Chapter 86
Rodriguez watched his old life sliding past the cab window. Freshly scrubbed new builds on patches of former wasteland and sand-blasted brownstone tenements for people who couldn’t afford Manhattan, or even Brooklyn, so had to settle for the South Bronx. The closer they got to the 16th District, it all started looking more familiar. New money still hadn’t reached these parts yet, leastways not the sort that showed up on tax returns, and by the time the cab reached Hunts Point, it was like he’d never been away.
The driver pulled over on Garrison Avenue and twisted in his seat. ‘Far as I go, my friend,’ he said from behind his pitted Perspex cage. They were still three blocks from the address JJ had given him. Rodriguez said nothing, just paid the guy, got out and started to walk.
The ’hood may have stayed the same, but in the years he’d been away Rodriguez had become something else. Last time he’d been here his life had been shadowed by fear and suspicion. Now he stood in the warmth of God’s light. He could feel it on his back as he strode down the polluted streets. Others sensed it too; he saw it in the way they looked at him. Even the dealers on the corners and the crack-whores didn’t hassle him. He’d become like the guys he used to cross the street to avoid. A man with a purpose. Confident. Fearless. Dangerous.
He passed a stripped-out car parked on cinder blocks and a store with scorch marks blackening the fringes of its steel-shuttered windows. He remembered torching the place himself when he’d lived here. It had been a pizza joint back then. He’d stuffed rags through a cracked window, set light to them and watched from the shadows until a group of guys showed up and doused it. He’d always loved to see stuff burn. Now he’d found a flame that never went out. He could feel its purity inside him, lighting his way in this place of permanent darkness.
The house looked empty, so did the whole street, but he could feel eyes upon him as he walked up the steps. The door opened before he reached it. A kid in a G Star hoodie ducked outside, scoped the street and checked him out. He made no move to let him in. From somewhere behind him, Rodriguez could hear the sound of gunfire.
‘JJ in?’ he said.
‘Let the man pass,’ a voice hollered through the explosions. The kid blinked slowly then stood aside.
Inside it was a different house. The short hallway opened into a room stuffed with brand-new furniture and electronics. A huge aquarium filled one wall and a flat-screen TV the size of a double bed dominated the other. A high-def surround-sound combat game was in full flow. Two guys were welded to the screen, thumbs jabbing away at handsets, triggering CG weapons while their real guns rested alongside an ashtray and a crack pipe. One of them glanced up fleetingly then returned his attention to the virtual warzone.
‘Gilly Rodriguez!’ he shouted through the carnage. ‘Look at you, mon, all beardy. Look like Jesus in a parka.’ He laughed at his own joke.
Rodriguez just smiled, sizing up his old friend and seeing a shadow of what he might have become. JJ had lost about thirty pounds since he’d last seen him and his skin had the same greyness his momma’s had when she was too deep in the life and too far gone to care. He had all the trappings of street success, with his clothes and his crew, but street years weighed heavy. His youth was almost gone and his light was dimming. Rodriguez gave him two years maybe. Perhaps less. ‘Good to see you,’ he said. ‘You looking good, man.’
JJ shook his head ruefully. ‘Nah, I need t’lay off a little. Maybe grow a beard, git you to introduce me to your tailor.’ He hit pause on his controller and held it out to the kid by Rodriguez’s shoulder. ‘You take over,’ he said. ‘Shoot me some white folks.’
He levered himself out of the soft leather sofa and stood in front of Rodriguez. ‘Man,’ he said, looking up at him. ‘You get taller?’
Rodriguez shook his head. ‘I always been this big. You just ain’t seen me in a while.’
They embraced, bumping shoulders and slapping each other on the back like it was old times, then stood back and regarded each other awkwardly, because it wasn’t.
‘You got something for me?’ Rodriguez said.
JJ dipped into the fish tank and pulled a dripping plastic bag from behind a tower of coral. ‘Some exotic tastes you got, my friend.’
Rodriguez took it and examined the contents: a Glock 34, a spare clip, an Evolution-9 silencer and a small plastic lunch box containing a pistol with a fat barrel and twelve stubby, shotgun-style cartridges.
‘What you need that for?’ JJ asked. ‘Scared of the dark?’ Rodriguez snapped the lid down tight and slipped his bag from his shoulder. ‘I ain’t afraid of nothing,’ he said, and tossed across a thick wad of cash.
He watched JJ count the money, his jittery fingers rubbing his nose every few bills like he had an itch that wouldn’t quit. His momma used to do that. Rubbed it until it was raw. He glanced over at the other two, blazing away at each other with fake guns while real ones lay on the table. JJ definitely wouldn’t last another two years, not unless he saw the light that led to salvation. He’d be lucky if he made it to Christmas.
Chapter 87
Dr Miriam Anata was standing by a drinks machine in the hallway of a local news station when the tinny strains of ‘Ode to Joy’ sounded inside her jacket — charcoal grey today, but still a pin-stripe; she liked to think of it as her trademark.
She was supposed to have turned off her phone, but too many people were ringing her for interviews and she was damned if she’d give them the excuse to call someone else. She reached in to answer it, but accidentally disconnected the call in the process. She looked around to see if anyone had noticed.
Turning her attention back to the drinks machine, she fed in enough coins to bail out a bottle of iced tea and send it thumping down into the tray. She popped the lid and drank thirstily. She’d been under hot studio lights almost constantly since the monk had fallen to his death the previous day. Not that she minded. It was a heaven- sent opportunity to boost her book sales. The key, she’d learned early on, was to frame all her answers in reference to one of her titles. That way the producer couldn’t edit them out.
‘Ode to Joy’ piped up again and she pounced on the answer button before it had finished the opening bar.
‘Hi, Dr Anata?’ The voice belonged to a woman. American, she thought, or possibly Canadian — she could never really tell the difference; either way it was a big market for books.
‘This is she.’
‘Great,’ the woman continued. ‘Listen, I know you’re busy, but I could really use your help right now on some background information.’
‘Is this an interview request?’
‘Erm. . I suppose it is, yes.’
‘And what channel did you say you were with?’
The line went silent for a moment.
‘Dr Anata, I’m not calling from a news channel. . I’m part of the story,’ Liv said, before she had a chance to cut her off. ‘I’m. . I’m the monk’s sister.’
Miriam paused, not sure if she’d heard right — not sure if she believed her.
‘I’ve seen his body,’ Liv continued, ‘or photos at least. He disappeared before I got to see him in person. There were some markings on him, some kind of ritual scars. I wonder if you could take a look at them and give me your expert opinion on what you think they might mean.’
Miriam felt light-headed at the mention of scars. ‘You have these photos?’ she whispered.
‘No,’ Liv said. ‘But I can show you what they look like. And there’s some other stuff as well. Stuff that might have something to do with the Sacrament.’
Miriam leaned heavily against the vending machine. ‘What stuff?’ she asked.
‘It’s probably easier if I show you.’
‘Of course.’
‘When are you free?’
‘I’m free right now. I’m in a TV studio, close to the city centre. Where are you?’
Liv paused, cautious of revealing her location to anyone. A cop friend had once told her the best place to hide was in a crowd. She needed somewhere public and busy and close by. She looked at the newspaper with the picture
