A Matter of Conviction

“Man, that’s our middle name, trouble. And that’s where we are, right in the middle. The wops look down on us, and the niggers look down on us, and where does that leave us? It leaves us holding the sloppy end of the stick. It’s like we don’t belong to the human race, you dig? We’re something crawled out of the sewer. The niggers think they’re hot stuff because all of a sudden they’re wearing white shirts and ties instead of carrying spears in the jungle. Man, my people are a proud race. Puerto Rico ain’t no damn African jungle. And what makes the wops think they’re so high and mighty? What’d they ever have? Mussolini? Big deal! This guy Michelangelo? Okay. But what the hell have they done recently?” Frankie paused. “You ever hear of a guy named Picasso?”

“Yes,” Hank said.

“Pablo Picasso,” Frankie said. “He’s the greatest artist ever lived. I went all the way down the museum to see that show of his they gave. Man, he sings! And you know something? He got the same blood in his veins that I got in mine.”

“You went to the museum to see the Picasso exhibit?” Hank asked, surprised.

“Sure. Gargantua went with me. Remember?”

“Sure, I remember. That was the night we bopped with the Crusaders.”

“Yeah, that’s right. When we got back from the museum.”

“Who are the Crusaders?”

“This gang from the West Side,” Frankie said. “Colored guys. A bunch of bananas. We sent them home crying that night.”

“I tell you the truth,” Gargantua said, “a lot of them Picasso pictures I didn’t understand.”

“You’re a meatball,” Frankie said. “Who says you got to understand it? All you got to do is feel it. This guy paints with his heart. He’s got his heart spread all over the pictures. You can feel it. Hell, he’s Spanish!”

The bartender brought the beers to the table, eying Hank curiously. He wiped his hands on his apron and then went back to the bar.

“Did you know any of these fellows personally?” Hank asked. “The ones who killed Morrez?”

“I know Reardon and Aposto,” Frankie said. “That bastard Reardon is the one I really hope you get.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, Aposto’s — you know — not all there. I mean, this is a kid you tell him to push his mother in the river, like he’ll do it. He’s a little... feeble-minded? Retarded? You know.” He tapped his temple with a circling forefinger. “This is legit because my kid brother’s in his class at school, so he knows.”

“What school is that?”

“S.A.T. Manhattan. The School of Aviation Trades, you know? My brother goes there.”

“And your brother’s in Aposto’s class, and he says Aposto’s retarded, is that right?”

“Yeah. But Reardon ain’t. Reardon is a shrewd son of a bitch. Tower, he calls himself. Tower. I’ll give him a tower, that bastard.”

“Why don’t you like him?”

“Because I don’t like punks who try to behave like wheels, that’s why. I mean, this guy is nothing,” Frankie said. “A real nowhere. But he’s always trying to make a name for himself. He’s got this idea, you know, that the big-time racketeers are watching him. He makes a name in a street club, and he thinks he’s going to control the waterfront next week. He’s got holes in his head. I mean, man, this bopping is sheeeeeet, you know. I mean, real sheeeeet, man. But he keeps trying to get a rep. So now he’s got one. Now he’s got a rep going to take him straight to the electric chair. You want to know something?”

“What’s that?”

“We had a bop scheduled for the night Ralphie was killed. The Birds knew all about it. Gargantua met with their warlord, this cat called Diablo, a Spanish name, how do you like that? So it was all set up. The project on a Hun’ Twenty-fifth. At ten o’clock. The Birds knew this. And if the Birds knew it, then Reardon knew it, too. He makes it his business to know everything that happens on that club. So what happens? Early in the night, he rounds up this idiot Aposto, and this kid Di Pace who I never heard of, and he stages his own private raid into our turf. Man, don’t you read it?”

“He was looking for personal glory?”

“Sure, what else? He’s trying to make a rep for himself. Naturally, he didn’t expect the cops to get him. Nobody expects to get busted. He figured he’d come in here and raise a little hell, and then go back to the Birds and get elected president or something. I’ll bet you a hundred dollars that was just how it happened. Reardon conned those two shmoes into coming in here. Hey, you ain’t touched your beer.”

Hank picked up his glass and drank from it.

“Good, ain’t it?”

“Yes, very good,” Hank said. “You talk as if you know Reardon very well.”

“I once give him a hole on the side of his head, I bet he’s still got the scar,” Frankie said.

“When was this?”

“In a bop. I hit him and he went down, so I kicked him in the head. I was wearing combat boots, I mean anybody goes bopping without combat boots is out of his mind. So I musta split his head wide open.”

“Why’d you kick him?”

“Because he was down, and I didn’t want him to get up again.”

“Do you kick anyone who’s down?”

“Anybody.”

“Why?”