She gave him the finial and told him to feel the bottom.
He ran his thumb across it. “That’s rough, too.”
She looked around. “That little crown was torn off the top of one of these posts in 1776. So if this park is a pinhole, the posts are the pins. The bag lady said that the whole story begins with that finial.”
“What story?”
“We . . . ah . . . never got to that.”
Peter raised the finial, as if to see if it would fit on top of that post.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” A man in a Yankees cap and blue windbreaker was standing on the path a few feet away.
Peter shoved the finial back into his pocket.
“Not that,” said the man. “The grass. I wouldn’t stand on the grass. The sign says keep off the grass.”
Peter looked at Evangeline. “New Yorkers obeying signs . . . we must be in a parallel universe.”
“And you must be the Boston guy. A smart-ass on the phone, a smart-ass in person. But I like smart-asses. I’m Joey.” He was stocky but solid and a bit swarthy, and there was a kind of polish about him, a bit of street-styled professionalism, an air that you sometimes smelled around a beat cop who’d finally made detective or a wiseguy who’d finally made his bones. He offered his hand.
“Do you have my cell phone?” asked Evangeline.
“What? No small talk?” asked Joey. “You sure seemed interested in yappin’ with that bag lady.”
Evangeline said to Peter, “This must be one of the guys who was here last night.”
“I wasn’t here,” said Joey. “Not when you were here, anyway. But humor me. How ’bout them Yanks?” He glanced at Peter. “That’s my small talk, especially with a guy from Boston.”
Peter offered his hand. “Them Yanks. They prove that even in baseball, money talks, Mr.—I didn’t get your last name.”
“Call me Joey B. Or Joey Berra.”
“What are you?” asked Evangeline. “Yogi’s son or something?”
Peter whispered to Evangeline, “That’s not his real name.”
“I get it, Peter.”
Joey Berra made a gesture—follow me—and led them toward the coffee wagon at the southern edge of the park. He chattered the whole way about baseball and New York and the drive down from Boston in the early morning.
Peter kept up his end of the conversation. But Evangeline didn’t say anything. She just watched and listened. She knew this Joey Berra wasn’t some guy who had happened onto the Bowling Green the night before. He had been in on it, whatever it was.
Joey bought three coffees, passed them out, and jabbed his chin toward a bench.
Evangeline glanced at her watch. “I have an article to write.”
Peter gave her a jerk of his head—come on. Let’s see where all this leads.
So they all sat on the bench, with Peter in the middle.
Joey took a swallow of coffee. “Did you know, the fence around us right now is one of the oldest things in New York City?”
“Not enough respect for the past in this town,” said Peter.
“Nah, too much goin’ on in the present. Not like that little burg up north.”
“Where half of New York sends its kids to be educated.” Peter noticed a bulge beneath the windbreaker: Joey was carrying.
Evangeline noticed something else. Out at the north end of the park, out by the bull, a guy was taking pictures. He was wearing a windbreaker, too, but no hat. He might have been taking pictures of the bull—tourists did all the time—but Joey had picked a bench that had a clear view of the bull’s backside, which meant that the guy with the camera had a clear view of them.
She nudged Peter and gestured toward the camera guy. By then, Peter had noticed two other guys, one black, one white, one on Broadway, one on Whitehall, one drinking coffee, one reading the Daily News. If this was a setup, Peter had walked right into it.
Some pinhole.
Evangeline leaned around Peter and said to Joey, “Any chance I can get my cell phone back before lunch?”
Joey took another sip of coffee. “I told you that it would cost you.”
Peter said, “You told me.”
“Oh, right. The boyfriend.”
“Fiancé,” said Evangeline.
Joey said to Peter, “There’s still time. You have a very pretty lady”—he leaned around Peter and gave Evangeline a wink—“but she likes hangin’ with smelly old broads in New York parks at night. Somethin’ a little weird about that.”
“I don’t need this.” Evangeline jumped up and pulled out a hundred dollar bill. “Here.”
Joey looked at the bill and sipped his coffee. “You know, miss, your . . . fiancé . . . is kind of a sucker, offerin’ a C-note for a celly you could buy for a song on Sixth Avenue. He does that, I think maybe I can get a little more, or maybe there’s numbers on that phone that are—what?—sensitive.”
Evangeline said to Peter. “Give me your phone.”
He handed it to her.
She made a call. “I’d like to report a lost cell phone.”
“Easy there, miss,” said Joey.
She clicked off, but she did not give Peter back his phone.
“I’ll tell you what,” said Joey. “Instead of the C-note, I’ll take that little brass crown you were flashin’ around a minute ago.”
“It’s not ours,” said Evangeline. “It belongs to that bag lady.”
“Well, that’s where you’re wrong,” said Joey Berra. “It belongs to the New-York Historical Society. It was stolen along with a box of other stuff about five months ago. They’re offering a reward because, as far as anyone knows, it’s the only brass crown that survived the riot in 1776.”
“How big is the reward?” asked Peter.
“Ten grand. You’re walking around right now with ten grand in your pocket.”
“And you were willing to take it from us?” said Evangeline.
“You can’t hate a guy for tryin’.”
“And you brought backup, in case I resist?” asked Peter.
“What backup? That mongalooch with the camera? The soul brother with the coffee cup? The one lookin’ at the pictures in the Daily News? They don’t work for me.”
“Who do they work for?” asked Peter.
“Don’t you mean, ‘For whom do they work?’ You went to Harvard and I went to CCNY, but even I know that.”
After a few minutes with him, Peter wasn’t surprised at anything this Joey Berra knew. He didn’t even bother to ask how Joey knew about Harvard. So Evangeline did.
Joey said, “If I’m tryin’ to squeeze someone, I check out his Web site. Fallon Antiquaria. Very fancy. Rare books and all. Means you know what you’re doin’ when it comes to findin’ stuff, right?”
“Hard work and dumb luck,” said Peter.
“A good combination.” Joey reached into his pocket and pulled out the cell phone. “Here you go, miss. But I’d be careful about receiving stolen property. I’m no cop, but having that crown in your possession could get you in trouble.”
“Are these guys after it?”
“They could be.” Joey scanned the park. “But I think they’re after me.”
“After you?” said Peter.
“Yeah. I had you meet me here to pull them into the open and get a look at them.”
“Thanks a lot,” said Peter. “And who do you work for?”
“I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Joey Berra.
“I would,” said Evangeline. “I’m a worrier.”
“Just say I work for the American people. But if these guys work for the people I think they do . . . it’s them I’d be worried about. Now”—Joey’s good nature disappeared—“I’m walkin’ right out past the bull. Don’t follow. Don’t watch. I know what I’m doin’. You two head the other way, down into the subway. If one of these guys follows you, you’ll have to lose him down there.”
“What’s going on here?” said Peter.
“I’m tr
yin’ to figure that out myself.” Joey pulled a business card from his pocket and handed it to Peter. “If you figure it out first, give me a call.”
“Why should we do that?” asked Evangeline.
“Because I’m about to draw these guys away from you.” Joey stood. “I might be savin’ your life right now. I might save it later.” Then he headed for the bull. “Get goin’.”
“Who was the guy last night?” Evangeline called after him. “The guy with the briefcase?”
Joey Berra didn’t answer. He just said, “Go out by the south gate.”
Peter took Evangeline by the elbow, and together they stood.
“See,” she said, “I told you this was something. I wasn’t making all this up.”
“I never said you were. Don’t take out your MetroCard till we’re on the escalator. And don’t run unless I tell you to.”
“Why not?”
“Predators react to movement. If one of these guys is after us, he’ll run if we do.”
“You’ve been watching too much Animal Planet.”
“Just walk.” He led her down into the subway while she fumbled to pull out her yellow MetroCard.
As they crossed the upper platform, they heard the rumble of a train arriving below. People all around them picked up their pace, scurried for the fare machines, hurried for the turnstiles, dodged the panhandlers, avoided each other.
“Okay,” Peter said, “move faster. Once you swipe the card, run.”
“What about the predator business?”
“We’re in the herd now, honey. Gazelles bounding all over the place. The sound of the train makes them all nervous. The jackal won’t know which way to look.”
They swiped the card twice and began to run. Down the stairs, down to the platform, and onto a crowded uptown number 4, just arrived from Brooklyn.
Stand clear of the closing doors, please.
And Mr. Daily News got on at the other end of the car, forcing himself into the crowd of straphangers and newspaper readers commuting uptown.
“Damn,” said Peter.
“From gazelles to sardines,” said Evangeline. “So, how far are we going?”
“As far as it takes.”
Next stop, Wall Street.
“Peter, this train goes all the way to the Bronx. I am not going to the Bronx.”
“We could go to the zoo. Keep with the theme.”
“Screw the zoo.” She looked down the car, past all the other commuters. Daily News was tall, skinny, pockmarked, and he kept his head buried behind the newspaper.
“Notice anything about him?” she asked.
“Like Joey said, he’s only looking at the pictures.”
“The tattoo on his neck. Did any of the other guys at the Bowling Green have tattoos? Maybe they’re part of—”
“Baby, sometimes a tattoo is just a tattoo.”
“You’ve never heard of secret societies?”
“Only in novels and the movies made from them.”
In and out of Wall Street Station they went. A few people got off: men in suits, women in suits with running shoes. Then a few people got on. Mr. Daily News moved a bit but stayed in position.
Stand clear of the closing doors, please.
The train lurched. Legs buckled and locked. Hands grabbed for railings. But heads stayed down, focused on papers and books. These commuters were professionals.
Next stop, City Hall.
Evangeline was still peering toward the other end of the car. Finally she whispered, “So you’re not interested in the tattoo?”
“I’m interested in how we lose this guy. We can wait for him to get bored somewhere between here and the Bronx, or we can run.”
“I’m not dressed for running,” she said, “so let’s use our wits instead.”
The train slowed again, and as soon as the doors opened, Evangeline stepped off.
Peter had no choice but to step right off with her.
And Daily News folded his paper under his arm and stepped off, too.
Twenty or thirty other people piled off behind them. Stand clear of the closing doors, please. The doors thunked shut and the train began to roll again.
But Evangeline grabbed Peter’s elbow and gave him the eye. Then she stopped. And he stopped. And the commuters poured up the stairs as quickly as the train was sucked back into the tunnel. Evangeline pivoted Peter against a concrete pillar and gave him one of those kisses that wouldn’t quit. But she didn’t close her eyes. Neither did Peter. Finally she pulled back.
“Is he still there?” asked Peter.
“Still there, still looking at the pictures.”
“So, we can stand here and make out, or we can run. We’ll hop a cab as soon as we get upstairs. Or we can fight him, which is never my choice.”
“Let’s stay with the plan and use our wits.”
“I didn’t know we had a plan,” he said.
“I didn’t know you had any wits,” she answered.
She pulled a New York subway map from her pocketbook and handed it to him. “Pretend you’re studying it. Pretend you’re confused by how big the Big Apple is.”
“But—”
“Just act like a Bostonian.”
“Okay.” He looked at the map, furrowed his brow, turned the map upside down, scratched his head.
“Another Brando,” she said. Then she walked right up to Mr. Daily News.
The guy’s eyes widened. He raised the newspaper and buried his face in it.
Evangeline put on her best tourist smile. And she had a good one, considering that she had spent the last five or six years writing travel articles. “Excuse me, sir. Will this train take me to Forty-second Street?”
“Yeah. Get off at Grand Central.”
“Thank you.” She turned and went back to Peter. “Honey, the gentlemen says this is the right line after all.”
“Oh, good, honey.” Then he gave a wave. “Thanks.”
And now they heard the rumble of the train, felt the push of air, then the sudden roaring rise of sound and the screaming of brakes.
They headed for the rear doors of the third car, and as they expected, Daily News headed for the front doors.
Peter said, “The old step-on, step-off trick?”
“With a twist. I’ve confused him by talking to him.”
“Not the first time you’ve done that.”
“I’ve made him wonder if we’re really riding to Forty-second. And all we need to make this work is a bit of hesitation. So”—she took him by the elbow—“step on.”
Stand clear of the closing doors, please.
“Now,” she said.
She jumped off. He squeezed through right after. If he’d had a tail, the door would have closed on it.
But someone blocked Mr. Daily News, and he couldn’t get off. In an instant, the train was gone.
“See,” she said. “I’ve learned a few things hanging around you.”
“Did you get a look at the tattoo?”
“Yeah.” She pushed through the turnstile and started up the stairs.
“What did it say?”
“It was a heart with an arrow through it and the words, ‘Boris loves Mary.’ So at least we know that his name is Boris.”
“Or Mary,” said Peter.
“Did you look at Joey Berra’s business card?”
He pulled it from his pocket and held it out so that they could both read the simplest business card a man could carry: the name, Joseph P. Berranova, and a telephone number.
“That clears up a lot,” she said.
THEY CAME OUT on City Hall Park.
This had been the Common in the eighteenth century, the drilling ground for Washington’s troops and the place where they heard the Declaration of Independence. In the nineteenth century, the streets around it, Broadway on the west and Park Row on the east, had been the site of newspaper offices and entertainment, including the famous museum of P.T. Barnum, who proclaimed the philosophy that some of the newsp
apers practiced, too, the one about a sucker born every minute.
All of that was gone now, replaced by office buildings, businesses, booming traffic. But a fountain sent a jet of water sparkling into the May morning sun. Tourists took pictures and read the timeline of Manhattan history on the plaza around the fountain. Trees and shrubs gave some cover to the barriers and other security measures that protected City Hall from whatever the terrorists might try next in New York.
Peter pulled out his cell phone and started to walk.
“Now what?” said Evangeline.
“I’m calling James Fitzpatrick.”
“At the Massachusetts Historical Society?”
“I don’t have many friends at the New York society. But I think we need to get the story on this ten thousand dollar finial. James will know, or he’ll find out for us.”
“Ask him about old Revolutionary War bonds, too.”
“Let’s go step by step,” he said. “Finial first.”
“So where are we stepping now?”
“Over there.” He pointed to the little church.
Though it was at the southwest edge of the park, near the spot where Broadway and Park Row met, it was true north to Peter Fallon. It sat surrounded by concrete and limestone and glass, just like everything else in New York, but it was unlike anything else in America.
It was St. Paul’s Chapel, and it symbolized the resilience of the city, of its people, of the nation itself. That’s what Peter told Evangeline as they crossed Broadway and stopped at the corner of Vesey Street.
“This,” said Peter, “is one of the only eighteenth-century structures left in Manhattan.” Peter pointed down the street that bordered on the northern edge of the chapel property. “Vesey Street and Church Street were lined with whorehouses once.”
“Whorehouses? Around the church?”
“The bishop owned the land and made money from the rents. And the whores even worked in the graveyard behind the chapel. They called it the Holy Ground. If you were going to the Holy Ground, you might be going to get yourself right with Jesus or—”
“Get your ashes hauled?”
“Think of the souls spinning around this neighborhood. Some spiritual and—”
“Some carnal?”
“Maybe that’s why it’s survived. It says so much about us. God favored it when the Great Fire burned up the West Side in 1776, and he sure favored it again on 9/11.”
City of Dreams Page 7
