pretty surly back then, too. The both of you. But look at you now, a real man who doesn’t forget his family.”
“Family’s everything.”
“I can’t even get my own children to visit me, but you come by like clockwork.”
Of course he did. Pauline had taken him in for three years, right after the slow-motion massacre had come to an end, the move from the Bronx to her home in Brooklyn most likely saving his life.
He drew a breath before shifting gears. “Aunt Pauline, when you would come and visit us back then, do you remember a girl in our building, Carmen? Puerto Rican, about fifteen years old?”
“Carmen?”
“Maybe spent time with Little—with Rudy?”
“Carmen . . .”
“Skinny, big eyes, long hair.”
“Wait, Carmen. From downstairs. Her mother was Dolores.”
“Right. Did you ever see her with Rudy?”
“Dolores?”
“Carmen.”
“What, like together?”
“Like anything, holding hands, making out, arguing maybe.”
“Dolores had a son too, Willy? William?”
“Victor. But let’s stick with Carmen.”
“He was supposed to be a little, you know, that way, the boy, not that it bothered me.”
“Aunt Pauline,” Milton said, waving his hand. “Carmen. Did you ever see her with Rudy.”
“I can’t remember.”
“Think hard.”
“I wish I could.”
“No problem.” It was a long shot anyhow.
“Why are you asking about Carmen all of a sudden?”
“Nothing.” Milton shrugged, trying to keep his voice as casual as he could. “I thought I maybe saw her. It was probably somebody else.”
But was it really her? Oh yeah, you bet. How could he ever forget those tea-stained big eyes, pulled down sad at the corners like the eyes of the lost and burning girls on the Anima Sola postcards that used to turn him on when he was a kid. He’d even had a crush on her for a hot minute when her family had first moved into the building, a sense memory so galling and torturous to him now that it made him want to rip out his brain.
He glanced at the sunburst clock over Pauline’s head: two-thirty, teatime. He went to the refrigerator and poured her a brimming glass from the half gallon of Gallo Family Zinfandel she kept in there.
“Seventy-four years old, I’m finally an alkie,” she said, her standard line whenever he did the honors.
“You’ll live.”
“Why did you and your brother always call Rudy Little Man?”
“Because everybody else in the family topped out at five-eight, then Rudy gets born and he’s all of a sudden six-three.”
“I don’t get it.”
His eyes turned dull as nickels.
“Whatever happened to Dolores?” Pauline asked.
“I heard she got cancer,” Milton said, “about two years after the . . .”
After the what: tragedy? He hated that word, it reeked of, what . . . Fate? Inevitability? Bullshit. Tears and a turn for home? Fuck you. Surrender to the mysteriousness of the Great Mysterian?
Surrender; what can ya do.
Plenty.
“And they never found those bastards who killed him,” she said.
“No, they didn’t, Tante Pauline.” Milton rising, this time to leave. “And they never will.”
Chapter 4
By the time Billy arrived at the scene of a double shooting on the Lower East Side directly across the street from the Alfred E. Smith Houses, both victims, conscious and looking more pissed than traumatized, were being gurneyed into separate ambos as a mixed crowd of club kids and born-heres took snaps with their iPhones.
“Anybody looking to go out of the picture?” he asked Stupak.
“Doubt it. They were both howling pretty good before you got here.”
“Anything on the shooter?”
“You’re looking at them,” Mayo said.
“Which?”
“Both.”
“Yeah?”
“It looks like they were walking from opposite ends of Oliver,” Stupak said, “and decided to jack each other at the same time. It’s all on camera and we recovered the guns.”
“Spy versus Spy, except they’re both black,” Mayo said, then, having filled
“Family’s everything.”
“I can’t even get my own children to visit me, but you come by like clockwork.”
Of course he did. Pauline had taken him in for three years, right after the slow-motion massacre had come to an end, the move from the Bronx to her home in Brooklyn most likely saving his life.
He drew a breath before shifting gears. “Aunt Pauline, when you would come and visit us back then, do you remember a girl in our building, Carmen? Puerto Rican, about fifteen years old?”
“Carmen?”
“Maybe spent time with Little—with Rudy?”
“Carmen . . .”
“Skinny, big eyes, long hair.”
“Wait, Carmen. From downstairs. Her mother was Dolores.”
“Right. Did you ever see her with Rudy?”
“Dolores?”
“Carmen.”
“What, like together?”
“Like anything, holding hands, making out, arguing maybe.”
“Dolores had a son too, Willy? William?”
“Victor. But let’s stick with Carmen.”
“He was supposed to be a little, you know, that way, the boy, not that it bothered me.”
“Aunt Pauline,” Milton said, waving his hand. “Carmen. Did you ever see her with Rudy.”
“I can’t remember.”
“Think hard.”
“I wish I could.”
“No problem.” It was a long shot anyhow.
“Why are you asking about Carmen all of a sudden?”
“Nothing.” Milton shrugged, trying to keep his voice as casual as he could. “I thought I maybe saw her. It was probably somebody else.”
But was it really her? Oh yeah, you bet. How could he ever forget those tea-stained big eyes, pulled down sad at the corners like the eyes of the lost and burning girls on the Anima Sola postcards that used to turn him on when he was a kid. He’d even had a crush on her for a hot minute when her family had first moved into the building, a sense memory so galling and torturous to him now that it made him want to rip out his brain.
He glanced at the sunburst clock over Pauline’s head: two-thirty, teatime. He went to the refrigerator and poured her a brimming glass from the half gallon of Gallo Family Zinfandel she kept in there.
“Seventy-four years old, I’m finally an alkie,” she said, her standard line whenever he did the honors.
“You’ll live.”
“Why did you and your brother always call Rudy Little Man?”
“Because everybody else in the family topped out at five-eight, then Rudy gets born and he’s all of a sudden six-three.”
“I don’t get it.”
His eyes turned dull as nickels.
“Whatever happened to Dolores?” Pauline asked.
“I heard she got cancer,” Milton said, “about two years after the . . .”
After the what: tragedy? He hated that word, it reeked of, what . . . Fate? Inevitability? Bullshit. Tears and a turn for home? Fuck you. Surrender to the mysteriousness of the Great Mysterian?
Surrender; what can ya do.
Plenty.
“And they never found those bastards who killed him,” she said.
“No, they didn’t, Tante Pauline.” Milton rising, this time to leave. “And they never will.”
Chapter 4
By the time Billy arrived at the scene of a double shooting on the Lower East Side directly across the street from the Alfred E. Smith Houses, both victims, conscious and looking more pissed than traumatized, were being gurneyed into separate ambos as a mixed crowd of club kids and born-heres took snaps with their iPhones.
“Anybody looking to go out of the picture?” he asked Stupak.
“Doubt it. They were both howling pretty good before you got here.”
“Anything on the shooter?”
“You’re looking at them,” Mayo said.
“Which?”
“Both.”
“Yeah?”
“It looks like they were walking from opposite ends of Oliver,” Stupak said, “and decided to jack each other at the same time. It’s all on camera and we recovered the guns.”
“Spy versus Spy, except they’re both black,” Mayo said, then, having filled
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