with it, do you?"
"No, but maybe we should put
our heads together and see about violating both of these guys. We could call
the local precinct."
"Whoa, boy," Lloyd says,
putting a hand on my shoulder like he's trying to calm a bucking bronco.
"We can't do that."
"Why not?"
Lloyd stands slowly and turns up
his hands. "It's just word on the street, man. It's just smoke. Might not
even be true. No one reported nobody starting no fire. It's just people
talking. I just thought you might want to know about it."
"So what am I supposed to do,
Lloyd?" I ask.
Lloyd shrugs and checks his hair in
the mirror behind the counter. "Ours is not to reason why," he tells
me. "Besides, all this might be bullshit. Your boy Darryl may be a Boy
Scout after all. He wouldn't be the first black youth who got pegged wrong by
the system." He's smiling uneasily.
I'm about to say something else to
him when somebody starts poking me in the back with a sharp finger.
I whirl around and see it's Tommy
Markham. His eyes are moist and he's licking his lips. "I thoughta
somebody," he's saying. "I thought about what you asked and I
thoughta somebody, y'know."
"Somebody who you helped?"
"Yeah, yeah." Tommy
closes his eyes and rocks from side to side. "You asked if I ever changed
somebody's life and I thought of a guy."
"Who?"
"Augusto Ramirez."
"Augusto Ramirez?" The
name sounds familiar, but I can't quite place it. "What did he do?"
"Ah, he was in a mess of
trouble. Y'know. I helped him plenty, Steve. I tell you. I got him a job, and a
place to live, and I even introduced him to his wife. He's doing great now. He
writes to me all the time."
"That's great, Tommy."
I'm still not sure where I heard the name Ramirez before. But Tommy is smiling
and his head is bobbing up and down again as he limps to the bathroom. I don't
want to break his mood by questioning him too closely. I pick up my beer and
cheesecake and start to walk back to the booth where we'd been sitting.
Along the way, I step directly into
Jack Pirone's path. "Hey, Jack, I got a question. You ever hear of
somebody named Augusto Ramirez?"
Jack snorts and smiles cynically.
"Of course. What do you want to know about him?"
"Who was he? I asked Tommy to
name one guy he'd ever really helped in his career and he said this guy
Ramirez. And I can't think of why I'd heard that name before."
"That guy was a
cop-killer," Jack says with a sigh. "He was Tommy's client a few
years ago and Tommy got him out of jail and the guy walked up to some cop in
the street and blew his fuckin' head off." He shrugs. "Fuckin' Tommy
never could keep anything straight."
15
Just before midnight a stumpy woman with a microphone stood at the base
of 1 Times Square on Forty-second Street .
The headline parade of the day's news stories revolved on the brightly lit
"zipper" sign over her head.
"Brothers and sisters,"
she said. "You don't have to go to hell."
A tall man wearing a short sequined
dress, high heels, and a blond wig paused to stare at her.
Richard Silver, driving a navy blue
Audi across town, was stopped at the nearest red light. He rolled down his
window to watch the scene that was unfolding across the street on his left.
"Homosexuals," he said. "Another thing I don't understand."
Jessica Riley, sitting beside him
in a Tiffany necklace and a short black Galanos dress worth five thousand
dollars, said nothing. In the backseat, his son, Leonard, wiped his nose with
his shirt sleeve.
"I mean, how could you allow
such a thing to be done to you?" Richard Silver said without taking his
eyes off the man in the sequined dress. "It's humiliating, some of the
things they do."
"Well, I don't think you'd
have much choice if you were in prison," Jessica said pointedly. "You
know, some people go to prison when they do bad things, Richard."
"Thank you for saying that in
front of my son," Richard Silver told her.
Leonard wasn't listening anyway. He
was too busy pressing his nose against the back window,
"No, but maybe we should put
our heads together and see about violating both of these guys. We could call
the local precinct."
"Whoa, boy," Lloyd says,
putting a hand on my shoulder like he's trying to calm a bucking bronco.
"We can't do that."
"Why not?"
Lloyd stands slowly and turns up
his hands. "It's just word on the street, man. It's just smoke. Might not
even be true. No one reported nobody starting no fire. It's just people
talking. I just thought you might want to know about it."
"So what am I supposed to do,
Lloyd?" I ask.
Lloyd shrugs and checks his hair in
the mirror behind the counter. "Ours is not to reason why," he tells
me. "Besides, all this might be bullshit. Your boy Darryl may be a Boy
Scout after all. He wouldn't be the first black youth who got pegged wrong by
the system." He's smiling uneasily.
I'm about to say something else to
him when somebody starts poking me in the back with a sharp finger.
I whirl around and see it's Tommy
Markham. His eyes are moist and he's licking his lips. "I thoughta
somebody," he's saying. "I thought about what you asked and I
thoughta somebody, y'know."
"Somebody who you helped?"
"Yeah, yeah." Tommy
closes his eyes and rocks from side to side. "You asked if I ever changed
somebody's life and I thought of a guy."
"Who?"
"Augusto Ramirez."
"Augusto Ramirez?" The
name sounds familiar, but I can't quite place it. "What did he do?"
"Ah, he was in a mess of
trouble. Y'know. I helped him plenty, Steve. I tell you. I got him a job, and a
place to live, and I even introduced him to his wife. He's doing great now. He
writes to me all the time."
"That's great, Tommy."
I'm still not sure where I heard the name Ramirez before. But Tommy is smiling
and his head is bobbing up and down again as he limps to the bathroom. I don't
want to break his mood by questioning him too closely. I pick up my beer and
cheesecake and start to walk back to the booth where we'd been sitting.
Along the way, I step directly into
Jack Pirone's path. "Hey, Jack, I got a question. You ever hear of
somebody named Augusto Ramirez?"
Jack snorts and smiles cynically.
"Of course. What do you want to know about him?"
"Who was he? I asked Tommy to
name one guy he'd ever really helped in his career and he said this guy
Ramirez. And I can't think of why I'd heard that name before."
"That guy was a
cop-killer," Jack says with a sigh. "He was Tommy's client a few
years ago and Tommy got him out of jail and the guy walked up to some cop in
the street and blew his fuckin' head off." He shrugs. "Fuckin' Tommy
never could keep anything straight."
15
Just before midnight a stumpy woman with a microphone stood at the base
of 1 Times Square on Forty-second Street .
The headline parade of the day's news stories revolved on the brightly lit
"zipper" sign over her head.
"Brothers and sisters,"
she said. "You don't have to go to hell."
A tall man wearing a short sequined
dress, high heels, and a blond wig paused to stare at her.
Richard Silver, driving a navy blue
Audi across town, was stopped at the nearest red light. He rolled down his
window to watch the scene that was unfolding across the street on his left.
"Homosexuals," he said. "Another thing I don't understand."
Jessica Riley, sitting beside him
in a Tiffany necklace and a short black Galanos dress worth five thousand
dollars, said nothing. In the backseat, his son, Leonard, wiped his nose with
his shirt sleeve.
"I mean, how could you allow
such a thing to be done to you?" Richard Silver said without taking his
eyes off the man in the sequined dress. "It's humiliating, some of the
things they do."
"Well, I don't think you'd
have much choice if you were in prison," Jessica said pointedly. "You
know, some people go to prison when they do bad things, Richard."
"Thank you for saying that in
front of my son," Richard Silver told her.
Leonard wasn't listening anyway. He
was too busy pressing his nose against the back window,
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