Brooklyn Secrets

by Triss Stein

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  “He wrote that? And put it up in public? Can he be that stupid?”

  “The answer to that would be ‘yes.’ He sounds dumb, overall, but, I don’t know, it’s hard not to just let it flow when you’re typing in random thoughts. So look here.” A strategic distraction.

  She pulled something up that was from Tyler himself. Leaving out the slang, it said his relationship with Savanna was not a secret now, and he was asking for help about what happened to her. If someone stepped up, he’d owe him big. And if he learned one of his crew knew and didn’t tell him, there would be a big price, worse than they could even think about in their worst nightmare. And it ended with,

  Yo, Jackie, you little worm. What you know? You gon give it up? Ain’t you heard? You can run but you can’t hide. Mom can’t help this time.

  “How did you find all this? It’s amazing.”

  “Thanks but it wasn’t even that hard, just too 21st century for you, right?”

  “Okay. Sort of true though I can do without the sarcasm.”

  “Hold on. There’s more. I mean info, not sarcasm.”

  She scrolled down through comments, most of them offering support and respect to “my man” Tyler and his honey. Then someone else popped up.

  Bad spelling, bad typing, but the meaning was right out of a teen songbook of my youth, or anyone’s. StarrGurl was back.

  Why you not DUMPIN that skinny skank and get back wit me? You know we ment to be together. You go change all those status back to IN RELATIONSHIP with me. Starr!

  And the other commenters piled on, stomping on her for harassing their man. And she posted back:

  “Y’all haters? Can go f**k self. Free country last I heard. I can say whatev.”

  On one of the sources—by this time, I had lost track—graphics popped up next to the entries, a personal photo or an animal or a cartoon. Avatars, that’s what they were called. And there was Starr Gurl herself looking seriously into the camera. She wore a low cut top, a frayed turquoise leather jacket and huge, gold, hollow-square earrings. Not a flattering style for her, but they sure did make a statement.

  Oh, wait. With Chris’ help I went back to the little videos, and there she was in one, in the background, not close to Tyler but watching. Watching with tears running down her face.

  Finally Tyler came on and wrote:

  We were done before I met Savanna. It wasn’t her, it was you and me not being good together. We’re over. And you are blocked from every way to reach me.

  So done with you.

  This was not sad teen songs; this was a grand opera, playing out in real time on a phone screen.

  “If I wanted to send this out? I’m not even sure what to do with it, but if I did?”

  “Already sent you the links. So what do you think?”

  I stood up and hugged her. “Terrific. Brilliant. Thank you. Thank you twice. I see a great career ahead of you as a detective.”

  “A cop? Don’t think so. You know I’m more like an artsy person. And I’ll take the brilliant, but most any kid could have done this. Is it time to talk about those new boots?”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Honestly, you’ve earned them.” She stood and surveyed the messy table. “Cool part about leftovers is the takeout containers go right into the garbage. Fast cleanup.”

  “You’re sprung. Cleanup is on me.”

  As soon as I was done, I sent Sergeant Asher a note, telling her what Chris had found and asking what I should do with it. And even though it was already eight o’clock, I had a response almost instantly. “Yes. Send all to me immediately and other addresses I cc’d. There’s always a chance she found something new.”

  I sat down with the newspaper and a cup of cocoa and it became one of those moments when the world throws us a little gift. It was delivered by PBS.

  I glanced idly at the television section of the paper. Tonight I wanted to turn everything off, and TV is pretty good for that. And there it was, on public television, a new episode of a series about the making of modern New York. Tonight it would be about the mid-century intellectual life, “The Making of Ideas.”

  Really, I was hoping for reruns of Full House, escape not education, but the name Maurice Cohen popped out at me. Maurice Cohen, the writer and former Brownsville resident. My guide to old Brownsville. And not least, Ruby’s brother.

  In a fast minute, my cocoa and I were settled in front of the television. Because it was 20th century history, these people had been filmed in interviews over the years and bits of those moments were included. Gestures, voices, how they saw themselves, all in their very own words. A historian’s dream.

  It was large group of people with much in common and active in the worlds of both literature and politics. They worked together, socialized together, and were friends. Or enemies. That depended on the most recent intense political argument or who was sneaking around with whose wife. Lofty dedication to the realm of ideas, well-mixed with ego, ambition and sex. Human nature at war with high-minded intellect.

  After awhile I may have drifted, lost in the details of long ago political feuds and love affairs, but I sat up again when Maurice Cohen first appeared on the screen.

  What? He’d been dead a long time. It took a sleepy moment before I realized this was an old interview.

  He was very short, but broad. Burly, even. Mostly bald. Dressed like a professor from central casting, down to the tweed jacket with leather elbow patches and a pipe.

  He didn’t sound like a stereotyped professor, though. He had a Brooklyn accent that came though even in the most arcane lit crit terms.

  And he had an attitude. It took me a few minutes to realize I see it every day on the street. It said, “I’m too tough to mess with.”

  The interviewer wanted to talk about the early, groundbreaking works that made him famous. Well, not Frank Sinatra famous, but certainly famous in the literary world.

  And he did not want to talk about them at all. “All you young smartasses want to ask me about Brownsville. I’ve lived a whole life since then! Did you even do your homework? I’ve written fifteen more books, all well reviewed, and I edited a major journal. I didn’t write some great works and die young, for crying out loud!” He leaned forward, aggressively staring into the interviewer’s eyes. “I’ve been here all along.”

  He leaned back, folded his arms and seemed to be saying, “Dare you.”

  The interviewer was a pro, not easily intimidated, and had the interview back on track in no time but I wondered if Cohen was always that prickly. He refused, in a few choice words, to talk about old scandals. However, he was scathing about old friends who became conservative political writers in later years.

  I was alert to any mention of the old neighborhood, his childhood, and his family. His sister was in the midst of her own productive life at the time of the interview. Not one word. He made it very clear that he was there to talk only about himself and his ideas.

  When my phone rang I jumped. It was Ruby, asking me, no telling me, to watch television immediately.

  “I saw it, just by good luck.”

  “What did you think?”

  “Was he always like that?”

  “Like what? Self-centered? Conceited? Combative? Yes, he was. Did you notice, he never even mentioned our parents or any family?”

  “Did I ever! And that large chip on his shoulder?”

  “Always! I think it was…” She slowed down. “I think it was growing up where we did. Kids fought all the time, especially the boys. You had to be tough.”

  I thought it was the first time she had admitted that.

  Near the end of that segment, Cohen was back on, in an even older interview. When he said, “Crime?” I started taking notes. “People were desperately poor. Some thought they had to do anything they could. In fact, a friend disappeared.” His voice slowed and grew softer. �
�Poof! Just like that. And he was a good guy. We knew…well, we believed…he got on the wrong side of some very bad people.” For a moment, the tough guy was gone and his voice dropped to a whisper. “I never saw him again.” He turned away from the camera and I saw a handkerchief come out.

  What? Had I heard that right? He was talking about Lillian’s brother? Damn, they only took a clip from an old, longer recording. Could I find the whole thing?

  I puttered around, still thinking about what I had seen, and finally called the one person I knew who would understand my excitement. It didn’t matter that it was so late. His sleeping habits were never the same as normal people.

  “Hey, Leary. Want to hear an interesting story?”

  “Always, kiddo. It’s what I live for.”

  “I might be on the trail of something.”

  He listened while I told about meeting Ruby and Lil, and Lil’s request, and what I had seen tonight.

  “So that’s it. I just wanted to tell someone about maybe, finally, getting some answers. Or am I completely crazy?”

  “It’s not impossible to be both, ya know, hot on the trail AND crazy.”

  “Not the reaction I was going for.”

  “Aw. Did I hurt your little girl feelings?”

  “Shut up. Or say something useful. Choose one.”

  “Awright, awright. Yeah, you had some luck tonight. What else you doing to find out?”

  I told him about the Municipal Archives and how I knew I’d have to go back. I hadn’t known it until that moment when the words came out of my mouth. What I had copied was good but there were considerable sections I had not copied.

  “Ah, court papers. They can be a long slog, but sometimes there’s that little nugget. You’re reading about some crazy bastards there.”

  “Yeah. It’s all kind of interesting, and I’m pulling out some info for my dissertation for sure. But for Lil, I’m not quite getting there. And it feels like the answer is almost there in front of me, but then it isn’t.” I stopped and thought it over. “Yikes. That sounds kind of crazy, even to me.”

  “Not at all. You’ve got that nose for a story. Kiddo, you should have been a reporter.”

  “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 s
ilently 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.”