PART 35 (18 page)

“Exactly, so why not drop it now? Anyway, keep your own fantasies straight. Alvarado said the gang rape didn't come off. Another cop is supposed to have come in and broken it up.”

Mike shrugged. They reached the street and got into the car.

CHAPTER XIX

The short, thickset Puerto Rican standing behind the restaurant counter eyed Sandro and Mike. He said nothing as he contemplated their inquiry. He was clearly uncomfortable at the very thought of a police-killing. He bent, picked up a wet rag, and began to trace wet circles on the counter.

“What day you say this happened?” he asked.

“July third, a Monday,” Sandro replied.

“I don't think I was workin' here then,” he said with relief.

“I thought you owned this place,” Sandro remarked, wanting to cut away any pretense.

“My brother-in-law, he own this place, but he's down in Puerto Rico now. I'm here just to take care of it. But in July …” He searched the front window, which was steamed by the cold winds outside and the warm cooking inside. He shook his head. “Nope, I was in Miami then. You know, I don't know too much about the restaurants. I work in electronics, and I was working in Miami in electronics company. I was the foreman. I had forty men working for me,” he announced proudly, looking directly at Sandro, the
abogado.
“I'm just taking care while my brother-in-law's away. He was here in July.”

“This man accused of the crime was here that day,” said Sandro. “And it is very important that we see whoever served him or saw him. He's in a tough position, especially because he's Puerto Rican. You know how the people in the court think about Puerto Ricans. We have to find the people who were here that day, because if anybody is going to help a Puerto Rican it's another Puerto Rican. Do you understand?”

He nodded knowingly. “Yes, I understand.” That appeal seemed to hit home. “I think my brother-in-law said something about this thing that you are talking about. I don't remember, but he said something. But he's in Puerto Rico now.”

“Well, do you know if he said he saw this man? Did your brother-in-law say he served him?” Sandro pressed.

“I don't remember what he said. I know he said something, but I don't remember.”

“Can I get in touch with him? Do you have his address in Puerto Rico?”

“I don't have his address, but my wife has it. She's home. I can call her. Maybe then you can write him a letter.”

“When is he going to be back?” Sandro asked.

“Maybe three or four months.”

“Will you call and find out his address?”

“Okay. I'll see what I can do.” The man stuck his stubby hands into the pockets of his pants, which encircled his waist just beneath a plump belly. He took out a dime and stepped around the counter and into the public phone booth. “Hey Pablo, Pablo,” he called over his shoulder before dropping the dime into the telephone. A short, red-headed Puerto Rican with fair skin and a red moustache came out from the kitchen. “Take care of the counter for a while, will you, Pablo? I want to make a phone call.” The dime chimed, and he began dialing. He listened silently. After many seconds he turned, the earpiece still at his ear, and shrugged. “Maybe nobody's home.” He listened longer, then hung up. “Nobody's home.”

“Two cups of coffee,” Mike said to Pablo. Pablo turned the spigot on the coffee urn and filled two cups. The steam table, next to the coffee urn, was heaped high with all sorts of exotic yellow and brown edibles: saffron-colored rice, pork parts, chicken legs, meats floating in richly steaming gravies.

“How about Pablo?” Mike suggested. “Should I see if he was here in July?”

Sandro nodded as he sipped his coffee.

Mike spoke to Pablo in Spanish. Pablo watched Mike's mouth utter words. He nodded, and Mike continued. Mike turned to Sandro.

“Give me the newspapers and let me show them to him.”

Sandro handed Mike the clippings. Pablo studied the clippings, then looked up at Mike, speaking in Spanish. Mike listened carefully.

“He said he can't read the newspapers because they're in English,” Mike translated. “But he recognizes the pictures of Alvarado. He said he remembers Alvarado being here and remembers reading the story about the policemen and Alvarado in the Spanish newspaper.”

“Does he remember Alvarado being here on the day of the killing?”

Mike spoke. Pablo responded. “He says he remembers because he read about it, and he saw Alvarado's picture, and he told the boss that he had served the guy that day. Alvarado came in here with another guy, a real dark Puerto Rican, and he served Alvarado something to eat. The other guy didn't want to eat. He went outside and waited.”

“Is he sure it was July third, the day of the killing?”

Mike asked and Pablo replied in Spanish. “It was the same day the policeman was killed,” Mike translated. “He doesn't remember the date, but knows that it was the same day that the policeman was killed because he remembers seeing Alvarado's picture in the paper the next day.”

“Was Alvarado a friend of his?” Sandro asked.

“He says he didn't know him, although he saw him once before in the restaurant,” Mike replied.

“Mike, does he know what time it was that he served Alvarado?”

“He doesn't remember what time it was, but he remembers definitely that it was that day.”

“Ask him to try hard to remember. It's important. Was it in the morning, when there wasn't too much of a crowd here, or was it in the rush hour, when a crowd was here? Or was it after the rush hour? See if you can tie him down that way,” Sandro suggested.

Mike and Pablo spoke back and forth.

“He says it wasn't crowded when he served him. It was not in the morning, but around after the lunch rush. He doesn't know exactly what time it was.”

“Don't put words in his mouth, see if he can tell you about what time. Approximately.”

“He says it must've been a little before two, something like that, after the lunch rush, because it wasn't so crowded.”

“Ask more questions to make sure he knows what he's talking about. Make sure this is the right man, this is the right face in the papers,” Sandro insisted.

Mike spoke with Pablo for several minutes, then turned to Sandro. “He says this is definitely the man. He remembers him. He knows it was the same day that the cop was killed. But he can't say exactly what time Alvarado was here. He knows it was after the regular lunch, a little before two.”

“Take a statement from him,” said Sandro. “Don't tell him anything about court or anything like that. You'll scare him. Just tell him that I want to keep a record, and we have to have it written down.”

Mike spoke to Pablo and, while speaking, took out his yellow pad and put it on the counter. He asked Pablo questions and began writing. Mike wrote the entire story as Pablo repeated it. Pablo watched Mike write each word. Mike finished and handed the page to Sandro.

“Will you stop handing me things written in Spanish!” Sandro handed it to Pablo.

He read it through, then read it again, with painful slowness. His eyes moved across the lines, recoursing their path several times each line to make sure he understood every word. Then he signed it.

“Ask him if the police have come around here to talk to him or if he has spoken to anybody about this,” Sandro said.

“He says the police haven't been here, and he hasn't spoken to anybody about it,” Mike replied. “He forgot about it until just now, when we brought the newspapers in.”

“Tell him not to talk to anybody about it, and if anybody questions him, he should contact us right away.” Sandro handed his card to Pablo, then shook hands with him. “
Muchos gracias.
” Sandro also shook hands with the owner's brother-in-law, who was now standing at the far end of the counter. Mike shook hands with both men, and followed Sandro out of the restaurant.

“Let's go see the barber,” Sandro suggested. “We can make sure he hasn't changed his mind or someone hasn't changed it for him.”

Francisco Moreno was cutting a customer's hair. He saw Sandro and Mike, smiled, and walked over to them.

“Has anybody been here to talk to you about the case?” Sandro asked.

“No. I talk to not anyone.”

“Make sure he understands what I asked him.”

Mike explained to the barber. Moreno nodded his head.

“I no talk to anyone.” He looked directly at Sandro to show that he had some understanding of English. “Hey!” he exclaimed, snapping his fingers. He turned to Mike and spoke rapidly in Spanish.

Mike translated. “He says that he's seen that guy Eugene who was with Alvarado the day he had a haircut. As a matter of fact, he saw him walk past here a little while ago. He didn't know we were coming, or he would have stopped him.”

“Does he know where he went?” asked Sandro.

“He says he doesn't know.”

The barber walked outside and stood in front of the shop, looking up and down the block. He walked back in, shaking his head, speaking Spanish.

“He hangs out on the corner here,” Mike continued to translate. “Maybe he's walking around the block or something.”

“Let's get the car, Mike. Ask Francisco if he'll come with us while we drive around.”

Mike spoke to Moreno. He nodded and walked over to his customer and spoke in Spanish for a minute. The man in the chair was content to read the girlie magazines for a few minutes. Moreno, Sandro, and Mike got into the car and drove around the block. The barber sat staring at the faces they passed.

“Hey, hey,” Moreno exclaimed, pointing to a Negro standing on a stoop. “That's the guy.”

Mike pulled the car to the sidewalk.

“Let Francisco get out alone and talk to him,” Mike suggested. “We'll stay here.”

Moreno left the car and walked over to the Negro, who looked almost the twin of Alvarado.

“Maybe this guy pulled the job,” Mike joked.

“Maybe so.” Sandro studied Eugene. “You know, we may be able to use his picture or bring him into court or something to confuse the witnesses who are supposed to identify Alvarado.”

“Hey, that's a great idea. How about getting a few, maybe five other guys, all real dark, with moustaches, and put them side by side in the back of the courtroom, and let this Italian woman see if she can identify them. If they all look like this guy, she'd never be able to pick Alvarado out.”

“That sounds good,” said Sandro.

Moreno returned to the car and spoke to Mike.

“He says he'll meet us in the barber shop in a minute. He's got a little business to finish.” Moreno got in, and they drove back. The barber returned to his customer. Presently, Eugene walked in. He looked around, his eyes resting on Sandro. Moreno nodded.

“You da lawyer? You da lawyer for Luis, man?” he spoke the junky's singsong, hip talk.

“That's right. I understand you know a little bit about what happened.”

“That depends, you know? I don't know nothin' about it really, man. All I know, I was here that day and Luis was with me.”

“Tell me about it,” Sandro suggested.

“Well I went over to his pad to see Luis about maybe one o'clock or something, y'know, and we sittin' aroun' his pad, you know, and then he got dress and we come down and walked aroun', you know.” His head was nodding easily, his eyes were fluttering closed occasionally.

“I'd like Mike to write all this down while you tell us. Okay?”

“That's okay, man, that's okay. I want to help Luis, cause I know that cat was with me and couldn't a killed no cop.”

Mike started writing:

My name is Eugene Mercader, age 29. I live at 173 South Third Street, Apartment 2D. I am living here since 1959. I have no phone. I am not employed now. This is my statement. On July 3rd 1967, at about 1
P.M.
I went to Luis Alvarado's house at 64 South Ninth Street. This is a rooming house, and he lives on the second floor. I woke Luis up and waited for him to wash up and get dressed. Then we came downstairs together. We went to the five and ten store on Broadway off the corner of Roebling Street, where Luis changed a hundred-dollar bill. That was between 1 and 2 in the afternoon. We stopped and talked with a man for a moment, then we went to Velez Restaurant on Roebling Street between Broadway and South Ninth Street. Luis had a steak, and I waited for him because I had already eaten. When we left the restaurant it was about 2 or 2:15
P.M.
Then we went to the Imperial Barber Shop on Roebling Street on the same block as the restaurant. Luis got a haircut, and I waited for him in the block on the sidewalk. It was close to 3
P.M.
when he was finished. We left together, and we split up around 3:30. Then I went home. I did not see him any more.

(Signed) Eugene Mercader

November 20, 1967

“Now I'd like you to sign that so I can have it for my files,” said Sandro. Eugene read the statement and signed it.

“If there's anything else I need, can I get in touch with you at this address?” Sandro asked.

“Yeah. That's my old lady's place.”

“Your mother or your wife?” asked Mike.

“My mother. I was away for a while. I was inside on a bit, but I'm out now. You can get in touch with me anytime.”

“You've got a record?” Sandro inquired.

“Yeah, I got a little sheet, man,” Eugene said, his head nodding. Sandro looked at Mike.

“Anything besides drugs?” asked Mike.

“Nothing much, man. Ya know, I got a petty larceny and an assault, third degree. But mostly, man, it's for drugs, you know?”

“Yeah,” Mike said, as Sandro motioned to him slightly. “Excuse me a minute.” He and Sandro moved away from the others.

“With friends like this,” Mike muttered, “your guy doesn't need any enemies.”