South by South Bronx by Jr., Abraham Rodriguez Page A

coffee. The coffee would be the right temperature. My coffee was not yet at the halfway mark, yet I was already thinking about that cigarette. I was even thinking about what kind: a filterless Chesterfield. That rough, abrasive first taste of smoke. No filter to soften the hammer blow.
    â€œDetective Hanson at Four-Three. Detectives Peterson, Lemmings, and Bryan at the Four-O. The Bronx district attorney’s office. There wasn’t a single paralegal there that didn’t know your name. And your captain.” Vague smile. “He had quite a few things to say about you.”
    The open window faced a brick wall, a back alley of steel stairwells, and a basement grille. I was always going out there with Lieutenant Jack for a smoke, just standing on the grille and puffing away. Below were some glowy basement windows and hundreds of discarded butts. I was longing to go out that window.
    â€œI know pretty well about your current troubles,” Myers said. “But that’s not why I’m here.”
    I had the sense that I didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. I had the sense that I knew deep down what he was after, and that troubled me. My seventh sip of coffee. As flaming burn as the first.
    â€œIt’s very important that I find Anthony Rosario.”
    (Oh man. Another quick gulp of coffee.)
    Drug dealers are born with real names like regular people but they develop street tags, alter-egos. Rap-star comic book villain names like Destructo, MurderMan, Sniffles, Ace of Spade. Names I became so familiar with that it took awhile sometimes to register, to put the real name to a face. It was as if the real name was a secret, something hidden. It didn’t please me to hear Myers just blurt it out.
    â€œSpook? You’re looking for Spook?”
    â€œA.k.a., Spook. That’s right.”
    Silence. Deep cave.
    â€œWhat makes a special agent come all the way from Washington to look for Spook?”
    Standing ground again. Old habit. At first I thought he was here because of me. Now that he said “Spook,” I saw that it was still ABOUT me.
    â€œI’m involved in a top priority investigation. We’ve been following certain trails and one of them has led here. The things I’m about to tell you shouldn’t leave this room.”
    My fingers found a cigarette in a drawer. Totally unconscious. Automatic. Rolled it around. Thinking about that open window and no Spook thoughts. I longed for Lieutenant Jack, for his cynical laugh and the way he made trouble seem smaller.
    Myers pulled out a manila envelope from an inside pocket. He tapped it against a thigh, bit his lower lip. He handed it to me.
    â€œThis is strictly confidential,” he said.
    â€œSure.”
    â€œAre you aware that over the course of a month, Anthony Rosario deposited over ten million dollars in four different bank accounts?”
    â€œNo,” I said.
    â€œFour accounts. A couple of names you might know. The other two are foreigners. Not from his organization. We were already watching them. They led us right to Mr. Rosario. We’ve been following the money since it came stateside.”
    I opened the envelope. Bank statements, phone records. Numbers dialed on Spook’s cell phone. There were two names I recognized all right, trusted Spook workers. The other names I did not know. The room was feeling smaller and smaller.
    â€œHe floated the money into the accounts, then disappeared it. These two names.” Myers came around the desk to show me on the sheets. “They are known to us as individuals involved in a terrorist organization that has recently been waging an undeclared war against the United States.”
    Bank statements. Deposits. Withdrawals. Phone calls. Transaction slips. Footprints in the snow.
    â€œThis organization has been flooding the country recently with money. Over the past six months we’ve snagged accounts in New York, Florida, Chicago, even Los