Brooklyn Secrets

by Triss Stein

  It turned out to be nothing. It was never his home or his beat, but he did have a few more stories about Espy. I couldn’t figure out how I could use them in my work, but I wanted to.

  Back home I left a note on my door for Chris, “Do not wake me,” and staggered off to bed hoping to sleep a long time.

  The call that woke me the next morning was the NYPD. They caught me just before I needed to leave for work. They wanted me for a lineup today, as soon as I could get there, to help identify some young men who had accosted me the other day.

  Oh, crap, I thought. My days, my whole life, was tightly scheduled. There was no room for this.

  I called the museum and told them I had an emergency. Then I e-mailed my actual boss with more details and headed out into the day.

  A lineup would be a new experience for me. I told myself it might be interesting. I was trying not to think about the young girl in the hospital, in a coma, the real reason I was going to a police precinct first thing on a workday.

  As I hurried into the station, the name of the detective contact in my hand, I walked right into a little crowd of an officer with Ms. Talbot and Mr. Wilson from the library. We shook hands politely, like the cordial strangers we were.

  “You remember what I said?” Wilson said. “It’s those guys, the ones at your car. They been following her…”

  “Sir!” The officer snapped it out. “You remember what I said? We can’t have any talk here. You come on with me now. Yes, you too, miss.”

  Into a small room, cement block, drab and crowded. A woman with a no-nonsense air came in and introduced herself as Sergeant Asher. She explained what we would be doing, reminded us this was an important case, and we were led off again, this time separately. I was glad I had work with me. I am never without it, because I am never caught up, let alone ahead. I would make the most of my waiting time. And then I wouldn’t have to think about where I was and why I was there.

  A few pages into a scholarly source on Brownsville crime in the 1930s, when mob activities were a part of Brownsville life, I asked myself what in the world was I thinking?

  I would have been better off at this moment with almost any other topic. A fashion magazine would have been good. Even a nice serious work on something far removed. Say, the Dutch in old New York. But not this subject, in this place. The building was from a later era, but I could imagine a few ghosts here, Kid Twist Reles and Pep Strauss and Tick Tock Tannenbaum, smiling at the cops, offering them a cigar and swearing to them they were on the other side of Brooklyn when the car was stolen and the body loaded into the backseat.

  ***

  I shook my head and reminded myself I am a scholar, not a science fiction writer or a superstitious dimwit. There are no ghosts. I took out my laptop and started adding some scholarly notes to work I had already done. This fact. That date. Anecdotes, with the note, “Possible urban folklore.” Apocryphal would have been even more scholarly, but it seemed ridiculously high flown in the context, which was Brooklyn tough guys who could not write a threatening note and get the spelling right.

  Ten pages into my source material, twenty-three notes in my database, an officer came to get me. I was led to a dark room with a big internal window and they told me what to do.

  Because four boys had threatened me, we would do this four times. I was calm and cold. I had seen a TV program about mistaken identification by witnesses but I knew I could identify two of them at least, the one who had grabbed my arm, and the one who talked most. The others maybe not.

  So the first four were all the same size and age and color, muscular older teens, variants of a medium complexion. I had a minute of panic. What if I get it wrong? And then I closed my eyes, and thought of a voice saying, “Maybe we got to take her somewhere and search her.” And his hand on my arm.

  And there he was, a smile that only moved his lips. A nose that might have been broken.

  I snapped my eyes open and saw him. “Number three.”

  “Sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  The second group was harder. It could have been any of them, none of them, all of them. I said so, apologetically, and the voice said, “Don’t worry about it. Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  The whole group walked off. Was one of them the one? I reminded myself that if I did not know I could not say.

  The next one was easier. He was the one who did most of the talking, the one who called me “Little lady.” It was not an endearment, not the way he said it. I had a very good look at him.

  That day he wore a jacket with red leather sleeves and a wool cap with writing. Here the whole row was dressed in indoor clothes, plain long sleeved tees, hands hidden, but there he was. Short hair with a jagged cut hairline and a tattoo curling up the side of his neck.

  “It’s four. I’m sure.”

  The last was as impossible as the second. Someone came in to turn on the lights and tell me I was free to go. A thank you and a card for any further contact.

  I was shaking.

  The two library workers were in the hall.

  “You came alone, so we thought we’d wait for you. It’s stressful, isn’t it? Are you doing okay?”

  “Sure.” And suddenly, I was a little better. “But how are you doing? I am just so stunned about Savanna.”

  “Stunned. Lord, yes. She ‘s been with us three years. We get attached to those kids. I know her aunt, so I spoke to her.” She shook her head. “That family is devastated, of course. The aunt said nothing left to do but pray so we will do that.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I’m not a great believer in the usefulness of prayer, but I did not want to be rude.

  “Now I was raised up in the church too, but today, I’m thinking a couple of good friends with baseball bats would be more useful.”

  “Oh, Wilson, please! It won’t help Savanna one bit.”

  “But it would make me feel better! After I became a grown man, I stopped beating on people, but right now…” He shook his head.

  I won’t lie. I kind of agreed with him.

  “Did we all pick out the baby gangsta? One with the tattoos? He their so-called leader?”

  We had and I was reassured. There were no mistakes on this and they knew the other two I had not been able to pick out.

  And we had all chosen the same first boy.

  “In my opinion, that one’s a juicer. Got that muscled-up look, know what I mean? Because of boxing. Short temper, too.”

  “Around here a lot of boys box,” Ms. Talbot explained. “They all think they could be the next Mike Tyson or Riddick Bowes. That’s the only history some of them know.”

  I was surprised and Ms. Talbot snorted. “Oh, yes, they are both Brownsville boys. Lots of others too.”

  Wilson cut in. “Or some of these kids just want to look like they are boxers without doing the real work. They have short tempers and no sense. No hope, neither, but I am not feeling too sad for their poor little angry selves this day.”

  We had reached my car, and I offered to run them over to work. They invited me in to have lunch. It was the day the staff did a barbecue order.

  The building would not be open to the public for a while, but a young girl was stacking books onto a cart.

  “Deandra, come over here. No, nothing is wrong. I know you all been texting back and forth about Savanna. Is there any news? Have you seen her mama?”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “No, Miz Talbot. I have not heard anything.” Her voice was a whisper.

  Mrs. Talbot looked at her with suspicion. “That includes gossip in your building lobby? And on the street?”

  Cautiously, Deandra said, “Them boys who been bothering her? I hear they in for questioning. Lotta talk about it. Everyone afraid of them and think they did it.”

  Ms. Talbot turned back to me. “I heard some of tha
t myself and I don’t even live around here.”

  “I thought…”

  “No, no, no. Not for years. Moved my family out to Long Island soon as I had the money. So maybe there is some progress. Some police around here don’t care at all, lazy pigs, but some do. They were here and asked us for everything we know. And Zora? Savanna’s mother? She is active hereabouts. She knows how to be heard, that’s for sure.”

  “Turns out I knew her, just a bit, a long time ago in school.”

  “No! Small world, sometimes, isn’t it, in this big city? Was she kind of outspoken back then?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Ms. Talbot nodded. “She was toning it down a bit in that news conference on TV. Did you see that? Of course she really is heartbroken. As we all are.”

  “If there was anything I could do…” I knew there wasn’t. The words just fell out of my mouth. “You know, my teenage daughter was watching the news with me and she said, cops should be talking to all Savanna’s friends. No adult really knows what’s going on with a teen.”

  Behind us, Deandra dropped a pile of books, loudly, and scurried to retrieve them.

  Chapter Eight

  “Deandra! Child, what is the matter with you today?”

  She was a tiny young girl, younger than Savanna, in tights and a giant sweater, and startling day-glo pink sneakers. She had a baby face under her makeup. She looked petrified.

  “It’s all right. It’s all right.” Mrs. Talbot softened her voice. “I know we are all upset. Just get that mess cleaned up.”

  We turned away, and then she turned back.

  “Have the cops been doing their job, talking to all her friends?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Lots of cops around.”

  I could see Mrs. Talbot looked skeptical.

  “Home too? You live in the same building as Savvie. Talking to everyone?”

  She nodded, looking like a mouse facing a cobra. Trapped.

  “And you all telling them whatever you know, or is everyone too scared to speak up?”

  “Well, some people. Well, lots of people, scared, I mean. I mean, everyone knows cops make you tell everything you ever did, and even things you ain’t never did. Or other people’s things they did. And then the other people would know you talked to them and be real, real pissed off.” Deandra stopped, looking even more upset. “Sorry for the language.” She went on, “And they be all up in your face about that. They won’t be just talking neither.”

  Honestly, she looked like she was about to faint.

  Ms. Talbot sighed. “Oh, lord, child. Just go back to work. But listen to me. If they get to you, you tell them anything that might help.”

  She shook her head as we walked toward the door. “That girl is no Savanna, sorry to say. Of course she isn’t but fourteen but she is scared of her own shadow. She needs some survival skills.”

  I know I looked surprised at that. This was certainly a scary time for her and anyone who knew Savanna at all, let alone a real friend.

  Ms. Talbot noticed my expression. “I know, I know. We are all hurting but she’s like that all the time. A little mouse. Looks up to Savanna though and Savvie kind of big-sisters her. I’ve been hoping a little backbone would rub off.”

  It was time for me to go. I said my good-byes, was urged to stay in touch, and off I went. This time, I looked both ways, a long look up and down the block, before I even left the library steps for my car. And I had my car keys out, all ready for a quick entrance into my car. Or an impromptu weapon, as needed. No fumbling this time.

  No sooner had I opened the car door than I heard gasping behind me. It was Deandra, running, no jacket on, and her neon bright shoes thumping the sidewalk.

  She stopped short right in front of me, standing at my open car door.

  “I had a thing to tell you.” She was gasping for air and shaking.

  I looked up the street again. No one was out. But still.

  “Get in my car. Door’s open.”

  Inside, doors locked, I offered her water from my bottle. Her gasping slowed down.

  “There is a thing I know. Hardly nobody knows but me. Maybe one or two of her real close girls, but they not going to tell. What do I do?” She twisted her fingers. “I’m so scared, I’m not even sleeping nights.”

  My first impulse was to say tell the detectives who are asking the questions. Whoever hurt Savanna should not be walking the streets. My second, as I looked out my car to the bleak cityscape around me, was to remember that I am the white girl here. Grew up with cops. Friends with cops. Safe home in a safe neighborhood.

  That was not Deandra’s world.

  “Is there anyone you can talk to?” I made my voice as soft as I could. “Your mom? Or maybe a pastor? Do you have one?” She looked horrified but nodded. “Even Ms. Talbot?”

  She shook her head. “It Savanna secret and I swore not to tell. Not never to any of them. I can’t rat out on that. My mom is…” She looked away. “Me and Savvie, we go to the same church, so same pastor. He an old man, kind of scary. Voice like God. I thought…you said you have a daughter…so maybe you would understand…even if you a white lady….” She spoke in a rush and then subsided to a whispered, “Dumb idea. I am so dumb.”

  “No, no. You are brave to even try.” I gave her my best Chris,-I am-serious-pay-attention stare. Deep into her eyes. “Maybe if you tell me, I will know what to do with it. And I’ll never tell where I got it.”

  She looked up then, not with trust, not even close, but a flicker of something. Maybe hope? She sighed deeply, all the way from her pink shoes.

  “Savanna have a boyfriend. Big secret. Her mama would put her in forever lockdown if she knew. And his people would not like it, either, I guess. She say that to me. His people.” She came to a sudden complete stop and then pulled frantically on the door lock. “I got to bounce. Got to go back to work. I sneaked out.”

  She was gone, running, before I could even say, “Tell me more.” But yes, she had told me something and I had the whole drive home to figure out what to do with it.

  I had a lot more to figure out when I was home and keeping an ear on the evening news while I threw together a meal of leftovers. Lots of them. Could we have meat loaf and lo mein and egg salad in the same meal? I hoped Chris’ growing-teen appetite would distract her from noticing what a poor excuse for a supper it was. My mother, queen of the grapefruit starter, meat-and-two-sides dinner, must be turning over in her grave.

  I thought, “Sorry, Mom, but this is my life for now.”

  I heard Savanna’s name on TV, dropped the forks on the table and went to watch. “Four boys have been brought in for questioning for the brutal attack on a teenage girl. Two names, two withheld as juveniles. Detectives describe this as an important breakthrough.” There was video of them being escorted, cuffed, in to the station. Though their hoods somewhat hid their faces, I knew instantly who they were.

  Now what should I do with Deandra’s secret? Was there any point in calling it in if I could not give them a source? So I called Mike the cop. I hadn’t heard from him lately and I thought our not quite romance was probably over. No hard feelings and he could be useful.

  As soon as I said I had a cop question, he chuckled and said, “I’ll be downtown at court tomorrow. Good day to have lunch?”

  “Better than good. I’ll be downtown too, working at the museum.”

  For now, immediately, the clear plus was that those boys could not hurt anyone else. I assumed there was more evidence than today’s line-up. I would go to bed somewhat relieved. I hoped Zora was feeling the same way. Just a little, anyway.

  Chris and I plowed through supper, each preoccupied with our own thoughts. My quantity without quality strategy worked; I don’t think she even noticed what she put in her mouth as she read her chemistry book.

  “Chris!”

  “Huh
?” She did not look up.

  “Put the book away. You need a break.”

  “Um, okay.” She looked up, eyes unfocused. “Anything special going on?”

  “No. Tell me about your day.”

  “Nothing to tell. School. Homework. Chem test tomorrow. I hate chemistry with the heat of a thousand suns. You know?’

  I did know, but it would have been counterproductive to agree completely.

  “I admit, Mrs. Grant is tough, but every teacher there can’t be a hand holder.” I remembered my own overworked public high school teachers. Some of them were dedicated, but some hated the job and hated us. Some barely knew our names.

  “Mom! That is very unfair. Believe me, the high school teachers are not holding our hands. Unless they are trying to put more work into them.”

  “Okay. Sorry. So I’ll tell you about my day.”

  I did, and thanked her for her off-hand comment about asking Savanna’s friends for information. She seemed impressed for five seconds. Then she put her dishes in the dishwasher, heaped up a bowl of ice cream and headed back upstairs, chemistry book in hand. I thought I should get up early tomorrow and make her a real breakfast before the exam.

  Next day, Mike and I met at a fish restaurant. One of the things I did like about Mike was he made me eat like a grown up, sitting down and having a proper meal.

  I gently led into the subject. “I saw the news last night about that poor girl, Savanna Lafayette. I was out there in the neighborhood.” No way was I telling him more than that about my experiences.

  “Why in the world?” I ignored that.

  “So. I know a little something. Maybe it matters and maybe not, and with a probable arrest, I am having trouble seeing what I should do with it.”

  “You need to stop playing detective.” He pointed his fork at me for emphasis.

  “What? Do you think I am playing?”

  He just gave me one of those get real expressions.

  “Listen.” I said it calmly. “I was in Brownsville originally for research. And then I met people and I heard things.”