Toxicology Read online

  Romeo Byron. It’s distressing. I’ve been distressed all day, thinking about that kid killing himself!

  I was there.

  What do you mean, you were there?

  Soon as I heard, I went down to where he lived, Mimi said. Shot footage of them carrying his body out. I can show it to you later, if you want.

  Eleanor was silent.

  You know they’re saying this whole thing might’ve been an accident?

  There are no fucking accidents in this fucking glorious universe, and you of all people should know that! Eleanor quickly pulled herself together. Affected a casual and nonchalant tone. Mind running an errand for me, dear?

  I’m late for a production meeting, Mimi said, wondering why she couldn’t just tell Eleanor the truth.

  I used to work the graveyard shift, Eleanor said. At one of those big law firms.

  Yes, I know. Before you got famous, Mimi thought. She moved to the elevator and pressed the “down” button, praying it would come quickly so she could escape. Mimi knew she was being foolish, that she should put on her best face and act nice. She took a deep breath and tried again. I’m having an energy crisis, Eleanor. Think you can help me out?

  Eleanor prattled on. Those big law firms with four or five names attached—I can’t remember which one, but they’re still in business. We were mostly women working that shift. Typing, proofing, revising. They sent us home by taxi every night. Well, actually it was the crack of dawn by the time we clocked out, but still dark. Not safe.

  Those were the days, Mimi muttered, furious.

  I have no idea what you mean, the old woman said. Those were the days? What the fuck do you mean?

  I was commiserating with you, Eleanor. Jeez.

  You coming to my reading?

  I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

  I haven’t done a public thing in ages, Eleanor said. Not sure I’m up to the scrutiny and the schadenfreude.

  Don’t be silly. You’ll knock ’em dead.

  Please. Spare me the platitudes.

  Mimi pressed the “down” button a second, then a third time. Fucking elevator—

  This Volga. It’s some sort of dive, isn’t it?

  You should be flattered. Even What’s-His-Name can’t get a reading there.

  I don’t understand.

  Philip Roth. The Volga doesn’t bother with people like Philip Roth.

  I don’t think he does readings in bars. Or readings, period. And certainly not in Red Hook! I don’t know if I’ve been to Red Hook more than once in my life.

  Point is, you’re gonna love it, Eleanor. You can bask in the glow of your fans’ adoration.

  Do you mind escorting me to the reading? I’ll talk myself out of it if I have to go alone. You know I will.

  What about asking Coco Schnabel?

  I’d rather shoot myself.

  Mimi headed toward the stairs. But you’ve been such a bitch to me, Eleanor. Why should I escort you?

  Your feet, Eleanor said.

  What about them?

  Why aren’t you wearing shoes? It’s supposed to snow and rain, isn’t it?

  I dunno, Eleanor. Maybe it is.

  Bitch, the old woman cackled. She held out the grubby hundred-dollar bill. Maybe later, on your way home? Beefeater. Camel Lights. I’ll be up.

  Mimi snatched the money from her. I’ll do you the favor just this once, okay? I’ll be back kinda late. Way late. Don’t start buggin’ on me.

  Thank you, Mimi.

  Mimi started down the stairs.

  Eleanor yelled after her. Midnight! Crack of dawn! You hear me? You know I’m up. I’m always up!

  Mimi laughed in spite of herself. No need to shout—Coco Schnabel might call the cops. See that, Eleanor? You’re already buggin’.

  If she held on to that hundred-dollar bill too long, who knew what might happen? On her way to catch the first of two trains to Woodside, Mimi decided it was best to get Eleanor’s little errands over with. Spirits Rising was the cutesy name of one of the many new, cozy establishments that had suddenly sprouted up all over the neighborhood. Inside the tiny, cluttered shop, a pair of six-foot, whippet-thin Russian beauties and a handsome, platinum-haired man were in the midst of a festive wine tasting. The beauties were giddy and talking very loud in charming, heavily accented English. They barely glanced at Mimi as she carefully wended her way around them and headed for the display of various rare and exotic gins. If I can help you find anything, said the handsome man. Mimi guessed he was the proprietor.

  Beefeater? Mimi asked.

  Limited shelf space, the handsome man said, with a withering smile. Sorry. He turned his unwavering attention back to the waiting beauties as Mimi made her exit.

  She found Eleanor’s brand at another place closer to the Eighth Avenue station, this one a straight-up, no-frills liquor store run by a morose Korean and a morose younger man who looked to be his son. Eleanor’s cigarettes Mimi picked up at Duane Reade, along with a second pack she bought for herself, thank you very much, Eleanor. Her mood was lifting. First thing tomorrow she’d make an appointment with Ivan and Matthieu and ask—no, beg—them for more money so she could pay the bills and start working on a new script. She hoped they weren’t out of town. Lately they were always out of town, and they were slow—really fucking slow—about returning phone calls or responding to e-mails. A couple of real smug assholes, they were. But hey, they had come through in the past, and Mimi simply had to shed all that negative energy simmering in her dark heart and fucking transcend. Just business, nothing personal. First thing tomorrow and that one little phone call to those hedge-fund assholes could—would, for godsake, Mimi—change everything.

  Emboldened by her optimistic better-luck-tomorrow fantasy, Mimi considered stopping by Wanda’s on the way uptown to see if Bobby was hiding out there or really and truly gone. Maybe adrift in the Canary Islands with Ingrid and Badr. Bobby—master of random mindfucks—was capable of staging his own kidnap and death just to get a buzz going. His mother would gladly play accomplice—anything to keep her only son beholden, forever lost in her smothering, maternal orbit of love. Wanda Fontaine, soothsayer and cunning entrepreneur, was not one to mess with. She had taught Bobby everything about the business. How to be frugal, how not to trust anybody. Wanda was no doubt one of the lucky few in Manhattan with a huge reserve of fuel stashed away for the lean, hard times. Times such as now. Mimi hurried past the Minuit Houses, the Soviet-style, middle-income housing project where Bobby grew up. Tried not to think of her cravings, or Eleanor’s considerable change stuffed in her wallet. She had to make it to Queens in one piece, without humiliating herself.

  It began to drizzle, lightly at first. Then came torrents of gray, icy rain. Her toes were turning blue. Mimi carefully made her way down the slippery, cracked steps of the subway station. The kid huddled by the bank of MetroCard vending machines was roused from her stupor. A rust-colored mutt with a faded blue bandanna tied around its neck lay by her feet. Spare change. The kid thrust the requisite Styrofoam cup at Mimi, but the flat, halfhearted tone of her voice implied she expected nothing in return. Mimi peered intently at the very young girl, trying to make out who was hiding under the baggy hooded sweatshirt. Maybe Violet? Violet was capable of crazy runaway shit like this, but the dog . . . The dog wasn’t her style. What Mimi saw as she stepped closer was a homely moon face mapped by acne scars and elaborate piercings.

  My dog could use some food, lady.

  Mimi dug around in her bag. What about you?

  Whatever, the kid said. Mimi dropped a twenty-dollar bill in the Styrofoam cup. Thank you, Eleanor.

  God Sends Me to Speak Boldly to You

  Carmelo opened the door, holding the cell to his ear. I forgot what a drag the 7 train can be, Mimi said by way of greeting. Her older brother looked surprised and not entirely pleased to see her standing in the doorway, haggard and drenched. Uh-huh, Carmelo murmured into the phone. Uh-huh. He stepped aside as Mimi entered the apartment. Man, he
sighed. I’m really sorry to hear this, man. Mimi’s curiosity was immediately piqued, but she feigned indifference and glanced at the newspapers and magazines piled around the living room. The hoarding that had started up again, after Brenda left. The Onion, the Nation, Art in America, Rolling Stone, Maxim, US Weekly, the Advocate, InStyle, W, Portfolio, the Brooklyn Rail, the Filipino Reporter, amNewYork. Salvaged from Starbucks, subway trains, and trash cans or bought when he had money. Carmelo’s taste in reading material knew no bounds. It was the thing Mimi couldn’t help but admire and love about her brother’s collecting mania. The What the Fuck I Read Anything and Everything Mellow Carmelo. And somewhere buried in the shambles of his apartment were the 9/11 editions of the New York Times, the Wall Street Journal, and El Diario La Prensa.

  Whatchu gonna do when they stop killing trees and publish everything online, Melo? Mimi once asked him.

  He had laughed, totally unconcerned. Guess I’ll open a museum.

  There was other junk he hoarded. Cassettes of forgotten funk bands, martial-arts movies on VHS, mildewed self-help books left out on someone’s stoop. FREE. HELP YOURSELF. And Carmelo did. Pretty soon the apartment would be filled from top to bottom with his treasures, making it almost impossible to enter or move around; pretty soon Carmelo would be forced to sleep in the bathroom, unless the stained bathtub became another repository; pretty soon Carmelo would be laid off from his latest job as a security guard at the Brooklyn Museum; pretty soon the landlord would come calling and have Carmelo evicted.

  Mimi was relieved to see the out-of-tune upright piano still in its corner. There were piles of junk all over it, but Carmelo’s prized possession had not yet been sold or bartered or given away. Which was always a hopeful sign. Maybe he’d sweep the junk off the piano, sit down, and simply start playing. A whacked-out, barely recognizable “Clair de Lune” or Moonlight Sonata, maybe. Carmelo could play that pretty Debussy and Beethoven shit since the age of five. Then maybe “Crepuscule with Nellie” by Thelonious Monk. Carmelo loved Monk’s strangeness, loved the hesitant, anguished way he made music. Loved how Monk broke into a sweat after his performance was over and would sit there in silence, gazing down at the piano keys. Like he couldn’t believe what had just happened. Her brother was complicated like Monk was complicated. Her brother had many shades.

  Mimi made room for herself on the newspaper-strewn futon couch and sat. She watched her brother pace and listen hard to whoever was jabbering on the other end of the phone. She wanted him to hang up so she could ask him if he was playing again. She wanted to tell him about the poet on the 7 train. He was scrawny and pigeon-toed, wore ill-fitting clothes and a grimy Yankees cap in reverse on his head. But his gaze was steady, his voice clear and strong. God sends me to speak boldly to you, ladies and gentlemen. For life is a mystery, and knowledge is the crown.

  She grew impatient and tried to catch her brother’s attention, but Carmelo kept ignoring her. His apartment was colder than she expected, and Mimi longed to take a couple of swigs from Eleanor’s bottle of gin. The old girl probably wouldn’t mind. Hopefully, the old girl also wouldn’t mind and would find it amusing that Mimi had spent most of whatever money was left on herself.

  The long walk from the subway stop to her brother’s apartment had been a test. Mimi slipped off the flip-flops and studied her nasty feet. Was Melo going to acknowledge her misery or bother handing her a towel or a blanket? Not a chance. How she hated coming all the way to Woodside, hated the effort involved in visiting her brother. She found him even more depressing than she found herself. I’ll call as soon as I have something, okay? Promise, Mimi overheard Carmelo saying. Who was he attempting to appease? No doubt a skank. Calling to beg for money, to be saved from some abusive ex-something-or-other. With the exception of Brenda, Carmelo was unbelievably stupid when it came to women. Always falling for manipulative skanks—preferably pale and tragic—who were genius at playing helpless. Don’t worry, Carmelo said. I’ll take care of it. He clicked off the cell and finally looked at his sister. Well, well, well. Howzit goin’?

  You should move, Melo.

  Say wha’?

  You heard me, homeboy. This place is a dump, Mimi said. And getting here is always a fucking ordeal.

  Aw, man. Why you gotta be such a snob? Didn’t you read last Sunday’s Times? This is an up-and-coming neighborhood, Carmelo said. Vibrant. Diverse. Best arepas outside of Bogotá.

  Yeah, yeah, I know. The new Fort Greene.

  Everything okay with your crib? he asked.

  They’d love to get rid of me and put it on the market, if that’s what you mean. I’m probably the only renter left, Mimi said. But fuck real estate. Who was that you were gabbing with?

  Uncle Frank.

  Mimi groaned in disgust.

  Something bad happened to Agnes, Carmelo said.

  Agnes? Mimi winced at the memory of her faraway and long-ago childhood playmate, a spindly girl the color of cinnamon. Wow. It’s been ages, Mimi said. Agnes.

  She was working without papers for this family way out in Jersey. Toms River or something. They brought her over with the promise of a green card.

  Hard to believe anyone still falls for that crap, Mimi said.

  You don’t live in the real world.

  Do you? Mimi sneered.

  My brain isn’t half as fried as yours, Carmelo said.

  True dat, Mimi said.

  Uncle Frank had no idea Agnes was here, Carmelo continued. Then last month he gets this phone call. Said she sounded like things were okay. She promised to call him again, but he hasn’t heard from her since.

  Mimi tried to conjure up an image of Agnes’s face. The ragged crescent scar on her cheek. The wide nose and dark, alluring eyes. Cousin Agnes was a modest, funny girl, meek and compliant to the point of being dull. Mimi remembered playing with her when there was no one else to play with.

  The people she worked for? They have money, Carmelo said. The husband’s a doctor, the wife’s a—I forgot. Anyway, they told Uncle Frank that Agnes was in cahoots with some pimp boyfriend, that she’d been stealing from them all along, which is why she ran away.

  Can’t they think up a better story? Mimi said.

  Uncle Frank wants me to go see these people, said Carmelo.

  This is too fucking much for me to process. I mean, you are aware that Romeo Byron was found dead yesterday, right? And now Agnes?

  I fail to see the connection, Carmelo said.

  This is too fucking much! Mimi shouted. Her heart beat wildly. She felt like passing out.

  Carmelo shook his head slowly in disbelief. Goddamn. What’re you on?

  And of course the last thing that asshole Frank wants to do is deal with the cops! So he’s asking you to—

  Carmelo threw up his hands in frustration. You know what, Mimi? Uncle Frank’s got his reasons.

  I’m not judging him. Or you. Mind if I smoke?

  Yes, Carmelo said. I do. After a pause he said, Those people in Jersey? The wife’s, like, a distant relative of Uncle Frank’s.

  Mimi’s first impulse was to laugh at the irony of it all, make a couple of quips about deranged families and hereditary genes, but she kept silent.

  Carmelo waited before adding in a soft voice, Heavy, right?

  Mimi nodded.

  By the way, you look awful.

  Thanks, Mimi said.

  Sorry. I didn’t mean—

  Horseshit. Mimi changed the subject. So. Think maybe Agnes is no more?

  Carmelo plopped down on top of the newspapers next to his sister. He stared at a wall of peeling paint and let out a deep breath. Then he buried his head in his hands. His shoulders began to shake. Mimi wondered why her brother was weeping and she was not. The poet on the train had ended his recitation by going up to each passenger and holding out his baseball cap. Ladies and gentlemen, this concludes today’s poetry session. Can you help me out with some change or a piece of wisdom?

  Mimi gave him change.

  Carmelo ran a han
d over his face. Why are you here?

  I’m out of fuel, Mimi said. Thought you might lend a helping hand.

  You’ve got nerve. Why don’t you go ask those skeevy pals of yours? Sigrid and Abdul.

  Mimi sighed. I’m afraid Ingrid and Badr have flown the coop. I have no one left to turn to but you, bro. And though you deeply despise me, you can’t be rude. Remind yourself that we’re orphans. That I’m all you’ve got. I know what you’re thinking. That we can claim Frank, our so-called uncle who lives in a cemetery out there in fucking Colma. He’s family, right?

  Uncle Frank lives across from the cemetery, not inside the cemetery.

  But family’s what you’re thinking. Family equals tragedies and obligations. Equals Melo and Mimi are not alone! Okay, I have to admit. Frank’s our mother’s whatever, Frank’s blood. And so is—was?—that naïve Agnes girl. Blood. And if something fucking evil’s gone down, what exactly can you do about it, Melo? How you gonna get started playing detective and get out to Bumfuck, New Jersey? You don’t even own a car.

  I’ll rent one, her brother retorted.

  Is Frank bankrolling this investigation? You live in a crumbling dump without any heat, Mimi reminded him. Cost of gas rising.

  Furious, Carmelo leaped up from the couch and went into the bedroom. He emerged seconds later with a pair of thermal socks and a Disney World beach towel that had seen better days. He threw the socks and the towel at Mimi. If you came all the way out here just to hustle me for blow, then I think you can leave now.

  Got any shoes I could borrow? Mimi knew that her attempt at a joke would fall flat as soon as she said it. She slipped the thick woolen socks on her feet and wrapped the large towel around her shoulders. Blood is blood, she said, but that gets real thin in the case of our beloved uncle, who ever since I can remember is always leaning on you . . . or me. Frank knows you can’t say no to him and—

  We owe Frank.

  Don’t fall for that debt-for-life shit, Melo. We are orphans and alone. Period. You have anything to drink?

  There’s ginger ale. And plenty of tap water.