... a rooster without a head.”
“That’s unfortunate, but Huevo doesn’t live here.”
“I can pay good money,” Holden said.
“Don’t insult us, señor. We know who you are. The paradise man. Finish your custard and get out.”
Holden looked past the man in the red dress and into all those eyeglasses with the one black lens, and he didn’t argue.
The barman wouldn’t take his money.
“Adiós,” he said. The bumpers didn’t answer.
A jíbaro followed him out the door. He had a black coat that was stitched to a brown sleeve. Goldie would have liked this guy. “Hey, Holden,” he said.
“Can you help me?”
“Not here, for Christ’s sake.”
The jíbaro led him away from the tracks and showed him a detective’s shield. “I’m Nunco. I work out of the Four-one.” An undercover dick from Fort Apache. Holden expected Paul Newman to pop out from behind Nunco’s black lens.
“You have a lot of cojones to come in here and ask for Huevo. It’s lucky they knew you. This is Don Edmundo’s bar. The men are loyal to La Familia. They didn’t leap when Huevo leapt. These Mariels hate that son of a bitch and are scared to death.”
“Do they figure you’re Changó with a brown sleeve?”
“Get outa here,” Nunco said. “The Bandidos made me years ago. They tolerate my ass. They used to be afraid of cops ... no more. They thought every cop was a jailer. But they’re not afraid of our jails. They’ve been to Rikers. They call it the Ramada Inn. Sometimes they talk to me like I really was a Bandido. That’s how
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