James Sheehan - The Mayor of Lexington Avenue

“Told you I’d take you up on your invitation,” he said almost in a whisper. Geraldo, who was in his own little world, almost jumped out of his shoes.

“Jesus, you scared me,” he said with no look of recognition in his eyes. Joaquin picked up on it right away.

“I’m Joaquin. We met at Rosa’s last night. You invited me to come out on the boat with you.”

Geraldo hesitated for a moment, wondering if he was going to end up as a distant memory washed up on shore if he took this guy out with him. Then a very dim light went off in his brain and his suspicions ebbed.

“Oh yeah, I remember now,” he replied. “Let me just get my pole and my flashlight and we’ll head out. Sorry I’m late.”

“No problem.”

They set out on Geraldo’s rowboat, which was fitted with a fifteen-horsepower motor. It took about twenty minutes to reach the lake. Geraldo made a quick left turn and cut the motor, pulling it out of the water. He then set his oars and began to row in towards shore.

“The motor scares ’em,” he whispered. “Gotta be real quiet.” They were the first words he’d spoken since they left the dock. Close to shore, Geraldo pulled in the oars and let the boat drift. His left hand grabbed his flashlight, his right a long pole with a pointed end like a spear. He looked in at the shoreline with an intensity that surprised Joaquin.

Joaquin was used to being out on the water before dawn, just drifting, listening, hearing nothing but the occasional splash of a wave or a fish jumping-but this experience was quite different. There was no moon. The lake behind them was a vast black canvas of nothingness, the shore like a jungle. A cool breeze was blowing across the water, making it much chillier than the sixty-degree temperature. Joaquin, in a short-sleeve tee shirt, was hugging himself. The shore was alive with the sound of scurrying creatures. Frogs were burping and crickets were droning. It made the experienced old detective a little jumpy. He half expected the Swamp Thing to rise out of the murky water at any moment and devour the two of them. Just then, Geraldo snapped his flashlight on and lunged with the long pole at something on the shore.

“Got ’im,” he whispered. “First of the day.” He pulled a fairly large frog into the boat and slid it off the pole into what appeared to be a shoebox. He repeated this procedure about twenty more times before light started to break on the horizon. Then, without a word, he moved the motor back in position in the water, started it and headed for home. At no time during the entire trip did Joaquin see any frog’s eyes-or any frog, for that matter, before Geraldo had it skewered. And at no time, including the ride back, did Geraldo utter a thing other than “Got ’im.” Apparently, the man saved his conversation for Rosa’s.

At the dock, Geraldo packed up quickly. “Gotta sell these babies to the restaurants so I can get to Rosa’s at a decent hour.” And then he was off, leaving Joaquin standing there trying to figure out how much Geraldo could possibly make from this business.

By the third night of his trip, the suspicious stares had disappeared and Joaquin started to settle in at Rosa’s. Geraldo was now his best friend. Apparently somewhere out there in the chilly darkness they had bonded. Geraldo had no useful information for Joaquin but he introduced him to everybody. Joaquin now had a routine: In the late afternoon he would walk the streets near Mercer making idle talk with the neighbors and hoping to pick up some useful tidbits. At night, he was a fixture at Rosa’s. He’d seen Pilar a few times during the first week but never had an opportunity to speak to her. Ray and Jose were nowhere to be found. It wasn’t until Wednesday of the following week that Joaquin’s routine produced anything worthwhile.

His name was Pablo Gonzalez. He was one of Rosa’s regulars, a tall, heavyset man with a wide face, thick lips and a flat nose. He usually sat at the opposite end of the bar from where Joaquin made his nest. Joaquin had caught Pablo staring at him from time to time. It wasn’t a pleasant look, either: Joaquin was an interloper in Pablo’s lair. But on this Wednesday night, Pablo came in and sat right next to Joaquin, who was already nursing his first of the day. Pablo didn’t say anything at first but after a couple, his tongue started rolling. He was from Cuba, a baseball player in his youth but now a Dolphin fan.

“That Billy Purcell, man what a pitcher he would have made,” Pablo said with a slight shake of his head. Joaquin nodded. He was a fan of the Dolphin quarterback himself. “One of these days he’s going to win the big one,” Pablo continued. Joaquin agreed again. Eventually, after a few more beers and shared sports stories, when the alcohol had taken hold enough to make them believe they were friends, Pablo told Joaquin about his trip across the ocean to America. It had been the man’s defining moment.

“We left just after dark, a moonless night,” Pablo began. “Those bastards always lie to you when they’re taking your money. You’d a thought we were taking an excursion on a damn yacht, not forty of us on a boat that fit ten. It was cold and the waves were high. The boat was a piece of shit and the motor kept quitting. I knew we were never going to make it. Just before dawn, a storm hit and the boat capsized. We were miles offshore, how many I couldn’t tell. I grabbed one of the tires that had been lashed to the side of the boat and so did four others. We just started to kick in the direction the boat had been heading. And we prayed. At least, I did.” At that moment Pablo put his hand on Joaquin’s arm. “My friend, I tell you I was sure I was going to die that night. I was waiting for a shark to rip my legs off. But we made it through the night and the blistering hot sun the next day and the next night. By that second night I didn’t care anymore. The sea, the sharks-whoever wanted to could have me. We hit shore at dawn the next day. Dehydrated. Exhausted. Only three of us were left. The other two simply drifted off into the night. I didn’t know them at all but I think about them every night. I see them in my dreams. I know every detail of their faces although I didn’t when they were alive. I still keep in touch with the others.” He was silent after that, as if the story had drained the life out of him all over again. Joaquin was silent for a time, too. He knew about these things. Now it was his turn.

“We didn’t have an ocean to cross, just a little river that could be treacherous in parts. I’d heard of people stepping in a hole and never being seen again, taken under by the current. We had woods and open fields to cross and border guards who would pick you off like a wooden duck in a sharpshooting contest. I made it okay. Some of my friends didn’t.” Pablo squeezed his arm when he was finished. They were both silent for a long time after that, praying to their beers.

“Now we live like kings, eh?” Pablo laughed. “More like paupers.”

“You’re right,” Joaquin replied. “But what’s the alternative? Cuba? Mexico?” Pablo just nodded, his head low. He loved his country but he knew he could never go back.

“Yep. I guess that’s the best we can say about America: What’s the alternative? But it’s getting worse-crime and drugs everywhere, even a small town like this.” There it was, hanging out there-an opportunity. Joaquin took it slow.

“I heard about the murder here a few weeks ago.”

“Right around the block,” Pablo said, nodding toward the door. “A young gal-they slit her throat. You want to catch the bastard who did that and strangle him with your bare hands, know what I mean?” Joaquin nodded.

“Thank God they did catch the guy,” he prompted Pablo, who didn’t need much prompting.