Hipster Death Rattle Page 9

  “I just came from helping someone move. Sorry if I offend.”

  “You helped somebody move? That is so unlike you.”

  “I’m going over to my desk now. Try not to inhale.”

  “O.M.G. You got two messages, B.T.W.,” she said and waved a neon pink post-it note. “Patrick’s ex called. She wants to talk to you.”

  “Kirsten? What the hell?” He took the pink note. “Kirsten” was spelled “Christen.”

  “If you don’t get a chance, don’t worry,” Gabby said, “I gave her your number.”

  “What the hell?” Tony said, and then he muttered to himself, “Everybody’s giving out my number.”

  “She’s grieving. Obvs. She probably just wants to talk about Patrick, reminisce, you know. Please. You just don’t get people, you really don’t.”

  “I get enough of people, thank you very much,” he said.

  “There was another slashing last night. Did you hear? What is this neighborhood coming to?”

  “Yeah. I read about it.”

  Because it seemed to give off an air of death, Tony gave Patrick’s chair a wide berth, as much as he could given the tight space. He opened a file cabinet and poured most of the contents from the box Ken Stoller had given him into it. He put a camera and a couple bags of flash drives, including the one with his name on it, in his messenger bag.

  “O.M.G., are those flash drives? Can I have some?” Gabby said. “They’re so handy, and my computer at home is always crashing.”

  “Sure, these are from Patrick’s,” Tony said and tossed her a bag of them from the cabinet.

  “Oh, that’s sad,” she said, holding the bag tentatively. “And a little creepy.”

  “Relax, they’re just flash drives, not ghosts.” With great relief, Tony sat down at his desk, which was just four feet from Gabby’s, and said, “If anyone else calls, I’ll be in my office.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  This place on Grand Street used to be a clothing store where Petrosino bought his suit for high school graduation, his first suit ever (not counting his communion suit, which was a hand-me-down). It was run by a couple of Jews then, and they eventually got bought out by a couple of Italians. Then the place was turned into the House of Jeans or World of Jeans, something like that, selling all things denim. A Greek guy started it, then it got bought by a Puerto Rican lady, and then a West Indian. Then it closed and stayed empty. And now it was a sushi restaurant. Judging by the manager and the entire staff, it looked to be owned by Mexicans—Hispanics, anyway.

  Petrosino and Hadid were talking to the head sushi chef: Stasio Mejias, a dark-complected man of less-than-average height, with a shaved head and several prison tattoos, all of the gang variety. They were just outside the kitchen, in the unshaded backyard behind the restaurant, baking in the afternoon heat along with bags and boxes of garbage. The stink of dead fish and putrefying vegetables was so strong Petrosino could taste them in his mouth. But he was enduring it along with a lesson in street economics.

  Mejias sat on a drum of peanut oil and was the one giving the Business 101 lecture.

  “It don’t go,” Mejias said. “It ain’t worth the visibility, you see what I’m saying? It’s counterproductive. Back in the day, all the rich white customers were in Manhattan, and that was another gang’s territory. So we was stuck here with the addicts and the school kids and lots of teachers. More teachers than you’d think, boy! But now—now the rich white people, they’re in our own—I mean, the gang’s—hood. They be living right next door. Right in our buildings, man. It’s great for business. Buy local. Smoke local. It’s sustainability.”

  Mejias had been convicted of second-degree assault and served five years for slashing a man across the face with a machete. Nowadays, he told them, all he cut was spicy salmon rolls on a daily basis.

  “Hey, any of you got a cigarette?” he said.

  “Great idea,” Petrosino said. He offered an open pack to Mejias, who took a cigarette, and he took one for himself, then lit them both.

  “Oh great. Now it’s a smoking club,” Hadid said.

  “What’s his problem?”

  “Health,” Petrosino said. “Go on. So what do you think this slashing is all about?”

  “Well, I don’t know, but maybe a couple of young bucks are wilding out there, not like an organization thing, just to be stupid. From an organizational commercial business standpoint, it don’t go to go slashing people, especially your customers.”

  “You don’t happen to be hanging with any of your old friends now, would you?” Petrosino said. “To know it ain’t them for sure.”

  “Naw, man, that would violate my parole. But I don’t gotta hang with them. I read the news. I hear the gossip. But it don’t go. It’s economics.”

  “Get this guy,” Hadid said.

  “In fact, in my humble opinion, my bet would be that the gangstas ain’t liking this slasher thing one bit. It’s gonna mess with their branding. So you know they on the looky-loo for whoever’s cutting people up.”

  “Oh, wouldn’t that be nice?” Hadid said. “We got no reason to believe any of the shit you’re saying.”

  “Man, believe what you want,” Mejias told Hadid. “Don’t be such an ass about it. Be like your partner. He’s cool people.”

  Petrosino sensed his partner tensing up and put a hand on his shoulder. “Okay, okay. Listen, we hear what you’re saying, Stas. But we need a lead, somebody in the ranks who can give us some confirmation of what you’re saying.”

  “Excuse me, but since when did it become healthy to snitch. No one told me. Maybe I was out buying mahi mahi.”

  “C’mon. Just give us something, someone else to bother with questions on a hot day,” Petrosino said, blowing a huge cloud of smoke out of the side of his mouth.

  “Eladio Cortés,” Mejias said, looking around. “Talk to him. He’s more hooked up than I am. Don’t tell him I sent you.”

  “Right-o. Thanks,” Petrosino said. “Keep your hands clean, Mejias.”

  “‘Employees must wash hands before returning to work,’” Mejias said.

  Petrosino kept smoking as he walked through the tiny restaurant. Out front, he flicked away his cigarette and got into the car.

  As he sat down, his partner said, “What a fat lot of crap. Son of a bitch.”

  “Don’t get your knickers in a twist. The whole day’s been a waste. Tuchman’s got us on a wild good chase. We talked to five gangbangers today, former and current, and they’re all pretty much saying the same thing. And I believe them.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t see how we can trust these people?”

  Petrosino took out a handkerchief and wiped his face, trying to get out the smell of garbage with no luck. The smell got on the handkerchief, but it didn’t leave his face. “You ever been in a gang?” he said.

  “I never had the pleasure.”

  “Too bad. I was in two. A long time ago when I was very young and full of fire and pizza sauce. Dukes of Williamsburg and then the Brooklyneers. Sure, we got into fights and caused some property damage. But those guys—those guys were my brothers. I would do anything for them, back then and even now, if they ever asked me for anything. I’m not saying the gangs today are like those gangs. But they’re not all psychopaths and stone-cold killers. Some of them are just abandoned sons of bitches, people looking for family. Family! Do you know what I mean?”

  His partner’s phone was ringing. “Yeah, I have to get this.”

  “I was trying to say something important. Are you friggin’ kidding me?”

  “Are you serious?” Hadid said into the phone, ignoring him.

  “Right-o.”

  “Send me a picture.”

  “Jesus H. Fucking Christ. Might as well be talking to myself. La di da.”

  Hadid was writing something down. “Is that right?” he said to whoever he was talking to. “Is that right?” he said again. “And what about the last two? Yeah. Send me a picture.” He thanked whoever he wa
s talking to and turned to Petrosino. “Petro, listen to this.”

  Petrosino ignored the nickname. “Okay, what’s the dilio?”

  “Hold up…Here.” Hadid handed him his phone.

  “What’s this?”

  “I just got a call from Zamorano, one of the patrolmen down by the waterfront. I just joined his fantasy baseball league.”

  “About which I will never care.”

  “Anyway, yeah, our first two murder scenes. Victims Hewitt and Nelson. Seems somebody spray-painted this same graffiti near the scenes, on the wall nearby or on the sidewalk, like here.” Hadid held up his phone.

  Petrosino looked at the picture. “‘hipster death rattle.’ What the fuck does that mean?”

  “Some people have no respect for the dead,” Hadid said. “No gang signs that he could see, but still kind of looks like gang M.O., no? Marking territory or taking pride in their work.”

  “Yeah, yeah, they do that. What about at the latest crime scenes? The Stoller kid.”

  “He checked. He said there was nothing there. Not yet anyway.”

  “Make sure Zamorano keeps an eye out. If they start tagging the other scenes, we want to catch them in the act.”

  “Will do,” Hadid said. He relayed the message and then said, “So, this really is a gang thing. It looks like Mejias was bullshitting us.”

  “Worse than that. It looks like Tuchman might be right.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The bouncer at SubBar looked at Tony’s ID for a long time.

  Tony said, “I’ll save you the trouble: I’m a Taurus.”

  The bouncer was an oak tree wrapped in black, like a bad art installation. His hair was tied in a knot on top, and he had a blank face marred by a nose so broken it could have passed for a thumb. But what he clearly wanted you to notice was his facial hair, another one of those trendy, Smith Brothers beards, this one tied prettily at the bottom with a tiny bow. A whimsical touch, but he still seemed as friendly as a coffin.

  “Not that astrology means anything, of course,” Tony added.

  The bouncer handed back the ID, and Tony could still feel his gaze as he squeezed past him into the bar.

  Located less than ten feet from the Metropolitan Avenue subway entrance, SubBar was a tiny dive, barely bigger than a studio apartment. The black walls were decorated with items snatched from the subway system—L, J, M, and G train signs, a vintage subway map in its frame, a floor-to-ceiling column of “No Se Apoye Contra La Puerta” stickers.

  A couple of barflies sat on stools at the end of the bar, and behind it was Kirsten, Patrick Stoller’s ex. Or at least he thought she was Kirsten.

  The last time Tony had seen her, she had been a freckle-faced and honey-haired young woman who never used makeup and whose wardrobe favored pink and white and orange. The woman behind the bar wore all black, thick eye makeup, and green-orange hair. Her button nose had a spike in one nostril. Her sleeveless T-shirt was loose-fitting (and distracting because of it) and on the right forearm was a passable facsimile of Johnny Cash sticking up his middle finger, and on the left, what looked like a patch for a brand-new tattoo.

  The big city changes everyone, Tony thought. No one escapes unscathed.

  “Tony!” She reached over the bar to give him an awkward, but still warm hug. She gave him a solid wet kiss on the cheek. “It’s great to see you, sweetie.”

  Tony said, “Hey. Got your text just now. Thought I’d drop in for a nightcap.”

  “Right on!” Kirsten poured a shot of bourbon for each of them.

  After Tony had turned in the community meeting story, he wheedled a cash advance from Bobbert. Feeling flush, he had gone to McCarren Park to play a twilight game of pétanque and go out for a few, four, five beers afterward. He was pleasantly buzzed already and would never say no to a free shot.

  “To Patrick,” she said, raising her shot.

  “To Patrick,” Tony said. “A good guy.”

  “Oh god,” she said after sucking down the bourbon. “It’s horrible what happened.” Her pretty face broke, scrunching in a paroxysm of grief that Tony had no idea how to deal with.

  I should have texted and not shown up, Tony thought. Why didn’t I just text?

  Kirsten took a napkin from the behind the bar and blew her nose. “I’m sorry.”

  “Ah…don’t be,” Tony said,

  “I miss him so much. I can’t tell you how much.”

  “You guys were together a while.”

  “I was with him since before we moved to New York together, yeah,” she said.

  “Long time,” he said.

  “Yes, it was.”

  “Yeah.”

  It went like that for another hour and two more shots apiece. She reminisced, and Tony agreed with her reminiscence. He was surprised at how many times he had actually hung out with Patrick and her and how good the memories of it were. Although, it was Kirsten he had really liked hanging out with. He didn’t remember a damned thing Patrick had ever said or done on those occasions. She was pretty, and she was getting prettier with every beer.

  Tony was wondering what the protocol was in such circumstances—ex-girlfriend of a dead co-worker—when Kirsten told the bar patrons in an unexpectedly loud voice that it was getting on time to close.

  Then she put her elbows on the bar and hunkered close to Tony. Her face was so close, he could smell the bourbon on her breath.

  “Oh, sweetie, there was something I wanted to ask you,” she said.

  “Sure,” Tony said. Hmm, maybe she’s thinking about the proper protocol in these situations as well.

  “I know it’s kind of a strange question, so I didn’t want to just ask you over the phone. You see, when Patrick and I broke up, it was kind of sudden, and we were both pretty pissed at each other. And when I left, I ended up leaving a lot of my stuff there. Clothes and stuff.”

  “Yeah?”

  She moved away and began working her way around the bar, wiping things down and closing out the cash register.

  “I just never got around to getting them,” she said. “So, I know it’s weird, but Patrick had stuff at the office, I’m sure. He’s—he was—very anal, so I happen to know he had a spare set of keys at the office, so I was wondering if you could, you know, get them for me?”

  “Keys to his apartment? You didn’t keep a set?”

  “I didn’t. Like I said, I was pissed. I wasn’t thinking.”

  Tony followed her around the tiny bar, helping her put chairs on tables. “I hate to tell you this, but Patrick’s mom and dad, they took everything home yesterday.”

  “What? Wait. The Stollers? They took everything?”

  “Did you expect them to leave stuff behind?” Tony said.

  “I’m sorry. I meant: already.”

  “But, listen, I didn’t see any women’s clothes. But a lot of stuff was packed by the time I got there. They probably have your stuff.” He thought it best not to tell her about all the leftover stuff that was bagged and tossed on the sidewalk. By now, any clothes would be long gone, in the garbage dump, sold to a thrift store, or on someone’s back.

  “Call them again,” Tony said. “They can check and send it to you. I don’t know if you’re going to the funeral—”

  “To be painfully honest, they never liked me very much, so, yeah, no, so not going. But you know what? I will contact the Stollers. I should stay in touch with them. They’re such good people.”

  Tony wondered if he should ask her to come to his place for another nightcap, just to be friendly. He was wondering if he had anything to drink at home when a long shadow fell over his shoulder.

  “You met my boyfriend, right?” Kirsten said, indicating the colossal bouncer with the bow-tied beard. “This is Gunnar.”

  “Wonderful to meet you,” Tony lied.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The bone-white dominos rattled on the kitchen table. Tony’s mother mixed the tiles under her soft, small hands. It was late on a Thursday afternoon, and sh
e had wanted to play dominos instead of watching TV. The air conditioner was working, and Tony had bought two airplane bottles of Kahlua for her. The previous night’s indulgence at SubBar still throbbed in his head and stomach, so he stuck with water.

  When the tiles were settled, she and Tony drew from the pile. She looked at her draw and then immediately smacked a double-six tile into the middle of the table.

  “You always draw the double six,” Tony said.

  “Play,” she said.

  “Brujeria,” Tony muttered. Witchcraft. He didn’t have a single six. He took five tiles from the pile before he found a six-and-four tile to play. “I don’t know why I play you. You always win.”

  “Practice,” she said. “You get there.”

  She threw down a double-four. He answered with a four-five. She threw down a five-three, and Tony realized he had no threes either.

  He sighed and said, “Didn’t Jerry say anything to you?”

  “He said he would send me some money for rent,” his mother said. “But that’s too much. He already pay for my tickets.” Tony’s mother went to Puerto Rico for vacation every year, come sunshine or hurricane.

  “When do you leave?”

  “Two weeks. You should come.”

  “Maybe next time.”

  “I hear that every year,” she said.

  Later, while she watched TV, Tony snuck a twenty-dollar bill in her purse, another in the sugar bowl where she kept change, another in her coat. He knew it was very likely that after the next time he came over, he’d find them all tucked back into his messenger bag, but that was a chance he was willing to take.

  In the living room, his mother sat in her recliner, and Tony plopped on the sagging couch. He got out his laptop and read the news. On page four of the Daily News, a headline read “B’burg Braces for More Slashing Attacks.” On page two of the Post: “Murder Is Trending in Wmsbg.” Both articles quoted the police as saying it was a “few separate incidents” that were “not linked.”

  Tony remembered that he still had to look at those flash drives that Ken Stoller had given him. He fished one out of the ziplock bag and connected it to his laptop. In it were countless versions of “KingzCounty.ANovel.PStoller.” Tony rolled his eyes and ejected it immediately. Three of the drives had copies of video files, hopefully not porn. He would have to make sure later. Another held documents about street gangs, PDFs of short articles about some gang leader some Eladio Cortés, picture files of same. Snooze.