Brooklyn Wars

by Triss Stein

“I. Don’t. Care. Is that clear? So you either walk over to Mel’s with me, before I go out, or you go the long way around, on the avenue with a crowd or…”

  “Oh, all right. Or Mel comes to get me and we walk back to her house together? How’s that?”

  “That would be fine. And stay there until I get home, and I’ll pick you up.”

  “Like a little kid? Mom, I will be so…”

  “Embarrassed? Too bad. It’s that, or I cancel my plans and yours and we both stay home.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll do it but I am on record as not being happy. “But,” she added with a devilish smile, “Joe would be unhappy if I was the reason you cancelled dinner. Tell him I send my love.”

  And what was I to say to that?

  “It’s not Joe. Not really a date either.”

  “Oh, ha. I saw an outfit laid out on your bed. But, why not Joe?” She stopped abruptly. “Oh. So you really were arguing the other night. I thought I dreamed it.”

  “We weren’t arguing. Not exactly. And I can have other friends. I…”

  “Your best sweater is not for…” She made air quotes. “ ‘other friends.’ I understand these things now that I am with Jared, you know. What’s wrong with you and Joe?”

  “Don’t you have more important things to do than cross-examine me?”

  “No, not really. I have an investment in this topic, but okay, I see I am getting nowhere. And you’re not borrowing my earrings, either.”

  She returned to her room after giving me an angry look.

  I showered and checked the street. He was gone. I greeted Mel, invited her in, and checked the street. I dressed and checked the street. And found a note on my bed. “If he’s not Joe, I disapprove.” I was so torn between laughing and crushing it into a ball that I did both.

  I waited downstairs, ready for a nice dinner out with a nice man. Dress shoes on, even a little makeup. And I checked the street again. No signs of our unwanted watcher under the streetlamps.

  I still worried that I had made a huge blunder, letting Chris go off today by herself. How do you ever know where to draw the line? I only knew it was somewhere south of escorting a high school student to school and north of “anything goes.”

  Then Lieutenant Ramos rang the doorbell and I willed myself to set these thorny questions aside for the rest of the evening. For a few hours, I would not be a mom; I would be a concerned citizen, a serious scholar, and a woman in nice shoes.

  Besides, I had other questions to ask him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  We went to a neighborhood place with weather-beaten wood paneling, oars hung on the walls and photos of boats and surf. It didn’t smell of salt air but of food frying. The menu was full of things I don’t know how to make and could not afford to buy. Lobster things. Crab things. Flounder done up in fancy ways.

  Fish and chips with a cold beer suddenly sounded like the solution to all my problems. I randomly chose an ale from the full-page list. I refused to admit that I had no idea what any of them were, even with the poetic descriptions. Light? Dark? Hoppy? Fruity? Who has time to study all this? But that first sip tasted wonderful. Ordering done, I began to relax at last.

  I smiled at Ramos. “Did you get any further with Jennifer being innocent?”

  He smiled back. “And here I was about to ask if you were making progress on that dissertation?”

  “Ouch. It’s too stressful to talk about.”

  He nodded. “Exactly. So let’s not talk about work, yours or mine, okay?” He paused. “How about those Knicks?”

  I laughed. “The only teams I follow are my daughter’s. She plays lacrosse and basketball. Junior varsity this year.”

  He looked me up and down. “I’m guessing she’s taller than you.”

  “Oh, yeah. Isn’t everyone? It’s been a shock to me to have an athlete daughter. And both her teams are doing better than the Knicks.”

  He looked more cheerful. “Baseball was good this summer, though.”

  His enthusiasm and my good listening abilities took us through the arrival of dinner.

  With some crispy cod and salty French fries in my system, I was fortified enough to talk work. I led into it gently, telling him about Philomena’s diary and how excited Chris was.

  Perhaps I went on too long. He responded with an extremely polite, “I can see how interesting it could be. It’s nice when you can get your kid excited about your work. My dad was a cop. So you see how that worked out.”

  He had no questions about what I had told him. He didn’t understand that I was excited, too, or why I was. It made me sad but he never noticed. He turned the conversation to his own son and how they bonded over sports if nothing else. His son insisted his future was in computers not law enforcement.

  We agreed, with some relief, not to talk about parenting teenage children.

  “Okay, detective, here’s a real-life puzzle.” It was my chance to ask for his advice.

  When I was done he said, “Yeah, that’s not good.” He sat back, thinking. “I don’t like the sound of it, but there’s nothing for us—us meaning NYPD—to do right now. He hasn’t done anything but scare you, right? Not something I’d be involved with, normally, except for that Navy Yard connection. I’ll need to ask a few questions over there. Talk to their security again. We’re still pulling on every thread regarding Conti, making our case airtight.” He stopped himself. “Ah, don’t repeat that anywhere, okay? Official word is that we are right on top of it.”

  He stopped and looked at the dessert menu. “Would you like something sweet? Local Key lime pie? From Brooklyn? How is that possible?”

  I knew a change of subject when it hit me on the head.

  “But they also have chocolate blackout cake. Childhood favorite, right?”

  Sharing of the desserts was well underway when a cell phone rang.

  “Mine or yours?”

  “Afraid it’s yours. My ring is from Rocky.”

  Chris, of course.

  “Sorry, I am so sorry, I know I shouldn’t call now but…”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, yes, sure. I’m home. Mel is here. Don’t fuss, her brother walked us back and she is staying the night. I knew you wouldn’t mind.”

  “No, I’m glad. So would you please tell me why you are calling?”

  Across the table, Ramos had an amused gleam in his eyes.

  “Well, when we got back, that guy was there again.”

  “You’re sure it was him?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ramos was not smiling now. He was on full cop alert, putting his card in the check holder, motioning to the waitress, getting ready for a quick departure.

  “Well, it’s so dark. I can’t be sure…”

  “Chris!”

  “Yes. Pretty sure.”

  Ramos had already guessed what it was. He was putting his jacket on as I explained.

  “Doors locked, shutters closed. We’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  Turning the corner to my block, he grabbed my arm. “Look over there, but be quiet.” He didn’t point. There was just a subtle nod of his head.

  I looked. There was a man there, in the dark patch between the streetlights, right across from my house. I guess I hadn’t scared him away after all.

  Ramos explained how we would go down the street and up my steep steps without ever staring at him.

  I slammed the door shut in relief and called the girls.

  They clattered down the stairs.

  “It was him, wasn’t it?”

  “Is it that mystery man? This is so exciting.” Mel stopped when she saw our horrified faces. “I mean…yes, it’s scary but…”

  “Mel! Watch less TV! This is for real and I don’t like it.”

  Mel put a concerned arm around Chris.

&
nbsp; “Mom, this is becoming creepy.”

  For sure.

  “How long has he been there? And what has he done?”

  How long had it been? An hour. What had he done? Precisely nothing. He was sitting and watching. Sometimes he paced.

  In the meantime Ramos was looking through the shutters, concealed but keeping his eyes on the man.

  “I’m going to talk to him.”

  “Seriously? What if he’s armed…?”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Sorry. This is all very…”

  “I know. I’ll be back in five.”

  Now it was our turn to peek through the shutters, watching a pantomime of an encounter. Ramos approached the man, cigarette pack out. He took one, the stranger took one, and Ramos lit them both, casually standing next to him, leaning against a fence. The man sucked on his cigarette as if the smoke was oxygen. Ramos held his casually, waved it to make a point, tapped off the ash. It never went near his mouth.

  They talked. The man jumped up, and Ramos reached into his jacket. We all gasped until we saw he held something in his flat hand. His badge? The man looked at it, made a dismissive gesture and tried to turn away. When Ramos grabbed his arm the man twisted, lifted an angry hand, thrust his face close to Ramos with belligerence we could see from across the street, but Ramos did not move.

  At last the man seemed to crumple and put his head in his hands. Ramos pulled him up, held him tightly and spoke to him before turning him around and letting him go. He walked away toward the busy avenue, shoulders now hunched, the fight gone.

  The girls were breathing hard and I couldn’t seem to breathe at all.

  Ramos returned, shaking his head.

  “What did you say?”

  “Who is he?”

  “What did HE say?”

  He put up his hands to stop us. “He’s a confused old man who could not, or would not, tell me why he was there, but I pointed out he is loitering, showed him the badge, and sent him off. I made it clear that we have an eye on him now, so I don’t think he’s coming back.”

  “Well, that’s disappointing.” Chris said it. “And should we be doing anything? You know, official? Report a suspicious person?”

  He smiled wearily. “I’m official enough. Could you swear to it, that he’s the same guy you saw at the Navy Yard?”

  “Yes.” I was sure.

  “Consider it reported.”

  He nodded to Chris and Mel. “Pleased to meet you, young ladies.” Then he added, “Stay alert, okay? This guy seemed harmless enough but not altogether connected to reality. So be smart and pay attention to what’s around you, right?”

  “We got it.” Chris said it and Mel nodded, adding, “We are smart city kids.”

  “You’re also teenagers. You get distracted.”

  They looked indignant until I added, “Honestly, don’t we all?”

  He turned to me. “I have to say thanks for a very unusual first date.”

  “Wait a minute. You didn’t tell me his name. It wasn’t Conti, by any chance?”

  I’d been doing some serious thinking.

  Ramos looked at me with astonishment, and then started laughing. “As in, Michael Conti’s long lost brother?”

  I admitted that’s what crossed my mind.

  “So that would tie up everything with a neat bow? You think he was the shooter too?”

  I could feel my face turning red. And in front of Chris and Mel.

  “It was only a thought. I mean, you said you are pulling on all the threads.”

  “We did. Angelo Conti died in 1995.”

  “You didn’t tell me?”

  “I would have. He was already at Kings County Hospital, mostly sick from a rough life. Diabetes, blood pressure, ulcers. Then he had a heart attack.”

  “Were they sure?”

  “It was in front of a whole medical team, Nancy Drew. No possible questions about it.”

  “Oh, well. It would have been a good idea.”

  “Yeah. Real life doesn’t work like that, at least not in this case. Nothing is obvious. Not one single thing.” He was done laughing at me. “His name is Tom Doyle. He says. And the address he gave me is on Fourth Avenue. 500. Mean anything to you?”

  “Sadly, no.”

  “Me neither, but you can be sure we’ll look further.”

  After I’d locked the door behind him, Mel said, “Pretty cute guy. Are you going to tell us all about your date? Girl talk?”

  Chris wasn’t smiling. “You said it wasn’t a date. So was it or wasn’t it?”

  “I’m not exactly sure. Go play video games or something. I don’t have to explain it to you.”

  Mel shrugged but Chris muttered softly, “Yes you do.”

  I wanted to talk to someone. I could not sort out my whirling thoughts about this disturbing incident. About Chris’ reaction to my date. About the date itself, the normal part of it, anyway. About the murder that was clouding all my thoughts, even when I tried hard to suppress it.

  I did not want to talk any more to Chris. I did not want my dad. I did not want Darcy. Or Lisa.

  All in all, I wanted to talk to Joe, the person who always helped me see everything more clearly. He would have understood that conversation about Philomena’s diary, too. And when he teased me, he didn’t laugh at me.

  I didn’t know how to do that right now, to talk to him. We had never had a fight before, but then, before, we were only friends. Maybe we should have left it that way.

  In the end I called Leary. It was not too late. He kept odd hours anyway. He’s a terrible confidante, the worst person for personal advice, but his no-crap attitude might slap me into another mood.

  He got the phone on one ring, but he didn’t sound friendly. When I asked if he could talk, he responded, “Five minutes. That’s all you get. Than I have a date with the TV. Boxing tonight.”

  “Boxing? Seriously?”

  “Yeah, seriously. The sweet science. This is a classic fight. I saw it in person, back when.”

  “Ah. Nostalgia tripping.”

  “Oh, hell, no. Cut the crap. You’re wasting your five minutes.”

  “I need your memory. Does the name Tom Doyle ring any bells?’

  “Nope. How about coming up with a context for this? So maybe I can make a connection? Sometimes my brain needs a little more juice to get going these days. Alcohol used to be just the thing.”

  “Sure it was. Try caffeine. Besides I don’t think you have forgotten one single minute of your working life.”

  He did chuckle at that. “You think I’ve still got that steel-trap mind? So tell more but you’re on the clock.”

  I gave him the very, very short version of today.

  He grunted. “Nice to see you are still getting into trouble.”

  “I don’t get into trouble! It follows me.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Like a puppy. Don’t get me wrong. I admire it but I’m still going to watch the match in a few minutes. Your dad too. We’ve got some beer all ready.” He chuckled. “I’m drinking that crappy diet ginger ale, of course.”

  “And potato chips?”

  “Who are you, my nurse? And your dad says he’ll call tomorrow to talk, but now it’s TV time. And he says…what’s that? Chris’ party? Maybe makes sense to you, but not to me.”

  I heard the TV in the background, a loud announcer voice, and said good night.

  It wasn’t my dad who called early the next morning, it was Leary. He woke me up to say three little sentences.

  “I might have remembered something. Might have. Look again at those files I loaned you.” And then he hung up.

  So I looked. No matter if my eyes were not entirely open. When Leary remembered something it was worth pursuing.

  It was a long time, though, before I foun
d it, a note in Leary’s all-but-illegible scrawl. Meeting of a committee from the Navy Yard with the very old, long-serving congressman. Not much happened at the meeting, which was probably why Leary only wrote a short paragraph. Concerns were discussed. Promises were made.

  And here were the names of the committee members. Tom Doyle was one. Their spokesman was Michael Conti.

  There was no photo. It wasn’t a very important meeting, even though the livelihoods of thousands of people depended on the results. There was a reference to a parade or demonstration that was planned. The congressman promised he would be there.

  Now that, I could track. I had a photo of it in one of my books and there were newspaper stories. I wondered if Leary had written any of them. They described a large crowd, banners, bands playing, speeches. The theme was “We will never let the Yard be shut down.”

  As far as I could tell, no one suggested that they compromise with the Department of Defense. No one acknowledged that there might be some genuine issues. No one would have wanted to say that out in public.

  Less than two years later, every person who marched that day was unemployed. Except the politicians, of course. And Conti.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I sensed I had something here, but I didn’t know what it was. Maybe a walk would help clear my brain. The girls were still sleeping, so I grabbed a mug of coffee and a bowl of dry cereal of some unknown derivation, something healthy and hay-like that Chris had bought. It would do.

  I didn’t start with a direction, just a plan to get a little air and sun, but soon I had one. Out of curiosity I was going to walk on over to the address Doyle had given Ramos.

  It was easy enough to find but it was not Doyle’s home, not his living address or even his mailing address. It was a construction site, a shiny new condominium building rising to replace a block of shabby stores and walk-up apartments.

  I stopped a young woman in running gear who was going into one of the still-inhabited buildings. She removed her earbuds to talk to me. She didn’t know Doyle but explained she had only lived there for a year or so, with a group of roommates. They didn’t know many of the old-timers.

  That was the story of life in Brooklyn these days. I wondered how she saw me.