Brooklyn Secrets (13 page)

No one was there but me, and then I sensed someone standing behind me.

A cracked, old lady voice. “What you here for? You the white lady who was here that day?”

I turned. She looked grandmother age, wrapped in a heavy sweater over her shabby dress, misshapen canvas sneakers on her feet, scarf over her gray hair. Squinting eyes.

“Well? I asked you.”

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

“You knew her? Dee?”

“I met her once. Nice girl.”

“She was that. I knowed her all her life. I be her aunt.” She stopped. “Kind of like her aunt. Long story. That child needed some mothering.” She looked away from me. “I stepped up.”

I had no words. All I could find was “I'm so sorry.”

“Young people get in trouble. Or trouble finds them.” She shook her head. “Poor baby.”

I was so uncomfortable, I said the first thing that came to my mind. “How is her mother doing?”

“How you think? She sobbing and wailing. Begging for money to pay for a funeral that she not making any plans for.” She made a face. “She easing the pain just like always. Lots of people give her what she want, for a price. You know?”

I nodded. I understood.

“I need to go now.” I fell back on what I'd said before. “I'm so sorry.”

After I turned away, the old lady spoke out loud. To me? To herself? To the air around us? “Baby girl had secrets worrying her.”

I turned back. “What did you say?”

“Secrets.” She stepped back from me. “She had secrets.”

“She told me one, but not enough. Did you know what was on her mind? It might help police solve this.”

“Police? Po-leece??? They don't care. They ain't gonna make a move and they ain't talking to me.” She stopped and thought it over. “They came around but didn't find me. And I ain't talking to them either.”

What if I argued with her, made her see it my way?

As if reading my mind, she said, “Ain't gonna bring her back.” She walked away, just like that.

It blew my earlier scary incident right out of my mind. I did turn back to the train then, saddened by the old lady, more saddened by what she'd said about Deandra's mother. I was trying hard not to judge what I did not know enough about, not fully succeeding, and wishing Deandra had told me a little bit more that day she felt like confiding.

They came out of nowhere. I was walking along and there they were in front of me, two of the boys who'd accosted me at the library. And the weird guy I'd met earlier.

They stood across the sidewalk. I had no way to keep moving. Could I go the other way, and outrun them? Not bloody likely.

“Don't even think it.” I hadn't said it out loud, or moved, but the leader must have read my mind. He stepped closer, right into my space. “Let's take a walk.”

“I'm not going anywhere with you.”

He didn't say a word, just smiled.

His friend was there now, holding my arm.

“We walk there, behind the building.”

I was too scared to move my feet, but somehow we ended up there, in a sheltered corner. Even if anyone came along, it was doubtful if they would see us. Or think about it if they did.

“Street face!” I told myself silently. “Street face.” And I tried to straighten up.

“We not intending to hurt you,” he said. In all this time, the others had not said a word. “Not now. But me and my man, Jimmy N. here—” he hooked an arm about the blond man's neck—“me and my man have plans for that building. So you stay away, hear?”

I squeaked it out. “You mean the store on the corner?”

“Well, duh. Where you were today? Yeah. Stay the fuck away. We need to never see you there again.”

“I was only buying a soda.”

“You were snooping in my place.” So he could still talk, that blond guy. He sounded indignant. “You have no reason to be there. Stay away.”

“Don't matter even if she do have some b.s. reason. We gave a real solid reason not to. Our place now.”

I nodded, afraid I couldn't get any words out.

“You got that?” He let his jacket open a little so I could see the gun in his belt. “You not interfering with what we doing no more?”

I nodded again.

He jerked his head toward the end of the building.

“Now bounce. Don't look back.”

And bounce I did, walking as fast as I could, around the corner of one building and then another, till I could be sure I was not in their sight. Unless they followed me. I peeked around. No one.

It wasn't until a long time later, safe at home, that it hit me. They'd called him Jimmy N. James Nathan?

That was ridiculous, I told myself sternly. I was way overreaching. There was something not right about that guy. And why was he hanging around this very unsavory neighborhood? That alone was off base. Unless he was buying drugs every day.

It was impossible to imagine him having focus enough to get on the subway, get himself to a city building, get admitted in his filthy clothes. Do research. Focus enough to read for hours.

So my thought was ridiculous. And anyway, it didn't matter. I was done with my Brownsville research.

But still.

The next day, it still seemed absurd and it still bothered me. I called Jennifer at the Archives and asked her straight out, “Did you see the person, this James Nathan, who wanted to see the same records I did?”

“I did, for a minute when he signed in. Why? What is going on?”

I sighed. “Probably nothing. It's just that, well, maybe he and I could be helpful to each other? If we're working in the same subject area? You know? And I am trying to track him down. He doesn't show up anywhere. But maybe I met him somewhere? Sometime?” Not altogether the truth, but close. “What's he like?”

“He was polite, very soft voice. He didn't sound like a professor but he wasn't even as weird as some of the other people who come in here. Trust me on that.”

“Wearing normal clothes?”

“Oh, sure. Nothing stands out so he must have been.”

“Anything about his hair? Beard?”

“Erica! What is this? Did you find hidden treasure or something in those files?”

“I'm sorry. I'm still thinking he might be someone I already know, that's all.”

“Oh, sure. Sure he might.” I didn't miss the sarcasm. “If I tell you, will you tell me what you're really doing?”

“Yes. Over dinner next week one night?”

“Nothing I noticed about his hair. Clean shaven. Blondish. You want his weight, height and age too?”

“You don't have his shoe size?”

“I was kidding.”

“I knew that.” I sighed. “Me too.”

“He was maybe fortyish? Five eight or so. Totally non-descript. Average everything. Dinner next Wednesday? I'm partial to sushi.”

“You're on.”

Right size. Right coloring. Right age. Exactly like a million or so men in New York. And everything else was wrong.

Chapter Fifteen

Late at night. I couldn't sleep. There was too much information, too many questions, too much sadness running around in my brain and I was failing completely at turning it off.

I finally decided the cure was getting some work done. It was a good plan but I sabotaged it by looking at Facebook first.

On Savanna's page I spent some time scrolling through the long list of comments. They poured out sympathy and support. Most mentioned prayer. Some offered interesting anecdotes and memories about Savanna. After a little while it began to feel uncomfortably like a memorial page. And there was no real news. Zora's last update merely said she was stable.

And just before I was ready to admit this was pointless I was caught by one more comment.
“Savanna not the lil angel y'all think. She getting up to plenty and taking what don't belong to her.”
It was signed StarrGurl.

I was genuinely shocked by the cruelty. Not that I did not know some people love to spew out hate, especially on social media where you always feel anonymous. I'd have to be a deaf moron not to know the modern meaning of the word troll.

I sent a note off to Mike asking if he thought the detective team was looking at this page and would pick up that name. And could they trace it? He wrote right back, asking me what I was doing on e-mail at three AM and adding of course they are and would and can.

And then, because what happens at three AM is not real life, it is dreamtime, I read all the other comments StarrGurl had put up. When I was done, I wished I hadn't.

She sounded like a teenager. After I got past the slang and the profanity, the abbreviations and the emoticons, I could see that every word she wrote was steeped in resentment. I didn't have to be a teenager to know this was not about a missing sweater.

As I was looking at the screen, moving around, jumping here and there, trying not to lose track, one more post from StarrGurl popped up right in front of me.
“Oh, ha! They picked up Jackie Eye, that baby wanna be, trying to see skanky thief. What he up to? And got let out cause he not a N who hollers. Maybe he trying to give a message?”

This made a little sense. Maybe. Honestly, I wanted to smack this anonymous twit.

I was starting to feel sleepy at last, but I made a quick click over to Zora's page. She was in despair.

My baby not much better. Not much worse. Tonight her fingers move and I get all excited. They say it don't mean a thing, only a kind of reflex. They say, all these medical people that she is doing ok, but I don't see it. I don't see it. My whole world now is this hospital room. And nothing new on finding who did this, either. Cops had those boys been bothering her, then let them go. Than they had a kid who CAME TO HER ROOM. No reason for him to be there a-tall. And they let him go. I need to tell my Savvie no one will hurt her again. When can I do that?”

There were some responses from other night owls. I didn't know there were so many of us.

Now my eyes really were closing. I barely made it back to bed. And then my phone was ringing. I squinted at the number. It was Joe.

“I'm working on your block today. Do you want breakfast? I'm going to get some for myself.”

“Just woke up,” I mumbled. “What time is it?” I squinted at my clock, unable to focus.

“It's nine-thirty, young lady. I've been at work for two hours already. Were you out late on a spree last night?”

“Uh, no. Not at all.” I tried to focus. “Bring breakfast here? When?”

“Soon. Fifteen minutes?”

I agreed and stumbled off to splash water in my face, brush my teeth, replace my pajamas that looked like workout clothes with actual workout clothes.

I found a note from Chris, stuck on the bathroom mirror. “You seemed so tired, I didn't wake you. Left for school.”

When Joe rang my bell, my eyes were open and my hair was brushed. It was a fair imitation of being awake. I could smell the coffee and bacon-and-egg-sandwiches right through the wrappings. I was glad to see him. I thought I was. Perhaps I was not awake enough to know how I felt.

“Here.” He handed me my coffee. “Drink. Eat. Don't try to talk until you are fueled.” I suspected he was laughing at me. I didn't care, because he was the guy who came bringing coffee. It was still hot.

I sank into my kitchen chair, drinking and unwrapping my sandwich. Joe, restless, wandered around my kitchen that he had built.

“How's the garbage disposer working? All right since I fixed it?”

“Mmm-hm.” I sucked down my coffee.

“Cabinets look good.” Doors were opened and closed.

“Dishwasher holding up okay?”

Slurping sounds. And chewing. I ate the sandwich right from the waxed paper wrapping. Joe helped himself to a mug, a plate and a knife and fork for his. He was a better host than I was.

Finally I was able to smile at him. “What have you been up to?

“Same old. I'm about done with that building I showed you. We have a walkthrough later today, get the punch list and send some of my guys over.”

“How nice that you have ‘my guys.' To send hither and yon.” Now it was me laughing at him. “Is that like ‘my people talk to your people'?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Did you get that from a TV show? But yes, it is exactly like that.”

We chatted, but he seemed quieter than usual and I was not entirely awake. Finally fed and caffeinated my brain switched to on. “Joe, you are a sports fan, right?”

“I follow a few teams, sure. Why?”

“A few teams? Giants, Knicks. Yankees? And Tour de France still?”

“Don't forget tennis. Yeah, you got me. It's more than a few.” He looked at me quizzically. “Since when are you interested? You barely know one from the other.”

“Unfair. I knew them when I was a kid!” I left out the part about wasting time. “But you are getting me sidetracked.”

He looked amused, but I plowed on.

“Boxing.” I took another gulp of my coffee. A big one. “I want to ask if you know anything about boxing.”

“Some. I might watch it if I have nothing else to do. Why?”

“I need to know something.”

“Of course you do.”

“Ha. Very funny.” I stopped, concentrating on breakfast.

“And?”

“There's supposedly a local boxer who is terrific, a real up-and-comer. Name of Isiahson. Do you know anything about him?”

“There's buzz. It's been a long time since there was a real American boxer that good. Why?”

I looked away, not answering. If I told him the whole story, one, we'd be there all morning, and two, he would disapprove.

“You could find out a whole lot by typing his name in a Web search bar.” He smiled. “Aren't you supposed to be good at this?”

“I
am
good at it. I just happened to think of it while you are here. And I shouldn't be investing a lot of time into it, either. So I'm doing it the old-fashioned way and asking a live person. My source for guy stuff.”

“Am I? Should I be flattered?” Now he was definitely laughing at me.

“Of course! Just like Leary is my source for Brooklyn unwritten history. And Darcy for finding whoever is needed to get a job done.”

“Your dad?”

“Uh, let me think. Yes, yes! Best route for getting anyplace by car. And knowing about a diner wherever that place is.”

He did laugh then but also handed me his cutting edge phone
and there was a story about Isiahson. He was straight out of a Brownsville project. An old tradition.

Something clicked into place. The part of my brain that had real academic work to do just shook hands with the part that wanted to know more just because. Because it was now. Because real people I knew were involved and damaged. Because two of them were young girls.

I hadn't looked into boxing in the twenties and thirties as a third way out for Brownsville boys. I should have.

“Anyway, I have a friend who is a serious fan. He could tell you what you need.”

“Is he a friend from your misspent youth?”

“Not at all. I renovated his house a few years back. Big time lawyer. And he's the kind of guy who likes to always have the inside story on things. Tell him Joe sent you.”

“Now you are being silly. If you would…” But he already had his phone out again.

“Archie, it's Joe.” “Yeah, too long.” “Hell, no, no one is suing me. It's all good.” Finally, “I have a young lady here, name of Erica, who has some questions about boxing and of course I thought of you.” Listening. “Yeah, sure. Ever been to a Cyclones game? It's not the Yankees but a lot of fun.”

He handed me the phone. “Meet Archie.”

“Hello?”

“Good morning, Erica. I'm getting ready to head to the office. What would you like to know? In two minutes?”

When I explained, he said, “Oh, hell, yes. The kid is a phenomenon.”

“Does he have any family? Any education?”

“Background? I don't exactly know but I could find out. I'm thinking there is a large family. Anything else?

I took the leap. “I don't understand boxing very well. Is it still kind of a sleazy business?”

A long silence, followed by a more thoughtful voice. “There were some sleazy people in it, yes. You know anything about early rock and roll? It's like that. Slick operators and ambitious, naïve, very poor kids are always going to be a bad combination. But overall? It's cleaned itself up a lot. Look, I got to run, but I can find about Isiahson's family. Call me at this number seven sharp tonight.”

“Thank you. This is so helpful!”

“Your boyfriend is a buddy. Happy to help out.”

He hung up before I had time to correct him about Joe. Maybe I didn't want to.

“You have been a life-saver this morning.” I waved my hand over the now littered table.

“I'm thinking of ordering a new business card.” His eyes lit up. “It could say Home Renovation. Manly Information. Life Saving. Good idea?”

He was joking but. There was definitely a ‘but' in his expression. He was not moving. He was not laughing. He was just waiting, completely calm and completely focused on me. I was thoroughly unnerved.

“Joe, the other night?” I stopped because I had no idea what I wanted to say. “I'm not…” I felt myself turning pink, but he didn't move. “I don't…”

He finally smiled at me. “You're an idiot but you're cute. One day you'll figure it all out. Don't take too long.” He stood up. “Duty calls, before a hysterical home owner harasses my guys.”

He hugged me at the door and it was not at all brotherly. Which, it seemed, was fine with me. More than fine. Then he was gone and I threw myself back into work. I refused to think about that hug right now. I was sure I did not have the time or energy for a real relationship. And I was sure you cannot go back to being friends if it doesn't work out. And I wasn't even sure if I believed any of that.

The solution was to bury the questions under a blizzard of work.

First, I hit the ‘Net for a search on Jackie Isiahson and that up and coming boxer who was, perhaps, his relative. Nothing about Jackie but lots about Tyler. Lots of comparisons to Mike Tyson, not the only boxer out of a Brownsville project but the most famous. One jackpot of an article discussed the history of Brownsville boxers going all the way back to my time. The time I had begun to think of as mine.

So boxing in Brooklyn did have a long history as a road up and out for poor, badly educated young boys. And also, then and now, there was a constant need to defend yourself, defend your friends, or perhaps become the one who threatened. So every day provided lots of fighting practice.

All that was easy to pick up but what I really wanted to know was whether slippery young Jackie was a relative. Now I knew almost everything but that.

Some of the boxing stories, though, sent me back in a productive direction. I would need to add something about boxing to my chapter. The whole topic of the chapter was the choice of crime as a way to grab part of the American dream, in contrast to the way Maurice Cohen and Ruby and Lil and an army of others did it, through education. But apparently boxing was yet a third way. Or perhaps just a slippery false promise, an oasis of fame and fortune, shimmering out there.

And I did have a secret weapon when it came to all things about Brooklyn and its less glamorous walks of life. I went to buy Leary a good meal.

His response to my first question was, “Do I look like an athlete?”

“Hell no. But you do look like someone who liked boozing and smoking cigars at late night events in questionable venues. That might include boxing bouts?”

“You got me there.” He was slurping down lo mein using the included chopsticks with surprising dexterity.

“Did you know I wrote a series about boxing gyms?” He put the chopsticks down. “Try drawer seven for the clips. About half way back in the files.”

Leary might be a complete slob in every other way, but the second bedroom, his workspace, was immaculate and uncluttered. If he said drawer seven, halfway back, that is where I would find it. Not for the first time, I thought about how revealing this was of what mattered most to Leary.

Right there, files neatly labeled Boxing, Background, and Boxing, Clips, 1955- 1970. I flipped through the articles on great mid-century bouts, Louis and Graziano and LaMotta. And finally, a set of articles from the
Brooklyn Eagle
, bylined J. Leary. about neighborhood boxing gyms. I only recognized one name, Brennan's. It was still around and located in some part of Brooklyn even I could not find.

Leary had fallen asleep after lunch so I got to work. It only took me a minute to fall down the rabbit hole, getting lost in the research, going way beyond what I needed, about a subject in which I had no interest. A whole strange world opened up to me. Time disappeared.

I tackled the background folder. This would cover the period I really needed, the twenties and thirties. So yes, there were many Jewish boxers coming out of Brownsville, including a number of champions. I couldn't help wondering what their poor, immigrant parents thought of this. Were they grateful for the money that put food on the table? Or horrified that their sons chose this violent, foreign road?