A Matter of Conviction

LOUISA: Quién sabe, but I would never have done thees. Nunca, nunca! I would rot in jail first!

(The girls fall silent. The street, too, has become silent, anticipating the storm. On the steps, Rafael Morrez tilts his head skyward, as if listening for something. Louisa turns to him.)

LOUISA: Ralphie, why you don’ play us some music?

TERRY: Ándale, Ralphie, some music.

(At the girls’ request, Morrez reaches into his pocket, and at that instant the three boys enter the street. There is trouble in their stride, and Louisa recognizes it instantly. She starts down the steps, and then sees that the boys have spotted Morrez.)

LOUISA: Mira! Cuidado!

TOWER: Shut up, you spic whore!

(Rafael turns toward the boys. He stands suddenly. Something glints in the hand he has taken from his pocket. He faces the boys blankly.)

TOWER: There’s one of them!

BATMAN: Get him!

(A blade flashes, penetrates, flesh rips in silent protest as the knife gashes upward from the gut. And now the other knives descend, tearing and slashing until Morrez falls like an assassin-surrounded Caesar, crumpling to the pavement. The knives withdraw. Blood spatters like early rain to the sidewalk. From the opposite end of the street four boys begin running toward the intruders.)

TOWER: Go, go!

(The three boys begin running down the street toward Park Avenue. Louisa comes off the steps, running to the felled Morrez.)

LOUISA: Ralphie! Ralphie! Madre de Dios! Virgencita mía!

(And suddenly it is raining.)

“What happened then?” Hank asked.

“I hold his head in my lap. He iss... iss bleeding everywhere, everywhere — they rip him all up. Then the police come. Police all over the street. Sirens going, police chasing the others, and police asking questions — always the police. When it is too late.”

“Did Morrez have a knife?” Hank asked flatly.

“A knife? A knife?”

“Sí. Un cuchillo.”

“Un cuchillo? Ralphie? Qué hace con un cuchillo? A knife? No, this iss not so. Who said this to you?”

“The boys said he pulled a knife and attacked them.”

“This is a lie. He stood up when I yell, and he turn to face them. But it is they who attack. No, he did not have a knife.”

“Then tell me something, Louisa. What was it he took out of his pocket? What was it that glittered?”

“Glit— Oh! Oh! The harmonica, you mean? You mean the harmonica on what he plays his music? This is what you mean?”

Gargantua was waiting downstairs when Hank came out of the building. Another boy was with him. The second boy wore dark glasses and a high-crowned, narrow-brimmed hat. His eyes were invisible behind the glasses. A straggly mustache clung to his upper lip. The suggestion of a Dizzy-kick formed a sparse triangle of hair between his lower lip and his chin. He was very fair, with the almost alabaster coloration of a high-born Spaniard. He wore a short-sleeved white shirt and a narrow blue tie and dark-blue trousers. A tattoo mark was on his right forearm. His hands were big, and he wore a wrist watch on his left wrist. He stood with his hands behind his back, surveying the sidewalk and the street. He did not turn to look at Hank as he approached.

“Here’s the D.A. now, Frankie,” Gargantua said, but the boy did not turn. “Did you find her?”

“I found her,” Hank said. “She was very helpful.” He stopped before the two boys. The one called Frankie was still looking off up the street disinterestedly, the dark glasses effectively hiding his eyes.

“This is Frankie Anarilles,” Gargantua said. “He’s president of the Horsemen. It was him who named the club. I don’t think I got your name, mister.”

“Bell,” Hank said.

“Frankie, this is Mr. Bell.”

Frankie nodded. “Nice to know you, man,” he said. “What brings you to the turf?”

“Rafael Morrez. I’m prosecuting the case,” Hank said.

“Oh, yeah. Gone. Good luck with it. Kill them, man.”