Dead Red (11 page)

I stepped over to the rear door, which was open, and walked into the small backyard. The two Freddies were stoking the coals of the two grills Mrs. Mac had put out for barbecuing. Basically they were an oil drum cut in half, sitting atop metal frames. Fill ’em with charcoal, light ’em up, and about thirty minutes later you were good to go. Normally, the food at The LineUp came out of the kitchen, but for certain events—Fourth of July, Memorial Day, farewells to cops and vets—Mrs. Mac opened the back area and threw a barbecue. I tapped my watch.

The Freddy on the left said, “Five minute, we ready.” The one on the right nodded in agreement.

I gave them the thumbs-up. “Just go ahead and start cooking when you think you’re good. Thanks, guys.”

Good.
The food was taken care of, and Mikey was doing what he did best behind the bar. Debbie, the new waitress who was an NYU undergrad and the cousin of one of The LineUp’s cop regulars, was putting on her apron as I stepped back inside.

“Big crowd today,” she said in her usual cheerful voice.

“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s not forget what they’re here for, though, okay?”

That took the cheer away. “Sorry.”

Shit.
“No. Do what you normally do. Just be mindful that these guys are here to commiserate and say good-bye to a fellow cop.” I put my hand on her shoulder. “They’re all gonna get various degrees of drunk. If it gets a little stupid, let me know. You can always step outside and take a break.”

The smile slowly came back. “Thanks, Ray. My cousin’s told me a few stories about things like this. I’ll be good.”

“No doubt.”

I watched as she bounced over to a booth of six guys, cleared the empties, took their order, and laughed at one of their jokes. She was going to be fine.

“Yo,
maestro
!”

I turned around to see Victor Rodriguez walking toward me. He had a grin on his face that was clearly a mix of happy to see me, not happy about why. Victor was still at the nine-oh the last I heard, born and raised in the neighborhood. When I first hit the precinct he was the one who taught me how to work a corner, the difference between
mofongo
and
mondongo
, and how
las chiquitas
in tight jeans sometimes looked “like they were trying to stuff five pounds of sausage into a three-pound bag.”

“Vic
tor
,” I said, accenting the second syllable. “How’s it going?”

“I was gonna ask you the same thing, man.” He grabbed me by the shoulders. “I mean, you were
there,
amigo.”

“I’m good, Vic. Today’s about Ricky T, though. Not me. Okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. I hear ya.” He looked around. “His family show up yet?”

“Not that I know of.” I looked at my watch. “This got started a bit earlier than we thought, and the burial ended probably half an hour ago. They should be here soon. I spoke with his brother last night.”

“Shit, Ray. How’s he holding up?”

“Like you’d expect. I could hear it in his voice; he was being strong for his mom, but he was close to the edge.”

“Yeah. They were tight, the brothers. I remember right before Ricky got sent over, we got together for a few and Robby couldn’t handle it, y’know? We were saying good-bye, but he was taking it like it was
good-bye
. He left early, and the next day drove back up to school.”

I shook my head. “I can’t imagine. Hey, I haven’t had a beer yet. You ready for one?”

“Pssht, man. I was
born
ready.”

“I’ve heard that about you.”

I stepped behind the bar, popped open a Bud Light for Vic, and poured a pint of Brooklyn Pilsner for myself. Mikey gave me a look that said he needed to talk to me. I handed Vic his beer and told him I’d be right back.

“What’s up, Mikey?”

“Ray, man,” he said. “What’s the deal with who’s paying for this? The guys are sliding me fives and tens and walking away. Sometimes it’s too much, sometimes too little. I just keep saying ‘Thanks’ and move on to the next one.”

Mikey had a point there. I needed to find Mrs. Mac. The last I’d seen her, she was heading toward her office in the back. The door was open, and I could see Mrs. Mac on the phone. I tapped the door gently and she turned. She gave me one finger and finished up her call. When she was done, she gave me her full attention.

“Yes, Raymond. How’s it going out there?”

“It’s fine, Mrs. Mac. We’ve got the whole team on board, and the food should start coming out any minute.”

“Good,” she said. “Has Ricky’s family arrived?”

“Not yet. But there is something I need to ask you.”

She got a concerned look on her face. “Yes?”

“How are we … I mean who’s…”
Smooth, Ray
. “Are we collecting money from the guys or what? How are we paying for this?”

“Well,” she said, clearly relieved that money was my concern. “Billy said he’s got the meat. The guy he knows gave him a deal.”

“Still, that’s a lot of money.”

“I know. I offered to split it with him, but he said he wouldn’t hear of it, and I know that’s an argument I’m not going to win with Mr. Morris.”

She was right about that. “What about the bar?”

She stood and smoothed out her pants. “That’s another interesting thing,” she said. “That’s who I was just on the phone with.”

I waited for a few seconds. “And…”

“Jack Knight said he’d pick up the bar tab.” She obviously read the look on my face. “I know. The last time he was here, he didn’t strike me as the type to even buy a round.”

The last time he was here, I thought, we got into a fistfight right outside on the sidewalk, when Jack got too drunk and I couldn’t help playing tough guy in front of my date. About a week after that, he saved my life. Jack Knight was full of surprises.

“Anyway,” Mrs. Mac went on, “I again offered to split it, and he said absolutely no. But we did agree that everything would be at Happy Hour prices.”

“That’s really nice of you, Mrs. Mac.”

“Long as those boys take care of Debbie, Mikey, and the Freddies, I’m happy to do what I can do.” She looked at the ceiling. “That’s the way Henry would want it, y’know.”

I realized she was actually looking past the ceiling. And she was right, her dead husband would have wanted it that way. If I was wrong and there is a Heaven, I was sure Henry McVernon was looking down with a shit-eating grin on his face.

“All right,” I said. “You coming out?”

“Give me a few minutes,” she said. “If I’m not out there when the family shows up, come and get me, if you don’t mind.”

I stepped over and kissed her on the cheek. “I don’t mind at all.”

“Then maybe you can come back to the office and call your mother.”

“I don’t know, Mrs. Mac. I’m gonna be busy for a while, I think.”

“Never too busy to call your mother, Raymond.”

“I’ll see you in a little while,” I said, closing the door on the way out.

*   *   *

By three thirty there wasn’t an empty seat in the joint. Mikey and Debbie seemed to be moving in fast motion, every once in a while slipping a bill into their pockets or apron. I floated around and informed everyone the drinks and food had been taken care of, but not to be shy about tipping. I moved behind the bar to give Mikey a hand, and to tell him that he, the Freddies, and Debbie would be splitting the tips. That brought a huge grin and new sense of urgency to the bartender.

I was passing four longneck Buds over the bar, when the front door opened and in walked Robby Torres, Ricky T’s brother. He was flanked by four guys who had to be his cousins; they all had the same noses as Robby and what seemed like one big, bushy eyebrow. The five of them were in white shirts with the sleeves rolled up, loosened ties, and dress pants. Exactly the look you’d have if you just got out of church on a ninety-degree day. Behind them was another guy who entered when they did, but he made a beeline for the jukebox.

Robby T was a miniature version of his older brother. He was at least three inches shorter and obviously hadn’t spent nearly the amount of hours in the gym.

I stepped around the bar and over to the group. “Robby,” I said, sticking out my hand but pulling him into a consolatory hug. “How are you doing?”

He patted me on the back. “I’m okay, Ray. It’s been a while.”

We separated and he turned around.

“These are my cousins,” he said.
Bingo.
“I’d tell you their names, but you’d forget them in five minutes. Guys,” he turned back to me, “this is Ray. He was with Ricky … the night…” He stopped talking, but his cousins figured out where he was heading. We all shook hands, said how nice it was to meet each other, and waited for Robby to get himself together.

“Sorry about that.” Nobody said a thing. I waited a few beats.

“Anyone up for a beer?”

They all nodded and mumbled something about Bud Lights and Coronas. Normally, I would have pushed them in another direction beer-wise but figured they’d heard enough preaching for the day, so I just went behind the bar and got what they wanted. I drew myself a pint of the pilsner—we teachers are constantly modeling proper behavior—and we all clinked glasses and said, “To Ricky!”

“Not too many places to sit,” I said.

“No problem,” Robby said, and then allowed himself his first good look around the place. His eyes got all misty again as he took in all the folks who came to pay tribute to his brother and he smiled. “Wow. This is something else, man. Ricky would’ve loved this shit.”

“These guys loved him, Robby.” I put my hand on his shoulder. “You think your mom will stop by? Mrs. Mac—the owner here—wants to pay her respects.”

“I don’t know, Ray. She barely made it through the burial. She went home with my aunt”—he pointed his thumb at his cousins—“their mom, and I think they were just gonna sit in the backyard under the apple tree and drink tea. I told her I’d give her a call in a few hours, see how she’s doing.”

“Okay. In the meantime, there’s the food.” I pointed at the pool table that had been converted to a buffet table. “You know where the bar is. You guys can settle in wherever you find a spot. I’m gonna bounce around and see if anybody needs anything.”

Robby grabbed my elbow and said, “You got a minute, Ray? I thought we could talk before things got too … you know.”

“Yeah, sure, Robby. Absolutely.”

“Thanks.” He turned back to his cousins. “Why don’t you guys hang around for a bit? Maybe you can find some girls to talk to.”

All four cousins looked around and one of them said, “Don’t seem to be too many girls here, Robby.”

“Then talk to each other for a while. I gotta ask Ray a few questions.”

The cousins took the not-so-subtle hint and went off to the food table just as the Freddies were bringing in trays of hot dogs and burgers. They seemed happy with the timing.

“Can we talk outside, Ray?” Robby asked. “It’s a little loud in here.”

“Let’s go out front. We’ll find our own tree to talk under.” I saw him looking at our opened beers. “It’s a cop bar. No one’ll hassle us.”

“Cool. Thanks.”

On our way out, the guy who’d been eyeing the juke box got our attention. He walked over, and Robby introduced us.

“Raymond Donne,” he said. “Jimmy Key.”

We shook hands. “Like the Yankee pitcher?”

He laughed. “Like Jimmy Kisparadis, without all the Greek.”

“Jimmy served with Ricky over in the desert,” Robby explained.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Jimmy said. “Fucking shame. We pulled a lot of personal security details together. Politicians, four-stars, guys like that.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“We had our moments. You guys on the way out?”

“Just need to talk to Ray in private for a few,” Robby said.

“Grab some food and something from the bar. We’ll be right back.”

“Roger that,” Jimmy Key said. “Eat while you can, is what they taught us.” He headed off to the food table.

Outside was anything but cool. What little breeze there had been this morning had been replaced by humidity and haze. The rush-hour traffic was in full swing above us on the Brooklyn Queens Expressway, creating a constant buzz and smelling like a gas station.

“This is one thing I don’t miss about the city,” Robby said. “I’m a couple of miles away from the thruway, and I’m getting kinda used to all that fresh air.”

“How far up are you?”

“About three hours’ drive from the city. Not too far from Vermont.”

“Nice. How much more time you got in school?”

“Graduated in May with a double major in American lit and creative writing.” Before I could comment, he said, “I know. In this job market, employers are just busting down my door with offers.”

I laughed. “What
do
you do with that particular combination?”

“Right now, I’m managing some rental properties around the college.”

I gave that some thought. “You’re a super?”

“Not exactly. I collect the rent, find new tenants when the old ones move out, contract out any maintenance that I can’t handle—mostly plumbing and electrical stuff—make sure the grass is cut, and I’ll be in charge of snow removal in a few months. Stuff like that.”

I took a sip of pilsner. “Not quite what you went to school for, huh?”

“Yeah. My dad’s probably rolling in his grave—Jesus, that was a stupid thing to say, huh?”

“Don’t worry about it.” I gestured with my head back at The LineUp. “There’s gonna be a whole lot of stupid shit said today. Alcohol and grief bring out the Hemingway in all of us.”

“I guess you’re right. Anyway, yeah, the job is what it is, but it does allow me time for my writing. The owner of the buildings pays me a small salary, and I got a decent two-bedroom in one of his nicer houses. I turned the extra room into a study, and that’s where I get my shit done.”

“Sounds like a good deal. Ricky ever get the chance to come up that way and visit?”

“Yeah, he did.” He took a long swallow from his Bud Light. “He helped me move in after I got the gig, and earlier this month he spent a couple of days with me. Folded out the couch in the living room, kept the door open between the rooms, bullshitted until we fell asleep. Was like being kids again.”