The Sea Beach Line (39 page)

“Sure. So long. But, Izzy.”

“Yeah?”

“If the woman comes back seeming like she means business, I will tell my father to give the parrot to her.”

“Won't he be lonely?”

“Most likely. But he has been lonely before. Besides, I can buy him a new one at Pet World on Avenue U. It's what, a couple hundred bucks? What the fuck do I care? Or I'll buy her the new one. It's just a bird.”

Roman didn't give a fuck about me. He didn't care that Rayna was gone, and he didn't see why I cared. He didn't care that Al was gone. He wouldn't care when I was gone. People were just animals to him; they could be bought and sold. I walked away.

“Don't do anything stupid, Edel,” Roman shouted after me.

I now knew Rayna was somewhere in Boro Park, so when I left Roman I rode the D train from Stillwell Avenue to Fifty-Fifth Street, the heart of the neighborhood. As soon as I got off the train, I knew the trip would be fruitless. I walked around the sad streets, passing produce and fish markets piled high with days-old merchandise. Yiddish signs mocked me with their impenetrability. Above one business on Thirteenth Avenue was a sign shaped like a giant wide-brimmed hat. The store window beneath it was filled with all manner of black hats and
shtreimels
.

I passed under two mulberry trees, but all the berries had fallen to the sidewalk. The pavement was covered with red stains from their juice. There is only a week or so to harvest mulberries—after they ripen but before they fall—and I had missed it.

Groups of women with scarves tied tight around their heads pushed baby strollers down the sidewalks. Men in long black coats rushed by on business. They all eyed me suspiciously, and I didn't try to approach any of them with questions. People would close ranks around their rebbe, and no one would tell me anything. There was no way to know which of the hundreds and hundreds of brick homes held Rayna.

I had gotten all I was going to get out of Roman and Timur. Goldov would know how to find Rayna's father, but I needed to figure out how and when to approach him. I needed to come back to Brooklyn with a plan. For the moment, I didn't know where to go.

When I packed my bag and left the storage space, I didn't have a clear idea of how things would progress. Roman and Timur were supposed to help me. I had thought that I might stick around with Roman and Timur for a while as things played out. I had a vague idea that I would rescue Rayna. Maybe things would be resolved and Rayna and I would be able to come back to our storage space, with its restored door. Maybe we'd have to run away from the city together. Considering the way things had gone in Brighton, that still might be a possibility.

I didn't want to go back to the storage facility. There was no room for me in the new, smaller unit. The front desk clerk had said it would be a few days before a new door was installed on my old unit. Even then, I didn't really want to go back to a place that belonged to Timur. Aside from the chance that Roman and Timur might be annoyed enough with my disrespectful behavior to come hassle me, or cancel the unit, I didn't want to keep living off their charity. Hanging around West Fourth Street was always an option, because it was my home turf and I was comfortable there, but everyone would ask me where Rayna was. And if Roman and Timur did want to hassle me, they could find me on West Fourth Street as easily as at storage. I felt hunted, even though I was the one doing the hunting.

The best option was to head up to Becca's place. No one would hassle me there, and I would have a respite from the streets. Becca was family. She'd take me in, no matter what. If Rayna was able to run away from her family again, she would eventually try to find me up here; she knew where Becca lived, and she knew I'd go there sooner or later.

19

THE DOORMAN WAS AT
his post in the lobby of Becca's building, with the phone to his ear. He neither welcomed me nor moved to stop me. His gloved hand lowered the receiver to its cradle, and his eyes followed me across the lobby to the elevator. I banged on the buttons. They lit up but the door didn't open. The light was stuck on floor nine. Becca's floor. The nine did not decrease to an eight, even after several minutes of waiting. The uniformed man continued watching me. I walked over to the door that led to the staircase. The staircase felt secure; it was made of steel and cement to withstand fire.

When I got up to Becca's floor, my tired arms pushed the heavy fire door open slowly. This turned out to be a good thing: as soon as I had it open a crack, I saw that the whole hallway was full of cops. A uniformed officer was holding the elevator door open. No wonder the elevator hadn't come. Another uniform and two guys in suits were carrying out cardboard boxes from Becca's apartment. I pulled the door closed as quietly as I could.

Roman and Timur must have tipped off the police about how I was involved in the theft of the Galuth painting. Would they know
Becca's address? Well, why not? Timur had eyes everywhere. It made sense: they didn't want me around to cause trouble for them with Rayna's father. They may have even promised Rayna's father they'd deal with me for him. Maybe I'd been a sacrificial lamb all along, and they'd made sure that the painting and the arson could be pinned on me, and me alone. Why else had Roman even brought me to the Navy Yard? I wasn't sure what evidence the police thought they could find in Becca's apartment, but if they were investigating art theft, they could have tossed Becca's work files to see if they could find a financial connection.

Then again, Rayna's father could have sent the police after me himself. Maybe he told them that I was the one who kidnapped Rayna, that I was the one who had hurt her. She might have been coerced into giving up the address.

Regardless of who called them, the police were here now. And if the police knew about Becca's apartment, they damn sure knew about my storage space. Not that I could get that far, anyway. The doorman had seen me, and had probably already tipped the cops off that I was in the building. There was no escaping. I could give them a run around through the different floors, but what would be the point?

Taking a deep breath, I stepped out into the hallway. The last plain-clothes cop was about to step into the elevator with the rest of his cronies. I walked up to him. He turned and stared at me.

“I'm Izzy,” I said. The guy blinked. “Edel. Isaac Edel.” He stared for another moment, trying to place the name.

“Oh. Okay. Well, this is the last of it. We're done in there. You can go in.” With that, he stepped into the elevator. Becca emerged from her open apartment door just as the elevator was closing.

“Izzy? Christ. About time you showed up.” Even though it was evening, she looked like she did when she put herself together in the morning. Her makeup was fresh and unsmudged, and not a hair was out of place. She wore a navy blazer and skirt. It was a formal outfit, like something a person would wear if they had to go to court.

“Becca. What's going on? I thought . . . I thought they were here for me.”

“For you? Why would they be here for you? No, don't answer that, please. I don't want to know. I have enough crap on my mind.”

“Then what's going on?”

“They were gathering evidence on Andrew.”

“On Andrew? Why?”

“Don't you watch the news?”

“No.”

“Andrew was arrested last night for fraud. I guess he fucked up the funds he's been managing far worse than anyone knew.” She was speaking calmly and evenly, but I suspected that was a mask she'd put on, along with her outfit. Her words surprised me for a moment, but Andrew himself said he was doing black magic. It made sense that something had gone wrong. I had seen the article in the paper about his firm being investigated. “I assumed you heard about it, and that's why you were here.”

“No. I'm just here.” I had been planning on explaining to Becca about Rayna's situation, and why I couldn't stay downtown, but now I decided not to. She had enough to worry about.

“So you are. Well, come inside then.”

I followed Becca through the door of her apartment, pulling it shut behind us. She walked into the kitchen, and I sat down on a stool on the living room side of the counter that separated that room and the kitchen. We were in two different rooms, but could see each other.

“If I had known about this,” I said, “I would have come sooner.”

“I know, Izzy. I know. Are you hungry? I'll make you a grilled cheese.” She was already pulling things from the fridge.

“That's okay. You have enough on your mind, you don't have to cook for me.”

“No, I want something to do. I had to just stand around for the past day and watch these people tear my apartment apart. Andrew didn't even have much of his stuff here—he has his own apartment after all—but they went through every inch of the closet he keeps here, and all my shit as well. I took a personal day from work, but I wish I hadn't. I'd rather be working.” She unwrapped the block of cheese as she spoke, then started slicing it.

“A grilled cheese would be great,” I said. Becca used to always make me grilled cheese for dinner. There was a time when we were old enough that the two of us could be left home by ourselves, but I was still too young to use the stove, so it was on Becca to cook for me. Al was already gone, and my mother worked late. She had gotten a position as a secretary at a law firm soon after he left. I think she met Bernie through that job. It was a step up for her, but she often got stuck at the office when her boss was preparing a case. We were to stay in the apartment, with the door locked, until she came home. Becca was twelve or thirteen, I think; the only things she really knew how to make were macaroni and cheese and grilled cheese. Her secret was that instead of oiling the skillet, she buttered the outsides of the slices of bread. I don't know where she learned this trick. Other than that, she kept it pretty simple: thick slabs of cheddar, a couple thin slices of tomato. I have tried the buttered-bread method myself many times since, but have never gotten it right, and always burn the bread. She grilled the sandwich quickly and deftly, then put it on a plate and placed it in front of me. She'd only made the one sandwich.

“Aren't you hungry, Becca?”

“No, I'm not hungry. I'll just have some tea.” I ate the sandwich while she put the kettle on.

“What's going to happen to Andrew?” I asked her.

“I guess they'll send him to prison. I mean, not
prison
prison; just some country club prison in Connecticut or something. He'll be okay.”

“How much time do you think he'll get?” Regardless of what he did or didn't do, Andrew was a nice guy, and I hated the idea of him being locked up for years.

“I don't know. It depends on how mad the SEC is, and what all comes out in the investigation. A year, or maybe two? I don't really care.”

“What do you mean? You don't care what happens to him? Isn't he still your fiancé?”

“No. I hope he doesn't have too bad a time of it, but I'm not waiting any amount of time. An engagement is a promise about the kind of life
you're going to live with someone. Committing imprisonable felonies breaks the promise.” She put two coasters out on the counter.

“So he's guilty?” This question was worth asking; it was always possible that the higher-ups were pinning everything on him.

“He didn't say as much, but yeah, I think he's guilty. Over the past year, there've been times when he's seemed stressed, really stressed. Not normal work stress—Lord knows I know what that's like—but a crazed kind of stressed. And when I'd ask him about it, he'd be kind of paranoid, combative. So I knew something was wrong, something was off at his work.”

“You didn't have any idea what it was, though?”

“I didn't really want to know. I know that sounds cold. I know you think I'm cold and mean. I know you probably feel sorry for Andrew. But I have my own worries, my own career. I'm a twenty-six-year-old female in a corporate environment, with a dozen employees directly under me. I have to be on top of my game. I love Andrew, but I couldn't take on his problems too.” She put a tea bag in each of our mugs. “When the police came and got him—we were out at dinner together—he seemed relieved. Like everything had been building to that outcome, and he was ready for it. He told me he was sorry. Then they took him away.”