Free Triage: A Thriller (Shell Series) by Phillip Thomas Duck Page A

battered relationship with the Ironbound continued, despite it being one of Newark’s more comfortable neighborhoods. Death wasn’t present on every corner here as it was in some other parts of the city. The Ironbound measured four square miles, working class, and multi-ethnic. Some called the area Down Neck because of the neck-like curve of the PassaicRiver at its doorstep. Others, because of the heavy Latin influence of its residents, particularly Portuguese, called it Little Portugal. That fit. Ironbound was the hardest nickname to narrow down. Forges and foundries dotted the landscape in the latter half of the 19 th Century. Some claimed that as the name origin. Others noted the rail tracks built in the 1830’s. I suppose none of that actually mattered. I’d found my way back to the 100 block of Elm Street, and, just as when I’d left almost a year prior, it treated me with the detached distance of a stranger. Worse, actually. Treated me with disdain.
    “Mrs. Rubalcaba—”
    She cut me off again with harsh words I still couldn’t make out.
    So I found myself at an impasse.
    I usually handled an enemy’s aggression with my own superior aggression. Even I knew I couldn’t do that in this instance.
    I was considering that conundrum when I noticed Mrs. Rubalcaba’s gaze shift to over my shoulder. The old Cuban woman started gesturing excitedly. I turned to see a young woman moving calmly up the cobbled path toward us. I held my breath, without at first realizing it, as the young woman inched closer and closer. In slow motion it seemed.
    She was in her mid-twenties, dressed in a halter top and extra-short shorts. Perfect clothes choices for her body type. A full and natural looking bosom, the points of her breasts poking through her bra to leave imprints in the halter top. Bowflex waistline, long shapely legs, and skin the color of white bread toast. Long black hair pulled back in a knot that fell just below her shoulder blades. One perfect strand of hair fluttered over her right eye. Eyes, dark.
    Lovely.
    Her gaze was trained on me as she made her way up the path. She carried an oversized, leather portfolio case over her right shoulder as though it was the most prized of all of her earthly possessions. An artist, I decided on the spot, and as beautiful as a rare painting herself. La Gioconda , Leonardo da Vinci’s famous portrait of Mona Lisa.
    As the young beauty reached us, Mrs. Rubalcaba said something to her in frenzied Spanish. Mona Lisa stopped next to me and spoke her own calm Spanish in reply to Mrs. Rubalcaba’s words. The old Cuban woman made a gesture with her hands, and then she frowned and waved off the younger woman. They went back and forth like that for several beats, Mrs. Rubalcaba becoming more agitated the more they spoke. Mona Lisa remained composed, though. Mrs. Rubalcaba didn’t. After awhile, the old woman clapped her hands together and muttered something hateful. The clap made a firecracker sound. Mona Lisa reached her hand in Mrs. Rubalcaba’s apron pocket at that point, pulled out the bottle of Cuban rum, clucked her tongue and wagged a lone finger across the older woman’s field of vision. That quieted Mrs. Rubalcaba. She dropped her head. Mona Lisa said, “Abuela,” then made a sweeping motion with her hand. Mrs. Rubalcaba sighed, looked at me with her angry mouth for a second, and then slid into the dark maw of her doorway.
    “You make it a habit of upsetting our octogenarians?”
    The beautiful, young artist—Mona Lisa—wasn’t looking at me as she spoke.
    I said, “I think you upset her more by keeping her from getting a sloppy wet kiss with Ron.” Ron was the Cuban word for rum.
    Mona Lisa’s gaze found me then. “She’s been through enough. Leave my abuela be, would you please.”
    “Your abuela,” I said. “Didn’t know the Rubalcabas had another grandchild. No one has ever mentioned one. Where’s Renny?”
    “Just leave.”
    I said, “Such hospitality, Mona