“I don’t know. Ciro has a van, maybe you can ask him. He always says you’re a good customer. Last week he loaned it to the Egyptian guy who owns the newsstand on the corner.”
“That’s great, Tim. Yes. Good idea. Who’s Zero?”
“Ciro. My boss. The guy who owns the diner.”
“Of course! Zero! I know Zero. That guy’s probably seen more breakfasts than a gynecologist.”
Lou laughed at his own joke. It seemed funny when it came out of his mouth but when I broke it down and tried to understand the logic of it, I was at a loss. Still am.
“Yeah, that would be perfect. Ask Zero if we can borrow it. You can use the Batphone. Would you like a drink?”
The bedroom was quiet as I dialed the diner. Lou started pouring gin into two tall glasses.
“No tonic, Tim. Sorry.” He topped the gin off with Coca-Cola. A god-awful combination but Lou didn’t seem to mind. He drained half his glass before Ciro answered the phone.
I had to think on my feet. I had lied to Lou when I told him that Ciro thought he was a good customer. I don’t know why I said it, it just came out of my mouth. The truth was that Ciro considered Lou and Rachel “a pair of junkie freaks.” His nickname for them was “Dr. Heckle and Mrs. Jekyl.” Ciro wouldn’t give them a dishrag if they weren’t paying for it.
Fortunately, Lou got absorbed in ransacking his kitchen in search of an important phone number he had misplaced. So I told Ciro that my mother needed the van for an hour to pick up a new dining room table.
Ciro was happy to do my mother a favor. I think he had a little crush on her. He was overly kind and a little flirty whenever she was in the diner and always gave her a free black-and-white cookie for dessert. And I don’t think it was out of respect for me.
I got off the phone victorious and told Lou we had a van. I would go to the diner, pick up the keys, and Lou could meet me and the van in the parking lot on Second Avenue.
“Fantastic.” He swallowed the rest of his gin in a single swig. “Just pull it up in front of the building. I’ll ask Rogelio if he has a dolly,” he said as he poured himself a fresh one.
Wait. Did I hear him correctly? Pull it up in front of the building? How was I supposed to do that? I didn’t have a driver’s license nor had I ever driven a car on an actual road. The little driving experience I had outside of the bumper cars in Adventureland was with my dad in the huge, empty parking lot of Shea Stadium about two years ago. That’s it. The idea of me navigating a van through the streets of rush-hour Manhattan was ridiculous.
I worked up a bit of courage and said: “Uhhhhm, maybe it’s better if you do the driving, Lou. I don’t have a license.”
“Nonsense, Tim. I have complete faith in your ability to handle a vehicle. Besides, if you don’t do it, we’re stuck. I never, ever drive. Too many near-death calls. You’re a smart kid, you’ll do fine. And we’re not going very far at all. Just a few blocks. Piece of cake.” He said this while still looking for the number he so desperately needed. His limbs and torso seemed to be running on separate motors all working independently of each other. As their RPMs increased, he scratched, jerked, and twitched through the kitchen, his search becoming more hopeless by the second.
twenty-four
Smitty lived on the far Upper West Side of Manhattan. Washington Heights or Inwood, I think, maybe near Dyckman Street. He spent about half an hour trying to squeeze into a parking space that was impossible to accommodate his shitty little white car. This led to another half hour or so of cruising his neighborhood until he finally came upon a Puerto Rican family who were loading into a gray Ford. They must have been going to the airport because they put three huge suitcases and four smaller bags into the trunk. The grandma had to be helped by two younger women and the walk from the entrance to their building to the car took an eternity.
Neither Veronica nor myself spoke at all during the whole parking ordeal. Smitty took all the waiting in patient stride; it must have been a daily routine of sorts for him. All he said was, “Easy does it, abuelita,” over and over until grandma was securely stowed in the backseat and her door was closed and locked.
Finally, the gray four-door Ford with passengers bound for Ponce, PR, mercifully pulled out and onto Broadway, allowing Smitty to slide his slimy Civic into the void. I couldn’t figure out how to push the seat up so we could free ourselves from the tiny rear of the Honda and was forced to suffer the indignity of waiting for Smitty to pull the latch and move the seat forward, his head almost touching mine but his eyes fixed on Veronica.
When we were standing on the sidewalk Smitty cleared his throat, wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, and said: “You guys want pretzels or peanuts? I got chips. Barbecue.”
“I’m good,” Veronica said as she ran her fingers through her hair. I didn’t say a word. Smitty just nodded and started to walk up Broadway. We followed.
His apartment was on the third floor. The elevator was not working or was stuck on some other floor so we walked up the stone steps in a counterclockwise-winding ascent, our footsteps loud and echoing in the stairwell. There was a strong, wet smell of mold during the climb but as we stepped through the door into the third-floor hallway, the stench was eclipsed by the noxious combo of boiling animal innards and piss.
