ABSTRACT
I didn't go to the rosario for Olie's soul. I was busy collecting and analyzing information about the potential fallout from the growing hostility toward the Dominicans in the neighborhood. Even though one of the owners was still in serious condition at Bellevue, the store opened for business on the day of the funeral. Echoing Harry's verdict, people were saying that not only were the Dominicans murderers—with no style because it took so many men to kill one boy—but they were also so greedy that they couldn't even show some respect for the dead. I heard Rene repeating the magic number seven, the number of Dominicans who had purportedly subdued Olie while an eighth one shot him. As the story acquired fairy-tale dimensions, the Gatos increasingly congregated in Eti's apartment, and the boys conspired darkly in the corridors of the building, going mute whenever one of the staff passed by. On a visit to the family to pay my respects, I noticed several cans of gasoline in Eti's bathroom. Our endless homilies to anyone who cared to listen that setting the bodega on fire would endanger innocent lives in the upper apartments seemed to fall on deaf ears. Fires had been set throughout the neighborhood for far less noble reasons.
