“Friday Fiction” Series: A Life Not Lived…
A Life Not Lived
Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore
[Note from Steve: If you read my short story “The Case of the Carriageless Horse” in World Enough and Crime, or listened to the inimitable Donna Carrick read it in her podcast (see the link on my Home Page, you know that its subject is Detective Castilblanco’s first case. This is another early case, something like a sequel to that first story. Chen is around somewhere, just not yet Castilblanco’s partner.]
I went to greet Rob Jackson when he got out of prison. My old mentor at NYPD, Al Dempsey, had put him there twenty-six years earlier for the rape and murder of a teenage girl. I wasn’t partnered with Dempsey back then, but I thought he’d want me to express regrets to Rob. Our justice system not only moves slow; it can make some really bad mistakes. Good old DNA freed Rob and made the crime into a cold case.
Rob spit to the side of me after giving me the finger—couldn’t blame him for taking out on me his frustration—and said, “Dempsey was a bro, but the SOB always believed I did it. May he rot in hell!”
“He still would have been here, even if you don’t believe it. Can I drive you somewhere?”
“The Bronx.” He now managed to direct a smile my way. Maybe he figured I wasn’t responsible for his misery? “Thanks. Need to see the old ‘hood before moving on. I have a bus ticket, but you’ll get me there faster.”
“Where will you go after that?” I said, knowing ex-cons often received a raw deal from society, wherever they ended up. And, in this case, it was society that had really committed the crime!
“Got some family in North Carolina. They tell me our kind doesn’t get much respect down there, but they’re the only family I got.”
I nodded. That Mason-Dixon line still indicated about as far south as I liked to get. Hispanics weren’t popular down there, and, taking states’ rights to the limit, both Blacks and Hispanics had a harm time voting down there, so nothing much changed for the better—it had only become worse, in fact.
***
Rob became mute at the beginning of our journey, but opened up a bit later on as his justifiably sour attitude dissipated.
“You must know how it is, Castilblanco. You get two strikes ‘gainst you just for being born in the Bronx and being black, and that damn place gives you the third one real quick-like. I had my first knife fight at eight.”
“It’s tough,” I admitted. “Anyone who survives that deserves a combat medal.”
“You’re ex-military, right?” I nodded. “That’s one way to escape the damn place. Did combat seem as bad as here for minorities?”
“Different, because you’re fighting jerks who lump all Americans together as the enemy. In the Bronx, you’re white, black, Puerto Rican, whatever. Often seemed like warring tribes. It’s better now, Rob.”
“I read the rags and listen to the news. You could be right. Just want to see for myself.”
We then talked about a lot of things—family, religion, politics; most things a guy inside might want to hear about when he gets out. Prison life sucks.
I left him at an old friend’s place. Teddy was in a wheelchair, so Rob had to bend down to give him a big hug.
***
Two weeks later Rob was murdered. Teddy called me, but I already had the case. Felt kind of weird going through the preliminary motions when the victim was someone I’d just met…and liked. Old ME gave me the silent treatment for the most part, but got enough info out of him to know it was murder, another one for this new homicide detective, but a case I didn’t particularly want.
“Do you want to recuse yourself?” my lieutenant said.
“No, I’d like to bring Rob’s murderer to justice.”
“Then get outta here and do it, or do you need me to change your diaper first?”
Lieutenant was like that. Didn’t put much stock in my service record overseas or the few cases I had already solved. So I started to snoop around the Bronx. Knew it well enough. Hadn’t changed much, but I was seeing things through cops’ eyes now—a prodigal son who didn’t quite feel at home.
My first stop was Gretchen’s Grill. That grill is really a sleazy bar, and Gretchen was really Smiley, a big black fellow with a squished nose who probably never had the need for a bouncer. Nice guy, though, and Teddy had hung out there, recently taking Rob along with him. Teddy had suggested I talk to Smiley.
***
I had to look up at Smiley…literally. I’m not a small man, but he’s really big! With that gap in his upper teeth, he looked a bit like Strahan on steroids. Shook my hand, leaving it numb.
“Nice guy, that fellow Rob. Talk about bad luck. Never got to live his life.” He eyed me from up there in the clouds. “You put him away?”
“My old partner. He’d be regretting it now.”
“Lady Justice is blind, as they say.” He thought a moment. “I’d check with Mr. Grasso. He knows most everything bad that’s going or gone down in this city.”
Grasso was a local mobster. Hadn’t met him yet, and didn’t know if I wanted to.
“And he does nothing about it?”
“He’s responsible for some of it. Won’t tell you about that, I ‘spose. If he’s not involved, he might help you, though. To eliminate the competition, you know.”
What’s the adage? The enemy of my enemy is my friend? I went to see Grasso. Wasn’t in his usual hangout. I told his toadies I’d be back in the morning.
***
Morning meant eleven in mobster time. Gangsters tend to have late nights, doing crap never seen in movies. I get home late but not that late—different kind of crap—I watch the Channel 7 news. That’s a lot more legal than what Grasso probably did, although I do have a crush on one crime reporter I admire from afar. Maybe I’ll have a case where I’ll meet Pam Stuart someday?
So I easily kept more or less to Grasso’s schedule, showing up at the little cafe in Little Italy from where he ran his fiefdom. He was sitting on a bar stool snarfing down fried eggs and bacon and drinking black coffee. Thought he might need the sugar—he didn’t look sweet and lovable.
He waved away my badge. “Guys told me about your visit yesterday Want some coffee?”
I nodded. Figured it would be impolite to say no, and who knew what a mob boss would do if you were impolite to him?
“What can I do for you, detective?”
We were eyeing each other over the brims of our mugs. Wasn’t a blinking contest. More like X-raying each other, trying to figure out what was inside. Or whether the other guy deserved any respect?
“Rob Jackson was murdered. Any idea who did it?”
Wasn’t mentioning Smiley sent me. The bartender could become a big target for Grasso’s gang. Thought he might be useful in the future, for a drink or for some other intel. Bartenders know a lot because they hear a lot.
“Probably the same guy who committed the crime that sent Rob upstate.”
“And who could that be?”
Oh boy, solve Rob’s murder and a cold case too!
“Not one of my boys, that’s for sure. The victim was Italian and fifteen. I’d cut off the balls of any of my guys who’d dare do something like that to one of ours.”
I smiled at the “one of ours.” What Rob had been talking about: the old tribalism.
My city is more diverse than most in the US—lots of different languages spoken here, for example. Generally all the tribes get along and work together, a model for the country—well, not the south, where they haven’t changed since the American Revolution. Most people are hard-working and family-oriented, despite what conservative naysayers say about us elsewhere. But like everywhere else, there are some rotten apples in the Big Apple. As a cop, I have to deal with them, but I always try to remain objective, unlike those conservative naysayers. Fact is, I couldn’t survive in my city without my family history and upbringing.
***
“Let’s forget nationalities,” I told Grasso. “Did Rob have enemies back then?”
“I heard he hung out with some tough kids, including Teddy Fulton. Fought among themselves a lot as well as with others, mostly your people.” I raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Grasso got the message I think, but ignored it. “Yeah, Puerto Ricans. Not bad kids, any of ’em, considering, but I heard that one Puerto Rican kid, Ricardo Garcia, had it in for Rob.”
“He was the main witness,” I said. “He obviously lied. Do you think he’d hold a grudge for twenty-six years?”
“Meaning that putting Rob away that long wasn’t enough for him? Depends on how batshit crazy the man is.” He pulled out a business card, turned it over, wrote something on the back, and handed it to me. “Nursing home phone number where you’ll find Ricardo.”
“You have that number memorized?”
“Of course. My nana’s there.”
***
The nursing home was in Jersey, a foreign land for me. Nice place, though, near an airfield where some of the nine-eleven terrorists had learned to fly a plane. I was more familiar with Afghanistan! I didn’t like Jersey. Could never find anything there. Got lost finding that place too.
“Are you a relative?” said the receptionist, a perky young thing with a nice smile and a bad attitude like a librarian angry because you’re talking too loud.
“Do I look like one?” I said with my best gravelly tough-guy voice. I hadn’t bothered to show her my shield.
She scanned me up and down as if she were a dermatologist looking for moles. Or was she just imagining me without clothes? Maybe I had a chance with Pam Stuart? Should I start dancing salsa for the librarian? I broke down and showed my badge instead.
“I’ll have to see if he’s ready,” she said after examining it.
“Sleeps late, does he? It’s after lunch.” Which I’d missed, by the way.
“No, someone has to bathe him. We’re understaffed. He was in an accident and is paralyzed from the waist down.”
Was news to me. Maybe not to Grasso? How could Ricardo have killed Rob?
***
Ricardo didn’t kill Rob, although he admitted to setting him up twenty-six years ago. Not on record, of course. And my word against his now. But he told me who did it. I only had to find her.
Rita Garcia had been wanting to get even with Rob Jackson for years. No West Side story here, although Lenny pitted Puerto Ricans against white guys in that one, not blacks. Rob had ruined her life, she thought, meaning he got her pregnant. I doubt he even knew it. He thought his only family was in North Carolina, after all. Seemed like a stretch that Rita’d kill Rob for that, so I figured what had happened in her life afterwards had warped her mind.
Started asking around back in the Bronx. It all had been like a multicar collision. Rob got Rita pregnant, cousin Ricard wanted to get back at Rob for that, and Rita’s good Catholic family disowned her and put her on the street to have the baby. A tragedy all around that Rob never knew about. Rita’s rage must have simmered for years, blowing up when Rob was released.
Couldn’t find Rita, but someone eventually would. Wrote it up in my report, nice and tidy. Another case solved…sort of. Mentioned Ricardo’s confession as well, so tallied two cases solved, although neither one was. The lieutenant could decided what to do about that; I had other cases to solve.
Justice will be served, I suppose, just a bit later than I’d like. The question still remains: Who had raped and killed that teenage girl? That was a case that I could sink my teeth in, but was sure I’d never get the change.
***
Comments are always welcome.
Palettes, Patriots, and Prats: Esther Brookstone, Book Four. “Esther Brookstone Art Deteective” series is a spin-off from the “Detectives Chen and Castilblanco” series; where Chen and Castilblanco are quintessentially American, Esther’s series has a decidedly British flavor. After the romance and suspense of book three in this series, you might have thought that I’d leave it as a trilogy and send newlyweds Esther and Bastiann van Coevorden off to enjoy their golden years in peace. Ha! Not with my muses, who are really banshees with Tasers. This one starts with an innocent castle tour with a duke and duchess, but trouble soon finds the artist of a painting the crime-fighting duo observes there. Esther and Bastiann become embroiled yet again in fighting an international conspiracy. Available wherever quality ebooks are sold (not on Amazon or Smashwords).
Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!
