friends in the department, people with sway, and he fucked with her. He had his friends mess with her schedule and shit. But why are you always bringing Delgado up?”
I hadn’t planned on telling Maya yet, but I had her talking and I didn’t want to risk losing her now.
“I spoke to a guy last night who was offered five thousand dollars by Jorge Delgado to hurt Alta. And by hurt, I don’t mean her feelings. He wanted him to break bones and, if he was so inclined, to kill her.”
Maya’s face went blank, then icy cold. I was surprised the tears didn’t freeze right on her cheeks. “Why you talking to me and not the police?”
“Because the guy I spoke to turned the job down and I can’t prove anything yet. Besides, Delgado is a hero, a dead hero. The time’s not exactly right to go making charges against him, not if I want to be taken seriously.”
“Alta was a hero too,” she screamed in my face.
“I’m afraid the rest of the universe doesn’t quite see her that way.”
“Well, fuck them and fuck you.”
“If I’m wrong, if they’re all wrong, explain it to me. Tell me what happened that day with Tillman. If there’s an explanation, people will understand.”
I felt like I almost had her. She leaned into me, but she just couldn’t cross that line she had drawn for herself. I hammered away at her.
“What is it you’re afraid to let people know? Are you gay too? Were you and Alta lovers? Is that the big secret? Christ, Maya, it’s the twenty-first century. Would it be worse for people to know you’re a lesbian than for them to think you cold-bloodedly let a man drop dead?”
“I’m not gay,” she said, calm as could be. “If I was, I would be proud of it, not ashamed.”
“Then what is it? What’s the big secret? What don’t I understand? What are you so ashamed of?”
“Which way is the subway?”
“That way,” I said. “Right over there: down the boardwalk, along Stillwell to Surf.”
Maya pushed off the rail and started across the wooden planks toward the steps to the street. I kept pace.
“Come on, Maya, what is it? What can be so terrible that you can’t even bear to think about it? Tell me.”
She ignored me and kept on walking. She didn’t run, she didn’t even walk very fast. Finally, at the corner of Stillwell and Surf Avenues, across the street from the subway terminal, Maya stopped and faced me again.
“You know, Moe, I think you’re a good man and that your heart really is in the right place, but you ain’t asking the right questions about the right person. There’s somebody involved in this whole mess that nobody wants to see for who he was, not really. Think about that and stop hounding me. Leave me be.”
By the time my mind snapped back to the moment, Maya Watson was across the street and disappearing through the entrance of the Stillwell Avenue terminal.
TWENTY-EIGHT
I was confused. Wasn’t the first time, wouldn’t be the last. Who the fuck was Maya Watson talking about? No one in this entire mess was innocent. I suppose she might have been talking about Jorge Delgado, but that couldn’t be right. Any fool could see I was already taking a hard look at Delgado and Maya Watson was no fool. Maybe I wasn’t looking hard enough at him to suit her or maybe she didn’t like the fact that Delgado-guilty of Alta’s murder or not-had been beatified in the press. I mean, getting killed while saving the life of a little girl is a kind of permanent baptism. One good act, your last act, and all your sins get washed away. It’s like getting dunked in the cleansing waters and never needing to come up for air. Is that what Maya was referring to? I don’t know, there was something obvious I wasn’t getting. Wouldn’t be the first time for that either.
My cell phone vibrated and chimed in my pocket to remind me I had a voicemail message. I got off the crowded, noisy street and retreated to my car to listen. The car still smelled of Maya Watson’s vaguely sweet perfume. The message was from Detective Fuqua, but I would have recognized his voice even if he hadn’t given his name. He left his cell number and told me it was important to call him back as soon as possible.
“Mr. Prager, it hurts my feelings when you do not pick up my phone calls,” he said. “And it makes me suspicious as well.”
“You sound like a jealous wife, Detective.”
“I suppose.”
“Sorry, but I was busy making arrangements,” I lied. “My daughter is getting married in a few weeks.”
“Really? Fantastique! Mazel tov. You must be on schpilkes, on pins and needles, yes?”
His French I might have expected, but his Yiddish caught me off guard. “Your Yiddish is good, Detective Fuqua. Are there many Haitian Jews?”
“I worked in community relations in the Seven-One. Big Caribbean and Hasidic populations in the neighborhood. I got along very well with the Hasidim. They have great respect for the police.”
“For the law, Detective Fuqua, not the police. Those are two very different things. Jews are naturally suspicious of agents of the state. Long history of persecution at the hands of those agents, don’t you know?”
“Have you ever heard of the Tonton Macoute, Mr. Prager?”
“Papa Doc’s own private little terror squad.”
“Just so. No one need lecture a Haitian on distrust of the police.”
“Fair enough. So you and the Hasidim made nice. That explains your Yiddish, but it doesn’t explain how you knew I was Jewish.”
“Oh, but Mr. Prager, I know many things about you that you might not suspect. We should discuss them over lunch.”
“Maybe tomorrow.”
“That seems like such a waste of time, non? Why wait until tomorrow when you are sitting in your car on Stillwell Avenue at this moment?”
My skin prickled and I felt a solitary bead of sweat roll along my ribs. “How the fuck do you know where I am?”
“Such language, Mr. Prager. As I said, I know many things about you. I am sitting at a table on the other side of Nathan’s with too much food for me to eat myself. Come join me. I do not enjoy dining alone.” He clicked off.
As I walked the two hundred yards from where my car was parked to where Fuqua was sitting, I didn’t waste my time looking for the cops who’d been assigned to follow me. In the big crowds around Nathan’s Famous Hot Dogs on a sunny June day, I could have been there for hours and never found them. When I was on the job, cops pretty much sucked at this sort of thing because they were almost all white males who might as well have had COP stamped across their foreheads. But since 9/11 and since the ranks of the department had opened up to women and every ethnic group you could imagine, things had changed.
“Mr. Prager, come sit,” Detective Fuqua said, standing to greet me with his right hand extended. I shook it with no enthusiasm and sat across from him. “It is a glorious day, is it not?”
“Weather-wise, yeah. Perfect. I love days like this in Coney Island.”
“Yes, perfect for a stroll with a beautiful woman like Maya Watson.”
“Get to the point, Detective.”
“Was Miss Watson any more forthcoming than she had been? Did she say anything helpful?”
I stifled a laugh.
Fuqua was confused. “Something is funny?”
“In a way. All I managed to do was to piss her off enough to take the train back to Queens.”
“That is unfortunate. Please, I forget my manners, take a hot dog.”
“I’m suddenly not very hungry,” I said.
“Some fries, then, at least. I adore Nathan’s fries. They are most unique in flavor.”
“I hear it’s because they use some corn oil in the deep fryer, but who knows?”
“Indeed, who knows? It is the flavor which matters.”
