Irie exposed his remaining teeth, basking in the compliment.

"Fifty, right?" He nodded and Frank gave him three twenties. "Call it good."

" aPredate it, Off cer Frank."

"You should be havin' shows, Irie. You got some serious talent."

"Shows." He laughed. "Gull, listen at you."

"I'm serious. I ain't no art critic for the Times but this is talented work, mon." She inhaled the rich, citrus polish, then jerked her head up. "What kinda polish is this?"

"Bee'wax and orange oil."

"Where do you get it?"

"To de hardware store."

"No s.h.i.t. Can you get it anywhere?"

Irie shrugged. "I suspec'."

Frank tried a wild gambit. "I was in New York a couple weeks ago. Friend of mine had a cross-a crucifix I guess. I don't know the difference-but it was dark like this and heavy. It was big, about eighteen inches long. Had a beautiful Jesus carved on it, real striking detail, you know-the suffering expression, the wrinkles in his skin, even had fingernails and toenails." She grinned. "Not every day you see Jesus's toenails. But it was a gorgeous piece, a lot like this. Smelled like this too. Belonged to a friend of mine, a priest. Nice guy. I told him it should be in a church somewhere, or a museum, like this one, but he said, aOh, no.' His brother made it for him for his birthday, a long time ago, then a couple years later he disappeared or something. Never saw him again. Real sad story. But that cross, it was beautiful. Just like this."

Irie slumped onto the plastic crate.

Frank watched like a cat on a mouse. She casually asked, "You ever been to New York, Irie? It's a beautiful city."

The old man shook his head, prodded a callous. "Dat priest," he asked gravely. " aIm white devil like you?"

"No. Panamanian actually. Nice guy. His dad died when he was little-"

Irie glanced at her.

She concealed her excitement, blandly continuing, "His mama raised him alone. He had a sister, too. And two brothers. Until the one disappeared. I think he was a hype or something. Still rips my friend up to talk about him. Gets tears in his eyes even after all this time."

"And he neve' aeard from ais brot'er again?"

"Never. Figures he's dead. The only reason he can think of that he wouldn't have called or been in touch. He loved his brother. Thought his brother loved him."

"Sad." Irie breathed. Then, "Wha' you friend name?"

"Roberto," she answered slowly. "Roberto Cammayo."

Irie became as stiff as his statue. Frank crouched next to him. She didn't believe this was happening. Was certain she'd wake up any second to sharp disappointment.

"His brother's name is Pablo," she whispered. "Pablo Cammayo. Got into trouble and disappeared one night. Got into more trouble in Kansas. Did time in Leavenworth." Frank guessed from here. "Got out and cleaned himself up. Moved to California. Got a new name, new life. Gets by talking to the police now and then, selling oranges, carving really good statues on the cheap. Doesn't want to draw attention to himself. Turned his back on his family. They hope he's alive but they think he's dead. Probably junked out somewhere a long time ago. Else why wouldn't he have called or come home? Sent a letter, a postcard. Something. Why do you think that would be?"

"Don' know." Irie leapt from his crate. He grabbed his sacks of oranges.

"Where you goin', Pablo?"

The old man spun. He sprayed spit, shouting "I ain' Pablo!"

"Jesus Christ." Frank gaped, shaking her head. "Pablo Cammayo."

"Stop sayin' dat! I tol' you I ain' him!"

Irie pushed past Frank but she clutched his arm. "Where you gonna run to now, Pablo? Huh?"

The old man stared, eyes wide and white, spit bracketing the corners of his mouth.

"Remember that knife I dropped? You picked it up. Got your fingerprints all over it. I took it into the lab." She lied, "Prints came back to a Pablo Cammayo. Now whaddaya got to say?"

"Why?" he moaned. "Why you fuh do dis?"

Frank stepped within inches of the haunted face, glorying in the moment and slightly repelled at the same time. She shook him. "Look at me. Do I remind you of anyone?"

Irie shook his gray head. "No."

"Think back," she ordered. "Way back. The night you left home. The night you shot my father. For three lousy f.u.c.king dollars." She smiled. "I know you're a new man. John-John Ro-may-oh. But still, you can't forget that night. You'll never forget that night. You dream about that night. You know how I know? Because I do, too."

She let that sink in. Irie continued shaking his head, as if he shook it long enough she'd disappear.

"You can' be," he stammered. "You can' be dat lil gull."

A wild, improbable laughter took Frank. "Oh, man." She cackled. "What are the f.u.c.kin' odds, Irie? Huh? What are the, f.u.c.king odds?"

She laughed again, feeling slightly hysterical, the laughter veering closely to tears.

"Oh, man," she gasped, wiping at her eyes. "Wha' hoppnin', mon? Irie, aim look like he seen duppy."

"You duppy," he agreed, his face ashen. "You mus' fuh to be ghost. Can' be aer. Can' be."

"Can be her. Am her. Touch me." She held her arm out. Irie scuttled back. The scary laughter bubbled out of her again. "Jesus, Irie. Of all the dumb f.u.c.kin' luck. How the h.e.l.l did you end up snitchin' for the daughter of the man you killed? Huh? Can you tell me that, mon? Huh? Can you explain that?"

He stepped backward. Frank followed.

"Can' be," he whined over and over. "Can' be."

"Wouldn't think so, would you? I've spent most of my life wondering who the h.e.l.l you were ... I waited so long I gave up. Then I went to New York, visited my father's grave-first time since he died-and who's there but your brother. Berto-Bobo-"

"No." Irie sobbed.

"Yeah." Frank nodded. "Bobo. He's a priest. Was always gonna be one. Well, he is. Still has that cross you made him. For his thirteenth birthday, right? Was that it? Hmm?"

Irie stabbed a finger at her. "You lyin'! Why he at you fat'er's grave?"

"Excellent question, Irie. Pablo. Whatever the h.e.l.l your name is. And I'll tell you, he goes to pray. To get inspiration. And to remember you. He says a prayer for you every time. Every time for the last thirty-six years. And what have you done for him? Nothing. Broke his heart. Broke your mama's heart. You ran like a baby. Like a coward. Like a weak, gutless lrwoy."

245.

"No." Irie cried, tears dribbling over scars and wrinkles. "You can' say dat! You don' know wha' it take to stay away, fuh to try and forget and never forget. You can' know."

"You a.s.shole!" Frank twisted the cloth at his neck. Irie dropped his crate and oranges. "You're telling me I can't know? You have the f.u.c.king b.a.l.l.s to tell me I don't know what it's like to try and forget my father and never forget him? You have the f.u.c.king nerve? I oughta make you eat this f.u.c.king sidewalk, a.s.swipe. I oughta make you eat until it comes out the other side of you."

She whirled him around. Dropping a hand to pin his wrist against his back, she propelled him toward the Honda. She yanked the door open and fumbled for her cuffs. Slamming them onto his wrists, she shoved him in.

Pulling into traffic she almost hit a truck. The driver leaned on his horn while she glared at Irie in the rearview. He sat slumped and quiet, breathing through his mouth, his corrugated face shiny with snot and tears.

Frank was suddenly sick. She stamped the brakes and threw the door open in time to puke onto the street. Behind her, the guy in the truck repeated his honking, adding obscenities screamed from his window. Frank threw up again before closing the door and continuing onto a side street. Weak and trembly, she got out to pace, gulping shallow breaths until she could get back into the car.

Irie stared dully out the window. They rode in silence until he muttered, "I can' fuh believe you dat lil gull."

"I can't fuh believe you dat f.u.c.kin' junkie."

"I ain' aim no more. You know dat. I been clean long time. I no dat bwoy no more."

Frank caught Irie's reproving stare in the mirror.

a"Im die one mornin' on a prison floor. Dat bwoy gwan. Pablo Cammayo gwan. When he wakes up, John-John Romeo done took his place."

Frank glowered into the mirror. "Yeah. If only it were that f.u.c.kin' easy."

Irie shook his old gray skull. "Not easy. Never sayed it was easy."

Neither spoke again until they got to the station.

CHAPTER 50.

Frank put Irie in one of the interview rooms while she collected statement forms and a tape. Jill and Diego were in the squad room. She told them not to interrupt her.

"What'd he do?" Diego asked.

"Don't ask. If anybody's looking for me, take a message. I'll get back to aem."

Opening the interview room door, she changed her mind. She came back a minute later with two c.o.kes. She pushed one to Irie, popped the tab on the other. Took a long swallow, pretending it was beer.

"I'ma tape this, Irie." She paused. "Or Pablo? What do you want me to call you?"

His face screwed up. "It gwan be strange but call me Pablo."

Pablo repeated the name as she got the tape ready. For the record she described the time and location, her name and rank, Pablo's various names and the reason for the interview. She read him his rights.

"You understand you don't have to talk to me?"

He nodded.

Frank pointed at the recorder.

"I unnerstan'."

"Let's start on February twelfth, nineteen sixty-nine. What happened that night?"

Pablo wobbled his head. "I can still see it, like it happen one night ago."

He told the story just as Frank remembered it. When he was done he put it to paper. She checked the statement, got his signature and concluded the interview.

She pushed back from the table but didn't get up. "Couple things. Off the record.

"Why him? You saw us coming out of Cal's. You knew it was a cop bar. Why jack a cop?"

"You remember? It was cold dat night? Wunt a lot of people out wit' money in dey pockets. I seen a white guy, lil gull, t'ink he make easy pigeon. I wunt gonna kill him. Just wan'ed his wallet. T'ought he'd hand it over easy like, acause a the gull. aCause a you. Den you go inside dat deli, and I t'ought, ad.a.m.n, I fuh fool!' Shoulda got money befuh aim spend it. But it cold. You bot' walkin' fast. I had hard time fuh keep up."

"It was cold," Frank agreed. "So you bounced around after Leavenworth, but how'd you end up here?"

"Warm, fa' away. Sunny like I imagine Panama to be. n.o.body know me."

"No, I mean why Figueroa? Why South Central?"

"Met a Dominican lady lived here. I stayed wit' aer a couple mont', t'ree maybe. aEre I was jus' anot'er poor n.i.g.g.e.r. No one see me.

"Then why snitch? Doesn't make sense if you were trying to be invisible."

"No," he admitted. "But I do it once or twicet. For money. No bad trouble come. So Irie keep his eye and ear open, mout' shut. Money come easy for jus' payin' attention."

"Jesus." Frank shook her head. "And you had no idea who I was?"

"How could I?" Irie asked. "You suppose' be in New York, not here like me."

Frank collected her tape and statement. Irie watched her. "A detective's gonna come and book you."

"Off'cer Frank," he implored. "You gotta fuh do dis?"

"I have to."

"You known me long time ..."

She nodded.

Palms wide, he appealed, "Maybe for dat... ?"