Frankie nodded. “Nice to know you, man,” he said. “What brings you to the turf?”
“Rafael Morrez. I’m prosecuting the case,” Hank said.
“Oh, yeah. Gone. Good luck with it. Kill them, man.”
“We can tell you things about them goddamn Thunderbirds,” Gargantua said, “would make you lay down and die, believe me.”
“Listen, I don’t know about you two,” Frankie said, “but I’d like a brew. Come on. I’ll buy.”
They began walking toward Fifth Avenue. Both boys walked with a peculiar headlong shuffle, their hands in their pockets, their heads and shoulders erect, their eyes looking straight ahead. He felt emanating from the two the same casual security that Hollywood celebrities wear. They knew who they were, and they wore their notoriety with aloof indifference but with a measure of pride.
In an attempt at making conversation, Hank said, “Do you like Harlem?”
Frankie shrugged. “Yeah. I like Harlem.”
“You do?” Hank said, faintly surprised.
“Sure. Sure I like it.”
“Why?”
“What do you mean why? I live here. Everybody knows me here.”
“Don’t they know you anyplace else?”
“Oh, they know me when I crack somebody’s head, all right.” He chuckled. “The wops know me, all right. That ain’t what I mean, man. I mean, like when I’m here, when I’m walking the streets here, they know me, and I feel like myself, you dig? I’m Frankie. Everybody knows I’m Frankie. Everybody knows I’m president of the Horsemen.”
“That can get dangerous, can’t it?” Hank asked.
“Oh, man, like sure it can get dangerous,” Frankie said, and there was pride in his voice now. “I mean, it’s like with anything else. You get a rep, a name, then you got to watch out.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, man, it’s the same with everything, ain’t it? Like any big shot, not that I’m a real big shot. But anybody who makes it, there’s always people who are ready to knock them down. You know what I mean? So I’m president of the Horsemen, and there’s lots of people would like to knock me down. That’s all. It’s the same all over this country, ain’t it?”
“In a sense, I suppose,” Hank said.
“But they ain’t never gonna knock you down,” Gargantua said.
“You can say that again, man. They got to get up real early in the morning to jap this boy. Hey, how about here?” Frankie said.
They had walked up past 111th Street to a small bar on Fifth. The bar boasted its name in gilt letters on two front plate glass windows: “Las Tres Guitaras.”
“The Three Guitars,” Frankie said. “We call it Las Tres Putas. That means The Three Whores. That’s because you can usually find hookers hanging around in here. But it’s a nice place. They give you a good glass of beer. You like beer?”
“Yes,” Hank said.
“Good. Come on.”
They walked into the place. The bar ran the length of the room on the left side. There were booths opposite it, and a shuffleboard setup alongside the hot table at the far end of the room. Three men were standing at the bar drinking when Hank walked in with the boys. They downed their drinks instantly, sidled past Hank and left.
“They think you’re a T man,” Frankie explained. “Everybody in Harlem got the jitters about junk. They see a stranger, they automatically figure he’s a Fed looking to make a narcotics pinch. All the bulls in the barrio they know. But a stranger who’s dressed nice — bang, he must be a Fed. And they don’t want to be anywhere around if there’s going to be a narcotics pinch. Because sometimes the guy who’s pinched, he’ll like throw the stuff away, you know? The deck, I mean. The heroin. You know what I mean, or am I just talking?”
“I know what you mean,” Hank said.
“Okay, so they’ll ditch the junk, and it might land near you, near your feet or something. And the next thing you know, you’re arrested for holding, or maybe even for intent to sell if there’s enough of the junk in the deck. So if you spot a T man, the best thing is to get the hell out, man, go, go. Let’s sit in this booth here. Hey, Miguel, let’s have three brews, huh? Good beer here. You’ll like it.”
They sat. Frankie’s hands were immense on the table.
“So you’re working for Ralphie, huh?” Frankie said.
“That’s one way of putting it, I suppose,” Hank answered.
“It looks open and shut to me,” Frankie said. “The Birds ain’t got a chance.” He paused. Casually, he said, “Have they?”
“I think we’ve got a good case against them,” Hank said.
“Yeah, well, I hope you give it to them good. Between them and the niggers, there ain’t much choice who you should hate most. But that’s a contest I think the Birds win.”
“Do you have trouble with the colored gangs, too?” Hank asked.
“Man, that’s our middle name, trouble. And that’s where we are, right in the middle. The wops look down on us, and the niggers look down on us, and where does that leave us? It leaves us holding the sloppy end of the stick. It’s like we don’t belong to the human race, you dig? We’re something crawled out of the sewer. The niggers think they’re hot stuff because all of a sudden they’re wearing white shirts and ties instead of carrying spears in the jungle. Man, my people are a proud race. Puerto Rico ain’t no damn African jungle. And what makes the wops think they’re so high and mighty? What’d they ever have? Mussolini? Big deal! This guy Michelangelo? Okay. But what the hell have they done recently?” Frankie paused. “You ever hear of a guy named Picasso?”
“Yes,” Hank said.
“Pablo Picasso,” Frankie said. “He’s the greatest artist ever lived. I went all the way down the museum to see that show of his they gave. Man, he sings! And you know something? He got the same blood in his veins that I got in mine.”
“You went to the museum to see the Picasso exhibit?” Hank asked, surprised.
“Sure. Gargantua went with me. Remember?”
“Sure, I remember. That was the night we bopped with the Crusaders.”
“Yeah, that’s right. When we got back from the museum.”
“Who are the Crusaders?”
“This gang from the West Side,” Frankie said. “Colored guys. A bunch of bananas. We sent them home crying that night.”
“I tell you the truth,” Gargantua said, “a lot of them Picasso pictures I didn’t understand.”
“You’re a meatball,” Frankie said. “Who says you got to understand it? All you got to do is feel it. This guy paints with his heart. He’s got his heart spread all over the pictures. You can feel it. Hell, he’s Spanish!”
The bartender brought the beers to the table, eying Hank curiously. He wiped his hands on his apron and then went back to the bar.
“Did you know any of these fellows personally?” Hank asked. “The ones who killed Morrez?”
“I know Reardon and Aposto,” Frankie said. “That bastard Reardon is the one I really hope you get.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, Aposto’s — you know — not all there. I mean, this is a kid you tell him to push his mother in the river, like he’ll do it. He’s a little... feeble-minded? Retarded? You know.” He tapped his temple with a circling forefinger. “This is legit because my kid brother’s in his class at school, so he knows.”
“What school is that?”
“S.A.T. Manhattan. The School of Aviation Trades, you know? My brother goes there.”
“And your brother’s in Aposto’s class, and he says Aposto’s retarded, is that right?”
“Yeah. But Reardon ain’t. Reardon is a shrewd son of a bitch. Tower, he calls himself. Tower. I’ll give him a tower, that bastard.”
“Why don’t you like him?”