Paradise Man (18 page)

H
OLDEN COULDN’T RUSH
up to Riverdale without wheels. He went to Fardel’s hobby shop with the kid, let the trader out of the toilet, and bargained with him, while Fardel looked at Gottlieb, searched for signs, because he knew that Holden had been hunting for the kid. But the kid showed nothing. Gottlieb was Holden’s rat again. He had the menacing eyes of a street urchin who’d made good. He hadn’t grown soft at Muriel’s. He could have lived off the rust on a sewer pipe, sold his ass to men and women on social security. Gottlieb didn’t care. He’d stroked women with whiskers, men with breasts. He was a little bit in love with Holden, and to Gottlieb that love often felt like hate.

“Come on, Fardel,” Holden said. “I don’t have time to bargain. Get me a Dodge with good plates.”

“It’ll cost you double the price. I suffered in that toilet. Somebody’s got to pay.”

He was performing for the kid. He knew Holden wouldn’t harm him in front of Gottlieb. Fardel belonged to Gottlieb’s own secret service. Holden could never understand the social customs of Thirty-ninth Street. He was a hick from Queens.

“I want five thousand on deposit, and four hundred a day.”

“That’s fucking robbery,” Holden said.

“It’s my rate for people who tie me to toilets.”

“Get the car.”

Fardel returned with an ’86 Dodge.

“Does it have air conditioning?” Holden asked.

Fardel looked at him with disgust. “I don’t chisel. I rent deluxe.” He handed Holden the car’s registration and insurance coupons.

“Fardel, are these papers clean? I don’t want to be chased by motorcycle cops. We have important business.”

“If they bust you, I’ll waive the fee.”

“That’s generous, Fardel, but if it’s a dirty car, you’ll remember your sit on the toilet as one of the happiest moment in your life.”

“Holden,” the kid said, “can’t you have a conversation without threatening people?”

“I’ll try,” Holden said, collecting the car keys. And he took off with Gottlieb in their virgin Dodge. They arrived in Riverdale without a map. And Gottlieb had to recall the route Jeremías had taken with Santa Barbara. They were on a country road that circled around itself, as if it could bite Holden’s tail. And he thought of that animal Fay had, with the look-around head. But he’d never been to Riverdale before. He’d never bumped at the edges of the Bronx.

They’d come to Blackstone Avenue. They got out of the car, which overlooked one of La Familia’s compounds, not where Don Edmundo lived, but where his vassals were, like Jeremías, the bodyguard who labored at a distance from his lord. Edmundo had to protect Jeremías, keep him from getting kidnapped, because the ransoms he paid for Jeremías were a sickening price.

“Where is she?” Holden asked.

“Jeremías has her in the shed.”

The kid pointed to a gardener’s shack behind the main house.

“Is he nice to her?”

“Jeremías? I don’t know. But Edmundo hired a
madrina
for the little goddess. The girl’s valuable to them ... but I did hear her cry for you and Loretta.”

A fury rose up in the bumper. He saw black and red. And for a moment he considered pummeling Gottlieb into the ground. But he couldn’t get in without the kid. Gottlieb was crucial.

“You’ll drive in,” Holden said, “and park where they tell you to park.”

“I’m seventeen. How the hell could I grab a license?”

“Gottlieb, they’re not clever enough to figure that out. You’re only one more kid with a Dodge.”

“But I’ve never driven a car.”

“You’ll have to teach yourself,” Holden said. “I can’t give you lessons. We don’t have the time.”

And Holden crept into the trunk. The kid could have locked the trunk and run away, or delivered Holden to Jeremías. Edmundo would have given him a reward, and he’d be rid of Holden, once and for all. But Gottlieb couldn’t do it.

He stepped into the car, got behind the wheel, let the Dodge rock like a gigantic cradle, and drove right up to the gate. The sentry saluted him. His name was Punto, and he had a 9 mm automatic wedged into the back of his coat.

“Is Jeremías expecting you?” Punto asked, behind a mouth of gold and silver teeth.

“No. I came on a whim. I want to see
la santita.”

“It’s all right, kid. But I’d better check, or Jeremías will chew my ass.”

He dialed from the cordless phone at the gate.
“Sí ...
It’s Holden’s whore. He invited himself, Jeremías. I think he has a present for
la pequeña ...
okay ... okay.” Punto got off the phone. “Come on in. You know where she is, eh? Park in front of the little house.”

The kid felt like he was driving straight down to the Hudson. The water was blue-green, like the jackets Holden sometimes wore. “I’m not gonna leave this place alive,” Gottlieb said, with his hands on the wheel. An hombre stood in front of the shack, wild as Pancho Villa. One of the good Bandidos, Gottlieb reckoned, the guys who’d remained loyal to La Familia.

Gottlieb parked a piece away from the Bandido, so Holden would have a chance coming out of the trunk. The Bandido winked at him, and Gottlieb went into the shack. The
madrina
stood around with Jeremías, trying to coax the little girl, who sat in the corner with her dolls. And Gottlieb began to remember what he’d done. Knocked on Mrs. Howard’s door. Said hi. He’d come with a doll for the little goddess. He played with her, while Mrs. Howard was in her coding room. Then he wandered off, unlocked the back door, returned to chat with Mrs. H., said goodbye to the goddess, kissed her dolls, and Mrs. H. walked him to the front door, while Jeremías and a couple of his Bandidos crept in through the back ...

“Hello,” Jeremías said, “will you talk to
la santita?
We spoil her, but we can’t make much of an impression.” Jeremías seemed genuinely glum. And what was Gottlieb? The finger man who brought death into the house, death and a doll. He had to force himself to look at the goddess. She was pale, like one of Holden’s handkerchiefs. The skin was drawn around her eyes. He’d fingered men and women before Mrs. H., surrendered a couple of Holden’s rats to La Familia, gotten them permanently off Loretta’s line, because the rats had been a little too valuable, their information a little too correct, and might have compromised Edmundo and Infante. But he’d never had to deal with the residue: a little girl and her dolls.

“Chica,
” he said, “don’t you like your new dad? Jeremías is nice to you. He buys you toys.”

“I’m more than nice. Didn’t I kidnap Felisa just for her?” he said, pointing to the
madrina,
who looked as unhappy as the girl. But Gottlieb didn’t believe it. The godmother had been bought, like the Bandidos and himself. They were all Edmundo’s children. Holden too, but he hadn’t figured that out. He’d fallen into the scheme of La Familia, no matter how many bungalows he shot, or rats he had under his control.

The
madrina
had a milky eye. The little goddess was afraid of her. She clung to Gottlieb.

“Is it fair?” Jeremías said. “We exhaust ourselves entertaining her, and
la santita
comes to you. Can I help it if she’s a holy girl? The Mariels are crazy about her ...
santita,
come to Jeremías.”

But she wouldn’t go near him, and Jeremías was mortified. “You know how much I spent? Gottlieb, she’s an expensive baby. She costs me as much as a
putita.
It’s humiliating, no? I give and give and give and get nothing back.”

He began to rock in front of Gottlieb and the girl. “I—”

Holden arrived in a great blur, like some forest animal, and Jeremías’ eyes bulged as he was caught in the middle of his dance when Holden socked him in the throat. He crumpled to the floor, coughed, and started to cry. The little goddess rushed at Holden, but Gottlieb held her.

“You can’t come in, Holden. This is my house,” Jeremías said.

Holden lifted him up. “You should have thought about that, Jeremías, when you visited Oliver Street.”

“I didn’t visit. Your whore let me in.”

“It amounts to the same thing,” the bumper said and broke Jeremías’ neck. The
madrina
pounced on him with a knife. He stepped out of her path and dug his hand into the shelf between her eyes. She collapsed with a hissing sound.

“Dada,” the little goddess said, breaking out of Gottlieb’s grip and grabbing Holden’s leg.

“I’m your
tío,”
he told her. “Nothing more.”

“Dada.”

“Holden,” Gottlieb said. “Jeremías is finished, but the
madrina
is a little alive.”

“Gottlieb, I didn’t ask for a body count. Let’s go.”

They crept out of the shack. Pancho Villa lay with his head in the grass. Holden carried the girl into the trunk with him, and Gottlieb steered the Dodge up to the gate.

“Did you have a good time?” Punto said, but he didn’t open the gate. He pressed the buttons on his phone. “I have to get Jeremías. That’s the law at this estate ... hello ... hello?” And suddenly Holden was behind him, slapping Punto’s head with the cordless phone.

“Gottlieb, open the gate.”

And they drove off with the bumper behind the wheel.

They stopped in El Norte. Holden went looking for Dolores while Gottlieb sat in the car with Santa Barbara. But Dolores’ sewing shop was gone. Gypsies sat inside the window, beckoning to Holden. He drove around the block to Isham Street. But there wasn’t a body or a mattress in Dolores’ mattress pad. Holden wondered if the
madrina
and her favorite godson staged their seances in different parts of town.

He drove to Chelsea. Gottlieb had to suck in his bowels, because he still believed Holden meant to kill him.

“Do you have a pad?” Holden asked. “Someplace where the Cubans won’t find you.”

“I’ll get one.”

Holden slapped a key into the kid’s hand. “It’s a storefront on White Street. A few blocks from the river. You can’t miss it. It’s got black window blinds. You stay there. It’s equipped. I’ll come and collect you.”

“Where does the girl go?”

“With Fay and me,” Holden said.

“The Abruzzi bitch.”

“What about it?”

“Nothing,” Gottlieb said.

“It doesn’t feel like nothing on your face.”

Better walk, Gottlieb muttered to himself. The bumper’s letting you break free. But like an imbecile he had to prove to Holden his worth as a rat.

“She’s Paul’s girl.”

“I know that. The district attorney’s daughter-in-law.”

“I didn’t say daughter-in-law, did I?”

Holden’s temples tightened into a pyramid. He sat the little girl in the car, so she couldn’t listen. “What did you say?”

“Paul’s been jobbing the bitch.”

“Stop it,” Holden said. “That’s like incest.”

“Almost.”

He touched the kid, not to menace him, but as if to reassure himself with the feel of flesh. “How did you know about them?”

“Holden, I’m your rat ... but it wasn’t such a secret. Mikey knew. He wanted to hit Abruzzi where it hurts.”

“They were having a number, Paul and Fay?”

“The old man was crazy about her. That’s why he couldn’t run for another office. The pols would have crucified him with the tale of his daughter-in-law. Holden, he went everywhere with her. He kept a room at the Algonquin ... for him and Fay. I saw them kissing at some government ball.”

“What were you doing there?”

“I was with Edmundo. A thousand-dollar-a-plate deal. And Abruzzi was behind the curtain, with his silver hair in her neck.”

“He stole her from his own son?”

“Rex doesn’t give a damn. He’s into his plays and Muriel’s girls. He’s a real collector.”

“And I was in the dark about the whole shebang.”

“You’re too busy bumping, Holden, that’s your problem. You’re always making plans.”

“But I had a goddamn intelligence team,” Holden said. “You ran it with Loretta.”

“I can’t give you everything. It would have clogged the pipes.”

“Who told you not to tell me about Paul and Fay?”

“Infante. You wouldn’t have gone to fetch the bitch if you’d known about her and Abruzzi.”

“All right, it’s established. Paul kissed Fay behind the curtain. But why does Infante send me to tickle his wife?”

“Shit, Holden, I’m not sure.”

“But that can’t be a bigger secret than a district attorney and his daughter-in-law. You have to have some opinion on the subject.”

“He hates you, I think. Because you’re private, like your dad.”

“You never met my dad,” Holden said.

“But Infante did. He’s setting you up for a long-range kill. But I could be wrong. Infante never trusted me much. Maybe he figured I’d always be your rat.”

Holden marched up the stairs with Santa Barbara. He’d have to get her a new set of dolls. But he couldn’t concentrate. He imagined Paul Abruzzi hugging Fay. Holden didn’t have silver hair, like the district attorney. And suddenly Paul didn’t seem old or out of fashion in his undertaker’s suit. A distinguished gentleman. Mature. And Holden was a boy clutching his own death certificate. His color schemes weren’t right. He should have gone around in black or gray, wearing a mourner’s melody.

His darling was at the door. She’d heard him twist his key in the lock. Her eyes went from Holden to the little girl. She didn’t seem surprised at Holden’s gift. He might just as well have brought a poodle.

“Barbara,” Holden said. “Meet Barbara. She’s a friend I have to guard.”

His darling took to the girl. Holden wouldn’t have to worry about two women fighting behind his tail.

“Have you eaten yet?”

“No. I had to get her out of a jam.”

And Fay prepared some tortellini in a red sauce. It was Red Mike’s favorite dish. Mike was a genius at cooking all kinds of noodles. Holden sulked at the table while the leopard girl gobbled with a pair of forks. His darling sat with a glass of wine, her skirts bunched around her thighs.

“Sidney, your hand is shaking.”

“It’s been a rough afternoon. I had to sock a whole lot of people.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about. I got Barbara back.” They finished eating, and Fay put the girl to bed in a cot. “Dolls,” Holden said. “We have to get her dolls and lollipops.”