No Witness But the Moon(40)

“I never thanked you properly for today,” said Vega.

“You don’t have to thank me.” Torres clinked his own soda can against Vega’s. “Like I said out there, you’re old school. There aren’t too many of us dinosaurs left anymore.”

Vega threw out half a dozen names of kids they both knew growing up. Two had gone into the army and left—the preferred exit route. Freddy’s older sister, Jackie, had done the same herself. Two others had died—one in a shooting, the other from drugs. Another still lived in the neighborhood but was managing on disability after working construction and injuring his back. The last had moved to Atlantic City with a daughter to work in the casinos. There weren’t a whole lot of escape routes.

“Hardest thing I have to do at my school,” said Torres, “is convince my students there are worlds beyond this one.”

“You did pretty well staying put,” Vega noted. “Full scholarship to Columbia . . . a Ph.D . . . head of a prominent charter school.... My mom referred to you as Doctor Torres all the time. I’m not sure she ever figured out you weren’t an M.D.”

Torres laughed. “No wonder you were never all that jacked about coming back to the ’hood and seeing me.”

Vega felt suddenly embarrassed. Did he sound envious? His mother never overtly compared him to Torres. Nevertheless, it was there. Torres got better grades than Vega. He attended an Ivy League school whereas Vega did four years at a commuter college. He was certainly a more involved son, taking care of both his mother and his sister after his father’s death.

“I didn’t mind,” Vega lied. “Besides, it gave her a lot of joy. She’d watched you grow up. You were like a second son.”

“And she was like a second mother. Hell knows, we needed second mothers. It’s not like we had fathers to count on.” Even though Torres’s father was a presence in his children’s lives (unlike Vega’s father), he’d been a drunk and a brute. Torres and his sisters spent more time hiding from the man than bonding with him.

“Speaking of mothers,” said Vega. “Is your mom—?” He didn’t know how to ask. Fortunately Torres rescued him.

“She’s over at Sunnycrest Manor.”

“The nursing home on Webster Avenue?”

“Yeah. I couldn’t keep her at home anymore. She went downhill fast after Donna died.”

“Would she”—Vega hesitated—“know me?”

“She has good days and bad. But yeah, I think she would. You should go see her—when this blows over, I mean.” Torres frowned at Vega. “Not to pry, Jimmy, but I’m kind of surprised that of all times to get nostalgic, you picked today.”

“It’s my mother’s birthday.”

“Ah. Hope you’re not planning to go to her building. Hector Ponce was . . .” Torres’s voice trailed off.

“My mother’s building super, I know,” said Vega. Clothes thumped in the dryers like a samba rhythm. Vega played with the tab on his soda can. “Did you know him at all?”

Torres shrugged. “After so many years here, I sort of know everybody.”

“What was he like?”

“Like a lot of building supers. Sort of a tigre.”

“You mean a hustler?” The Spanish word for tiger could be used as a compliment or an insult in the neighborhood, depending on context.

“You know the way it is down here. Things haven’t changed. Everybody’s got a hustle going on on the side. Especially the supers. Weed. Numbers. Women.”

“So what was Ponce’s?”

“I heard he liked to gamble.”

“You don’t mean Lotto tickets, I’m assuming.” Vega recalled Dolan saying that they’d found expired Lotto tickets in Ponce’s wallet.

“Everybody down here does that,” said Torres. “That’s financial planning in the ’hood. No. I mean like horses, numbers, sporting events.”

“Do you know if he owed money?”

Torres stroked his mustache and smiled. “Everybody down here owes money, carnal.”

“Yeah, but I’m talking big money. Enough to make him do something desperate like rob Ricardo Luis’s house.”

“Dunno.” Torres gestured to Vega with his soda can. “You’re the cop. Not me.”

“Father Delgado made Ponce out to be this great guy. Very loyal and family-oriented.”

“So’s the mafia.” Torres’s phone rang in his pocket. He checked the caller ID. “Listen, Jimmy—I gotta take this call. But if there’s something I can help you on with Ponce, just let me know. I’ll drive you to the church as soon as I get off the phone.”

Torres excused himself. Vega wandered up to the front of the laundromat in search of a garbage for his empty can.

“Here. I’ll take that,” said Carmela. Vega handed it to her. “The five cent deposits add up.”

“Sure thing.” Vega noticed that Carmela was reading a Spanish-language fan magazine with an inset picture of Ricardo Luis on the cover. Vega’s stomach turned flips just seeing that Mexican heartthrob grinning back at him. He turned away from the counter and his eye caught a security camera pointed at the front door. It was a standard-issue, hardwired camera, not unlike the ones Vega saw in all the bodegas. Not unlike the one in his mother’s building that hadn’t been working on the night she was murdered.