Tower of Babel

by Michael Sears

  “Clear. Let’s walk.”

  They hustled toward Hillside Avenue, Lester matching Ted’s longer strides.

  “The file’s a dead end. It was signed out to Barbara Miller. She’s in her nineties. I very much doubt that she was down in the records room today destroying her own case file.”

  Lester nodded. “I talked to the guards. They said anybody could walk out with a bunch of loose pages. All they check for is the blue folder. And I don’t think they’re too careful about that either. They ask to look in briefcases, backpacks, and bags, but anyone could tuck a case file down their pants and walk out with it.”

  “Whoever did this was smart. She must have used Barbara Miller’s ID. If we hadn’t shown up, that file would have gone into the stacks with nobody checking it. It might never have been discovered.”

  “You’d think all those records would be scanned and kept online,” Lester said.

  A semi with a long trailer was trying to make the turn and had traffic blocked in all directions. Lester marched into the intersection, holding up one hand to part the waters. Ted stayed close on his heels. Whatever juju was keeping Lester from getting run over might not extend to a lagging follower.

  “Where we going?” Lester asked when they had landed safely on the far corner.

  “Down the block,” Ted said, pointing toward a strip of storefronts. “It’s always about money. Property records are all online because there’s real money involved. Civil case proceedings? Nobody cares. That’s why I’m able to make a buck at this. If it was all on the web, anybody could do it.”

  “Are those the only records? No copies?”

  “The lawyers would keep files,” Ted said.

  “How do we get a look at them, then?”

  Ted imagined calling Jacqueline Clavette and begging to dig through her files. “Not gonna happen.”

  “So what will you do?”

  He weighed the question. He owed no one a thing. Not Cheryl, not the cop, and not Richie. He could walk away and feel no responsibility. That was the smart move. But someone had taken a big chance just to hide information. He had a strong urge to kick the hornet’s nest.

  “We follow the money.”

  -9-

  They took a table in the Dominican restaurant on Hillside. It was early for the lunch crowd; the waiter was setting tables. Ted ordered coffee. Lester asked for a screwdriver.

  “Just a little something for the arthritis. And go easy on the OJ. I’ve got to watch my sugar.”

  Ted opened his iPad and began to search. “Give me the address on one of Miller’s properties. Any one. Or block and lot if it’s there.”

  Lester checked the tax map and read off the block and lot. Ted typed in the information and waited.

  “What are we looking for?” Lester scooched his chair around so that he could see the screen.

  “Recent sales. We start with ACRIS. New York City property records. I know it usually takes you title guys a month or more to get the paperwork in and another month or two for the clerks to enter it into the system. But I’m betting that with a project this large they streamlined the process.”

  They had. Records for the property went back over a hundred years. Barbara Miller was listed as the owner beginning in 1974 on a deed transfer. She had inherited the property. Prior to that, there were other Millers, all men. The most recent transactions, though, were the forced foreclosure sales to an LLC that went by the name of Corona Partners, followed three months later by a purchase by the LBC Development Corporation, a wholly owned subsidiary of La Bella Casa Hotels, itself a division of LBC International, Inc.—the same LBC whose initials were stamped on controversial developments all over Queens.

  “There’s something missing,” Lester said. “The seller doesn’t match.”

  Ted stopped and checked. Lester was right. The ultimate seller was not Corona but a blind, a cutout—One-Hundred-Fourteenth-Street LLC. The practice of hiding ownership was not illegal as long as it wasn’t used to evade the taxman or to operate an illegal enterprise. There were legitimate reasons for developers to keep their interest hidden from competitors, and that could have been the case in this instance. But Ted didn’t buy it. His faith in the basic goodness of man did not extend to real estate developers. “So who are they? And why hasn’t Corona posted the sale?”

  “That’s an easy one,” Lester said. “Corona owes the transfer tax. They don’t have to pay until they post the sale. They’ll want to take their time.”

  The drinks arrived. The vodka and orange juice was as pale as winter sun. Lester downed it in two swallows.

  “They can only put it off for so long,” Ted said. He waved away the waiter’s offer of cream and sugar.

  “Right. But these guys are flippers. One or one and a half percent paid out every month or so starts to add up.”

  “Run this by me again,” Ted said.

  “They never hold a property very long. The transfer tax is owed on every sale, no matter how long you hold it. If they turn over properties once a month or so, they’re paying fifteen percent in taxes—on the same capital. That’s a hefty bite. So they only file when they’re flush with cash.”

  Ted was impressed that Lester understood this much about Corona and their business. “You know them? These Corona Partners?”

  “I don’t know them. But I know the name. They’re at the auctions every week. They’re lowballers. They only bid when there’s no legitimate buyers, and they never pay a dollar more than rock bottom. I doubt they own anything for longer than a month or two. It’s all about turnover.”

  “They paid up this time,” Ted said. “There’s a million-two in surplus money.”

  “I find it hard to believe that Corona Partners left a million-two on the table. Not those guys.”

  “How do we find them?” Ted asked. “It can’t hurt to ask.”

  “They should have someone at the auctions on Friday.”

  “Then we’ll be there, too.”

  -10-

  Ted joined the line of blue-and-orange-clad fans shuffling toward the gate at Citi Field. He didn’t bother trying to find Jill in the melee; she would already be in her seat watching batting practice, her program open, with freshly sharpened number two pencils at the ready, one tucked behind each ear.

  “Will you step this way, sir?” The wand-bearing security officer flagged Ted and waved him to the side. Again. Ted could not imagine what profile he matched that got him tagged for extra treatment as often as he was. Possibly it was the fact that he always arrived at the gate sober that made him stand out.

  “Are you carrying any liquids?” the officer asked. “Knives, firearms, or other weapons?”

  Ted held up a half-empty bottle of seltzer.

  The guard took it and dropped it into a plastic tub. “Any other liquids?”

  Ted thought of this as the IQ portion of the test. If you were carrying any of the things on the list, why would you admit it?

  He raised his arms in crucifixion pose and waited for the burly man to finish his examination. Why did a security officer need to wear a bulletproof vest under his jacket to keep rowdy teenagers from sneaking in bottles of strawberry-flavored vodka? Confrontations with arbitrary authority often left Ted with such questions.

  “Go right ahead, sir,” the officer said. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” Ted answered without thinking. He swiped his ticket at the turnstile and passed through.

  The venerable firm of Hasting, Fitzmaurice, and Barson had been simultaneously generous and controlling in its treatment of first-year associates. In addition to such amenities as a personal shopper, livery-cab commuting, and free dinners delivered from an approved list of top steak houses and sushi restaurants for anyone forced to work after 8 p.m., the firm had offered gratis season tickets at Yankee Stadium. As a Mets fan and Yankee hater, Ted acted ou
t his rebellion against this political arm-twisting by using a small portion of his signing bonus—earmarked by most new hires for appropriate Brooks Brothers attire—for the purchase of two season tickets for the Mets at Shea Stadium. Why two tickets? Blind optimism.

  That spirit paid off wildly when he discovered that Jill was also a rabid fan, the sole heretic in that clan of Yankee worshippers. He and Jill were married eighteen months later. Ted did not propose via the scoreboard, but Jill wouldn’t have minded if he had.

  “Hello, darling. I bought you a beer.” Jill held up a tall plastic cup.

  Ted squeezed into his seat and swapped a cardboard tray for the drink. “And I’ve got the hot dogs.” Nathan’s—despite the recent competition, the best tube steaks offered.

  They preferred the bleacher seats to the boxes along the baselines, which were packed with lawyers, stockbrokers, bond traders, and the technology gurus from Long Island City. Ted had chosen the left-field section, where they could enjoy the antics of the 7 Line Army without being in among them. The Army was more entertaining at a slight distance.

  “I’m glad you could make it,” Ted said. Jill managed to join him for eight or ten games each season. Thanks to his lack of any structured schedule, Ted made it to more than twice as many.

  “I’ve been abandoned. Jacqueline left for Albany this morning.”

  “Oh? I thought she was at the courthouse out here this morning.” He felt only a touch of guilt at using Jill’s friendship to snoop on her partner’s whereabouts.

  Jill shrugged. “Maybe. She’s never been so busy.”

  “How’s she doing? Are they ever going to make her partner?” The firm had had only two female partners when Ted was there—neither of them openly gay. Ms. Clavette had survived the demise of the Commercial Real Estate department by accepting a reassignment to Trust and Estate. Ted had not been offered a berth. He’d been shown the door.

  “I hope so. This thing she’s working on now might get her there.”

  “Then she must be branching out from estate and trust work.” T&E was a service department, not a profit center. Partners were rarely chosen from its ranks.

  “This is some big real estate deal she brought in. And why are you so interested in Jacqueline tonight?”

  “Who’s pitching?” Ted said, trying evasion over admission.

  “The rookie. He’s two and one. Throws nothing but heat. And why are you asking me about Jacqueline?”

  “He needs a sinker,” Ted said.

  “Francesa said they’ve got him working on it. Are you deliberately not answering me, or have you gone deaf?

  “You’re relentless, you know that?”

  “And proud of it,” she said with a grin.

  “I might have to give her a call. Our paths converged. Something that I’m working on.”

  “I don’t know if she’ll take your call. If a partner found out she was talking to Edward Molloy, she could get her butt kicked.”

  Ted knew that if he asked Jill to intercede, she would. They may have failed at marriage, but they were friends. He had precious few of those, and so he did not ask.

  “Do you want me to ask her? I don’t know if she would do it, even for me, but I can try.”

  He felt himself capitulating to her kindness. A mistake. Their relationship depended on two things—giving and forgiving as much as possible and taking only what was absolutely necessary.

  “I didn’t offer lightly, my dear,” she said. “If you want my help, you’ve got it.”

  “No,” he said. “I’ll call her. If she won’t talk to me, I’ll drop it.”

  “I’ll give you her cell phone. Not the firm’s phone. Hers.”

  “You want another hot dog? I’m buying.”

  “If that’s a thank-you, I’ll take it,” she said.

  “Thank you. Now, do you want the dog?”

  “No. I want the short rib grilled cheese sandwich from Pressed.”

  “Will do.” Ted rarely took advantage of the fact that Citi Field had possibly the best food court anywhere on the planet. When they served Nathan’s in a ballpark, his epicurean needs were fulfilled. Jill, however, reveled in the diversity.

  “And another beer.”

  “All that for a telephone number?”

  “Are you going by Box Frites?”

  “And fries? Aioli sauce?”

  “Hurry back. First pitch is in four minutes.”

  -11-

  They let the flow of the crowd carry them out of the park. The night had grown cool.

  “Do you know that guy?” Jill asked once they’d reached the parking lot.

  As Jill had failed to indicate which guy out of the thousands streaming by them, Ted asked the obvious: “Who?”

  She looked over her shoulder. “Now he’s gone. Which is weird, because he’s big. Monument big.”

  Ted didn’t see anyone who fit that description or anywhere such a person could have hidden. “What did he look like?”

  “I can’t believe you didn’t see him. He was sitting in the next section, and he kept staring at you instead of the game.”

  Ted flashed back to the man outside of Gallagher’s. The giant who he was sure had accompanied Cheryl. He scanned the crowd again. “Why didn’t you say anything then?”

  “Because he wasn’t creepy until he followed us outside.”

  There were any number of “big” people around but none who qualified as monument sized. And none who appeared to be paying any attention to Ted or Jill.

  “Maybe he was just walking to the nearest exit,” he said. “Like everybody else here.”

  Jill dismissed the possibility—and the subject—with a toss of her hair. “Can I drop you somewhere?”

  Jill always asked and Ted always refused. Usually he took the 7 train to Broadway, where he could grab a gypsy cab. It beat sitting in a Town Car waiting to get out of the parking lot for half an hour or paying blackmail rates to an Uber driver. But that night Ted had a different plan. He wanted to see the site of the planned La Bella Casa tower, to walk those streets, and to get a feel for what the project would mean to the community. And maybe find a clue to understanding how and why Barbara Miller had let her real estate portfolio drift away.

  “I need to stretch my legs,” he answered. “Can you get away again anytime soon? Tomorrow?”

  She scrunched her face into a show of disappointment. “Not likely and definitely not tomorrow—Jacqueline’s back tomorrow, and I hate to push it. She does not approve of our shared passion for baseball.”

  “Your wife does not approve of me,” Ted said.

  “True,” Jill said with a sad smile. “But call me.”

  He did not point out, as he had many times before, that phone calls could be made in both directions. “I will. Give my regards to the family.”

  She rolled her eyes in response. Wasn’t going to happen.

  Citi Field sits a few blocks north of Flushing Meadows Corona Park, an expanse larger than Manhattan’s Central Park but only a third the size of Pelham Bay Park across the East River. The park is the showpiece of Queens, with facilities for a wide variety of sports, both professional and amateur. It is surrounded, bisected, and overlooked by highways and subway and railroad lines. The remaining structures from the 1964 World’s Fair, still standing, though showing some signs of age and neglect—a mammoth globe, the pavilion, a skating rink, and the odd mushroom-shaped towers—are features deliciously out of time.

  Ted saw Jill safely into the chauffeured Town Car and gave a short wave before walking out of the lot. Roosevelt Avenue crossed over the Grand Central Parkway with the occasional train rattling overhead, drowning out the honking horns of disgruntled drivers heading home. He found himself sharing the sidewalk with a mixed group of tired fans—all men or teenage boys, all smiling in the wake of an unexpected win. From sna
tches of conversations he overheard, he thought there had to be three or four continents and a dozen countries represented, all on a ten-foot length of New York sidewalk.

  Suddenly the group slowed. Just ahead walked a group of four young male Asian Americans—Vietnamese, he guessed—all speaking English with heavy Latino accents. They wore team jerseys and flat-brimmed ball caps and took up all of the sidewalk and then some. Despite the fact that they were moving in a slow, exaggerated saunter, none of the other homeward-bound fans made any move to get around them. Ted hung back. The four guys didn’t act threatening—they seemed to be in quite good spirits—but this was not his neighborhood, and he had no wish to break some cultural taboo or do something that could be interpreted as disrespect.

  It wasn’t fear—it was good judgment.

  The young men sauntered into the bar on the corner, and the group’s pace returned to normal.

  The first block after 114th Street held a mix of commercial and residential buildings. The streetlights and the store signs made the sidewalk almost as bright as in day. There were car repair shops, a church, two hotels, and a group of three-story multifamilies. Ted stopped in the middle of the block, letting the straggling crowd pass by, and stood with his back up against the front of the church.

  Queens was his home. He had abandoned it for the celestial promises of Manhattan, but it had taken him back when his flame had sputtered out and he had fallen to earth. That was practically the definition of home. The place that had to take you in. He had no living family, no particular childhood friends who would welcome him, and yet, it was home. But as he stood there contemplating the view across the way, Ted realized that he had never seen this neighborhood before. He’d walked through it on his way to somewhere else, but he had never taken the time to really look. Queens, more than any other borough, is a collection of disparate communities. Though it is a stew of cultures, each maintains an individual identity. Geographic lines are fluid, but Hollis and Howard Beach could be separated by light-years for all the contact between them.