“That’s your clue?” I say, because I practically fit that description myself.
“Well, no. Not just Spanish music, some special kind. It’s in the report. It also said something about the tattoo indicating that he’s Ecuadorian. Anyway, they figure he’s a member of a street gang like the Latin Kings or MS-13.”
Wow, that’s some terrific random profiling there, Mr. Anderson. But the rent’s due, so I try to keep a placid surface. And tell him, “The Latin Kings are Puerto Rican, the Maras are Salvadoran, and they rarely let anybody else in. I don’t know of any Ecuadorians who’ve jumped in with them, but you never know what could happen as the new generation gets Americanized. I’ll check it out for you.”
He gives me the cocksure grin of a man who just bought exactly what he wanted, as always. But after we sign and file away our copies of the contracts, this glorified errand boy looks like he can’t wait to bug out of the jungle before the headhunters get wind of his scent.
I usually meet the reps from the big clients at the cushy offices of Davis & Brown in downtown Jamaica, but I was getting a weird vibe from this bunch so I just said screw it, I’ll take their money, but I want this guy to come to me and have to drag his skinny white ass to the barrio. Let him feel what it’s like to be a stranger, on alien turf. And I must say, I’m awful glad I did that.
I start with the police reports of the big shampoo bust and other recent crimes relating to counterfeiting, product diversion, and the rest of the gray-goods racket covering the area between Elmhurst and Corona south of Roosevelt Avenue, and Jackson Heights and East Elmhurst north of Roosevelt. That’s right, East Elmhurst is due north of Elmhurst. What do you expect from a borough where you have to know a different language on every block, where pigeons ride the A train to Rockaway Beach to scavenge from the garbage, where you know that Spider-Man lives at 20 Ingram Street in Forest Hills? No, really. He does.
Most of the cases deal with pirating — unauthorized duplication of CDs, DVDs, and computer software — which are of no interest to my client. The counterfeiting is mostly luxury items like watches, perfume, and designer handbags peddled by West African immigrants on fold-up tables, and the occasional case of Mouton-Cadet with labels made on a laser printer that fool the eye but not the fingers (they lack the raised embossments). But five-and-dime products like shampoo and antibacterial soap? Not much. Time to check out the shelves at the local farmacias.
Latinos take their music seriously, especially on Roosevelt Avenue east of 102nd Street. There’s a music store on every other block, and the cars — from tricked-out pimpmobiles to body-rot jobs with plastic wrap covering the gaping holes where the passenger windows should be — have top-of-the-line subwoofers pumping out bachata and merengue loud enough to compete with the 7 train roaring by overhead. And not one noise complaint is ever called in to the boys at the One-Ten. Though I do think that a spoiler on a battered Toyota Corolla is kind of pointless.
The store owner in the police report described the suspect’s nationality based on his choice of music and a tattoo of the Ecuadorian flag on his left bicep. But the only music style around here that is exclusively Ecuadorian is pasillo, which is too old-fashioned and sentimental for any self-respecting gangbanger to listen to. He probably meant reggaetón, the Spanish version of gangsta rap, which crosses ethnic borders in all directions, to the dismay of proud parents everywhere.
And the flag is not a “gang” tattoo. Most people don’t know the basic difference between the Colombian and Ecuadorian flags, which boldly fly yellow, blue, and red from second-floor windows and storefronts. (And to anyone who complains about Latinos in the U.S. flying the flags of their homelands, I dare you to go down Fifth Avenue on St. Pat’s Day, or to Little Italy during the Feast of San Gennaro, and try to take down the flags. See what happens.)
I stop by a few farmacias and botánicas and find a number of Syndose knock-offs, including a tube of minty toothpaste with the brand name Goldbloom misspelled Goldvloom, a mistake that only a Latino would make.
The panadería and ferretería — that is, the bakery and hardware store — are displaying handmade posters of Ray Ray in his Newtown High uniform, with his full name, Raymundo Reyes, keeping track of his hitting streak, which after yesterday’s ninth-inning blooper now stands at twenty-two games. Go, Ray Ray.
We take our sports seriously too, although soccer’s the favorite among Ecuadorians. It didn’t get much press up here, but a coach back home was shot when he didn’t select the ex-president’s son for the Under-20 World Cup in Argentina. Yeah, in case I haven’t mentioned it, Ecuador’s major exports are bananas, cocoa, shrimp, and unstable politicians, which is why so many of us come here hoping to catch a piece of the American dream. And sports offers a way out for many, even if it remains a distant dream most of the time. Either way, the bright lights of Shea Stadium cast a long shadow over the neighborhood.
Interviewing the store managers yields a range of responses. One Salvadoreño says the cops told him not to discuss the case without the state attorney general’s consent, but he won’t give me a name or a badge number, or sign a statement to that effect, even though I tell him it’s a bunch of tonterías. You know, B.S., but even the legal immigrants don’t want to tangle with the authorities when their citizenship applications are pending.
Another place is staffed by sullen teenagers making minimum wage who don’t seem to know anything but one-syllable words, and the next place has employed some fresh-off-the-boats who are still having trouble telling the difference between five- and ten-dollar bills. Then I hit a place on 104th Street where the manager talks a Caribbean mile-a-minute about beisbol and the pride of Corona, but he clams up when I ask about the antibiotics in the faded yellow boxes.
“How’d they get so faded? You leave them lying out in the sun?”
Dead air.
I make a show of flipping through my notes, writing a few things down very slowly.
“They’ve just been on the shelf a long time,” he says.
“Then it’s probably time to replace them,” I say, picking up one of the boxes. The expiration date is two years down the road. I mention this. “They can’t have been here that long.”
More silence.
I like the silence. It tells me a lot. “I’ll be back,” I say.
Next up is a drugstore run by a Colombiano whose attitude is: It’s the same stuff for half the price, so his customers buy it. What’s the big deal?
The next guy’s a compatriota, a paisano, an Ecuatoriano like me, who turns into a walking attitude problem when he accuses me of helping the big gringo corporations protect their money instead of going after the real criminals, like the hijos de puta who charged a couple of hundred would-be immigrants $5,000 each for a boat ride to Florida, then left them floundering in rough seas about 200 miles from the coast of Mexico; or the sinvergüenzas who hire day laborers and abandon them without pay in the middle of Nassau County because they can’t go and complain to the Board of Labor; or the perros at the Hartley Hotel in midtown Manhattan who laid off one-third of their employees after 9/11 and told the rest of them to work double shifts if they wanted to keep their jobs, because business was bad. So they were just using 9/11 as an excuse to run the old speed-up.