in a bit. “Look, this Balsalmo guy was bad news, right? Did a little time. Dealt some crank. I understand. I saw his record. I get that. I got kids, too, right? But, Machito, I’m just doing my job. Maybe you open the door and just see if he’s hiding in there? If he is, I have a conversation with him and then I go.”
Ray shifted his weight from foot to foot, as if he were literally weighing his options, but didn’t say anything. Having a conversation with Ray required one to fill in a lot of blanks.
“His girl been around at all? Maria? Because maybe I could talk to her. She was always the reasonable one.”
The mention of Maria’s name got Ray animated. “She moved out last week. Let him keep the place. Put him on the lease and everything. Stupid, eh? Italian guy living in Little Havana. You knew he didn’t have a clue.”
A little boy came running down the hall, screaming at full throat. Not like he was hurt. Like he was a little boy. But when he saw Ray, he came to a full and silent stop.
“Sorry, Mr. Ray,” the boy said, before hustling inside one of the open doors.
Ray started walking toward the door and shuffling keys. “Nick, he’s a nice guy. Respectful to me. ‘Sir’ this and ‘sir’ that, but he’s not the kind of element I want in my building. So maybe we just have a talk with him together. You up for that?”
“Ray, I’m one hundred percent up for that,” I said. “Nice people got bad debts and got bad jobs. But I got kids, like I said, so I know what you’re saying.”
Ray put his key in the door and started knocking at the same time, saying, “It’s Ray,” as loud as he could. “It’s Ray. I got Jackie Roach with me. It’s Ray,” he said one more time and then opened the door. He turned to me before he stepped in. “You smell that?”
“Maybe a dead rat?” I said, which was probably true, just not in the same context.
“That ain’t a rat,” he said.
Nick Balsalmo’s apartment looked like a Jackson Pollock painting. Spatter patterns on the ceiling, the walls, the floor. Pools of blood in the living room. From the angles and velocity, it appeared he’d been bludgeoned as the final coda, but the pools indicated he’d also just bled a lot, like, say, if his fingers had been cut off. Ray walked through the apartment briskly, opening doors while I stood in the entry hall surveying the scene. I hadn’t touched anything yet and wasn’t about to. I just needed to hear Ray say what I already knew: Somewhere, Nick Balsalmo’s body was rotting away under some chemical.
“Oh, Jesus,” Ray shrieked. “Oh, Jesus,” he said again. “He’s in here!” It sounded like Ray was in the bathroom, though it was hard to tell as I was already back down the hall and heading for the exit. Nick Balsalmo was dead. What I didn’t need was to be standing there when the police came, trying to explain who I was.
After I got to my car and zipped back into late-afternoon Miami gridlock, I called Barry. I had to try five different numbers, but I finally found him.
“Where are you?” I said when he answered.
“In a comfortable spiritual place,” he said, his voice just above a whisper.
“Listen to me,” I said. “You’re in danger. Tell me where you are and I’ll pick you up.”
“I’m in a church, Mike,” he said.
“What are you doing in a church?”
“I’m meeting a business associate.”
“In a church?”
“Do you know how hard it is to get a legal bug into a church? It’s sanctuary space. Plus, my business associate works here.”
“You’re washing money for a church?”
“Tough times, Mike. Even the Lord has to eat.”
Negotiating cramped Miami traffic and the cramped logic of Barry at the same time wasn’t something I was prepared for. “Do you know Nick Balsalmo?”
“I know his work.”
“He’s dead,” I said.
“He’s in a better place, then,” Barry said. “Praise the Lord.”
“Your friend Bruce gave him the drugs he got from the
Ray shifted his weight from foot to foot, as if he were literally weighing his options, but didn’t say anything. Having a conversation with Ray required one to fill in a lot of blanks.
“His girl been around at all? Maria? Because maybe I could talk to her. She was always the reasonable one.”
The mention of Maria’s name got Ray animated. “She moved out last week. Let him keep the place. Put him on the lease and everything. Stupid, eh? Italian guy living in Little Havana. You knew he didn’t have a clue.”
A little boy came running down the hall, screaming at full throat. Not like he was hurt. Like he was a little boy. But when he saw Ray, he came to a full and silent stop.
“Sorry, Mr. Ray,” the boy said, before hustling inside one of the open doors.
Ray started walking toward the door and shuffling keys. “Nick, he’s a nice guy. Respectful to me. ‘Sir’ this and ‘sir’ that, but he’s not the kind of element I want in my building. So maybe we just have a talk with him together. You up for that?”
“Ray, I’m one hundred percent up for that,” I said. “Nice people got bad debts and got bad jobs. But I got kids, like I said, so I know what you’re saying.”
Ray put his key in the door and started knocking at the same time, saying, “It’s Ray,” as loud as he could. “It’s Ray. I got Jackie Roach with me. It’s Ray,” he said one more time and then opened the door. He turned to me before he stepped in. “You smell that?”
“Maybe a dead rat?” I said, which was probably true, just not in the same context.
“That ain’t a rat,” he said.
Nick Balsalmo’s apartment looked like a Jackson Pollock painting. Spatter patterns on the ceiling, the walls, the floor. Pools of blood in the living room. From the angles and velocity, it appeared he’d been bludgeoned as the final coda, but the pools indicated he’d also just bled a lot, like, say, if his fingers had been cut off. Ray walked through the apartment briskly, opening doors while I stood in the entry hall surveying the scene. I hadn’t touched anything yet and wasn’t about to. I just needed to hear Ray say what I already knew: Somewhere, Nick Balsalmo’s body was rotting away under some chemical.
“Oh, Jesus,” Ray shrieked. “Oh, Jesus,” he said again. “He’s in here!” It sounded like Ray was in the bathroom, though it was hard to tell as I was already back down the hall and heading for the exit. Nick Balsalmo was dead. What I didn’t need was to be standing there when the police came, trying to explain who I was.
After I got to my car and zipped back into late-afternoon Miami gridlock, I called Barry. I had to try five different numbers, but I finally found him.
“Where are you?” I said when he answered.
“In a comfortable spiritual place,” he said, his voice just above a whisper.
“Listen to me,” I said. “You’re in danger. Tell me where you are and I’ll pick you up.”
“I’m in a church, Mike,” he said.
“What are you doing in a church?”
“I’m meeting a business associate.”
“In a church?”
“Do you know how hard it is to get a legal bug into a church? It’s sanctuary space. Plus, my business associate works here.”
“You’re washing money for a church?”
“Tough times, Mike. Even the Lord has to eat.”
Negotiating cramped Miami traffic and the cramped logic of Barry at the same time wasn’t something I was prepared for. “Do you know Nick Balsalmo?”
“I know his work.”
“He’s dead,” I said.
“He’s in a better place, then,” Barry said. “Praise the Lord.”
“Your friend Bruce gave him the drugs he got from the
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