Tower of Babel

by Michael Sears

  “Are you?”

  “Am I what?” He did not want to go down that road with her.

  “Doing something that would hurt Jacqueline?”

  Both Jill and the Judge were worried. Ted was sure now that his hunch was right. Jackie wasn’t merely the lawyer of record on those case files. She was deeply involved. “Jackie needs to do what’s right. If she does, she’ll be fine.” And if she didn’t, he would see she wasn’t the only one to be taken down.

  “What does that mean?”

  “She’ll know,” he said.

  “You are doing something. Why? Why hurt her?”

  “I don’t want to hurt anyone.” That wasn’t quite true. He wanted to crush Jackie, the firm, and every member of the Fitzmaurice clan—except Jill. And he wanted to be able to live with himself afterward. He didn’t think both were possible. “Tell Jacqueline to talk with me. Not yell at me. Talk. Converse.”

  “For once, just do what I ask without making me beg.”

  Something was off. Jill’s panic had been replaced with this strident demand and its laughable premise. Begging had never been any part of who they were. He could sense strings being pulled. Had her grandfather put her up to this? Or was it Jackie standing over her? Or was he being paranoid? Or perceptive? “Have her call me.”

  “She won’t,” she said.

  “Then don’t take it out on me.”

  “You used to be nice. Be nice.”

  -28-

  In a snippet of a dream just before waking, Ted saw a wave of dark red hair splayed across the pillow next to him. He opened his eyes in full expectation of McKenzie Zielinski lying beside him, asleep and satisfied. The reality—that he was alone and hungover—engulfed him and followed him as he staggered to the bathroom and then to the kitchen. He made a pot of strong coffee and drank it with three tablets of ibuprofen.

  His thoughts were dark and full of doubt. Though he looked forward to seeing Kenzie in an hour, Jill’s phone call hung around his neck like a noose.

  What was he playing at? Was he idly poking a stick into a hornet’s nest? What did he owe to Jill? To Richie? To Cheryl? To anyone? What would he say to Jill if his suspicions about Jackie were revealed to be true? Jackie would take a great fall. She would be lucky to stay out of jail.

  And there was the Judge. A manipulative puppet master, admittedly, but one who had treated Ted fairly in the past and who might, despite the threats and attempted bribes, be giving wise advice. Or were all these doubts the product of too much stress and too much beer the night before?

  Whom could he trust to help him answer all these questions?

  The coffee and ibuprofen did their work. He called for an Uber and set out.

  Roosevelt Avenue on a clear Sunday morning in May was a testament to the American immigrant dream. Families were streaming out of the Spanish-language church in the middle of the block. Many of the fathers were in suits, though Ted didn’t see a single tie. The mothers wore dresses, low heels, and hats. The little boys all had collared white shirts, and the girls sported flouncy dresses with petticoats. The scene, adjusted for the darker skin tones, could have been a subject for an early Rockwell magazine cover.

  Somewhere nearby, older children lurked, already wrestling with modern realities like drugs, gangs, and the dearth of opportunities for all but the fortunate. Somewhere nearby was a homeless alcoholic, sleeping behind a dumpster and dreaming of a highland village in Central America that he should never have left. New York rewards the strong and the lucky. Everyone else gets by or gets devoured. It has always been that way.

  Ted, hidden in shadow beneath the overhead subway tracks, watched the pageant play out from the opposite side of the street. Farther down the avenue was the coffee shop with a six-foot hand-painted sign reading desayunos all day. Judging by the line out front, it was doing a brisk business. He was not early or late. He thought about standing out in the direct sunlight where he would be more visible but decided his hangover took precedence.

  “Hey! What are you doing over there?” Kenzie, hair as red as he remembered it being in his dream, stood in the doorway of the coffee shop. She waved him over. “Come on. I’ve got a booth.”

  The noise hit him first. Everyone seemed to be talking at once. An infant squalled; squabbling siblings were told to behave by shrill female voices. Harried waitresses with pencils poking from their hair took orders, refilled coffee, and hustled black-clad busboys into clearing dishes. Everywhere was the sound of cutlery connecting with plates.

  The atmosphere hit next. Hot, humid, and laden with scents of cooking pork; boiling oil; grilled, toasted, and fried breads of every description; and over it all, peppers. Peppers in a dozen varieties. Ted’s eyes watered, but his senses finally woke. The hangover receded and made way for an appetite. Suddenly he was ravenous.

  “Are you okay? You look like the canary that swallowed the cat.” Kenzie was full of energy and good spirits, as though she had slept well and been up for hours.

  “This is the best I’ve felt all morning. Where’s your mystery man?”

  “He’ll be along. Let’s get you some coffee.” She waved for the waitress and with further hand signals indicated they needed two cups—pronto.

  “I don’t drink often enough to get good at it,” he confessed. “I had a few beers watching a ball game.” And a late-night phone call and too many things on his mind.

  A busboy set two cups before them and turned to go.

  “And water,” Ted said.

  The young man looked at him with perfect incomprehension.

  “Agua. Dos, por favor,” Kenzie said, earning a huge smile from the busboy before he ran off. “This friend of mine who’s coming—he’s like the saint of Corona. You’ll like him. And”—she paused for dramatic effect—“he knows everybody and where all the bodies are buried. You’ll see.”

  Ted was rallying. Sitting across from this woman certainly helped. “If you say this guy is okay, then I believe it.”

  A family of five went out the door, and as the last of the crew, a preteen boy in a suit too big and too grown-up for him, squeezed around a big-hipped waitress and dashed out, a familiar face peeked in.

  Despite the heat, the Preacher was wearing the same dark overcoat. He stepped through the door, and Ted could see that the duct-taped boat shoes had been replaced with a new pair of high-top black sneakers. Ted’s contribution had gone to a good cause.

  “Here’s somebody I know,” Ted said.

  Kenzie looked over her shoulder, not entirely registering what Ted had said. “Oh, he’s here.” She threw a big wave in the Preacher’s direction.

  “This is your guy?” Ted asked.

  “Yeah,” she said. “You’ll see. He’s very cool.”

  The Preacher had seen her wave and was approaching with a warm but amused expression. Ted stood to greet him. They shook hands.

  “Isn’t this a workday for you?” Ted asked.

  “My pulpit is the subway turnstile. My church, the street. As a freelance messenger of the Lord, I am out here minding my flock six days a week. Sundays, I rest and let others spread the Word.”

  “Can I buy you breakfast?” Ted said.

  Kenzie recovered quickly from her initial surprise. She slid over and the Preacher sat next to her. “So, one of you better tell me how you two got to be such buddies.”

  “We met for the first time this week,” the Preacher said.

  “And he helped me find Barbara Miller,” Ted added.

  A Latina waitress who could have stood in for a Botero model came to the table with menus and a third cup of coffee. “Ah, Padre, it has been too long.”

  “Hola, Princesa. Estos son mis amigos.”

  “Welcome. Welcome,” she said, handing menus to Kenzie and Ted.

  “I think a plate of carbs, protein, and grease has a chance of making me whol
e again,” Ted said.

  “And a dash or two of hot sauce,” Kenzie added.

  Ted looked over the menu while Kenzie ordered two eggs over easy and rye toast well done, butter on the side. Ted realized there were too many choices in front of him and the idiosyncratic spelling (“bagel and cram cheese”) was distracting him. The Preacher ordered a “Spanish omelete.” Ted closed the menu and handed it back. “I’ll have what he’s having.”

  “Was I of any help?” the Preacher asked. “Did you find the missing Barbara Miller?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Ted said. “She’s all right. In fact, she is in a very safe facility. She didn’t choose to be there, but the people there are taking good care of her.”

  “A nursing home?”

  “A good step up from that,” Ted said.

  “But you’re not pleased.”

  “They stole real property from her, but she’ll never miss it. They also stole her freedom, which in my book is a greater crime, though I believe she’s better off where she is now.”

  “Who is ‘they’?”

  “The tower,” Kenzie said. “It’s all connected.”

  Ted found himself talking before he knew what he wanted to say. All the pent-up anxiety and all the doubts spewed out of him. “I’ve got a set of facts, things I know to be true. Then I’ve got a bunch of things that I’ve been told. Some of them might be facts. It all fits together and makes a picture, but I have no idea if that picture is real. Or whether I am seeing all or only a part of the larger canvas. I can’t trust anyone’s motivations, as there’s a fair amount of money involved. And I realized last night that I can’t even trust my own motivations.”

  The Preacher said nothing. Kenzie’s raised eyebrows spoke volumes.

  “I’m not making much sense, am I?” Ted asked.

  “Nope,” Kenzie said. “I think you need sustenance.”

  The plates had arrived, the omelets wrapped in warm flour tortillas with sides of papas so red with ground pepper that Ted’s eyes watered and his nose began to itch just from looking at them. The Preacher grabbed the bottle of red sauce. “You go easy with this, or you’ll be on the crapper the rest of the day, hear?” He poured a healthy slug over the eggs and began to eat.

  Ted took his advice and let two drops hit the edge of the plate. He brushed the tortilla in that general direction and took a bite. His sinuses opened up, his nostrils ran, and tears flowed down his cheeks. He loved it.

  Kenzie gave him a sympathetic smile. “How are you doing?”

  “Eat some of them taters,” the Preacher said. “The starch will help put out the fire.”

  “You’re kidding,” Ted said. “They’re covered in chili powder.”

  “Yeah, but that’s a slow burn. Try it.”

  Ted hiccupped. His throat felt as if he’d been breathing flames.

  “Eat ’em,” the Preacher said.

  Ted did. The Preacher was right. The potatoes were spicy but warm, not searing. The combination was delicious.

  “Better,” Ted said. “I may yet live.” With each bite the world became a kinder, gentler place.

  The anxiety of the last few days faded. The paranoia of the predawn call settled into a feeling of mild unease. He needed allies. The Preacher had trusted him; it was time to reciprocate.

  Kenzie finished her eggs, spread butter on her toast, and then scraped off most of it. “When you’re up to it, tell my friend the whole story. I’ll help out where I can.”

  The café was packed and filled with the babble of three or four different languages. Ted looked around. Three young bearded Sikhs in turbans. A tall, thin man with tribal scars on his cheeks sitting with his family, his wife and daughter in brightly colored head scarves—all three of them in white shirts buttoned to the neck, while the preteen son slumped in low-cut baggy black jeans and a Knicks jersey. A long table of brown-skinned men, women, and children, all with the distinctively Mayan facial features, none of them taller than four foot ten, all talking at once. The café offered the privacy of the bazaar, their conversation overwhelmed by the cacophony around them. Ted could speak freely without fear that anything he said might be overheard and repeated.

  He began with the cops coming to question him—twice—about the death of Richie, murdered almost a week before, and finished with his conversation that morning with Jill. He hit all the high points but didn’t dwell on details. Ted didn’t excuse himself or apologize, nor did he attempt to play the hero for cutting a deal with Barbara Miller.

  “Her property was key,” Kenzie said. “Without those plots, Reisner was stuck.”

  Ted nodded and plunged on. “Kenzie cares about stopping the tower. I know you’re firmly in that camp. But I’m juggling a lot of other issues. If I keep pursuing this, I will hurt someone who cares about me. We may be divorced, but she is my closest friend. Her family will be devastated, and if I’m right her spouse will likely go to jail. On top of that, the local power elite will want my scalp, the biggest real estate developer this side of Manhattan will try to bury me with bullshit legal filings, and then there’s the Russians.”

  The Preacher understood. “Nowhere is safe with those people. You cross them Russians once, and you’ll pay for it every day until you die.”

  “On the other hand, if I pull the filing, I can walk away with my career restored and a fair amount of green in my pocket. Miss Miller won’t get her buildings back—or her money—but she’s ninety-whatever and being well taken care of. Mrs. Rubiano won’t get any money either, but I believe she’s as crooked as any of them.” There would still be the not-so-small matter of Cheryl’s mysterious giant, but Ted kept that to himself.

  “And the tower goes up,” Kenzie said. She had a good poker face, but there was steel in her voice.

  “That’s not my fight,” Ted said.

  “It should be,” she said.

  Ted didn’t let her surety detour him. He forged ahead. “Friday afternoon, my guy filed papers with the court on behalf of Miller. Assuming the usual level of efficiency one finds at the courthouse, the clerk didn’t even look at them. There’s a good chance I can undo everything tomorrow. Pull the filing and forget the whole damn mess. I’ve got other cases I can work on that won’t ruin people’s lives.”

  Kenzie was still simmering. “That tower will affect every person in this part of Queens. All these people here”—she swept her arm to include the whole diner—“will be squeezed out. A community will die. Don’t tell me that won’t ruin lives.”

  “The man is opening his heart.” The Preacher spoke softly, without anger or recrimination. “He is seeking our help.”

  Kenzie stared down at the table. “I hear you,” she said after a long silence. She looked Ted in the eyes. “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” Ted said.

  She jerked her head in a decisive gesture. “I need some air. I’m going for a walk. Let me know when you get your head on straight.”

  The Preacher moved aside and let her out. Ted watched her leave, hoping she would look back. She didn’t.

  “Well, I fucked that up royally,” Ted said.

  The Preacher nodded sadly in agreement. “You see that pretty waitress, you let her know I could use a refill.” He nodded at his empty cup.

  The dining room was, if it was possible, even busier than when they had arrived. “We may have a bit of a wait.”

  “She likes you, you know?” The Preacher leaned back, crossing his arms and giving Ted a look of deep appraisal. “These kinds of questions are easy for her. What’s hard for her is to understand your conflict. She thinks you have to think like her, or she can’t respect you. She’s wrong.”

  “I find that I very much want her respect.”

  “No doubt.”

  The busboy swung by with the coffee carafe and gave them both refills. They sat in silence while t
he Preacher doctored his mug with cream and two sugars. Ted sipped his coffee black.

  “And the police? Will they still think you killed your partner?” the Preacher asked after taking a long sip.

  “Not my partner, please. I’m sorry Richie’s dead, and I hope they find who did it, but the guy was never a partner. Or a friend. But no, I’m not worried. There’s no case against me, and there won’t be for the simple reason, I didn’t do it.”

  “But you made promises.”

  “Yes. I did,” Ted said.

  “And honoring those promises is important to you.”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t give advice,” the Preacher said, his voice indicating that he might if asked.

  Ted shook his head. “It’s my problem. My decision. Whatever I end up doing is entirely on me.”

  The Preacher smiled his approval. “I’ll put two questions to you: What do you regret right now? And what will you regret a year from now?”

  Ted didn’t have to think long or hard about the first question. The answer was Cheryl. He needed to see her and extricate himself from whatever game she was playing. Give her the money back and sever any further communication.

  The second question was the tough one.

  -29-

  The file would have to sit in the judge’s inbox until the next morning. There was nothing Ted could do to change that. Meanwhile, he had to tender his resignation with Cheryl and give her back the thousand dollars. It was time for a sit-down. Ted didn’t know whether or not he owed her an explanation for walking away from the affair, but she owed him some straight answers.

  Richie had lived in Sunnyside, but Ted had never bothered to ask the address. He wanted Cheryl surprised and on the defensive, so he couldn’t call first and ask. New York State voter rolls made it too easy. Though there was no listing for a Richard, it took Ted about a minute on his smartphone to come up with an address for Cheryl Rubiano. He was on his way.

  Sunnyside was squeezed between the new skyscrapers in Long Island City and the vast expanses of the Calvary Cemetery. It was a tall town for Queens, packed with apartment buildings and industrial space rather than single-family homes. Cheryl had a fifth-floor apartment near Greenpoint Avenue.