Tower of Babel

by Michael Sears

  “Why were you such a jerk the other day?” she said, pausing with a taro fry suspended between them.

  “It’s a way of entertaining myself. I was in a hurry and didn’t want to take the time to hear your whole pitch.”

  “Well, that’s certainly direct.”

  “Why did you pick me out?” he asked.

  “I told you. I heard about you.”

  The courthouse regulars prized their insider knowledge of who was up to what and why, and they traded information with the avidity of poolside matrons at a country club.

  “So you know all about me.” He took a long swallow of beer. Kenzie’s Google profile was sparse. A framework was implied by six or seven newsworthy incidents covered by local—and left-leaning—news organs. A collegiate athlete with the same name produced more hits.

  “What? I’m having lunch with somebody famous? Sorry. I don’t follow celebrity news. Are you dating a Kardashian or something?”

  “You googled me,” he said. It was half question, half statement.

  “Well, duh. Let me see. You’re smart. Divorced. You wrestled in college. You look good in uniform.”

  He looked like a dork in that photo, but he was proud of his achievements. “Four-year full scholarship.”

  “You used to practice law. And your ex is gay. And remarried. Does that cover it? Are you famous for something else?”

  “I was famous once in high school. I got arrested on a field trip to Washington, DC—for jaywalking. Jaywalking and being a jerk. The charge should have been ‘Contempt of Cop.’” Having grown up in New York City, Ted had never imagined that other cities might enforce such draconian laws. The policeman hadn’t seen the humor in the situation.

  “I’ve been arrested,” she said. “Three times. Never famously, but the Post quoted me once.”

  “Arrested? For protesting?”

  “I’m an activist, remember? They arrest us, take us in, then they let us go without charging us. It’s a game we all play. If I didn’t get arrested every once in a while, people would think I didn’t know how to do my job.” She was hogging the taro fries and he let her.

  “Who pays your salary?”

  “George Soros, who else?”

  He could hear that it was a joke she had used many times before. He laughed anyway.

  “I suppose I should be more ladylike and take little bites, but these are really good.” She took another fry. “Mmm. Heaven. Why do you want to know who pays me? Conservatives ask me that. You’re not a conservative; I can tell by the way you part your hair.”

  “How do conservatives part their hair?”

  She waved away the question. “We get by on contributions and favors. I aspire to minimum wage. My office is a big closet in a small church. I’m going to turn thirty in a couple of years, and I live in an apartment in my parents’ basement two blocks from my dad’s shop. When I move out, they’ll rent it and take a cruise.”

  “Meanwhile, they’ve got your back.”

  “Mom’s a school librarian. I think she gets what I do.”

  “And your father?”

  “A repairman. He fixes everything from lamps to computers—anything that plugs into the wall. He wears a pocket protector in his shirt and carries about a hundred keys on his belt. He worries about me all the time.”

  “A fixer—a rare talent these days,” Ted said.

  “So now you know everything about me.”

  “Everything?” he asked.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Do you like baseball?”

  “Boring. Slow death.” She speared the last fry.

  The pang was less devastating than he would have thought. That it was not a total deal killer was a revelation. Maybe he was finally growing up.

  Kenzie blithely continued as though they were discussing sports in general and not one of his obsessions. “Football is less boring but barbaric. I don’t know why it’s legal. Hockey is like gladiators on ice. Basketball is good, but it’s hard to be a fan in New York. I’m still getting over the Knicks trading Patrick Ewing.”

  “What were you then? Ten? Eleven?”

  “It was traumatic.”

  “How about the Nets?”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “The Liberty?”

  “Is this like some kind of a test? Like if I say I like women’s basketball, I’m gay or a feminazi or something?”

  Jill had often teased Ted that his ability to recognize the sexual orientation of women was subpar, but he held no doubts about this woman. “No, but I’m not going to invite you to go to a game with me if you don’t like women’s basketball.”

  “I thought we were meeting to exchange information.”

  “We are. But maybe there could be more exchanges in our future.”

  “Let’s see how this goes first.”

  She hadn’t said no, and he had not had to remove his foot from his mouth. The arrival of their lunch entrées gave him a chance to regroup. Ted had the pho bo. It was good, and he thought it would be a complement to the bun cha if Kenzie wanted to try it. She did.

  “That’s great,” she said.

  “Want to swap?”

  “Not a chance.”

  They both dug in. Moans of gustatory enthusiasm ensued. Ted flagged a waiter and asked for two more 333s. An ice-cold beer with the beef and broth was heaven. If they never got around to discussing surplus money, crooked politicians, or Russian mobsters, he would be a happy man. He managed to smother his disappointment when Kenzie finally asked, “So. The Russians?”

  He took a moment to organize his thoughts. Best to start with the basics.

  “Do you know what it is that I do?” he asked. “How I make my money?”

  “Something with foreclosures. Basically, you’re a carrion feeder. Am I right? Maybe not a vulture, but . . .”

  “Thank you. I prefer to think of myself as a rogue lion. Hunting without benefit of belonging to a pride but strong, wily, and powerful.”

  “Or a coyote—slinking along, playing mean tricks, and getting by on a diet of mice and kittens.”

  “Okay.” He knew that she was teasing, but he wanted her good opinion, and if that meant explaining himself, so be it. “But a noble coyote with ethics. There are hundreds of reasons why people walk away from a piece of property, leaving money on the table. I’m merely trying to reunite those people with what is rightfully theirs. Clients are generally very happy to get a little of their money back.”

  “This time it’s not little, though. That’s the rumor at any rate.”

  “I don’t normally get involved in cases like this one. It’s too big, too complicated, and there are already too many lawyers involved. For the same reason, I avoid anything to do with divorce. But as everyone I meet has told me to stay away from this one, I have become interested. So, I keep digging.” And he would continue, despite the Judge’s warning.

  An overly efficient busboy whisked all the dishes off the table. Ted would have appreciated another minute or two to gaze at the remains. He asked for a glass of seltzer, and Kenzie ordered a coffee before continuing. She was dogged.

  “What do the Russians have to do with what you’re working on?”

  This would be more speculation than hard fact, but Ted felt he could open up to her. “I think they’re fronting for LBC. They sell to cutouts . . .” He paused as he saw a question flicker behind her eyes. “Cutouts. Corporations or LLCs that exist only to hide the people who really benefit from a deal.” She nodded in understanding, and he continued. “The bad guys can make payoffs that are tough to track. I don’t have all the pieces or connections. But Corona Partners—the Russians—bought properties at auction that LBC now owns. That is not a coincidence.”

  “No. It’s not.”

  Ted had made a conjecture based on a smat
tering of evidence and a skeptical view of human nature. Kenzie spoke with greater authority.

  “I’ve got photos of the Russians meeting with LBC execs, a couple of politicians, even a judge. But I don’t have a paper trail.” She smiled, quite pleased with her information and his surprise.

  “Where were they meeting?”

  “Some tired old steak house in Great Neck. It’s a block outside the city limits, so I guess they thought no one would see them there. Always on a Tuesday. I hate playing the cynic, but these idiots are both arrogant and dumb—a winning combination.”

  “Who shows up?” Ted asked. Finally, pieces were falling into place. Now he needed specifics. “What’s his name? The guy who’s always on television.”

  “Reisner. Ronald Reisner. Chairman of the board of LBC. No, he’s too smart. He sends his people. Sometimes a lawyer, sometimes one of his stooges. He’s got a very small group of execs that he trusts. Having one of them deliver a payoff or a bribe is his way of testing their loyalty.”

  “Are the Russians there?” Ted asked.

  “Not always. I don’t really get their part in this. Why would Reisner need muscle if he’s got judges and city councilmembers in his pocket?”

  “You’re talking about Kevin Pak?”

  “He’s one of many,” she said.

  “They’re not only muscle,” Ted said. “The Russians have money they need to launder.” It was a good question, though. Why would Reisner want to partner with gangsters? The Russians were not known to be silent partners. “Maybe he doesn’t have a choice,” Ted mused. “Does he need their money? Is he tapped out with his lenders?”

  “You’d think that would be major news. Big Banks Slam Door on Billionaire Developer. The Post would love it.”

  They were beyond the realm of known facts. “Or the Russians might be controlling the politicians.”

  “Maybe,” she said, though she sounded unconvinced. “You know why it’s called Sutphin Boulevard?”

  Ted was about to take a sip of the bubbly water, but he placed the glass on the table. “I’m going to assume you are making a point.”

  “Run with me,” she said.

  “All right.” There was not a less boulevard-like street imaginable. It was a two-lane road that should have been called Cow Path Lane. “I think it was named for a minor robber baron from the eighteen hundreds.”

  “John Sutphin. Banker, real estate tycoon, and politician.”

  “With those three careers, I would think the best you could say was that at least he wasn’t a pedophile. Was he?”

  “He was actually a really good guy. He was an honest banker who encouraged his poorest customers to save rather than borrow. He also provided free housing for about a hundred indigent families. And he was county clerk for a couple of decades without a hint of scandal. Now, I’m sure he cut some deals during his time, but he never forgot who he was really working for. The voters, not the developers. Not the rich. He donated all the property for the courthouses and offices.”

  “A guy like that wouldn’t have a chance at getting elected these days,” Ted said.

  “It wasn’t always like it is today, and it doesn’t have to stay this way.”

  Ted made a point of remaining apolitical—partly out of skepticism, partly out of cynicism. But he had a soft spot for optimists. Especially the good-looking female variety.

  “What do you need from me?” he asked.

  “Can you document everything you told me? I’ve got a guy at the Times who will listen, but he’s going to want hard evidence.” Her eyes were bright, and she had the poised posture of a setter waiting to be released after a covey of quail. She was beautiful.

  Ted shook his head. “I tracked the purchases and sales, but there are missing transactions, and files have been vandalized.”

  “And when’s the last time that happened?” She raised an eyebrow. “They’ll sit on the deeds until they think we’ve all forgotten about it, then they’ll dump all the records into the system at once.”

  “It happens all the time. So? Who’s going to complain?”

  “Besides some community organizer?” She flashed a rueful smile.

  Ted found her intensity and intelligence intoxicating. He was falling in lust. “Other than destroying files, which I can’t prove, what they’re doing is not illegal. Shady, yes.”

  “They had to get variances,” she said. “They had to get air rights. Every property owner in Queens knows you don’t sell your air rights unless you’re getting top dollar.”

  Ted silently debated going further. All that they had talked about so far could be labeled general background information. There could be no repercussions. No specific people had been mentioned other than Ron Reisner and Councilman Pak, and they were both highly public figures.

  “I’m sorry if this sounds mysterious or melodramatic, but I need you to tell me you won’t share what I’m about to tell you with anyone else,” Ted said.

  “I haven’t been sworn to secrecy since middle school. Okay. Cross my heart and hope to die.” She flashed him a challenging smile.

  “A powerful oath,” Ted said. “My client is a woman. An old woman named Barbara Miller. She owns some buildings in various neighborhoods in Queens. She used to own three more that sat on property that LBC needs to build that tower.”

  “I should know about her. We talked to two dozen landlords. How did we miss her?”

  “You came along too late.” Kenzie had a tiny mole on her neck—a beauty mark. He wanted to kiss it. “They got to her first. She is now in an assisted-living residence in Seaside.”

  “Is she competent?” she asked.

  “I talked to her. She’s easily frightened, but you get her on a sunny day, and she’ll be fine. And tough as an old shoe.”

  “You like her.”

  “I do.” She wanted to know if the coyote had a heart. It may have been beaten and battered, but it was functional.

  “So this one is personal,” she said.

  “I suppose it is. But I’ve been threatened if I continue and also if I drop it. I’ve been pushed around before. I don’t like it.”

  “Okay. So what’s next?”

  “Dinner?” he said, hoping that his willingness to share had earned him a second meeting, possibly a date.

  Though she smiled encouragingly, her words stopped him. “Don’t rush me. I don’t respond well.”

  He had a line of retreat prepared. “I meant dinner at a has-been steak house out past the city line. Where I can go and watch these crooks in action.”

  A hint of disappointment flickered in her eyes. A romantic dinner might still be in their future. “Tuesday night. They’re at the same table every week.”

  “Tuesday. I’ll have to wait until then,” Ted said.

  She cocked her head to one side as though a thought had only then occurred to her.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  “How about breakfast tomorrow? There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  -27-

  “Ted?”

  The body responded to the ringing of the phone. His hand reached out and grabbed the device; his thumb did the rest. All this was done with muscle memory. His brain was not yet engaged. “Uh-huh.”

  “What are you doing?”

  Sleeping? Past tense. “Jill?” His voice croaked. Allergies? No, beer.

  “Hi.”

  Ted checked the time. “Jesus. It’s four-something. Are you okay?”

  “I’m watching Laura,” she said.

  He tried to focus. Who the hell was Laura? “But you’re not hurt? You’re safe?”

  “I’m fine, silly. I’m watching a movie. Well, I’m not fine, but I am safe. Okay?”

  What day was it? He remembered that he had gone to bed on Saturday night after an eleven-inning heartbreaker on the road, during which
he had finished off a fresh six-pack of Brooklyn Defender IPA, one of Brooklyn Brewery’s higher-alcohol brews, and two cans of Bud Light that had been sitting in the refrigerator for so long that he could not remember how they got there. As he had not yet seen the sun, he guessed it was early Sunday morning.

  “Laura? Yeah, yeah. Didn’t we see that together?” They were talking about a movie. He felt like a genius for having made the connection. Then he realized that Jill had just told him that it was a movie.

  “Gene Tierney,” she said.

  “Yes. Got it.”

  “She had a very sad life.”

  At 4:19 in the morning, with or without a hangover, it was difficult for Ted to summon much sympathy for a long-dead Hollywood star. “What time is it where you are?” he asked.

  “Uh.” A pause while she pondered this meaty question. “Four-nineteen.”

  “Same here,” he said.

  “I can’t sleep, Teddy.”

  Ted was suddenly wide awake. On guard. He knew Jill and what she sounded like when she was suffering through one of her mild anxiety attacks. Years before, he might have held her and made up funny stories and promised her that one day they would run away to Tasmania and live off the sales of their organic, carb-free mango chutney. And she would have laughed. Not tonight.

  “Talk it out. This is not about Jackie, is it?” Ted drew the line at marriage counseling.

  “Grandfather was here.”

  “Yeah. Here too. He said you sent him.”

  “Why?”

  “You didn’t?”

  “He scared me,” she said.

  “He would never hurt you.”

  “That’s not it. He’s afraid for Jacqueline. And for you,” she said.

  “Me? Not likely.” The Judge had said that it was Jill who was concerned for Jackie, but he’d also said she might suffer embarrassment. Who was the dissembler?

  “No. He is.” Her faith in the old man was unshakable—and maddening. “What did he say to you?”

  “It didn’t go as well as he hoped,” Ted said. “He’s not worried for me; he’s worried about me. He thinks I’m doing something that will hurt the family. Or the firm.”