While pondering the best approach to these burgeoning problems, the voice mail came through. The requested hard copy followed. Death consoled himself with the thought it might be a pleasant interlude after all—a break from the daily routine. And, to use an Aleph colloquialism, this one really was a “big shot.”
***
Several robed individuals were gathered around the bed, some kneeling, some standing with heads bowed, one holding a lit candle. Death slipped into a chair, looked at his watch, then relaxed while observing the proceedings. There was still plenty of time. No need to rush. As he had so often before, he wondered why so much effort was wasted on rituals just to accompany a simple transfer.
The VIP opened his eyes; they fixed first on the large scythe Death had had carefully honed and polished for the occasion. The stare drifted down to the hood completely concealing the visitor’s features. As usual, only the intended was aware of his presence.
“I didn’t believe in you,” the VIP said.
“Your privilege, of course. I never expected you to embrace some death-denying philosophy, though. Did you become a secret convert to a particular sect?”
“Hardly. I lost my faith long ago, but not my reason.”
“So? Why did you stop believing in me? Most would consider me to be both real and inevitable—something like taxes, you know.”
“I just got to believing we go out like candles.”
“But you kept up the pretense. Why?”
The VIP looked thoughtful. “Maybe I had an attack of conscience.”
“My, my! You believe in conscience and don’t believe in Death. You are a special assignment.”
“Well, I felt it was my duty to appear to believe.”
“And you believed yourself all the way to the top. It’s truly amazing what conscience can do for a person.”
The VIP looked annoyed. “You needn’t be so cynical. As I look back on it, it was all rather inevitable. I got this job over my protests in the first place.”
“Oh, c’mon! You worked your way up through the ranks. You knew what you were doing, right from the beginning.”
“Death certainly simplifies things, but that’s oversimplification. When you’re young, you really can’t be held responsible for your beliefs. Somewhere along the way—while I was “working my way up through the ranks” as you so crassly put it—I decided all those people who believed in me shouldn’t be disappointed.”
Death grunted. Had there been eyes under the hood, they would have been rolling upwards. Here comes another tired tale of unselfishness.
The VIP was all too conscious of the skepticism. “It’s easy for you to dismiss my views, since yours is a pure and simple job. You don’t have to do any questioning. Questioning leads to doubt, and doubt is something life can’t tolerate…Oh! Sorry about that expression.”
“That’s all right. No offense intended, I’m sure. None taken.”
“So I convinced myself I should play the game, so to speak, for the good of my flock. Maybe I overplayed it. Anyway, I became an example for all my confreres. Promotions came fast, so here I am—top of the heap.”
“Let me get this straight. Somewhere in the midst of your career you stopped believing in a hereafter and all the other gimmicks accompanying it, but you kept up the pretense—am I correct?
“Pretty much, though you’re putting it rather crudely.”
Death had to admit to himself he had been succumbing lately to the jargon of some of his more modern subordinates but, however couched, the facts spoke for themselves. “Wouldn’t even you say your attitude was nothing but sheer hypocrisy?”
The VIP frowned. “Yours is a somewhat disconcerting bluntness.”
“It’s a quality I’m somewhat noted for. But you haven’t answered my question.”
“Believe me, I’ve never been comfortable with the decision to maintain a façade, but you have to admit there would have been nothing but chaos if I had suddenly stood up and said, ‘This is all nonsense’…By the way, is it?”
“Sorry. I’m not running an information service. Transportation only.” Checking his Rolex, Death got up and stretched. “Besides, you’ll find out soon enough. It’s time to go.”
STOLEN IDENTITY
It had been a good month, an excellent month, in fact. Seymour Smith figured he’d sold sixteen VW’s and six Mazdas—top of the line Mazdas, too. And here there were still three more days left in April. His secretary’s knock interrupted the pleasant thoughts.
“I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but there’s an elderly lady here who insists on seeing you personally.”
Maybe another big sale. He’d handle it himself. The salesmen would squawk, but they were rolling in commissions already. Time for him to show them what real selling was like.
The lady did turn out to be elderly. Someone her age and walking with a cane wasn’t the most likely sales prospect. But she was fashionably dressed, so maybe she was looking for a car for a son—or a grandson more likely. The newcomer introduced herself as Lucy Tomlinson, shook his hand with a surprisingly strong grip and settled back carefully into one of the comfortable office chairs.
“How can I help you?” Smith asked, mentally rubbing his hands as he looked more closely at Tomlinson’s obviously expensive coat and equally expensive dress, jewelry and purse.
“I received this in the mail today, and I thought you might be able to explain it to me.” As she spoke, she took a folded sheet from her purse and passed it across the desk.
A quick glance at it told Smith it was a dunning letter from a finance company for an automobile purchased from Smith Motors, Inc. The amount was for forty-seven thousand dollars. Smith looked puzzled. “I’m not sure why you’re showing me this. You purchased a Mazda from us seven months ago and, from the sounds of this letter, you haven’t made any payments since.”
Tomlinson shook her head. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken. I’ve never owned a Mazda. In fact, I’ve never owned a car in my life. I don’t drive. Never have. My late husband did all of the driving.”
Smith’s gorge began to rise. Pointing to the letter, he said, “This has nothing to do with us. It was a bona fide sale in your name, your security number.”
“Didn’t you do a credit check?”
“Of course. We wouldn’t have let the car off the floor without doing a thorough check.”
“Then you must have seen the credit rating was for someone ninety-plus years of age. Did your purchaser come close to approaching that age? Did you verify her signature? Did you demand proof of identity such as a driver’s license? Did you check with her bank to verify her account?”
Smith became livid as he rose, saying, “None of that is any of our business. We sell automobiles. If you have any quarrel at all, then it’s with the finance company. If the car was purchased under false pretenses, then you should take the matter up with them—or with the police.”
Tomlinson smiled, holding up a hand. “Please sit back down. I simply wanted to explain a few things to you first. As a result of this sale, my credit is ruined, and even if I went to court, there would be a long legal battle ahead, and I would probably not live long enough to obtain redress. The courts work at a snail’s pace these days, as you must know.”
Smith had recovered his temper and was now viewing his visitor with mixed amusement and annoyance. “So what do you plan on doing?”
“This.” Tomlinson reached into her purse and took out an automatic pistol. “I’m going to give you exactly thirty minutes to have your bank deliver fifty thousand dollars in cash to your secretary. She will then bring it in here, place it on your desk and leave.”
“You’re crazy.” Smith’s face had become ashen, his eyes riveted on the gun.
“I agree. The courts will too.” Tomlinson looked at her watch. “You now have twenty-nine minutes. I suggest you write out a check, call in your secretary, and have her pick the money up from the bank. It’s only a block away, so it shouldn’t take but a few
minutes. They’ll call for verification, of course, and I’ll be listening.”
She smiled and paused for a moment as she looked at the terrified car dealer, “You see, at my age I don’t have much longer to live. If I kill you, the courts will probably find me not guilty by reason of senility.” The thought seemed to please her, and her smile broadened. “In any event, I’m sure my attorney can arrange bail, and I will undoubtedly have joined you in the hereafter long before the case goes to trial.”
The automatic, still held in her hand, went back into her purse as a trembling Smith wrote out the check and handed it to his secretary. Since neither of them seemed inclined to talk, the next twenty minutes were spent in silence, broken only by the call from the bank. Once the manila envelope was in Tomlinson’s hands, she rose and said, “You may be tempted to phone the police, but it will be difficult to convince them a ninety-three year old woman walked in here in broad daylight and robbed you. On the other hand, maybe you will be able to convince them. In which case, rest assured I’ll pay you a return visit—or will have someone else do so.”
Climbing into the passenger’s seat of the car waiting for her in the parking lot, Tomlinson told the driver, “Mission accomplished. Let’s go home.”
“Grandma! How could you possibly have convinced him to pay the finance company?”
“Absolutely no problem,” Tomlinson said with a smile.
STUYVESANT PARK
Manny Liebowitz carefully observed the trio. Sheaylea Jackson, a large middle-aged African-American woman who spoke softly but with a hint of case steel behind her words, was obviously the leader. The other two, Frances Morelli, a younger dark-eyed woman, and Father Joseph Keenan, a gray-haired hold-over from the Church’s more conservative past, both deferred to Sheaylea. But Manny soon became aware the two were also strong persons with minds of their own.
The Morelli Bakery & Coffee Shop had closed early to allow for the meeting, and all four were sitting in a booth looking out on the block-size park, the object of the conference. Snapping in the tip of his ballpoint pen, Manny poised it over the legal pad, and said, “It’s best if you begin at the beginning. Anna told me something about what you’re up against, but I’d like to get all the details.”
“It’s really very simple,” Sheaylea said. “Stuyvesant Park has been there for the better part of two hundred years. The last of the Stuyvesants gave it to the city twenty-five years ago. Suddenly, the city commissioners have decided to sell it, and Center Development is the only company interested in buying. Once they get it, they plan to build a sixteen story skyscraper with another four floors underground for storage and parking. The building will cover the whole block. Most of us will be lucky to ever see the sun again after it’s built.”
“And you found out about this plan from Anna Fauret?”
Heads nodded in unison. Father Keenan took up the story. “I’ve known Anna since she was a child, and the three of us helped her with her campaign when she was running for commissioner. She heard about the plan, even though—as a member of the commission minority—she obviously hadn’t been consulted. But she’s sure it’s going to come up at the next hearing of the commission’s Planning Committee.”
“What do you plan on doing about it?”
Frances answered the question. “We’ve already circulated a letter among the residents and store owners facing the Park and have had one community meeting about it. Everyone’s horrified. We’ve collected enough money for bumper stickers and several newspaper ads, and we’re getting a letter-writing campaign together so we’ll be ready for the meeting. A lot of people have already volunteered to testify.
“How much support do you think you have on the commission?”
Sheaylea looked grim. “Two. Anna included, of course.”
“Two out of nine. I could think of better odds. And the City Manager will go along with whatever the vote is.”
Sheaylea nodded. “Well, there is one good thing. It’s an election year. The present commission can’t make a final decision before the new commission is sworn in, so we’re hoping there’ll be enough of a change to put a stop to this nonsense.”
Father Keenan broke in. “Anna doesn’t think there’ll be enough improvement in the commission’s composition to change the outcome, so she suggested we contact an attorney. That’s why we called you. She said you’d done some work like this before. She was very complimentary, by the way.”
Manny smiled. “When it comes to fighting city hall my record isn’t all that great, but I can lay out a plan for you. You seem to have made a good start.”
Sheaylea flipped open a notebook, saying, “Fire away. We’re here to listen.”
“I’m a born pessimist, so I’m assuming the commission, whatever its composition, will sell Stuyvesant to the highest bidder, and from what I know of Center Development, they’ll definitely be the highest bidders—which doesn’t mean you should give up on the commission. Instead, push your campaign as hard as you can. If they decide against you, you can then go to the Appeals Board with your case. You’ll have to go to the Board before even considering legal action. It’s what we call ‘exhausting all administrative remedies.’ If you play your cards right, we can put the actual court battles off for at least a year, which should give us enough of a breather to explore other possibilities.”
“If we do go to court,” Frances asked, “how long would it be before there was a final decision?”
“Six months to a year in the lower courts. If we lose there, we appeal to the Superior Court. An appeal will give us at least another year, assuming the appeal isn’t dismissed immediately, but that’s unlikely. All in all, I would guess you have a minimum of two years before the bulldozers move in.”
“You don’t sound very hopeful,” Father Keenan commented.
“I told you I’m a born pessimist. Besides, preparing for the worst never leads to disappointment.”
“How much will the legal expenses come to?”
“I’ll donate my services, up to the point where we have to file with the courts. Until then, I’ll be giving you mostly advice, and in spite of what people may think, even legal advice is cheap. It will be another matter when we get to the courts. I’m just one part of a partnership, and I have to hold up my end. Clerical services alone can run into four figures. My best guess is twenty to thirty thousand dollars, with the high end more likely. A lot will depend on how hard the city wants to fight us.”
Father Keenan shook his head; “I don’t see how we could ever come up with that kind of money. We aren’t a wealthy community, and everyone has their expenses, kids going to college, medical bills, all the usual—and on middle-class incomes.”
“Well, let’s not worry about the money until the crunch comes. There are various organizations we can turn to. Does the park have some kind of history behind it which would justify preservation as a historic site?”
Sheaylea shrugged. “I can’t imagine what it would be. There’s never been a building there. We’ve put in a playground for the kids. There are some nice elms and oaks growing there. That’s about it.”
“I’ll hunt around and see if some outside financing is a possibility. In the meantime, let’s lay out our campaign and set up another meeting for as soon as the commission goes public with the plan.”
***
The next meeting of the “Save Stuyvesant Park” steering committee gave its participants a genuine sense of accomplishment. Manny listened closely to the progress report and was asked for comments.
“Sounds great. The only drawback I can see is you aren’t preparing yourself for attacks on the existing park. Most of what you say in your letters and ads points out what’s wrong with the commission’s proposal, but you don’t seem to be prepared for what the opposition’s going to say about what’s wrong with the block the way it is.”
Sheaylea looked skeptical. “So what can they say? What’s wrong with it?”
Manny grinned. “Let me give you just a taste
.” His expression took on a grim solemnity and his voice deepened. “This so-called park is nothing but a haven for drug dealers and alcoholics and the homeless. It costs the city a small fortune in maintenance. It isn’t safe for a person to walk through there. It’s overgrown with weeds and…“
Sheaylea guffawed. “I’d just love to see any drug dealers show up there. My Willie is on the neighborhood patrol. My, but those dealers would be in for a surprise if he found them anywhere around.”
Frances broke in. “Barber Marshall is the nearest we have to a homeless person who’s ever around there, and he mostly saves the city from doing the maintenance they should be doing. He picks up the trash, and plants flowers and takes care of them. He even goes off somewhere every spring and comes back with seeds and shrubs from who knows where. Sure, he sleeps out there when the weather’s nice, but why shouldn’t he? Maybe he talks to himself a lot. He certainly talks to the flowers, and I think they appreciate the attention.”
“We all watch out for Barber,” Father Keenan added. “Someone sees he has a change of clothes, and he gets food over at the Mission. He’s quite harmless, and is really a rather well educated person. Sometimes he slips into irrationality. But he does far more for the park than anyone else. Certainly far more than the city ever does. As for the safety of the park, everything, even the pile of rock near the center, is within sight of one or more of the surrounding stores and residences. In all the years I’ve been parish priest here, all I’ve heard about were some stolen purses. There’s never been any violence there, or anything remotely resembling it.”
***
The three commissioners making up the commission’s planning committee, made no bones about their attitude toward the sale of the property. All were vociferously in favor. The most outspoken one was Robert “Fighting Bob” Liddell. After listening impatiently to the long line of residents testifying in favor of saving the Park, his comment was, “You can’t stop progress!” With that, he called for a vote, and the committee sent a “do pass” recommendation to the full commission.
Expect the Unexpected Page 29
