Free Hot Poppies by Reggie Nadelson Page A

that kind of shit.”
    Bingo, I thought, and I said to Eljay, “Get me the lab.”
    â€œI’ll do what I can. There’s a million tons of shit falling from the sky out there, maybe you didn’t notice, Artie. A lot of places are shut down.”
    I handed him the phone.
    â€œThere’s another thing with this system.” He waved the picture of Rose. “It allows you to take the same shot in three different formats.”
    â€œWhat formats?”
    â€œThink of it as normal, widescreen or extra widescreen. Look, you could have a picture of this girl with the car normal size, the way it is. But if you set it for widescreen, you’d get a different version, more panoramic. You would cut off the top and bottom, though.”
    â€œBut you could see something on the sides you didn’t see in the first picture.”
    â€œRight on.” Eljay picked up a cat and made purring noises in its ear.
    â€œGet me the fucking lab, Eljay, OK? Just get on the phone and get me the lab. Now. Please.”
    The address Eljay got me was on Ludlow Street. It was a shabby four-storey building on a street that had been Jewish for most of the century but was Chinese now. On the ground floor was a souvenir shop, the window crammed with nylon Ninja outfits and Hong Kong girlie mags. And inside, filling up most of the cramped space, as out of place in the black hat and coat as a medieval holy man, was Hillel Abramsky.
    His back was to me, but I could see his body shake with rage. He towered over the minuscule Chinese owner, who had a face hard and prickly as a lichee and was waving his hands. Even through the dirty glass window, you could feel these were a couple of men seized up with hate.
    Without any warning, Hillel turned and strode out of the shop, the owner behind him, indifferent to the snow, fury driving him. Hillel moved fast, not seeing me, not seeing anyone, just running, running. A few hundred yards away, the street slick with ice, he crashed to the ground. The old man stood over him, yelling. I persuaded the old guy to beat it. Then I helped Hillel up.
    Black coat wet, beard speckled with snow, he clutched a string shopping bag like a prop.
    â€œYou’re a long way from home, Hil.”
    â€œI’m on my way to Orchard Street.” Hurriedly, he looked around. “OK? Shopping. Some things for the children,” he added, but he didn’t look at me.
    â€œWet night.”
    â€œIt’s not night, not yet. Trust me, Artie, OK. I am here to do some shopping.”
    â€œI’ll walk you,” I said.
    â€œNo, that’s OK. I know you’re trying to help me get some answers about the dead girl and I been thinking that maybe I got you into something that it wasn’t right to ask. I was going to call you.” Hillel kept moving. I walked alongside him.
    In some way I didn’t understand, Hillel Abramsky was messed up in this whole thing. Was it that the Chinese had eaten up the neighborhood? That his uncle had to sell the shop on Canal Street? That some hood was shaking him down?
    â€œGo home, Artie,” he said. “Forget the whole thing. Forget I asked you, please. You don’t owe me.”
    â€œI’m not sure I can do that, Hillel,” I said, but he walked away from me. I followed him. I saw him turn into Essex Street, not Orchard like he said. What was there to take him to Essex Street? Abramsky was lying about something.
    â€œThe big man in the black coat, what did he want?” I said to the Chinese guy in the souvenir shop on Ludlow Street.
    â€œThe Jew?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œI don’t know. He was like a crazy man. I saw him running in and out of buildings all along the street. He said, Did I sell cameras? Did I sell film? I tell him no. No camera. No film. I say, It’s snowing, go home. Forget film.”
    â€œThis number 218?”
    â€œWhat if it is?”
    â€œThere’s some kind of photo lab in this