Brooklyn Secrets (18 page)

“Newspapers are dying. Haven't you heard? And I need a paycheck.”

“So your goal is to become an underpaid college teacher? You think there might be a flaw in this plan?”

“It's way too late for a deep discussion about my career plans.”

“Late at night? Or late in your life?”

“Both. And I know you're just pulling my chain now.”

“So if I stop, you want to come over for a late night snort or two?”

“Oh, ha-ha. You gave it up, and I wouldn't drive home after drinking with you. What would be the point of my coming over?”

“I get a kick out of seeing other people enjoying what I can't.” Oh sure he did. Not. He was lonely, perhaps. “Now that is even crazier than anything you asked about.” He chuckled. “Good night, doll. Some of us have to be up and about early tomorrow. Not me, but some of us.”

“Good night, Leary.”

Chapter Twenty

Chris said, “What's up today? Are you at home?”

“Why?” Grumble, grumble.

“I was only making conversation.”

“Too early. Eyes not open.”

She looked me over and said cautiously, “Okay, Mom. I'm heading off to school. I can be reached in the usual ways.”

What was she doing, being cheerful this early?

I was grouchy because I didn't want to go back to the Municipal Archives. And if I had done the research differently in the first place, I wouldn't have to.

Even in my grumpiness I knew that was being unreasonable. I could not bring home all the contents of all the boxes. I picked what seemed useful, and it was useful, but I had learned something new and now I needed another group of documents. Jennifer said no problem, they were already in use and I could have them later.

The ten-minute walk to the subway, plus a very large coffee, cleared my head. I texted Chris to let her know I would be unreachable by phone and where I would be.

It wasn't until I was leaving the subway station that I thought about why they were already in use. Again. Was someone else still caught up in this topic? And if so, why was he as persistent as I was?

I had emerged to a true spring day, sunny and mild. Later, I could eat lunch in City Hall Park or go for a walk, playing hooky for a short time. My spirits lifted.

The prospect of a walk around Battery Park or a look across the harbor, watching the ferries, kept them lifted even when an idiot talking on his phone bumped into me as I went in the building and he came out. The last of my coffee spilled down the front of my pants. He was gone by the time I turned around to let him know what I thought of him. I only had a glimpse of him as he walked away. Average height, blondish hair, raincoat-colored raincoat.

I mopped up the spill and went on about my day. Jennifer was there. We did some low-voiced catching up, and confirmed a date for more. Then she said, “Is something about this in the news? It would be useful for us to know why there is this flurry, so we can be prepared for more demands.”

“Not that I know about. For me, it's about a dissertation chapter. That could not be less in the news.”

“The real news will be when you finish it, right?”

She laughed. I didn't.

“But I still would like to know who else is looking. Maybe we should be talking to each other.”

“Ah, no. I went out on a limb for you already. That's as far as I can go.”

“Not even a word? Not even a description, in case I run into him? And then I could introduce myself and we could connect about all this.”

“Not one word.” She pointed to a table with stacked boxes. “Go work.”

So I did. This time I could be efficient. I wasn't browsing for whatever academic treasure caught my eye. I was looking for anything that pertained to the death of Bernie Rosenblatt, on the chance it included his friend Frank Kravitz. Or more photos. The finding aids told me where to look. I flipped carefully through the files, pulled what looked useful, copied it, put it back. In two hours, I was done. Also hungry and in need of natural sunlight after working under the fluorescents.

I said good-bye to Jen and she thanked me for my care in handling the material. “Not at all like the colleague before you.” She had a devilish smile.

“What? A colleague? Do you mean that's what he is?”

She laughed. “No. I'm kidding you. I have no idea.”

I didn't think much of her joke, but perhaps I was losing my perspective. The outside world beckoned.

I left, looked around, saw there were no interesting places to eat, only an old-school hot dog cart. City Hall Park, though, across the street, had a small farmer's market today. With luck I could find a decent lunch. There would be lines, I thought, as I stepped through the sidewalk crowds. It's lunchtime; it's a nice day; everyone is out.

It was a few minutes before I realized that someone kept bumping into me. The same someone. The street was crowded but not that crowded. My first instinct was to drop my arm over my purse. Good. It was still zipped and all the usual bulges were there.

Second instinct was to cross the street, not at the light but through cars stalled in traffic.

Third was to stop somewhere out of the crowd and check my backpack. I had learned the hard way that a stranger hovering in a crowd might mean someone—me—was about to have a valuable possession lifted.

I sensed him still near me. Good. That meant he hadn't gotten anything. Bad. That meant he hadn't given up. Maybe I should stop and glare at him? Perhaps it would scare him away? How scary could I be? If I tried hard?

Before I decided, I felt a hand grab my arm, hard, and silently pull me away from the crowd and into the quieter park.

I pulled back. “What the hell?” Loud enough to sound strong, not loud enough to cause a major disturbance. I was ready to run, but his grip was too tight.

He whispered “Shhh. Shhh. I've got to talk to you. Just talk.”

City Hall Park is well-populated. I was not being dragged somewhere with dark, deserted woods. Therefore I was not in danger. All that flashed through my mind in a second.

With one last jerk I pulled my arm free and turned to face him. And I had seen him before. This time he was clean, hair brushed, face shaved. He wore a lightweight, raincoat-colored raincoat.

“One step closer and I scream my head off. Cops are right over there.”

He held up his hands. “I'm not doing anything. I just want to talk to you.”

I was breathing hard. We both were.

“Why are you following me? What the hell are you doing?”

“That's what I want to know about you.” He put his hands up again. “Not doing anything. But I saw you when I was leaving the building and I waited outside all morning, until you came out.”

“You did what? You waited? Are you some kind of stalker?” But he looked more scared than I was now. And I wanted to know, too.

“We sit.” I pointed to a park bench. “You at one end and me at the other.”

He nodded and we both moved there, cautiously. First thing I did was check the contents of my backpack. All there.

I glared at him. “Now you talk. Or else.”

“You're kidding, right?” His smile was close to a sneer. “Or else what?”

I stood up, ready to walk away—in the direction of City Hall police officers—immediately.

He jumped up. “Aw, come on, come on. I didn't mean anything.” I sat down again, still keeping my distance.

“You were at the archives today, and so was I. And I think you've been there before. And me and my boys found you in Brownsville too, lurking around what used to be Moonlight Min's. So what the hell are you looking for? If it's not what I am looking for? I got to know.”

“I don't have to tell you.” Not that it was a secret, but he was annoying me. “I was scared and almost assaulted by those so-called boys of yours. And how did you hook up with those gangbangers anyway? What game are you playing? You look like a homeless drunk one day and a regular citizen type the next.”

I looked him up and down, slowly and not with approval. “I don't think you're an undercover cop.” I ticked off the possibilities on my fingers. “And I'm pretty sure you aren't an academic, which is what I am.” A crazy thought struck. “Don't tell me you're an actor looking for ‘authenticity' for a part.”

“Ha. That's funny. Nope, that's not it, but I do have a real good reason for what I'm doing. Real good and real personal. I want to know what
you're
doing. You following me? Seems like you turn up every time I turn around.”

“Following you? Me, following you? Hell no. Why would I do that?”

“Don't you know who I am?” He preened. “You should. I'm not a nobody, especially if you are looking at the boys from Brooklyn.”

“All I know is that you seem to have an unhealthy interest in the Brownsville mob, a bunch of psychopaths if ever there was one.” Now his attitude was really, seriously annoying me.

“Hey! One of those guys was my grandfather.” He posed again. “They say I look a lot like him.”

“Say that again.”

“A lot like him.”

“No! The rest…”

“Yeah. ‘Liv' Nathan was my granddad. I got a legacy.”

Liv was a boss, someone they all worked for, a sort of big name. I'd never seen anything about descendents.

“How could I possibly know you? I don't even know your name. And you seem young to be his grandson.”

“My real name is Gersh Nathan, like him. I use James. His nickname, Liv, came from Livonia Avenue. And I'm young because my dad had me when he was old.” He paused. “Young wife of course, my mom was.”

I was still annoyed, but I was also cautiously, reluctantly, somewhat intrigued. He was a direct connection to a vanished past, like the reason people spend a fortune on a baseball Babe Ruth signed or Princess Diana's clothes.

“You are? Really? Did you ever know him?” If he had, how could I download his memories into my computer? And do it without having to deal with him?

“Nope. Long gone when I was born but my dad used to talk about him. And there are home movies, too. Plus I have older half-brothers who remember him.”

He stopped and shrugged. “The mothers hate each other but we boys get along okay.” He stopped again. “What I got from them is that the old man was a pretty good guy.”

Not much leaves me speechless. That did.

“You don't believe it? He always behaved like a gent, didn't curse, had good manners. Respected his wife and his parents. Voted Republican!” He saw my face. “For real. You don't know everything even if you are some kind of student. Ya know what I'm saying?”

“Okay.” I said it cautiously. It crossed my mind that he was not merely eccentric but delusional. I was glad to be in an open, public space surrounded by other people.

“They had reasons, those guys, they had good reasons to make money any way they could. And they only killed other crooks, you know.”

“We only kill each other.”

“Yes!” He nodded vigorously. “That is it in a nutshell. You get it.”

He did not seem to recognize that it was a quote from Benjamin ‘Bugsy' Siegel, another delusional crook. And that it was not exactly the truth.

“Now let's get down to business.” He squared his shoulders and his jaw. “I need to know what you are after. You are getting in my way and I can't allow that to happen.”

I still didn't like his attitude, but what I was doing was so innocuous, boring even—a doctoral dissertation!—that I told him.

“Yeah? Ha-ha. Very funny. You hang around a tough neighborhood, lots of gangs, just to do research? For grad school? Now how about telling me the truth.”

“You haven't told me what you are doing either.” At this point I really wanted to know. And I really wanted him to stop asking me questions.

“Grandpa Liv died poor.” His expression became sly, the face I remembered from our encounter in a Brownsville alley. “So they said. But he made a fortune in his life. What happened to it?” He paused dramatically, as if he expected a response from me.

“Lost it all on slow horses and fast women?”

“Hey, watch it. That's my grandpop you're badmouthing.”

Sure. Cause none of the mob had gambling habits or girls on the side.

“Spent it on lawyers? His associates stole it when he died? I never thought about it, but I'm guessing you have some of your own ideas.”

“You bet I do.” His chest went out and his spine straightened with pride. “He hid it. He hid it and I am going to find it.”

After all these years? Right. But I stopped myself from saying that, just in time, because he had more to say.

“My brothers said no way, but I found something. Cleaning out my mom's old place I found a locked box, way up on a high closet shelf. Never saw it before, ever.” He leaned toward me and I moved back a few more inches. He whispered. “It was my dad's. They were grandpa's papers. The real things. He had a notebook. And letters.”

“I don't believe it.”

He leaned in again more aggressively, and I added quickly, “I mean, I'm surprised, not that I think you are not telling the truth.”

I took a deep breath. “You know, material like that, original sources, might have great historical value. Huge value. And maybe other kinds of value too. People collect these things. A library, or a museum, or…”

“Oh, they are valuable all right. They are. And for a lot more than a dusty library.”

“Like the archives you were using today?” I half hoped he would hear the sarcasm but he took me seriously.

“Yeah, yeah, that place is useful but what I found isn't going there. It's the pot at the end of the rainbow. Yeah, you won't believe it.”

“So don't tell me.” I had had enough. “Or do tell me, but don't take forever.” I tapped my watch.

“I know where my grandpop's fortune is hidden.”

“What?”

“I do. His papers told me. They were in code but I cracked it. Of course everything looks different around there now, so it's a little hard to figure out. That's why I hooked up with that little posse. They are working for me. I hung around for awhile, disguised, until I found some guys who wanted to make some money and knew the ins and outs of the old neighborhood. My granddad didn't have no fools for grandchildren.”

Now I knew he was a few aces short of a deck. Today, here, normally dressed, he had the façade of a normal person, but no one in his right mind would trust those thugs. However, saying, “Are you out of your freaking mind?” would probably not be the smart move.

Instead I said, carefully, carefully, “Has anyone else seen these papers? Someone who could, like, evaluate them to see if they are real? Or if they really do mean what you think?”

“No one sees them. Not even my own guys who work for me. That's how I make sure they don't go looking without me.” His face lit up
.
“Now I get it. You'd like to be the one to do that, wouldn't you? Look for it? And get a cut, when we find it? Or even get there first?” He stood up and leaned in close to me. “Not a chance, lady. Not a freaking chance.”