“Hey, Joe, what kind of work you got for us?”
Miguel glared at Paco. Serpe guessed this must have been a breach of day laborer etiquette. You don’t want to scare off the man paying your way by making him think you were picky or couldn’t do certain kinds of jobs.
“To tell you the truth guys, I just wanna talk,” Joe confessed, peeling off two one hundred dollar bills, but not handing them over.
“Talk?” Paco was curious, never taking his eyes off Joe’s money.
“I’m a writer,” Joe lied. “I’m interested in what your lives are like, where you came from, what-”
“Work,” Miguel interrupted, “not talk.”
Paco ignored Miguel. “Talk about what?”
“Look, in this country we all came from other countries, right?” Joe leaned across the table as if he were sharing secrets. “When my people came over from Naples, there were men here who took advantage of them. That’s what I’m interested in. The men who take advantage of you guys, the gangs like the MSS and the Lobos.”
Miguel, distracted and disinterested up to that point, nearly snapped his neck at the mention of the gangs. He stood up and fairly ran out the door. Joe made an attempt to go after him, but Paco waved him off.
“Let him go, Joe. He was no good to you, anyway. He probably spoke five words of English and four of them were work.”
“You seem to have no problem with English, Paco. Where you from?”
“I was born in Mexico City, but I grew up in East L.A.”
Joe was suspicious. “L.A., huh? Why come out here and break your back to make the same money you could in California?”
“I like the change of seasons.”
“A comedian.”
“No comedian, but I got my reasons.”
“Like?”
“That’s my business, Holmes.”
“Holmes?”
“Yeah, like Sherlock. C’mon, man, you’re a writer like I’m Oscar de la Hoya. You got cop written all over you, but you got working hands. So what’s your deal?”
“That’s my business, Paco.”
“That’s fair. What you need to know?”
“This Reyes kid that was murdered last week, did you know him?”
“A little,” Paco said, his eager expression unchanged.
“A little?”
“We didn’t live together or hang together, but we worked some landscaping jobs a few months back, clearing leaves and shit. We drank at the same place sometimes.”
“He was nineteen and I don’t figure you’re much older. Where’d you guys drink?”
“We’re here illegally, Joe, you think anyone’s going to bust our cojones about underage drinking? Anyways, you never see white faces where we hang, not even cops.”
“And where’s it you hang?”
“A little shithole on Portion Road in Ronkonkoma called Iguana.”
Joe knew the place. He drove by it all the time. It was a bar/restaurant in a near-deserted strip mall two minutes from his apartment. There was a hand-painted sign above the threshold and there never seemed to be any cars in the parking lot.
“That’s the place,” Paco confirmed. “You should check it out sometime. The food is authentic and the beer is cold. On Friday and Saturday nights they have shows.”
“Shows?”
“It’s hard to explain. Just come and see.”
“So about Reyes, you knew him a little. Rumor is he was trying to get into the MexSal Saints. Was he?”
Paco rubbed his hand across his cheek as he considered. “Maybe. He was lost here, lonely. He was a country boy from El Salvador. For me it is easier than for most of these men. I’m more American than Mexican. You can’t understand how foreign this world is to them.”
“Was Reyes a tough kid?”
“Depends what you mean by tough. To do what we do, to live like we live, you have to be tough. Was he tough tough, violent, I don’t think so. But, like I say, I don’t know him so well.”
“Was he strong?”
“Not very strong, no,” Paco said without hesitation. “He worked hard, but he wasn’t so strong. Why you interested?”
Joe slid one of the hundred dollar bills across the table to Paco. “That’s still my business, okay?”
“Okay, jefe.”
“Can you do some checking around for me, act as a translator if I need one? I’d like to meet his roommates, his buddies, find out as much about him as I can.”
“As long as the pay is good, I’ll check around. But how will I get in touch with you?”
“Here are my numbers,” Joe said, scribbling them out on a napkin. “Call me any time. Any time!”
“I got it, Joe.”
The waitress brought their eggs, Paco eyeing Miguel’s unspoken for platter. Joe noticed, but didn’t say a word.
Bob Healy had slept well, maybe better than he had since burying Mary, but as he closed the morning paper, his coffee turned sour in his mouth. Maybe, he thought, his newfound comfort had come a bit prematurely. There was plenty of mention of the Knicks new President of Operations, Isiah Thomas. The names Bush, Rumsfeld, and Wolfowitz got lots of play. Yet no matter how many times he went through the paper, Healy could find no mention of Jean Michel Toussant. Unlike Serpe, Healy was unnerved by this.
Healy dialed the D.A.’s office. George was in, but didn’t give his big brother any reason for optimism. As far as he knew, the Suffolk cops didn’t have Toussant, nor did Nassau’s finest. There was a chance that the state police might have him, maybe even the park police. He’d have to check.
“Gimme an hour.”
Bob Healy didn’t like having to wait, but he had no other options. A man with all the time in the world hates waiting most of all.
Joe dialed Marla’s cell phone. They hadn’t spoken since Tuesday. Marla was right in her assessment of him. Several times during the week, he had considered canceling their date, pushing her away. But somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. The thought of her made him a little lightheaded. She didn’t pick up. He left a message:
“How about Mexican food and a show? Call me. By the way, I’ve got a surprise for you, sort of.”
Saturday Evening,February 28th, 2004
NELSON
I guana was both more and less than what Joe had expected. It was clean, but its decor was a mishmash of the failed restaurants that had come before it. There were red and gold Chinese lamps, murals of Venice canals, steer horns from a short-lived steak house and one blue and white wall that was painted with the Greek flag. The current owners had obscured the flag with travel posters of Mexico, El Salvador, Guatemala, Honduras, and Panama. Flags from these countries adorned the back wall of the bar, which, in its fake bamboo glory, looked like a refugee from a beachfront Tiki hut.
The food, as Paco had promised, was authentic and hearty. Marla’s chicken in mole was amazing-the chicken moist and the chocolate pepper sauce paradoxically fiery and sweet. Joe’s beef and cheese enchiladas were delicious. The mysterious red sauce in which they were baked was nothing like he’d ever tasted before. The start of the evening had been a bit bumpy as the hostess didn’t know quite what to make of them. She sort of stared at Joe
