Mulengro, page 12
He stood abruptly, called to Gillian that he was going out, and left the house for another walk.
The charred ruin of John’s home looked bleak and desolate in the afternoon sun. Tom stood across the street from it, staring at the blackened timbers that had fallen in on themselves like some oversize grotesque game of Pick-Up-Sticks. The smell of the fire still lingered in the air—a smell something like a wet ashtray—and he wrinkled his nose.
“Can’t say I’ll miss him,” a voice said from behind him.
Tom turned to find an old woman watching the ruin with him, sitting on a worn wicker chair on the porch of a red-brick two-story house directly across from where John’s house had stood. Her thighs were tight in her lime green shorts, her waistline hidden by the folds of the pale-yellow blouse with a pattern of mauve and orange flowers, the height of Woolworth fashion.
“What did you say?” Tom asked.
“Fellow who owned that place—can’t say I’ll miss him. You should’ve seen it burn.”
“I was here.”
“Oh?” The woman peered at him, obviously trying to place him.
“Why did you say that?” Tom asked.
“Say what?”
“That you wouldn’t miss him—the man who lived there.”
The woman sniffed. “Wrong sort. Day and night, the place would be filled with all sorts of odd folks. Gypsies, you know? They’d park their beat-up old cars any old place and carouse in there until all hours of the night.”
Tom looked from the ruins of the house to the woman, not sure that she was talking about the same man that he knew.
“Gypsies?” he said.
“You know. We don’t see so much of them as we used to—not like when I was a girl, I can tell you—but I remember them. Worse than any kind of folk I can think of. Dirt poor and always out begging. Loud-mouthed brats running wild. Women showing as much cleavage as the law’ll let them without so much as a blush. And those handsome men!” She nodded towards the ruin. “He wasn’t so bad— not like the kind I knew when I was a girl. I lived down on Murray Street then—in the Old Market—and we had enough Gypsies and other riffraff down there to choke a dog. Not that things’ve changed so much. The Market might look better now, but come the night and I’ll give you ten to one that the whores and their pimps are still crawling all over it.”
“Yes, but—”
“But the Gypsies were the worst,” the woman continued, warming up to her subject. “My mother used to threaten us—my sister who was two years older and little Timmy—said they’d steal us away if we weren’t good. There was some that lived down the street from us. I can remember sneaking up to the fence to watch them drinking and throwing knives into an old elm tree for a whole afternoon. Of course that tree’s gone now. Diseased, you know? Took some of the prettiest trees we had in this city.”
“You’re saying that the man who lived there was a . . . Gypsy?” Tom asked. Stereotypical images came to his mind—old canvas-covered wagons traveling down picturesque English country lanes pulled by plodding old horses, women with the dark good looks of Spanish dancers and men with bright scarves around their necks and gold hoops in their ears.
“Well, if he wasn’t, his friends sure were. They had a few parties there and I swear there was every Gypsy in the Valley come to them. Not every night, mind, but enough times so that I wouldn’t miss it happening.”
“A Gypsy,” Tom said more to himself than the woman. He could almost picture John with a bright red scarf around his neck as he played some lively Gypsy tune on his violin. But did Gypsies even exist outside of turn-of-the-century novels? If the woman was right, it opened up a whole new spin of questions.
“ ‘Course, even with him gone, we’ve still got two row houses of Pakistanis to contend with down the block. I swear, if it’s not one damn thing, it’s another. They must live twenty to a room. I’ve seen so many coming or going from that place that—”
“This is all very interesting,” Tom said, breaking in, “but I really can’t stay to listen.”
The woman peered at him, mouth puckering with disapproval. “Yes, well,” she said. “I suppose you must have more important things to do than listen to an old pensioner shoot off her mouth. Not that I expect any respect these days. Check’s always late anyway and those new tellers at the bank wouldn’t know a smile if it fell from the sky and lay gasping in front of them. And what with . . .”
Tom walked away with a curt nod, no longer listening.
“Bloody liberal!” the woman called after him. “It’s because of people like you that this country’s in the poor shape that it is. Always crying about . . .”
Tom stepped up his pace until the woman’s voice was lost in the distance. He was thinking about Gypsies and what the possibility of John being one might mean. The woman obviously didn’t have much good to say about them—but then she didn’t appear to have much good to say about anyone. A Gypsy. If John was a Gypsy, why hadn’t he used that obvious sales gimmick to promote his records? If he’d never thought of it, then surely Angie would have. Unless John didn’t want anyone to know. It had never come up in his own conversations with John.
Frowning, Tom retraced his footsteps home. What was wrong with being a Gypsy? Why was it important to keep it a secret? He had the feeling that if he understood that, he’d be a lot closer to understanding what had happened to John and why he had simply vanished. The curious prickling of a bad feeling grew stronger in him. The possibility that he wasn’t going to like what he found out, that the information would be more disturbing than John’s disappearance itself, was just beginning to make itself felt.
thirteen
The Lincoln was packed and idling by the curb. Yojo’s wife Simza sat in the front passenger’s seat with her youngest, Jasper, suckling at her breast. Twelve-year-old Lala sat beside her. The two older boys, Georjo and Young Jan, were in the back seat with Racki and Carolina. Keja stood by the curbside, looking back at the house where Janfri and Yojo sat on the stone stoop. Her pleated skirt came to just below her knees and her brown skin was dark against the creamy white of her blouse. The mid-afternoon sun awoke shining highlights in her black hair.
“I feel wrong leaving you behind,” Yojo said.
Janfri shrugged, his gaze on Keja. “She’s very beautiful,” he said. “You must be proud of her.”
Yojo followed his gaze. “She loves you, prala. Let her stay with you. Jump the broom with her. Simza and I will be your witnesses in the eyes of God.”
“You would send her into danger?”
Yojo looked shocked. “What danger can there be to the wife of my brother?”
Janfri smiled wryly. In Yojo’s eyes, he and Keja were already married. “Perhaps,” he said, “when this business is done, you’ll find me at the door of your tsera with the bridal brandy in my hand.”
“You see?” Yojo said. “You show your very responsibility by not taking her into danger. I would be honored to be your khanamik, Janfri. And to drink your pliashka. Don’t make me wait until I am old and gray—do you hear me?”
“Bater.” Janfri sighed. “Remember the first time nano Nonoka brought us to Royal Town?”
Yojo nodded. “Such a place, London! Our eyes held everything at once. And the time we fought those farmer boys in the Siebengebirge. Hey, prala?”
Their uncle Nonoka had taken them back and forth across Europe, from the British Isles to Turkey; through the Siebengebirge, the mountain range that separated Hungary from Rumania; to the Right Bank where the Rom gathered in Paris; down through the Pyrenees to where the Spanish Gitanos lived on Sacro Monte under the watchful eye of Alhambra. They roamed where they would in the traditional horse-drawn wagons, sometimes one or two together, other times in the rare caravan of fifteen or twenty wagons. And always there was tall, strong Nonoka Kejako to teach them horsing and smithing; the way to skin a hedgehog by cutting a hole in the skin near its foot, then blowing it up like a balloon and hanging it from a line; fishing and hunting and trading. Nonoka, who took the two fosterlings into his kumpania in Nazi-occupied France, who took them into his own vurdon when they escaped the burning of their parents’ wagons and the ravages of the old glassworks in La Pierre that the Germans had turned into a camp for Gypsy prisoners.
The good times held Janfri and Yojo together far more than the bad, but the horrors of the camp could never be forgotten—they were something that they shared with no other in Big George’s kumpania. They had stayed on with Nonoka’s people, even after the old man died, but eventually cousins took Aunt Magda, and the two young men crossed the Atlantic by working on a freighter to New York. There, in what the Gypsies called Rommeville, they vanished, without papers or money, into the lower half of Manhattan where the Rom have carved a hundred tsera from that famed concrete jungle.
“We did it all,” Janfri said.
Yojo grinned. “And the world’s so big still, prala. There is much that we have not yet seen.”
“And much that we will never see. Bater. We do what we can.” Janfri touched Yojo’s shoulder. “God go with you, brother.”
Yojo embraced him. “And with you. You will call me if you need help?”
“Surely.”
“And find us when you are done with this little task?”
“I know you too well for you to hide long from me, prala.”
Yojo nodded, blinking in the sunlight. “I have something in my eye,” he muttered.
Janfri regarded him through his own thin film of tears. “As do I. There’s too much dirt in this city, prala—in all cities. It’s long past time we were on the road once more.”
They embraced a last time, then Yojo slowly made his way down to the curb where his family was waiting for him. Keja’s gaze lingered on Janfri for a long moment before she squeezed into the backseat. She lifted her hand and Janfri returned the wave. He watched the Lincoln pull away, following it until it turned the corner. Sighing, he picked up the map that Yojo had left him and studied it with blurring vision. He wiped his eyes, concentrating on the task at hand as though it would ease the emptiness inside.
He spread the map on his knee, tracing the roads leading southwest from Ottawa. There was a lot of country lying approximately an hour in that direction. It was cottage country, with dozens of small villages and lakes. The towns of Smith Falls, Perth, Mer-rickville, Lanark . . . Where was he supposed to begin? All he had was thirty-two dollars and change, the ‘73 Chevrolet that Yojo had found for him, and his violin. The money would cover his gas, but it left nothing for living expenses. So the first thing he had to do was clean up and go to his bank. He hadn’t changed in three days and couldn’t even remember where he’d left his shoes, so he was wearing a pair of unclaimed running shoes that he’d found in Yojo’s house. He could just imagine the raised eyebrows of the bank teller if he went in to close his account looking like this. He wouldn’t even have a bank account if he hadn’t needed one to cash the checks he earned from the income his violin brought him. Removing his diklo and earrings, he put them in his pocket. There was going to be enough time spent producing ID, explaining why he was withdrawing all his money. The Gaje were always eager to take one’s money, but retrieving it from them was never such an easy matter.
He started to get up from the stoop when he saw a Dodge sedan pull into the spot that Yojo’s car had so recently vacated. He identified the two men inside as plainclothes policemen before they even stepped out of the car. One was short and somewhat out of shape. The other was a tall black. Janfri’s eyes narrowed slightly as they came up the walk, then he eased a vacant look onto his face. He folded the map and thrust it casually into his pocket.
“Nice afternoon,” the white policeman said to him.
Janfri shrugged.
“We’re looking for a man named Yojo Kore who’s supposed to live here,” the policeman continued. “Are you him?”
Janfri shook his head.
“Do you know if he’s in?”
“No one is home,” Janfri replied in a deliberately heavy Slavic accent. “I come for the money he owes me, you know? But no one is home. So I wait. Maybe he will come back soon and pay me, yes?”
The two men exchanged glances. “Could we see some identification, please?” the white policeman asked. When Janfri regarded him blankly, the detective pulled out his wallet and showed his badge. “I’m Detective-Sergeant Briggs and this is Detective Sandler. We’re police officers.”
“How’s it going?” Will added, flashing a smile.
Janfri chose to answer the second officer. “Not so good,” he said. “I need money to fix my car, you know? Not this one—it is my brother’s—but the one I have at home. So I come, all across town, but Yojo is not home. So what can I do, you are telling me?”
“Do you have a driver’s license?” Briggs asked. “Or maybe a credit card?” As if that was likely.
Janfri let his eyes go wide with shock. “You are here to arrest me?” he asked, fumbling in his pocket. He produced a billfold and started to hand it over, but Briggs shook his head.
“Just the identification, please,” he said.
Janfri tugged the worn driver’s license identifying him as Jim Cerinek out of its plastic protective covering and laid it onto Briggs’ outstretched hand.
“Thanks,” Briggs said. He passed the license over to Will who took it back to the car. “How long have you been waiting here, Mr. Cerinek?”
“Too long, you know? An hour, maybe—maybe longer.”
Janfri met Briggs’ gaze with a slightly off-focus stare. He wasn’t worried about the ID. Yojo had promised him it was good.
“And you’ve seen no one in that time?”
“Some people walk by on the street,” Janfri explained. “I saw them. And there were cars, too, you know? So what is it that Yojo has done? Will you be throwing him in jail? Then I will never get my money and the car, she needs the work, you know? I do deliveries sometimes—pick up food for the old people, sometimes beer. They will give me a little money, you know? Or a beer. Once a man gave me ten dollars just to pick up a case of beer! I was a happy man that day, I tell you. I bought almost a whole tank of gas. But that was a long time ago—when the car was working. Now she is not so good, you know?”
“He’s clean,” Will said, returning from the car.
Briggs nodded. This was a very patient man, Janfri realized, and therefore, potentially a very dangerous one.
“Have you seen anyone—anyone at all—coming in or out of the house, Mr. Cerinek?” Briggs asked, handing Janfri back his license.
“No one at all. But I am still waiting. Unless Yojo is going to jail. And then I will never get my money, and the car won’t run. . . .” Janfri let his shoulders rise and fall despondently.
“To the best of our knowledge,” Briggs said, “Mr. Kore has done nothing that would warrant criminal charges. We just want to talk to him in connection with a case that we’re working on.”
“Heh?”
Briggs regarded the man’s confused face and slowly shook his head. He was still trying to decide if Cerinek was really stupid or just putting them on.
“Never mind,” he said. “Do you know a Big George Luluvo?”
“Oh, sure,” Janfri said. “He is a very important man with the Gypsies, you know? Once I helped his son haul some scrap metal. We worked for the whole afternoon and Big George was there the whole time, showing us what to do. He’s a very important man. Everybody knows him. I knew some Gypsies in the old country, but none were such good men as Big George.”
Briggs nodded, his irritation showing only in a small tick at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, well thanks for your help, Mr. Cerinek.”
“Did I help you? That is good.” Janfri started to scratch under his arm and grinned. “I like to be helping people, you know?”
“I’m sure.” Briggs regarded him with growing distaste. “You’re probably wasting your time waiting here for Mr. Kore. I have a feeling he won’t be back.”
“You think so?” Janfri asked slowly. “But my money . . . ?”
“You win some and you lose some. See you later, Mr. Cerinek.”
Briggs started back for the car. Will remained a moment longer, then tipped his finger against his forehead and followed his partner. Janfri continued to sit on the stoop, occasionally scratching himself, until they pulled away. Once they were out of sight, he remained where he was, counting slowly to himself. He smiled inwardly when the Dodge came around the corner again and cruised by at a slow pace. When it passed out of sight for a second time, he went over to the Chevy that Yojo had acquired for him and got in, laying his violin on the seat beside him. He started the car up and backed out of the driveway. It was too late to go to the bank now. If the police were looking for Yojo and Big George, it was a good time for all Rom to leave the city. He didn’t need trouble with the law on top of having to deal with Mulengro. He decided to drive down to the trailer park outside of Perth where Tibo Lee was staying. He’d start with Tibo and his sister, see what they knew, and work his way on from there. He could also check out a few spots on his way down to Perth.
“Did you get a make on the Chevy parked in the lane?” Briggs asked.
“Yeah. It’s registered to one Tonio Cerinek, no outstanding violations. Tonio’s clean—-just like his brother.”
“What did you think of him?”
Will grinned. “Mr. Scratch-where-it-itches? He’s either just what he seems to be or one hell of a good actor.”
“Maybe we should’ve pulled him in anyway. We’re coming up with a lot of dead ends.”
“That’s the way the game plays sometimes.”
Briggs nodded. “We should’ve gone down to Luluvo’s with a warrant in the first place. They’re starting to take off like rats deserting a sinking ship.
“Can you blame them? They probably think that any one of them could be next.”
