was ordered to do, and if that turns out the right way, the cop is a ‘hero’… for about ten minutes. He’s not famous. ‘Famous’ is something else.”
“No, no, no, no, Nestor! You just saw it! Famous is causing the crazy time in a whole industry! Famous is being the icon for a whole lot of people!”
“Well, thanks… I guess,” said Nestor, who had only a vague idea what icon meant. He directed a single dismissive flip of his hand toward the TV screen, that and a sneer, then turned away from it entirely. “They gotta hype everything, that bunch a monkeys.” ::::::To lie in behalf of modesty is not really lying, is it… There’s something generous… and thoughtful… about it… but what if those monkeys have just spoken Truth?… Can I prove from the evidence that they just made that up?… An icon? I gotta google that.::::::
As soon as he was alone, he did. He thought about it and thought about it. It was a quarter to 2:00 a.m. by the time he went to bed.
He fell asleep at once, and his dreams sailed along on a great tide of serotonin.
¡Caliente! Caliente baby… Got plenty fuego in yo’ caja china… Means you needs a length a Hose put in it… Ain’ no maybe ’bout it… Hose knows you burnin’ up wit’out it… Don’tcha—Bulldog was halfway through the song by the time Nestor managed to ascend from deep, deep down in a hypnopompic fog and realize try deny it that masculine voice was his iPhone on the floor beside the mattress—
—What time is it? ’Cause Hose knows you tryin’ a buy it The radiation hands on the little clock said 4:45 a.m. But Hose only gives it free and for about the fiftieth time he castigated himself for ever programming the phone with a song To his fav’rite char-ree-tee. Who would be calling at 4:45 a.m.?! Why?! Hose’ fav’rite cha-ree-tee. He managed to prop himself up on one elbow ’At’s me and find the right ’At’s me, see? and find the right An’ ’at’s me button Yo yo! and Yo yo! Mismo! push—
“Camacho.” That was the way he always answered. Why waste time with all the rest of it?
“Nestor…” It was a Latin voice. It didn’t say “Nes-ter.” “This is Jorge Hernandez—Sergeant Hernandez.”
“Sarge…”
“I know it’s early,” said the Sergeant, “and I probably woke you up, but you’ll want to know about this.”
That snapped Nestor fully awake. He racked his brain, trying to figure out what innanameagod he might want to know about in the dead of the night. He was speechless.
The Sergeant continued. “You gotta get up and get online. Go to YouTube!”
“YouTube?”
“You know Mano Perez, in Homicide? He calls me about a minute ago, and he’s gotten hold of this newspaper that’s coming out today—and he says, ‘You’re on YouTube! You and Camacho!’ I about fell out of the goddamned bed! So I go to YouTube—and it’s true! The goddamned thing’s about me!… and you, Nestor.”
Nestor felt volts going through his brainpan. “You’re kidding!” In the hypnopompic fog he felt stupid immediately. Sergeant Hernandez calling him at 4:45 a.m. to kid around?… couldn’t happen. “You and me, Sarge? What about us?”
“Its about that big comemierda negro we arrested at that comemierda crack house in Overtown. Well, some asshole there had a cell phone and took some fucking video. You can tell it’s a cell phone because it’s all jumpy and kinda blurry. But you can see me and you all right, the fuckers! It’s got a guy’s voice goes along with it, to make sure you get our names and what a coupla mean Cuban bastards we are, torturing this poor negro who’s lying on the floor with his face all twisted up in pain and me and you, we’ve hog-tied this jungle bunny so he can’t move a muscle—”
::::::Jesus Christ, Sarge, I hope to hell they don’t have you on video saying “jungle bunny.”::::::
“—I mean he’s just lying there and they got you yelling into the fucking guy’s ear, ‘Say what, bitch? Say what? Say what, you filthy little bitch?’ Then they got me saying, ‘Nestor, for Christ’s sake, that’s enough!’ They make it sound like you’re torturing him and I’m keeping you from killing him. Then they go on about women and children being in this ‘supposed crack house’ when really it’s a day care center. I mean, shit—and you never see the fucker who’s saying all this.”
Guilt… a wave of guilt swept over Nestor. Remembering that