A Deadly Affair (13 page)

“Sure. They never started work. Say, what you asking so many questions for? You a union delegate or something? I don’t know nothing!”

I knew I had talked too much. I gave him a dumb grin. “You ever see a Spanish union delegate? I was only thinking aloud … as you said, wondering how the men can afford to lose a couple days’ pay. I couldn’t afford to.”

“That’s what I say. How?”

The suspicion was gone from his voice. But I had no time for his silly talk. I cut in with, “I have to be back working myself. Have you the time?”

He yanked a heavy old pocket watch out. “Fifteen before three.”

“Time for me to be going,” I said, waving and walking over the chain at the opening in the fence. I walked down the block fast, going toward Harry’s store, feeling certain the police on the scaffold were looking down at me. I turned off at the next corner, out of their sight, sweat popping from my forehead. I kept walking, then headed downtown. I had about an hour before I was to meet Helen.

Both to save money and kill time I walked, purposely going downtown in a roundabout way in order to avoid any cops. Although I was dead tired and hungry, walking—the very movement—seemed to relax me, let me think about my new idea—the fisherman. Going by a bakery the smell of hot rolls was too strong for me. I bought two for a dime and when I came to a small square with a drinking fountain, I sat on a bench and had the rolls, then a lot of water to puff them up … fool my stomach. There was an afternoon paper sticking out of the trash basket and I read it.

As his May would say, even in death Harry never made the big time—he was on the third page. There was a picture of Harry, taken years ago, and a snap of the warehouse roof with a large X marking the spot where his body had been found. Seeing my name in the print gave me a feeling like stopping a solid punch in the stomach. But there was nothing about my having escaped, merely that I had been playing handball with Harry at the time, that I was thinking of buying his house, and was now being “questioned.” It was not very much of a story, and thank God no mention was made of Helen or our address. However they did quote some Homicide inspector as saying this “… might prove one of the most baffling murders of this year …” He sounded like the killers were winning a cup.

The rolls and water eased my hunger somewhat and watching a clock in the window of a hardware store across the way, I left the bench at three-thirty and headed for the Drive and Helen.

Reaching the Upper Drive I looked around carefully but the trees hid the Lower Drive. I walked up a few blocks, then went down to the Lower Drive and came back, feeling like an Indian scout on TV in all the green bushes and trees. I finally stretched out in the grass behind the rise of a small slope, which gave me a clear view of the tree, the bench where Helen usually sat, and the Hudson River. The fishermen were gone … but very much in my mind.

The sun was warm, the grass smelt fine, and I nearly went to sleep. But some five minutes later, undoubtedly right on the second of four, my Helen came along, pushing Henry in his stroller. She let him out on his bit of grass, gave him his ball to to play with, and sat down on the bench. I had to admire the casual way she glanced around to see if I had tied her handkerchief to the tree as a signal, then opened one of these paperback books she is always reading. I waited a half a dozen minutes, watching the Drive foot by foot. Except for some mothers and kids passing now and then, she was alone, being watched by me only. I circled the spot, keeping to the bushes as much as possible: my eyes taking in any little movement of the leaves. Again, the thought I might have been doing this same thing on the banks of the Hudson five or six hundred years ago returned to my mind: a Borinquen Indian seeing his wife, of the Niagara tribe. It was crazy, unless the Borinquens had come down to Puerto Rico from up here, or perhaps the North American tribes first came up from South America by way of the islands … God, why was I full of such dizzy thoughts
now?
Or was it the very sight of my Helen relaxed me, gave me a secure feeling?

As I was about to step out into the open and join her, a plump
blanco
woman passed with a little girl. To my dismay the woman seemed about to sit on the bench beside Helen while her girl played with some flowers near Henry. But upon seeing Henry, she called the tiny girl and walked on. Ay, the crazy
blancos!
It was so obvious I could read her mind: she had assumed Helen was but a nursemaid and in that case it would have been okay to sit beside her. But when she saw Henry and realized Helen was a mother like herself, out for the air … well, one could not be expected to sit next to a Spic family.

Soon as the woman and her girl were out of sight, Helen glanced around, plainly worrying about me. I headed for her bench. I sat beside her and she barely moved, only squeezed my hand as she said, “Be careful. I’m not being followed, but reporters have been at the hotel. I refused to see them and as they couldn’t speak Spanish, they didn’t get anywhere in the house. Are you okay?”

“Yes. How about the police?”

“London was around. He told me you had escaped and if I saw you to impress upon you to give yourself up. But he didn’t seem mad at you. I have some cheese sandwiches and a container of milk here. Pick up the baby and hold him in front of your face as you eat.”

“No, no. I will pick him up but not for protection,” I said, calling Henry. But he was far too busy with his ball for me.

“Did you see May, this Rastello? Did you find out anything?”

“I think I have the answer. At May’s house I only found I was wrong about her, it was Harry trying to cheat us. As for Rastello, he is out of this. You know there’s a Spanish fellow who may be living in this house up on the Drive. Got a funny fat girl there who … what I mean is, maybe in time we might get an apartment up there…”

“Jose! Tell me what you’ve found!”

“Of course. Remember the fisherman this morning, the eel caught in the tree?”

“You want me to scream? Never mind any fisherman, what have you….?”

“I am telling you, the fisherman gave me the answer,” I said, briefly fondling her strong knee. “Remember how when he jerked the line, the eel flew out of the water and went high over the old man’s head, up into the tree?”

Helen nodded impatiently, her long dark braids dancing on her back.

“Now think about Harry … in a topless cage. Then they find his body high up on the warehouse roof, crushed. Also, they have found something even higher up on the factory wall—blood stains. I still have no idea
why
Harry was killed but I think I know the
how
. It is the only way he could have been snatched from the courts, explains the great hole in his stomach, the way he was so badly smashed up. He was hooked by the end of a giant fishing line and pole, jerked high up—like the eel—against the factory wall, his body smashed, then he fell off the hook onto the warehouse roof.”

“Jose, have you flipped? What fishing rod and line?”

“The big crane down the street from the playground! The watchman reminded me of the fisherman and then I saw the hook at the end of the steel cable, and the idea came to me clearly. The hook went through Harry’s stomach as it flung him against the factory wall. I also think there are blood stains on the crane hook. Tonight I shall find out for sure.”

“You mean, the watchman killed him?”

“I have no idea who killed him. The watchman only made me think of the fisherman and the idea fell into place. Remember, the crane was standing there all the time but being on the other court, with my shirt over my eyes, I would not have seen it move, nor heard it, because of the drilling on the other street. It could have happened in the flash of a second. And it explains everything … how Harry’s body was found on the locked roof of the warehouse and—”

“Then we’ll go to the police at once, this proves you’re innocent!” Helen almost shouted.

I glanced around to see if she had been overheard. “Softly, darling. All I have now is the idea, not the proof. We can not go to the police as yet. Tonight, in the darkness I plan to climb up the boom and down onto the hook. I must be sure there is a bloodstain, then I will think about the police.”

“But that is dangerous, let them look into this.”

“No. Suppose it turns out I am wrong, there are no stains on the hook? Then what? If I go to the police
before
I know, I can be hooking myself.”

“But as you just said, the idea explains everything! Let the cops question the crane operator, take things from here.”

“Sure,
if
there is blood on the hook. I’m doing it the safest way.”

“Safe? What’s safe about you climbing up this long … crane, then sliding down a cable, on a dark night?”

“The darkness is on my side, and will hide me. There is only an old watchman there. It will all be simple.”

“And if the cops see you, they’ll shoot you down! Listen, let me go to London and tell him about this idea. I’ll say I thought of it, or I met you and you told me. Then let them investigate. That way, you’re still free in case it turns out to be nothing. Only, I know this
has
to be the answer!”

I shook my head. “First I must get the proof, myself.”

“But it’s so risky. You are only yourself and the police are thousands, have ways of checking these things. Please, Jose.”

“Even if they find blood, will I be the first
Hispano
they have framed? Remember, I socked London! No, we do it my way. When I have the proof,
then
you can tell London and the reporters, or even hire a lawyer to do it, as you said this morning.”

“You are risking too much by merely walking around. Jose, this time the chip on your shoulder is bigger than your head! Think …”

“I am thinking! That’s why I must get the proof myself!”

“Honey, I know all about the cops, too. But this is a murder and they want to solve it—”

“No! I forbid you to see London!” I cut in sharply, never having spoken to Helen so roughly before.

“You are part of me, I have a say in this,” she told me, softly.

“Helen, Helen, you think I am showing off? It is only because we are part of each other that I must do what I think will bring neither of us harm, separate us. It means but a few more hours, an easy climb. Let me try it … my way.”

She looked away from me. I said, “You must have confidence in me.”

“You know I do. But I think you are pushing your luck too far, taking unnecessary chances.”

I pressed her hand. “Darling, use your head. I have punched a cop. If I should show my face in the police station, before I could say a word I might be beaten. I know what I’m doing.”

“All right—I suppose. How will we meet again?”

“Here, tomorrow morning. But I hope to have things cleared up before then, be back in our bed.
Dios Mia
, how I long for sleep!”

“Why don’t you go over in the grass and eat the food I’ve brought, get an hour’s sleep? I’ll sit here and watch.”

I shook my head. “I would not be able to sleep in the open. Listen, in about an hour my garage will shut down. There’s a beat-up old truck in the back space we take parts from. I can get sleep in the seat of the cab, with little chance of anybody looking for me there. We risk more sitting here.” I stood up and she handed me the paper bag with food from the stroller.

“Jose, can’t we at least eat together?”

“No, I feel I am bringing danger to you. Don’t be so downhearted my sweetheart, at last I feel I am within reach of the answer. I see you tomorrow … if not before.” I blew a kiss at her, tickled Henry’s fat bottom, as I took off.

Helen called after me, “Oh, Louisa was at the hotel and left a message while I was out buying food today. It’s in Spanish—I don’t know what she wanted.”

I blew her another kiss.

“You must need more money….”

I shook my head and walked around a turn in the walk, then across the grass to the slope where I had been resting. I was happy the others in the hotel spoke so little English: at least the reporters had not been able to get Helen’s picture, spread it all over the papers.

But as I walked the good feeling left me. I had a hunch I would never see Helen or my son again. This feeling of something being wrong hung over me. Somehow, it all seemed too easy. Why weren’t the police following Helen, looking for me harder? Why had not London been angry and cursing when he talked to Helen? It did not make good sense. Was all this a trap?

I walked uptown slowly, ducking into doorways or crossing the street whenever I saw a cop. I reached the garage after six and it was shut. This gave me a sour feeling too. Did I still have my job here? Would I ever be able to get another after the publicity, even if I was found innocent? Well, this was not the time to worry about that.

I jumped the low fence and went to the rear of the garage, silence assuring me I was alone. Crawling into the cab of the truck I ate the sandwiches and drank the warm milk. The seat was torn and greasy but I curled up and slept a solid three hours. It was turning real dark when I awoke, so I knew it had to be about nine-thirty.

I felt rested and fresh—but still dubious—as I left the garage and headed for the crane.

T
HE PLAYGROUNDS WERE
dark, so were the blocks of leveled buildings. I couldn’t see the scaffolding but obviously no one was up there: there were not any police cars, or any cars parked on the street near the great crane. It was a cloudy dark night without stars. If it wasn’t too late for him, the wino hiding in the cellar might get his rain wish before the night was out.

I stood in the shadow of a building, carefully looking the scene over. I could enter on the far side of the demolished buildings, but crossing the bricks and rubbish in such darkness was only asking for an accident. I saw a dim light in one of the office shacks … probably the old watchman was in there reading the paper. Or did they have another old man for the night shift? And what difference did it make to me?

I walked boldly by the playground, skirting the light of the lamppost. Ducking under a loose wire fence, I reached the crane. The boom, which seemed about two hundred feet high or more, vanished in the darkness above like a thin skyscraper. I waited a few minutes, listening to the sounds of the night, fingering the paper matches I had bought with my last nickel. There were vague sounds about—rats or dogs or cats moving among the ruins. The watchman’s office was a good hundred yards away, so there was little chance of his ever seeing me.

Taking a deep breath and drying my sweaty hands on my pants, I climbed up on the tracks of the crane, reminding me of climbing on a tank. I passed the cab and finally got my feet on the steel girders which made up the boom. It was almost like climbing a steep ladder except the rungs went diagonally instead of straight across, and my shoes kept slipping. Climbing up and up, the boom gradually became so narrow I could put my arms around it—and what a cold embrace. I was glad it was so dark for I would have been nervous if I could have seen the street below. In the island, when I was a kid, I was so afraid of heights I never attempted to climb the coconut palms.

Across the street I saw the faint reflection of whatever light there was in the windows of the empty factory. Suddenly I saw a small red neon sign and was puzzled until I realized I was now above the warehouse roof, and the sign was in the distance on another street. Looking down, I saw the corner lamppost light near the playgrounds, and so terribly far away I shut my eyes to kill any fear.

My sides were damp and the slight wind up there gave me a cold, clammy feeling. I wondered if I was sweating from the exercise or from fright. Reaching the end of the boom, I felt of the big wheel over which the steel cable ran. The cable was about two inches in diameter. Gripping the boom tip with my legs and left hand, I bent forward, hunting for the rest of the cable which went down to the hook, with my right hand. I could not find it and was full of panic for a moment until I realized I was up too high. I climbed down a rung so I was reaching out
under
the big wheel. I kept reaching out farther and farther in the empty blackness … nothing. Finally I squeezed the rung with both legs and flung out my two hands. The cable was a cold snake. It was heavy and of course I could not pull it toward the boom. I was lying across the darkness, my hands on the cable, my feet on the boom. Now came the big moment, the “this is it” as we said in the army. I suddenly recalled a big fat sergeant from Ponce who used to yell, “What are you waiting for, nobody ever got out of this world alive!” The last time he yelled it a shell carried off most of the left side of his head.

I had to do something and there was only one thing to do: I let go of the boom with my legs. Two things then happened: I seemed to be dancing in space and could not get my feet around the damn cable. At the same time I began to slide down the cable, fast. Of course the cable was greased and I raced down it, my feet flashing about wildly in the darkness, my hands on fire. In a flash, I remembered the hook hanging about twenty-five feet below the tip of the boom … saw myself ending up either impaled on the hook, or my raw hands letting go and the thud as I hit the ground below. Then one foot hit the heavy coupling, or head of the hook. I got the cable between my legs in the tightest scissors hold I ever put on, hugged the cable with the greatest passion of my life. I came to a sliding stop. For a second I didn’t move. Sweat was pouring down my face, stinging my eyes and the good practical smell of grease was all over me. Holding the cable with my feet and elbows I even managed to give my sore hands a rest.

A sickening thought came into the the top of my head. With the cable greasy and my hands cut, how would I ever be able to climb back up? Of course if I could find what I was looking for, I could stay here all night and by morning get the watchman’s attention. But if I found nothing, I would really be hanging myself.

When I was breathing regularly again, I had another problem: the hook was about two to three feet long and I didn’t want to step down on it … ruin any evidence of dried blood. But how else could I examine it?

Opening my pants belt, I managed to run it around the cable. Pulling the belt tight, and holding with my hurt hands, I tried to do a knee bend as I stood on top of the coupling. I wanted to lower myself until I was straddling the coupling, then reach down and feel of the hook with my hands. I was very much aware that if I slipped … the sharp point of the hook below me was waiting to rip into my manhood.

I had to loosen my belt to do it and then I was sitting with my feet straight out, the hardness of the coupling eating into my behind. I tightened my belt over the cable again, I had no idea of how much the belt would hold. Leaning as far back as I could, my left hand holding the coupling, I felt along the great hook with my right. I don’t know exactly what I expected to feel … it was all cold, rough-with-rust steel. I sat up again, the night a frightful sea of blackness beneath me. For a second I’d had the dreadful feeling I would not be able to sit up. Now I was relieved but dizzy, sweat racing down all over my body, the coupling biting into my crotch.

I managed to get a pack of matches out of my pocket, lit one. The slight wind blew it out at once. The same thing happened with the next match. Taking a match, I lit the whole pack. The resulting light was so unexpectedly bright I could see the rough ground far below me, and the boom of the crane a dozen feet away. All that I saw in a split second and what made me forget my terror and pain, laugh aloud with joy … was the sight of a thick, darkish stain, on the very point of the hook, running down toward the curve of the hook bottom! It looked like a gravy stain. I had to let go of the matches, they were burning my torn finger tips. They fell to the ground; a midget shooting star. Bending backwards and reaching far down again I managed to touch the tip of the hook, run my hand around it. I felt bits of stringy softness sticking here and there. I pulled a bit away, rubbed it between my fingers. Was this a part of Harry’s guts or skin?

I sat up again and put the bit of softness to my nose, but what does human flesh smell like? I stuck it in my pocket, which was wet with sweat, cursed my dumbness in not bringing a little bottle, or something in which to put the ‘evidence.’ Or could this be only thick rust and bits of the woolen waste they probably rubbed the grease away with?

There was no time for a debate with myself. I decided to scrape off some of the stain, then if I could climb back up, or somehow swing myself over to the boom, I would take the stuff to a doctor or a drugstore, in the morning, learn if it was blood. Suddenly I nearly cried with anger at my hard head—I had not even brought a knife or a nail with me. I had nothing to scrape the ‘blood’ with except my keys. Perhaps I could tear off a hunk of my shirt, rub off enough of the stain with that for a doc to know if it was blood.

I jockeyed about on the coupling which was sticking like a sharp tooth into my insides. I tried to rip off a piece of my collar and for some reason it had to turn out to be very good material, so tough I was choking myself trying to tear it. I hugged the cable with my face and elbows, yanked at the shirt with my bloody fingers. There was a chilling sound in the darkness, a sound I—of all people—knew only too well: the cough of the powerful Deisel motor in the crane cab being started … then a brief flash and roar lost in the night as the motor backfired!

I strained to look through the darkness into the cab so far below. From the dim light of the dashboard I could see a big white hand on a lever, but that was all. I wanted to call out, but hesitated … wondering in a daze if I would be giving myself away, and the big thought:
Who would be running the crane in the middle of the night?
Even that simple answer didn’t reach my numbed brain. This time the motor caught and the cable started to reel in, me and the coupling rushing up toward the wheel. With a frantic scream I tried to slide down into the hook before I was smashed up against the wheel.

My suddenly strong-as-steel-belt was holding me up. Clawing at it until it finally broke, I scrambled over the coupling, slid down until I was sitting with the curve of the hook between my legs—not even worrying where the hook point was. I bent my head sideways and far down as possible. All this took maybe a half a second: then the coupling hit the wheel above with a great jar, a crashing sound.

I was flung swimming in the dark air before I grabbed the hook with both hands again, my body and legs straight out in space. Although my arms were about jerked from their sockets, somehow I held on, my bloody fingers digging into the steel of the hook. I screamed again, for the watchman … if he wasn’t working the crane. The night swallowed my yells.

The guy working the crane let out some cable—the hand on the gear lever seemed far too big to be the watchman’s—then banged the coupling against the wheel once more. I expected either the coupling or the wheel to break. I was still swinging from the hook, my feet straight down now. Knowing I could not hold on after another such jerk, as if working out on the horizontal bar in a gym, I tried getting my feet up around the hook. I finally made it, ripping my pants and skin on the point.

I started to yell again, but did not. It was useless. Whoever was working the crane had certainly taken care of the old watchman first. Perhaps the wino might hear the racket if he was still in the cellar and not lushed up. Otherwise I was done for: nobody would be passing a playground or leveled buildings at night, and no one else could possibly hear the crash the coupling made against the wheel….

I thought I saw car headlights on the other side of the project area, but if they were lights, I did not see them again. The man in the cab shifted gears and the coupling started up for the wheel once more. Then the cable stopped: I saw light fan out from the open door of the watchman’s shack. The crane operator must have seen it too and stopped the cable. For a hot second I thought I was saved, the watchman was coming … although what could an old man do against the big hand in the cab? For a crazy second I wondered if the hand could be that of the big girl in Rastello’s house….

The door of the shack was still open and I guess both me and whoever was down in the cab realized at the same second what had happened—the wind had merely opened the door. Nobody came out.

I was now hanging from the hook like a sloth, hugging it with my hands and feet. The crane engine was in good shape, it barely made a sound as it idled. The guy in the cab was still waiting, listening. Being near the wheel, I put out a hand and could just touch the boom. I tried to grab hold of it but could not. I tried swinging the hook nearer but didn’t have the strength. For a moment I considered making a jump for the boom, but that would be impossible in my upside down position. I thought I saw a tiny light like a firefly, or a cigarette glow, moving among the bricks and rubble.

Before I had time to be certain of that, the motor coughed gently as he threw in the gear. The cable dropped a dozen feet to a sudden halt—my insides nearly going out my back—then came banging up against the wheel with a sound of metallic thunder. I don’t know how I held on. My jaw slammed into the shank of the hook and I felt blood in my mouth as I fought against passing out.

The cable was not moving and in my daze I had an idea the driver was staring out the cab window to see if I was still hanging on, still alive. In Spanish I yelled, “You murdering bastard!” But I swallowed so much blood I barely made a sound. I turned my head sideways and gave up blood.

I told myself to be still … if he thought I was dead he might give up. Now there was a new motion, the whole crane swung around. The cable dropped and I felt as if I was on the parachute jump in Coney Island … the way Helen had screamed and held on to me, who was as frightened as she.

I braced myself for the shock when the coupling would be sent smack up against the wheel again. But for a long moment nothing happened. Did the guy think I was dead? Would he come up, or lower me to the ground?

Then the whole crane began turning back and forth and I started swinging through the night in ever larger arcs. For a short second I did not get it, then I yelled. The sound really came tearing out of my throat as I brushed up against the factory wall across the street! It was so close my shirt ripped on the rough brick. I closed my eyes, knowing the next swing would crush me….

Things happened below. There was the clear bark of an automatic and I opened my eyes to see the flash of a gun back of the crane. Almost at the same second a car came turning into the street with screaming rubber, its lights chasing the darkness from the street. The crane stopped: the hook and I were still swinging, but in shorter arcs this time. I saw London crouching behind part of the old-door-fence, calling out something at the crane cab, then firing again. Another big man—Artie—jumped out of the car and dashed toward the front of the crane. Despite his beef, Artie managed to jump up on the tracks. As he reached the cab a thick bare arm shot out with a wrench at one end and hit the side of his head. Artie fired; both the arm and he crumpled.

London came on the run, as Artie fell to the ground, blood on his face. London climbed up on the tracks and looked into the cab, gun ready. Then he jumped down and said something to Artie. Cupping his hands, London looked up at me and shouted, in Spanish and English, “Jose, can you hold on up there? We’ll get you down in a moment.”