Brooklyn Secrets (14 page)

And then, as other opportunities opened up after World War II, those young men lost interest in boxing, replaced by a new group of tough, ambitious immigrants from the Deep South. And now there were newer immigrants, from Asia, the Caribbean and the former Soviet Socialist Republics.

Leary kept up with it, long after he retired. Here was an article from a neighborhood paper about Brennan's moving to Williamsburg, a place I could and would find, and another about young Isiahson. He was big and handsome, all of twenty years old. A stepfather had taken him to his first gym. His mom hated his boxing, he said, but was getting used to it. Yes, he said it; the money was a big help to her.

I turned back to the oldest items, making sure I had not missed anything useful. And it turned out that I had.

There it was, an informal photo of the famous Brownsville boxer, Bernie Rosenblatt. He was dead at thirty-five but he looked like a teenager here. There he was, surrounded by a group of neighborhood friends.
They all looked like kids
.
And one of them looked like Lil's brother.

I said, to Leary, “Wake up, old man. I have questions and then I have to go. Come on, you lazy old thing.” But my hand on his shoulder was gentle.

“What?”

“Can I borrow the folders? I'll make copies and bring them right back.”

He nodded, still half asleep.

“Come on! I need you to look at some photos. Do you need something? Orange juice? Water? Pills?”

He denied knowing anything at all about most of the photos, but when I showed him the one of Rosenblatt and friends he nodded.

“That's Barach Rosenblatt. They called him Bernie.”

“Yes. It says so right there. What about the others?”

“I'm getting there!” He planted a stubby finger on the photo. “Maybe I know who this one was but it's a bad photo. What do you want?” He shrugged. “It was a tabloid newspaper, meant for a quick read on the subway going home after a long day at work, and then used to wrap up the garbage.”

He waved his hand over the papers on the table. “You can take the folders, but I want it all back. And soon.”

I promised to get his folders back, I thanked him and then I had to go home. Before I opened the door I looked back at Leary. He looked off, too tired for midday, and breathing noisily.

“Are you all right? Is there anything you need me to do for you?”

“Oh, hell no. No more hovering. I won't put up with it. And say hello to Tommy Brennan for me, if he's still kicking around his gym.” He winked at me. He knows me too well. In fact I had already called Brennan's gym and I asked if I could talk to someone.

I worried about Leary as I drove away, but then a clueless driver with Florida plates stopped short in front of me, taking his time to figure out where he was. I had to brake, zip around him, then aggressively reclaim my place in heavy traffic. All other thoughts flew away while I had to concentrate. Later, my only thought was “How did my dad do this day in and day out?” I could ask him sometime. I could do that. In the meantime, I was on the way to meet Tommy Brennan.

When I called, I got the man himself and he said, yes, sure, come on over, he wasn't busy. When I mentioned Leary he said, “He that old reporter with the missing leg? Didn't even know he was still around. Yeah, he was pretty smart. And hell raising? Woo. I kept him away from the boys. He was a bad influence.”

So off I went, to Williamsburg, the formerly old, rough, industrial community right on the edge of the East River. The abandoned factory buildings, with huge windows and huge space, attracted poor artists, which led to hipster coffeehouses and restaurants, which led to real estate development which led to artists being priced out altogether. A real New York story. Maybe
the
New York story.

Brennan had moved his gym there when no one wanted the derelict buildings and got a whole warehouse building for less than the cost of a new studio apartment now. Did I know this before? Of course not. I learned it from Brennan himself.

He's an old man now and he's turned the gym over to his sons to run. They teach young kids to box and fund the ones who are promising. He told me emphatically they still train professional boxers too. I saw the photos covering one long wall, very young, very muscled men, trying to look fierce and sometimes succeeding. One was labeled Tyler Isiahson.

Brennan said he didn't do a thing now except sit and watch and tell stories but in the hour I was there, he was up five times to correct a boxer or take a teacher aside for a conference.

In between he talked to me.

“So you're interested in boxing? I've been around it my whole life. What do you want to know? I don't remember just what you said on the phone. Are you a reporter?”

“No, not at all. I'm writing a history dissertation about Brownsville in the old days and I've just realized I need to include something about boxing because…”

“Dissertation? Well, well. I can't even spell that word, but you want to talk to me?”

“I do.”

“Well, hell, yeah, boxing and Brownsville go together. We've got a different kind of operation now, but if I set up in Brownsville tomorrow I'd have kids pouring in the same day, begging for training.”

“That sounds like it's still a poor kid's sport?” I looked around at his gleaming, spotless gym.

“Always was, always will be. Don't need a team to play on, don't need a school, don't need much equipment. And they make good fighters because they are hungry. They all got big dreams.”

“How does that work out for most of them? Those dreams?”

“You're kidding, right? Mostly, they don't get far, but a few? They got talent and drive. Plus luck.”

“Like Mike Tyson, going back a generation? Bernie Rosenblatt in the old days?”

“You been doing your homework. Yeah, that's it. There were lots more, too.” He looked smug when he added, “Now we also get these hotshot Wall Street types, cause they live in this neighborhood. Plus we run a place now that has working showers and doesn't smell like sweat, so it's not so much slumming.

“Kind of funny, isn't it?” He shook his head. “We charge them a bundle for the privilege. They're paying for the free kids classes.” He winked at me. “Income redistribution.

“How far back you going? I knew some of those great old Brownsville guys back in the day.”

“You did? What day was that?”

“When I was a kid gym rat, trying to find a way in to the pros, and they were the geezers. Now that's me.”

He told me some stories then. Highly entertaining, sometimes scandalous, and none of them useful for my work, but I had at least an idea now about how it all worked back then. And I'd spent more than an hour here, watching young men work out, and get yelled at and work harder. None of them yelled back, tough as they were. Interesting. But I had to wind this up now. A few more questions.

“So exactly how does it all work? Just an example, I've been hearing of this new Brownsville kid, Tyler Isiahson.”

“Yeah? He's one of mine.”

“So he comes all the way here? How'd you hook up with him?”

“Cause we're always scouting, visiting the other gyms, going to the little bouts to see who might be a comer. Like, Ty started out in a neighborhood place, and they gave him a good start but we knew we could take him further.”

“Did you steal him?”

He was amused. “Time was, we would have. All in the game. But that gym owner scouts for me. So we made a deal, money changed hands, and there's no hard feelings.”

“Money changed hands? You bought him?”

He looked offended. “We didn't buy
him
. That would be illegal. We bought his contract. And Ty was plenty happy about it. He knew he was going some big steps up the ladder.”

“So the first step is basic skills, and the next one is getting a top trainer? And then?”

“Small fights when they're ready. Then bigger ones. And we train, train, train. Keep them working hard. Get them off their turf and maybe even out of town to train. Watch out they don't get caught up in anything that will damage their health. No drinking, no dope, no steroids, or I cut them loose.” He stopped. “Nothing we can do about the girls and trust me, they are a distraction.”

“So there was money to buy his contract?” I was feeling my way here. “And you don't come cheap either. Who pays for it all?”

He pulled back, annoyed for the first time. “Why do you need to know that? You said you are some kind of student? You really from IRS?”

“What? No! Of course not! I am really just what I said, trying to put different pieces together. That's what I do. It's my own detective work.”

“And I'm a piece?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, tough. I'm not telling you who's investing in Tyler. None of your business.”

“Really? Why is it a secret?”

“Now that's what I don't ask cause it is none of my business. They put up the dough and want to be behind the scenes, who am I to question? Maybe the wife don't want him investing that way. Maybe he's, uh, hiding some money.” He shrugged. “You know, it happens, whatever the law says. Don't know, don't care.”

He thought it over. “It's like this, it's like show business You put up some money to support a new show, hoping it's a hit and you'll make a fortune.”

“Really?” I could hardly believe anyone did something so risky with their money. “Do most investors even make it back, investing in boxing? Do any??”

“What do you think?”

“They lose it all?”

He nodded slowly.

“And they do it because…? Why? Why in the world?”

“They love and support the sport? Or show? Or they're star f…Ahh, pardon my language.” He took a breath. “They like meeting stars. Hanging out with the champ, taking in a Knicks game, going for a beer. Pick one or all. And then sometimes the kid turns out to be Mike Tyson, or the show is
Cats
and runs forever. Which, by the way, I was dragged to by the grandkids and thought was the dumbest thing I ever saw. But Iron Mike? Him I would have spotted right away and got a piece of the action.”

I was scribbling notes as fast as I could. He had objected to recording.

“Ya know, the only way to really understand boxing is to put on the gloves yourself.” His smile was half way between teasing and vicious. “You up for it?”

“Me? Are you kidding?”

“Most people pay real money to do that here. Some of those Wall Street types are women and a couple are pretty good. Downright vicious, those dames are.”

I know a challenge when I hear one. Someone, that Brooklyn kid I used to be, was not about to be inferior to a Wall Street woman. At least that's how I explained it to myself later.

I was quickly laced into a pair of child size gloves and introduced to the punching bag. I hit it. It didn't move. I hit it again, harder, and felt the impact all the way to my shoulder. It still didn't move.

He put his hands on my shoulders and arms. “You need to relax here. And here. And you're pushing the bag, when you want to snap at it. Try again.”

I did. And nothing moved, again, but it felt different. It shivered slightly. Maybe I could move it if I kept working at it, but not now. Or ever. I held my clumsy hands out to Brennan.

“Good try,” he said. ‘You could do it if you worked hard.”

As he took off the gloves he found some knuckles turning purple.

“Ah, you put more into that than I realized. Go on in my office and sit down.” He pointed. “I'll get some ice and be right there.”

He returned with a cup of ice and gently stuck my fingers in it while he talked on the phone.

“Told you it wasn't going to work. Told you.” “Yeah, yeah, I'll get him on track.” I wasn't listening, he had turned away, and I was dumping out the clattery ice, but I thought he said, “Jackie's a bozo” then a little more clearly, “Yah, I'll come outside and meet you. Yeah.”

“Do you know Jackie? Jackie Isiahson?.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“I ran across him and I've been trying to find out who he really is. Thought I heard you say the name.”

“There's a lot more than one Jackie in this world, but yeah, I know that one. He's connected to Tyler, some kind of relation. Comes around sometime, claims to be tight with him.” He shrugged. “Family's a typical hot mess. Mom and an ever-changing cast of characters.” He shook his head. “Just a distraction from the work.”

I finally left with my useful new knowledge, but actually thinking more about Jackie, still wondering what the hell he had been up to at the hospital.

It was spring, still light outside with the low sun setting the East River on fire. It was a perfect Williamsburg scene, with gritty industrial buildings in front and a glittering glass apartment tower rising behind them, and the Manhattan skyline across the river making a dramatic background. An entire history in one image.

I felt an impulse to take a picture with my phone, not an easy job with my bruised knuckles. Clumsy as I was, I couldn't resist.

In one corner of the parking lot, Tommy Brennan was talking to some well-dressed men in front of a very large shiny car. I had to maneuver to keep them out of the photo.

Chapter Sixteen

Home at last. Park the car. Head to a local copy place to have the entire contents of the folders copied. They promised to have it for me first thing in the morning.

I'd thought ahead when I bought Leary's lunch, and Chris and I had a Chinese take-out meal all ready for a quick feed. In an attempt to set some standards, I put it out on plates. She came to the table with her history text, so I opened the paper. We wolfed down our dinners.

She stood up. “Chemistry calls. And English.”

“And friend texting. And what else? Facebook? Instagram?”

“We younger generation can do several things at once, you know.”

She took a cookie and disappeared. I needed to do the same.

Much later, she came to my little office and said, “I wonder if you should see this.” She had her phone in her hand, the fanciest model, a birthday gift from my dad.

“Look here. Or I can get it on your computer screen if you prefer.”

It was some new form of social media. I guess. I was not even sure which one, but maybe it didn't matter. Someone had posted:
<< Yo, Brownsville homies. I did it. Put hurt + fear on bitch messing w/ my man's head. Me! She still in hospital. No shouting gonna fix that. Who the man NOW? >>
It was followed by some idiotic comments from readers. And then one more from the original:
<>

“What? What the hell?”

“That's what I thought too.” She was messing with my computer. “See? Look here?”

It was the same message, now easier to read. And it came from someone calling himself YoungfistB. But there was a photo, and even with a Knicks cap hiding some of his face it looked an awful lot like Jackie.

It took a minute before my mind was hit by the question that should have come first. “Why is he sending anything to you? Do you know him?”

“Mom!” She drew it out to three syllables. “It's way too complicated to explain how this works. Uh, long story short, I have a friend who knows Savanna cause she, my friend, she has friends at Tech. You know. And we were talking about what happened. So we get connected from one person to the next. Lots of degrees of separation, way more than six.”

“You don't know him or any of his friends, then?” All kinds of alarms were going off in my head.

“No. Aren't you listening? And I won't, not ever. I don't even know the person who knows the person who knows him. But focus here. It's not about me.”

In my own world, it's always about her, but she was right.

“I'm kind of flabbergasted. Can I send this to someone else?”

She nodded. “I fixed it so you can. Holler if you need help.”

I shuffled through accumulated piles on my desk. Here it was, the direct line to Sergeant Asher, the lead on Savanna's case. I tried to write a brief explanation and hit Send.

Then I sat there, unable to work, unable to get up and go to bed, unable to stop my mind from whirling. Is this about Savanna? Looks like it. Could Jackie be stupid enough to post something so informative? Astonishing but yes. I knew the cyber-world is full of people that stupid. Should I send it to Zora? Would it help her? Or make things worse?

I had no answer for that one.

Sergeant Asher responded. “Thanks, but we're already on the way to pick him up. We have some young cops who follow this social stuff. And as my first sergeant used to say, we can't rely on criminals to be stupid, but it's convenient when they are.”

I went to bed. Next day I was busy at the museum until lunchtime. While I munched on a sandwich from home, I caught up with news online, trying to stick to the more reputable sources. And then, after I admitted to myself I did not care about the next primary election, I typed Deandra's name into the search bar again.

All I found was a tiny news item saying investigation was ongoing, they knew how she died but had nothing further to report. It was noted that a connection to the demonstration was still not established, though the body was found in the vicinity.

As if. As if it could be completely separate, happening in the same place, same time.

They had a picture, looking even younger than when I met her. It was blurry, an enlargement from an elementary school class photo. Did her mother not have any more recent photos?

That tiny question broke my heart.

It stuck with me as I went on with my working day. Finally, I gave in and took a long break, searching thoroughly to see if there was anything else out there. No. Not one thing.

Then I went to Zora's page. Perhaps she had good news about Savanna. Perhaps she knew something about Deandra who was, after all, Savanna's friend. Sort of her friend. Perhaps I was grasping at straws, wanting to know something. Almost anything would do.

There was the same photo of Deandra and a note:

My Savanna isn't the only child hurt recently. Pray for Deandra's soul, her life here on earth cut short before she had barely lived.

Well. This wasn't helping
.
Back to work. I spent some useful time organizing my notes from the Municipal Archives. I went over the list of files. Some of them included personal names, in “People vs. X” or in lists of material witnesses. I noted which names I recognized and added a few words to find them quickly. “So and so's gang” or “car thief and driver” or “convicted.” And made a new list of names I did not recognize at all.

That's when I finally caught the name Feivel Krawitz. Could that be Lil's brother? The archives own notes said watch out for variant spelling. Damn. I'd never thought to ask what his original name was. He surely did not come from Poland as Frank.

Damn again. Because now I would have to figure out a time I could get back to the archives and look for information under this other name. If it was really him. That I could find out, maybe.

Census records, 1920, all written out in the original neat script of the census taker. And then 1930. And it was all online. Another cup of coffee and dig in. And here it was. Feivel Krawitz, aged ten, living in Brownsville with his parents and younger siblings including a baby sister named Lillian. In 1930 he was still there, and now he had a job, working at a butcher shop, and Lillian was a fifth grade student. I wondered, in passing, what her original name was. Perhaps, being the first one born in America, she started out with an American name.

I called Lillian. We spent some time on politeness, her health and my research and she laughed with me about something Ruby had done. Finally I was able to ask, “Was your brother ever called Feivel?”

“Sure he was. It means ‘shining one,' you know. Named for one of our dead grandfathers. He became Frank when he started school but he was Feivel at home. I called him Five when I was small.” There was a moment's pause. “But I am wandering. Why do you ask?” There was a longer, fraught pause. “Don't tell me you found something?”

I bit back what I wanted to say, about how much time I had wasted due to her not sharing this critical information with me. Instead, I said, “Maybe. I have to go take another look.”

“Come see me, dear, when you know something. All right?” Another pause. “Though I'd be happy to hear news on the phone, too. Soon, I hope.” Another voice came on.

“Miss Lillian is tired now. The phone does make her tired.”

And then, for the rest of the day, I was humming a song from a beloved childhood movie
, American Tail
, which has a brave mouse hero named Feivel. That was a story of immigrants too. The mice sang about America, where there were no cats and the streets were paved with cheese. Maybe I should rent it and watch with Chris.

What would happen if I searched for Feivel instead of Frank? Of course there were multiple spellings of Feivel as well as Kravitz. I would do that as soon as I could. Then I returned for one more look at Savanna's Facebook page.

I was glad I did, because Zora sounded cautiously hopeful. The doctors would soon be seeing if Savanna could breathe on her own, a crucial milestone. Zora was breathing with her, she said. In. Out. In. Out. She asked for our good thoughts and prayers. I added my comment right away, that she had all my good thoughts, every day.

And then I read the other comments. Heartwarming and repetitive, they all said a version of what I had just written. And there was that StarrGurl again. Chris had explained to me how a fake name could be used and I didn't remember a word of it, but I remembered this name. She was the one who had posted venom earlier. She'd put this one up in the early hours of the morning.

HE WAS MINE. FROM THE START. LOVED HIS GREAT FUTURE. WANTED TO GIVE HIM A BABY. THEN SHE CAME ALONG F***NG HIS HEAD WITH NEW IDEAS.

Besides the fake name and the stunningly inappropriate post, there was a phrase that snagged my attention, “F***NG with his head.” The real word would not get past filters but anyone who'd heard teens on the street knew what it was.

And where else had I seen it? I went back to what Chris had found, Jackie boasting about something that might have been the attack on Savanna.

And there it was. “Someone was f***ng with my man's head.” Did this mean anything at all? Nothing? Something?

I had no answers. I shut it down and went home.

Then Savanna's secret showed up, in the flesh

It began when I ran into Zora on the street. “Come see! I'm so glad to see someone I know.” She'd never said that before. Her eyes were sparkling. “Come see what she is doing!” She held my arm and was already walking me back to the hospital. “I stepped out to get some supper. Come on! I have enough for two.”

I learned long ago never to pass up a chance to hear good news. Bad news will always find you.

We instinctively lowered our voices as we got off the elevator on the Intensive Care floor. “They took the breathing tube out today.” Her voice shook. “And she is breathing.” Zora's grin grew wider as we approached Savanna's room. And then she gasped.

Someone was in the shadows beside Savanna's bed. We heard a murmuring voice. “Come on, girl. Come back. I need you bad. I know you hear me. You can do it. You can do anything. I know you can.”

Zora flipped on the lights and said, most definitely not in a murmur, “Who the hell are you? And why you think you can be holding my baby's hand?”

The question I had, “And how did you get in here?” perhaps would come later.

He dropped the hand he was holding and stood up, a young man, but fully grown, tall and big and handsome. Broad shoulders but young enough to look nervous. Zora checked Savanna's monitors, breathing, tubes, saw nothing was changed and then stared at him, arms crossed, back straight, eyes darting to Savanna, and back to him.

I'd seen his photo on Brennan's wall.

Finally he seemed to find his courage and looked straight back at her. “Are you Savanna's mom? Miz Lafayette? I begged her to introduce us. I'm Tyler Isiahson.”

“And I should care—why?”

“I am Savvie's boyfriend.”

He was the boxer. Was that possible? That was what popped into my mind first, but not Zora's.

“No. She is not allowed to have a boyfriend until she finishes high school.” She said it flatly, with no possibility of being contradicted. “None of that nonsense messing up her life.”

He said softly, “Here I am anyway. And it ain't nonsense. It's for real.”

“I am calling security.” She didn't move or take her eyes off him. She reached out a hand and said, “Little E, please pass me the phone.” She punched a button. “You don't have permission to be here. I'm giving them a piece of my mind, too. They supposed to be watching out.”

A uniformed guard was already at the door.

“You see this boy? I found him here, after you all supposed to be watching out for anyone that's not me. What the hell is wrong with you all?”

He ignored the torrent of words. “Everything okay?”

“Hell, no, everything is not okay. This person—man, kid, whatever—was in here alone, when you all supposed to be taking care no one at all comes in. And after that other little creep?”

“What little creep is that?” Tyler did not speak so softly now.

“Kid named Jackie.” Zora turned to him, furious. “Hanging around here. You know him? He a relative?”

Tyler didn't say a word, only nodded, but his expression hardened. I would not have wanted to be Jackie at that moment.

The guard said, “I'm calling my supervisor and see if we should call the police.”

“What? I didn't do any damn thing.” His voice kept getting louder. “No reason for police. I can't…that would be bad…I'd be in trouble…and Savvie too…” He stepped in, closer to the guard. Younger, taller and broader, he was a threatening presence. “You can't do that!”

“Can't?” Zora and the guard said it at once. “Can't?”

“You are telling me I can't do my job here?” The guard was in his face now. I was holding my breath.

Tyler's fists were clenched. Big fists. “I'm not going anywhere. No way. You want to try? You think you could make me?”

“Whoa!” The guard stepped back, hands up. “Just chill, man.”

Zora stepped over to the supervisor who had just come in and poked him in the chest. “What the hell are you fools doing here, when someone is supposed to keep an eye out all the damn time?”

Then she shocked all of us by collapsing, bursting into tears and sitting down with a thump on the visitor chair.

“I don't believe it. Don't believe she been lying to me. Telling me she going to the library and really sneaking to meet him. Not her.” But she did believe it. I was sure of that.

Everyone in the crowded room seemed paralyzed.

Finally she looked up, staring at young Tyler. “Okay. Now tell the damn truth. It's about time someone did.”

He repeated his name and went on, “Savvie and me, we been seeing each other for awhile.” His fists were still clenched. “Ms. Lafayette, I was never okay with lying to you. I know it's disrespectful and not how I was brought up, but she said you would never…so you forced us…if only you was more understanding…” His face lit up and his voice grew stronger. “She is not like any girl I know. She is…she believes she can do anything and she makes me think I could too. Be anyone.” He looked at Zora. “Not much scares me, but I'm running scared now about losing her.”