The Nightlife: New York

Page 17

What an awesome way to make friends and influence people. How can a man get anywhere in life saddled with such ridiculous rules? In most cases he could tell whether or not a person had been to prison before by simply looking at them. But out on the streets? In the ghetto neighborhoods? Talco suspected his probation could get revoked simply for being in these areas. It looked way suspicious. And it made him extremely nervous.
This whole idea seemed stupid. Escorts and their dates don’t find each other on street corners, it’s foolish and suspicious, and a sure way to get tossed in jail. Girls didn’t need to do that anymore. Not with free classified ad websites.
The more time he spent on this pointless, high risk activity, the more pissed off he became. He was certain she wasn’t out walking these streets. So … why was he beating the streets looking for this puta like a retard?
After three consecutive nights of wasted time he gave up. He’d have to find some other way to placate Los Demonios. Probably have to pay them off. The detectives certainly weren’t giving him credit for his efforts without results. This was exactly what he’d been afraid of.
He had a wife and newborn baby at home who needed him. He definitely didn’t need this shit. When he came home at midnight, Evita awaited him with a kiss and a smile, six month old Mateo held in the crook of her arm. They were the best thing that ever happened to him. He’d gained so much in so little time, but he stood to lose it all with this foolish business.
“What’s wrong, baby? Que paso?” Evita smoothed away the tension from his forehead with her free hand, baby Mateo cooing quietly in her other arm.
She was so beautiful as a mother. She’d truly blossomed with Mateo’s birth. Talco couldn’t imagine life without her and his son. He knew if he went to prison again, Evita might not be there by the time he got out. There were only so many mistakes a girl would put up with. Her golden skin, spicy Colombian attitude, and beautiful hazel eyes would surely attract another man if Talco went down for too long. He had to find a way out of this mess. He had to stop chasing the easy money and go legit. He had to get away from those bastard detectives.
He answered Evita as he embraced her, “Todo está bien mi amor. I’m okay. You know I love you? Tu eres mi vida, mi corazón.”
She had cooked his favorite dinner, fajitas Evita-style, with freshly prepared salsa and guacamole on the side. Beyond being the most gorgeous Colombian woman he’d ever met, she was also a damn good cook.
Evita Rodriguez, formerly Evita Valenzuela, had come to New York on a visa paid for by Colombian cartel, her stomach filled with tiny latex balloons of high purity cocaine. It was a fairly common way to catch a paid vacation to New York for Colombians who otherwise didn’t have a dime to their name. She survived the ordeal without a single package bursting in her belly, collected her $5000 dollar payoff, and promptly disappeared into the streets of New York City.
Barely twenty when Talco met her, she began selling her body to make ends meet. They became close after several months of working together. She told him she loved him. Many girls say that, but rarely do they mean it. And then came the night of his arrest. She proved just how much she loved him when she spent herself broke paying for his legal defense.
By the time he started serving his sentence, he demanded she get off the streets and marry him. She did exactly as he wished, working a waitressing job at a local Denny’s for the entire year he spent locked up. She stuck by him, wrote letters every week and visited the prison every weekend. She was his rock. She paid off the worthless defense attorney’s bill from her tips and overtime at the restaurant.
Two years had gone by, and Evita hadn’t worked the streets since. Talco was determined she would never again sell her body to pay the rent.
Evita was his angel, a godsend. How could he ever let her go?
Upon his release from prison he made it his mission in life to give her a child. The doctor told them the date of conception for Mateo was probably within the first week of his freedom.
He had never been happier, married to this gorgeous woman whose devotion had withstood every hardship imaginable, and a beautiful son to show for it. If only he could keep it going. If only he could avoid ruining all their lives with his mistakes.
He thought of opening a restaurant; let the New Yorkers have a taste of his wife’s fabulous cooking. He’d even name it after her, Evita’s. With the birth of his son, Mateo Rodriguez, he had new inspiration, a new reason to make something positive of his life. He began plotting and planning.
He spent endless hours working with the Small Business Administration––SBA. They had the business plans, financial plans, and guidance he needed to make it happen. He worked up a menu, designed the graphics for the neon sign, and even calculated twelve month projections of overhead and income. The SBA could provide small loans for business startup, but Talco needed to have a certain amount of his own cash vested in the project. That was the catch. He needed more money.
By his estimates he had two to three months left of running his little escort service to save up enough cash to start the restaurant. But that was before the devil sent Oberman and Konowicz into his life to torment him. All his grand plans screeched to a grinding halt when Los Demonios began taxing the life out of him, threatening everything he was trying to build.
Evita gave him that angry stare. The girl a real stinger when she knew he was up to something. “Papi, I want you to stop. You don’t need the girls. We don’t need that much money.”
“I know baby, but we’re so close. We’re almost ready to start the restaurant.”
“Papi, how many times do I have to tell you, I don’t care about the money. I want us to be happy. If you quit working with the girls you can get rid of those detectives. They can’t get to you if you’re not doing anything illegal. Don’t you see how this is hurting us?”
“Hay corazón, you don’t understand how probation works. And these cops are dirty. You don’t even know how fucked-up they are. It doesn’t matter if I’m doing anything illegal. Los Demonios can lock me up con nada más que un acusación. I gotta do what they want or I’m goin’ back to prison. Ain’t no judge or jury for me. If the pigs start pointing fingers, I’ll be revoked like that!” He snapped his fingers in demonstration, “That’s the way it is.”
“Please Papi, just quit it. Do it for me … can’t you do it for me?”
“Si, querida. If that’s what you want, I’ll quit. Right now. I’m done with this shit!” He assured her vehemently. And he meant it. “I’m gonna call all the girls and tell ‘em they’re on their own. Talco’s goin’ legit. Next time the detectives call I’ll tell ‘em to stick it where the sun don’t shine!”
* * * *
CHAPTER 13
Konowicz stood with Oberman outside the front door to Bemichis Restaurant with Trish Anstrom, a thirty-something single mom who worked nights as a waitress.
“I saw her pick him up off the ground, and take off running down the street carrying him. It was the damnedest thing ever. Yeah, like I said on the phone, I heard a noise like a gun shot, and by the time I got a chance to look out the door here, that’s what I saw. I think the police arrived a few minutes later. I couldn’t really see well. It was midnight and the streetlamp is over there.” She pointed across the road to the light post, huffed another huge whiff off her cigarette and continued, “Like I mentioned on the phone, I hope it wasn’t Aaron. But he hasn’t been to work since he left that night, and all this happened not ten minutes after he walked out the door.” Finishing her cigarette, she reached into her pack for another one to light from the still glowing butt of the first.
Konowicz addressed her, “So let me see if I got all the facts straight. His name is Aaron Pilan, he’s twenty-two years old, about five feet eleven inches, approximately one hundred seventy pounds with dark brown hair and eyes, lives in the Reisner Apartment Building over on 52nd street, about ten blocks down. He doesn’t answer calls or text messages, and his voicemail is full. He was last seen leaving here at midnight August 26th, and somebody called asking for him. You think it was his roommate who hasn’t seen him in days. Is that correct, Ms. Anstrom?” She nodded yes repeatedly through the haze of cigarette smoke.
“Was there anything you could think of to add to this? Have you ever seen the woman who you said, picked him up and ran off with him? Did you recognize her?” Konowicz pressed, still evidencing a slight nasal quality to his speech.
She finished her second cigarette, stomping it out in the planter, and again shook her head no. “Like I said before, I’m not even sure it was Aaron.”
Oberman showed Trish the artist’s rendering of a blonde woman. “Do you recognize her? Was this the girl you saw that night?”
She frowned. “Maybe. Couldn’t see real well. I really can’t say for sure.”
“Do you have any pictures of Aaron?”
She started shaking her head. “Wait a minute.” She turned and entered the restaurant, motioning them to follow.
“Here, on the wall, a picture from a wedding party we did a couple months ago. I’m sure Aaron’s in it.”
“Yeah, dat’s him alright,” Oberman mumbled to Konowicz.
Konowicz turned to her abruptly. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Anstrom, you’ve been very helpful.”
“You’ll let me know if you find out anything? He’s such a sweet boy. I’m worried about him.”
“Sure thing. We’ll be in touch.” Konowicz’s toothy smile did not reach his eyes.
* * * *
In the evening, as their official workday came to a close, Konowicz brought glad tidings to his partner, dropping a scrap of paper with a scrawled note on his desk.
“I got the address connected to that cell phone for the Pilan kid. He’s in number 204 at the Reisner Apartments. You got time to go pay a visit?” Konowicz smiled at Oberman. He could feel they were getting real close.