Disturbed Earth

by Reggie Nadelson

  Even in the snow and cold, the Hasidic men, black coats flapping, walked to the synagogues and schools, ringlets catching in the wind, holding onto their large black hats. They resembled a flock of birds, a group of visitors from another century; they seemed foreign, alien, different. Further along, waiting for a red light, I saw a swastika scribbled on the wall of a local school.

  For the first time, I felt it was me they wanted, the xenophobes, the patriots, the people who looked anxiously at their neighbors and put up more flags. An Egyptian guy I knew—a US citizen—played some Moroccan music in his apartment one night not long after 9 / 1 1 ; the next morning the super approached his wife and told her it was terrorist music and to shut it off.

  Did people look at me? Did they see through the facade, the veneer, the all American, all New York cop? Could they see the Russian, the immigrant, the man whose father was a KGB hero, a KGB creep?

  I had adored my father. He was handsome and very tall and blue-eyed and he brought home special treats for me in his pockets—little chocolaty candies from Hungary wrapped in waxy paper; medals, too, and badges, sometimes with the baby Lenin's face on them. Maybe it was political conditioning, the candy to be associated with Lenin, but I didn't care, not then. My father helped me with homework and told me tales of his adventures in the Red Army.

  He had been to Berlin and Vienna and he had taken photographs that I still have, black and whites of himself and other officers on the great wrecked boulevards of post-war Europe. Once, he had even been to Paris.

  I think my mother married him because of it and secretly hoped one day he would take her and she made him tell her about it over and over until, at home, we could all recite the names of Paris streets, cafes and bookshops, parks, fountains, museums, shops.

  He liked games, my dad; he taught me chess and he played practical jokes. But, then, games were his business. Games that involved sneaking around and foreign travel. My father laughed and joked with me and he brought me candy and he never really felt like an adult.

  It wasn't until later that I understood what he did; that his games included secrets and duplicity and death. When I was fourteen, because of my mother who was rebellious and made a fuss about refuseniks and became one herself, the KGB dumped my father and then I understood.

  I began to hate everything around me, the rote lessons at school, the dreary way people dressed, the obsessive little faces of the Young Pioneers as glazed and zealous as their Nazi counterparts in another era.

  Still, secretly, part of me believed my father was different, that he had been a hero. It was confusing, but I was a kid and so long as he took me fishing to the river on Sundays, it was OK. I remember thinking, when we went fishing, when we left before light Sundays with our gear, when we sat by the water and he told me stories: this is how it will be when I have sons.

  I never had the sons. I was always afraid that if I got married and had a child, I'd lose my escape route. A family would weigh me down and I would drown. All my life I had wanted to escape; now I was a middle-aged adolescent, unmarried, no kids, still frightened. The men I knew seemed grown up, New Age men who attended the births of their children and took turns caring for them.

  Finally, on my way through Brooklyn, sliding on ice, I got it. Road to Damascus, blinding revelation, call it whatever you want. I was terrified for Billy because he was the closest thing I had to a child. I'd thought it before, I had known it somehow, but now I saw it clearly: my relationship with Billy validated me as a human being.

  Driving, watching the old Jews move through the landscape like a black and white photograph, I thought about my father and Billy, and then I made myself stop thinking and concentrate. Keep moving, I said half aloud. Keep going.

  27

  The guy behind the counter at the Pie Palace was a short fat man with a powdery complexion. He pulled the pie I ordered out of the oven and brought it over with a cold beer. The thin crust was blistered and black, the sauce and mozzarella were homemade and the disks of pepperoni were spicy. I ate a couple of slices and finished the beer and paid the check.

  He took the money and said. "You're a cop?"

  "What makes you think that?"

  "After the Luca girl got killed, a lot of people started coming around." He wiped his hand on his apron, put it out and said, "Fred Capestro." He leaned against the edge of my table. "I'm interested in crime stuff. I watch all the shows. Re-runs. Nothing ever as good as Hill Street Blues, right? Maybe early Law &tOrder. I read a lot of stuff. Everyone around here thinks I'm a wacko, but it pays off. I once figured out who was doing drug deals in the toilet out back. OK, it was only weed, but what the hell."

  I nodded. "Good for you. Go on."

  "I just know what I know."

  "So what do you think you do know?"

  "You think I'm too old to do this professional? Tell me seriously."

  "How old are you?"

  "Thirty-five."

  "You could still have a shot," I said to encourage him.

  "You want another beer?"

  I shook my head.

  "Soda?"

  "Soda would be great."

  "Diet Coke? Regular? Seven-Up?"

  "Coke," I said. "Thanks."

  "Bottle OK? Ice? You want some lemon? I probably also got some Pepsis."

  "Coke is good."

  "Can or bottle?"

  "Bottle's fine."

  He got up and took a pair of Cokes out of the fridge and came back and put them on the table. "I like them in bottles like the old days," he said.

  "Listen, you know a kid named Billy Farone?"

  "Shit, yes. I been trying to get in touch with somebody about Billy all day. I been stuck in Jersey at the airport until this morning. I saw something on Fox about Billy and I tried, shit, man, I tried, but the local precinct, the phone is busy all the time and they told us only use 911 for emergencies and I didn't know if this counts."

  "You know Billy Farone?"

  "Yeah, man, sure."

  I said, "Go on."

  "Billy's my pal," he said. "I take care of Billy when his mother has school, you know? We look at fishing books together. My old man worked the party boats by Sheepshead Bay."

  "His mother knows about this, that Billy comes here a lot?"

  "No. He told me, don't tell my mom, she don't like me hanging around here. He's a smart kid. He rides his bike over, and he could make it in ten, fifteen minutes. In between rush hours, I used to be happy when he showed up."

  "Used?"

  He shrugged. "One day he shows up with a guy that I never saw, a big goofball, sort of a retard, you know, what do you call them, mongoose?"

  "Mongoloid?"

  "Yeah? You alright? You went like white suddenly, it's not my pie, is it?"

  "I'm OK. You ever see him again?"

  "Yeah, they spent a lot of time together, they were here, maybe, four, five, six times." He was an enthusiastic witness.

  "How did it seem, the two of them?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean like friends, what?"

  "They ate pizza and laughed and then I'd see them through the window going down the street, I think the goofball was taking him over to see the boats. I think they were planning a trip. I got that feeling."

  "You didn't say anything to his mother?" I asked.

  "No. Why would I? I told you, she don't know Billy and me are friends, right? Then I see the thing on TV so I'm worried. I remember he don't come by on Saturday which he always comes on. Or Sunday. Monday I'm stuck at the goddamn airport all day and night waiting for my niece to get in from D.C. This morning I see the thing on Fox, so I get worried."

  I said softly, "Tell me about the goofball."

  "He would come in and when he would see Billy, he'd buy a slice for him and two for himself and slap them together you know, doggie style like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever, and shove them in his mouth in two bites, three tops. I noticed that, like he was starving or something. Like he was always
hungry."

  "You're sure?" I said.

  "Sure I'm sure."

  "So Billy was friendly with the guy? When did he start coming?"

  "The mongoose?"

  "Yeah."

  "About a month ago. First it was once in a while, you know, and then more times, and it was like he was an uncle or something. Like family, you know? Billy's mom is Russian and they got these extending families and I didn't want to get involved."

  I said, "Was he Russian, the mongoose guy?"

  "I don't think so. I'm not sure, he didn't talk like no one else, but that was his retard thing, I think."

  The creep, the mongoose, had been coming here for a month; over a month. He befriended Billy and no one knew. Who would notice? The pizza place was ten, fifteen minutes from the Farones' house, but Genia never knew; unaware of the creep who made her son into a friend, she nagged him about wearing socks and made sure he brushed his teeth.

  It hit me: Billy went willingly. My God, I thought; Billy just went. The goofball offered him something, pizza, maybe. Billy was independent, he rode his bike everywhere. He had come here. He had eaten pizza with the goofball and with Fred Capestro, and now I sat, frozen in my seat, and something pressed on the back of my brain, something from the past.

  As calm as I could I said, "Can you tell me what he looked like? The goofball?"

  "Sure. Young. Like early twenties, big. Goofy. He smiled a lot. Brown hair, I guess. He usually wore jeans, those big hanging down jeans with the crotch near his knees, you know? A big T-shirt and he had a winter jacket with a hood. Red. The jacket."

  "Anything else?"

  "Not really. Can I come with you, I mean, can I help you look for Billy?"

  "I need you here in case anyone comes by or you think of anything. Your job is to be here." I said. "I'll give you my cell number. OK?"

  "Sure."

  "Could you keep this to yourself for a while? That's important."

  "OK," Fred Capestro said. "I'll write down my cell number for you. You can call me. You want me to call you if I see the goofball? Or Billy?"

  "Yes."

  He looked pleased and I finished my Coke and started to leave, but he ran after me, yelling, "Hey. Mister, I mean detective."

  I turned around.

  "Yeah?"

  "Listen, there was one other thing."

  "Go on."

  "The mongoose, you know? He had this old little tape recorder. A crummy one, you know, but he was obsessed like it was his best thing, and sometimes I saw him talk into it. It was just one of those crap ones you see guys use to make notes on or dictate shit into, but if he saw you watching him, he always jammed it into a pocket. I asked him about it once, and he said it was a book he was writing, and I laughed and I thought he was going to hit me."

  The Farones' street was planted thick with video surveillance cameras and as soon as I pulled up at the house I saw what an idiot I'd been not to notice. There was a camera mounted over the Farone door.

  I got out my phone and called Genia, who didn't answer. She had never mentioned surveillance. Maybe there was stuff she didn't want me to see, but what? Banging on the front door, my phone in my hand, I rang the bell, listened to the chimes and waited. No one answered.

  Across the street at the house where Billy's friend lived was another camera. I went up the walk and leaned on the bell.

  "Yes?" It was Mrs. Gervasi, the blonde I'd met with Genia. I showed her my ID, introduced myself, talked my way into her kitchen and a cup of coffee.

  I couldn't understand how the local cops had overlooked the video cameras, but Billy's disappearance had only been public a few hours. And people just overlooked the obvious. Most crimes went unsolved because we fucked up, like me not noticing the videos.

  Mrs. Gervasi said she had seen the news about Billy. Her husband and son returned Sunday night, she said, and she called Genia right away. Gen sounded nervous. I asked about security on the block. Plenty, she said. We have plenty.

  "Look, we're nice people in a nice area," she said. "For years we got along. I grew up here. We had Italians, we had Jews. We were OK. The kids had the ocean. We went over to Lundy's for seafood. It was nice. The Russians stayed over in Brighton Beach."

  "Then they moved in," I said.

  "I'm sure some of them are very nice. Genny Farone isn't even like a Russian girl, not exactly, so I was fine when her Billy wants to play with my Stevie and I thought the kid was lonely. I felt for him."

  "Can I have some more of that coffee?" I said. "It's really good."

  "Milk?"

  "Yeah, please."

  "I have cream."

  "Milk, thanks."

  "Sugar or Sweet n Low?"

  "Just the milk."

  "I have Splenda."

  "That's OK," I said.

  "Sure," she said and made some more coffee and I drank it.

  "Tell me what you know about Billy."

  "Is this official?" She was nervous.

  "Genia's my cousin. I'm Billy's godfather."

  "I see," she said. "I understand. He was such a handsome boy. I mean is, of course, really like a little movie star and Genny dresses him up so nice, and everybody thought it was great when they moved onto the block. They take good care of the house and the yard. Johnny always offers us nice wine on the house when we go to eat at his restaurant."

  "Billy?"

  "I thought he was quiet at first. He would come over and sit in a corner and watch TV, but he didn't talk much. Then Marty, that's my husband, took the boys out on one of the party boats that parks over at Sheepshead Bay, you know, and he said to me later, Margie, he loved it, was really good to see, and after that Billy never stopped coming over, he was always here, always asking about another fishing trip." She was thoughtful. "I don't know why, but I got the feeling he changed his mind about going upstate with my husband and Stevie Saturday because he realized they were going skiing and not fishing. I can't say why. He didn't actually say."

  I asked her if I could take a look at her surveillance camera, maybe borrow the tape, and she said, sure, it was almost finished, this tape, Marty could put in a new one later when he got home. I was surprised when she agreed so easily.

  "To tell you the truth, I actually forgot about it. I never liked having the damn thing, but Marty says with the people around here, I don't mean here exactly, we have nice neighbors, but nearby, it was a good idea. He set it up. I don't even know how to use it,' she said and led me upstairs and showed me where the camera was set up.

  The house was big and quiet and beige, tasteful and bland. She hovered behind me while I took the tape out of the camera and thanked her. She stood where she was. I didn't know what she wanted.

  "Thank you," I said. "I'll write out a receipt."

  "It's alright." She looked out the window. "It's snowing again," she said.

  For a minute I thought she might change her mind; she might take the tape away from me and call her husband. I wasn't sure about anything, and then she skipped away down the carpeted stairs and into the kitchen.

  I wrote out a receipt for the tape on a piece of paper I found in my pocket and thanked her again. She offered more coffee and it was then I smelled the sourish odor of white wine on her breath. I could see she wanted company and I said I was in a hurry.

  I was desperate to watch the tape. I was betting Billy would be on it. If I was right and he went of his own free will, there might be a picture of the goofball who kidnapped him. Maybe the goofball just pulled up and Billy got in his car.

  As I left the Gervasi house, my phone rang. It was Samson Britz. His sing-song voice was triumphant.

  "I have something for you."

  "What?"

  "Go back to the beach again, to Coney Island, by the boardwalk. Take another look and think about it."

  "That's it?"

  "That's just the appetizer," he said. "You asked me if there was anything I could get on people who's supposed to like little girls, right? So I heard about this
cop named Farone. John Farone, Sr. The son owns a restaurant out by Sheepshead Bay."

  "Go on."

  "They tried to get John, Sr., on a charge of messing with some kid?"

  "What else?"

  "They got him off, he retired," Britz said. "I knew him. He was OK. They said it was little girls. I didn't believe it. I think his wife wanted to fuck with his head and she set it up. You ever meet the old lady? She was a monster. He was OK, Farone. He had this crazy partner, though, used to key the cars of people he didn't like is what I remember about him." Britz laughed.

  "He what?" I said.

  "He'd see a big fancy car, it was holding up the traffic or something, waiting for someone to come out of a store, and this guy, he'd stand nearby and wait for it to pull away and scratch it the whole length with his keys. He was famous for it. Stanley the 'Keyster' Shank. They called him the 'Keyster.' He was a stupid fuck, but he made some good cases. I never believed it about the kids, though. Farone doing stuff with kids, I mean. But you asked. That good for you?" Britz sounded smug.

  "Yeah."

  "You're not going to thank me?"

  I hung up and thought about calling old man Farone, but I had to see the video tape. It would take me hours to get back to the city. In the end I found a cheap video equipment store on Brighton Beach Avenue, where I rented a camera. I got back in my car, drove a mile or so, pulled into an empty municipal parking lot near Coney Island and shoved the tape into the camera.

  On the video, as soon as I turned it on, you could hear the general background buzz of the city, but the Farones' street, which was in view, was silent. Taken from the second floor of the Gervasi house, the pictures showed the Farone place across the street. The picture was lousy but I could make out the house, the street, some lawn, the corner of another front yard. Somewhere in the background an ambulance shrieked, got louder, went away. I got out my cell phone and called a guy I knew who did security. He told me a surveillance tape that recorded for more than a few hours used some kind of time-lapse system. It recorded for a few frames, stopped, then restarted, but after just a fraction of a second. He talked me through it.