Red on Red Read online

  “Did you notice that I got the red rose?” Esposito interrupted, divining his own meanings. “Red, for passion, romance? In a word, ass? What does white stand for here, white boy? It stands for ‘Why doncha get outta the way?’ ”

  “Did you notice it was the mother who gave it to you? Do you think it might be that she has the hots for you? That she wants us to double-date, me and Daysi, you and Grandma?”

  “You know, you just spoiled it for me.”

  “Good.”

  The building had once been grand, with a columned foyer and marble lobby, but the details that had once announced its quality now highlighted the decline. The white marble panels had turned a urinal yellow, with pocks and divots all over, showing the thinness of the veneer. Tattered posters announced the monthly schedule for the exterminator, bus junkets to the Atlantic City casinos, a reward for a lost cat. There was an alcove for the mailboxes, in the far corner, from which sharp Spanish words of abuse could be heard. “Hijo de puta! Animal! Perro! Pinche mugroso!” The detectives crossed the lobby to the alcove, where a man with his arms full of groceries barked at a crackhead pissing in the corner. The man with the groceries was young and strong, in a crisp white guayabera shirt, with ropes of gold around his neck and wrists. He would have put the bags down, but the crackhead had made that option less attractive. The crackhead was jittery and put-upon, and determined to finish. “Yo, yo … gotta go …”

  “Hey! You, ya savage! Get the hell out of here!”

  Both men turned in surprise at Esposito’s voice, and neither seemed pleased to hear it. The crackhead zipped up hastily and walked out past the detectives, and the other man hesitated, then began to walk as well. Esposito stepped in front of him, intrigued by the reaction. The grocery bags were filled with rolls of plastic wrap, twenty at least.

  Esposito asked, “Everything okay?”

  The man gave a polite nod, and he got one in return, toward the grocery bags.

  “There was a sale?”

  “Qué?”

  “Yeah, whatever.”

  Esposito let him pass, and he walked up the stairs. They followed him without comment up the first flight, and he seemed relieved to see they were no longer with him—“Buenos días! Gracias!”—as he continued up. As instructed, the detectives found the second door on the right, 2B. Nick knocked hard, and the door opened. He never liked that, an open door, especially when he wasn’t in uniform. It gave people a reason to come after you, or an excuse. Nick knocked again and stepped inside. His case, his call. A long hallway led to a dim room with a couch.

  “Hello? Anybody home? Police here. Policía …”

  Nick heard Spanish television on in the back, and kept knocking on the walls, calling out again in nonthreatening tones as he went down the hall. When they reached the living room, he heard a dull growl, low and throaty, and they stopped short. Esposito bumped into him from behind. Nick had no love of being bitten, but Esposito’s dread ran deeper, and he had already about-faced to scramble back out before Nick could turn to run. The growl turned to a screech, an awful noise that joined a war whoop with the sound of a kicked cat, and the creature who’d created it flung open the bedroom door with a bang. Nick was made speechless by the wild-eyed little man who leapt out, improbably costumed in a blue tank top with a silver star on the chest, tight red underpants, and black slippers. Nick started to laugh, thinking that all he lacked was a cape and mask to be a superhero. He kept laughing even as the man rushed him with a machete.

  Esposito pushed Nick aside before the man reached him, holding the machete overhead with both hands. He led with his belly, back arched to deliver the maximum blow, and he ran with cartoonishly piston-quick steps on duck-splayed feet. His movement and his battle gargle stopped abruptly when Esposito dropped him with a kick to the crotch. He collapsed onto the floor, and the machete fell with a clank. Esposito picked it up and tossed it to the back of the living room, where it smashed a goldfish bowl. The fish flopped haplessly on the rug. Nick began to laugh so hard that tears filled his eyes, and he had to sit down. Esposito looked at him with concern, wondering if he’d been hurt. A moan rose from the man on the floor.

  “No fair …”

  It was the perfect thing for the man to say, balled up and bawling in kiddie clothes, a protest at cheating in a pillow fight. Esposito leaned down to place a knee in his back and cuffed him. He looked over to Nick, who shrugged; the situation was more ambiguous than it had at first appeared. Yes, he’d tried to chop their heads off, but they were intruders in his home. He could argue that he’d thought they were burglars, and he might even have believed it. The detectives had gone there for a brief exchange of information, news of a death for the name of the dead. They had other things to do, and had no interest in arresting him, in making another case out of this. They knew nothing about him; that, at least, should change. Nick found a wallet on the kitchen counter and took out the license. He called the squad and had them run the name—Raul Costa—and was told that his criminal history consisted of one arrest, for hopping a turnstile in 1993. He might not have been much of a superhero, but his villainy was barely more impressive. They let him catch his breath, waited for his nausea to pass. This could go either way, Nick thought.

  Costa lifted his head from the floor to regard them with wary, watery eyes. He had smooth cheeks and curly black hair, a pouty mouth that formed, eventually, a question. “Well?” As Esposito lifted him to his feet, Nick kicked the goldfish and as much broken glass as he could manage under the couch.

  “What’s the matter with you? What the hell’s wrong with you? You could have killed somebody. We could have killed you, you shithead!”

  Costa smiled weakly at Esposito, evidently flattered at being considered such a figure of danger.

  “I didn’t know…. Will you let me go now?”

  “No. Turn around. Face the wall.”

  Esposito looked again at Nick, who raised his hands. The threat had passed, as had the phase of the ridiculous; he still had somber business to finish. He remembered the bruises on the Mexican woman—Maria. She had a name, Maria. Nick went over to Costa and led him to the couch. He was “thin, thirties, nothing much to look at,” as Maria’s friend had said. He wasn’t especially short, but Nick could see how the women would think so; smallness was an impression he left you with. They sat him down, still cuffed.

  “Do you know why we’re here?”

  “No, why?”

  “Is anyone else here? Do you live alone?”

  Though he was shackled, nearly naked, before strangers who had kicked him, Costa no longer seemed perturbed; instead, he seemed strangely content with the arrangements. Tufts of snaky hair escaped from his baby clothes at the armpit and crotch.

  “Nobody here but me … and the dog! Ruff! You should see your faces!”

  Esposito took out his pad and pen, trying to redirect Costa’s attention back to the realm of angry officialdom. Esposito turned off the TV and scanned the dingy room, hoping to see a bag of marijuana, court paperwork, an illegal partition between rooms, anything to hang a threat on. Except for an old photo on the wall of a woman with a young boy, tinted in pastels, the place was as dull and impersonal as a motel room. Esposito was angrier than Nick, or at least he showed it more. Nick stepped in before it escalated too far, too fast. Nick didn’t like Costa any more than Esposito did, but open hostilities would only prolong the conversation. After a few questions, they’d be done with him.

  “Guy, listen, nobody’s in trouble here, but we got work to do, so let’s do it and move on. Do you know where Maria is? Your girlfriend?”

  “I know a lot of Marias. Everybody Spanish does.”

  “ ‘I know a lot of Marias,’ ” said Esposito, going into sardonic-repeat mode. “Are you kidding me? Where’s your girlfriend?”

  “I got a couple of girlfriends.”

  Esposito whirled to face him. “The man says, ‘I got a couple of girlfriends.’ ”

  Nick wasn’t pleased by
the direction it was taking. Esposito stepped away, but what he said next was not entirely under his breath.

  “That’s where he gets his panties.”

  “What?”

  “What—what?”

  Nick cut in again. “Stop messing around. Your girlfriend Maria, somebody reported her missing. Where is she? When did you see her last?”

  Esposito stepped in close. “When’s the last time you saw her alive?”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “You said no one was in trouble.”

  “That was before. When was the last time you saw her?”

  “Three or four days ago. We had an argument.”

  “Over what?”

  “Stupid stuff, nothing.”

  “Over what?”

  “She didn’t live here. She only stayed sometimes.”

  “What was her full name? Date of birth? Did she get mail here?”

  Nick broke in. “What happened to her?”

  “She didn’t get mail. She was Mexican.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  The man was still off balance, but he was beginning to recover. Esposito and Nick both stepped in to him, close, looking down. Esposito tapped him on the chest.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Costa. Raul Costa.”

  “Raul Costa, answer every question I ask you, when I ask it, or I will knock your teeth down your throat.”

  Costa’s lip trembled, and then his lips pursed into a self-pitying, sulky frown. But there followed in short order the information they needed: Maria Fonseca, who’d turned twenty-one in August. She had lived there for six months, more or less, and he had a phone bill with a call to Mexico on it, from when he’d let her talk to her family as a birthday present. The detectives uncuffed him and let him go to the bedroom to find it.

  “Do you believe this guy?” Nick asked.

  “I’ve met him five minutes, and I wanna hang myself, too.”

  “Did you notice, he hasn’t asked much about her?”

  “I think he’s enjoying himself.”

  Esposito went over to the photograph of the woman and child.

  “I bet it’s him and his mother. She shoulda strangled him in his crib.”

  Nick went back into the room with Costa to check on him. The room was small and neat, and he fished through a stack of papers from a dresser drawer. He glanced back at Nick when he came in, then continued to look. There were no feminine possessions in the room. Had he packed them up already, thrown them out? In the closet, there were two blouses, one with red and white checks, one flowered. In a paper bag in the corner, there were balls of yarn, patterns for making clothing, rolled into loose tubes. There was a white sweater, the top of a white sweater, that could have been for a child, a girl barely in her teens, the same white wool Maria had used in the park.

  “What was the fight over?”

  “Because … I have other girls!”

  Costa had a smirk on his face that he didn’t try to suppress. He returned to the old bills, then took one out and handed it to Nick. On August 10, there was a long number, an international call. Nick took the paper and put it into his pocket. When he leaned in to look at the other papers, Costa tried to block his view. Nick picked up a pile of snapshots and saw the topmost, Maria and Costa. At the beach, on separate towels. She smiled. He had a sullen glare. Before Costa could protest, Nick barked at him—“Evidence!”—and put it into his pocket. Costa said nothing, tensing up. Nick was alert to the tension and pushed him back a pace before checking the second photo. The image didn’t register; it was out of focus, a haze of shapes. The next was appallingly clear, and Nick flung the stack of pictures away, disgusted. He had many curiosities about Costa, but whether he could put his ankles behind his ears, absent even his revolting underpants, was not one of them. Nick rubbed his hands on his jacket, shaking his head, and Costa seemed pleased as they returned to the living room. The sight of Esposito took some of the spring out of Costa’s step, but the detectives were done with him, and he knew it.

  “Did she kill herself? She said she would kill herself. Did she leave a note?”

  “Yes,” Nick lied.

  “Can I see it?”

  “No.”

  “What did she say?”

  Nick took the DOA Polaroid from his pocket and held it out to him. Costa reached to take it, but Nick pushed his hand away. Nick wouldn’t let him touch it.

  “Is this her?”

  Costa stared at the photo, without evident emotion. “Yes … but she didn’t … I mean, can you at least tell me what the note said?”

  All he wanted was gossip, Nick knew, to flatter himself as he laughed in his little underpants after they left. Nick couldn’t stand to look at him. Esposito laid a hand on Nick’s shoulder to calm him, and turned to Costa.

  “Mr. Costa, I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry about how we were when we came in. It’s a bad situation. We have to be going now.”

  All the anger was gone from Esposito’s voice; instead, there was almost a sniveling civility, as if he were concerned that Costa might make a complaint. It wasn’t like him, and Nick didn’t like it. He had come to appreciate his partner’s vigilante instincts, even as he hoped to restrain them; the idea of Esposito kissing ass—and this ass, of all asses—was more than Nick could stomach. But when Nick turned away, he took in the picture on the wall: Mother now featured a fine set of whiskers and a shiny black nose, six tits, and a tail. Nick turned again and began to hurry out of the apartment. Esposito took his time following, but he kept to the far side of the room, so Costa would not see the improvements to the portrait. Costa trailed behind, returning to his earlier cockiness, seeing that they had nothing on him, that his secrets had been taken to the grave.

  “What did she say? Did she say anything about me? I have a right to know!”

  Nick was at the door when Esposito responded. Again, he was regretful about the earlier misunderstandings.

  “Mr. Costa, since you weren’t married, it’s confidential. It’s a legal thing, about suicide notes. But man-to-man, it’s a lot of hysterical female bullshit about syphilis, or one of those type diseases. The doctors, they can cure it with one shot. Most of ’em, at least the ones they know about. I think. Anyway, I thought you should know. Sorry, I don’t shake hands—nothing personal.”

  This time, they heard the door lock behind them. As they descended the stairs for the next errand, Esposito looked back and grinned. He held up his pen, and gave it a little wave, like a conductor’s baton.

  “No dog? Now he’s a son of a bitch…. Didn’t I tell ya, Nicky? You gotta make ’em pay.”

  Outside the building, they paused for a moment, not from tiredness but to let the last place leave their minds a little. Nick bowed slightly to Esposito and tapped his forehead in salute. He had conjured plagues and abominations upon the enemy. Esposito returned the bow, graciously. They crossed the street to Kiko’s building and went upstairs. Esposito took the lead spot at the door; this visit was for his case. Salsa music dunned inside, making the walls vibrate. No one would answer even if someone was home, because no one could hear, and they pounded the door and kicked it, more in frustration than in a belief that anyone would answer. Nick tried the knob, and the door opened. How was it that people felt safe on this block? Maybe the rest of the neighborhood kept their doors locked against Kiko and Costa. Nick and Esposito stepped inside, and Esposito moved past Nick, to take the lead. His case, his bullet.

  “Yo! Anybody home here?”

  Again, the long hallway, and the rest of the layout like Costa’s, a small one-bedroom. Nick touched the wall and could feel the beat of the music in it. Again, they were uninvited, but at least they’d announced themselves.

  “Hey! Police here! Hey!”

  Again, an assailant. A little boy of two or three charged down the hall and grabbed hold of Esposito’s legs, hugging him. The boy was naked except for a diaper, chubby and golden-s
kinned, with wild curly hair. The child was odd-looking, with popping eyes, a wide upturned nose, and a long lower lip. His face could have been made with bits of bat, bug, and monkey. Still, he was a sweet-natured beast.

  “Hi!” the boy said.

  Esposito holstered his gun and picked him up. “Wouldja look at you!” He carried him over to the stereo and turned off the music. There was a comfortable little couch with a single throw pillow, a vast new wide-screen TV, slim-bodied and freestanding on the floor beside a video game console. Nothing else in the room. The floors were bare, as were the walls. Sesame Street was on, a song about the letter N.

  “Hey, little man, who’s watching you?”

  “Hi!”

  “Dove es su mama, su papa?”

  Esposito sometimes slipped bits of Italian into his subway Spanish, the loose change of foreign words from his own childhood. Nick’s Spanish was pidgin, but when he heard Esposito’s accent, the word stuck out—it was spoken with Italian leisure instead of Caribbean speed.

  “Dónde, not dove. Don’t confuse the kid any more than you have to.”

  “Dónde es su mama, su papa?”

  “No están.”

  “Beautiful.”

  Esposito set the child down, and quick peeks in the kitchen, the bathroom, and the bedroom proved him truthful. The child took hold of Esposito’s hand while he looked. There was a mattress in the bedroom, and clothing in piles and plastic bags; the kitchen had no furniture at all.

  “Donde es su mama, su papa?”

  “No están.”

  “No shit.”

  “Very nice,” Nick said, fretful. He was disturbed by the child left alone, still angry from the Costa encounter. These people, he started to say to himself, not knowing what he meant, only that he didn’t like it.

  “What?”

  “His memoir. I can see it: ‘Chapter One, in which I am abandoned by my parents, and a policeman teaches me to curse.’ ”