Brooklyn Wars

by Triss Stein

  “What exactly do you mean? You can’t think…just what do you think?”

  “My thinking follows the facts wherever they lead. That’s my job. Right now, they don’t lead to you. If I should find out that they do, I’ll be back with uncomfortable questions, count on that. But your interest is hard to understand.”

  I took a deep breath. “It’s completely innocent, even boring. I am writing a history dissertation. This will be a chapter. But my advisor is on my back to finish it and she wants me to skip this part altogether.”

  He listened until I had explained it all. It took the time to have a second cup of coffee.

  “I get it now. Your interest is entirely academic?” He smiled. “Pun intended.”

  Did he mean it, or was he being sarcastic?

  There were keys clicking in the front door lock, and I called out, “Chris, I’m in here with a visitor. Okay for you to come in.”

  Someone came in but it was not Chris. It was Joe.

  “Sorry. I didn’t know you had company. Everything all right? I did call.”

  “I turned my phone off for this meeting.”

  “Would this be Mr. Donato? I did not realize…”

  “No, no.” I felt absurdly awkward. “This is my friend, Joe. Joe, Lieutenant Ramos.”

  Joe’s expression was wary, barely this side of hostile. “You are talking again about that incident? The other night?”

  “More or less.” Ramos looked Joe over, and Joe looked right back at him. “We’re almost done here.”

  Joe nodded. “I got it. I’ll go into the kitchen and work on that faucet leak, okay?”

  “Sure.” I stopped myself before I blurted out, “What leak?” There was no leak, but the kitchen is right off the living room. Joe would be able to hear every word we said and he knew it.

  “You were saying? Your advisor is on your back?”

  “Yes, she is. I wanted to write a chapter about the impact of all the changes at the Navy Yard. She’s not even convinced it’s a good idea. She thinks I’m totally wasting my time.”

  In the background I heard the clanking of metal on metal, Joe hammering on a pipe.

  “Honking great big piece of real estate, the Navy Yard.”

  “It’s always about the real estate, in a way.”

  “Tell me about it. Don’t I know it. I can’t buy a house now where I grew up.”

  “So my plan is to use Michael Conti’s life to illustrate the changes at the Navy Yard. Politics and business and all that. And do it all fast, too. At least that is the plan.”

  “And you keep asking biographical questions and then stumbling across his murder instead of his life?”

  “More or less.” I was relieved he understood. “Does that settle your suspicions?”

  “My suspicions are never settled until a case is solved. The city pays me to be a suspicious s.o.b.” But he smiled as he said it. A nice smile.

  He stood up. “It’s been a pleasure, Ms. Donato. Call me any time if you think of something else. Can I count on that?” He took out a card and wrote something on the back before giving it to me. “In case you misplaced the first one.”

  The kitchen was quiet and I could feel Joe’s eyes on me before I even turned around. He was leaning against a counter with a few tools still on the floor next to the open door under the sink.

  “Are you in some trouble? I saw a police car in front and thought I should stop in.”

  “You did? What car? He’s a detective. He doesn’t drive a patrol car.”

  “I know a detective car when I see one. They aren’t hard to spot. And he was parked in a no parking zone.”

  “How’s my leak doing?” I was changing the subject, or at least shifting it.

  He finally smiled. “Okay, you got me. That was an excuse to hang around. I wanted to see if you were all right. Are you?”

  “If you have time to play games, then put away the tools and come help me make some dinner. Chris will be home in no time.”

  “I’d like to but I can’t. I’d much rather do that than what I am doing.” He looked harassed. “I’m having dinner with my sister.”

  “Oh, gosh. Have you talked at all?”

  “Not yet. I have hopes that being in a public place will keep the fireworks down.” He smiled with real bitterness. I’d never seen him look like that. “I may be deluding myself, of course. I tend to do that with her.”

  He was picking up his jacket and walking to the door. Before he left, he stopped and turned back. “I wasn’t stalking you, you know. I thought you might need my help.”

  Was that it? All he would say?

  “Go. You need to deal with your sister. Good luck!”

  A quick hug and he was gone.

  It was the wrong time to respond to his remark about stalking. I wondered, though. Joe, who’s been such a friend for so long? Ridiculous. But I never thought our exchanges of keys made it all right for him to hover on my block. Or drop in any time without even a knock on the door. And I didn’t know what to call that behavior. Worried about me? Taking care of me? Or checking up on me?

  I shoved my questions aside while I threw together tuna and macaroni salad for Chris and me. Hooray for foods that last forever on the shelf. Chris and I caught up on our days. I told her about Lieutenant Ramos but not about Joe’s visit. I didn’t want to hear what she had to say.

  At my desk, I put Lieutenant Ramos’ card where I could find it easily, and turned it over to read what he wrote. He’d said to call if I remembered anything at all. On the card, he added, “Or call me anyway.”

  ***

  In the morning, I woke up thinking about Joe and his sister and wondering how badly it had gone. And still feeling exasperated about his behavior last night. I was more exasperated when I found a text message from him, sent last night right after he left my house.

  All truth? Yr dad saw PD car, called me

  What? What was going on here? And why was my dad calling Joe? Do they actually call each other? And even more, why was my dad on my block at all?

  My dad was checking up on me again? Whatever my uncertainty about Joe, that conclusion was clear. And talking to my boyfriend? My almost, maybe, boyfriend? What am I, sixteen?

  It was time for my most reliable way to blow off the tensions in my life. I could have a fight with my father. And he deserved it this time, too.

  “When did you and Joe become phone pals?” I was dispensing with social niceties.

  “And good morning to you, too.” He sounded amused, which was fuel on my flames.

  “Come on, Dad! My life is not a joke. Joe let himself into my house last night while I was talking to a detective, and it seems you were behind that. It’s not all right.”

  “Him walking in or me talking to him?” He still sounded calm.

  “Both, dammit! Both! Why were you on my block at all? Were you sitting outside, spying?”

  My voice rose with each word and my dad sounded a little less calm when he answered.

  “No, no, not at all. Ah. Sometimes, but only when I have nothing else to do, I cruise down your street, wondering if I will see you or Chris, and I might, I don’t know. Take you for coffee or to do an errand. Not spying. Of course not.” Then his own voice rose. “And what if I was? You always were a hothead. What if I found you in trouble and needing my help? What then?”

  His growing excitement somehow made me feel better. I’d gotten to him.

  “Don’t check up on me. Don’t. I’m a responsible adult. A homeowner, for crying out loud! So try to remember it, even if your memory is aging. And don’t. Do. Not. Ever. Talk to my friends. Ever.” I slammed the phone down.

  My dad had too much time on his hands. He needed a job.

  It was only later that I realized how adolescent I had been. And in my house, I am not the one who gets to be
the adolescent. In the moment, though, it felt fine. I’d staked my ground.

  For now, I had a meeting at my museum job with human resources. Was there a problem with my time records? A new assignment? Maybe I was finally eligible for benefits? That would be a nice surprise.

  When I entered, the coordinator smiled a warm, phony smile. I immediately felt a little chill. This was not about benefits.

  “Erica, nice to see you again. And congratulations. We’ve recently noted that you are due to graduate in the spring. Are you thrilled? You will become Doctor Donato.” She almost giggled.

  I did not find that reassuring. I felt it even less when her expression swiftly shifted to one of sincere concern.

  “I wanted to tell you in person, especially since your supervisors have so enjoyed having you here. All your evaluations praise you to the skies.” She sighed.

  “Sadly, our budget for next year is not all we had hoped. We would love, truly love, to offer you a professional position when you graduate, but so frustrating, we simply do not have the funds. In fact, we are hoping to avoid layoffs of the staff we already have.” The warm smile again. “You do understand that this in no way reflects the quality of your work? That has been excellent and we will hate to lose you. Of course there will be first-class references for any other job.”

  She looked at me with an encouraging expression, as if she expected me to respond with gratitude. When I didn’t, she went on, “So we wanted to give you a long heads-up. To be clear, funding for your job here, sadly, will end in May when you receive your degree. You would be overqualified for your present job, and there is no budget at all for any new fulltime positions.” She tilted her head, charmingly, but I was not charmed. I was stunned. “I’m sure you will land on your feet with something wonderful. Are you planning for an academic career?”

  Planning? I wasn’t planning further ahead than getting through the next dissertation chapter. I suppose I had somehow assumed I would stay on here until…until…I had no idea what would complete that sentence.

  “Do you have any questions that I can answer?”

  Not one. She could not answer any of my hundreds of questions. I walked out in a daze. I believe I said good-bye, but I could not have sworn to it.

  I sat at my desk, not working, not moving, not seeing the computer screen. It was hard to believe I had never thought about what would come next, but I lived my life one step at a time. Early loss had taught me making plans was pointless. Things happened. The museum felt like home by now. I supposed I expected to just stick around until another opportunity presented itself. How dumb was that?

  With no idea how long I sat there, I finally forced myself up and out. I had a lunch date with my friend Leary, though date is the wrong word. Appointment, perhaps. And friend might be the wrong word, too. I’m not so sure he would ever use it.

  Leary was an aging retired reporter who was grumpy, slovenly, and had lost a leg to diabetes a long time ago. I believed that’s when he stopped drinking, but I was not sure. I ran across him while I was looking for some information a few years ago and learned that he knew everything about Brooklyn back in the day. If it happened during his long career, he knew it. And if it happened after, he might be able to hook me up with someone who was there. He was a complete curmudgeon but he still knew a few useful people.

  I didn’t know if he liked my company or only the food I usually brought, but he always seemed available for a brain-picking meeting. I had thrown together a pan of baked ziti one night, and half was for him. I even sneaked in some broccoli under the pasta and cheese. I had no trouble getting my health-conscious young athlete to eat right. In fact, she lectured me when she was not hitting the potato chips herself. Leary was another story. He had given up his Scotch-and-cigarettes diet a long time ago, but he resisted the very concept of a balanced meal.

  He and my father had struck up on odd friendship based on, I thought, being old Brooklyn boys, and that idea made me uncomfortable after my conversation with dad. It’s not true that men don’t gossip. Had he and my dad been talking about me? They’d better not.

  As usual, the outer door to Leary’s run-down building was open. I walked right in, noting the further deterioration of the shabby lobby and wondered how safe Leary was here, a subject I could not discuss with him. I tried once and he did not talk to me for weeks.

  The smelly old elevator worked that day and in a minute I was pounding on his apartment door.

  “I’m coming. Hold your damn horses. I don’t move like a race horse, ya know.” For Leary, that was a cordial greeting. I know he moves slowly. He uses crutches or a wheelchair.

  Four clicks to unlock his heavily fortified door. A little cursing over the tricky third one. I wondered if he had anything as useful as oil spray in his apartment. And if he could find it in the mess.

  “I hope you brought lunch.” He scowled as he said it.

  “Is your blood sugar dropping? Didn’t you get meal delivery for today?”

  “That crap? And, yeah, what time is it? So let’s cut the lecture you’re ready to give me and spread out the eats.”

  A plate of ziti later, with the broccoli stacked on the side, Leary wasn’t smiling but the scowl was gone.

  “You need something. What could it be this time?”

  I was torn between being amused at how predictable he was, and ripping him apart for being such a grouch.

  “Are you accusing me of only visiting when I need something? You know you are spinning a story there about the poor, neglected old man.” The best defense is hitting back, right?

  A tiny smile sneaked in. It was no more than a hint of one, but he helpfully stacked the lunch dishes on a corner of the table.

  “Whatcha got on your mind?”

  “What do you know about the Navy Yard?”

  “A lot. What do you need?”

  “Do you know anything about a guy named Michael Conti?”

  He smiled. A real smile, full of satisfaction.

  “Do I ever.”

  Chapter Twelve

  I snapped my laptop open. “Start talking.”

  “I heard that he died. What’s your interest there? You’ve got strange tastes for a professor.” His expression was so bland I knew he was merely rattling my cage.

  “Enough sweet talk from you. One, I am deep in a chapter about the Navy Yard, and, two, I want to use his career as a way of looking at what happened there. And, three, I am a long way from being a professor. Okay.”

  “Not bad. Not bad at all.” He responded to my irritated look with, “No, that’s not funning with you. Honest. So, Michael Conti.” He almost closed his eyes, as if he was looking at someplace far away.

  “He was a real operator. That’s what I remember. When I was a mere kid, cub reporters they called us, that was when the Navy Yard closing was big local news. Lots of folks were going to lose their jobs, and lots of them had never worked anywhere else. It was like home to them, a family. So, here’s the thing. No one thought the Department of Defense would ever go through with it. Their faith was in political pressure.”

  “I know about this. And how well it worked out.”

  “World was changing. They didn’t get that. Not that I did, then, either. What did I know? I was about twenty-two, eager but still wet all over. I know now they were never gonna win. I gotta admit, the Navy needed more modern facilities than a Yard begun when John Adams was president. You know it was that old, right?”

  “I had no idea. ’Cause, you know? I’m not exactly up on how to do history.”

  “Smartass. Did you also know that the new ships they needed were too big to go under the New York bridges? Okay, okay, Conti. I interviewed him one time for the Eagle, when the issue was starting to boil. He was working at the Yard then and heading up a committee to prevent the closing. My take on him was that he was a young guy wanting to become a mov
er. Good talker, as I recall. Real fire-eating union man.”

  “And?”

  “And they failed completely. You already know that. Defense Department won. They had all the power of the budget. They closed their antiquated yards and farmed the work out to private companies.”

  He had a gleeful look that meant he was getting ready to spring a surprise. Okay, I could play along.

  “Something tells me there’s a little more.”

  “Ah, ya know me too well. Conti turned up a few months later working for the company that took over the Yard. An executive, no less. A suit-and-tie guy.”

  “No!”

  “Oh, yes.” His smile was smug, but I didn’t care. This was too interesting for me to be offended.

  “You’re saying the union firebrand went to work for the enemy?”

  “He did, if that’s how you see it. His former union buddies sure saw him as a traitor. And when that shipbuilding company went under, which didn’t take long, he went to work on a government commission.” He winked. “You can imagine what his union buddies thought of that. Ya know, I haven’t thought of him for years. Decades, probably, not until his murder was all over the news. It seems he went on to a long career, though.”

  He sounded a bit wistful, as if he wished he could get back to digging out the story.

  I sat back and thought. Conti’s own story was getting more complicated, but it would lead even deeper into the changes of the last half century. It seems he was there for all of it. It was a seriously good idea to write about him.

  Leary gave me a hard, suspicious look. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  I could see why he had been a successful reporter back when. Old and ill as he was, that look pierced right through my brain. I had to tell the truth about my interest in Conti. But I still wasn’t telling him about my visit at HR. I wasn’t talking about it to anyone.

  He shook his head but looked amused. “What are we going to do with you, young lady? The way you get yourself into trouble? What did Len say about it?”

  “I didn’t get myself into trouble. I was just in the wrong place. And my dad doesn’t know. And don’t you tell him! I’m serious.” He was laughing. “Really. I am really serious. He is too involved in my life already.”