No Witness But the Moon(38)

Most of the marchers were too busy chanting to notice what was going on. They probably thought it was a personal scuffle. That bought Vega time to weave his way into the center of the crowd. He took off his cap and sunglasses to make himself less recognizable to the gangsters. Unfortunately, that made him even more recognizable to the marchers. A big black man with a shaved head turned and frowned at Vega. He was holding up a sign that read JAIL KILLER COPS.

“Hey. Aren’t you—?”

Vega didn’t wait for more. He took off again. But it was too late. His presence rippled through the crowd. People began turning, pointing their cell phones at him. There was expectation in the air. Everybody was waiting for someone to throw the first punch.

It came from behind. A glancing shot just north of his kidneys. Vega felt the fire travel up his spine. If the punch had connected better, he’d be on the pavement now, and pissing blood in an hour. The punch was the invitation the rest of the crowd needed. Someone slapped his arm. Somebody else stomped on his foot. Another spit on his jacket. Vega shoved and kicked and tried to fight back but it was like being in the middle of a game of blind man’s bluff. He never saw his opponents. He only felt them trying to push him to the ground. He had to stay standing. If he lost his footing, it would all be over. They’d kick him then. Break his nose, his jaw, his ribs. Give him a concussion. By the time the cops worked their way into the crowd and pulled them off, Vega would be unrecognizable, even to Joy.

A teenager stepped in front of Vega and tried to punch him in the face. Vega ducked and then swung to protect himself but he knew he couldn’t keep this up. He was dizzy with panic, unsure which angle the next assault was going to come from. Suddenly a Latino man with a droopy black mustache and thinning hair stepped in front of Vega. He was dressed in sweatpants and a hooded sweatshirt. He wore a sweatband across his forehead and basketball sneakers on his feet like he’d just come from a game. He grabbed the teenager by the back of his sweatshirt and shoved the kid away from Vega.

“You’re already on probation, Carlos!” he shouted in a mixture of Spanish-sounding consonants and Bronx vowels. “You want to add assault? I know your probation officer!”

Vega knew instantly that this was no stranger who’d saved him. This wasn’t even the first time.

“Chill, hombres,” Freddy Torres said to the crowd. “This guy you’re messing with? He’s old school. From the ’hood. Him and me go way back.” He pushed Vega behind him and caught the eye of the gangsters who’d chased Vega into the march. “You got a beef?” Torres called out to them.

“No beef with you, Doc,” said the one with the gun in his waistband. He held up his hands and backed off. Vega wondered if the gangbanger had long ago been a student at Torres’s school, the Bronx Academy of Achievement. Even the protesters seemed chastened. Freddy Torres—Dr. Fred Torres—was respected in this neighborhood, even if the “Doc” was for his Ph.D.—not an M.D. They hesitated to cross some invisible line Torres had drawn around himself and Vega. Which gave Torres just enough time to grab Vega by the back of his jacket and yank him away.

“Ay pu?eta, carnal.” Torres’s smile parted the curtain of his mustache. “Why am I always saving your ass?”





Chapter 13


This was the third time in Vega’s life that Freddy Torres had rescued him. The first, he couldn’t recall. His mother used to tell the story. Torres was nine and Vega was seven. Their two-year age difference meant they traveled in different circles. Still, Torres knew Vega was a good ballplayer—one of the few things Vega was better at than Torres.

One day Torres let Vega join their street game. Somebody hit a high-pop foul and Vega dodged between two parked cars to run for it. He wanted to impress the older boys. But before he could make the catch, somebody grabbed his T-shirt from behind and pulled him to the ground. He hit the pavement hard, skinning an elbow. A second later, a car barreled past without even braking. Vega’s mother swore that Freddy Torres had saved his life.

The second time was more humiliating. Vega was eleven. His grandmother had just died, his father had dropped out of his life entirely and his mother, a nurse, worked long hours at the hospital. Vega was feeling lost and adrift in a neighborhood teeming with gangs, drugs, and temptations.

A sometime friend had gotten hold of a couple of cans of black spray paint and suggested Vega join him and another boy to tag some buildings and earn points with the local gang leader. Vega took the can and followed the boys down the street—right past Freddy Torres who was thirteen at the time and babysitting his kid sister Donna, who had Down syndrome. Torres saw the can of paint sticking out of Vega’s backpack, swiped it, and ordered Vega to quit hanging out with street toughs and go home. Vega, afraid to lose face, shoved Torres and demanded his paint back. Torres gave it to him, all right. He aimed the can and coated Vega’s clothes with permanent black paint. They both ended up on the sidewalk in a hail of fists after that. But Torres at thirteen had the advantage of weight and size. Vega was quickly dispatched. The other boys jeered him and left.

Bruised, covered in paint, and burning with humiliation, Vega trudged home for the punishment he knew he was going to get, hatred for Freddy Torres in every pore. The following day he found out that the other two boys he’d been with had been arrested for vandalism. They were both so young; they probably got off with a warning. But still. Vega’s mother was horrified. She moved them out of the Bronx soon after that. Years later Vega heard that one of those two boys went to prison for burglary and drug possession. The other died of an overdose. Vega often wondered if a can of black paint had spared him the same fate.