Sergio De La Pava - A Naked Singularity

When the fight was over Benitez smiled as always and hugged Hearns. One judge had it a draw but the other two were decidedly for Hearns. The announcers reminded their audience that Benitez was still only twenty-four. They said you could still expect great things from him in his future. If told what that future would hold they would not likely have believed it.

I said nothing the whole time I thought about that and now the silence was bugging me again so I released some music into the room. What was I thinking protesting the quiet? Silence was a gift. You needed it to listen to real music and my ear was mysteriously better to boot. I closed my eyes. It was rapturous.

But I wondered if there wasn’t something wrong with my CD because I heard a faint percussive knocking I didn’t recognize, although I mentally acknowledged I could’ve simply failed to notice it before since, healthy or not, I didn’t have the best ear.

Or a simpler explanation could be that there was someone knocking on my door, which there was. When I opened the door I saw Herbert. He was wearing a light-colored, possibly-white, satiny jacket and holding what appeared to be a bowling bag.

“Hi Herbert,” I said.

“Call me Herb,” said Herb.

“Done.”

“The music.”

“I’m sorry was it too loud?”

“No pal o’mine, I just noticed you went right to the second movement.”

“Oh, yeah, uh.”

“Well, as I’m sure you know, the second movement of the Eroica is a funeral march. A funeral march, y’unnerstand?” his eyebrows rising in wait.

“Okay, and?”

“Well it’s just that when someone goes right to the funeral like that I start thinking maybe something’s wrong you know buddy?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“That’s right pal. Nothing is wrong. You keep listening to that music is what you should do. There didn’t have to be music you know. Anyway I hope this isn’t about what I told you with the detective and all. Because that’s nothing to concern yourself about.”

“Why do you say that Herb?”

“Call me Jackie,” said Jackie.

“Fine Jackie but why do you say I shouldn’t be concerned? Not that I am mind you.”

“It’s like this letter I once got saying the government was investigating my taxes. You shoulda seen how I got myself all worked up over it, hoo ho! I had myself convinced I was being investigated for not reporting a clock with a horse in its stomach, I mean a horse with a clock in its stomach ha ha!”

“So what happened?”

“Oh my friend calmed me down. Anyway pal, wanna go bowling?”

“Bowling?”

“Yeah, you do bowl don’t you?”

“Sure all the time. Well I mean I bowl quite a bit. Actually, well, I have bowled in the past, once or twice, maybe, I think.”

“Let’s go then.”

“No I better stay, I have a lot of work to do.”

“Oh yeah? Whattya do?”

“I write.”

“Okay, suit yourself pal.”

“Before you go Jackie.”

“Yeah?”

“How did your friend calm you down that time with the tax investigation?”

“Oh I see. Well think of it this way. This detective that’s investigating you.”

“I’m not sure I’d call it that but what about him?”

“Can he put you up in front of a firing squad?”

“No.”

“Can he push you over a cliff?”

“No.”

“Can he string you up there on the end of a rope?”

“No I guess not,” I laughed slightly. I felt better. Jackie was right. “Thanks Jackie, I feel better, you’re right,” I said.

“Never mind that Jackie business,” he said walking to the door and turning his considerable back to me. “Call me Ralph.”

“Ralph,” I muttered.

Ralph opened the door and started to walk out. Then he popped his head back in. “The worst he can do to you is send you to the federal pen!” he said and immediately left.

I sat back down. The federal pen. Ralph was right. Well it wouldn’t be a federal pen but at that moment it seemed almost probable that I would end in state prison. It was true that the press had already lost interest in the 123rd Street Massacre but that was only because the monster wasn’t being fed anything new. The arrest of a public defender with a weird name for any involvement in the deaths, however peripheral, would certainly qualify as a press case.

Given that, and the DA’s office usual reaction to those types of cases, I thought I’d be fortunate to get something like 5 years determinate on a plea. Five years in lonely prison, I would do six/sevenths of that.

I wouldn’t talk to anyone the whole time I was there. I would pull what that guy who accepted Chekhov’s Bet did where he read everything under the sun while voluntarily imprisoned for fifteen years. I would read everything ever published; I would learn a few more languages, learn all day and every day. It would actually be a great deal of fun in that sense. I would have some time to think. I could write. Not briefs or anything boring like that, majestic stuff. No less a supernova than El Ingenioso Hidalgo Don Quixote de la Mancha was detonated from prison. I could write about what happened to me, what I did, nah.

“I should just pipe down is what I should do,” I said. “I have too much to do to sit around here thinking of this bullshit. The only thing I should be thinking about is the writing I have to do. I’m going to go outside and get some fresh air then come back and write until I drop, how’s that?”

I left the door open and went outside. Ralph was gone. It was less cold that day. I walked half a block and felt someone following me, first just with their eyes then with their entire body. I stopped and waited. He came up to me.

“Casi?” he said.

“What?”

“Are you Casi?”

“Never heard of him.”

“I happen to know you’re Casi.”

“Oh Casi you said?”

“Correct.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Can I have a moment of your time?”

“No.”

“I think you’ll want to talk to me.”

“You do? Why’s that?”

“Because I know what you did.”

How disconcerting really. Imagine looking someone directly in the face and seeing only your doubled image looking back at you. He wore those ridiculous mirror sunglasses that usually only state troopers are oblivious enough to wear. Against the skin of my chest I could feel my heart press. My entire body tightened into itself trying in vain to disappear.

“What, who are you?” I said.

“Detective Mondongo Assado,” he said extending his hand. I started to put my hand forward then pulled it right back when he again said “I know what you did.”

“Are you having some kind of mental difficulty Detective?” I said.

He smiled and seemed to think better of his approach. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to be confusing or to sound adversarial either,” and that’s when I knew I was in trouble and needed to get my head out of my ass quickly.

“What do you want? I’m in a hurry.”

“It’s about a former client of yours, Ramon DeLeon.”

“Oh so you’re one of the geniuses helped get him killed?”

“So you know what happened?”

“Yeah I know what happened. He was cooperating with you guys and next thing I know he’s on the front page of The Post. Good work. I’ll be sure to steer some more clients your collective way.”

“Just curious, how do you know what happened?”

“How could I not?”

“What I mean is that you certainly couldn’t have told from the picture in the Post and I’m sure there are several Ramon DeLeons, so how did you know.”