Guzman.
A man with a thick Hispanic accent answered, “Hello?”
“Hi, Mr. Guzman, this is Henry Parker from the New York Gazette. Did Jack O’Donnell tell you I’d be calling?”
“ Si. He said a young associate would be getting in touch about an interview. Would that be you?”
“That’s me. Do you mind if I stop by today for a few minutes? It won’t take long.” There was a pause, hesitation.
“I don’t know, Mr. Henry. Today’s not so good. I have an appointment later.”
He was evading the conversation, just like Jack said.
“What time is your appointment?”
“My appointment? It’s, ah, seven o’clock.”
“So you won’t mind if I come at six then.”
I heard mumbling in the background. A woman’s voice said something that sounded like No. Then Luis came back.
“Mr. Henry, I can talk for just a few minutes if you come over at six, but you can’t stay for long. I cannot miss my appointment. Is for the doctor.”
What kind of doctor had appointments at 7:00 p.m.?
“It shouldn’t take long, Mr. Guzman. You’ll have plenty of time.” More mumbling. A door slammed.
“If that’s so, then come on over. My wife and I will be here.”
“Great, see you tonight.”
At a quarter to six I left the office and flagged a cab. As the cabbie zigzagged through traffic, I read the quickie bio Jack had given me.
In 1997, Luis Guzman was arrested for armed robbery after he and an associate named Jose Ramirez Sanchez walked into a Chase branch and pulled two semi-automatics. Sanchez got nervous and shot a clerk. Both men were sent to Sing Sing. Guzman did three years. Ramirez Sanchez was stabbed to death in his cell.
When I arrived at 105th and Broadway, I rang the buzzer, wondering why Luis had seemed so agitated on the phone.
The building didn’t look as if it met the hand of a janitor too often. The floors were dusty and smudged, and the lobby decor consisted of three flower pots whose flowers had come from needlepoint rather than seed. I checked the directory encased behind a dirty pane of glass. The superintendent, Grady Larkin, lived in apartment B1. I jotted this down, just in case.
I rode the elevator to the second floor. The hallway was wallpapered in light green with vertical beige stripes. The doors were gray and most of the hinges looked old and rusted. The light fixtures cast a soft glow. There was a strange quiet in the building like a hospital waiting room, awkward and forced. Walking down the hall I noticed that several doors lacked nameplates and the carpeting in front wasn’t dirty like the others. The apartments were obviously vacant.
I found apartment 2C and knocked once. Before I had a chance to collect myself, the door opened.
“Mr. Parker?”
The man in front of me was big. That was my first thought. Damn this guy is big.
Biceps are a misleading measure of strength. You can tell a person’s true power from their forearms. Luis’s looked like half a dozen ropes had been wound together and then singed.
He was wearing a white undershirt, tucked into a pair of gray suit pants that looked freshly ironed. A small piece of tissue was matted to his chin where he’d cut himself shaving. A thin scar, barely noticeable, ran horizontal over one eyebrow. A prison wound sewed up poorly. His goatee was perfectly groomed, his cheeks smooth and moisturized. He smelled like a botanical garden had thrown up all over him. There was a kindness in Luis Guzman’s eyes, as though all evil thoughts had been sucked completely dry. Then his eyes flickered, and Luis glanced into the hallway. For an instant, I swore there was fear in his eyes. I checked the hallway; it was empty.
A layer of flab had settled like frosting over his midsection. Luis Guzman had probably been well-toned in prison, where months were counted in dumbbell repetitions, but since being released Luis’s appetite had returned.
I eyed his natty attire. Must be an expensive doctor to warrant this kind of dress code.
“Hi, I’m Henry. We spoke before.”
“Yes, so nice to meet you, Mr. Henry.” Suddenly Luis’s hand was gripping mine. Tight. I gritted my teeth and hoped he’d let go before my knuckles were ground into paste. When he eased up I made sure my bones were intact. Luis’s iron grip was effortless, easy as a pat on the back. “And that beautiful mamacita is my wife, Christine. Say hello, baby.”
“Hello, baby,” she said with a sly grin. Christine had honey-colored skin, with long brown hair and deep green eyes. She sat on an overstuffed couch, holding a pair of knitting needles, her hands working fervently on what looked like a baby’s sweater.
“So, Henry,” Luis said, a contemplative look on his face. “Senor O’Donnell tells me you have a few questions about my jail time.” Luis smiled. His teeth were perfectly straight, a little too white for a man who had eaten nothing but prison food for three years. He must have had serious dental work.
“That’s right,” I said.
“Well, come on in, make yourself at home.”
He draped a trunk of an arm around my neck and led me to a freshly varnished pine table. The apartment was tidy, well kept, but it had a sterile cleanliness. There were no photos, no trinkets, no paintings or posters anywhere in sight. Except for Christine’s knitting, it felt more like a place of business than a residence.
Luis pulled a chair out for me as I set up the tape recorder. For a moment he seemed unnerved by its presence, then calmed a bit.
“So, Mr. Henry, what you want to talk about? Let us begin, I have only a few minutes before my appointment.”
“No problem, thanks again for doing this.”
“Oh,” he said, laughing. “I don’t do this for Jack. My parole officer tells me it keeps me respectable looking.”
“Of course.” I clicked the recorder on. “First off, would you state your name and date of birth for the record?”
Luis cleared his throat theatrically.
“My name is Luis Rodrigo Guzman. I was born on July 19th, 1970.”
“Okay, Luis, what’s your most vivid memory of your time in prison?”
Luis sat back in his chair, then suddenly stood up. He went into the kitchen, poured a glass of water. He offered it to me. I politely declined. Taking a long sip, he rested his elbows on the wood and spoke softly.
“That’s a tough one. But I have to say the RTA.”
“RTA?”
“Rehabilitation through the arts. It’s a program they have up in Ossining. They bring in instructors to help us to get in touch with ourselves by being creative. Not in a dirty way.”
I nodded. “Go on.”
“Once a year the inmates, almost all guys in maximum security doing twenty-five-to-life, but a few others thrown into the mix, the RTA helps them put on a play. My first couple years I made fun of the guys who did it, said prison made them into fags.”
I noticed Christine’s gaze harden, her brow furrowed.
“So my last year inside I said what the heck, if I did it I might get points for good behavior. So I auditioned for a Kentucky Williams’s play called The Glass Menagerie. ”
“Tennessee Williams,” I corrected.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing. Go on.”
“So I audition for the part of the ‘Gentleman Caller.’ A week later the director, this big cholo named Willie who’s in for double homicide, tells me I got the part. The gentleman’s real name is Jim O’Connor, but the audience don’t really know him by that. So we’re rehearsing three hours a day, really busting our asses. At first things are kinda jokey, you know, ’cause we have guys playing the part of girls. So in the play, I’m supposed to go out with this
