by S. J. Rozan
About Spano's relationship with Jack Molloy, Thomas Molloy said, “Dad and Jack didn't have anything on the Spanos. If anyone had any kind of criminal empire in those days—though I think that's overdramatic—it was Aldo Spano. He passed it on to Eddie.” Asked whether his half-brother may have run afoul of Aldo or Edward Spano, Molloy admitted that was possible.
On the question of the payments made to Sally Keegan, Molloy refused to speculate. “Jimmy McCaffery was a good friend of mine when we were kids. Just because suing the state was his idea doesn't mean he knew anything about the lies that happened later. We were all taken in, it looks like.”
“This is the story Harry Randall was working on when he died,” Tribune investigative journalist Laura Stone told reporters. “Only this one, the McCaffery story. If his death wasn't suicide, it's logical to wonder what the connection is. Although he wasn't specific, Harry Randall had, in the past few days, expressed fears for his own safety.” Asked about the status of the work Harry Randall left unfinished, Stone answered, “Whatever Harry Randall was working on, the Tribune will follow it up. If his death is related to his work, the Tribune will find out.”
PHIL'S STORY
Chapter 4
The Bodies of the Birds
October 31, 2001
Phil read the Tribune's story on Harry Randall's death just as he'd read the others. Hugh Jesselson's byline was on it. Jesselson was a cop and crime reporter; Phil had run across him before, bound to in his line of work.
And Jesselson made this clear: the Tribune's take on Randall's death was different from everyone else's.
Jesselson's reporting was straight and dry, but the message was clear: The Tribune wasn't convinced. The Tribune wanted to know more. The Tribune couldn't see a reason for a man in Randall's position to take a swan dive through the clear October air.
What position was that? Phil studied the story, digging into his eggs. He discovered, because it was not there, something else. No police sources were quoted, no investigation cited. No matter whose byline was on the story, the NYPD was apparently not inclined to dig deeper into Randall's death.
But the Tribune was.
Laura Stone, another Tribune reporter—had Phil seen her name, maybe on the Bronx chemical spill story? Something like that, something that took digging, brains, and guts, he wasn't sure what, but he remembered being impressed—Laura Stone said her colleague Harry Randall had been working on something. Something big. He'd told her a certain amount about it. He'd expressed fears for his own safety.
Phil tore a piece of toast in half, chased crumbs of bacon around his plate. Expressed fears? The Harry Randall who'd sat in Phil's office, slouching in his chair as though even dynamite wouldn't dislodge him until he'd gotten his answers—and smiling as if to say the way he knew that was that dynamite had once or twice been tried—that Harry Randall had expressed fears?
No.
No, not even if he'd felt them. And Phil, remembering Randall's amused, acid-sharp eyes, his relaxed, drink-worn face, the drawling slow rhythm Phil had not been able to disrupt, did not think Randall had been a frightened man.
What, then? Not hard to figure out. “Whatever Harry Randall was working on, the Tribune will follow it up. If his death is related to his work, the Tribune will find out.”
Meaning: I'm here, if you want to stand up, show yourself, take another shot.
MARIAN'S STORY
Chapter 3
The Invisible Man
Steps Between You and the Mirror
October 31, 2001
As Marian stepped inside, the broad oak door swung shut, blockading the footsteps and fluorescent buzz of the cramped corridor, forbidding them entry into the wide quiet of the MANY Foundation's office.
Outside this well-oiled door—in the vinyl-tiled hallway, in the security-guarded lobby, on the crowded streets—frowning women and men scurried about on unconnected errands. Here within, where plant-draped partitions supported polished woodwork surfaces hovering over carpet the color of moss, all was purpose and peace. In a flight of fancy Marian had once likened herself and her staff to forest creatures, vibrant with industry, intent upon their daily tasks. “You do know,” Sam had asked, “that the daily task of half those cute little creatures is eating the other half?” Marian had smiled indulgently and hadn't replied.
That smile, that flight of fancy, had been before.
Pausing now just inside the door, Marian met a hollowness that, though unwelcome, she'd known too well these past weeks. She had not spoken about it, at first hoping it would pass, later ashamed to have it mean so much to her. What was her loss, compared to others so much more profound, so much more bewildering? But she tasted its empty, metallic tang each time she walked through this door. The soothing sense she had always had here of coming home, of having found her way back once again to the place where she belonged, had vanished after September 11, along with all else she thought she had known.
In the minutes and hours of the crisis itself Marian had remained calm. (Those hours so elusive, difficult for memory to grasp: some episodes compressed, some elongated. Events recollected as following others when in reality they must have come long before. Some recalled as though only recorded by a single sense: this, an odd sweet smell. That, a shout, and someone weeping. Sticky dust clinging to skin and hair. An abrupt midday darkness that rolled away to reveal a new, ash-covered world.) She had shepherded her staff down the staircase immediately after the second plane struck. (Their building was not yet being evacuated; its security office was “assessing the situation.” Marian, watching in horror as flaming bodies and massive chunks of steel twisted through the sky to crash to roofs and slice through walls of buildings around them, wondered exactly what there was to assess.)
She had directed her people to a rear exit and had stayed in the lobby after they all had dashed outside, to help others find that back way, too, visitors to the building, strangers, office workers who came here every day but in the crescendo of their panic were losing all orientation, all direction. Thus she was still inside when the roar, the sound none had ever heard before, the rumble and clamor that froze them all, began. And as the black cloud poured down the street, she watched (helplessly, through the lobby glass) the implosion's immense pressure smashing down people trying to outrun it.
When the darkness (complete, much blacker than night, than closed eyes, than your dreams) had passed, Marian was first to the lobby doors, shouldering them open against the dust and debris. She shouted to people, ordered and offered and tugged them inside, as many as understood what she was saying, or would follow her though they clearly were too stunned to comprehend.
And when the second roar and crash and dust cloud came, pounding the lobby doors shut again, Marian waited for the darkness to pass once more and resumed her work.
People said later that she was an inspiration, that her calmness kept them calm, that her bravery made them brave. During the crisis Marian never panicked, and everyone said how courageous she was; but Marian knew that was a lie. Staying in motion, being useful, was how Marian outran—how she had always outrun—the boundless hollow terror that had besieged her and of which she was much more afraid than the roar or the cloud.
After the crisis, though, came the announcement that the building would be closed indefinitely. “Indefinitely” was just three weeks, as it developed, but she didn't know that then, who knew anything then? Marian was thrown into a state of alarm and dread. Without work, how could she go on? What would create solid ground for her to stand on, keep the void from swallowing her? She volunteered immediately for the most intense and time-consuming tasks she could find. She kept up with as much of MANY's ongoing work as she could, from home, fighting the lack of phones, the rerouted subways, the abrupt reordering of everyone's priorities.
And there was Kevin.
Kevin was in the hospital at NYU. Marian went every day, past the coroner's huge tent, past the refrigerated trucks that held remains waiting to be
identified, past the crowds of relatives and friends who gathered there because others were gathering there, because someone might have glimpsed your parent or child or lover wandering dazed, lying injured, maybe they'd been taken to another hospital and someone had seen them there and you wouldn't have to come here anymore where the coroner was identifying remains.
Kevin was her godson, and she'd gone every day, and whatever time she got there, she found other firefighters sitting with him, or arriving, or leaving. Marian soon understood that Kevin, because he had lived, because he had been saved, was an emblem for these men. He represented something they could do: his brothers had saved him then, they could support him, comfort him, kid him along now. They came to visit Kevin, she understood, for the same reason that she worked and worked late into the night.
Some of the firefighters had been digging on the pile, and had conscientiously scrubbed and changed clothes before coming to the hospital. Some were on their way to dig, or going on duty, or coming off duty. They told Kevin what had happened on the site today, who was giving commands, whose body had been found; they told him what fires they had fought in the course of their normal day's work and whose funerals they had gone to. One evening Marian had arrived to hear three firefighters describing Jimmy's memorial service to Kevin: the dignitaries, the prayers, the pallbearers shouldering the bier of flowers that carried Jimmy's helmet because there was no body to bury. Kevin was in tears, and Marian, hovering outside the open door—Marian who had been there, who had sat at the back of St. Patrick's Cathedral among the largest crowd she had ever seen in a church and had found herself shivering uncontrollably—felt her own hot tears start. She'd turned and fled from the hospital before she was noticed.
The firefighters were always courteous to her and got up to go for coffee or buy Kevin ice cream so he and Marian could have time alone. Occasionally she let them go, but most often she insisted they stay. She'd smile and set to the task of keeping order among the gifts that crowded Kevin's room.
As a rule she had trouble discarding flowers; at home she let them linger until colors dulled and petals scattered. But in Kevin's room, bouquets and sprays, cut flowers and potted plants, and also balloons, fruit baskets, and candy, arrived daily, from friends and neighbors and from total strangers who sent these things to Kevin for the same reason they sent money to the Red Cross and the Salvation Army and the McCaffery Fund.
At his suggestion she distributed many of them to other patients in the Burns Unit, and to the nurses and therapists who worked so hard for these patients. Then she would sit and drink a cup of tea, telling Kevin about anything funny that had happened to her, any gossip or intriguing event that might interest him. When her tea was gone, she would rise, kiss his cheek, and leave, promising to return the following day. If Sally arrived while she was there, and Marian had the time, she'd wait in the lounge for Sally to finish her visit, and she and Sally would go for coffee, or a drink if the hour was late enough.
“Honey, he's fine,” she'd reassure Sally the same way each time. “He's doing really well. I talked to the doctor.”
“Thanks.” Sally would squeeze Marian's hand. “I talked to him, too, but I can't understand a word he says.”
Of course Sally could understand doctors, but Marian knew what she meant, and smiled encouragingly. Because the more important something was to you, the more you needed it and demanded it, the more it grew and mushroomed in your own head, and then the harder it was to hear.
There was a rhythm to Marian's visits with Kevin, and only one thing could disturb it. If Phil Constantine arrived while she was there, Marian would gather her things and leave at once. The lawyer invariably offered to be the one to come back later, but she would not allow it. And if he was there when she arrived, she would put her flowers in water and leave. She wanted to owe him nothing, not even ten minutes with Kevin. Let him owe that to her.
And after three weeks Marian's office building reopened. On that day Marian had come in alone and very early, lugging files and computer disks. Unlocking the oak door, she anticipated with a child's excitement the magic of that moment, when she would step from the wilderness—a wilderness, always; but never before as desolate as this—into the garden.
It had not happened. Disappointed, almost panicked, Marian had found no enchantment inside, only drooping plants and forlorn furniture coated with a fine white dust that had once been buildings and everything inside them.
Marian and her staff had cleaned for three days, resolutely discarding what they could not save. They had scrubbed and vacuumed floors and furniture, dusted the books in their extensive library, the photographs on their walls. They bought new file folders and computer keyboards, new potted plants to replace withered, choked foliage they had raised from cuttings, been given as gifts. They did all their purchasing downtown, using their dollars to help their struggling neighbors. In this determined, unfaltering renewal, Marian approved expenses without a second glance and did not look behind her as treasured, unsalvageable objects were carted away.
All that had been four weeks ago. Now the MANY offices were humming again. Work, that secular savior, proceeded as devoutly as before. The MANY Foundation and Marian in particular were in a position to rise to this terrible occasion.
“I'm extremely grateful; in all this disaster I've been very fortunate, very blessed,” Marian had said at the press conference announcing the formation of the Downtown Redevelopment Advisory Council (a press conference she had been asked to organize, because her contacts were so good and—in those days, before the carefully worded innuendo, the well-tended nightshade, of Harry Randall's article—her credibility was so high). “I appreciate the opportunity to give something back by working for the rebuilding effort. This is a very challenging time for all of us. What happens downtown now is profoundly important. I welcome the chance to contribute. I'm eager to help in any way I can.”
She had smiled and stepped away from the microphone, careful not to talk too long, making sure to share the spotlight with the other Council members gathered there.
She'd gone on, then, to add the responsibilities of serving on the Downtown Council, and a few days later those of heading the McCaffery Fund, to a workload already the amazement of her friends. Where did she get the energy, they marveled, the strength? Marian replied that she felt not burdened but privileged; did not feel put-upon but rather was anxious to do her part as so many others were doing theirs. As so many had died doing. Working late into the evening? What was that against the price so many people had paid?
Yes, Marian was relieved. She was happy to have valuable, useful work to do. She came to the office every day feeling, as she had said, lucky and blessed.
Except that when she opened the door, there was no magic.
BOYS' OWN BOOK
Chapter 7
The Way Home
September 11, 1978: The Girls (Marian)
Marian is Jimmy's, and Jimmy is hers, though what that means to each may not be the same. Marian knows this, and Jimmy has not asked her to marry him, not yet. But that Jimmy is what she wants Marian has always known.
Eight years old: the stray dog the kids have been feeding since Marian found him (a secret from their parents; they've named him King) is sneaking from one backyard to another. He gets stuck under a chain-link fence. The more he tries to wriggle out, the more caught he gets. He's whining; he's bleeding. Marian tries to talk to him, softly, to make him not so scared, so someone can help him, but King just growls at her. He barks, snaps at Markie when Markie tries to go up close to him, but then he looks at them so sadly. No one thought Markie could really help, not Markie, but he went right up there, like he could be the hero, maybe, this time. Tom, Tom is thinking: Stay back! he tells them. If the dog barks too loud, someone will find him. “Someone” means a grown-up, of course. A grown-up could free King—these kids are still young, grown-ups can do anything—but a grown-up, the kids are stone certain, will take him to the pound and leave him there all by
himself.
But the kids know what to do: Jack runs for Jimmy. They all watch Jimmy jog up, stop, and stand still. Marian's crying, but she wipes her eyes. Jimmy looks, taking it all in. The kids are quiet, and they wait, even Jack, who never waits. Finally Jimmy walks to King, squats down; King growls. Jimmy grins, and now he does say something, something to the dog. None of them hears.
Jimmy reaches slowly, maybe so he won't scare King. He grips the chain-link, grunts as he lifts. King yelps, howls, writhes; he barks at Jimmy, a desperate warning, but Jimmy ignores it. King barks once more, then clamps his jaws on Jimmy's bare arm. Jimmy shouts, but he doesn't stop lifting.
Then King is free, Jimmy and King rolling on the ground in dust, in growling and yelling, until Jimmy yanks his arm up and King darts away. A lot of noise now, the dog, the kids; and Mrs. Molloy, Tom and Jack's mom—the closest house—comes running out. Mrs. Molloy scoops Jimmy up, rushes him into her kitchen, wraps his arm in a towel while she calls his dad. The kids all crowd into the kitchen, watching, silent. Marian and Sally and Vicky press close together. Mrs. Molloy smiles at Jimmy while she holds the towel tight, and even though her smile is sad the way it always is, it still makes the kids less scared.
Mrs. Molloy doesn't kick them out, in fact she tells Jack, Why don't you give everybody cookies? And Jack does, grinning at the girls like it's a party. Mrs. Molloy acts like it's no big deal, Jimmy's arm is turning her towel red. The kids' hearts all slow down, stop pounding so hard, and nobody cries.
