“I... I can’t,” Frankie said. He swallowed hard. “I don’t have that much in my account.”
Don Pedro loomed over him. “Listen, cabrón, you better figure out a way to get the two hundred. Or we’ll have to figure it out for you, comprende?”
“I don’t have it,” Frankie repeated. A voice in the back of his head told him he was being ridiculous. He had an NYPD shield in his pocket and a gun in a holster. He had nothing to fear from this lug. The voice of reason cut in and told the other voice to shut the fuck up. He cleared his throat, started to explain.
Don Pedro got red in the face, but Tía Alba spoke calmly. “It’s all right, Paquito. These things happen. Don’t worry, Pedro, we’ll work it out. Paco’s a good boy. We can make some arrangement.”
Don Pedro looked like he wanted to arrange Frankie’s face in a new configuration, but then he nodded. “As always, you are right, Alba. I will leave it to you to work something out with the boy.” He wandered back into the bedroom.
“Now,” she said, “what can we work out?” She closed her eyes for a moment. “I know! We are in need of a guard. You will be the guard.”
“A guard? You already have a security system here.”
“No, no. More of a... bodyguard. Yes, a bodyguard.” She nodded. “It’s settled. You will go down to the second floor and make sure that everything is all right with our guests. Then we will be even.”
“Oh, no, tía. Not that. I can’t...”
She clapped her hands. “You can, and you will.” She checked her watch. “Starting now. And you will come here every night this week. Then I will see you next week, as usual,” she said, beaming again. “Now, come. I will bring you downstairs.”
Frankie trailed her down the flight of steps, feebly protesting the whole way, although he knew it was useless. If only he had been able to get that refund, he wouldn’t be into Tía Alba for the two hundred. He’d started out working in this enterprise at his wife’s insistence. At first, it had been a way to earn easy money, just a simple method of stretching their budget a little further. Somehow, he’d wound up behind the eight ball, into Alba for more money each week. It reminded him of that Tennessee Ernie Ford song “Sixteen Tons”: Another day older and deeper in debt... And now he did indeed owe his soul to the company store.
That store, in this case, was Tía Alba and her merry band of fences, who specialized in moving hot — or at the very least, lukewarm — goods. He had a sneaking suspicion that the profits somehow got sent back to the land of the camel jockeys and the home of the ragheads, but his ass was so deep in the alligator pool that he was in no position to do anything about it, even if he knew for sure, which he didn’t. He made damn sure he didn’t. Which was another reason he didn’t want to go downstairs.
He stopped his thoughts as Alba led him into her other apartment on the second floor. The place was jammed, mostly with women, but quite a few men swarmed around as well. It had the feel and sound of a casbah or bazaar. Merchandise was selected, haggling ensued, and deals were finalized. A Middle Eastern — looking man in Western dress approached Alba. She made the introductions quickly, calling the man Mohammed. She turned Frankie over to him, saying, “Mohammed will show you what to do. Now you visit me again tomorrow night before you come down here.” She squeezed his cheek before she left. Hard.
Frankie rubbed his face. Mohammed’s hands snaked over Frankie’s torso and legs expertly. Before Frankie could smack the guy, Mohammed said, “Ah, you are armed. It is good to be prepared. Come, I will show you what to do.”
Frankie glared at him, but what choice did he have? He followed Mohammed to a stool next to the front door. Frankie was to sit there and guard the place for the next four hours.
I can’t stand this, he thought. What am I doing here? His life started flashing in front of his eyes. Was he dying? Or just wishing he were dead? He knew that was a sin, but at this point, what was one more? He pictured María at home, working comfortably at the laptop, using the scanner like a pro, churning stuff out of the color printer like a one-woman Kinko’s.
He sighed and tried to pretend he was on a shit-fixer — a post in the bowels of some shithole in Brooklyn where you got sent if you fucked up. Well, that was apt. He’d ridden out a couple of assignments to shit-fixers in his time, and he supposed he could do it again. Of course he could. He pulled himself up taller. Just another... he glanced at his watch... three hours and thirty-eight minutes to go. He opened the door to let a stout Dominican woman with three gold teeth leave. She waddled out with a bundle of clothing wrapped in string. Frankie spotted the store tags still hanging from the items.
As soon as he closed the door, the buzzer rang. Mohammed appeared and inspected the visitor through the closed-circuit TV system. He nodded to Frankie. “It’s okay, my friend. You can let her in. She is good customer.” He disappeared into the throng, calling out, “Ladies, ladies! No fighting. We have plenty for everyone.”
There was a smart rap at the door. Frankie peered through the peep and saw the same woman who had just been spotted on the CCTV. She was a petite Latina wearing jeans and a red T-shirt with a denim vest that had embroidered flowers on it. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He didn’t know why, but his cop intuition kicked in and told him something was wrong.
She tapped on the door again. Mohammed appeared, glaring at Frankie. “Let her in, my friend. That is what you are here for.” Before Frankie could protest, Mohammed opened the door and ushered the woman in. “Hello, my friend,” he said to her, taking her hand between both of his. “We have fine selection today. Check it out.”
The woman smiled at him. Frankie noticed she had good white teeth. No gold. The alarm bells clanged in the back of his skull. He looked for Mohammed and spotted him bent over a clothing rack in the back, making a deal with a heavyset lady in a purple pantsuit.
Frankie tucked his hand in the crook of Mohammed’s elbow and pulled the man upright. “I am making deal,” Mohammed spit at him. “You go back to door.”
Frankie pulled the man roughly out of the crowd. “I need to talk to you,” he hissed. “There’s something about that woman that’s not right.” He indicated the newest arrival by lifting his chin in her direction.
Mohammed glanced her way. “She is good customer. She has shopped here many times before. You go back to door.” He shook Frankie off and lost himself among the shoppers.
Frankie stood there for a moment, unused to people ignoring him. He headed back to the door, thinking to let Tía Alba know what was going on. She was a businesswoman, yes, but she was also smart. She obviously ran the show, and she would be able to straighten out Ali Baba.
He whipped out his cell phone, ready to ring her upstairs. Before he could press the button, however, the door flew open. “Police! Put your hands up!” A sea of blue uniforms fanned out, screaming the order a second time in Spanish. “Policía! Manos arriba!”
As one, the female shoppers let out a high-pitched wail. No doubt they were all illegals worried about being sent back to their countries on a bus. Frankie could have told them not to worry about it. They’d be out of Central Booking and on their way back to their Queens apartments before the cops finished the paperwork for the bust. The women were crying and screaming. All except one. The petite brunette in the flowered vest had whipped out her gun and was herding the others back against the wall.
He knew it! No one in her right mind would be wearing an extra layer in this heat — unless she needed the vest to conceal her shoulder holster. The vest, plus the fact that she had good teeth, were the clues he’d picked up on subconsciously. He’d known she didn’t fit in with the rest of the women. Fat lot of good it had done him.