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Authors: R. Narvaez
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lipstick on her teeth.
“No, I don’t arrest people. I just want to find Danny.”
“Why you askin’ me?”
“According to his mother, you’re his girlfriend.”
She sucked her teeth. “She don’t know what she’s talkin’ about. We was talkin’ for a while, but that’s all.”
“Maybe you know where he is anyway?”
No more chips, nothing to do with her hands. “No,” she said.
“And you don’t know where he’s staying?”
She sucked her teeth. “I ain’t gonna tell you nothing. I ain’t gotta tell you nothing. You ain’t even a real cop.”
“Fair enough,” Vega said. “But your friend could be in real trouble. His mother . . .”
“What do I care? That lady just wants that money.”
“You know about the money?”
“Yessssss.” The teeth-sucking again.
“Danny could get into a lot of trouble because of that money. You know that.”
“I ain’t gonna tell you where he’s at because I don’t know. But sometimes he hangs out at this bar in the Northside.”
“What bar?”
* * *
Teddy’s Bar & Grill. Only two customers leaned on the bar when Vega walked in. A pretty blonde bartender looked very bored. Vega ordered a domestic beer and asked the bartender where everyone was on a Saturday night.
“The Spore.”
“The Spore?”
She handed him an orange flyer from a stack on the bar.
LIME ORANGE
Presents
THE SPORE
Artists in Billyburg coming together for an organic gathering of minds, music, & art.
All welcome.
The words wrapped around a picture of what looked like a smiling tank made out of metal spikes. The address on the bottom of the flyer was on Kent Avenue, by the river.
“Thanks for the beer.”
Vega decided to walk. Halfway there he thought about how nice it would be to be sleeping. He heard the music from three blocks away, a thumping cacophony. The Spore was located in a large warehouse. A sign in front read: Spore $25.
At the entrance stood an old-fashioned subway turnstile and a young man with a tumbleweed of hair combed dramatically over to one side and a shining beard made of piercings. Vega couldn’t help but think that somewhere a father was very disappointed.
Vega showed him Danny’s picture. “Excuse me. You seen this kid around?”
“Wow, man, are you a cop?” the man said in a mannered lisp that made Vega wince.
“Private.”
“Wow, a shamus, a P.I. Like, what’s the rumpus, gumshoe?”
“Have you seen this kid?”
The tumbleweeded man took the picture and looked at it. He seemed bored by the whole idea of looking at the picture. Finally, he said, “Maybe, maybe not.”
“Can I look for him inside?”
“Twenty-five bucks, man. And you should ask Lime if it’s okay.”
“Lime?”
“Lime Orange. He’s in charge. You’ll see him. He’s got the green tux and the acid Mickey tee.”
Vega paid and went through the turnstile. People were packed in there, masses of black hair, fuschia hair, goatees, more pierced faces, tattoos. The music was so loud it took up space as well.
Before Vega moved ten feet, a man in a green tuxedo jacket and black jeans walked right in front of him. On the man’s T-shirt was a cartoon of Mickey Mouse with six eyes and four white-gloved hands. The man himself had a metal ring that pierced his left nostril. A puff of very black hair hung off his chin. His head was shaved to a stubble.
“Hey, you the private eye?” the man said, smirking.
“Yeah. You the Lime Green?”
“Lime Orange, yes.”
“The tux threw me. Sorry.” Vega smirked back, but Orange’s expression was blank. “Well, have you seen this kid around?”
Orange grabbed the photo of Cortez and held it close to his face for a long time. Finally, he said, “I’ve got, like, a lot of local artists here. That’s what this is about. I organized this. We are showing solidarity and the spirit of Williamsburg. I don’t mind if you look around. And I hope you enjoy the show.”
Vega took back the picture and began
“No, I don’t arrest people. I just want to find Danny.”
“Why you askin’ me?”
“According to his mother, you’re his girlfriend.”
She sucked her teeth. “She don’t know what she’s talkin’ about. We was talkin’ for a while, but that’s all.”
“Maybe you know where he is anyway?”
No more chips, nothing to do with her hands. “No,” she said.
“And you don’t know where he’s staying?”
She sucked her teeth. “I ain’t gonna tell you nothing. I ain’t gotta tell you nothing. You ain’t even a real cop.”
“Fair enough,” Vega said. “But your friend could be in real trouble. His mother . . .”
“What do I care? That lady just wants that money.”
“You know about the money?”
“Yessssss.” The teeth-sucking again.
“Danny could get into a lot of trouble because of that money. You know that.”
“I ain’t gonna tell you where he’s at because I don’t know. But sometimes he hangs out at this bar in the Northside.”
“What bar?”
* * *
Teddy’s Bar & Grill. Only two customers leaned on the bar when Vega walked in. A pretty blonde bartender looked very bored. Vega ordered a domestic beer and asked the bartender where everyone was on a Saturday night.
“The Spore.”
“The Spore?”
She handed him an orange flyer from a stack on the bar.
LIME ORANGE
Presents
THE SPORE
Artists in Billyburg coming together for an organic gathering of minds, music, & art.
All welcome.
The words wrapped around a picture of what looked like a smiling tank made out of metal spikes. The address on the bottom of the flyer was on Kent Avenue, by the river.
“Thanks for the beer.”
Vega decided to walk. Halfway there he thought about how nice it would be to be sleeping. He heard the music from three blocks away, a thumping cacophony. The Spore was located in a large warehouse. A sign in front read: Spore $25.
At the entrance stood an old-fashioned subway turnstile and a young man with a tumbleweed of hair combed dramatically over to one side and a shining beard made of piercings. Vega couldn’t help but think that somewhere a father was very disappointed.
Vega showed him Danny’s picture. “Excuse me. You seen this kid around?”
“Wow, man, are you a cop?” the man said in a mannered lisp that made Vega wince.
“Private.”
“Wow, a shamus, a P.I. Like, what’s the rumpus, gumshoe?”
“Have you seen this kid?”
The tumbleweeded man took the picture and looked at it. He seemed bored by the whole idea of looking at the picture. Finally, he said, “Maybe, maybe not.”
“Can I look for him inside?”
“Twenty-five bucks, man. And you should ask Lime if it’s okay.”
“Lime?”
“Lime Orange. He’s in charge. You’ll see him. He’s got the green tux and the acid Mickey tee.”
Vega paid and went through the turnstile. People were packed in there, masses of black hair, fuschia hair, goatees, more pierced faces, tattoos. The music was so loud it took up space as well.
Before Vega moved ten feet, a man in a green tuxedo jacket and black jeans walked right in front of him. On the man’s T-shirt was a cartoon of Mickey Mouse with six eyes and four white-gloved hands. The man himself had a metal ring that pierced his left nostril. A puff of very black hair hung off his chin. His head was shaved to a stubble.
“Hey, you the private eye?” the man said, smirking.
“Yeah. You the Lime Green?”
“Lime Orange, yes.”
“The tux threw me. Sorry.” Vega smirked back, but Orange’s expression was blank. “Well, have you seen this kid around?”
Orange grabbed the photo of Cortez and held it close to his face for a long time. Finally, he said, “I’ve got, like, a lot of local artists here. That’s what this is about. I organized this. We are showing solidarity and the spirit of Williamsburg. I don’t mind if you look around. And I hope you enjoy the show.”
Vega took back the picture and began
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