PART 35 (11 page)

Sandro was confused. “A hundred-dollar bill? You changed a hundred-dollar bill?”

“Yes. I changed a hundred-dollar bill with this colored girl. She was at the counter in the five-and-tens store, a big fat-face she was, like she got peaches pits in each cheek. I don't know what her name is. And she changed the bill for me, and I remember we was kidding cause she changed a hundred-dollar bill a couple days before for me, and she says to me, ‘What are you, making these things?' And I says, ‘Yeah,' and then she changed the bill for me.”

“Was Eugene in the store with you?”

“No. I didn't want a big crowd, you know. Maybe they think we rob somebody.”

“Where were you getting these hundred-dollar bills?

“No stealing. Believe me. Some guy on the street give me three hundred dollars—three hundred-dollar bills—to buy some stuff for him. You know, junk, and I was suppose to buy stuff for him, but I never did. And I have this money in my pocket, and I need some money, so I spend it.”

It would be far better to be tried for hustling narcotics or stealing three hundred dollars than for murdering a policeman, Sandro reasoned.

“And you're sure you changed one of these hundred-dollar bills the day the policeman was killed?”

“Yes. Before I went to take the haircut, and I was talking with Eugene. I walk in and change a hundred-dollar bill. And I think she can remembers me because we were talking and kidding.”

“What time was it?”

Alvarado studied the ceiling. “Maybe one thirty, a little later. Somesing like that.”

“Where was this five-and-ten?”

“On Broadway near Roebling Street. It's a big store right on the side of the street there, a little bit from the corner.”

“And it was a colored salesgirl?”

“Yes. She works there because I see her there before, you know. As soon as you walking back, about two of them stands where they sell things, right in the middle.”

“I'll check it out. Is there anything else?”

Alvarado studied the ceiling for a minute and, looking back to Sandro, shook his head. “I can't think of anything.”

“While I follow up on these leads, you keep thinking, and write down anything you remember that you haven't told me, and tell me next time.” Sandro stood. “Are you getting any visitors while you're here?”

“No. My wife is away up in Westfield. They say I could write to her. I have a brother named José. But he is angry. You know, someone called him for me when all this happened, and he got all angry when this person call. I guess he's, you know, he don't want to be bothered. He's a big citizen or something. He works in the Department of Sanitation, and he doesn't want to know no trouble.”

“He hasn't come around to see you at all?”

“No, he doesn't- come here. When you get in trouble, peoples leave you alone: That's why, Mr. Luca, I got all my hope in you, because you are the only one in this country that I have going for me. I didn't do it, even, Mr. Luca.”

“I'll do what I can,” said Sandro. “I'll see you again shortly.” He walked toward the barred door to get out, wondering what a Negro woman eating peaches' pits looked like.

CHAPTER XI

Mike Rivera backed the car into a parking spot on Broadway in the Williamsburg section of Brooklyn. Sandro got out, and Mike joined him. They walked to the corner of Roebling Street and Broadway.

“Now the barber shop is supposed to be on the east side of the street, between Broadway and South Ninth. That's this way,” said Sandro, turning left. He walked to the curb to scan the storefronts across the block, a myriad of colors and painted signs.

“There it is, Sandro. The Imperial Barber Shop,” Mike exclaimed.

“Right. Now we'll know very quickly if there's anything in all this,” said Sandro.

“I hope the same barbers are still here,” said Mike.

It was a small, three-chair shop. The linoleum on the floor was worn, with nailheads pressing upward from beneath. The mirrors were framed in wood that squinted through strokes of cheap paint. There were tattered girlie magazines strewn on the wooden chairs provided for waiting customers. No one was waiting. Two barbers were clipping their way around two Puerto Rican men. All the men, barbers and customers, watched the intruding reflection of Sandro and Mike in the mirrors. Their eyes lingered on the gringo.

Mike spoke Spanish to the barber at the first chair. He was portly, middle-aged. Sandro caught a few words—
abogado, policia
, muerto. The eyes of all the men shifted to Sandro's image watching more intensely.

Sandro handed the newspaper clippings about the murder to Mike, who continued speaking to the older barber. He turned to Sandro.

“He says he wasn't working that day. This other guy was,” said Mike, walking down toward the third chair. The other barber was young, with a moustache. Mike spoke to him. Sandro could only catch an occasional word. The young barber nodded. Mike spoke to him at length. The barber stopped cutting hair and just listened to Mike. The customer forgot his haircut, watching the conversation.

Sandro looked from Mike to the barber to Mike and back, feeling as if he were at a tennis match.

Mike showed the news clippings with Alvarado's picture to the barber. The young barber studied the papers.

“
Si.
” He nodded. Then the barber walked across the floor to the wall opposite the mirrors, where the unoccupied chairs stood. He pointed at one chair with his scissors, speaking Spanish all the while. He walked back to the middle barber chair and pointed to it.

“What the hell is he saying?” Sandro urged impatiently.

“He says he did give Alvarado a haircut that day,” Mike explained. “Alvarado was waiting over here, and then he got a haircut in this second chair.”

The young barber added something more.

“And his moustache got trimmed,” Mike translated.

Sandro looked at Mike, then the barber. Could it be so easy? Maybe it was a put-up job!

“Ask him if he knew Alvarado before this, if he was a friend of his.”

Mike asked. The barber answered. “He says he didn't know him. He still doesn't even know his name except for the newspapers. But he remembered the face, and he remembered the man being here. The morning after the murder, when these pictures were in the papers, he saw them, and he remembered that Alvarado was here the afternoon before. The only way he knows Alvarado's name is he read it under the pictures in the paper.”

“Is there any question in his mind about Alvarado? Is he sure that this man was here having his hair cut on July third?”

The barber took the pictures in his hand. The other men all got up and crowded behind him, studying the pictures. The young barber spoke.

“He says that that's the man who was here that day. He remembers him coming in, having a haircut and his moustache trimmed.”

“Does he remember what time it was when Alvarado came in?”

Mike asked again. “He says he can't say for sure, but it was in the afternoon, after lunch.”

“Get an approximate time,” Sandro urged. Life and death hung on the answer.

Mike asked.

“He says he was here around two thirty, two forty-five,” he translated the answer.

Sandro studied the crowd of Puerto Ricans for a moment. He studied the barber, the barber shop. Life and death, murder and innocence were so unhistoric, so matter-of-fact, everyday.

“Was that the time Alvarado came in or left?” Sandro pressed.

Mike asked the barber.

“He says he must have come in around two twenty-five or so,
mas o meno
, more or less.”

“How does he know?” asked Sandro, wanting to anticipate Ellis. “Did he have a watch, or look at a clock in here?” Sandro looked around. There was no clock on the wall. The young barber was not wearing a watch.

“He has a friend,” said Mike, after the usual preface in Spanish, “who works in a day-care center and playground near here. Every day this friend comes here about four, after the playground is closed. On this day, July third, because the next day was a holiday, the friend got off from work early, and he came here early. They kidded about it, the barber and his friend. You know, like ‘Hey, only half a day today?' That sort of thing. While this friend from the playground was here, Alvarado came in with another guy.”

“Who is the fellow from the playground?”

“He says the guy's name is Julio. But he hasn't seen him for a while. He moved.”

“Does he know this other fellow with whom Alvarado came in?” Sandro directed to Mike. Mike translated.

“He knows the other guy from seeing him around the neighborhood. His name's Eugene. But he hasn't seen him today,” Mike replied for the barber.

“Was there anyone else in the shop when Alvarado came in?” he asked.

“There was Alvarado, this guy, Eugene, this barber, another barber, and the friend from the playground, Julio,” Mike interpreted.

“There was another barber here?” asked Sandro. “Does he still work here?”

“No. The other barber works in another shop. But this barber sees him once in a while.”

“All right. What's this barber's name anyway?”

“Francisco Moreno.”

Sandro smiled. He shook Francisco Moreno's hand firmly. “Maybe you'll save someone's life. You understand what I say?” In case he didn't, Mike gave a running translation. The barber smiled and shrugged, because it had not been really challenging to recount what had happened on a rainy afternoon in a barber shop on Roebling Street.

“Take Mr. Moreno's story down so that we can have a signed statement for our file,” Sandro instructed. Just in case, Sandro thought. The first thing he had learned in preparing cases for trial was to obtain signed statements. It might act as a reminder. It could also be used against the witness if he decided to change his story and help the opposition.

Mike took a pad of yellow paper. Again, he spoke to Francisco Moreno about the afternoon of July 3rd, writing as he listened. Sandro added comments and occasional instructions. Mike wrote first in Spanish, and then, on the same paper, wrote a translation in English:

My name is Francisco Moreno. I am 26 years of age. I live in 136 South Fourth Street, in Brooklyn, Apartment 2C. I have no telephone. I work at the Imperial Barber Shop, 319 Roebling Street, Brooklyn. The 3rd of July, I was working in the barber shop and between the hours of 2:30 or 3, and about that time Luis Alvarado was in my shop. He seated himself in my chair, and I cut his hair. I remember that Mr. Alvarado was calm and he was not excited. He was wearing a sweater. I cut his hair and moustache and he left the store. I noticed that Mr. Alvarado was well dressed; that his clothing was dry and did not give me the impression of having taken part in any fight.

(Signed) Francisco Moreno,

September 6, 1967

When they had finished, Sandro asked Mike to instruct Moreno not to talk to anyone about the case. He handed Moreno his card. Mike wrote his home telephone number on the back of the card so that Moreno could call in case of any new developments or trouble. Sandro had Mike ask Moreno to look for the other barber, for Alvarado's friend Eugene, and for Julio, his friend who worked in the playground.

The barber smiled and nodded. They all shook hands again.

The five-and-ten was typical, with open counter upon open counter of merchandise, each with little price cards in front of the .bins.

“Alvarado said about two counters down from the door in the center, we'd see the counter where the girl works,” Sandro said as they entered. They stood at the front counter, looking back. There were no girls at any counter. Off to the side, about two counters back, some customers had just made a purchase. They turned from an employee who was placing merchandise in a bag. When the customers moved, Sandro beheld an apparition. A Negro girl, young, with nice, fat, puffy cheeks, as if there were peach pits in them. Sandro looked at Mike, who returned his look. They smiled.

“Pardon me,” said Sandro. “My name is Luca. I'm an attorney. I represent a man named Alvarado who is being charged with a crime. At the time it happened, he says he was here and you were serving him.”

She shrugged and smiled. Her smile was extraordinarily bright, delightful. “I wait on a lot of people, mister.” Her voice had a southern sound. She wasn't Puerto Rican. “I don't know all them who comes in. What's his name?”

“Alvarado.”

“That Spanish?” she asked.

“Yes. He's Spanish, but he's colored too. You know, very dark.”

“I don't know nobody by that name. When was he supposed to be here?”

“July third,” Sandro said.

“Mister, that's two months ago. I couldn't tell you one guy from another.”

“Well, you might have remembered his face. This is his picture.” Sandro handed her the newspaper clippings.

She looked at the picture. Then she looked at Sandro.

“He changed some money, I believe,” Sandro said.

“A hundred-dollar bill?”

“Yes,” he said, trying to sound calm.

“I 'member him. I 'member him now,” she said, her face bright. “He changed another one before that, too, another day. I 'member when he come in again, cause I kidded with him, you know.”

“Any trouble here, gentlemen?” asked a young white man with a little badge pinned to his shirt that identified him as the assistant store manager. “Any trouble, Annie?”

“No, Phil. This here is the lawyer for that fellow—I showed you the paper and told you about the one-hundred-dollar bill I changed, and the guy's picture was in the paper about killin' a policeman?”

“Yes, the one-hundred-dollar bill. I remember that. You're his lawyer? That's a murder case, isn't it?”

“That's right. A policeman was killed.”

“On a roof, right?” asked the assistant manager, pleased with his memory.