by Tim O'Mara
“Thanks for checking,” Edgar said. “It’ll be fine.” Pause. “You, too.”
I waited about thirty seconds. “Edgar?”
“They’re gone, Ray. What’s your twenty?”
“Meet me on the corner across from where we parked. Drive around the block once, though, okay?”
“That’s a copy.”
Two minutes later I got in Edgar’s car, and he pulled away slowly.
“That was exciting,” he said.
“Nice job, Edgar.”
He looked at the case on my lap and said, “What’s that?”
“Something that’s going to piss off a few people when they find out it’s not there in the morning, I hope.” I placed my hands on top of the case and said, “Let’s go home.”
“Copy that,” my partner said.
Chapter 26
“YO, MR D! WE HEARD YOU WAS DEAD.”
I waited until he walked past me and into the classroom before I answered.
“Greatly exaggerated rumors, Eric.”
“The lunch ladies said you were in the hospital,” Annie said, genuine concern on her face. “Said you got stabbed.”
“Nah,” Eric said. “They said you got mugged.”
I spread my arms out and did a three-sixty.
“Do I look like I got stabbed? Or mugged?”
The two kids took their time assessing me. Angel, Julio, and Dougie strolled in, looking like they weren’t quite sure they’d ever see me again either. After a while, Annie said, “No.”
“But you don’t look too good, though,” added Eric. “Maybe you should go back home for another week or something.”
“I’m going to look even worse,” I said as I stepped over to my desk and opened my attendance book, “if you have to see me during summer school.”
“Ooooh,” the others chimed in, daring Eric to risk a comeback.
Eric gave that some thought, managed a big grin. “That’s a good one, Mr. D.” After a pause, he added, “You kidding, right?”
“Of course. You know I don’t teach summer school, E.”
“Ahhhh.”
“Okay, guys and girls! Let’s get going. It’s been … a few days.” It seemed more like a few weeks. I came in early to get myself up to speed, and I had to open all the windows because the room smelled … I don’t know … closed off. Stale and unused. The teachers who had covered my classes had taken my kids elsewhere. “We have a lot of catching up to do.” I waited until the moans and mumbling wore down and added, “I am fine, and yes, I missed you all, too. Math books. Page two-forty-five.”
I walked around the room for the next thirty minutes, checking the work. Half of them were getting it—the usual ones—and the other half weren’t. If we didn’t review this stuff over and over, work it, and practice it again and again, it didn’t stick all that long. Like rehabbing your knees. I looked at my watch. We’d have to come back to this later. I hated doing math with them twice in the same day, but I didn’t see another option.
“Okay,” I said. “You’ve got gym next, then library. Anybody gives Ms. Walsh a hard time, I’ll hear about it.” I looked at Angel, and he knew why. “After lunch, we’ll get back on that ferry with Mr. Whitman.” The bell rang. I pointed to the door. “You may go!” And they did.
* * *
“Just tell me what you’re looking at.”
“That’s why I’m calling you,” I said, flipping through the pages. “I don’t know.”
I was on the phone in the copy room with Rich, the one ex-boyfriend of Rachel’s I could actually stand. Rich was an investigator for the district attorney’s office in Manhattan and the first person I thought to call after going over the papers I had taken from the travel agency. “Well,” Rich said, “where’d you get them?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Or who you got them from, I guess.”
“No.”
“Glad you called, Ray.”
“Can I fax them to you?”
“You got a fax?”
“My boss does.”
“Yeah.” He gave me his fax number. “And this is school-related?”
“A class project.”
“Can I point out what a pain in the ass this is turning into?”
“Absolutely. While you’re drinking all the beers I am going to buy you if you make any kind of sense out of this stuff.”
“That, my friend, is a deal. Maybe you can invite Rachel. What time is your day over?”
“Three o’clock.”
“Nice schedule, Ray. No wonder you guys need the whole summer off.” He paused for a few seconds. “Call me at three thirty and I’ll tell ya what I can tell ya.”
“Thanks, Rich.”
“Thank me later, Ray.”
* * *
“See?” I asked. “Whitman’s asking how much time has passed—‘how long is the distance’—between when he’s writing these words and you’re reading them.”
“Not long enough,” Eric mumbled.
I ignored him.
“What’s he talking about?” Angel wanted to know. “‘Brooklyn of ample hills’? Ain’t no ample hills around here. This guy smoking something when he wrote this?”
After the laughter died down, I spoke. “Back in the day,” I said, “you could look south or southwest from the ferry as you were crossing the East River to Manhattan and see the hills of Brooklyn clearly. Before all the buildings went up and the highways and bridges were built, you had a clear view of Brooklyn Heights.”
“That’s why they called ’em ‘Heights,’ genius,” Eric said.
“Yeah,” Angel said. “Like you knew that before Mr. D said something.”
“What about the next part?” I asked before they could go on.
“He talking about taking a bath in the river?”
“Swimming. You could do that back then. Before all the factories and ships and polluters came along, people swam in the East River. And the Hudson.”
“Damn,” Dougie said. “I’ve seen some kids jump off the old piers by the bridge and come up gagging.”
“And those white boys with their wave runners? They run you over and not look back.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I wouldn’t recommend doing that these days, but back then, they didn’t have public pools—or wave runners—they had the river.”
“My uncle eats the fish he catches outta there,” Angel said.
“Your uncle’s a Porta Rican,” Eric said. “He’d eat anything that’s free.”
Angel let that sit for a bit and said, “Tell your moms not to give it away no more then.”
“All right!” I yelled. “I don’t think Walt would appreciate this kind of discussion. I know your mothers wouldn’t, so quit it.”
The room grew silent and stayed that way until Annie raised her hand.
“Yes, Annie,” I said. “Please.”
“That part right before that,” she said. “Where he says, ‘others who look back on me because I look’d forward to them’?”
“Yes?”
“First time I read that, I thought that he was talking about the people on the boat with him, but … he’s talking about us, ain’t he?” She had the whole class’s attention now and seemed a bit embarrassed. “Like he’s writing to us and … we’re reading him, so in a way, we’re looking back at him. Right?”
“You,” I said, “just made my day, Annie.” I turned to Angel and Eric. “When you stop messing around and pay attention, you can pick up on stuff like that. Mr. Whitman hoped that, one day, people would be reading his words. He was sending them a message: I looked at the same sun reflecting off the same water as you and had the same worries, the same thoughts.”
“So that ferry he was on,” Dougie said, sitting up straighter now, “they been running for all these years?”
“No. In fact, the bridges—the Brooklyn and the Williamsburg—put the ferries out of business for a while. People could walk to Manhattan, take the train or a horse a
nd carriage.”
“My grandfather…” Angel said and then looked at Eric, waiting for a smart comment. When none came, he went on. “He said his dad and them used to call the Willy B ‘The Jew Bridge’ back in the day.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Not so politically correct, but the Williamsburg Bridge was the biggest reason the Jews from the Lower East Side crossed the river to live in Brooklyn. They could live here and work in Manhattan.”
“You mean, without the bridge we wouldn’t have all these Hasseedics around?”
“Taking up all our housing?” Angel added, trying to sound political.
“Remember, before the Jews it was the Germans, and the Irish, and the Italians. Most of your folks”—I looked out at the eight nonwhite faces looking back at me—“came after they did. Every immigrant group has its stories to tell. Some of them are happy, some unhappy. Life’s like that.” The bell rang, ending that thought and reminding me how quickly a period can go by.
“All right. Tonight, finish reading the poem and jot down at least five words from it you don’t know. You know what the math work is. Both should take a total of less than an hour, so no excuses. Get your stuff together and…”—they waited for it—“you may go.”
* * *
“So what are they?”
“Plain old Social Security numbers, my friend.” Rich had been at his desk when I got him on the phone just after three thirty. “You got some DOBs, and they match with the SSNs, and this ain’t no class project, Ray. What is this?”
I hate lying to friends, but Rich worked for the DA, and I didn’t want him involved in anything that might cause him grief at work.
“One of my kids,” I began my lie, “said he found the papers on his way to school. He thought it looked like it might be something, and he knows I used to be a cop, so he gave it to me. I thought I’d have a little fun and play detective for him. But…”
“Yeah,” Rich said. “A big but. Either your kid is lying to you or you’re lying to me, and I don’t wanna know which. I have access to this kind of info, and I doubt a junior high kid could pull it off, but it’s not a great leap to having someone’s Social and their DOB, getting their name and residence, and causing some trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Hypothetically?”
“Absolutely.”
“I guess you could mess with their benefits. Find out when their checks come in. I mean, according to the DOBs, these are seniors we’re talking about. The SSNs are also their Medicare numbers. Instead of using the three-two-four combo, they use a five-four setup. Bottom line, it’s information you don’t want other people having, you know what I mean?”
“You’re right,” I said. “I’ll tell the kid to forget it. That I lost the papers.”
“That’s a good idea, Ray. In fact, it’s such a good idea, I wish you’d have come up with it before you faxed this shit to me. Now, what about those beers?”
“I’ll call you.”
“I’ll try to find something to keep myself busy until you do. You talk to Rache yet?”
* * *
I got back to my apartment just after four and had enough time before my date with Caroline to take a shower, turn up the AC, and try to doze off in front of the repeat of last night’s Yankee game. They still lost, and I was still awake. I checked my answering machine. Two messages. Rachel had called from L.A. and said the trip wasn’t as bad as she thought it would be, but she’d still prefer to be back home. Of course, I could make it up to her if I just cut out my immature bullshit and show up at our dad’s memorial service next week.
“We’ll have dinner when I’m allowed to come home,” she said, “and we’ll talk more about it then.”
The second call was from my mother, who had also heard from my sister, and how was Rachel ever going to find a man when she spent all this time gallivanting—my mother actually used the word—around the country?
“Anyway,” my mom concluded, “call me when you get the chance. I’m thinking of heading down to Florida after your father’s service and could use some help with the train arrangements.” My mother hated flying about as much as she hated my sister being single, and don’t get her started on grandkids. “Nice to hear you had a visit with Uncle Ray. Call me.”
I erased both messages and thought about changing the outgoing message to one that invited only those who did not want to talk about my father’s goddamned memorial service to leave a message.
The notebook I had taken from Roberts’s last night sat on my coffee table. I leafed through the pages. Initials and numbers. I wanted to see if I could connect the names with the buildings Ape and Suit visited last night, but I didn’t have much time before my date. I found Edgar’s phone number and got his voice mail. I read off the addresses of the buildings and asked him if he could find out who owned them or managed them or both. I added that if he couldn’t do it, I didn’t know who could. After hanging up, I took the notebook and put it inside my school bag.
I checked my closet for something appropriate to wear for a first date. All my clothes—of which I did not have a lot—seemed suddenly very boring. I opted for my only clean pair of jeans and a red, long-sleeved shirt, untucked, sleeves rolled up.
Styling, Mr. D.
Chapter 27
SHORTY’S BAR AND GRILL WAS located on a corner not far from Roberts’s travel agency. The wave of urban renewal that had swept through this section of Williamsburg had stopped a few blocks shy of this place. Small businesses stood vacant, and some of the buildings had plywood where the windows should have been. Men in suits and women in dresses walked by quickly on their way to the subway and on to homes in other, better parts of the city. A few were probably on their way to the Long Island Rail Road and back into suburbia.
On the front door of Shorty’s was a sign advertising LIVE JAZZ on Friday and Saturday. A gust of cool air greeted me as I entered and made my way to the bar. It was dark inside; the kind of lighting that took a minute for the eyes to adjust to and didn’t exactly invite newcomers. The aroma of hamburgers cooking hung in the air. I remembered skipping lunch that afternoon, grabbed the stool nearest the door, and hoped Caroline would show up soon.
A trio of black men was seated at the other end of the bar under a TV set. They all glanced my way, considered me for a few seconds, and then went back to their conversation. I pulled a twenty out of my pocket, placed it in front of me, and cleared my throat. Again, the group looked at me. One of them rose and took his time walking around the bar and then down to my end. He was about my age, thirty pounds too heavy, with a short Afro and a goatee that was mostly gray. He picked up a rag and wiped down the area in front of me.
“Can I do for ya?” he asked without really meaning it.
“What do you have on tap?”
He turned to his friends, smiled, and made a big show of looking all around and even under the bar. “Don’t seem to have a tap, sir.”
“Well, then,” I said with a smile of my own, “what do you have in a bottle?”
“Don’t have no tap,” he said again, “guess everything we got’s in a bottle.”
That brought a round of laughter from his buddies. I chuckled along with them and looked at the selection behind the bar. A hand-written sign by the clock said all domestic beers were three dollars from four to seven. I had two minutes left. “I’ll just take a Bud Light.”
He nodded and said, “Bud Light. For the Man.”
He spun around, headed back to his pals, and resumed his conversation. I guessed “the Man” was just going to have to wait for his beer. I busied myself by perusing the selection of top-shelf liquor, recalling the ones I’d had the pleasure of tasting and ranking them in order. After about five minutes, the bartender remembered my beer and brought it over to me.
“That’ll be four dollars.”
I looked up at the sign. “Don’t I have a few more minutes of happy hour left?”
He looked at the clock, took my money, and s
hook his head. “Happy hour’s over.” He went over to the cash register, broke the twenty, and returned with my change. “Enjoy.”
I raised my bottle. “Thanks.”
After a few minutes, the door behind me opened. The men at the other end looked up and waved. The bartender walked over with a lot more energy than when I arrived. “Caroline!”
Caroline slipped into the seat next to me as the bartender placed a napkin in front of her and leaned over for a kiss.
“Willy,” she said, placing her hand on my arm. She was wearing a tight-fitting flowered shirt that showed off her well-tended midriff and a pair of equally tight white pants. The come-away-with-me look that I was sure only a handful of travel agents could pull off. “I hope you’ve made my friend Raymond feel at home.”
“Whyn’t you tell me you was a friend of Caroline’s?” He offered his hand.
“I didn’t want any special treatment,” I said. “You know, being ‘the Man’ and all.”
He smiled at that. “Caroline?”
“The usual, Willy.” He went to get her drink. Caroline asked, “What was that about?”
“Just getting to know the regulars. I guess you come here often, huh?”
“Willy’s my cousin. Shorty was my uncle. Hope you didn’t feel uncomfortable waiting.”
“Not the first time I’ve been the minority.” I adjusted myself in the stool to better face her and get the full effect. “Excuse me for saying so, but you smell wonderful.”
She gave me a practiced giggle. “I prepped before locking up the shop. Not every day a girl gets to have dinner and drinks with a respectable schoolteacher. You are respectable?”
Before I could answer, Willy returned with Caroline’s drink. “Whiskey sour for the lady.” He put a dollar bill in front of me. “Forgot that last drink was on happy hour.”
“No harm,” I said. “Put Caroline’s on mine, would you?”
“Caroline don’t pay for drinks here.” He leaned in close. “Sorry about that before. Thought you mighta been a cop.”
