Adrian Del Valle - Diego's Brooklyn (3 page)

“This here be Diego…ma frien’ from Dean Street.”

Beulah laid a washed dish on a towel, wiped her worn hands on her plaid apron, and in a high pitched voice, said, “Dean Street? Well, I is pleased at meeting yawl, Diega.”

“Me too, ma‘am. I mean…I’m pleased to meet you, too, Mrs. Beulah.”

“Oh, shesh! Just Beulah, that’s all. So, what’re you doing hangin’ ‘roun’ with this ol’ troublemaka here?”

“Bill wanted me to meet you, ma‘am.”

“We come to see you, that‘s all, Mamma.”

“Want some corn braid, Diega?”

“Sure ma’am.”

“I’ll puts some butter on it for ya. Well sit on down and set a spell,” Beulah added, impatience in her voice.

Looking around himself, Diego picked the corner of a well-used couch and sank into it. Springs popped somewhere below him, frightening a couple of roaches that fell from the bottom and then scurried across the floor.

“Comftable ain’ it?” Beulah said. Papa found it right outsod. I bet you it belonged to that church next doe, ain’t that so, Mista Jackson?”

“Sho ‘nough is, Missus Jackson.”

Beulah crossed the multi flowered linoleum, though much of the pattern had long ago worn through. In places all that showed was the dull, reddish-brown base from the underside, and the imprint of the floor’s wooden boards.

In the corner of the room, a bed, consisting solely of a mattress and box spring, lay neatly made up.

She handed Diego the corn bread on the only saucer that wasn’t chipped.

“How come you ain’t in school these days?”

“We’re on vacation.”

“Vacation? Wale ah’ll be! I guess that’s proper. Can’t be all work and no play.”

Bill interrupted. “We is a goin’ into a partnership on er, a…a, a business ventcha.”

“What kind a business ventcha you talkin’ ‘bout, Papa Jackson?”

“Work ventcha! We’s is a goin’ to have a root. Goin’ to cover all of thems bus stops what’s got them thare grating thangs peoples be standing on and dropping they change. Ain’t that so, son?”

“That’s right, Mr. Jackson. We’re going to make some money and split it fifty, fifty,” said Diego.

Beulah’s eyes lit up. She energetically raised an arm up and slapped her thigh in jest. “Fifta, fifta? Well glory be! We all gonna be rich, now ain’t we, Mista Diega?”

The boy caught Beulah’s wink. “Well, ha ha, no, not exactly.”

“How’s that corn braid?”

“Real good, Mrs. Jackson. I mean, Beulah, ma‘am.”

“Here, take this piece on home with ya.”

“You mind if I give it to my mom?”

“Well shucks no! Here’s another piece…let me stick it in with the other one.”

Two blocks away on Bond Street, Officer Bob Scanlon, huskily built with a pot belly and craggy face, turned the corner and headed up Dean Street. He’s nearing Leroy’s father, Thomas, who is in front of his house sweeping the sidewalk.

“Afternoon officer, good weather we got here today.”

“Humph!” Scanlon kept looking straight ahead.

Thomas was left staring at the back of the cop’s head as he passed by, and as usual, there had been no reply.

He frowned.
Why do I bother
?

Next door, Laura Swift emptied her mailbox at the top of the stoop and closed the lid. “Hi, Bob. I saw you at Saint Paul’s Sunday. You were standing in the back of the church.”

“How you doin’, Laura, how’s Joe?”

“Good! He’s home early from work.”

“That church was crowded yesterday. If you get there a minute late, you don’t get a seat.” Seeing Thomas go inside, Scanlon covered his mouth and softly growled, “The neighborhood’s going to pot really fast. All this welfare moving in and the likes of people like him buying up the houses cheap. It sure ain’t like it used to be.”

“You’re right, there, Bob. But he’s not that bad for a colored man. I guess the Jamaicans might be a better quality, if you know what I mean?”

“Nah, they all suck. The jail’s full of his kind. Them and the Puerto Ricans. If Hitler was here, he would know what to do with them.”

“Well…I…I can’t really say, I…well…I really don’t mind so much, as long as they don’t bother me.”

“That’s just it! You gotta nail everything down. They don’t know how to live right. If it was up to me, I’d ship the whole lot of them back to Africa. And the Puerto Ricans, too. They can go back to their freakin’ island. I don’t trust none of ‘em.”

“Well, eh…I…I don’t really know what to…”

“Yeah, sure, take it easy. Say hello to Joe for me.”

“All right Bob, enjoy the good weather.”

Approaching the corner, the cop crossed over to the other side of the street. He passed Diego at the broad sidewalk in front of D’avino’s grocery while looking around for a violation. Neither one looked at the other.

Cow bells jingled behind as the cop entered the store. Standing on the scuffed, plank floor in the middle of the aisle, he stared at Mr. D’avino, who looked back with worry from behind the counter.

“Well…where is it?” The cop demanded.

“Hey, looka Officer a Scanaleen…I’m a know I’m a late for the money, but you come a tomorrow and I feex everything.”

“That ain’t gonna fly with the captain and you know it.”

“It’s a okay. No worry. I’m a …”

“I’m a what? That envelope is supposed to be in my hand every Tuesday. Today’s Wednesday, already. How come I don’t have this problem with Herzog on the next block? Hey, you know what? Come over here you old guinea bastard. How many times do we gotta do this?”

At that moment, Mrs. D’avino exited the back room. “Pleasa, leava my husband alone. We pay tomorrow.”

Scanlon scowled. He opened the red lid to the trunk shaped, Coca Cola fridge and pulled out a Yoo Hoo. He popped the bottle open in the machine’s built-in bottle opener, with the cap dropping into a collector at the bottom. Taking a sip, he said, “One more day. Otherwise, we can’t be responsible if somebody should break that nice big window and torch the place while you’re sleepin‘.”

“Yes, offeecer. Tomorrow eesa no problem.”

“Yeah! Two o’clock! Don’t’ forget!”

“Yawl got that gum?” Bill asked Diego.”

“I sure do…and the lock.”

An odd couple, the two made their way up Nevins Street—Bill, all of 6’4” and Diego, a chest level, 5’1”.

“That old Herzog’s deli sure ‘nough has lots o’ customas. That’s where the ‘spensive stuff be, ham and all that. I don’t neva go in that sto’. It is way too ‘spensive for me.”

“I go to the Italian grocery, myself,” said Diego. “We don’t buy ham, hardly.”

“Why…dontcha likes it?”

“Well…yeah! Say, if we do real good today, you and I could buy a whole half pound of ham, right, Mr. Jackson? I mean, Bill.”

“Sure son. We might end up buyin’ all theys hams whats theys got in that ol’ sto’”

“We can have a feast at my place.”

“Well now, that’s a deal, but let’s see how wees do fust. Can’t be a countin’ no chickens before theys hatches. Gotta watch out for that ol’ fox, don’t ya know. He always be hangin’ ‘round the coup when you’re least expectin’ it, and before ya knows it?
BAM!
He’s got another chicken in his mouth. I still got that ’lectric bill to take care o’, too, so I don’t rightly knows about no ham. At least, not for a while.”

It took the entire day to cover the rest of the gratings along that same side of Flatbush Avenue toward Grand Army Plaza. Minus the subway fare back, they netted: 31 tokens, 17 quarters, 12 dimes and 6 nickels. Three dollars and fifty three cents apiece; not a bad take for the first day out.

The following day they picked up where they left off, the other side of Flatbush Avenue where they worked their way back toward the bridges. By the end of the week, bill had half of his electric bill covered. Eventually, however, the subway gratings dried out.

“We needs to find another way to make money, Diego.”

“I know, I’ve been kind o’ thinking about that. If we can get our hands on an old baby carriage, we could make a wooden box for it and help people carry groceries home for a tip.”

“Well, that’s a fine idea. Now you’re using that ol’ grey stuff in that head of yours. I’ll get busy on the box.”

“Okay, and I think I know where we can get us a carriage.”

Wednesday 10:22 A.M.

Clang! Bang! Crash!

“Diego, wassup?” said Louie, from behind the truck.

“Hi, Louie?” Diego turned from him and yelled toward the driver’s window. “Anything today, Petey?”

“Yeah, hi kid. Nah! I ain’t got nuttin’ for you today, sorry.”

“Oh, that’s okay. Thanks anyway.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Louie shouted at his partner. “Hey Fat Tony, get your head outa the freagin’ bags, huh? Jeez! We ain’t never gonna get finished. So, how’s it going there, Diego?”

“Real good, Louie. Say, do you ever find baby carriages?”

“Baby carriages? Who’s gonna have a baby?”

“No! Nobody! I need it for myself.”

“Aintcha kinda too young to be thinkin’ about those things?”

“Oh…no, it’s not for a baby. I need it to make money.”

“Now, how are you gonna make money with a baby carriage? Hey, Fat Tony…you hear dis?”

“Yeah, I hoid,” Fat Tony answered. “So what!”

“The kid needs a baby carriage. You had a bunch a dem bambino things yourself, didn’t you, ha ha?”

Tony’s head reemerged from deep inside a shopping bag. “Very funny. Yeah, sure, I’ll look in my basement when I get home. I got a carriage down there somewhere. The Cadillac of carriages. You’re gonna like that one if I find it, Diego.”

“Thanks. Can you bring it Friday?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll see. Friday, yeah sure.”

Petey stuck his head out. “Ayyy! Does ya tink we got all day? Let’s go! We gotta get lunch! Stop your yakin’ back there and finish up, will ya?”

Friday: Diego’s Apartment 10:25 A.M.

“So, Ju are Meester Jacksown. I’m so hoppy to meet ju.”

“And I is pleased at meetin’ yawl, Missus Ana. Sure is a roomy place you got here.”

“Gracias.”

Worried, Diego faced his mother from across the table. “Tony says he’s bringing me a carriage today, but I just don’t know…he didn’t seem like he…”

“Dee carriage ju were telling me abou’? Done worry. Eef Tony say he will bring eet, then Tony will bring eet. Have some coffee, Meester Jacksown?”

“Thankya kindly, Missus Ana.”

Diego’s mother limped to the table and poured it for him. “Milk ees on dee table with dee chugar.”

“This is some strong coffee, Missus Ana.”

“Mom makes it in a stinky old sock.”

“No I done. He’s Jus’ playing. I use thees.”

Ana held up a cloth pouch made of cotton with a wire frame around the opening and filled with Bustelo coffee grinds, a strong Spanish coffee. She put the pouch into a pot of boiling water to allow it to steep.

“I can give ju bread weeth butter if ju want?”

“No thankya, ma’am. Ah just et. Thank you just the same, though.”

Vroom! Bang! Bam!

“I guess that be them now,” said Bill. “Let’s go meet the boys, outsod.”

Diego ran down the steps two at a time and yelled over the truck noise. “Did you find anything, Tony?”

“Nah, nuttin’, right, Louie?”

“Nah, Fat Tony ain’t found nuthin’ in the basement?”

Petey leaned his head out, took a puff from a freshly lit cigar and slipped a smile.

“Yeah, too bad, right, Fat Tony?” Louie repeated.

“Yup,” Tony nodded back. “I looks and I don’t see no carriage down there nowhere. Nope, nope…and then guess what happens?”

Diego shrugged.

“Well, I’s comes to work this mornin’ and I dunno, but I looks up at the pigeons flying ‘round the garage and guess what I sees? A freakin’ carriage right up there on top a da truck. Ain’t that right, Louie?”

“Yup, I seen it there myself. Take a look, kid.”

The smile on the boy stretched wider. There on the roof of the truck was a blue carriage with a cushy, chrome spring above each wheel. Louie climbed up and handed it down to Tony.

“Here ya go, kid. It’s all yours.”

“Wow! Check it out, Bill,” the boy said.

“That sure be a fancy one,” said the old gent.

“Ayyy…whose the mooly?” Petey snapped, in his usual husky voice.

“He’s my friend and new business partner, Mr. Bill Jackson.”

Petey smirked. “Mister who? …Oh! ‘Scuse me! Mr. Jackson he says. Ho, ho!”

“Ah, shaddup, Petey.” Louie snapped. “Mr. Jackson is his business partna, and that’s, that. Got it?”

“Yeah…yeah, sure. Okay, hot shot. Mr. Jackson it is. So what is it now…you guys are in the transportation business?” Without waiting for an answer, Petey waved them off and ducked back inside the cab.

“That’s right,” Louie shouted. “They’re in the transportation business, and that ain’t no business of yours.” He turned to Diego. “Lotsa luck kid.”

“Yeah, that goes for me, too. Lotsa luck,” said Fat Tony.

“And you too, Mr. Jackson.”

“Thank ya boys. That’s right mighty nice of y’all fellas.”

“Yo! Let’s go! Lunchtime, remember?” Petey yelled.

Louie and Tony hopped onto the back of the hopper and waved.

Vroom!

Bill waved back. “They sho is some nice fellas. Come on, Diego. We all is a goin’ to my place to puts the box onto this here carriage. We is goin’ to make some mon-a-ay to-o-o…day?”