Sergio De La Pava - A Naked Singularity

And this was not just any old man who wore that hat. This was the old-timer who a couple nights earlier had tried to hug me to his bare chest. At least I thought, and maybe wanted to think, it was him. Actually I was a hundred percent sure of it. But I had my doubts. Because now instead of bareboned and shivering he wore a serious Russian papakha with matching fur coat. He looked great in that get-up. But old. Ancient. He was taller too. And fatter. In fact, except for the fact that he was the same old man who had tried to hug me, there was nothing, no physical or other similarity, tying this person to that one. Where did he get the coat and hat? And why didn’t that hat remind me of my lost hat and make me long as well?

Instead the only envy I felt then was directed towards that chimp’s hat. So much so that I seriously considered swiping it off the chimp’s head when they passed, since he had all that fur to keep him warm. But I didn’t think it would fit anyway because I have like this real fat melon where even nonchimp hats rarely fit nicely. More disconcerting was the fact that Uncle Sam and the chimp seemed to be on a direct collision course with me and did not seem inclined, in the slightest, to alter their course to avoid such a collision. I anticipated one of those moments where the two opposing parties engage in a little side-to-side dance until finally one of them just stops while the other sidesteps and walks by. But it never happened.

Although something similar did happen later that night with Angus, right after I ran away from the old man in fur. I had run away from the old man in the fur coat and hat as fast as I possibly could, which wasn’t very fast at all, with the blue air feeling like tiny razor blades going down the inside of my neck, and I continued to run even once I got inside. And it was while I was running up the stairs to the second floor that I almost ran into Angus, who must have at that very moment just jumped out of his apartment and begun running down those same stairs.

“Oh Casi,” he said panting. “Looks like we’re both in a hurry.”

“What’s up?”

“Want to come with me to meet the new neighbor?” he said as he ran down after I had stepped aside.

“What neighbor?” I called out to him. Silence was his response before I heard the downstairs door close.

Which was the same reaction I got from Alana on the phone when I told her what the chimp had done.

“Hello? You still there?” I said.

“Yeah, of course.”

“You have no reaction to that.”

“I just don’t know what to make of it. I can’t imagine what would possess a monkey to do that.”

“Not a monkey, chimp.”

“No difference.”

“Of course there is.”

“Would you feel better if it was a monkey?”

“No.”

“Then there’s no difference.”

Which was disappointing because I’d been hoping for insight. So much so that I saved the chimp story for Alana and did not relay it to Louie and Alyona who were in their apartment when I went in and found out we had a new neighbor.

“Carlos Sanchez,” said Alyona. “He’s a professional dancer, teaches the Mambo.”

“Please don’t play along Alyona,” said Louie. “It scares me a bit.”

“What are you guys talking about? Since when do you care about neighbors?”

“See what I mean? Cut the shit, there is no new neighbor. Ralph has a new neighbor not us. I mean Ralph Kramden the character on Television, who is most definitely not a real person, was in an episode of a show on Television called The Honeymooners where a Mambo dancer named Carlos Sanchez, also not a real person, moved into the building and caused all sorts of trouble by being really attentive towards the wives.”

“Oh yeah, I remember that one. But what does that have to do with Angus firing out of here like a human cannonball?”

“He went out to meet Sanchez,” said Alyona.

“He’s not still using that Casio Carousel is he?”

“Yes,” they said in unison.

“That reminds me. Did fucking Angus call a tip in to the Tula hotline?” I wondered aloud.

It was a question that remained unanswered even days later when the Tula mystery had been solved to everyone’s satisfaction but had in the process given birth to an even greater mystery.

“What do you mean two seven-year-olds?” said Liszt the same day I would later scream at him and punch a hole in his wall. But Debi had the definitive proof in her hand in the form of a New York Post that proclaimed BABY FACED KILLERS!Two seven-year-old boys, still bathing in their original sin, had snatched baby Tula from her stroller in front of Thank God It’s Not Monday’s . That much was beyond dispute and it was undisputed because of the Video Vigilantes. The area in midtown that contained the relevant TGINM’s was one of the original Vigilante Flashpoints and as such was inundated with cameras long before the Vigilantes even entered the City’s consciousness. One of those cameras had witnessed the whole thing and would be available to testify if need be.

This pleased Mayor Toad, who at the press conference held for the heroic camera had one arm around the head vigilante and the other around his grinning lieutenant. Toad was there to announce that, thanks to the Video Vigilantes, seven-year-olds operating within the lenticular penumbras of influence were now on notice that their misdeeds would be captured on everlasting videotape and ultimately broadcast with the cooperation of Television. The eyes of the camera were all-seeing and possessed with complete veracity. Here, the eyes had seen the two boys lift that baby like a doll and run.

What happened next was still anybody’s guess but the end result was not. The seven-year-olds, with parents in tow, had led police to Tula’s lifeless body. In a box. In the boiler room of one of the kid’s basement. That was it. You could shut down the 1-800 hotline too because there wasn’t anyone who could get on the other end of the phone and explain this.

The case would have nothing to do with us since given the age of the defendants it would undoubtedly be some kind of Family Court deal. But I knew eventually I would have to see that putrid video. I hadn’t even gotten the Rane video out from inside my skull yet. Maybe meeting Rane would do it, but I had yet to do so because he failed to appear for his counsel visit days earlier when Dane and I kept calling the Department of Correction counsel area at 10 °Centre Street in the futile hope that he had been produced. Until finally Dane grew suspicious of the C.O. on the other end of the phone, went over in person to see for himself, verified that Rane wasn’t there, and ended up meeting with DeLeon instead.

“Come again,” I said when he told me.

“Yeah, he was there.”

“On the twelfth floor?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I guess he was waiting to be released after taking the plea in 49.”

“What do you mean you met with him?”

“I heard his name. Someone said Ramon DeLeon and a bell went off in my head so I just talked to him a little. I told him I was an attorney in your office and was familiar with his case. He said he wanted to talk to me so I had him brought into the counsel room and met with him there.”

“You talked to a client of mine about his case?”

“Yeah. Take it easy, he’s basically a client of mine as well.”

“About his case?”

“Of course, what else?”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, just curious I guess. I had taken that whole annoying trip up there for nothing and you have to admit his story is pretty interesting. It was like entertainment.”

“Don’t do that again please. If you do that or something similar again, I shall be forced to kill you.”