Chapter 27
The Green World guy, whose name I’ve already forgotten, lives in the Bronx.
I usually have an excellent memory for names; less so faces.
Noses, eyes, and mouths seem to bleed together, but like the random facts I store in my brain, names seem to stick.
The exhaustion of the past few days is beginning to distort my thinking, and even my normal rote memorization is slipping.
Even after a good night’s sleep, I can’t shake the fog that is bathing my brain; it’s like a perpetual hangover from too many tiki drinks, aka the world’s worst hangover, but this time the symptoms can’t be remedied by a McDonald’s Big Mac, large fries, and Diet Coke.
Sadly, there’s no time to waste. It’s now just three days before the grand jury meets.
I sit in the car and close my eyes. After parting from Alex’s last night, we made a plan to see the Green World guy this morning. I don’t put my hands together for fear that Amaya will think I’ve completely lost it.
If I get through this, if I don’t go to prison, I promise I will appreciate what I have.
I’ll make more of an effort with Alex. I’ll try harder to make my parents proud and keep my brother’s legacy alive.
If I get another chance, I won’t be my own worst enemy.
I say this to myself and open my eyes, half expecting some sign that the universe has heard my prayers.
Maybe a bolt of lightning? A dove? Instead, when I look out the window around me, a woman is hitting a man with what appears to be a baguette, and a rat burrows through trash bags with a full Reese’s cup in its mouth, sending what was supposed to be a plea for divine intervention hurtling back toward reality.
Amaya and I ride in a taxi along the West Side Highway, which is lined with a bike path and the Hudson River.
The river, while famously polluted, looks lovely today.
Jersey City’s and then Hoboken’s skylines come into view.
On my right, I see graffiti that looks like art, that maybe is art, proudly displayed on another building.
Farther along the highway, apartments and new condos soar.
An ad for a storage company states “For the people trying to make it big whose apartment is a little too small.” A reminder that we’re all just trying to make it in this big, beautiful, stinky, and expensive city.
Keep going, I think to myself, keep going.
—
We exit the highway and head into the Bronx, a borough I know well.
Few tourists explore the city’s northernmost borough.
Like almost all New Yorkers, the citizens of the Bronx are kind, but not nice.
An important but hard-to-understand distinction for out-of-towners.
They’ll elbow you out of the way to make the departing subway train, but they’d also pull you off the subway tracks to save your life.
In the years since I became a taxi driver, I’ve tried every type of food I can think of in the Bronx.
Places only insiders would know, suggested to me by the bodega owners I frequently speak to when stopping for coffee.
Like Manhattan, the Bronx has its own versions of Little Italy and Chinatown.
As we drive, I see a familiar humble deli on the corner, which in my opinion serves one of the best Italian cold-cut sandwiches in the city.
The soppressata tastes like it came from the heavens.
Far from the expensive restaurants in Manhattan, I know some of the best meatballs and spaghetti are crafted in this borough, by immigrants who came directly from Italy.
Who am I to argue with these nonnas and their years-old recipes?
And everywhere I look, people from different backgrounds and corners fill the streets.
It reminds me of my own neighborhood block.
We pull up to a house with trees and plants overflowing outside. Solar panels sit on every inch of the roof. The lawn is overgrown and probably hasn’t been cut in at least a year.
Had it not been for the light on in the house, I would have thought it was abandoned as well. I spot two stray cats and assume there are probably more hidden in the tall grass that surrounds the building.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” I ask. For a second, I imagine Darla giving us the wrong address. Throwing us off the scent to protect her friends.
“I know, I was assuming more of an office building. She said that this was the office address, but it’s clearly a house. I guess we go knock and find out?” She’s already walking toward the house before I can answer.
Amaya is fearless, or at least outwardly appears that way.
I wonder if I’d still be here if I weren’t trying to save my own life.
It’s one thing to listen to an investigator talk to a witness, who also may be the murderer, on a podcast. It’s another thing to actually do it.
At least we’re here together, which has to mean something. Strength in numbers.
I knock on the door assertively as I’ve seen Amaya do.
I feel nervous like I do when I have to take a fare to New Jersey, land of pizza places that think they can compete with NYC’s slices.
Inside, I can hear noises and errant shouts—people talking or arguing.
I try to ready myself for whoever will answer the door.
I have a bad feeling, which I chalk up to the fact that the Green World guy now seems like the most plausible suspect in the murder of James.
Darla and Brett both painted a picture of clear animosity between the two, on both a personal and a professional level.
By killing James, New Frontier would certainly suffer, meaning Green World had something to gain, and they weren’t above illegal or violent practices.
Without warning, the door swings open, startling both of us.
We step back instinctively, and I silently chide myself for being more flight than fight.
“What do you want?” the man demands. His hair is messy, and he is wearing what appear to be pajama pants, suggesting that even at noon on a Monday, the man may have just gotten out of bed. Instead of judging him, I find myself a little jealous, as I’m in need of a nap myself.
“We were hoping to speak with Charlie,” Amaya says, and I make a mental note to not forget his name.
The man opens his mouth as if he is about to argue, about to demand what we want with Charlie.
Instead, he looks us up and down. Forgoing my contacts today, I’m wearing an old pair of thick-rimmed glasses that serve both as a disguise and a necessary tool.
I can’t seem to throw anything out and have been amassing a collection of glasses since I was eleven years old. Amaya is wearing her suit from court.
“CHARRRLIEEE!” the man screams. We both jump for the second time in just a minute. A second of silence passes.
“WHAAAT?” a voice booms back in response.
“VISITOOORS!” the man responds again.
The loud exchange, with both men refusing to move themselves, reminds me of the times my brother and I would loudly scream at each other from across the house, to the ire of both our parents.
There is silence again and some shuffling.
I catch sight of a woman entering through a door in the back of the house.
She looks familiar. I squint slightly and I’m sure it’s the woman from the intersection.
The woman I almost hit. I’m absolutely floored.
Why is she here? Despite my bad memory for faces, I remember her because I almost killed her.
I want to tell Amaya right now, but suddenly, a man who I presume is Charlie walks down the stairs in a bathrobe.
He is large and imposing, and possibly the tallest person I’ve ever seen, clearing six feet five inches easily.
His hair is receding and the bags under his eyes tell me he’s probably exhausted. Join the club, I think.
“What do you want?” Charlie asks. He has a carton of some drink that I’ve never heard of in his hand, and he belches loudly. Lovely.
“We want to talk about your friend James.”
“James—friend? Please,” Charlie spits out. “Are you cops?”
“No,” Amaya says quickly, and I nod to confirm wordlessly.
“Then who are you?”
“The defense attorney for the woman accused of the crime, and an investigator,” Amaya says, pointing at me.
Her comfort with delaying our introductions and lying about who I am seems to have grown over the course of our short investigation.
Or I’m becoming a real investigator, a small voice in my head whispers before I dismiss the thought entirely.
This introduction seems to pique Charlie’s interest. He’s not expecting this, by the look of surprise and maybe even curiosity on his face. “Okay, follow me.”
Charlie leads us to a messy and overcrowded surface that must have been a formal dining table at one point.
Now there is not a space to eat or do much of anything else on it; every inch of the table is covered with papers, receipts, and pens.
My need to clean goes into overdrive, but I tamp it down.
This isn’t my taxi—it’s someone else’s house.
“Our command center,” Charlie says proudly, pointing at the mess of papers, as if sharing a celebrated achievement. A stack of White Castle wrappers and what I believe is a used Band-Aid fall to the floor. Ugh.
I like to develop some rapport with the people we speak to, but complimenting the mess just seems too ungenuine.
“I’m Amaya,” Amaya says, sticking out her hand. She doesn’t introduce me by name for obvious reasons, and I stay silent, instructed as I am again to not ask any questions. “We understand James was once your friend, and we’re so sorry for your loss.”
“Emphasis on ‘once,’ ” Charlie says, face contorted into a grimace.
“Any information you give us may help us find the true killer.”