Authors: Robert Knightly
‘Margaret assaults him by the hour, a two-pronged attack designed to sap his will. The first attack is entirely personal. She tells him the little maid is less than nothing, a toy to be discarded once the novelty wears off. He loves her only because he, too, is less than nothing, an utter failure whose manhood is a lost cause.
‘ “Why can’t you put it together, Jerk?” she demands to know. “That buck-toothed whore doesn’t love you. How could she when you are what you are? No, that bitch smelled money all the way from Poland. Just find a rich asshole, a punk kid who’s never seen a woman naked, and get him hot enough to screw you without a rubber. Face it, Jerk, you don’t even know if the kid’s yours.”
‘At the same time, she offers him a way out, a solution. If she wishes, she explains, she can have Mynka shipped to a country where doctors perform abortions without asking too many questions. With Aslan, it’s only a matter of money. And, of course, once shipped out, Mynka will never return.
‘ “Do you understand what I’m telling you, David? You’ll never see her again. It’ll be the same as if she died.
‘ “But that doesn’t have to happen. Things can go back to the way they were. You can screw the little Polack from morning to night. In fact, you can even pretend that you’ll live happily ever after. All Mynka has to do is refrain from giving birth to a child bearing Portola genes, a child the family will be supporting for the next twenty fucking years.”
‘The saddest part is that David and Mynka can never return to “the way it was,” to those first hot days when their bodies and emotions were perfectly synchronized. David probably knows this, but knowing and accepting are two different things. And David is so young, so isolated. He wants to believe the past can be restored and who can blame him? Besides, the child in Mynka’s womb isn’t the issue. The fetus will be dealt with, one way or the other, of that he’s certain. The issue is whether David and Mynka will be forever parted.
‘Eventually, though he claims to love her still, David joins the merry chorus: abort, abort, abort. Do it, let it be over, let equilibrium be restored. He begins to wonder if Margaret isn’t right, if he isn’t being played for a fool. Surely, if Mynka loved him, she’d do this little thing rather than be parted from him forever.
‘Love, hope, resentment, suspicion, rage. David has always been volatile and now these emotions rocket through his brain almost from moment to moment, seizing him by turn. When he’s alone with his beloved, his heart melts. When Margaret is present, his blood boils. At all times, he’s afraid. He’s afraid that he’ll be left all alone, that he’ll again become a trapped and helpless child.
‘That particular Friday is one of the worst. Aslan will come to fetch the little maid on Saturday afternoon and Margaret wants the whole mess over and done with. Twice during the day, she slaps Mynka. Then the dinner is late, the soup tepid, the roast charred, the soufflé too rich, the coffee burnt.
‘Finally, toward the very end of the meal, Margaret again becomes violent. David makes a half-hearted attempt to intervene, but finally backs away. Mynka is dragged to the cold room and forced inside. I’m watching, of course – watching is the only thing I’m really good at – and I find myself wondering if David will find the courage to at least open the door. He’s too strong for Margaret, even at seventeen. He can stop this if he wants to.
‘But then, I’m also strong enough to make my will felt, yet I sit and watch, all the while molding the events into a single, seamless anecdote I intend to share with my friends.
‘ “I’ll let her out when I’m ready,” Margaret tells David. “And you, Ronald, you make sure Jerk doesn’t open that door. If he does, I’ll beat the child out of that bitch myself.”
‘Jerk is beyond himself. As the seconds tick by, he begins to sob. He has to do something, but he doesn’t know what. He paces back and forth, toward the cold room, away from the cold room. He has to let her out. He can’t let her out. She has to abort her child. She won’t abort her child.
‘Ten minutes pass, then twenty. The emergency buzzer rings again and again. Help me, help me, help me.
‘When Jerk can stand it no longer, he yanks the door open and Toad comes forth on her hands and knees, shivering uncontrollably. Jerk begs her: “Please, please, please. You have to. You have to.”
‘I’m sitting at the kitchen table, watching, waiting. I know that Jerk has gone over the edge. I know because I’ve been to the edge so many times myself. The pressure is tearing Jerk apart and he has to relieve it. If not, he will explode, literally, into a million pieces. He hops around Toad as if the floor is hot. He groans and pounds his hand into the wall until his knuckles bleed. “You’ve got to,” he keeps repeating. “You’ve got to.”
‘Then it’s done. A cast-iron pot, an antique, sits against the wall only a few steps from where Toad kneels. Also cast iron, a ladle rests inside the pot. Jerk doesn’t hesitate once he’s made up his mind. There is no moment of indecision. He grabs the ladle, raises it up, brings it down.
‘Toad collapses without a word of reproach. Maybe she knows it’s coming, maybe she’s known all along. Jerk looks down at her for a moment, at the little river of blood that makes its way toward his feet. Then he drops the ladle, raises his head and howls at the ceiling. He doesn’t stop until Margaret comes downstairs, until she steps into the room and says, “Do you have any idea how much this is going to cost us?” ’
THIRTY-THREE
A
dele walked into the room and directly up to Ronald, ignoring me altogether. ‘You have the right to remain silent,’ she told him. ‘Should you waive that right, anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to be represented by an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you.’
This was the big surprise. Only Ronald didn’t look all that shocked. When he turned to me, his lips were pursed, his eyes flat and impenetrable. ‘I don’t get it,’ he said. ‘I thought we understood each other.’
‘You did a good job, Ronnie,’ Adele said. ‘You’ve convinced me that you were in the room when Mynka Chechowski was killed. But the other part, the part about who swung that ladle? How do I know you’re not covering up for your mother? How do I know you didn’t swing it yourself?’
With no choice, Ronald turned to Adele. ‘Margaret wasn’t there and I’m just not capable.’
‘That’s good, La Bamba. That’ll work fine. You’ll get up on that old witness stand and tell the jury, “I’m so, so sensitive. I couldn’t possibly have committed such a horrible crime. Please acquit me.” ’
Ronald took a moment to consider his situation, then said, ‘What if I deny this conversation ever took place?’
‘Too late. We’ve recorded every word.’
‘But you didn’t read me my rights.’
‘You weren’t informed of your rights because you weren’t a suspect.’
‘But I’m a suspect now?’
‘Listen to me, La Bamba. We couldn’t know you’d incriminate yourself until you actually incriminated yourself. Once you did, you were immediately informed of your right to remain silent. There’s no Constitutional issue here.’
Thus far, everything Adele had said, with a single exception, was a lie. There was, indeed, a constitutional issue – more than one, in fact – and we hadn’t recorded a single word of the conversation. The exception was the threat of arrest.
After a moment, Ronald nodded twice, then turned to look directly into my eyes. I expected to find him afraid; for a man of Ronald’s passive temperament, Rikers Island would make his mother’s house seem like paradise. But he wasn’t afraid, not at all.
‘Am I under arrest?’ he asked.
‘Technically,’ Adele replied.
‘Technically?’
‘Well, you can’t leave, so the situation is obviously custodial. On the other hand, nobody’s in a hurry to start the paperwork.’
‘So there’s still a way out?’
Adele carefully avoided the question. ‘Why don’t we begin with you telling us what happened after the murder. In great detail.’
I sat back and let Adele finish up. I was already convinced that Ronald’s tale was essentially true, that the wrong perpetrator had, indeed, murdered the wrong victim. My little fantasy had been murdered as well. The one that had me plucking Margaret Portola and Aslan Khalid like rotted tomatoes from a vine, that had me tossing them into the compost heap of a maximum-security prison. Given all that had gone before, I made the odds against David Portola surviving in jail at least five to one.
Though it was no consolation whatever, I’d gotten the aftermath right. According to Ronald, Margaret had wasted no time. Within minutes of discovering Mynka’s body, she’d shrouded the girl’s head and torso with a black garbage bag, then dragged her into the refrigerator for safekeeping. Aslan Khalid showed up late the following morning, appearing cheerful. He huddled briefly with Margaret, viewed the body, then took his leave, returning at ten o’clock that night with Konstantine Barsakov. Without fanfare, they carried Mynka to a waiting van and drove away. Supposedly forever.
The physical clean up began within minutes of the door closing behind Aslan. With David in his bed, virtually unmoving, Ronald was assigned the task of scrubbing the kitchen from top to bottom. Margaret wasn’t about to pick up a scrub brush, though she subjected his work to several critical evaluations.
‘I hope that doesn’t make me a criminal,’ Ronald finally said.
‘Why would it?’ Adele asked.
‘Because I’d be obstructing justice.’
‘Just like mom?’
This time, Ronald’s smile was genuine. ‘Well, it did occur to me that covering up a murder can get one into trouble. That’s why I want to put this on the record. I cleaned the kitchen because I knew my brother’s mental health was in jeopardy. I was afraid that the sight of his lover’s blood would finally break him.’
‘That was noble of you, La Bamba, but we only have your word for what happened. How do we know you didn’t contact Aslan yourself?’
‘Margaret’s checkbook.’ Ronald scratched his chest and yawned. ‘Margaret wrote a series of checks after Aslan took the body away. Each was in the amount of $3,000, and each was cashed by Margaret at her bank. I know because I sneaked into her office and looked.’
‘How many checks so far?’
‘Eight.’
‘And you’re certain you can put your hands on this checkbook?’
‘Of course.’
‘How about the murder weapon?’
‘The pot and the ladle? In the front parlor next to the fireplace.’
‘She kept them?’
‘Pre-revolutionary, both pieces. Margaret would never part with anything so valuable, especially after Aslan told her that Toad’s body had been successfully disposed of.’
I chose that moment to interrupt. Ronald Portola had made a choice, a choice he could not take back. The state would profit by that choice, no doubt, and Ronald would profit as well. I’d been a cop long enough to shake off most of the grime associated with the moral sewer in which I work, but this outcome was truly revolting. Nevertheless, I stirred the sludge running through that sewer without hesitation.
‘Suppose we do this. Suppose we all go back to Riverside Drive and ask Margaret and David for their versions? If their stories agree with yours, David will be arrested.’
‘And me?’
‘You’ll go back to being a witness.’ I leaned forward. ‘But, look, just to be completely fair, I’m even willing to let you ask the questions. As long as you’re willing to have a small recording device taped to your bare skin.’
Ronald hesitated only for an instant before nodding agreement. I nodded back, then said, ‘If you need to use the facilities, now would be a good time.’
Ronald Portola’s eyes lit up, as I’d hoped they would. I hadn’t searched Ronald because he was witness, not a suspect. Now I knew he was carrying dope and that he would use it in the bathroom. There would be no elegance to the act – he would not inject it into a tiny vein below his ankle with a needle small enough to pierce a hair. No, this was about need, about the effort necessary to maintain a facade of indifference when your real future is really on the line. Ronald would stick that heroin up his nose and be glad for it.
When the bathroom door closed behind Ronald, Adele came into my arms for a hug. I held her close, neither of us having to say a word. We both knew that some evils can’t be addressed in a court of law. That sometimes what cops do is rough enough to leave scars.
‘You think he’s using in there?’ Adele asked.
‘That’s why I suggested a trip to the bathroom in the first place. Ronald’s ultra-cool stance? He’ll need some help if he’s going to maintain that stance when he has to face his mother.’
‘That’s good. You’re going to let Ronald confront David.’
‘Not David. Margaret. Ronald’s finally going to confront his mother.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Call it prophecy.’
Ronald took that moment to emerge. The pupils of his eyes were reduced to a pair of black dots, but he was still in control. That, too, was predictable. For all his talk of wretched excess, Ronald Portola was a young man who kept a close watch on his best interests.
Margaret Portola’s eyes flew up like yanked window shades when Adele and I followed Ronald into her front parlor. She was sitting on a pale yellow sofa, a sectional that effectively partitioned a corner of the room. David was sitting off to the side, slouched in a leather chair with one leg thrown over the arm. Quicker than his mother, he knew exactly why we were there. His eyes flickered for a moment, then grew resigned as his sullen expression vanished. He’d been waiting a long time for his punishment, trying and convicting himself over and over again. When finally pressed, he’d offer no resistance.
‘I’ve told them everything about Mynka,’ Ronald announced as he took a step toward his mother. ‘The before, the after, the event itself.’
Margaret’s lower jaw bobbed up and down as she struggled to frame a response. In an instant, her world had come crashing down, all her fears realized. Still, she made a stab at gaining control of the situation.
‘Get out of my house,’ she said to me and Adele, ‘before I call my lawyer.’
I ignored the remark as I dropped to one knee beside David’s chair, leaving Adele to follow Ronald as he drifted in his mother’s general direction. Given Margaret’s volatility and Ronald’s determination to provoke her, Adele was prepared to intervene if Margaret became violent.