Read Online Cubop City Blues by Pablo Medina - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Pablo Medina
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morning and walked around
the neighborhood reluctantly with the word retribution stuck in his head like an iron spike. What is a neighborhood, anyway? Three, four, five blocks? He walked ten and saw no one with a handlebar mustache, except for Isidore, the eighty-year-old former waiter who lived on the sixth floor of their building.
He could have done it, Amanda said.
Isidore is a sweet gay man, Angel said, his exasperation rising, and he walks with a cane.
That day Angel went about his businessâheâd promised Amanda he would wash the windows and do the laundry while she attended her necromancy meeting. Nevertheless, the matter stayed with him if for no other reason than to heed his motherâs message to find his attacker. He didnât have the faintest idea what he would do once he confronted him. He went to the Tenth Precinct and asked for a copy of the police report, which he read carefully twice. It said nothing he didnât already know, except that given the uneven edges of the wound, the perpetrator most probably used a serrated knife with a one-inch-wide blade. He filed away the paperwork along with other documents relating to that night and went to sleep, too tired to wait up for Amanda.
Waking the next morning he saw that Amanda had slept next to him and then left the house early. On her pillow was a note saying she had gone in search of the man with the handlebar mustache. He dressed quickly and went outside without so much as a cup of coffee. He walked around the neighborhood until he found her staring through the window of a phony French café on Ninth Avenue. All French cafés in Cubop City are phony. The real ones are in France.
Thatâs the man, she said looking through Angelâs reflection on the glass.
Inside were several youngish couples seated at the tables closest to the window, and at one of the far tables by the counter was a middle-aged man, alone, reading a book.
What are you talking about? He doesnât have a mustache, he said.
Your mother appeared to me again last night and said that heâd shaved it off. She said that two of his daughters lived in the city, and the three others, whom heâd lost touch with, were spread all over the country.
But how do you know itâs that particular man? Angel asked, letting his irritation get the better of him. Iâd got over all this and you had to bring my mother into it.
I didnât call her, Amanda said in a calm voice that thinly disguised her condescension. She came to me. Iâll tell you how I know thatâs our man.
Angel threw his arms up over his head and started walking away. His mother was dead. He, his sister, and father had had her cremated and dumped her ashes into the Gulf Stream. Amanda caught up with him and grabbed him by the arm.
You should have seen him handling the butter knife, like a bona fide killer. What I didnât get to say to you because you left so abruptly was that your mother told me we would find him in that café, sitting just where he is.
Amanda, he said almost pleading with her.You never knew my mother.
I know her better than you think. What harm can there be if we follow that man and find out where he lives?
They waited across the street for the man to finish his coffee and watched him as he left the café and walked south on the avenue. He was slim, almost delicate, and had thinning blond hair. He looked to be in his late fifties, hardly the attacker type. They followed him at a safe distance to Twenty-third Street, where he turned east, then to the Eighth Avenue subway, which he entered going uptown.
Hurry, Amanda said. Weâre about to lose him.
No way, he said.
Amanda said theyâd gone too far to stop now and went down the subway steps. He went home. He had windows to wash.
Three hours later she showed up at the apartment, disheveled and sweaty. Subways will do that to you. He watched her as she drank a glass of water, went to the bathroom, and
the neighborhood reluctantly with the word retribution stuck in his head like an iron spike. What is a neighborhood, anyway? Three, four, five blocks? He walked ten and saw no one with a handlebar mustache, except for Isidore, the eighty-year-old former waiter who lived on the sixth floor of their building.
He could have done it, Amanda said.
Isidore is a sweet gay man, Angel said, his exasperation rising, and he walks with a cane.
That day Angel went about his businessâheâd promised Amanda he would wash the windows and do the laundry while she attended her necromancy meeting. Nevertheless, the matter stayed with him if for no other reason than to heed his motherâs message to find his attacker. He didnât have the faintest idea what he would do once he confronted him. He went to the Tenth Precinct and asked for a copy of the police report, which he read carefully twice. It said nothing he didnât already know, except that given the uneven edges of the wound, the perpetrator most probably used a serrated knife with a one-inch-wide blade. He filed away the paperwork along with other documents relating to that night and went to sleep, too tired to wait up for Amanda.
Waking the next morning he saw that Amanda had slept next to him and then left the house early. On her pillow was a note saying she had gone in search of the man with the handlebar mustache. He dressed quickly and went outside without so much as a cup of coffee. He walked around the neighborhood until he found her staring through the window of a phony French café on Ninth Avenue. All French cafés in Cubop City are phony. The real ones are in France.
Thatâs the man, she said looking through Angelâs reflection on the glass.
Inside were several youngish couples seated at the tables closest to the window, and at one of the far tables by the counter was a middle-aged man, alone, reading a book.
What are you talking about? He doesnât have a mustache, he said.
Your mother appeared to me again last night and said that heâd shaved it off. She said that two of his daughters lived in the city, and the three others, whom heâd lost touch with, were spread all over the country.
But how do you know itâs that particular man? Angel asked, letting his irritation get the better of him. Iâd got over all this and you had to bring my mother into it.
I didnât call her, Amanda said in a calm voice that thinly disguised her condescension. She came to me. Iâll tell you how I know thatâs our man.
Angel threw his arms up over his head and started walking away. His mother was dead. He, his sister, and father had had her cremated and dumped her ashes into the Gulf Stream. Amanda caught up with him and grabbed him by the arm.
You should have seen him handling the butter knife, like a bona fide killer. What I didnât get to say to you because you left so abruptly was that your mother told me we would find him in that café, sitting just where he is.
Amanda, he said almost pleading with her.You never knew my mother.
I know her better than you think. What harm can there be if we follow that man and find out where he lives?
They waited across the street for the man to finish his coffee and watched him as he left the café and walked south on the avenue. He was slim, almost delicate, and had thinning blond hair. He looked to be in his late fifties, hardly the attacker type. They followed him at a safe distance to Twenty-third Street, where he turned east, then to the Eighth Avenue subway, which he entered going uptown.
Hurry, Amanda said. Weâre about to lose him.
No way, he said.
Amanda said theyâd gone too far to stop now and went down the subway steps. He went home. He had windows to wash.
Three hours later she showed up at the apartment, disheveled and sweaty. Subways will do that to you. He watched her as she drank a glass of water, went to the bathroom, and
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