“Was she black or white?”
“Black.”
“And the man?”
“White.”
“Would you recognize her if you saw her again?”
“I’ll never forget her long as I live.”
“What about the man?”
“I only got a quick look at him. He hit me the minute I come around that corner. Man, I saw stars. They musta moved me after I went out because I woke up in this hallway, you see. I mean, I was laying on the sidewalk when...” Miles stopped and looked down at his hands.
“Yes, Corporal?”
“What gets me is, I mean, she kicked me, the little bitch. When I was down on the sidewalk, she kicked me with this goddamn pointed shoe of hers. I mean, man, that’s what put me out, not the guy hitting me. It was her kicking me with that pointed shoe of hers.” Corporal Miles looked up plaintively. “Why’d she do that, huh? I was nice to her. I mean it. I was only nice.”
The ambulance had come and gone, carrying away the man who had been attacked as he was leaving his home to go to church. It was now nine o’clock and there was still blood on the front stoop of the building. Detective 3rd/Grade Alexiandre Delgado stood on the steps with the victim’s wife and two children, and tried to believe they were unaware of the blood drying in the early-morning sunshine. Mrs. Huerta was a black-haired woman with brown eyes filled now with tears. Her two daughters, dressed to go to church, wearing identical green wool coats and black patent leather shoes and white ankle socks, resembled their mother except for the tears. Their brown eyes were opened wide in curiosity and fright and incomprehension. But neither of the two was crying. A crowd of bystanders kept nudging toward the stoop, despite the efforts of the beat patrolman to disperse them.
“Can you tell me exactly what happened, Mrs. Huerta?” Delgado asked. Like the woman he was questioning, he was Puerto Rican. And like her, he had been raised in a ghetto. Not this one, but a similar one (when you’ve seen one slum, you’ve seen them all, according to certain observers) in the shadow of the Calm’s Point Bridge downtown. He could have spoken to her in fluent Spanish, but he was still slightly embarrassed by his accent when he was speaking English, and as a result he tried to speak it all the time. Mrs. Huerta, on the other hand, was not so sure she wanted to conduct the conversation in English. Her young daughters understood and spoke English, whereas their Spanish was spotty at best. At the same time, many of Mrs. Huerta’s neighbors (who were eagerly crowding the front stoop now) spoke only Spanish, and she recognized that talking to this detective in English might enable her to keep at least some of her business to herself. She silently debated the matter only a moment longer, and then decided to answer in English.
“We were going down to church,” she said, “the eight o’clock mass. The church is right up the street, it takes five minutes. We came out of the building, José and me and the two girls, and these men came at him.”
“How many men?”
“Four.”
“Did you recognize any of them?”
“No,” Mrs. Huerta said.
“What happened?”
“They hit him.”
“With what?”
“Broom handles. Short. You know, they take the broom and saw it off.”
“Did they say anything to your husband?”
“Nada. Nothing.”
“Did he say anything to them?”
“No.”
“And you didn’t recognize any of them? They weren’t men from the barrio, the neighborhood?”
“I never saw them before.”
One of the little girls looked up at her mother and then turned quickly away.
“Sí, qué hay?” Delgado asked immediately.
“Nothing,” the little girl answered.
“What’s your name?” Delgado said.
“Paquita Huerta.”
“Did you see the men who attacked your father, Paquita?”
“Yes,” Paquita said, and nodded.
“Did you know any of those men?”
The little girl hesitated.
“Puede usted decirme?”
“No,” Paquita said. “I did not know any of them.”
“And you?” Delgado said, turning to the other girl.
“No. None of them.”
Delgado searched their eyes. The little girls watched him unblinkingly. He turned to Mrs. Huerta again. “Your husband’s full name is José Huerta?” he asked.
“José Vicente Huerta.”
“How old is he, señora?”
“Forty-seven.”
“What does he do for a living?”
“He is a real estate agent.”
“Where is his place of business, Mrs. Huerta?”
“In Riverhead. 1345 Harrison Avenue. It is called J-R Realty.”
“Does he own the business?”
“Yes.”
“No partners?”
“Yes, he has a partner.”
“What’s his partner’s name?”
“Ramon Castañeda. That’s how they got the J-R. From José and Ramon.”
“And where does Mr. Castañeda live?”
“Two blocks from here. On Fourth Street.”
“The address?”
“112 South 4th.”
“All right, thank you,” Delgado said. “I’ll let you know if we come up with anything.”
“Por favor,” Mrs. Huerta said, and took both her daughters by their hands and led them into the building.
The black blouse found in Lewis Scott’s bathroom had come from a clothing store called The Monkey Wrench, on Culver Avenue. Since this was a Sunday, the store was closed. The patrolman on the beat spotted Willis and Genero peering through the plateglass window and casually ambled over to them.
“Help you fellows?” he asked.
Both Genero and Willis looked at him. Neither of them recognized him. “You new on the beat, kid?” Genero said. The patrolman was perhaps three or four years older than Genero, but since his rank was lower, Genero felt perfectly free to address him in this manner. The patrolman could not decide whether he was dealing with hoods or fellow law enforcers; the distinction was sometimes difficult to make. He debated whether he should answer smartass or subservient. While he was deciding, Willis said, “I’m Detective Willis. This is my partner, Detective Genero.”
“Oh,” the patrolman said, managing to make the single word sound eloquent.
“How long you been on the beat, kid?” Genero asked.
“Just this past week. They flew me in from Majesta.”
“Special assignment?”
“Yeah. This is a glass post, you know, there’s been lots of breakage and looting lately. They almost doubled the force here, from what I understand.”
“Where’s the regular beat man?”
“He’s catching a cup of coffee at the diner up the street. Anything I can help you with?”
“What’s his name?”
“Haskins. You know him?”
“Yeah,” Willis said. “Diner on the corner there?”
“Right.”
“See you later, kid,” Genero said, and both detectives walked off toward the diner. Behind them, the patrolman shrugged in a manner clearly indicating that he thought all detectives were no-good rotten bastards who were always pulling rank.
The diner at fifteen minutes before ten was empty save for Patrolman Haskins and a man behind the counter. Haskins was hunched over a cup of coffee. He looked as though he had not had much sleep the night before. Genero and Willis walked to the counter and took stools on either side of him.
“Hello, Bill,” Willis said.